Again, there was no reply for a few seconds, and then the voice asked, “Is that your real name?”
It seemed the right time to be truthful. “No. My real name is Valentine Vivian.”
“Oh. Well, then… I understand the need for an alias.”
“Actually, my name helped toughen me. I had to be tough, with a name like that. I had to learn to be quick and sharp. To think fast on my feet.” He began to walk casually toward the archway. “You should see my father. His name is Mildred.”
“Stop,” said the voice, and Valentine Vivian immediately obeyed.
“I’d really like to see you,” Vivian offered. His throat was tight. “Won’t you let me come in?”
A few seconds passed, during which Vivian wondered if the young man—if the young man was really so special—could hear his heartbeat.
“Come in,” said the voice.
Vivian entered the chamber.
The fire was indeed small and made up of little broken branches. Several skeletons of rabbits lay about. There was a jug of something, probably water. The young man did his business over in a far corner, and the smell wasn’t very pleasant. Curled up in the opposite corner, close to the fire, was a bundle of dirty rags. Vivian saw a human shape in them. He saw dirty legs, dirty hands, a dirty mass of black hair and the smallest section of face with an eye peering out at him. The eye was bright and startlingly green. Its intensity made Valentine Vivian stop at the center of the room, because for all his experience and intelligence and bravado he was no damned fool.
“May I ask your name?” Vivian inquired, keeping his voice light.
“Mikhail.”
“Family name?”
It was a long time coming. Then: “Gallatinov.”
“How old are you?”
“How old are you?” came back at him.
“Old,” said Vivian. He tried for a smile that refused to stick. “Actually, I’m Major Valentine Vivian.”
“British Army?”
“In a manner of speaking. And may I ask how you speak English so well?”
“I had an excellent teacher,” Mikhail replied.
“Yes, you did.” Vivian knelt down on the floor. A small skull lay next to his right boot. A rat’s skull, perhaps? The young man was not a picky eater. “You never told me your age.”
“Old enough,” the mouth behind the dirty rags said. And then decided to say, “Seventeen.”
“And your birthday is when?”
There was a long pause of deliberation, or perhaps an attempt to jog a distant memory. “March. The seventh day.”
“Well,” said Vivian, “now we’re getting somewhere.”
The rags shifted and two green eyes stared at the major. “Are we? Getting where?”
Vivian eased himself down to a sitting position. He was always aware of where the pistol was and how fast he could get to it. “I understand,” the major said carefully, “that you have a very unique…” What would be the correct word here? “Gift,” he said.
“Gift,” Mikhail repeated, hollowly.
“I’m just saying what I’ve been told. The details are sketchy. But I understand you are a…um…dedicated hunter?”
“I’m dedicated to not starving. Or letting my friends starve.”
“Yes, quite so. And admirable, too. Oh…by the way, I know about the murder. That incident…was it last summer? Something to do with a wrestler in a circus?”
Silence from the bundle of rags.
“Could I ask…just a favor, you see. A small favor.” Vivian’s smile blinked on and off. “If you can. Really, anything you can. But…would you show me…something?”
“This,” said Mikhail, “is not the circus.”
“Of course not. No offense intended. But…really, I’ve been asked to come here and see you…talk to you…get a sense of who you are.” Or what you are, he nearly said.
“You were seen…last October…in…how shall I put this? Oh, dear. You were seen…supposedly…changing your form,” said Vivian. His smile this time was very tight. “The man who witnessed this does not drink. He is not given to visions of fantasy. He is what we call a drone. Drones do not embellish nor do they otherwise distort. They observe and they report. So…you see…we’re a bit curious about this.”
“We?” An eyebrow lifted. “We who?”
“Oh, pardon me for not giving a complete introduction. I’m a major in the British Army, yes, but I am a fulltime field operative for the British Secret Service. Special Operations Branch. Which brings me to why I’m here. You see… I’m recruiting.”
The body shifted a little under the rags, but there was no comment.
“Recruiting special branch operatives,” Vivian continued. “We were wondering…if you were so inclined, and you were to show an interest and be educated, then…ah, but first I have to be shown something.”
“Shown what?”
“Something amazing,” said Vivian. He waited. Nothing happened.
“I’m Russian,” Mikhail said, behind the rags. “Why would I want to leave Russia and go to England?”
Valentine Vivian drew his knees up to his chin. His eyes sparkled in the low firelight. “I can make you,” he said, “into a citizen of the world. You could walk as a man in any country on earth. Walk as a gentleman. You could walk with honor and grace. You would have a purpose, Mikhail…do you mind if I call you Mikhail?”
Did the rags shrug? Maybe.
“You would be trained and educated and fashioned into a…a very unique weapon, Mikhail. A very unique tool, if you will. You know there are great changes coming in this world, don’t you? Well, you would be there to see them happen, and you would be there to make a difference in their happening. To prevent them from happening, if that’s what was called for.
“Now…if you wish to stay in this little fire-lit hole in Russia,” Vivian went on, “that would be your future. Feeding these villagers…it’s very noble, but it’s not much of a future. I can tell you that if you show me something, and I am amazed by what I witness, and you leave with me today for Warsaw—and I can get us across the border tonight, no doubt—then I am authorized to pay these villagers of yours enough money to rebuild this church many times over and buy an armored car or two to protect it. Then your future would be out there, in the world.” Vivian let that hang for a few seconds. “I believe you’re a very intelligent and capable young man. Whether you’re what we’re looking for is yet to be seen. But I can tell you—and you already know—that if you stay in this country it will eat you alive. If you come to England with me, and you have the right ability, you will have the chance to become one of the greatest hunters who ever lived. Is that a challenge you have any interest in taking?”
Mikhail was silent and motionless.
There is nothing here, Vivian suddenly thought. There is only a young man in rags, curled up on the floor. But how could the drone have been so wrong?
“Shakespeare’s country,” Vivian heard Mikhail say quietly. “The blessed plot. Someone told me that. He was a great man. He was…” Something came up and choked him. “I feel…alone,” he said, but now his voice was under firm control. “Did you know…that Nena used to come visit me…and bring me wild berries? Did you know that one day…she was feeding them to me…and I licked her fingers…and then…something came over me…a terrible thing…and I bit off the first joint of the little finger on her right hand?”
Mikhail lowered the rags enough for Vivian to see his full, gaunt and haunted face. The green eyes glowed like spirit lamps.