Vaska sucked deeply on his pipe, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and nodded, thinking the problem over. He then spoke to his wife in Russian. She was busy clearing up the dishes and seemed not to have heard, busy as she was scraping the plates and washing them in a bucket of soapy water. She turned to Vaska and smiled. Again, they needed no Russian to understand that an idea had come to her. The old guide and his wife talked together for a while, thick as thieves, oblivious to the men in their kitchen.

“My wife says there is a girl who comes into the village from time to time. She works in the infirmary. She is in love with one of the American prisoners. She will help us.”

“In love with him? How does your wife know that?”

Vaska shrugged again. “How does a bird know how to build a nest? Women know what they know. They know when a girl is in love,” he said. He looked toward his wife again and smiled. In fact, it was almost a leer. Cole felt a little embarrassed—and surprised. Mrs. Vaska was no looker. But Vaska must have been a randy old bastard as well as a smuggler. He sucked on his pipe again and added: “And a smart man listens to his wife in such matters.”

• • •

Inna continued her visits to the Americans, especially Whitlock. She used her concern for their medical care as an excuse, but that was beginning to wear thin with her Soviet colleagues. Two weeks later, Barkov was waiting outside the barracks for her at dusk. Her stomach clenched at the sight of his imposing, dark shadow.

“I have been feeling poorly,” he said in a hearty voice that indicated nothing could be further from the truth. “I may come see you soon at the infirmary.”

“You do not have to wait for me, Comrade Barkov. There are others who can—”

“No, it is you I want to help me, Inna Mikhaylovna. Be nice to me, and I will make sure your weakling American friends stay alive, at least for now. But if you are not so nice to me, you should know that railroad construction is very dangerous work. Accidents can occur. Men can die. They can be maimed.”

Nodding, heart pounding, Inna hurried away. It was very clear what Barkov wanted, but she had no intention of giving it to him. To be a woman in the Soviet Union was to be powerless, and to be a woman assigned to a remote Gulag was to be helpless. She would have to be careful, and somehow string him along without completely rebuffing his advances. The lives of Whitlock and Ramsey, even her own life, might depend on it.

• • •

The next morning, Inna went into the village for supplies. Sometimes the villagers would have a few eggs to trade, or fresh meat. Inna had no money, but the inventory at the infirmary was not closely watched. She always had a few items to barter.

One of the villagers who sought her out this morning was Bruna Ivanovna, the wife of a local hunter and trapper named Vaska. She was an old babushka if ever there was one. Inna had chatted with her from time to time, and had previously mentioned the Americans to the babushka, only because it was common knowledge in the village that a long time ago, Bruna Ivanovna’s husband had fought with the Americans against the Bolsheviks. After Inna had swapped some liniment for two fresh rabbits, Bruna Ivanovna lingered a moment, as if she had something else to say.

“What is it?” Inna finally asked, sensing the woman’s reluctance to leave.

“How is your American friend?”

“He is fine, or at least as good any anyone can expect to be in that place.”

Bruna Ivanovna nodded sagely. She looked around furtively, as if to make sure that they were not being overheard, although no one was in sight. “How would you like to help get him out of that place?”

Inna tensed. She kept her face carefully neutral. It was a fact of life in Russia that one must be cautious about whom you trusted. She did not want to end up as a zek in the nearby Gulag, at the complete mercy of someone like Barkov. “What do you mean?”

“I am saying that my husband can help him.”

Then Bruna Ivanovna explained, and Inna nodded, faster and faster, as the possibilities took shape. “What happens now?”

“Come back tomorrow,” the hunter’s wife said. “Bring some more liniment. It helps my old bones, which ache so from the cold. And see to it that you are not followed.”

CHAPTER 18

The barking of Vaska’s dog told them that someone was at the door.

The dog was not allowed in the house no matter how cold it got. This was some sort of rural Russian tradition. It also meant that nobody got near the front door without the dog making a ruckus.

Cole tightened his grip on the Browning 1911 in his hand and Samson shifted his bulk to cover the door with his shotgun. The dog’s bark turned to a happy whine as whoever was out there made friends.

Vaska approached the door armed with nothing more than his tobacco pipe. Seconds later, he was beckoning in the woman who stood there. She appeared to be alone, so Cole and the others relaxed enough to take their fingers off their triggers.