David Healey - Red Sniper

“Yes, I will.”

The guard closed the gate behind her.

She glanced up at the watchtower, but it was too dark to see Dmitri up there. She hoped Harry didn’t make a run for it tonight without seeing her signal. If he did, it might very well be Dmitri who would shoot him with the machine gun.

Inna made her way along the path toward the village. Halfway there, a shadow appeared from the darkness. She gasped, remembering the guard’s warning about wolves.

“It’s me.” She recognized the voice as Cole’s. She was still startled—he had moved with utter silence. “Where’s Whitlock?”

“There has been a problem,” she said.

Midnight came and went in the barracks. The barracks did not have proper glass-covered windows, but only wooden slats over the opening to let in fresh air. Whitlock didn’t want to be too obvious about it, but from time to time he peered out the ventilation slats toward the dimly lit gate just beyond the barracks.

No sign of a scarf.

“What do you think?” he whispered to Ramsey. “Should we make a run for it?”

“Not unless you want to provide these Ivans with some target practice. Inna is going to tie her scarf to the gate, as she put it so poetically. Until we see that scarf, I think we should sit tight.”

After a while, Whitlock’s eyes grew heavier. No one in the barracks owned a watch, but it must have been approaching two or three in the morning. Still, Inna had given them no sign. Exhausted from the day’s labors on the railroad, Whitlock could no longer stop sleep anymore than a canoe can keep itself from being swept over Niagara Falls.

“Inna,” he mumbled as he drifted off. “Inna…”

The American team was forced to wait another day in the secret room within Vaska’s house. The four men could barely move without bumping into one another in the dark space.The room was intended to hide smuggled goods, not four men. In particular, whenever Samson fidgeted he jostled the others, making Cole feel like he was trapped in a milking stall with a clumsy cow. They did have flashlights, but there was no point in wasting their limited supply of batteries. Instead, they made themselves as comfortable as they could and waited out the day by dozing shoulder to shoulder in the confined space.

“This is getting old,” Vaccaro muttered.

“Sshh.”

In building the secret room, Vaska had carefully sealed all the gaps between the planks, but they were thin all the same, most of the wood having been salvaged from packing crates. Beyond the walls, they could hear the business of the village taking place: old men and women conversing in Russian, children at play, laughter, the squeak of a passing cart.

Occasionally, they heard gruff male voices. Soldiers. They held their breath each time, wondering if Vaska had betrayed them, after all, or if a curious villager had somehow ratted them out. Maybe the soldiers had only come to the village to trade. A few kept wives or girlfriends there.

The flimsy walls did nothing to filter out smells. The still air in the hidden room soon became a miasma of woodsmoke, boiled cabbage, vaguely spoiled fish, and horse manure. The atmosphere was not helped by having four men who were overdue for a shower in close quarters.

As they listened, unseen, it felt a lot like being a ghost. Waiting in the house itself was out of the question because Mrs. Vaska had visitors throughout the day who came to gossip. She was quite the agent—no one would have guessed that she was hiding four American soldiers planning an escape from the nearby Gulag.

Finally, the noises outside diminished as the day wound down. The temperature dropped steadily in the unheated room. Cooking smells drifted in from the kitchen, making their bellies rumble.

Night was coming on.

At long last, they heard the sound of the boards covering the narrow doorway to the secret room being removed. They stumbled out into the kitchen, blinking even at the dim glow from the oil lamps.

Mrs. Vaska had prepared the evening meal. Russian black tea and more of her fish pie. She gestured at them to sit.

Vaska nodded at them, and drew up a chair to the table. The men all settled down to eat.

Once they had finished, they gathered their gear. Vaska picked up his hunting rifle and kissed his wife. She would explain his absence by saying that he was on a long hunt, which he was known to do. She would say that he had left two days before the escape.

None of them felt the excitement that they had the night before. Nobody wanted to say it, but the plan was flimsy to begin with. The delay made it feel like tissue paper. They had come a long way to rely on the Russian girl distracting a guard.

Honaker said, “If she doesn’t come through tonight, I’m going to knife the guard and tie a goddamn scarf to the gate. I can’t take much more of this sitting around in that packing crate behind the chimney.”

For once, Cole agreed with Honaker. If Inna didn’t deliver tonight, it might be time to try a different approach. The more time that they remained in the village increased the chance that someone would spot them, and then the gig would be up. They would find themselves imprisoned in the Gulag alongside Whitlock—if the Russians didn’t shoot them outright.

“We go tonight, one way or another,” Cole agreed.

Outside, Cole sniffed the air. It smelled clean and fresh—and felt vaguely damp on his cheeks. Out of the south. Cold as it was, that meant snow. He looked up and couldn’t see any stars.

He looked at Vaska. “Smells like snow.”

The old man nodded. “Yes, the first snow is coming. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Got to get out ahead of it,” Cole said. “If we leave tracks for these Ruskie sons of bitches to follow, we ain’t got a prayer.”

Inna shivered as much from fear as from the cold. It was almost midnight as she approached the gate, hoping against hope that she would find Dmitri on duty tonight. She had a rapport with him. He was young and naive—which was important for the success of her plan. The guard last night had called him a virgin. Even better.

She felt a spark of relief when she saw his familiar figure.

He greeted her with a smile. In the dim light, she could see that he was heavily bundled against the late autumn chill. He really wasn’t a bad-looking boy, and not unkind. She felt bad about what she was going to do to him, but then pushed the thought from her mind. If this plan was going to succeed, she needed to be single-minded of purpose.

“Inna,” he said, obviously glad to see her.

As she stepped closer, she could smell the vodka on his breath, but he didn’t seem to be drunk. It was likely that he’d been taking a few nips to stay warm. Out here, who could blame him?

“You were not here last night,” she said.

He shrugged. “I was in the guard tower. You were on another mission of mercy?”

“Anna Korkovna is expecting and she is having a difficult time.”

“You are good to the people of the village,” Dmitri said. “I hope that they appreciate you.”

“They do,” she said. She produced a flask of vodka from her coat pocket. She knew, from observing him, that his own coat pocket held the key to the gate. “One of them gave me this in thanks, but I do not care for vodka. Let me give it to you for the many times you have opened the gate for me.”

He took the vodka gladly. “This will keep me warm tonight,” he said.

“I know something else that will keep you warm,” she said, stepping closer. “Dmitri, I do not know how to say this…”

“What is it?”

“Leave your post for a few minutes,” she said, touching his arm. “You look so cold. Let me warm you up a bit.”