The Solomon Effect

40

Kaliningrad Oblast: Wednesday 28 October

8:00 P.M. local time

The closer Stefan drew to Yasnaya Polyana, the more skittish he became. He had slept most of the afternoon, snuggled up next to the black-and-tan pup for warmth, emerging only at dusk to walk along the edge of the fallow, frost-covered fields.

They kept well back from the pavement and the occasional darting beams of passing headlights, but he’d given up trying to go overland. Once, he’d blundered into a patch of stinging nettles; another time, the pup strayed into a bog and got stuck. Plus they kept getting lost, going off in the wrong direction or unwittingly circling around on themselves. He’d finally decided to stick close to the main roads and travel only at night. He and the pup were both footsore and hungry and desperate to get home.

The problem was, it had occurred to him that going home might not be safe.

With a whine, the dog flopped down on the grassy verge, his tongue hanging out as he panted heavily. Stefan dropped beside him. “What’s the matter, boy? Tired?”

He lay back, his eyes blinking as he stared up at the dark sky. The night was cold and overcast, allowing only faint glimmers of starlight to peek through. Stefan felt a lump rise in his throat, and resolutely squeezed his eyes shut against an upwelling of tears.

Sleep came by stealth. He awoke with a start, shivering, unsure at first what had roused him. He heard a snort and a jingle of harness, and raised his head to find a decrepit farm wagon pulled by a pair of graying mules drawn up beside the verge.

A hunched figure wearing a woolen cap perched on a hard wooden seat high above the wagon’s great iron-banded wheels. “You all right, boy?”

Stefan scrambled to his feet, ready to run. “How’d you know I was here?”

The man laughed. “I saw you. What’d you think? I may be old, but there’s never been anything wrong with my eyes. I bet I can see better at night than you.”

Stefan wiped the back of his fist across his nose. “You must have eyes like an owl.”

The man laughed again. “How’d you like a ride?”

Stefan dropped his hand to the pup’s head. “And my dog?”

“The dog’s welcome, too.”

He lifted the pup up onto the floor of the wagon, then swung himself up using an old iron step. The farmer made a clucking sound and danced the reins on the backs of the mules. Stefan breathed in the pungent, earthy smell of potatoes, and sneezed.

The old man laughed. “Where you headed?”

“Chkalovo,” said Stefan, naming a hamlet just beyond Yasnaya Polyana.

“You can go back to sleep, if you want. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

Stefan shook his head.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“He doesn’t have one.”

“Everyone should have a name. Man or beast.”

“So what’re your mules’ names?”

“Karl and Marx.”

Stefan laughed so hard he had to grab the side of the wagon seat to keep from falling off.

The old man shrugged. “They’re old mules.”

They talked for a time about mules and farming and the price of grain. They were easing down a dark wooded slope when they came around a bend and saw the glow of flares. Against the dancing flames of a fire stood two silhouettes in uniform.

The dog sat up and gave a low growl. Stefan put a warning hand on its head. “Ssshh, boy. What’s that?”

“Looks like the militia’ve set up a roadblock. I went through another checkpoint just like this one, maybe ten miles back. They were looking for a young man. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

Stefan curled his hand over the edge of the seat, ready to jump. The old man said softly, “You jump now, they’ll see you.”

Stefan drew in a quick breath, trying to ease the sudden pain in his side, but it didn’t help. “What do I do?”

The old man pursed his lips. “Get in back. You’ll find some empty gunnysacks beneath the seat you can pull up over you.”

“And if they search the load?”

The old man was silent for a moment. “Then I’ll take care of your dog.”