Red Sniper

She picked up his coat and slipped it on as if to keep off the chill, then bundled up his other clothes and moved into the hallway. It was empty; she had only pretended to hear someone outside the door. Inna took a moment to pat down the coat pocket to make sure that Dmitri’s ring of keys was there. She had brought the other clothes in case the key was in his pants. Then she locked the door behind her, trapping Dmitri inside.

Inna walked quickly out of the infirmary and toward Gate 3. It was almost midnight.

At the gate, she took out the key ring and selected the bright silver one that unlocked the padlock. The gate was secured by a length of chain, which she undid.

Then Inna tied her scarf to the gate and slipped outside the Gulag’s walls.

She had done her part. The rest was up to Harry and Ramsey.

• • •

No more than a couple hundred feet away, Whitlock lay in his cot listening to the fitful sleeping of the other prisoners around him. Inna had not come to visit and had not risked another note, but as far as he knew, the escape attempt was still on. He and Ramsey had no choice but to hope for Inna’s signal.

He had struggled to stay awake until midnight. The barracks was no place for night owls. The Soviets rousted everyone before dawn to set them to work on the railroad to nowhere, or on a hundred other tasks around the camp itself. At the end of the day, exhausted and hungry, sleep was a welcome escape.

He felt a lot like he had as a kid on Christmas Eve, hoping to stay awake for some sign of Santa Claus.

The hammering of his heart kept him from drifting off. His belly rumbled. He and Ramsey had saved half of their bread ration these last three days. It wasn’t much, but it might help them survive beyond the Gulag walls.

Whitlock had worried that someone might steal the bread, which they had to leave in their bunks, but no one had touched it. Petty theft was a problem in the barracks—almost any item would be snatched up the second you took your eye off it—except when it came to food. Food was the only thing of real value in the Gulag compound, and it could be a matter of life and death, of survival or starvation. Stealing another man’s food was severely punished by a group beating. Even the worst bullies and thugs in the Gulag knew better than to suffer mob justice. This was a rule that crossed all boundaries of nationality and faction within the Gulag’s population. Whitlock had witnessed one such beating, so maybe it wasn’t all that surprising that their bread supply had gone untouched.

His thoughts drifted to food: Thanksgiving dinners with mountains of mashed potatoes and gravy, hamburgers on the grill, a clambake on the beach at Cape Cod with corn on the cob and lobster… playing as a boy on the beach… that time he got so sunburned that everyone called him lobster boy…

His mind drifted lazily as summer sunshine —

He jerked awake. Just a little longer, he promised his exhausted mind and body. Got to stay awake.

If he fell asleep, they might miss their opportunity to escape this place.

He glanced over at Ramsey, who was sound asleep. Maybe he had tried to stay awake, but poor Ramsey was really suffering from the work, and the growing cold of the autumn days had not helped his cough. Whitlock wasn’t sure how much longer Ramsey would last in this place. There might not be another chance.

Whitlock shifted on the bunk so that he could look out the ventilation slats in the barracks. When he moved, the thin blanket fell away, and he was surprised by how cold he immediately felt. Winter was just around the corner.

He looked toward the gate. Was it midnight yet? If not, then it was goddamn close. Gate 3 nearest the barracks was lighted by a single dim bulb. Usually, he could see a guard standing there. He squinted, searching for the familiar bulk of the Russian’s uniform.

No one there.

Whitlock stared. As a pilot, he had excellent vision. His eyes could just make out something fluttering on the fence beside the gate.

The scarf.

Inna had said in her message that she would tie her scarf to the gate as a signal. How in the world had she gotten rid of the guard?

There would be time later to ask her about that, he thought. Right now, it was time to go.

He reached toward Ramsey, then paused. Maybe he should just let the poor bastard sleep. Even after his sojourn in the infirmary, Ramsey was getting weaker by the day. How long would he last on the run?

The mere thought of abandoning Ramsey was too much. To have left him behind would be the ultimate cruelty. Whitlock shook him gently by the shoulder and Ramsey startled awake.

“Damnit, I was just getting to the good part,” he muttered. “I think her name was Betty.”

“You can dream about Betty later,” Whitlock said. “It’s now or never if we want to get out of this place.”

• • •