Red Sniper

Despite what the guard said, she doubted that Dmitri was still a virgin. Inna looked away demurely and lowered her eyes, not wanting to encourage his flirting, but not wanting to make him angry. There was still time to shoot him, but she could not bring herself to reach for the pistol. “Mmm, I will keep that in mind. Listen, I am going into the village to help Anna Korkovna. Her child is due any day now and she has been having—”

“Go ahead then,” the guard said, waving toward the village. He was not really interested in discussing the particulars of childbirth. “Watch out for wolves, though. They have been seen prowling around the village at night. If you see any, give me a shout.”

“Yes, I will.”

The guard closed the gate behind her.

She glanced up at the watchtower, but it was too dark to see Dmitri up there. She hoped Harry didn’t make a run for it tonight without seeing her signal. If he did, it might very well be Dmitri who would shoot him with the machine gun.

Inna made her way along the path toward the village. Halfway there, a shadow appeared from the darkness. She gasped, remembering the guard’s warning about wolves.

“It’s me.” She recognized the voice as Cole’s. She was still startled—he had moved with utter silence. “Where’s Whitlock?”

“There has been a problem,” she said.

• • •

Midnight came and went in the barracks. The barracks did not have proper glass-covered windows, but only wooden slats over the opening to let in fresh air. Whitlock didn’t want to be too obvious about it, but from time to time he peered out the ventilation slats toward the dimly lit gate just beyond the barracks.

No sign of a scarf.

“What do you think?” he whispered to Ramsey. “Should we make a run for it?”

“Not unless you want to provide these Ivans with some target practice. Inna is going to tie her scarf to the gate, as she put it so poetically. Until we see that scarf, I think we should sit tight.”

After a while, Whitlock’s eyes grew heavier. No one in the barracks owned a watch, but it must have been approaching two or three in the morning. Still, Inna had given them no sign. Exhausted from the day’s labors on the railroad, Whitlock could no longer stop sleep anymore than a canoe can keep itself from being swept over Niagara Falls.

“Inna,” he mumbled as he drifted off. “Inna…”

• • •

The American team was forced to wait another day in the secret room within Vaska’s house. The four men could barely move without bumping into one another in the dark space.The room was intended to hide smuggled goods, not four men. In particular, whenever Samson fidgeted he jostled the others, making Cole feel like he was trapped in a milking stall with a clumsy cow. They did have flashlights, but there was no point in wasting their limited supply of batteries. Instead, they made themselves as comfortable as they could and waited out the day by dozing shoulder to shoulder in the confined space.

“This is getting old,” Vaccaro muttered.

“Sshh.”

In building the secret room, Vaska had carefully sealed all the gaps between the planks, but they were thin all the same, most of the wood having been salvaged from packing crates. Beyond the walls, they could hear the business of the village taking place: old men and women conversing in Russian, children at play, laughter, the squeak of a passing cart.

Occasionally, they heard gruff male voices. Soldiers. They held their breath each time, wondering if Vaska had betrayed them, after all, or if a curious villager had somehow ratted them out. Maybe the soldiers had only come to the village to trade. A few kept wives or girlfriends there.

The flimsy walls did nothing to filter out smells. The still air in the hidden room soon became a miasma of woodsmoke, boiled cabbage, vaguely spoiled fish, and horse manure. The atmosphere was not helped by having four men who were overdue for a shower in close quarters.

As they listened, unseen, it felt a lot like being a ghost. Waiting in the house itself was out of the question because Mrs. Vaska had visitors throughout the day who came to gossip. She was quite the agent—no one would have guessed that she was hiding four American soldiers planning an escape from the nearby Gulag.

Finally, the noises outside diminished as the day wound down. The temperature dropped steadily in the unheated room. Cooking smells drifted in from the kitchen, making their bellies rumble.

Night was coming on.

At long last, they heard the sound of the boards covering the narrow doorway to the secret room being removed. They stumbled out into the kitchen, blinking even at the dim glow from the oil lamps.

Mrs. Vaska had prepared the evening meal. Russian black tea and more of her fish pie. She gestured at them to sit.

Vaska nodded at them, and drew up a chair to the table. The men all settled down to eat.