Alan Furst - Night Soldiers

Khristo was impressed and promptly ordered Goldman to choose a staff. He selected Kulic. Khristo calmly pointed out that Kulic was physically strong, and if there were to be only two of them operating as security police that quality was important, principally for purposes of intimidation but who knew what it might come to-future assignments could well be affected by the outcome of the Belov games, and everybody wanted to do well. Fistfights were not out of the question. Goldman accepted Voluta as his assistant, and the two of them immediately went off and whispered in a corner.

Therefore, when the whistle blew and the designated counterinsurgency units fanned out across the village, Unit Eight was represented only by Khristo and Kulic. Belov had been a reasonably prosperous little place: a small church with a dome, a town hall-police station, and a few small shops-really open market stalls-on the main street, which was surfaced in frozen mud. The sun had come out, beads of morning frost glistened in the roof thatch. Khristo, blank-loaded holstered pistol riding his waist, strode along the main street and saw life anew from a policeman’s perspective. A curious sensation, to go anywhere he wanted, to say what he liked to whomever he pleased. There was, he hated to admit it, some distinct comfort in such power.

As other units commenced the exercise, Khristo and Kulic could see that they had adopted the time-honored forms. The hard-handed banging on the door. Shouts of “Open up! Security search!” When the doors were opened, they could see people who had recently been self-confident students transformed by circumstance into groups of huddled peasants.

They found their assigned target, the hut of Unit Five, and briefly discussed their strategy. Kulic disappeared around the back, Khristo tapped lightly on a board below the window. The unit captain appeared at the window and gestured toward the door.

“I needn’t come in,” Khristo said.

The captain looked puzzled.

“They sent me to tell you that you’re in the wrong hut. This one here is supposed to be storage-Unit Five belongs next door.”

The captain nodded and disappeared from the window. Khristo waited, pleased to have the warming sun on his back. It stood to reason that when they moved, their contraband would have to move with them. The captain reappeared at the window and chopped the edge of his right hand into the bent elbow of his left arm, adding, for emphasis, an extended middle finger on the left hand. The universal sign language informed Khristo that his suggestion had been staunchly rejected, so he went and knocked on the door.

The captain opened the door. “Nice try,” he said acidly.

“Keep a civil tongue when you talk to us,” Khristo said, “or you’re in the stockade for the day.”

No stockade had been mentioned in the rules, but one could never be certain. The man stared at him for a moment, then grunted and stood back. Khristo let Kulic in the back door.

“Lieutenant Kulic will conduct the search,” Khristo announced, folding his arms and leaning back against a wall.

“Where are the rest of you?” one of the “peasants” asked.

“You’ll find out,” Khristo answered, putting as much menace in his voice as he dared.

“All stand up!” Kulic shouted as loud as he could. Unit Five stood, slightly sullen at being addressed so harshly.

“All strip!”

They stood with their mouths open.

“Hurry up. Down to the skin,” he yelled.

“Against the rules.” Her name was Malya. She was tall and sallow and won all the prizes for codes and ciphers. She stood with her arms folded and glowered at them. “You are state security,” she added, “not dirty-minded boys.” Her eyes glittered with contempt.

As Kulic took a fast step toward her, Khristo’s hand shot out and grabbed his elbow. Kulic shook him off but stayed where he was.

“I’ll be back,” Khristo said. He ran out the door and down the street to the town hall, where the officers had constituted themselves a committee of the rules.

He addressed Irina Akhimova. “Comrade Lieutenant!” He stood at attention.

“Yes, comrade student?”

“We require the search of a female person.”

The officers, five or six of them smoking cigarettes and drinking tea, passed an eyes-to-heaven look among themselves. Here we go again , it said. Another year at Belov and already they are at it .

Akhimova climbed to her feet, affecting weariness, brushed Khristo ahead of her with hand motions. “Yes, yes, comrade Security Officer. Lead the way.”

They arrived at the hut to find Kulic and Unit Five locked in a staring contest. Kulic’s hand rested on the butt of his holstered gun. Akhimova took Malya out the back door toward the privy behind the hut. In a moment they reappeared. Malya’s face was angry, her cheeks well colored. “Donkey,” she said to the unit captain. Akhimova handed Khristo a thickly folded wad of paper.

“One current map of the Ukraine, six towns circled,” she said, “tied to the upper left leg with string.” She took a notebook from the side pocket of her uniform jacket. “Ten points subtracted from Unit Five. Ten points awarded to Unit Eight. Continue the exercise.” As she walked out, only Khristo could see her face. She winked at him. He glanced out the window. Goldman went scurrying by like a ferret.

So, for a week, it went. They battled among themselves, shadowing each other to clandestine meetings, plotting to suborn their opponents, bending every rule until the judging committee stomped about in a red-faced fury. They ran, in their eshpionets kindergarten, every classical operation in the repertoire. Given the preponderance of males, there did seem to be a particular obsession with the honey trap-seduction for the purposes of leverage, the country air had stimulated more than one appetite-but no conquests for intelligence purposes were recorded. They planted compromising evidence on each other-Khristo found a curiously whittled wooden dowel in the bunched-up blanket he used for a pillow. Even Goldman, their chief Machiavelli, declined to offer a theory on its intention. They buried it beside the hut and waited. That night Unit Five, led by the Hungarian captain, an officer-judge in tow, kicked the door open and accused Khristo of secreting an ampule of morphine. The following day, Voluta planted it on somebody else, but he too discovered and removed it before the group was raided.

The classical operations, it turned out to everyone’s irritation, often had classical results. Which is to say, no results. They were accustomed, in all their games, to winning and losing, and the frequency of no decision calls first puzzled, then annoyed them. They had stumbled on the dispiriting truth about spycraft, which was that few disciplines had a lower incidence of clear victories. “I bent my brain to get this right!” Goldman whined after some particular piece of treachery had fizzled before his eyes. They shared his frustration. Their coup of the first day had given them an inflated opinion of their abilities. They were now treated to the chilly reality of initial success diluted by subsequent failure. No matter how hard they went at it, a second Great Triumph eluded them. They won points, they lost points, but most of their efforts earned a “no decision.”

There were serious undertones to this competition. Most of them had been in Moscow for six months or more, and they had discovered that in this egalitarian society some were decidedly more equal than others. Elusive and shadowy it was, but privilege did exist. Being out and about in the city, you’d catch a glimpse, a scent of it. Clearly it was based on rank, one’s position in the scheme of things, and their success in the competition, and generally in the school, would ultimately determine that position. But, try as they might, the members of Unit Eight could not work their way into first place on the list posted daily on the door of the church. They fluttered between second and third. That, it seemed, was the way it was destined to work out. Unit Two, a cadre of teacher’s pets captained by the infamous brownnose Iovescu, sat firmly atop the heap.