Hearing Karen’s translation, Petr shook his head. “The Red Army will provide.”
Bobby approached Petr and took his hand firmly in both of his own. “Good luck,” he said, and he meant it.
Petr nodded. He knew the English expression even if he didn’t know the rest of the language. “Thank you,” he replied in heavily accented English. And then he added something in Russian before turning and exiting the door through which Bobby had come in.
Bobby turned back to Karen. “What did he say?”
“He said, do not die. For my sake, do not die.” And then she couldn’t say anything more because she was crying again.
Bobby wrapped her in his arms and held her tight. “I won’t,” he assured her. “I won’t.”
Karen didn’t stop crying, and for as long as she sobbed, Bobby held her. “It’s OK,” he assured her. “You did what you could.” But still she cried. “It’s better this way,” he continued. “He’s Russian. He belongs here.”
Finally, Karen stopped crying. She unwrapped herself from Bobby’s embrace, wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands, and nodded. “You’re right,” she conceded. “It’s better this way. But I need to talk to him. I never even said good-bye.”
“All right,” Bobby said, stepping back.
Karen left then, out the hangar and through the fence, running into the streets of Krasnoyarsk.
CHAPTER 46
THE CHOIRBOY
Bobby watched Karen go. She looked like a ghost for a moment, her coat flapping behind her, gray in northern Siberia’s late twilight.
And when, at last, she disappeared completely, Bobby examined his heart. He didn’t resent Petr, not anymore. The boy was doing the right thing, the courageous thing—the right thing for his country and, more important, for Karen.
Bobby wondered whether he would have had the courage to do the same, to go back into a fight he knew he would probably lose. Bobby knew he would have to fight again; he had no choice. He’d given up that choice when he joined the Army Air Forces. But Petr did have a choice. He could have flown to America. He could have emigrated. He could have sat out the rest of the war.
What would Bobby have done if he’d been in Petr’s place?
He went back to the barracks to find them empty. He knew where everyone was, and he knew he could use their company, and he could use a drink. So he headed to the mess hall.
Sure enough, Bobby found Jack, Max, Wally, Bel, Lenka, and Katia there. Even Captain Hart was with them. As usual, they were passing the time drinking and playing cards. They hadn’t noticed Bobby yet. They were too busy drinking and laughing. Bobby paused just inside the doorway and watched them. As he did, he knew the answer to his question.
Yes, he’d have the courage to get back into the fight, he realized, even a fight he knew he’d probably lose. He’d do it for Jack, he’d do it for Max and Wally. Hell, he’d even do it for Bel, Lenka, and Katia. They were his friends. More than that, they’d become his brothers and sisters. So long as they fought, Bobby knew, he’d fight beside them.
But that was different from what Petr was doing, he realized. Petr wasn’t only fighting for his friends, wasn’t only fighting for his brothers and sisters. He was stubbornly fighting for people he didn’t even know.
“Next round’s on me!” Bobby declared as he stepped forward and took a seat next to Jack.
Lenka eyed him from across the table. “What are we celebrating?”
“Russian courage,” Bobby replied. He raised his glass in a toast.
Lenka smiled and raised her glass. “To Russian courage.”
“To Russian courage!” everyone toasted, including Captain Hart.
As soon as Bobby emptied his glass, someone else entered the mess hall. To his shock, it was General Marshall.
“Attention!” Bobby announced, standing and saluting. The other American flyers did the same.
“At ease. At ease, boys,” the general told them. He took a seat at the table. “What’s the drink, and what’s the game?”
“Vodka and five-card stud,” Jack said with a wry smile as he filled a glass for the general. “But first you’ve got to join our toast.”
“Oh yeah? And what are we toasting?”
“Russian courage,” Katia responded with pride.
“I think that’s a worthy toast,” the general acknowledged. Marshall looked at the clear liquor, swirled it, and took a draw, evaluating. “Not bad,” he said with surprise.
“My brother makes it himself,” Katia revealed.
“Moonshine vodka?” the general replied, even more surprised. “Where does he distill it? In the woods?”
“In his bathtub.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
Katia shrugged. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
The general laughed and pushed his glass back to Jack. “Fill me up another and your secret’s safe with me.”
Jack did as requested and then dealt the cards.
At first the general’s presence made the boys ill at ease. But Marshall had the grace not to criticize, and the good sense not to win. Pretty soon the pilots let their guard down and talked as if the general were just another junior officer. Bobby was impressed. He wondered how much the general learned this way, just making conversation, pretending to be one of the boys.
“I’m looking forward to spending the flight with your girlfriend tomorrow,” the general said to Bobby.
“Thank you. I’m sure Karen is looking forward to it as well.”
Lenka glanced up at the sound of Karen’s name. “Who is this Karen, anyway?” Her words dripped with venom.
“She’s a winner,” the general replied, oblivious to Lenka’s tone. “Smart, practical, a survivor. And I’ve got to admit, she’s a looker. Who’da thought a scrawny kid like Bobby could reel in a catch like that?”
Everyone laughed, and Bobby blushed. “Thank you, sir.”
Lenka stood up from the table. “I turn in,” she announced with frustration.
Katia and Bel stood in support of their friend. “Us, too.”
“Good night,” said the general, oblivious to their angry tone, “and thank you for the vodka.”
The other officers stood respectfully as the female pilots headed back to the barracks. Then the general turned his attention back to Bobby. “Could I have a minute, son?”
“Of course, General.”
The general led Bobby back to his office, where he produced a whiskey bottle out of a desk drawer. He poured it into two paper cups and leaned back in his chair. “I’m beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t keep Karen for ourselves,” he mused. “What do you think?”
“‘Keep her for ourselves’—what do you mean?” Bobby asked.
“OSS wants her, of course.”
OSS was short for the Office of Strategic Studies, a brand-new agency specially created for the war. In previous wars, each arm of the military relied on its own spies to gather intelligence on the enemy. But recently someone had had the foresight to create a central agency that could coordinate espionage activities across all military branches.
“Speaks fluent Russian,” General Marshall continued, “knows the lay of the land. Pretty valuable asset. Anyway, I happened to meet another lady—though I don’t know if you can call a proven spy a proper lady. Now, this other lady, she’s pretending to be a foreign correspondent for the Los Angeles Times, but really she reports to the OSS. She was very interested in your girlfriend. Very interested, indeed. Sent her bosses a coded message via shortwave radio promising I’d let them debrief her when we get home.”