This time when she looked up at him, there was anger in her eyes. “I suppose you are one of them—” she gestured toward the main house, “—spying on us.” But the bewildered look on his face reassured her that this stranger was not one of “them.” And after all she had learned about the peasants that toiled in this particular vineyard—they were the only natives she had come in contact with—she also sensed this stranger was not one of Keradin’s men. “Forgive me. You’re much too naive to be looking for an evening with me.” It occurred to her that this man should be cultivated. Perhaps he could be her means of escape.
“An evening?”
She looked up at Cobb, her eyes squinting against the glare of the sun. Her gaze swept up and down his figure, taking in the clothes, stopping at his hair. She lifted one of his hands, which he quickly pulled away. “Perhaps I should just go back to the barracks.”
“Barracks?”
She pointed down the hill to one of the buildings in the far corner. “That’s where they lock us up at the end of the day, except when Keradin or one of his men wants an evening. That’s what we call it—an evening. Then they send the foreman down with one of the guards to bring us back.” She grimaced. “About the only good thing I can say for it is the shower.” Now she grinned again. “Imagine that. After a while, you’re willing to trade yourself for a shower. They like us clean, not like the smelly peasant girls.” Cobb said nothing. Again her head tilted to the side. “If you had been around here even for a short time, you would have known all about that. The peasants won’t pay attention to us.” She pointed at the bucket. “They wouldn’t even have dipped water for me.”
“What’s your name?” Cobb asked.
“Verra.”
“That is Polish,” he nodded. “Very pretty.” Looking around to make sure that no one was paying attention to them, he continued, “I haven’t seen any guards. I’m sure I would have noticed.”
“Keradin doesn’t want to make a big thing about it—not in front of the peasants. The foreman—a GRU in charge of security—works for him, along with some of the others. They keep a close eye on us. There’s no way we could get away, at least not during the day, and they keep us locked up at night. That’s when the guards come out.”
She stood up then, her hands on her hips, and half circled him, studying both the man and the clothes intently. She had promised herself that the first time there seemed to be a chance, she would take it. Verra was not about to accept the existence offered to her at the dacha. She had only accepted it when the other choice was prison. Pursing her lips and nodding to herself as she stopped in front of him, she determined that the gamble had to be taken. “And you—what is your name?”
Down below, near the main shed, the foreman stepped out into the sun, looking up the slope. Cobb stood up, pouring the remainder of the water over his head. Hoisting his half-full bucket of grapes, he said, “Come on,” indicating the foreman down the hill with a jerk of his head. “I’ll teach you a little bit about grapes.” He moved to the edge of the arbor, noting over his shoulder that the foreman still hadn’t moved. “I’ll tell you my name,” he added when she hesitated.
She moved into a row above his so that she could watch both him and the foreman below. Good for her, he thought. She doesn’t trust a soul. “You can call me Cobb.”
“Cobb… Cobb?” She rolled the name over her tongue with difficulty. “That isn’t Georgian or even Russian, is it?”
He was normally not a gambler, not at such an early stage. But there was no time for games… no time to analyze just how he could effect a smooth operation and spirit off the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces within the next eight to ten hours—and his last chance would only be one day later.
It was time to gamble. “No, Cobb is not Russian.”
She looked down at him, studying his face closely as if looking for something that would answer a question. Like him, she moved slowly along the row of vines, clipping bunches of grapes and dropping them gently in her basket. Each time, she looked away only for a second, then her gaze fell back on his face again. Yes, she determined, she would take a chance.
“You have never been here before today?” It was a question and a statement.
“No.”
She grinned at him. “You are right not to talk to anyone.” She pointed at his clothes. “You look right, but I could tell when I sat down with you that you didn’t smell right. Only a day or so of sweat.” She wrinkled her nose. “You spend long enough here, you’ll know what I mean. I think some of these peasants bathe only after the harvest. You had one of those showers you mentioned not too long ago. So don’t talk and don’t let them smell you.”
“I’ve already talked with Keradin.”
She looked up in surprise, then her face softened. “I think perhaps he’s so comfortable here he wouldn’t consider those little things. He pays others to worry about that.” Her voice sharpened. “How long do you plan to stay here?”
“As little time as necessary.”
“And you expect to get away just as easily as you came?” There was a tone in her voice that implied it wouldn’t be that easy.
“I had considered that.”
“If I help you, would you take me too?”
For just an instant, but long enough to resurrect the pain of memory, Cobb’s mind flashed back to another woman who had asked that same question. It seemed so long ago. Those fifteen years were sometimes an eternity and other times seemed only a moment in time—and it had happened in a land so different from this one. But the other woman was just as beautiful in her own way, her hair long and dark, almond eyes just as penetrating, slender Asian body just as inviting. She had asked the same question and he had taken her. He had loved her beyond anything he had ever understood before, and Henry Cobb had made her his wife. Then his enemy had taken her away and tortured her before they killed her. After that, he had repeated the words many times after: “Never again!”
“You don’t know what I’m here for,” Cobb responded.
“I don’t care what you’re here for,” she answered emphatically. “If I have even the slightest chance to get away from here, I’ll do what I have to.”
“I don’t think you’d find my work very appealing.” He was gambling now, gambling as he’d never done before. By now, Keradin would already have talked with his foreman about the new man who knew so much about the grapes. It was probable the foreman would say nothing to upset the general. More than likely, though, he would be looking for Cobb shortly.
“What I am forced to do is not very appealing.”
“I don’t follow you.” He thought he knew what she meant, but he had to be sure.
“I am one of his whores,” she spat. “He likes me. Keradin, he calls me one of his favorites.” Her eyes narrowed and her full lips became a narrow line. “I will do anything that might get me out of here. I have even hoped that if I please him enough, perhaps he will take me back to Moscow with him. It would be easier to escape from there than this place.”
Cobb straightened momentarily. “I’ll take you if you help me, yes.” He’d said it. Would he regret such a decision again?
Her expression changed now. She had figured out Cobb long before he’d realized how weak his disguise actually was. The moment she decided he might be something other than what he admitted to, she had decided to take her chances with him.
“I’ll do what you want.” Her expression changed again. “But I wish I could cut off that son of a bitch’s balls before we go.” Her tone was vicious—definitely a woman to have on his side.
“You just may have that opportunity.” Cobb grinned at her. “But not until you’re given permission. I think I’ll need more help than I realized.”
“You, are quite brave to come in here like this—and most foolish to think you could get away with it for long. Who are you really, Cobb?”
“Does it matter right now?”
“Later, maybe, yes. Right now, no. Anything would
have to be better than servicing that beast.”
“Is he really a beast?”
“No. He is a very brilliant man—and very dangerous. He shows a certain amount of respect for the women he uses like toys. But,” and she looked hard at him, “I am a lady, not a field hand.”
Thank God he’d met this girl. Without her perhaps he’d have had no opportunity to get to Keradin. “I’m going to need more help than you want to offer,” he said tentatively.
“Will it get me out of here?”
“If I get out, you will. But we must do it tonight.”
“It has to do with Keradin?”
He nodded. “Keradin and you.”
She smiled grimly. “I guess one more of his evenings won’t be the end of the world. Perhaps,” she offered, “I can stall him long enough and you can move fast enough in whatever you want to do that I can postpone him indefinitely.”
“That would be up to you. I’m afraid I can’t help in that regard.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
“On the contrary. I’m going to take him with us.”
“Take him?” She spat. “He will go with us—with me?”
“I’m afraid that’s part of the deal. I need your help. But apparently you need mine more.”
She said nothing, moving down the row of vines, selecting and cutting at random. “You are an American, Cobb?”
He nodded in answer.
“A spy?”
“Not really. Does it matter?”
“No. Once again, it doesn’t matter. But I like to know who I am forced to put faith in. How do you want me to arrange this little tryst?”
“How does he choose?”
“We think just when the spirit hits him. He usually comes to us, or sends one of his men at the end of the day or after dinner, perhaps when he has had a little to drink.”
“Is your basket full?”
“Enough so, I guess.”
“Come on.” Cobb jerked his head in the direction of the cistern. They went over to it, and he dipped the wooden bucket, filling it to the brim, and handed it to her. “Pour this over your face and chest—not in your hair. We don’t want you looking straggly. Just enough to appeal to him.” She did as she was told. The cool water cleansed her face, bringing color to her cheeks. And the water over the peasant blouse accomplished exactly what he had hoped. It clung to her tightly like a second skin, emphasizing a better figure than he’d assumed earlier. She looked down at herself, blushing. “This is what you want?”
“Let’s hope it’s what General Keradin wants. Come on. He said he’d be there now.”
Her movement down the slope accomplished what he had hoped. She moved with a sensuous gait that was appealing even at the end of a workday in her soiled peasant clothes. She was, Cobb decided, a most desirable woman.
“Keep it up,” he said admiringly. “You may be your own best ticket out of here. Stay well ahead of me. We don’t want anyone to get the slightest idea we’ve even seen each other.”
He would have to trust to pure, dumb luck as far as Verra was concerned. He’d told her only to get Keradin into his room as early that night as possible, that he’d take care of whatever would happen. If nothing did, then she was no worse off. At least no one would know she had ever spoken with him. But as he trudged tiredly down the slope, there was the foreman, slightly withdrawn from the others as he stood near the crushing shed, hands on his hips, waiting. The man seemed not to notice Verra as she passed by. Keradin did see her and without hesitation was at her side. She seemed to be cementing her part of the arrangement with little effort. However, Cobb’s end of the deal appeared to be in trouble as the foreman moved out to intercept him before he could dump his basket.
The foreman, a product of GRU training, was most unhappy at that moment. General Keradin had inquired about the new man, the one who knew so much about the time for the sweet wines. The foreman’s knowledge of grapes and wine-making had given him this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work for the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces, one of the most influential men in the Kremlin. But his future success depended more on his security measures than it did on his skills with the grape. The peasants he employed were prized for their closed mouths. The workers were allowed out of their barracks only during working hours, and they never spoke out of turn. There were no labor problems at Keradin’s dacha.
“I hired no such person, General,” he’d responded earlier. “I believe it was my assistant who canvassed the neighboring villages for more help during the harvest.” It was a weak excuse, for the foreman was supposed to know the name of every person in the compound, every event that occurred. “At times like this, with the grapes so close, I make sure we put on some extra men for a day or two,” he said, shrugging knowingly. “Sometimes we have luck, I guess, and someone like this Berezin appears. But, General, please let me talk with this man first—it is my responsibility.”
Now when he noticed Keradin in conversation with one of his women, the foreman moved out to intercept Cobb. “I want to speak to you,” he hissed quietly, grasping the other firmly by the arm. “Give your basket to this man to empty.” And when they were out of hearing of everyone else, he demanded, “Who brought you here?”
“I came in this morning with the other workers, sir.” Cobb remained as respectful as he felt a guilty peasant might act, one who was poverty stricken and willing to do almost anything for a job. “I have had no work for so long. My children are hungry. Some people said there might be work here during the harvest.”
“What people?”
“Oh, just people I talk to.” He named some of the neighboring villages where he was sure some of the field hands lived. “Please, sir, I thought that maybe if I came here, showed you how hard I work, you might be kind.” He was whining now. “Let me start at low pay.”
“You should know that’s not the way things are done around here.” He maintained his grip on Cobb’s arm, the pressure increasing.
“I know, sir. I know.” Cobb remained subservient, eyes blinking nervously, hands wringing. “My children, they need food,” he repeated. “Please. I will show you how hard I work for beginning wages.”
Keradin’s conversation with Verra had finished. He watched appreciatively over his shoulder as she sauntered away in the direction of the barracks and then, beaming, he came over to the two men. “Well now, Kozlov! Have you been working on some problems?” It seemed obvious that the general’s immediate interest centered either on Verra or his wines, and his foreman was not quite sure that it was in his own best interests to change his optimistic mood.
“Sir,” responded Cobb in his best whine, his head down, groveling superbly, “I don’t think I know that much about the wines. I have forgotten much—there is so much difference here.”
“Nonsense. Up there,” he pointed toward the top of the hill, “you knew exactly what you were talking about.” His voice hardened perceptibly. “Come!” It was an order. To the foreman he added, “Do you prefer to join us?”
Kozlov had released Cobb’s arm when the general came over. Now he looked impatiently at the peasant with the hangdog appearance. “Yes, sir. I would like to see just how much he does know for myself. But first I would like to make sure that all the workers have left and that the security is set for the night. I will join you within half an hour.”
Cobb was well aware of the unhappiness underneath the calm demeanor of the foreman. It was now a matter of buying time. Thankful for the small amount of breathing space, Cobb still knew that he would have to account for himself to Kozlov when Keradin left to prepare for his evening in the dacha.
The cellars were cool and clean. Keradin may have only taken to wine making as a hobby, but his cellars were those of a professional. The equipment was modern, as up to date as that back in the Napa Valley. They sampled a number of wines selected by the General, discussing the maturation of the grapes, the blends, the aging process.
What General Keradin was looki
ng for was just what Cobb’s mentor hoped to create in Napa. It would be the closest he could come to the great sauternes without developing a poor imitation. To do so would have been to come up second best. To be successful was to produce a new taste, one in the manner of a sauterne, but also unlike it. It had to possess a nose and an aftertaste that could hold its own. That would appeal to the connoisseur, not an imitation. As they talked, Keradin couldn’t have agreed with him more.
The foreman caught up with them eventually, and remained on the fringe. Amis folded, withdrawn from the discussion, Kozlov studied Cobb closely. Cobb sensed the foreman could spot trouble a mile away—that he was sure Cobb was not only not from Georgia, but that he knew too much for a peasant in that part of the Crimea. Yet he said nothing to the General, wisely keeping any suspicions to himself.
Back out in the yard again, Keradin turned to Cobb. “So, tomorrow you stay out of the fields, eh? First thing, we sample the juices from today’s crush—see what we have. Maybe we wander up there—” he gestured toward the arbor where they’d first met, “—pick some grapes, experiment a little, eh?”
“I would be honored to help, sir,” Cobb responded.
“Good. You go home to your family tonight, get yourself a good sleep.” He gestured to the foreman. “See that he gets some money to give his family. You have my permission to pay him in advance. Take good care of our Berezin.” And with that, Keradin was off at a brisk pace toward the twilight-obscured dacha, whistling in anticipation of his evening with Verra.
Cobb, hat in hand, had not quite decided his next move. “What are you thinking about, Berezin?” It was the foreman. Grabbing Cobb’s shoulder with a beefy hand, his fingers dug into muscle at the base of the neck. He knew how to inflict pain. “I think we should have a little talk— in private.” His hand maintained its painful grip as he turned Cobb around and walked him in the direction of the crushing shed. “Come into my office.” Once inside, with the door slammed behind them, the foreman spun Cobb around, shoving him against the rough wall. “So you call yourself Berezin. What is your real name? Berezin isn’t Georgian. Your accent is more northern—Moscow or Leningrad maybe—not Georgia.”
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