Stephen Hunter - Sniper's Honor

They got to the apartment complex and pulled in to a lot in the interior of a space between six-story apartment buildings, which rose on either side like walls of a canyon, sparsely lit because of the lateness of the hour. They headed toward the one that housed The Washington Post ’s bureau on its top floor, and provided a living for Kathy and Will, with an abundance of spare bedrooms. Bob had seen it before; it was a cool place.

“You go on up,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m going in there.”

“What?”

He had pointed to a neon sign blazing at ground level in another building. It said in bright neon orange COCKTAILS, and next to the word was the universal symbol of the beast itself, a tilted martini glass with a smiling olive inside.

“You’re kidding,” said Reilly.

“Nope. Never been more serious.”

“Swagger, I’m down, too. But we knew. We suspected. It was a war. It was the best ending possible. It’s no reason to go off the wagon.”

“No, that ain’t it. It’s a debt I have to pay.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It occurred to me on the flight. I put it together. It took him ten years, but he got it done.”

He took a breath.

“I don’t know who he was, professional or amateur. But the NKVD records prove that one guy figured out what happened to Mili, and he tracked down Krulov and made him pay. Krulov, top of the world, and someone knows it ain’t right, takes him down and cuts his tongue out, and sends him for a swim without it. Maximum insult. The way you kill a traitor. So I have decided, goddammit, I will drink a toast to that man. It’s the one little shred of right that happened in the whole story of Mili and all the powers who got together to destroy her. He’s the one guy who stood up for her. He deserves a drink, whoever he is, and it ain’t worth staying on the wagon to deny him that gesture. He’d get it, even if no one else would.”

“I think we’ll join you,” said Will.

The Carpathians

Yaremche

JULY 1944

The Peasant and the Teacher hastened along the high trail on the far side of the crest. They had not gone a mile when, back at the canyon, they heard the Russian attack. It was a sharp, harsh firefight, all kinds of automatic fire and explosions. They paused, listening, as behind them men fought and died. It seemed to last forever, but in reality, it was only seconds.

“Who won?” asked the Peasant.

“I don’t know. If enough Germans survived to blow the passage, I suppose they won the battle of Natasha’s Womb. If the Russians killed all the Germans, the passage stays open, and it’s another glorious victory for Stalin.”

“If they blow it, that should be a show.”

“If you like seeing things blown up, yes, it should be. Come on, I’m sure we’re safe now, but we should move as far as we can, anyway.”

They continued, following the track through the ragged forest trees. To their right, the mountains stiffened considerably, almost unclimbable, until they towered above. To the right, through an occasional hole in the trees, they could see more mountains, a sea of mountains stretching away limitlessly.

The explosion was loud even when it reached them, over two kilometers away. Both turned, slightly adjusted their position on the track for greater vision, and watched as a mushroom of hot, gritty gas rose, then drifted apart in the wind.

“The Germans are very good at blowing things up,” said the Teacher.

In time, as the dust settled, and through a gap in the trees, they were able to see three tiny vehicles move down the road to Uzhgorod, then disappear, swallowed by trees.

“The SS swine,” said the Teacher. “Why does God favor the wicked with such luck?”

They continued another few kilometers, until full dark.

“I think this is far enough,” said the Teacher. “We should be safe here.”

They went off the track, slipped another half-kilometer into the woods, and found shelter where two giant boulders lay together. Fiercely they attacked their bread and carrots and smoked the German cigarettes they had been given and fell into silent sleep. If nightmares haunted either, he was silent about it the next morning.

“All right,” said the Teacher, “now we head back to the passage to see if our troops are in command. Or maybe, after it was blocked, there was no point for them to stick around, so they went back to Yaremche. In that case, we shall have to walk there to find somebody to report to.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Peasant, rising.

“Wait, I must talk with you before we go. Sit down.”

Obediently the Peasant sat.

“We may be separated when we report. For various reasons. Look, let me tell you something that will help you.”

“All right.”

“You love her, I love her, she was a hero, she deserves to be remembered forever. But under no circumstances should you tell anyone of your time with Mili Petrova.”

“What? Why—”

“There are politics here. You do not understand them. It would take to the end of the war for me to explain them to you. But it may have developed, by certain realities, that she is considered a traitor. Trust me. I know it’s wrong, but it can’t be helped at this time. So instead of being applauded for assisting the White Witch, you might be interrogated and executed for it. Do you see?”

“She killed the monster Groedl. She—”

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is: who is in charge? And whoever he is, he will seek to eliminate anyone who had close contact with Mili. That is how it is. Furthermore, please do not claim membership in Bak’s army. If the Soviets see him as a Ukraine nationalist, they may decide you were criminal for being with him. Who knows, perhaps they were the ones who killed him. I’m only warning you, that’s the way they work. Do you see?”

The Peasant, it was clear, did not.

“Trust me, my friend. I want the best for you. Your story is that you were hauled off by the Germans as conscripted labor. Somehow you ended up in this area. When the big offensive came, you made your escape. You hid in the forest for a few days, and now you are back. That is your story, you know nothing about Bak or about Mili, and you stick to it. Do you understand?”

“I suppose,” he said, even if he did not.

In the town of—or rather, the smoldering ruins of—Yaremche, the Soviet army set up a clearance center to which all unassigned or nonlocal citizens, uprooted by the carnage of war, had to report, for categorization and permission to return to their own lands or, worse, some dark fate unknown. The lines were long, and the Peasant waited patiently for his turn, while the Teacher was just behind him.

In the distance, Red Army investigators pawed through the burned wreckage of the town and caused a great sensation when they discovered 135 burned bodies in the ashes and charred timbers of the church. Meanwhile, at least temporarily, a tank company had taken up residence, primarily as support and logistics for the NKVD processors who ran the clearance center. A tent city grew, where those released by NKVD were sent to recover their strength before beginning their return home. It was the Soviet empire reclaiming control after the German occupation, a rough bureaucratic procedure. A small field hospital took care of the wounded; a small field kitchen prepared the food, none of which could be considered memorable; a few political officers supervised.

Finally the Peasant presented himself to a young officer at a table; he wore wire-frame glasses, was overworked, maybe a little drunk. The Peasant was very nervous, for talking to authority was not an ordeal he had much practice with. No matter that the Teacher had told him, just before it was his turn, to be calm, to be relaxed, to cling to his story. He gave his name, presented his tattered papers.