Chapter one: you may stumble too… (song: 'Could you be loved' by Bob Marley)
It was Berlin's best beach bar— strange for a city without a real beach— and the last heat of August, dying with protest, made it feel truly like the tropics. The fake sand around was slightly more ashy and trampled on than the golden white shores of a travel brochure, but it was good enough for Bell.
She needed a break. She had been on mission somewhere, she knew that. Only got back to Berlin that afternoon. The sun had hit her eyes climbing down the plane steps, nearly blinding her. It must've cleared all the classified rot out of her brain. All she knew was she was standing here now, dying for a drink.
She made her way past a few cute deck chairs, a few customers chatting quietly amongst themselves, but otherwise the place was dead. The music was a nice level, playing through Bob Marley's latest album. It was all perfectly mundane.
"Well I'll be damned. If it isn't our own little Private Benjamin. How are you doing, Bell?"
For a moment, Bell was frozen, breath trapped somewhere deep inside her chest and held there by the power of his dark shaded eyes.
"Sir! What… what are you doing here?"
Bell's voice was weak, her throat aching. She wasn't quite sure why, but didn't have time to think about it. She held out her hand, not quite feeling attached to her body, unsure if she was really about to touch hands with a man she hadn't seen for twelve years. It could be a ghost; she had had some very weird experiences lately.
A rough warm hand encased hers. Real flesh and blood and bone, muscles squeezing a firm yet tender hello. Bell smiled.
"It's nice to see you, sir."
"You too, kid."
She rolled her eyes at his diminutive instinctively; how easy it came to her, like she was once again her 18 year old self. Here she was, twelve years later, still getting patronised by her corny commander. Yet it could have been yesterday for all he had changed. The same sunglasses, regardless of place or time of day; the same bouncy hair, immaculate as always; same hard jaw, set like a tombstone.
Sure, the scar was new, and he had a few more crow's feet, but on Adler it fitted; his smooth face hadn't really suited him as much.
"Will you sit and have a drink with me?" Bell asked, without thinking.
All she knew was it felt good to be beside him again. It felt like a home she had long searched for. Her stomach had been a whirlwind lately, bright flashes disturbing her sleep— now she felt back to reality, back to something secure.
"Sure."
They walked to the small counter, shaded by a tall glitter palm tree, its artificial tendrils floating in the mild summer's breeze.
"Jack, no ice. What'll you have Bell? I remember you used to make Jokers from the sugar syrup in the tinned orange slices."
Bell laughed, a little taken aback. Had she? It sounded like something she would have improvised. But the only flavour coming to her mouth at the moment was vodka.
"Stoli and soda, please."
"No problem."
Adler gestured at the barman and made the order. Bell was too in awe of him to really process anything else. He paid before she could even think where her wallet was.
They sat on two barrels in the corner with their drinks, and raised them to each other.
"So what have you been up to?"
She asked him before he could ask her. Truth was, she didn't want to talk about what she'd been up to because she couldn't think of a damn word to say.
"I couldn't tell you half of it, even if I felt up to it. I've been okay, I guess."
"Teasing me with a hint of intrigue. You're still the same."
He smiled a little at that.
"Well, the main thing that happened in the last ten years is written on my face. Or rather scratched into it."
Bell's finger was reaching for his scar before she knew what she was doing. Adler flexed back.
"The vodka going to your head that quickly?"
"Sorry it just… it looks so interesting."
Bell felt the heat rise to her cheeks, a sick wave of embarrassment rushing over her, and dropped her eyes to the floor. Of course she was being a fool; the natural intimacy of comrades in a war zone over a decade ago didn't transfer into this modern civilian life.
To her surprise, she heard Adler give a kind of bark, a small harsh laugh.
"Damn, Bell. That's one way to look at it, I guess. It was a gift from one of the Soviet top dogs, though I don't think he works officially on the books for them anymore. Gone rogue. Like a Commie Messiah, ready to bless the world with his 'pure' ideology. Brezhnev's is too indulgent of the West."
"If that's indulgent, I don't want to see what a hardliner thinks. You get him?"
Adler looked at her strangely for a moment, then shook his head.
"Well, we'll find him soon enough. That kind can't hide forever. They don't want to."
They sipped their drinks quietly for a while. Adler pulled out a cigarette and was about to light it, before holding the pack out to Bell.
"You still smoke?"
"On occasion."
She took one, though she hadn't smoked in years, and let him light it for her. Truthfully, that was the only reason she had taken it; when he leaned slightly towards her, she caught his scent— leather, cologne with a cinnamon tone, and something like burned wood. He smelled like live fire. She ached for it.
"How's Sims?" Bell asked, trying to keep it professional, light.
"Not bad. I work with him from time to time, heavy duty jobs. No-one's got endurance like him, a real all-rounder. You know, come to think of it, he's the only one from 'Nam I really stayed in contact with. Guess we ran in the same bad circles. You, on the other hand… I guess you've been more Europe and the Middle East, haven't you? Still surprised we never crossed paths before now."
"Yeah, I guess I must have been in even worse circles than you guys."
She laughed a little. Adler had to force a smile. She could tell by his stiff shoulders he was on edge with her; had all the years and all the scars made him that paranoid?
"I'm glad to be crossing your circle, even for a minute, though," Bell said, trying to reassure him. "Nice to see nothing could keep you or your hair down."
Adler fixed his shades and smirked.
"They tried hard enough in Da Nang, didn't they?"
Adler began talking, about camp and the guys, and Bell half-listened. She couldn't quite picture some of the faces. She'd read about this kind of thing; trauma blocks. He'd been a big grown man, so maybe he had been able to cope with it. In retrospect, she had only been a child. Her stomach suddenly ached, and she discreetly put a hand to her side. It stung to touch.
"War wound playing up? Sometimes my scars do that too. It's like they hear you talking about the war, and they remind you all over again what it felt like."
Adler's voice was soft and soothing. It distracted Bell from her inability to remember. She was about to ask him but he suddenly got to his feet.
"Another round?" he asked.
"Sure. Let me—"
He waved away her hand and walked to the bar before she could begin to try and hand him a bill.
While he was gone, she tried to think back on the last few years. Adrenaline was coursing through her, though, and it was making it very hard to concentrate on anything but the fact Russell Adler was in front of her, drinking with her. She felt like a schoolgirl. She hadn't realised before now? She hadn't thought of him before now? She couldn't believe that. She couldn't believe it had been so many years and all of sudden she was now getting hit by these feelings for him.
It hadn't been like this with Kamil. A sudden trail of ice ran down her spine. Her throat began to swell, tightening, and she ran her fingers over her neck nervously. She felt some brief relief; there was nothing there. But she remembered something, a stinging lash, the twist of rope—
Adler was back at her side and pushed a glass towards her.
"Are you alright?" He asked.
Bell took a large gulp from her drink and grimaced.
"I am now," she replied.
Adler followed her lead, taking half his whiskey in one. The music was a lot softer now, the record switched; still reggae, but a little softer. I've got no time to play your silly games…
"What have you been up to Bell? Where have you been all these years? I always knew you were pretty, you know, but now you're beautiful."
She thought she was hallucinating, dreaming— his low voice, body suddenly a lot closer, and the blue lights behind the bar so dim he was barely visible. Again she lifted a hand to his face, just to see if it was real, and this time he didn't flinch.
"I…"
She tried to speak.
He was becoming more indistinct, and her fingers felt numb. She traced his scar, and could feel it, but it was like she was stroking through gauze.
She could see his frown, just about, the lights flickering. He put an arm around her and she realised without it, she would be sliding down to the floor.
"Hey, Bell, you OK?'
Her body was rigid. She couldn't move her head. She couldn't move her lips. She tried, but it was as if she was moving through a swamp, covered in glue. Her eyelids were very, very heavy. All she could do was hold on to his arm as best she could, and hope that when she would faint, he would catch her.
Harsh light forced her eyes open. She had managed to roll herself directly under the flimsy blinds above her bed. A breathed up window and her murky reflection greeted her.
She went to sit up, then immediately fell back down. Head was still spinning. What on earth had happened the night before?
Had the bar even been the night before? The sounds outside didn't seem to match Berlin. There was a lot of shouting in the street, singing and humming, not in German or English.
The temperature had also dipped significantly. She looked around the tiny room, wondering if she had a jumper anywhere. She had a little case open at the bottom of the bed. On top of it was a slim blue folder.
The nausea stabbed her stomach again and her throat seized. She managed to roll over to one side before the vomit came, coughing most of it out onto the worn wooden floor. Her head was ringing, like someone had given her a shot to the face.
Only they hadn't, yet.
She checked her watch. Another two hours till the rendezvous.
Then on to Trabzon.