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Vaska’s dog stopped, perked up his pointy ears, and growled. They thought at first that Buka sensed the Russian dogs were back on their trail. Then they heard the distant howl carried on the wind.

There came another howl. And another. The sound cut through the snow and wind. It was hard to say where the howls were coming from, but it was clear that the wolves were on the move.

Honaker looked around at the growing darkness. “What the hell is that?”

“Wolves,” Cole said. He paused to listen. Something deep in him thrilled at the sound, even though it represented danger. Cole had never seen a wolf. The had long since been hunted to extinction in the Appalachians.

“First it’s Russians, then it’s dogs, now it’s wolves,” Vaccaro complained. “Jesus God, I hate this place. It sounds as if the whole pack is out there. I would sure as hell feel better if we had a fire.”

“If we light a fire, we’ll have worse than wolves to worry about. The Russians might see us from miles off.”

Vaska nodded. They both knew Cole was right, even if Vaccaro didn’t look convinced.

Honaker looked at Vaska. “How much snow can we expect?”

Their Russian guide shrugged. “This will not amount to much. We call it sugar snow. There is sometimes a heavier snow that follows in a day or two. Certainly, if the wind shifts to be out of the southwest, we can expect a heavy snow.”

Honaker shook a finger at the guide as if the storm was his fault. “It’s late October!”

Vaska nodded. “Yes, it is late October… in Russia.”

• • •

The snow was just as hard on the pursuing Russians. Twilight arrived like a shade pulled down across a window, and the temperature dropped. The soldiers looked expectantly at Barkov, but he did not call a halt. They had been on the move now for more than twelve hours.

“They must have wings on their feet,” he said, referring to the Americans. “We will keep going. Just be careful not to trip over them in the dark.”

The men were not happy, but nobody was going to argue with Barkov.

The Mink called the dogs back as night came on. “Wolves,” he explained, putting on the dogs’ leashes. Over the wind, they could hear distant howling. The men kept looking anxiously into the gloom, their rifles at the ready. In the remote regions of the Soviet Union, wolves were not something out of fairy tales. They had all seen them hanging around the work gangs and even the Gulag itself, keeping just out of rifle range.

The dogs were still on the Americans’ scent, practically dragging the small man along.

They kept at it for another hour until it was fully dark.

Barkov wanted to keep going, but even he had to admit that it wasn’t possible. The men were tired. The terrain had grown more rugged, making it difficult to move at night.

“We must stop here for the night,” the Mink said quietly, away from the others.

“You are right,” Barkov said grudgingly. He called a halt and told the men to set up camp. Wind-driven snow now raked them cruelly, even though most of it blew away and barely coated the ground. They had not even brought a tent. The men wrapped themselves in blankets and huddled together for warmth.

During the encounter earlier that day, the sniper’s second shot had killed one of the soldiers, leaving the five survivors jumpy, half expecting death to come looking for them out of thin air. Barkov knew all about that—for much of the war, it had been his job to create just that feeling in German soldiers.

Without Bunin, the dogs lacked guidance. He watched the Mink feed them chunks of burbot that Bunin had brought along in a sack for just that purpose. The fish smelled spoiled, but the dogs didn’t seem to mind.

Now that it was snowing, they would need light to see where they were going. Lights, however, would make them targets for the American sniper who must still be out there. So, they would have to wait for daylight.

One good thought. The snow meant that in the morning, there would be tracks.

Barkov allowed his men a small fire. They gathered around it and drank the last of the vodka. He and the Mink stayed well away from the fire, just in case the sniper had prowled back. Better to be cold and breathing than to be a warm corpse.

He glanced over at Dmitri, who sat on the ground, chewing on a piece of cold bread. It was time to question the boy and see if he had left out anything important about his encounter with Inna. For example, had he forgotten to mention that Inna had stolen a rifle along with his clothes? He knew that Dmitri’s rifle had not been stolen, but had she taken someone else’s?

Barkov stood and walked over to the boy, tugging the whip from his belt as he went.

Dmitri saw him coming. His eyes grew wide.

Smiling, Barkov made the whip sing. The exercise warmed him better than any fire.

• • •