"Barkov," he vowed to the Russian wind that moaned across the empty land. "I will put a bullet in you if it's the last thing I do."
Staring down at Ramsey’s body, Cole couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. He thought about what Ramsey had said. That he hated the idea of never getting home again. Cole thought that after everything Ramsey had been through, that it just didn't seem right that his body would be left here on the taiga — maybe to serve as supper for whatever critters happened by. The thought made his belly churn, but there was no way to dig down through the cold ground to give Ramsey a decent burial. He didn’t have a shovel, and his knife wasn’t up to the task.
"Goddamn," he said, thinking it over.
Cole had brought a blanket with him, just in case he became separated from the others and had to spend the night. Ramsey looked so small laying there, just an empty shell like a corn husk. The hard work and poor food of the Gulag camp had worn him down to hardly more than a scarecrow.
Cole decided that it had been Ramsey's spirit and personality that had been outsized. He spread the blanket on the snowy ground and dragged Ramsey's body onto it, then rolled him up in the blanket.
Maybe he could carry Ramsey, but there was no way he could carry Samson. The man outweighed him by a hundred pounds. He refused to leave Samson to be scavenged by varmints. The Russians abandoned their dead, but not him.
The ground nearby was scattered with stones and boulders, some of them the size of a softball, others the size of a watermelon. Slowly, laboriously, Cole dug through the snow for these stones and piled them around and over Samson's body. The effort took him the better part of an hour. He bashed his fingers between a couple of the larger stones, and ended up leaving bloody fingerprints across the rocks.
When he was finished, Cole hoisted Ramsey's body over one shoulder and set off along the path he had made getting there. He would be a liar if he didn't admit that every step was a struggle. Following his old steps made it a little easier.
In the back of his mind, a plan began to develop. It was so goddamn crazy that it might just work. But he would have to push himself hard to get ahead of the Russians.
He plowed ahead. After a few minutes of laboring through the snow with Ramsey on his back, he realized there was no way that he could circle around Barkov and get ahead of the Russians. That was just wishful thinking. He decided that he didn’t need to get ahead of them; he just needed to make sure that they found him when the time came.
He located a copse of trees on hilly ground. The trees would give him some cover, so that the Russians would have to come in close. It was perfect ground for what Cole had in mind.
He tried to put Ramsey down gently, but the weight of the body was more than he could manage and the body ended up slamming to the ground in a way that reminded Cole of the judo throws they had practiced back in basic training. He shook his head. Judo. A lot of goddamn good that did anybody.
Then he set about building a fire. Cole could build a fire just about anywhere, short of it being in the middle of a blizzard or a hurricane. There was almost always some dry wood to be found, if you knew where to look.
He got a nice blaze going — a real fire to keep the cold at bay. He had to admit that the heat was welcome. The smoke trailed up into the sky like a banner, which was exactly what he had in mind. He tossed on some green spruce boughs to thicken the smoke.
Once the fire was going, he skinned the rabbit. He supposed that this was technically a hare, but if it hopped and had long ears, it was enough to call it a rabbit. He skewered the rabbit on a sharp stick, which he propped beside the fire so that the indirect heat would roast the meat. With a fire that size, the cooking wouldn't take long. Goddamn, that smells good, he thought as the meat began to sizzle.
Satisfied with the fire and the rabbit, he knelt beside Ramsey and got to work.
One way or another, Ramsey was going to have his revenge.
CHAPTER 29
Barkov was the first to spot the smoke. He was surprised. So far, the Americans had shown a great deal of discipline in avoiding any sort of fire. Maybe they had finally gotten too cold, or maybe they had something to cook. Any number of possibilities ran through Barkov's mind.
What the Mink said in Russian was the equivalent of, "Can you believe they would be so stupid?"
Barkov told the other three men to stay put, and he and the Mink went out to check on the source of the smoke.
They could see flames flickering through the tree trunks — the fire was no stingy affair. A delicious smell reached them. That explained the fire. The Americans were cooking meat.
They crept forward, using the trees and brush for cover. Barkov made a motion that signaled far enough and quiet all in one. The two Russians studied the scene before them.
Much to their surprise, there was just a lone figure hunched over the fire. An American sniper rifle with a telescopic sight was propped up within the sniper's reach. It was hard to see the sniper's face, because his neck and the lower part of his face were wrapped in a scarf against the cold. A cigarette hung from his lips. They had expected an entire group, but not one man. Looking around through the scope at the sniper’s feet, they could see what was clearly a body wrapped in a blanket. There was no mistaking it. They had seen enough of those over the last few years.
“So that is the American sniper,” the Mink whispered. “He’s not much bigger than I am. What is he up to, do you think?"
“It looks to me like he is cooking his dinner.”
The Mink gave him an annoyed look. “Over a big fire like that?”
"Maybe he does not think we are nearby. Maybe he thinks we gave up. Maybe he just does not give a shit anymore."
The third possibility was plausible. They had seen so many strange things. Soldiers who lost their minds and threw away their weapons and stripped off their clothes in the middle of a battle. A schoolteacher who sat down to read a book as he froze to death. One could only believe what one saw, which was what they were seeing now. One of the Americans sat by this fire, cooking a rabbit, with a dead man rolled in a blanket nearby. Who was the dead man? Nobody — he was dead. It was not an elaborate scenario.
"What are you waiting for?" the Mink asked.
Barkov lined up the sights and shot the sniper through the head. The body sagged.
The Mink stood up. He uncorked his flask of vodka, took a drink, and handed it to Barkov.
"Good shooting."
"I expected more from this one," Barkov said. “In the end he was nichevo. Nothing."
Barkov took a drink, handed back the flask.
"I want his rifle," the Mink said. He grinned. "And there is no point in letting that rabbit go to waste. Are you coming?"
Barkov clapped him on the shoulder. "You go ahead. I will start back toward the others, so that the cowards don't run away. I would not care, but we may still need them yet. Catch up to us when you can, and bring me some of that rabbit."
Cole waited for what seemed like an eternity, holding himself very still and barely breathing. But he was a patient man. He just hoped that the rabbit didn't burn. He would have had time to turn it, too, because it took an hour for the Russians to find the fire. By then he felt cramped and cold, despite the fact that he was wrapped tightly in a blanket, but he ignored the discomfort.
He was positioned with his arms in front of him. His hands held the Browning 1911 pistol.
He neither heard nor saw the Russians approach. He only knew that they had arrived when a single shot ripped out and hit Ramsey square in the head. The sound made Cole wince. It didn't seem possible to kill a dead man any deader, and yet Barkov had done just that. Ramsey’s body slumped to the snowy ground just at the edge of Cole’s limited field of view.