The space between the second and third windows was the widest darkness along the rear wall, a fact he’d noted while watching from inside the dormitory. Grofield went halfway between those two windows and dropped to his knees against the wall. He ducked his head down and crouched into a ball, making himself as small as possible. There he busily unwrapped most of the wire from around his hand, left some, wrapped the other end around his other hand.
He was now in darkness, against a dark wall, a small indistinct lump. The guard would pass by soon, gloomy, thinking about other things, wishing his tour of outside duty was up, and it was unlikely he would even see this low bump of darkness against the wall of the building, much less pay any attention to what he was seeing.
Grofield waited, listening, and it seemed a long time before he heard the plodding thud of the guard’s footsteps coming this way, following the trough he had worn in the snow, out half a dozen feet from the edge of the building, a path he’d apparently chosen because it gave him a chance to walk in the light of the windows.
Grofield listened, not moving, waiting for the first sign of hesitancy in the footsteps, but they came steadily, unenthusiastically on. They slogged on by Grofield, and the instant they were past him Grofield raised his head, looked over his shoulder, and saw the bowed head of the guard, who was walking along with a Bren gun in his hands.
Grofield got to his feet. He could do that silently, but he couldn’t move silently through snow, so the next part had to be fast, and it had to be done before the guard reached the next window’s illumination. Grofield ran forward, his arms up over his head, and as the startled guard was turning around Grofield was on him, bringing his arms down, reversing them, the wire flipping over the guard’s head.
The guard was trying to turn around, trying to aim the Bren gun, trying to keep Grofield from getting behind him, but it was too late. Grofield closed his right hand on the guard’s left shoulder from behind, yanked him around, shoved his knee into the small of the guard’s back, and spread his arms as wide as they would go, which closed the loop of wire around the guard’s throat.
The guard thrashed, gurgling, trying to call out. The Bren gun dropped into the snow, his gloved hands clawed at the wire. He struggled hard enough to knock them both over, and they landed on their sides, but it only relaxed Grofield’s tension on the wire for a second, and then he had it as strong as ever. The guard kept struggling, kicking snow in the air, waving his hands behind his head in a wild attempt to get at Grofield, and Grofield gritted his teeth and held the wire taut.
Slowly the guard’s struggles weakened, but soon it was possible for Grofield to get up onto his knees, force the guard’s body facedown, then kneel on his back and finish the job.
He left the wire where it was, and got to his feet. He was panting, and at first he just stood there and waited for the nerves jumping in his arms and shoulders to calm down. Then he walked over to the trapezoid of illumination from the third window, raised an arm over his head, and waved it.
Twenty-Five
“Here,” she whispered, and handed Grofield his machine gun.
“Thanks.”
“Where is he?”
Grofield motioned the machine gun at the shape lying half covered by snow. She looked at it, then frowned at Grofield. “You killed him?”
“Naturally. Come on.”
She hesitated a second or two, then followed him, and the two of them trudged through the soft snow against the building wall. The guard’s path was inviting out there, five or six feet from the wall, but it went directly through all the illumination. In here they were in shadow, and they could stoop under the windows, whose sills were a good five feet off the ground.
Grofield led the way to the rear door he remembered from yesterday afternoon. It was unlocked, and the hall inside was empty. He opened the door and stepped in, she came in quickly after him, and he shut the door again.
There were half a dozen side doors down the length of the hall, three on each side, but Grofield ignored them. The four Americans were unlikely to be anywhere without a guard on the door. If he didn’t find them elsewhere in here, he’d come back. Right now, though, he went directly to the far end of the hall and the door that led to the library. It was closed, and when he put his ear against it he heard murmurs of conversation from inside. He stepped away, leaned close to Vivian, whispered, “We’re going in there. Show them the gun, but don’t use it unless you absolutely have to.”
She nodded. She looked a little shaky, strained and tense around the eyes, but her mouth was determined.
He asked, “You going to be all right?”
She nodded, not saying anything.
He patted her shoulder, and reached out to the doorknob. He shoved the door open and stepped quickly in and to the left, so the people inside would see Vivian right away and know there were two guns to contend with.
There were four men in the room, broad-faced Caucasians with heavy shoulders and brown or black hair. They’d been sitting around a table playing some sort of card game, but now they dropped their cards and pushed their chairs back from the table with squealing noises of chair legs on the wooden floor. Their faces looked startled, but not frightened.
“Not a sound,” Grofield said, and gestured with the machine gun because he wasn’t sure they would understand English.
They understood the gun. There was a long tense instant when nothing happened, nobody moved, nothing had been decided one way or the other, and then one of them slowly lifted his hands up over his head. The others glanced at him, and did the same thing.
Not taking his eyes off them, Grofield said, “Vivian, put your gun down where none of them can reach it. Circle around behind them, without getting between me and them. Then get their guns.”
“Yes,” she said. He didn’t dare look over at her, but her voice sounded strong and capable.
He kept watching the four cardplayers, seeing Vivian in motion out of the corner of his eye. She did it right, circling around behind them, frisking them without giving any of them a chance to get hold of her and use her for a shield. Two of them had pistols inside their coats, the other two were clean.
Vivian looked around, then pointed at a far corner. “They have guns over there.”
“All right.” Grofield gestured at them with the gun again. “Lie down,” he said.
They looked blank.
Grofield held the gun in one hand and pointed at the floor with the other. “Down,” he said. He made a spread-out-flat gesture, palm down.
The one who’d been the first to raise his hands now was the first to move again. A questioning look on his face, is this right? he lowered himself to one knee, his hands still raised over his head.
Grofield nodded.
Tentatively, the other lowered his hands, then lay down on his stomach. The others hesitated, but Grofield made angry gestures with the gun and they followed suit. Then Grofield said, “Vivian, use their shoelaces to tie their wrists and ankles. Rip up their shirttails for gags.”
“Woman’s work is never done,” she said, and got to it, with Grofield standing on. She did the tying first, and then Grofield could put the gun down and help her with the gagging.
The guns leaning against the wall in the far corner were Brens, like the one the guard outside had carried. Originally a British fight machine gun with an open metal stock, the design had been copied everywhere, and Bren guns now came from Yugoslavia, from Israel, from all over the world. So that wouldn’t tell anything about where these people came from.