Derek Lambert - Vendetta

‘That was the general idea,’ Lanz said.

‘I hear he’s shot a hundred men. How many have you shot?’ he asked Meister.

‘A hundred and one,’ Lanz said. ‘What the hell are you guarding here?’

‘Regimental headquarters.’ The sentry pointed at a group of sheds across the track. ‘The Ivans tried to take it this morning. A special squad of fifty NKVD militia. They must have crossed the river overnight.’

‘Obviously they failed.’

‘But Christ, could they fight. They came at us howling like jackals but we mowed them down with an MG 42. Well, most of them.’

‘And the rest?’

‘Out there somewhere.’

‘Between here and the Red October Plant.’

‘I suppose so,’ the sentry said. ‘That’s where you’re heading for?’

Meister said it was.

‘You’re crazy.’

‘Better now than in broad daylight.’

‘They don’t fight like ordinary men. They’re…’ He searched for the word. ‘… possessed.’

Lanz said to Meister: ‘Sure you want to go ahead?’

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t forget I outrank you.’

‘I’m sure Paulus would be interested to hear you were scared of a few fugitives. Hitler too…’

‘He doesn’t want you dead.’

‘Which is why you’ve got to take care of me.’

They left the sentry staring uncertainly at them and made their way into the gathering darkness where the dogs were now wolves.

‘He gave you this?’ Razin swung the gold watch on its chain; it had uttered a fragile chime from Misha’s pocket and Razin had fished it out.

‘In exchange for food.’

‘They’re hard up for food but not that hard up.’

‘Bread,’ Misha said. ‘Warm bread like the bread I gave you. And a little cheese.’

‘Have you got bread for us? Or are we having sunflower seeds?’

‘I’ve got something better,’ Misha said. ‘A better place to hide.’

‘We’re not hiding,’ Antonov told him.

Misha frowned uncomprehendingly. ‘A much better place than this,’ as though nothing could be worse.

‘Why is it so much better?’ Razin asked.

‘No rats.’ Misha looked at Boris.

‘Is that all?’

‘It’s better placed for killing Meister.’

Misha looked from Razin to Antonov and back again and his face was quick with sharp wisdom.

Razin asked: ‘And how could you know that?’

‘Because I know where he’s hiding.’

Razin looked at Antonov. ‘Where?’

‘I will show you.’

‘Does he know you know?’

Misha shook his head. He threw the rat a husk of a sunflower seek, baked and salted, according to the packet, in Kharkov. The rat grabbed the husk but, finding no sustenance inside, discarded it and, whiskers twitching, continued to follow the boy’s movements.

‘Where did you meet him?’ Razin asked.

‘Outside Univermag.’

‘And you followed him?’ Antonov asked.

‘Of course.’

‘You did well. Here, I can’t match the watch but take this.’ He handed Misha a two-bladed penknife, its sheath covered with mother-of-pearl.

‘There’s something wrong,’ Razin said.

‘What can possibly be wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ Razin said. ‘One gold watch, one penknife, he’s doing well…’

‘I’ll use them to buy food,’ Misha said. ‘And information. Did you know I’ve met General Chuikov?’ He finished the sunflower seeds and stood up. ‘Now we must go.’

‘To the new place?’ Razin lit the primus stove on which their supper, soup made from dried potatoes and bread, stood in a bowl, cold and congealed. ‘Not tonight. We’ve just got here. We’ll have a look at it tomorrow.’

A bubble rose from the stagnant depths of the soup and burst on the surface.

Misha pulled his arm. ‘No, we must go now.’ He was blinking rapidly. He turned to Antonov. ‘Please.’ His hand on Antonov’s arm was a small claw.

Razin, stirring the soup, said: ‘What’s the hurry? Meister isn’t going anywhere. Not on a night like this.’

‘Tell him,’ Misha said to Antonov.

‘Tell him what? Anyway, let’s have supper first.’ Antonov found some black bread in the rattle box and cut it into two and then into three.

Razin took a swig of home-made vodka he had found in a shed in a devastated vegetable garden. ‘We’ll take a look in the morning.’ His voice sounded suddenly sleepy.

‘No,’ Misha said. ‘Now!’

‘You see,’ Razin said, ‘I knew there was something wrong.’ He rolled a pellet of black bread and threw it to the rat.

Lanz, consulting the map in the hooded beam of a flashlight, said: ‘I think we’re close.’ His voice was muffled as though it was full of sleet.

They could hear the river close by but they couldn’t see it: they hadn’t expected it to be so dark. Occasionally German flares burst overhead but even they had lost their dazzle.

Meister slipped his hand beneath his cape and felt the bulge in his tunic pocket. The white cap with the small peak. He intended to give it to the family of the dead boy.

What was Antonov doing now crouched in the tunnel? Writing to his girl? A country girl with a fine skin and white, white teeth. Meister envied him sitting in his tunnel writing to his girl.

Lanz said: ‘According to the kid Antonov gets into the tunnel through a shell-hole fifty yards from the river. If it wasn’t for that hole he’d be sitting in sewage. I wonder what the hell they do in there?’

‘Play chess maybe,’ replied Meister who didn’t want to share Antonov’s letter-writing.

‘Anyway it will be dry in there and they won’t be expecting us and if you lower yourself through the hole you’ll be able to get in a couple of shots before they go for their guns.’

‘Maybe,’ Meister said.

‘Or maybe I should roll a grenade down the tunnel.’

‘It’s got to be a bullet,’ Meister said. ‘You know that.’ He tapped the Karabiner through the waterproofed webbing. But he wasn’t being totally truthful with Lanz.

He stumbled over a body. He couldn’t tell whether it was Russian or German.

Lanz gripped his arm, doused the flashlight. They froze. Ahead a movement, a splash of water in a puddle. Lanz’s fingers bit into Meister’s arm. With his other hand he drew his pistol.

The flare exploded above them, light blurred by the sleet. As a machine-pistol opened up. As Lanz falling to the ground and pulling Meister with him, fired his pistol at the gun-bursts. The shooting stopped. They waited, pressed into the mud.

Lanz crawled forward. Meister slid his rifle from the webbing and covered him. Finally Lanz stood up and beckoned him. He rolled the body over with his foot. ‘Secret police,’ he said. ‘NKVD. Christ, look at that gun.’ He picked it up, it looked home-made. ‘They must make them in their tool-sheds,’ adding: ‘Thank Christ.’

‘Why “Thank Christ”?’

‘Because if they didn’t they’d strangle us with their bare hands.’

They moved on in what they hoped was the direction of the tunnel.

‘We must go now,’ Misha said. ‘We must.’

‘When we’ve finished eating,’ Razin said. ‘Boris doesn’t like to go without his supper. Do you?’ He threw the rat another pellet of black bread. ‘In any case, what’s the hurry?’

‘The Fritzes are going to attack this stretch of the river bank at dawn.’

‘You wouldn’t lie to me would you, Misha?’

‘I know about these things.’

Antonov said: ‘We’d better do what he says.’

‘I don’t trust him. Do you?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He saw the political officers emptying their pistols into the soldiers floundering in the river. Since then he had adopted a new policy: neither trust nor distrust, neither believe nor disbelieve: it was easier that way. ‘But if the Germans do take this stretch of river bank we’re trapped.’