Not more than a mile away, Barkov was up at first light, kicking his men awake. They were down to one bottle of vodka, so he let them all have a swig along with their hunk of cold black bread that served as breakfast. It was just below zero degrees celsius. Typical autumn weather. In a few weeks, it would be so cold that a cup of water froze instantly when poured onto the ground.
“No sign of the dogs?” he asked the Mink.
The Mink shrugged.
Last night, a she wolf had come to the edge of camp and lured the dogs away. Barkov suspected that she had been in heat. How could a wolf be so clever? It almost went beyond animal cunning.
Since they had seen no sign of the dogs since then, Barkov assumed that the wolves had gotten them. There had been two dogs, but a dozen or more wolves in the pack that they been roaming around them. Not good odds.
He liked to think that the dogs had escaped the wolves and run back home. Maybe they had run all the way to Moscow. Barkov wished them luck.
Without the dogs to do their tracking, he was worried about losing the prisoners’ trail. The snow was deep enough that it had buried any trace of their footsteps. All that Barkov could do was head west from the last point where the trail had left off. The good news was that if they found the trail this morning, it would be a simple matter of following the prisoners’ tracks through the snow.
As usual, the Mink seemed to sense what Barkov was thinking. He nodded, as if in agreement to Barkov's thoughts.
"If we find their tracks, we won't need the dogs," the Mink said. "A child could follow their trail."
"Even Dmitri could follow their trail in the snow!" Barkov said, and laughed. The clear, bright weather, and the promise of another day of hunting, had put him in a good mood.
First, they had to find the trail.
Barkov ordered them to fan out, each man about twenty meters apart, so that they could cover the most ground in hopes of picking up the prisoners’ tracks. All around them, the taiga was covered in a blanket of unbroken white.
Barkov did not mind the cold or the snow. He did not mind having to find the escapees’ trail. It was much better to be the hunter than the hunted. And the day was young.
It was clear by now that Ramsey wouldn’t last long. There was something wrong with his lungs. His breath dragged in and out, rattling like chain being dragged down a gravel road. Ramsey had seemed to rally after the wolf attack, but that had sapped all his energy. Now he was wrapped in a blanket. Inna had put his head in her lap, in the way that one might comfort a child. Every now and then his eyes fluttered open.
You didn’t need to be a doctor to know he had pneumonia, or something just as bad. Whatever was wrong with Ramsey, it wasn’t something they could cure a hundred miles from nowhere.
None of them was in great shape. They were a cold and miserable bunch. Samson nursed the leg where the wolf had ripped a chunk from his calf. Vaccaro nervously scanned the horizon, clutching his rifle. The wolf attack had left him more shaken than an artillery barrage. Honaker was even more jumpy and irritable than usual. Whitlock huddled beside Inna and Ramsey, shivering.
Only Vaska and Cole seemed calm, both men sitting apart from the others. Vaska scraped out his pipe and tamped it full of tobacco again, making a ritual out of lighting it. Cole had an unlit cigarette clenched in his teeth. He was convinced that cigarettes were leaving him too winded, so he was giving them up. Both men kept rifles across their knees.
Honaker walked over and joined them.
"He's not gonna make it," Honaker said in a low voice, nodding at Ramsey. He acted as if he didn’t want the others to hear, but that was futile — they were only a few feet away. "We are just carrying a dead man."
"What would you suggest?" Cole asked, making no effort to rein in his contempt for the man. He knew damn well what Honaker was going to suggest, and he didn’t like it. Honaker was someone who always took the easy way, but not necessarily the right way. The mountain folk back home would have said that he lacked sand.
Thinking about it now, Cole realized he hadn’t seen Honaker during the wolf attack. He puzzled it out until he realized that Honaker had likely stayed in his shelter, out of harm’s way until the wolves scattered.
“He’s not going to make it.”
Cole didn’t even bother to keep the contempt out of his voice. ”What do you want to do, Honaker? Leave him for the wolves? Shoot him?"
"I'm just saying, is all."
"Say it to somebody else," Cole said. “Nobody gets left behind. Now, you had best tell everyone to get on their feet. We need to keep a move on."
Honaker glared at Cole, but after a minute he gave the order. Everyone was too cold and tired and hungry to protest. They knew that the only way out was to keep moving.
Ramsey's eyelids fluttered open again. He struggled to get himself propped up on an elbow. "I'm staying right here," he announced.
“The hell you are," said Cole. "Come on. I'll help you up. I'll carry you if I have to."
Ramsey shook his head. "Look at me. We are still days away from Finland. No, give me a gun and I can buy you some time. I can take out a few of those Russian bastards before they get me."
Cole shook his head. “You ain’t in no shape to fight.”
Samson spoke up. He had not said much since last night. "I'll stay with him. You've seen my leg. How far do you think I'd get? It looks like hamburger.”
"You two can't stay here." Cole pronounced it cain't, as if it rhymed with ain’t.
"Sure we can stay. It’s the easiest thing in the world,” Samson said. He grinned. Injured leg or not, he remained a force to be reckoned with. "Besides, you and whose army are gonna stop me?"
"Hate to say it," Honaker said. He didn’t look at Ramsey or Samson, but spoke as it they weren’t there. “That gives the rest of us a fighting chance."
"Shut up, Honaker," Cole said sharply. "Nobody asked you."
Honaker wouldn’t be put off that easily. He snapped, “Listen up, Cole—"
"No, you two listen to me," Samson said. “I’ve already told you how it's gonna be."
Cole didn't like it. Deep in his bones, he downright hated the idea. However, he wondered how much of his opposition had to do with the fact that he didn't like any idea that Honaker supported. He looked over at Vaska's grave, stoic face. The old Russian sucked on his pipe and nodded. Vaccaro wouldn't meet his eyes, which meant he also favored the idea.
"Goddamn," Cole said, feeling that he had been outvoted. He needed someone to take his side against this damn fool idea. He looked at Whitlock and Inna. "You two all right with this?"
Ramsey interrupted. “It’s not up to them. I've already decided. Harry, give me all the extra bullets you have for that Browning of yours."
Whitlock fished in his pockets, came out with a handful of shells. “Along with what’s in the magazine, that gives you maybe twenty rounds.” He knelt down beside Ramsey and pressed the bullets into his hand, then held it for several moments. "I hate for it to end like this."
Ramsey pushed himself up higher and grinned. "Are you kidding me? Harry, this is like the Alamo. I get to go out in a blaze of glory. Just like Davy Crockett."
Inna spoke up. "But—"
Ramsey cut her off with a wave of his hand and his best effort at a happy-go-lucky smile. "Take care of yourself, Inna. Watch out for this one here.”
Whitlock was getting choked up. “I don’t know what to say.”
A shadow passed across Ramsey’s face. “The only thing that bothers me is never getting home again. When you get back, will you at least put up a headstone for me? I doubt the Russians will give me a proper burial.”
Whitlock nodded, and the two men shook hands.
“Hold on a minute,” Cole said. We walked over to Inna and handed her his penknife and one of the brass shell casings for the Springfield. “I want you to scratch Barkov’s name on that shell. In Russian letters. Let’s send Barkov a message.”
Inna was done in a couple of minutes. Cole took the shell and pressed it into Ramsey’s hand, then gave Ramsey and Samson a nod. His pale eyes were hard to read.
Then they walked off into the taiga, leaving Samson and Ramsey to their fates.
Barkov was so intent on looking for tracks in the snow that he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. It was a mistake that nearly cost him his life. He was just passing a boulder, with one of the soldiers from the garrison a few feet behind him, when a shape that was alien to the natural landscape caught his eye. It took him a split second to recognize the fat black muzzle of a shotgun, thrust out from behind the rock.
Barkov reacted without thinking, throwing himself into the snow. An instant later came the shotgun blast. He heard screaming. The soldier at Barkov's elbow had picked up some buckshot. A second blast clawed the air overhead, followed by several shots from a pistol.
"Ambush!" Barkov managed to shout. "Take cover!"
His men did not need to be told twice. But it was too late for the soldier nearest Barkov. The second shotgun blast nearly cut him in two. More shots followed in rapid succession. Just two guns, he thought, but it sounded more like twenty.
Barkov and his men were on the receiving end of a military issue trench warfare shotgun. The Winchester Model 12 pump action shotgun could be slam fired — that is, as long as the trigger was depressed, the gun fired each time the action was pumped.
The fire slackened. Then a pause. Time to reload? Barkov sprang to his feet, remarkably agile for a big man, and bulled ahead, rifle at the ready.
He found a big man behind a rock, hurrying to feed shotgun shells into the gun. He got it loaded and leveled it at Barkov, who threw himself flat as the man fired twice. Just two shots — either the man hadn’t had time to fully reload, or he must be out of shells.
Barkov got to his feet, taking his time.
The man shouted something at Barkov in English—American, Barkov thought — then threw the shotgun at him in frustration, and pulled a knife.
Barkov almost sneered as he leveled his rifle at the big American's chest. A knife? He was about to pull the trigger when he caught movement just beyond the big man. Another man crouched there with a pistol at his side. Why didn’t he shoot? Because the gun was empty, Barkov thought.
His eyes locked on the man, whom he recognized immediately as one of the escaped prisoners. The one called Ramsey. Barkov took his finger off the trigger and shouted at the others not to shoot. It would be so much more satisfying to take them both alive.
Alive for now, anyhow.
Barkov knew about six words of English, one of which he spoke now: “American?"
The big man said something that started with Yeah, which was another one of the words Barkov knew. The others were no, booze, gun, and sonofabitch. He couldn’t understand the rest. He was trying to get his head around the fact that there was an American out here who was not an escapee from the Gulag compound. What was going on?
Then the prisoner named Ramsey shouted something at the big man. What Barkov heard was Samson. That sounded like a name to him.
He handed his rifle to the Mink and took out his whip. His eyes met those of the big American. Barkov didn't see any fear there, just a challenge. Smiling, he advanced toward the American in a wary crouch.
The two men were almost equally matched, both of them well over six feet tall and heavy through the shoulders. Hands out, heads down, they resembled two bears about to rumble. Samson was maybe a little bigger, but he was limping, favoring a leg that was wrapped in bloody rags. Barkov took note of that.
They circled each other, looking for an advantage, knife against whip. It wasn't just any knife. The American had one of those wickedly sharp combat knives that resembled a medieval dagger. When the Americans and Russians had met outside Berlin, those knives had been freely traded for vodka and even Russian pistols. If the American managed to stick that thing into him, the fight would be over.
Barkov did not plan on letting him get in that close. The whip was an ideal defense against a knife attack. When Samson lunged, Barkov stung his hand with the whip and pulled back. The whip was made of braided leather, thick as a broomstick near the base and taping slightly down its two-foot length. It had some weight behind it.
Samson feinted left, then lunged from the right. Barkov slapped him away again.
Cautious now of the whip, the American circled just out of reach. Barkov held the whip cocked back by his ear, and gestured with his left hand for the American to come on. The American really had no choice but to attack. His shotgun blast had killed one of the Russians, but there were still four of them with their guns trained on him. It was attack, or die.
He steamed forward like a bull.
Barkov was ready with the whip, but as it hissed down, the American instantly tossed the knife from his right hand to his left and caught the whip in his open right hand. It must have been painful, but he did not let go. Instead, he dragged the whip down and pulled Barkov off balance, then stabbed down with his left hand.
Barkov felt the blade slice his shoulder. Fortunately for him, the American was not accurate with his left hand. Most of the damage was done to his winter coat.
The American wasn't finished. He drew back his left hand for another go at Barkov.
The Russian saw it coming. He turned sideways and kicked the American's injured leg out from under him.
Samson went down to his hands and knees like a bull felled by a matador, but one hand still grasped the whip. He was using it to pull himself back up.
Barkov let go, and the American went toppling backwards. Barkov did not give him a chance to recover. As the American got to his knees, Barkov punched him in the back of the head so hard that his knuckles screamed in pain. The American went down again. Then Barkov kicked him. The American rolled onto his back.
Barkov got down and straddled him, pulled back a fist to punch the man, but was surprised when the American's hands shot out and locked around Barkov's throat. Instantly, he felt his airflow cut off as the American's hands clenched around his windpipe. His opponent’s grip felt like a vise.
He grabbed the American's wrists and pulled. The grip around his throat did not loosen. Starbursts and spots swam in front of his eyes. Letting go with his right hand, he groped on the snowy ground for any kind of weapons. A rock. A stick. Instead, his fingers closed around the knife that the American had dropped.
Barkov had it in his grip in an instant, and plunged it down at the American.
For a big man, the American was quick as a viper. He let go of Barkov's throat and grabbed his wrist instead before the knife could strike home.
They went back and forth, both of them straining as if the knife weighed a thousand pounds, when in reality it was the sheer muscular resistance of them struggling against one another. Barkov had the advantage of gravity and pressed the tip down, down, toward the American's throat. Then the American rallied and pushed the knife up, up, turning it with bone-cracking strength until it was pointed at Barkov's eye.
In spite of himself, Barkov was impressed. The American was incredibly strong. Strong as a bear. Strong as Barkov.
Dimly, he was aware of a pair of legs beside him. Then a rifle barrel reached down and touched the American's temple. The American's eyes widened, but he shoved the tip of the knife toward Barkov's eye with one final wave of strength.
That's when the rifle went off. Loud as a thunderclap in Barkov’s ear. The American's grip went slack instantly.
Barkov rolled to his feet, so angry that he was shaking. The Mink stood nearby, nonchalantly working the bolt of the rifle.
"What have you done?" Barkov demanded. "He was mine to kill!"
"You were taking too long. We need to get moving," the Mink said. He lowered his voice. "Besides, he almost had you."
Barkov looked down at the dead man. Unlike most bodies, it did not look any smaller in death. Then he look around for the American prisoner, Ramsey, who was still slumped against the rock. His eyes went from his comrade's dead body to Barkov's eyes. Barkov tried to read something there — fear or defeat — but saw only defiance.
Well, he would fix that. "Dmitri," he called. "Bring me my whip."
"Let's just shoot him and be done with it," the Mink said.
"Look at him. He’s already half dead. This won't take long."
The boy scurried to do as he was told, pressing the cruelly braided leather grip into Barkov's hand. The boy eyed the whip nervously, having been on the receiving end of it.
Barkov made the whip sing. He struck the American prisoner across the face hard enough to draw blood.
He pulled back his hand for another swing and froze.
Ramsey now had a pistol in his hand. Nobody had seen it before. He leveled it at Barkov, but then seemed to reconsider. Instead, he put the gun to his own head and closed his eyes. An instant later, it was done. Barkov felt cheated for a second time.
The Mink bent over and pried the gun out of the dead man’s hand.
"He must have had just one bullet left," the Mink said. He seemed to find the situation amusing because he gave one of his rare smiles. “I think I would have saved that last bullet for you."
Barkov grunted, unhappy that both Americans were dead. There were many questions he would have liked them to answer.
They searched the pockets of the dead men. One soldier took the big man's wristwatch. He had a wallet with a few American dollars in it. What did he plan to buy out here on the taiga? There was some identification that one of them could read. The Mink kept the wallet and let the paper money flutter away on the wind.
Ramsey's limp hand had opened in death. It turned out that he did have one more bullet, but this one was for a rifle. Something was etched into the brass casing. The Mink picked it up and squinted at it, then shook his head and held it up for Barkov to see.
The etching read: "Barkov."
“The dead one here was not the sniper,” the Mink said.
“How do you know?”
“What would a sniper be doing with a shotgun? No, this isn’t him. If I did not know better, I would say that the American sniper is sending you a message.”
“It’s just nonsense," Barkov said. He tossed the bullet away. Then he looked across the expanse of taiga ahead and all the open places they would have to cross. He felt a chill, imagining the American sniper’s crosshairs on him.
“What are other Americans doing out here?” the Mink wondered.
Barkov coiled the whip and tucked it into his belt. “We need to get moving," he said. “Let’s catch up to them and find out. Then we will kill them just like we killed these two.”