Charles Taylor - First Salvo

“You do not have the local accent either.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I am Polish.” This time she studied him a bit longer, with an inquiring look on her face. “You really are a stranger here, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “There are many of us here in the work party. We were students in Warsaw — until three months ago,” she added bitterly. “Many of us were rounded up and sent to this damned country, and I don’t know whether or not we’re the lucky ones.”

“Lucky?”

“I don’t know how many are still alive,” she responded, her voice now deep and bitter, the sparkle gone out of her eyes. “We are forced labor,” she added.

This was something Cobb hadn’t expected. Nothing like this had been mentioned in his briefing. He had seen no indication that there were prisoners around Keradin’s dacha — no guards or guns. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware…” Perhaps this was the reason for those unknown buildings in the far corner of the compound. Neither he nor the photo interpreters were familiar with their purpose. He now realized they had been constructed in the last six months for slave labor.

This time when she looked up at him, there was anger in her eyes. “I suppose you are one of them —” she gestured toward the main house, “—spying on us.” But the bewildered look on his face reassured her that this stranger was not one of “them.” And after all she had learned about the peasants that toiled in this particular vineyard — they were the only natives she had come in contact with — she also sensed this stranger was not one of Keradin’s men. “Forgive me. You’re much too naive to be looking for an evening with me.” It occurred to her that this man should be cultivated. Perhaps he could be her means of escape.

“An evening?”

She looked up at Cobb, her eyes squinting against the glare of the sun. Her gaze swept up and down his figure, taking in the clothes, stopping at his hair. She lifted one of his hands, which he quickly pulled away. “Perhaps I should just go back to the barracks.”

“Barracks?”

She pointed down the hill to one of the buildings in the far corner. “That’s where they lock us up at the end of the day, except when Keradin or one of his men wants an evening. That’s what we call it — an evening. Then they send the foreman down with one of the guards to bring us back.” She grimaced. “About the only good thing I can say for it is the shower.” Now she grinned again. “Imagine that. After a while, you’re willing to trade yourself for a shower. They like us clean, not like the smelly peasant girls.” Cobb said nothing. Again her head tilted to the side. “If you had been around here even for a short time, you would have known all about that. The peasants won’t pay attention to us.” She pointed at the bucket. “They wouldn’t even have dipped water for me.”

“What’s your name?” Cobb asked.

“Verra.”

“That is Polish,” he nodded. “Very pretty.” Looking around to make sure that no one was paying attention to them, he continued, “I haven’t seen any guards. I’m sure I would have noticed.”

“Keradin doesn’t want to make a big thing about it — not in front of the peasants. The foreman — a GRU in charge of security — works for him, along with some of the others. They keep a close eye on us. There’s no way we could get away, at least not during the day, and they keep us locked up at night. That’s when the guards come out.”

She stood up then, her hands on her hips, and half circled him, studying both the man and the clothes intently. She had promised herself that the first time there seemed to be a chance, she would take it. Verra was not about to accept the existence offered to her at the dacha. She had only accepted it when the other choice was prison. Pursing her lips and nodding to herself as she stopped in front of him, she determined that the gamble had to be taken. “And you — what is your name?”

Down below, near the main shed, the foreman stepped out into the sun, looking up the slope. Cobb stood up, pouring the remainder of the water over his head. Hoisting his half-full bucket of grapes, he said, “Come on,” indicating the foreman down the hill with a jerk of his head. “I’ll teach you a little bit about grapes.” He moved to the edge of the arbor, noting over his shoulder that the foreman still hadn’t moved. “I’ll tell you my name,” he added when she hesitated.

She moved into a row above his so that she could watch both him and the foreman below. Good for her , he thought. She doesn’t trust a soul . “You can call me Cobb.”

“Cobb… Cobb?” She rolled the name over her tongue with difficulty. “That isn’t Georgian or even Russian, is it?”

He was normally not a gambler, not at such an early stage. But there was no time for games… no time to analyze just how he could effect a smooth operation and spirit off the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces within the next eight to ten hours — and his last chance would only be one day later.

It was time to gamble. “No, Cobb is not Russian.”

She looked down at him, studying his face closely as if looking for something that would answer a question. Like him, she moved slowly along the row of vines, clipping bunches of grapes and dropping them gently in her basket. Each time, she looked away only for a second, then her gaze fell back on his face again. Yes, she determined, she would take a chance.

“You have never been here before today?” It was a question and a statement.

“No.”

She grinned at him. “You are right not to talk to anyone.” She pointed at his clothes. “You look right, but I could tell when I sat down with you that you didn’t smell right. Only a day or so of sweat.” She wrinkled her nose. “You spend long enough here, you’ll know what I mean. I think some of these peasants bathe only after the harvest. You had one of those showers you mentioned not too long ago. So don’t talk and don’t let them smell you.”

“I’ve already talked with Keradin.”

She looked up in surprise, then her face softened. “I think perhaps he’s so comfortable here he wouldn’t consider those little things. He pays others to worry about that.” Her voice sharpened. “How long do you plan to stay here?”

“As little time as necessary.”

“And you expect to get away just as easily as you came?” There was a tone in her voice that implied it wouldn’t be that easy.

“I had considered that.”

“If I help you, would you take me too?”

For just an instant, but long enough to resurrect the pain of memory, Cobb’s mind flashed back to another woman who had asked that same question. It seemed so long ago. Those fifteen years were sometimes an eternity and other times seemed only a moment in time — and it had happened in a land so different from this one. But the other woman was just as beautiful in her own way, her hair long and dark, almond eyes just as penetrating, slender Asian body just as inviting. She had asked the same question and he had taken her. He had loved her beyond anything he had ever understood before, and Henry Cobb had made her his wife. Then his enemy had taken her away and tortured her before they killed her. After that, he had repeated the words many times after: “Never again!”

“You don’t know what I’m here for,” Cobb responded.

“I don’t care what you’re here for,” she answered emphatically. “If I have even the slightest chance to get away from here, I’ll do what I have to.”

“I don’t think you’d find my work very appealing.” He was gambling now, gambling as he’d never done before. By now, Keradin would already have talked with his foreman about the new man who knew so much about the grapes. It was probable the foreman would say nothing to upset the general. More than likely, though, he would be looking for Cobb shortly.