There was a soft knock on the partition. He put down his book, extinguished the candle, and eased himself up off the bed. This girl would sleep through anything, he thought to himself as he fastened his belt. The knock was repeated.
“Coming,” he whispered. Nadezhda turned over in her sleep, exposing one milky-white shoulder.
Yakovenko was outside. “Message coming in,” he said.
Kuznetsky followed him through the maze to the radio room, watched the operator transcribe the message from the current code. “Colonel Kuznetsky required Moscow immediately. Pickup points 12 14 15 Tuesday Thursday Saturday. Signal required. Request receipt.”
That was it. What the fuck did they want with him in Moscow? “Tell them the Germans are crawling all over the place and we’re still hibernating,” he told Beslov. “Diplomatically.”
“Situation understood,” came the reply. “Colonel Kuznetsky required Moscow immediately. Request receipt.”
“Maybe it’s a medal,” Yakovenko murmured. “Though they could have dropped that with the chocolate.”
Kuznetsky laughed. “Oh shit. Tell them—” He broke off at the sound of running feet.
Sidorova erupted into the dugout, mouthing the word “Germans.”
“Cut the connection,” Kuznetsky whispered to Beslov. “Make sure everyone’s ready,” to Yakovenko. He made his way to the periscope, squeezing himself between the roots of the tree that concealed it. The tube went right up through the center of the trunk, then into an artificial sapling that could be twisted where the trunk forked. Putting his eyes to the mirror, he could immediately see a single German soldier, a boy of about sixteen, walking slowly toward him, diligently scanning the ground for a sign. Gently swiveling the periscope, he could pick out the line of troops, spread out at around twenty-yard intervals, carefully advancing. Only the boy would actually pass over the camp. Kuznetsky prayed that he’d be nearsighted.
He seemed to be. He was already halfway across without pausing in his deliberate stride. Kuznetsky turned to check that his group and the other group leaders were all there, caught a glimpse of Nadezhda yawning in the background.
The boy stopped and reached down to pick something up, something small and red. A chocolate wrapper! How the bell had they missed it?
“Pretend it’s not there,” Kuznetsky silently pleaded. “Save your own and your comrades’ lives. Just keep walking.”
The German licked the paper, perhaps finding a last crumb of chocolate, and then he blew his whistle. Kuznetsky didn’t dare turn the sapling, but he could hear the sound of running feet crashing through the undergrowth and, more ominously, the sound of motors revving. A lieutenant came into view, examined the wrapper, looked warily around. Then he strode off to the left, and Kuznetsky risked following him with the periscope. The officer was busily pulling dead branches away from the T-34’s underground garage.
Kuznetsky climbed out of the roots, pointed to his watch, and held up one finger. The other group leaders scurried away through the interconnecting passages, counting seconds under their breath. He picked up the loaded antitank gun, checked that the automatic pistol was firmly in his belt, and continued counting.
Thirty-five, thirty-six. Everyone was ready. Forty, forty-one. And at least the light above ground was fading fast. Nadezhda smiled at him. Fifty-five, fifty-six.
Ever so carefully, he released the greased wooden peg that held the trapdoor and let it drop. A square of twilight appeared. Yakovenko placed the stump under the opening, and Kuznetsky used it as a launching pad to throw himself up through the square and onto the forest floor, screaming “Now” at the top of his voice.
Ignoring the nearby group of startled Germans, he picked out the approaching half-track and fired the antitank rocket. There was a whoosh of flame and the vehicle toppled forward like an elephant crashing to its knees. Yakovenko’s machine gun seemed to be going off in his ear, but the group of Germans were all down or falling, and suddenly there was near silence, only the shouts of the Germans farther off and the rumble of other vehicles in the distance.
The partisans were pouring out of the hidden exits, forming themselves into their groups and moving away. Kuznetsky could see the nearest Germans moving back and knew why, having read a captured Wehrmacht manual. They were supposed to form a circle with a radius of three hundred yards.
He checked his own group and led them off at a run on their prearranged compass setting — due west. Fifty yards farther they found another half-track disgorging troops and he dropped to the ground with the rocket gun, felt Yakovenko load it as he took aim, fired. Another inferno and they were running again, zigzagging between the burning Germans, on through the forest. Nadezhda was leading now, through a small clearing and down into a shallow riverbed as a burst of automatic fire shredded the leaves above their heads.
They must have gone three hundred yards by now, Kuznetsky thought, but there’d be a second line not too far ahead. With a supreme effort he managed to regain the front and pulled the group to a halt.
“Down! Quiet!” he ordered, and it was as if a switch had been flicked. There was heavy gunfire to the north, and they could see the flames of the burning half-tracks reflected in the forest roof. To both right and left the passage of vehicles was audible, but ahead of them, nothing.
It would be fully dark in an hour. Should they wait for the second line and hope to pass through it unseen? Kuznetsky was inclined to think so until he heard the dogs.
“Spread — no firing,” he ordered, and they were on the move again, racing across the forest floor in a widening line, running into the enemy before either side had time to think. Kuznetsky’s automatic pistol coughed twice as a silhouette loomed to confront him, and he pumped another bullet between the dog’s yellow eyes as it broke free from its dead master’s grip. To his right and left the forest was again full of gunfire. He kept running, the sounds fading behind him, conscious that at least some of the others were running parallel paths through the trees.
It was not the first time that Sheslakov had visited someone in the bowels of the NKVD headquarters, but familiarity had not bred immunity. The grayness of the place seemed all-embracing, and this somehow seemed to emphasize the sharpness of each human touch. The people incarcerated, and their jailers — they all seemed like pieces of raw meat on an endless, uniform slab.
In the beginning, he thought, walking down another identical corridor, animality bred abstraction, the savage developed language. Now abstraction breeds animality, correcting some cosmic balance. Our rulers run the most perfectly devised system like savages, he thought, while the Germans, still animals, choose anal retentives for their leaders. He felt a surge of sadness.
The NKVD officer opened the door of Luerhsen’s cell. “I must lock it behind you,” he said apologetically.
“Too many mass escapes, eh?” Sheslakov said, unable to resist the gibe.
Luerhsen looked up at him with one of the most peaceful faces Sheslakov could remember. No one upstairs had seemed to know why he was imprisoned, and it had taken Sheslakov half an hour and several irate telephone calls to get his file released. The “antistate activity” with which he was charged — but not, as yet, convicted for — concerned remarks he had made in 1939, five years before. To be precise, he had called the Nazi — Soviet Pact “an error of judgment comparable only with that made by Judas.” The NKVD officer in charge of the records had expressed surprise that the man had not been shot.
Sheslakov introduced himself and sat down on the bunk beside Luerhsen. “I wish to ask you some questions,” he said, “about someone you knew long ago. It has nothing to do with your case. I can do nothing to help you in that respect,” he added, suddenly deciding that honesty was the best policy with this man. “I can only say that the cause you served for thirty years needs your assistance once more. We need to assess how this woman will react in certain situations, and you are the only person in the Soviet Union who has actually met her.”