Look to the Wolves

by Look to the Wolves (retail) (epub)

  ‘I was just thinking about that very thing. And this time, Boris Vasil’ich, I’ll take pleasure in it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes – by God…’

  He’d gone. Bob hefted the rifle, trying it for weight and balance and for the length of its stock against his shoulder. Then the peep-sight: peeping at moonlight which had been brighter in the last minute or two but faded at the precise moment he put the gun up to it. Didn’t matter – as long as it came back again – when they both had rifles, and eleven men to kill.

  Eleven men who were now singing. Unaccompanied, now. Squeeze-box artist taking a breather, perhaps.

  He sat down again. Knowing it could be a long wait. The fact sentries had changed round at half-hour intervals didn’t mean they’d maintain the same routine all through the night. They might have been on short shifts only while – well, while the entertainment was in progress.

  Assuming it was finished, now?

  Much quieter, certainly. That last – final scream?

  But in the name of God or the devil or any other Power that might have anything to do with it, what justification could there be for the existence of such creatures?

  Ibraim had either strangled that one or broken his neck, or both. But slow strangulation would be best. One would have liked them to have time to comprehend why, understand how unfit they were to live, or to masquerade as human beings. And there had to be thousands of them. Foul and unspeakably cruel as tonight’s performance was, it wasn’t any isolated incident. One had heard of dozens. Even just recently – Schelokov’s story of his parents, for instance. And right here, the family who’d lived at this farm. And for that matter Nadia’s own people. He remembered her saying once that it wasn’t her fault she was a princess… My father was a prince, that’s all. For which crime incidentally he and my mother were literally torn to pieces…

  Music, again. Improvising, by the sound of it.

  If Nadia had been here, could one have found the self-control to sit and listen while they played their games with her? Irrespective of the circumstances – the fact that making any move too soon would have been suicidal, therefore have done her no good either – would it have been physically possible to wait, while the games went on?

  Thank God, again – and again – for her death.

  Resting his head forward again. It felt better that way, throbbed less.

  ‘Relieving Tikhonov, are you?’

  ‘Tha’s it, comrade, tha’s it!’

  ‘Well – in that case—’

  The music – and two or three voices raised in song again – made the rest of the exchange inaudible. But you’d heard what mattered – relief sentry on his way… He called, ‘Hear that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Schelokov observed in a whisper, ‘Comrade Tikhonov will soon have company.’

  Tikhonov being the former owner of this rifle. Bob pulled the tack-room door shut. The outer door was being left ajar to entice the new man in, and it wouldn’t do for him to see this one standing open.

  A cheer. Then a single voice making some sort of speech. Words indistinguishable… Laughter, when he finished. It was quite a long time now since Avdotya had screamed that protest, and considerably longer since Irina’s.

  Assuming that had been Irina.

  You’d know. Before long, you’d know. Better not to make guesses. You’d know soon enough.

  Stomach shots, he thought suddenly. Wherever the angle made it possible. The thought of it made him feel a little better. Although there’d be some risk. A man with a bullet in his gut, even in agony – which one would hope for – might still be a danger.

  ‘Hey, Tikhonov! Second helping, comrade – if you’ve rested it long enough?’

  A chuckle…

  But – wrong. Not from the same man. From another – with the same delicate sense of humour, of course – but a second man, following. And the first one now too damn close to risk him hearing—

  But – the hell…

  ‘Boris – two coming! Another close behind the first!’

  ‘Chyort…’

  ‘Let the first one come on in. I’ll shoot him. You get the other.’

  He reached for the rifle, pushed the door open about two inches, squirmed around to lie full-length with the tip of the rifle’s barrel in that gap. Settling to it, wriggling into a comfortable position… Schelokov had neither acknowledged nor argued.

  ‘Tikhonov, what are you doing in there? Sleeping it off?’

  The outer door creaked open.

  ‘Comrade Tikhonov?’

  The other one called sharply, ‘See if the prisoners’ door’s secure!’

  ‘Right, comrade…’

  There could have been only yards between those two: and the words one hadn’t heard must have been something like ‘I’ll go along with you, see if the Anglichan’s come round yet.’ The Anglichan meanwhile had the rifle tucked into his shoulder and a small circular area of thickly-filtered moonspill like a disc of fog in the peep-sight.

  Safety-catch – off.

  This one was going to be lucky. One couldn’t go for a stomach shot at this stage, he had to be shot dead. The shot itself would make enough noise, God knew. But – no option…

  The second voice growled, ‘Where the fornicating hell is that blithering idiot?’

  He’d stumbled in the doorway. But that was number two. Number one was a shadow darker than its background, outlines firming as it grew into the circle in the rifle’s raised backsight.

  The others’ voice again – he was inside now – ‘Where the hell—’

  Bob squeezed the trigger. The rifle’s crack was louder than he’d been expecting – confined space magnifying it, of course – but his target jolted backward, flinging its arms outward, the rifle which had been slung on one shoulder clattering down against the wall as the body crumpled. Simultaneously the beginnings of the other man’s yell of ‘Christ, what—’ were cut short. There was some grunting like pigs rooting and a heavy impact against one of the wooden partitions, boots crashing against it too. Then only Ibraim’s straining gasps of effort. He began articulating them: ‘There. There. Ah, there…’ He was in a crouched position with the man bent backwards across one knee, hands clamped on his throat, forcing the head back and downward.

  He’d let him drop. Schelokov muttered, ‘He’ll want no second helpings.’

  Bob’s man was dead and messy. The bullet had smashed through the bridge of his nose on its way into the brain. The range had been near-enough point-blank, of course.

  The music had stopped. A voice called from the farmyard, ‘What’s going on there, comrades?’ and Schelokov answered from the doorway – muffling his voice, somehow or other – ‘S’all right! S’all right, tovarischi!’

  ‘Who loosed off, then?’

  ‘Tikhonov! Thought he saw a wolf!’

  Laughter, and jeers, and the name Tikhonov repeated in derisive tones. The squeeze-box started up again. Schelokov shut the door: then changed his mind, pushed it open again to let in some moonlight. ‘Robert Aleksandr’ich, you saved our bacon.’

  ‘So now let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Yes – indeed… Well – we have our two rifles, and one revolver. This was the NCO, this last one – handgun, you see… Ibraim, can you use a Nagant, shoot straight with it?’

  ‘How many hours to daylight, Boris?’

  Ibraim had grunted affirmatively, and Schelokov had given him the NCO’s revolver. Answering Bob’s question: ‘Don’t know, they took my watch. Well – unless one of these beauties has one… But I don’t think it matters, anyway. Tell you why later. As you say – first things first. First thing being – Bob, see what your man had in his pockets, will you? I’ll check this one. But—’

  ‘First thing being—’ Bob said it for him, crouching beside the man he’d shot. His head was hurting badly, pulses of pain that had started with the shot itself. ‘First thing is get out there and kill those—’

  ‘Exactly. But also—’ a hard expulsion of breath
– ‘I wish to God we had a doctor with us. Hey – box of matches. That’s something, we can check the rifles’ sight-settings, now… Ibraim, this knife any use to you?’

  16

  The moon was hidden behind cloud. They’d made sure they could count on it at least for a few minutes, then he’d started with Ibraim close behind him, loping doubled across the entrance from the roadway and into the cover of the ruined barn on that far corner. Out behind it, now. Feet like blocks of ice, and head pulsing rather like a drumstick hitting it at about every second step. Disconcertingly, there’d been a break in the music just as they’d been crossing the open ground: in imagination he’d seen the squeeze-box artist stopping, peering across the yard: ‘Hey – what’s that…’

  Slowing now, he glanced back to see Ibraim was still with him. As he was – close behind, close enough not to lose touch in the dark, and content to follow although he obviously knew this place intimately, having lived and worked here with the letuchka.

  With the first barn’s gaunt remains between them and the farmstead – invisibly so at this moment, but a reassurance against the moon happening to break through – Bob was looking for the fence that enclosed the cattle-yard behind these buildings, behind the cowshed in particular. The cowshed – in which all the horses were stabled – was Ibraim’s destination. He himself would be stopping before that, at the barn that had about half a roof still on it. And Schelokov was going the other way, round behind the stable building and from there, if he found he was in good enough cover, across to the well. Otherwise he’d settle himself for the time being anyway at that north-east corner of the stables. The well would be a much better position for him: closer to the targets, and with its low surrounding wall and timber superstructure as his blind. If when the time came they were still around their fire, he’d be shooting at a range of only about twenty-five or thirty yards.

  The fire was between the well and the roofless izba. It was only a dim glow, now. Festive-looking and keeping them warm, no doubt; you could guess the men were sprawling on the ground around it. They’d have had the stove inside the ruined cottage for cooking their evening meal, and this fire outside it for warmth.

  For conviviality, you might say.

  He was squeezing the box again, now. It sounded like a hymn, and they weren’t singing to it. There’d been no singing for the past quarter-hour or so.

  Fence-posts. Wire sagging loose… That was the top strand, the lower one was taut. He stepped over it, saw Ibraim doing the same. Ibraim was fortunate enough to have his boots on – short ones that laced around the ankles and presumably hadn’t been considered worth taking – but none of the three dead men in the stables had had boots that Bob could get his feet into. Schelokov had been luckier, was wearing the NCO’s.

  There’d be a wider choice before long. Schelokov had observed drily, ‘If there isn’t, Robert Aleksandr’ich, boots will be one of many things you won’t ever have to think about again.’

  He stopped – behind the second barn – and caught Ibraim by an arm. Pointing to where he was going… ‘All right?’

  A whisper: ‘Khorosho.’

  ‘Nothing until I shoot – eh?’

  Ibraim had said he understood, but it was as well to make certain. Misunderstanding could cost lives – the wrong ones. Which weren’t exactly gilt-edged, in any case. He’d nodded again and slid away. He wouldn’t be going into that shed – causing a disturbance among the horses – but to its corner where a fence ran between it and this nearer barn. Part of the enclosure to the cattle-yard, the farmstead end of it. The idea of placing him there was based on the theory that if any of the cavalrymen made a run for it they might well try to do so on horseback – bareback and without any bridles, but that wouldn’t deter them – and once mounted they’d be difficult to stop – in the dark, anyway. Posting Ibraim within a few feet of the door they’d have to go in by seemed like good insurance.

  He was invisible now against the cowshed’s dark end wall. Bob picked his way carefully into the partly-roofed barn – which had served as the letuchka’s typhus ward, he remembered Schelokov had said – and to his right, then, into the part that had some roofing on it and was also the end nearest to the fire. The concertina was being played rather quietly, lazily, now, as if the musician might be falling asleep over it. Might well be… You didn’t want them all asleep, though. At least one man had better be awake and moving. Shambling off for a pee, for instance. You’d kill him, and as he dropped there’d be others jumping up.

  As long as one had some light to shoot by, for God’s sake. That was the most important factor – the moon. As important as it was uncertain. Half an hour ago when he’d first seen moonlight through that tack-room wall, the pattern had seemed to be longish periods of light with comparatively brief eclipses – in other words, less than 50 per cent cloud-cover – but now it seemed to be the other way about, more cloud than clear sky. Could even be total cloud-cover – change in the weather terminated, in fact, reverting to normal. Certainly no stars were visible. But there again, until the moon broke through and lit the sky as well as the land, you couldn’t be sure. Thin cloud hid stars, did not always obscure the moon. And the clouds were fairly racing over, from the north-west; changes could come suddenly.

  If there was total cloud-cover up there now – or anything like total, because one needed a clear spell lasting at least several minutes – there’d be nothing for it but to wait for the first light of dawn. Minimally five hours – going by the dead NCO’s German-made pocket watch. Hell of a long time: the only advantage being that at least after that long wait you’d be sure of it, you’d know darkness wasn’t going to clamp down with some of them still alive and scattering into the surrounding countryside. That was a danger – was the reason one needed a long clear period. And to see it coming, see clear sky up there to windward. But in every other way the thought of waiting any such length of time wasn’t at all a happy one. For one thing because if there was any chance of saving the girls’ lives, the sooner you could get to them the better that chance might be. If there could be any such hope… Although there again – supposing they were still alive – how would you cope – with no medical knowledge whatsoever? And how to move them – in whatever state they might be? Because one way or another you were going to have to get out of here – as fast and as far as possible. For one thing, the despatch rider who’d been sent with a message to the Cheka in Kharkov might be back sooner than expected. If he’d found a working telegraph line, for instance, got his message through that way. He’d be back sooner or later anyway, and he wouldn’t be alone here for long, but there might well be other visitors even sooner – other cavalry units, possibly, or the ones who’d come in the lorry might come back.

  Sooner the better, therefore. Now wouldn’t be too soon.

  The end wall of the barn had partly disintegrated, and the remains of the roof had slumped here and there where its support was gone. Any incautious move – especially when you were groping around like this by feel – might bring more of it crashing down. But one of the gaps – planks either fallen out or removed for repair work elsewhere – seemed better placed than others. Although you’d be shooting from a semi-crouched position: knees bent, anyway… Well – this would be among the least of one’s potential inconveniences. In fact if the upright at the corner – heavy timber, part of the barn’s supporting frame – was strong enough to lean on…

  He tried it out. Left shoulder against it, then his weight on it gradually. Not being too keen on the notion of the whole structure collapsing: or even of small bits of it landing on his head.

  It was taking his weight, all right.

  The music sounded close, from here. And the fire looked close. Still only its glow, though, not a damn thing else. Well – visually nothing else, but – straining his ears, thinking he might have imagined it – and he hadn’t – a low growl of men’s voices.

  Sleepless. They’d had an exciting afternoon and evening, those boys. Lots to
talk about. And that was fine. Talk, lads, stay awake… And meanwhile – moon. Moon, please?

  Rifle up, and its barrel out through the gap. Ready, waiting. It was in his own hands, now – for him literally to call the shots. Schelokov would have been in position several minutes ago, either at the end of the stables or at the well, and their arrangement was that Bob would start the action as soon as he was in place and ready and the light was right for it, with targets visible and attainable.

  They didn’t seem to have missed Tikhonov or the NCO yet.

  One hadn’t anticipated any long wait for the moon, of course. With the enormous good fortune of having a moon at all, one hadn’t envisaged a reversal of that stroke of luck – and just at the wrong moment. The wait should have been only a few minutes. Although – all right, one had discussed the possibility of having to wait until daylight. So that excuse – blaming the moon – mightn’t be entirely valid.

  It was spilt milk, anyway. The plain fact now was that at any minute they were going to start wondering where in hell were those two comrades: and then they’d remember the shot they’d heard…

  Christ.

  Instant planning, Schelokov had called it.

  Watching the glowing rosette of their fire’s embers, meanwhile. Nothing else to look at, no movement. Wondering what alternative plan – if one had foreseen this – might have been better. If one had maintained the ambush in the stables, for instance, waited for them to catch on and come investigating – whittled them away a few at a time? But hindsight didn’t help now. What one needed now was an instant alternative, a plan of action for when they did finally catch on. For instance – when they did, wouldn’t some of them rush down to the stables?

  Move back to the stables, wait for them?