“What do you mean?”
The guard motioned toward a series of doors in the hallway to their rear. “They were held here while the Committee for State Security questioned them.”
“And what happened to them?” Blade queried.
The guard’s mouth turned downward. “They… did not survive the questioning.”
“They died?” Blade probed.
The guard nodded.
Blade jammed the Commando barrel into the guard’s cheek. “I don’t believe you!”
“It’s true!” the guard insisted in terror. “The last one died four days ago! The Security people were not lenient in their interrogations!”
Blade frowned. He’d anticipated this eventuality, but dreaded it all the same. Too much time had elapsed since the Vikings were captured, and the Soviets were not notorious for allowing their captives to live once the required information had been obtained.
The information!
“Where’s their office?” Blade demanded.
“What?” the guard responded, perplexed.
“The office of the Committee for State Security,” Blade said.
The guard blanched. “You are joking, yes?”
Blade’s countenance hardened. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“But it would be im—” the guard started to object.
Blade smacked the Commando barrel against the guard’s head. “They must have an office in this building! Somewhere where they could conduct their interrogations in private! Where is it?”
The guard pressed his left hand to his injured ear. “Upstairs,” he answered.
“How far up?” Blade asked.
“Three floors,” the guard revealed.
“Come on!” Blade yanked the guard toward the door.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re going to take me to their office,” Blade told him.
“No!” the guard protested. “They will kill me when they find out!”
Blade paused. “I won’t tell them if you don’t! But I will kill you right here and now if you don’t take me to their office! So what’s it going to be?”
The guard was clearly scared out of his wits.
Blade shoved him toward the door. “Get going!”
Whining, the guard hobbled to the door and opened it.
“Up the stairwell!” Blade barked. “Move it!”
They ascended the stairs, proceeding slowly, impeded by the guard’s injured knee. As they reached the appropriate landing, a muted siren began wailing in the distance.
Blade halted. “What’s that?”
The guard cocked his head. “The security alarm.”
Blade rammed the Commando barrel into the guard’s back. “They must know I’m here!”
“I don’t think so!” the guard replied, afraid of receiving a round in the spinal column.
“Why?”
“It sounds like it is coming from out near the barracks,” the guard explained, hoping to alleviate the giant’s obvious tension and reduce his risk of being shot. “If they knew you were here, the alarms in Penza Hall would go off.”
Blade gazed up the stairwell. Why would they be blaring an alarm outside? Did it have something to do with Sundance? “Keep moving!” he ordered.
The guard cautiously eased open one of the two yellow doors, the one on the left, and looked in both directions. “All clear,” he claimed.
Blade pushed the guard into the hallway, then followed. The corridor was indeed deserted. “Where’s their office?”
“This way,” the guard said, pointing to the right.
Blade nudged the guard with the Commando. “Lead the way.”
The guard limped down the hall and stopped at one of the many doors.
“This is it.”
Blade glanced at the door. Printed in English—along with strange letters from another language, undoubtedly Russian—were the words.
“Try the knob,” Blade directed.
The guard did. “It is locked.”
“Step aside.” Blade waited while the guard shuffled a few feet further along the corridor. He placed his right hand on the door and tested the knob, verifying the door was locked.
“See? We can’t get in,” the guard said. “We should leave!”
Blade’s right arm tightened, his massive muscles rippling, as he applied his prodigious strength to the lock. He grit his teeth, concentrating on the door, and he almost missed the guard’s attack. A glimmer of flashing light alerted him at the last instant.
The guard had drawn a knife from concealment, and he made a growling noise deep in his throat as he stabbed the sharp knife up and in, going for the giant’s chest. He believed he’d caught the giant completely unawares, so he was all the more surprised when his first blow missed, and was amazed when the giant swung the machine-gun barrel toward him but didn’t squeeze the trigger. The guard realized the giant wouldn’t shoot because the shots would bring troops on the run. He waved the knife in the air. “I’m going to carve you up into little pieces for what you did to my knee!” he stated confidently. He failed to notice the giant’s right hand as it inched under his bulky uniform shirt.
“You talk too much,” the giant said.
“Do I?” the guard rejoined, and slashed his knife at the giant’s face.
Blade easily evaded the knife, drawing his face out of range, and then stepped in close and swept the right Bowie out and up, the 15-inch blade burying itself to the hilt in the stupefied guard’s throat below the chin.
The guard stiffened and dropped his knife, gurgling as his blood poured from his neck. He gasped and futilely endeavored to withdraw the Bowie, but the giant’s steely arm held the blade fast. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a rivulet of blood ushered forth. His eyelids fluttered, and he expired.
Blade wrenched the Bowie free, his hand and forearm caked with dripping crimson.
The guard pitched to the floor.
Blade wiped the Bowie clean on the guard’s pant leg, then slid the big knife into its sheath. He quickly slung the Commando over his right shoulder, then applied both of his hands to the doorknob. Straining his arms to the utmost, he simultaneously pushed and twisted. For half a minute nothing transpired. And then the inner jamb rent with a splintering crunch, and the door swung open, the doorknob snapping off in his hands.
The siren was still wailing in the distance.
Blade entered the KGB office. There were doors to his left and right.
Against the right wall was a desk; against the left wall a file cabinet. He moved to the cabinet and tried the top drawer.
The damn thing was locked.
Blade returned to the hallway and found the guard’s knife. It had a relatively thick six-inch blade. He re-entered the office, crossed to the file cabinet, and gripped the top drawer with his right hand while holding the knife, blade pointed downward, in his left. He exerted pressure on the drawer, and was rewarded by a quarter inch gap appearing at the top of the drawer. He inserted the knife blade all the way to the handle, and started prying on the drawer with the knife while pulling on the handle with his right hand. A minute elapsed. Two. The drawer came open with a resounding metallic pop. He paused and listened.
The corridor was quiet.
Blade rummaged through the dozens of folders in the top drawer. They were all labeled, some in Russian, some in English. None of them appeared to have any connection with the Vikings. He leaned over and tugged on the second drawer, delighted when it slid right open. A hasty search was fruitless. He knelt and opened the third, final, drawer.
And there they were.
Three manilla files, each headed with the word VIKINGS. He scooped them out and flipped through the pages. Some of the contents were in Russian, some in English. He wondered why. He knew the Russians were bilingual. They had to be. Many of their troopers were conscripted, brainwashed Americans. Many of the bureaucrats were native citizens as well, and perhaps the conquered Americans found it too difficult to learn Russian fluently. Perhaps the reports in the files were duplicated, one in Russian, one in English. Whatever the case, Blade determined, now was not the time to reflect on the issue. He extracted the files, unbuttoned his shirt, and tucked them over his abdomen. Hurriedly buttoning the shirt, he rose and started for the door.