Barkov heard something in the snow to his right, and turned painfully toward the sound.
A large gray wolf stood there, head down, studying Barkov with its deep brown eyes. Measuring him.
Barkov cursed at the wolf, and tried to crawl away. His arms worked all right, but he felt like he was dragging a sack of broken crockery that had been dredged in warm lard — the sack being the rest of his body.
The wolf followed in the wake of Barkov’s progress. Coming closer.
Panting from the effort, Barkov stopped trying to crawl. He reached for this whip, then remembered that it was no longer there. When the wolf was close enough, he shook a fist at it, driving the animal back.
"Son of a whore!"
The wolf retreated. But then another wolf appeared on its flank, and the first wolf advanced. Barkov couldn’t keep an eye on both of them.
Barkov swung his fist again, but his strength was depleted. Propped up on one elbow, he flailed weakly at the wolf.
The two wolves moved closer, growling, jowls curled back from sharp white teeth. He raised his arm to protect himself.
The wolf darted forward and grabbed his arm. The second wolf went for the bloody wound near his hip.
This time, Barkov screamed.
CHAPTER 33
Whitlock and the others spent the rest of the day on the move. Having lost so much weight in the Gulag camp, he couldn’t seem to get warm and his teeth chattered constantly, giving him a headache. For Inna, each step was a small agony, but like a good Russian, she did not complain. Honaker and Vaska plodded along silently. Vaccaro bitched enough for everyone else.
From time to time, they looked over their shoulders for Cole, but there was no sign of him. They had heard the rifle shots in the distance, and then nothing but the Russian wind and the squeak of snow under their boots. The silence revealed nothing about Cole’s fate.
The sun was low and shadows stretched toward the horizon when they spotted the rescue party waiting for them at the Finnish border. Two Jeeps and what looked like six men. Through his rifle scope, Vaccaro saw that they were clearly Americans. They were all armed, weapons ready, as if they knew the Russians were just out of sight.
"I'll be damned," Vaccaro said, lowering his rifle. "There's a sight for sore eyes."
"I can't believe it," Whitlock said. "We made it!”
Inna made a happy sound.
They picked up the pace, all of them trotting now. Inna was limping as she ran, but she didn't let that stop her. After days spent crossing the taiga, having run out of food — having fought off wolves, for God's sake — it was hard not to be thrilled at the sight of the rescue party. Only Honaker lagged behind, bringing up the rear.
Nobody noticed when he stopped and leveled his rifle at their backs.
"Hold it right there,” he said.
Something in the tone of voice stopped them in their tracks. They whirled around to see Honaker with his weapon aiming at them.
"Honaker, what the hell?" Vaccaro demanded.
“We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way," Honaker said, keeping the rifle pointed at them.
"Jesus, Honaker, we're almost there. What the hell are you doing? We made it!"
"Is that what you think? That you made it? Drop your rifle, Vaccaro. Put your hands on your head. All of you."
They had no choice. They did as they were told.
"What the hell is this about?" Vaccaro demanded. "What are you, some kind of Russian agent?"
The rifle didn’t waver. The four of them weren’t spread very far apart, so that Honaker covered them all easily with the weapon. “You don't get it, do you? Bring our boys home! It sounds good, but it’s not that simple. Far from it. Nobody can let Whitlock here go back and tell the American public that the Russians are holding some of our men prisoner. The Russians are supposed to be our allies. How do you think that will make President Truman look?"
"Honaker, this is insane. Why did we go on this mission in the first place if we weren’t supposed to bring anyone home?"
"You can thank Senator Whitlock for that. The old man has clout. There was no stopping him. It was strictly a back channel operation. He was going to send somebody to spring his precious grandson from the Gulag camp no matter what, so I went along as insurance, just in case we actually made it."
"Why did we cross all this territory? Why did you let us get this far?"
"You weren't supposed to. Hell, I even cut the oil lines in the C-47 that flew us here, but the damn thing made it on one engine. If it hadn't been for that goddamn Cole, you never would have made it this far. I could never seem to get the drop on him. That hillbilly has eyes in the back of his head. With any luck, Barkov is finishing him off right about now."
“Honaker, this is insane!”
“No, what’s insane is the fact that you made it this far.” Honaker turned the rifle on Inna. "If it hadn't been for this Russian bitch springing her lover boy in the first place, I doubt we would have made it out of the village."
Vaccaro shook his head, puzzled. "But what about you? If we didn't make it, you sure weren't going to."
"Some things are bigger than me or you, Vaccaro. It didn’t really matter if I made it out or not, so long as nobody else did.”
Whitlock spoke up. "I don't believe you, Honaker. I'll bet you had some kind of deal going with the Russians, you and whoever is behind this in the U.S. Government. You’re a coward at heart. Anyone can see that. You were going to get out of this somehow. The lone survivor."
Honaker gave a wry smile and shrugged. “Do you really want to call the man pointing a rifle at you a coward? You might be right, though, about the escape clause. It wouldn't be so bad for me if it worked out that way. With any luck, that’s just how it’s going to play out, with me as the lone survivor.”
Both Whitlock and Vaccaro had their eyes locked on the muzzle of the rifle, which looked big as a cannon and black as death. The rifle never moved. Honaker's gaze never left them.
Inna had started crying when Honaker made his explanation. She pulled off her mittens to wipe her eyes. Now she was wracked by big sobs, her arms crossed across her chest. She seemed to fold up on herself, squatting in the snow, all the resilience that she had shown over the last few hours evaporating.
Honaker said in a taunting voice, "Don't worry, honey. I'll make it fast. You won't feel a thing. Who do you want me to shoot first, you or your lover boy?"
Inna sobbed harder. Honaker gave a little laugh, as if he found it all amusing.
Whitlock spread his arms in a supplicating gesture. “Please. You can at least let her go. She’s Russian, after all.”
“No chance,” Honaker said. “I’m real sorry about this.” He put the rifle to his shoulder to aim it.
Whitlock said, “Honaker, if it’s money you want—“
Inna was still on her knees, sobbing. Distracted by Whitlock, Honaker didn’t see her right hand come up, quick and fast. She held the small pistol she had kept tucked in her boot. Pop. The noise of the gun was almost absurdly small. A slug smaller than a pencil eraser hit Honaker in the chest and he stared down in surprise at the bullet wound. The hold was no bigger than if he had been poked with a knitting needle. Didn’t even hurt. He was too startled to react.
Inna stood and took a step toward him, keeping the pistol level. Pop. Another slug hit Honaker. She moved forward again. Pop. Pop.
The tiny soft-nosed slugs didn’t have much energy, but they still tumbled through his chest cavity like rolling dice, flattening out as they went. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. Honaker dropped the rifle and clawed at his chest.