“I thought you’d be awake,” she said. She was still a little nervous, and he could smell the gunsmoke on her skin. “You heard the shots?”
“Yes. What’s going on?” He sat up, pretending alarm.
“I almost got chewed up by a wolf. Out there, damned close to the house. The thing was staring at me, and it had…” Her voice trailed off.
“It had what?” Michael prompted.
“It had black hair and green eyes,” she said, in a quiet voice.
“I thought all wolves were gray.”
“No.” She stared into his face, as if truly seeing him for the first time. “They’re not.”
“I heard two shots. Did you hit him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Of course, it could’ve been a bitch.”
“Well, thank God it didn’t get you.” He smelled breakfast cooking: sausages and pancakes. Her intense stare was making him jittery. “If it was as hungry as I am, you’re very lucky it didn’t take a bite out of you.”
“I guess I am.” What am I thinking? Chesna asked herself. That this man has black hair and green eyes, and so did the wolf? And what of that? I must be losing my mind, to even think such a thing! “Fritz… says there are no wolves in this area.”
“Ask him if he’d like to go for a walk in the woods tonight, and find out.” He smiled tightly. “I know I wouldn’t.”
Chesna realized she was standing with her back against the wall. What had been wheeling through her mind was utterly ridiculous, she knew, but still… no, no! That was crazy! Such things were the stuff of medieval fireside tales, when the winter wind blew cold and howled in the night. This was the modern world! “I’d like to know your name,” she said at last. “Lazaris calls you Gallatinov.”
“I was born Mikhail Gallatinov. I changed my name to Michael Gallatin when I became a British citizen.”
“Michael,” Chesna repeated, trying out the sound of it. “I just received a radio message. The invasion is still set for June fifth, barring bad weather in the Channel. Our mission stands: we’re to find Iron Fist and destroy it.”
“I’ll be ready.”
His color looked better this morning, as if he’d gotten some exercise. Or perhaps a vigorous dream? she wondered. “I believe you will be,” she said. “Lazaris is doing better, too. We had a long talk yesterday. He knows a lot about airplanes. If we have engine trouble on the way, he might be useful.”
“I’d like to see him. Can I have some clothes?”
“I’ll ask Dr. Stronberg if you’re up to getting out of bed.”
Michael grunted. “Tell him I want some of those pancakes, too.”
She sniffed the air, and found their scent. “You must have a very good sense of smell.”
“Yes, I do.”
Chesna was silent. Again, those thoughts-insane thoughts-crept through her mind. She brushed them aside. “The cook’s making oatmeal for you and Lazaris. You’re not ready for heavy food yet.”
“I could’ve starved on gruel in Falkenhausen, if that’s what you and the good doctor want.”
“It’s not. Dr. Stronberg just wants your system to recuperate.” She walked to the door, then paused there. She stared into his green eyes and felt the hairs stir at the back of her neck. They were the eyes of the wolf, she thought. No, of course that was absolutely impossible! “I’ll check on you later,” she said, and went out.
A frown settled over Michael’s features. The bullets had been a close call. He had been almost able to read Chesna’s thoughts; of course she wouldn’t come to the correct conclusion, but he’d have to watch his step around her from now on. He scratched his rough beard and then looked at his hands. There was dark German earth under his fingernails.
Michael’s breakfast-watery oatmeal-was delivered in a few minutes. Stronberg entered a little later and pronounced his fever all but gone. The doctor railed, however, about the broken stitches. Michael said he was up to doing some mild calisthenics, so he ought to be allowed clothes to walk around in. Stronberg at first flatly refused, then said he’d think about it. Before an hour passed, a gray-green jumpsuit, underwear, socks, and canvas shoes were brought to Michael’s room by the same woman who prepared the meals. An added encouragement was a bowl of water, a cake of shaving soap, and a straight razor, with which Michael removed his stubble.
Freshly shaved and dressed, Michael left his room and roamed through the house. He found Lazaris in a room down the corridor, the Russian slick-bald but still heavily bearded, his proud prow of a nose made even more huge because of his gleaming dome. Lazaris was still pallid and somewhat less than energetic, but there were faint spots of color in his cheeks and his dark brown eyes had a glint in them. Lazaris said he was being treated very well, but his request for a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes had been refused. “Hey, Gallatinov!” he said as Michael started to leave. “I’m glad I didn’t know you were such an important spy! It might have made me a little nervous!”
“Are you nervous now?”
“You mean, just because I’m in a nest of spies? Gallatinov, I’m so scared my shit comes out yellow. If the Nazis ever found this place, we’d all dance in piano-wire neckties!”
“They won’t. And we won’t.”
“Yes, maybe our wolf will protect us. Did you hear about that?”
Michael nodded.
“So,” Lazaris said, “you want to go to Norway. Some damned island off the southwest coast. Right? Goldilocks told me all about it.”
“That’s right.”
“And you need a copilot. Goldilocks says she’s got a transport plane. She won’t say what kind, which makes me think it’s not exactly one of the latest models.” He lifted a finger. “Which means, Comrade Gallatinov, that it’s not going to be a fast plane, and neither is it going to have a very high ceiling; I’ve told Goldilocks this, and I’ll tell you: if we run into fighter planes, we’ve had it. No transport plane can outrun a Messerschmitt.”
“I know that. I’m sure she does, too. Does all this mean you’ll do the job, or not?”
Lazaris blinked, as if amazed that the question should even be asked. “I belong in the sky,” he said. “Of course I’ll do it”
Michael had never doubted that the Russian would. He left Lazaris and went in search of Chesna. He found her alone in the rear parlor, studying maps of Germany and Norway. She showed him the route they were going to fly, and where the three fuel and supply stops were. They would travel only in darkness, she said, and the trip would take them four nights. She showed him where they were going to land in Norway. “It’s a strip of flatland between two mountains, actually,” she said. “Our agent with the boat is here.” With the point of her pencil, she touched the dot of a coastal village named Uskedahl. “There’s Skarpa.” She touched the small, rugged land mass-a circular brown scab, Michael thought-that lay about thirty miles down the coast from Uskedahl and eight or nine miles offshore. “This is where we’re likely to run into patrol boats.” She made a circle just to the east of Skarpa. “Mines, too, I’d guess.”
“Skarpa doesn’t look like the place for a summer vacation, does it?”
“Hardly. There’ll still be snow on the ground up there, and the nights will be cold. We’ll have to take winter clothing. Summer comes late in Norway.”
“I don’t mind cold weather.”
She looked up at him, and found herself staring into his green eyes. Wolf’s eyes, she thought. “There’s not very much that gets to you, is there?”
“No. I won’t let it.”
“Is it that simple? You turn yourself off and on, depending on the circumstances?”