Текст книги "Snow Wolf"

Автор книги: Glenn Meade

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'."And in the meantime'!"

"in the meantime you tell Lombardi you want the woman watched more closely. A twenty-four-hour operation. And tell him you may have a job for him soon that will pay well."

Akashin grinned. "I'm sure Lombardi will appreciate that."

"What sort of job?"

Akashin looked across and smiled. "You know Moscow doesn't like it when the Americans slight us, Gregor. We need to let them know they can't make fools of us."

"Is she that important""

"No, but it's a question of principle."

"So what does Lombardi have to do,?" Arkashin said, "When the time is right we're going to take the girl back to Moscow. We'll need Lombardi to kidnap her. You think he'll do it?"

" He'll do anything you tell him for money. But taking her back to Moscow is going to be difficult."

Akashin put down his glass and Stubbed out his cigarette.

Lombardi controls the docks. Getting her on board the Soviet vessel shouldn't be difficult. But we have another option Should it prove impossible."

"And what's that'.)"

"A repeat performance of the one you carried out so well in Switzerland." Arkashin smiled. "You kill her."

February 1st-22nd 1953

New Hampshire.

She saw the lake and the wooden house as they came around the bend in the narrow private road. There was snow on the mountains in the distance and the forested scenery below looked remarkably wild and beautiful, like a Russian landscape.

When Stanski halted the car, Massey opened the door for her and took her suitcase. "Let's get you settled in, then I'll fill you in on what happens next."

Anna looked out at the water and the forest landscape and said to Stanski, "Jake said it was beautiful here, but I never expected it would look like a part of Russia."

Stanski smiled. "There used to be parts around here where Russian was spoken. Small communities of fur trappers and hunters mostly, who came over in the last century. I guess the scenery made them feel at home."

He took them inside and showed Anna to a small bedroom upstairs.

"This is your room. It's a bit basic, I'm afraid, but it's warm and reasonably comfortable. When you've finished unpacking I'll be downstairs."

She noticed Stanski look at her, his eyes faintly lingering on her face a moment, and then he left. There was a single bed and a chair and the window overlooked the lake. Someone had left some flowers in a vase by the window and fresh towels beside an enamel water jug and basin on a stand in the corner. When she had unpacked and washed she went back downstairs and found Massey and Stanski sitting at the pinewood table drinking coffee.

Stanski said, "Sit down, Anna."

She sat and Stanski poured her coffee. She studied his face when he wasn't looking. It was neither handsome nor unattractive, but there was a look in his eyes she had noticed when she first met him, a look like something wasn't right about the man, and there was a faint smile at the corners of his mouth that suggested he found life oddly amusing.

Now he looked across at her and sat. The smile was gone from his face as he said, "First things first. You're completely sure you know what you're doing?"

"I wouldn't have come here if I wasn't."

"Jake told you that you might have to face dangers. But are you certain you're prepared to face them?"

She looked at Stanski steadily. "Yes."

"Hear there are some ground rules I want you to understand that apply as long as you're here. About the mission, you don't talk to anyone you meet apart from us here. Did Jake explain about Vassily?"

"Yes, briefly."

.,Although he's completely trustworthy, for the sake of security you don't discuss the mission with him. But don't worry about that, he won't ask. We'll be doing some preparation together for the journey but in ten days' time a man will arrive. His name's Popov. He's going to put us through some pretty rigorous training, both in Soviet weapons and self-defense. It's a precaution really, for your sake, so you'll know how to handle yourself if you get in a difficult situation. But on no account do you talk to Popov about our intentions or discuss anything about our plans. Is that understood?"

She looked briefly at Massey. He was staring at her. "Anna, while you're here Alex is in charge. You do as he says."

She looked back at Stanski. "Very well. I agree."

"Good. Another rule. You work @and and do your utmost to absorb everything you're going to learn. I want to be sure of who I'm going in with. I want to be sure I can depend on you."

"You can."

Stanski stood up slowly. "OK. Concerning the mission itself, and just to let you know, when the time comes we'll be going into Russia through one of the Baltic states, landing by parachute. Estonia to be precise. You've been to Estonia?"

Anna nodded. "My father served there as a commander with the Red Army." Stanski said shortly, "Then let's just hope when we get there the Estonian resistance we're depending, on to help us don't get to know about it. At all times during the mission, while it's necessary, we'll behave as man and wife. If things go according to plan, we'll make our way to Moscow using regular transport, tram@ and buses, via Leningrad. We'll have a predetermined route and enough contacts to help us as we need. If things go against us for whatever reasons, then we'll just have to change our plans to suit the situation. Once we reach Moscow-if'we reach Moscow-you'll be passed on to another contact to be taken back to America."

How?"

Jake will tell you all that before we go. As well as everything else you need to know." Anna looked from Massey to Stanski. "You make it sound easy. What about the rotiline checks on travelers in the Soviet Union? What about the paperwork needed for the journey'? What happens if we're separated or one or both of us are captured?"

"it won't be easy. In fact, it's going to be damned difficult. Especially just after we parachute. Estonia is crawling with Soviet troops. It's a garrison country and some of' the Baltic Fleet are based there. In many ways traveling in Estonia will be– more difficult than Russia itself. As to your other questions, You'll get the answers all in good time." Anna said, "I've never parachuted before."

Stanski shook his head. "Don't worry, we'll sort that out too."

He checked his watch before saying to Massey, "I've got to pick up some supplies in town. You want to show Anna around'? Vissily should be back soon. He's taken the boat out on the lake to do some fishing."

Massey nodded. Stanski picked up some keys from the table and crossed to the door and went out. Anna heard the jeep start up moments later and drive off.

Massey looked at Stanski's face. "What's wrong?"

"Something I saw in his eyes. Either he doesn't like me or he doesn't trust me."

Massey smiled. "I wouldn't say that. If Alex is blunt, it's because he has your safety in mind. But he's always blunt when it comes to tactical business. Granted, he's also a difficult man to get to know. But don't worry, you'll be fine."

"I'm not worried, Jake."

"Good." Massey smiled. "Come on, let's see if we can find Vassilv. I think you're going to like him."

As they reached the lake Minutes later a small boat was coming in, its outboard motor rupturing the silence, sounding like a metal wasp as it came into the shore.

The old man sat in the bow, and when he saw Massey he waved. He wore a deerskin jacket and an old woollen deerstalker cap with the ear flaps pulled down. There was a big sheathed knife on a leather belt around his waist, and Anna recognized something familiar in the man's features as he climbed out of the boat and tied up. He studied her face briefly before he shook Massey's hand.

He spoke in English, his accent heavily broken. "Massey. Welcome. Alexei told me you'd be coming."

"Vassily, I'd like you to meet Anna. Anna, this is Vassily."

Anna looked at the man again. Though far from handsome, there was something warm about his face, a kindness in his brown eyes she found instantly endearing, and when she offered her hand and the old man shook it, she said instinctively, "Zdr(i.ytvuti."

He smiled and replied in Russian. "Welcome, Anna. Welcome to my house. Alexei never said you were Russian."

"From Moscow. And you?"

Kuzomen.

Now she recognized the old man's features, the dark Laplander looks of those who inhabited Russia's northern tundra.

"You're a long way from home."

A big smile creased the man's brown face. "A very long way and too far to go back. But this place is just like home. And we Russians are like good wine. We travel well." He looked at Massey. "Where's Alexei?"

"Gone to town to pick up supplies."

"Did he offer our guest bread and salt?"

It was an old Russian tradition with visitors, and Massey smiled and said, "Just coffee, I'm afraid."

The old man removed his hat and shook his head. "Typical. Like all the young he forgets tradition. Come, let me do the honors, Anna. Give me your arm."

Vassily held out his arm to her and Anna slipped her hand through his.

She winked at Massey as he stood there amused, and let the old man lead them up to the house. Anna looked up as Massey smiled over at her. "You know, I think he likes you."

Massey was standing at the window smoking a cigarette minutes later when he saw the jeep pull up outside.

Stanski climbed out and carried two cardboard boxes of supplies up to the house. Massey opened the door for– him and when Stanski had put the boxes away he looked at the two long wooden crates Massey had placed on the floor and kicked one of them with his boot.

"What's in the boxes?" Massey said, "Everything you'll need when Popov arrives. Better stash it in a safe place; there's enough weapons and munitions in there to start a war."

"There's a cold storage room under the kitchen. We can leave them there."

'-Where's the girl?"

"Vassily's taking her for a tour of the place. He's taken quite a shine to her."

"It's just been a long time since he's seen perfuithe. But suddenly I'm not so sure about her, Jake."

"You've got doubts already'? What happened to your instinct?"

Stanski shook his head. "One look at her was enough to tell me she's got what it takes. But it's her life you're riskini@. I don't think she fully realizes what she's getting herself' into here. Once she's with me, I think she'll he OK. But if we have to part company because of trouble I'm not sure she's capable of making it on her own."

"You ought to give her more credit, Alex. I told you. Trust me. And remember, she's spent almost a year in the Gulag. Anyone who can survive that and do what she did to escape isn't going to give in easily. And she'll be fine once Popov puts her through her paces."

"Another thing. She's far too pretty. She'll attract attention."

"Then why did you agree to having her along'!"

Stanski smiled. "Maybe for that very reason. You Know me, I'm a sucker for a pretty face."

Massey smiled back and shook his head. "You're anything but, my friend. But we can have that problem sorted out when the time comes. It's amazing what clever make-up and a bad hairstyle can do to alter someone's appearance."

"You ought to know, Jake."

"Funny."

Massey removed an envelope from his inside pocket and handed it across.

"What's this?"

"Your list of contacts in Russia and the Baltic. You need to memorize the details between now and the day of departure, then destroy the list."

Stanski glanced at the envelope. "How did you get in touch with them?"

"I haven't, not yet. but leave that to me. If there's any change in the names I'll let you know. I've arranged to make contact with our partisan friends in Tallinn who'll pick you up after you drop, if everything goes according to plan."

Stanski put the envelope in his pocket. "So what do you want me to do with the girl in the meantime?"

"Give her a couple of days to let her get used to the place, then start to get her into shape. And yourself. Daily runs and exercises. Be tough with her. It's for her own good. It's a long way from Tallinn to Moscow and you don't know what to expect, so you both want to be fit. Another thing seems as you'll both be parachuting in and we can't use any of our training camps, you'll have@ to do the best you can in that department. Seeing as Anna hasn't dropped before you'll have to cover the basics to make sure she doesn't do damage to herself when she falls."

"And what will you be doing while we're sweating it out here?"

"Me?" Massey smiled. "I'll be in Paris enjoying myself."

When the Red Army rolled over the plains of Poland on its way to crush Berlin and the German Reich, Henri Lebel had been liberated from Auschwitz concentration camp.

The Russian officer who had gone through the camp huts with his men searching for the still living among the dead had taken one look at the Frenchman's emaciated body lying on the lice-ridden bunk, had spindly legs and an emaciated body with shrunken eyes, and said, "Leave him. The poor bastard's dead."

It was only when they carried Lebel's body to the mass grave along with the other wasted corpses and heard the faint gasp of breath and saw the flicker of life in Lebel's eyes that they decided the man was definitely still alive.

There had been two long months spent in a Russian field hospital to build up his strength before he was handed over to the British and allowed to return to his native Paris.

Lebel had survived the war but it was a war that had cost him his wife, gassed, then burned in the ovens of Auschwitz, not only because she was Jewish, but because Lebel had been a member of the French Communist Resistance.

For the last eight years he had resumed the furrier trade his father, an immigrant Russian Jew, had begun in Paris. Henri Lebel had Gradually built it up into a flourishing business, outfitting the Parisian rich with the best of Russian sable and fur, and in the process turning himself into a wealthy man, with a resident suite at the Ritz Hotel and a luxury villa in Canne:";.

There were frequent trips to Moscow, where his resistance connections had gone down well with the Soviet authorities, and as a result Lebel had managed to turn his company into a virtual monopoly, with sole rights in Europe to sell the finest Russian sable and fur. And with America beginning to boom in the postwar years, he had even opened a thriving branch on New York's Fifth Avenue.

Life, it seemed, despite its horrors, had turned out reasonably well for Henri Lebel. But unknown to his business contacts in Moscow, he had a dark secret he kept hidden from them.

There were milestones in his troubled life which Henri Lebel remembered with great clarity. The day he and Klara were arrested by the Gestapo. The day he had met lrena Dezov. And the day he had begun to live again after the horror of Auschwitz.

The first, the arrest in Paris two years after the Germans invaded, he could never forget.

It was his wife's birthday, and after several months of hiding he had decided to risk taking her out to celebrate. As he sat in the Paris cafe with Klara that Saturday morning, barely enjoying the wartime ersatz coffee and the stodgy cakes, the door had burst in and three men in plain clothes entered. Lebel saw the black leather coats and gloves and the slouch hats and an icy chill ran through his veins. As it stood, he was already a wanted man for his resistance activities.

The three men stood in the center of the cafe, hands on their hips, the sharp voice of the man in charge still perfectly clear in Lebel's memory.

"Papieren! Everybody get their papers ready"'

And then the grim joke that rang around the cafe as the Gestapo man grinned. "And if there are any Jews among you, start saying your prayers."

The laughter that followed from the Gestapo men still echoed in Henri Lebel's ears. He had looked at his wife, her beautiful face draining of color. Lebel could still remember the feeling that sprin– morning. Icy fear. Sweat breaking out all over his body, his heart pumping in his ears, ready to burst. He was Resistance, and worse, a Jewish Resistance.

The three men went through the cafe checking papers. The one in charge came to Lebel's table. He smiled down at Klara, then looked at Lebel.

"Pal)ieren, bitte."

Lebel promptly handed over his papers. The Gestapo man was tall, thin-faced, with piercing blue eyes. It was a face that was to live vividly in Lebel's head day and night. The eyes flicked slowly from the photograph in the papers to Lebel's face, as if the Gestapo man were trying to make up his mind about something.

The eyes narrowed. Lebel's hands were shaking and he guessed the man noticed.

The Gestapo man smiled coldly and said, "Where were these papers issued?"

Lebel could hear the silence in the cafe as the man spoke. He saw his wife glance at him nervously.

"Marseilles, sir," Lebel answered respectfully, trying to keep his composure. The place of issue was already stamped on the papers. Lebel had got rid of his own papers and had been given forged ones by the Resistance. His new family name was Claudel. It had worked for six months. But now Lebel thought the Gestapo man sensed something wasn't right.

He continued to scrutinize the papers, then looked up. "Your occupation, Herr Claudel?"

Lebel swallowed. His occupation was typed on the document. "I am a salesman." He paused, decided to be bold and risk everything. "Is there a problem with our papers? There really shouldn't be, you know."

"That's for me to decide," the Gestapo man snapped back, then looked down at Lebel's wife. There were tiny beads of perspiration on Klara's upper lip, her hands trembling in her lap as she clutched her napkin.

The Gestapo man had sensed her fear. He looked back at Lebel and said, "Your wife, Herr Claudet, she seems afraid of something. I wonder what?"

The question hung in the air like an accusation. Lebel felt his heart sink. He answered as calmly as he could.

"She hasn't been well, I'm afraid."

The man looked at Klara. "Really? And what has been the matter, Frau Claudel?"

Lebel decided to brazen it out.

"Really, officer," he interrupted. "My wife's health is no concern of yours. We are both upright French citizens. And if you must know, my wife suffers with her nerves. And really, this intrusion of yours is not helping matters. So please be so kind as to return our papers if you have finished examining them." He held out his hand boldly as he tried to keep it from shaking.

The Gestapo man sneered before he slowly handed back the papers.

"My apologies, Herr Claudel," he said politely. "I hope your wife's condition improves. Enjoy your coffee and cake."

The Gestapo men left. Lebel could not help the feeling of relief and triumph that surged through his body.

It did not last long.

They came later that night.

Lebel heard the screech of tires in the street below their safe apartment, heard the pounding fists on the door. As he flicked on the light and went to grab the pistol he kept hidden under the pillow, the door burst in on its hinges.

Half a dozen men in plain clothes crowded into the room, the thin-faced man from the cafe leading them, a sneer on his face.

He smashed Lebel in the mouth with a leather-gloved fist. Then Lebel was on the floor and the man was kicking him senseless. "Get up, Jew! Get up!"

When they dragged him to his feet two of his ribs were broken and his shoulder dislocated. The other men were already moving through the apartment, ransacking the rooms. His wife was dragged screaming from her bed and bundled downstairs.

Everything after that was a troubling, painful memory. Lebel could never forget the nightmare that followed. The separation from Klara. The brutal interrogation in the Gestapo cellars on the avenue Foch. And when they told him his wife had been sent to Poland for resettlement, Henri Lebel knew it was a lie and feared the worst.

For a week the Gestapo tortured him, trying to pry information from him about his resistance connections. Despite the beatings, the torture, the sleepless nights, he held out and told them nothing. Two days later he was put on a cattle train to Auschwitz extermination camp. There he endured almost two long years of painful humiliation, surviving only because of his will to survive.

And there he first met frena Dezov.

A young Red Army driver in her late twenties, she had been captured and sent to Auschwitz along with a ragged convoy of Russian prisoners. She was eventually put to work in the warehouse where Lebel had to sift through the clothes from the cattle-train transports of prisoners sent to the camp. lrena Dezov was a handsome woman, and despite the appalling camp conditions she was full of humor and vitality, and with a fondness for the illegal vodka the prisoners distilled. But although Lebel spoke fluent Russian he had hardly exchanged a word with her in the two months they had worked together, until, that was, the day he found out with certainty the fate of his wife.

Since arriving at Auschwitz he had been driven half mad wondering what had happened to Klara, hoping that somehow she might still be alive. When he learned that a trainload of French Jews had reached the camp two days before his own arrival, he gave Klara's name and a description to a kapo in the women's section he had become friendly with and asked her to help.

The woman came to him a week later and confirmed his fears. "Your wife was gassed the day she arrived. Then burned in the crematorium. I'm sorry, Henri."

Lebel had looked at the woman in horror, expecting the worst, but not wanting to believe it. He went to his filthy bunk and lay there, curled up in a ball, weeping.

Images and memories raged like a fire through his mind. The day he had first met Klara, and how innocent she looked, and how much he had wanted to protect her. The first time he told her he loved her, and the first time they made love. The grief and anguish that flooded his body was unbearable. When he finally dragged himself from his bed he removed his camp tunic and tied it to the top bunk. He put his neck in the noose. Then he let his body go with the fall.

As he slowly strangled, he heard the scream.

"Henri!"

lrena burst into the hut and struggled to free him, Lebel protesting, wanting to die. But Irena would have none of it, the two of them struggling on the floor, Lebel gasping and punching the young Russian woman.

"Get away! Leave me to die!"

"No, Henri, no ..."

It took lrena all her might to calm Lebel, to help him to the bed. And then he was curled up in a ball again on the bunk, crying his eyes out. lrena put a hand tenderly on his shoulder. "The kapo told me. I came here to see if I could help comfort YOU."

Tears streamed down Lebel's cheeks, "You should have let me kill myself. Why did you stop me'? Why'? You have no right ..."

"I do have a right, Henri Lebel. We Jews must stick together. You and I, we're going to survive. Do you hear?"

Lebel looked into lrena's face. "You ... a Jew?"

"Yes. Me, a Jew."

"But the Germans don't know?"

"And why should I tell them? They have enough Jews to kill."

Lebel stared back at her, his pain deflected. "Why didn't you tell me?"

frena smiled and shrugged. "What does it matter what a man or woman is'?

Does it change your opinion of me?"

"No."

"Good. Take some of this."

She handed him a small bottle of illegal spirit. He refused, but she made him drink.

She looked into his face, this cheerful Russian woman, and he saw compassion in her eyes.

"And now, Henri Lebel, I want us to say kaddish together. And then you're going to go back to work and you're going to try to forget your troubles. But for that to happen some of us must survive. Do you understand me, Henri?"

Lebel nodded. He wiped his eyes.

Irena took his hand and smiled. "Come, let us kneel and say kaddish for your family."

It was so unreal. In the midst of all the pain and death around him, Lebel had knelt with the young Russian woman and said the ancient prayer for the dead. Afterwards he had cried again, and frena had put a hand on his shoulder and hugged him. And then she had made the supreme gesture any woman could make to comfort a man. She offered him her body.

Not for sex, but for solace. Despite the filthy barrack surroundings , there was a beauty and a touching kindness to the lovemaking which somehow reaffirmed Henri Lebel's belief in justice."

After that day, Henri Lebel and arena Dezov had become friends as well as lovers. They endured the endless humiliations of camp life, laughed together when they could, shared what scraps of food they managed to scavenge to supplement their meager rations of watery turnip soup and stale black bread, and got drunk on illegal spirits whenever possible, anything to relieve the agony and pain around them.

The last time Lebel saw Irena was three days after the Russians finally liberated the camp. She was being helped to climb onto the back of a truck to take her behind Russian lines, her long frail legs barely able to stand. They kissed and embraced and promised they would write, and as the truck drove out through the gates Irena managed a smile and a wave. Lebel cried that day as much as he had when he had learned the fate of his wife.

In the five years after the war, Lebel tried to forget his past. A succession of nubile young models eager to parade in his furs on the Paris catwalks and also to give him solace had temporarily dulled the pain, but somehow Irena Dezov never left his mind.

A year later he had to visit Moscow on business, an opportunity he was to be allowed with greater frequency because of his expanding business.

On one such trip, as he came out of the Moscow Hotel, he saw a woman across the street and he froze, rooted to the spot with shock. She looked like lrena, only somehow different, and then Lebel realized she was no longer the emaciated skeleton in his memory but a full-figured, handsome woman, much like the one he had seen the first day she had arrived in Auschwitz. But it was definitely Irena, She climbed on board a tram and in panic Lebel did something he had never done before.

He evaded the KGB man delegated to chaperone him and hopped on board the tram at the last moment. His heart pounding, he sat behind the woman. When she got off he followed her to an apartment off Lenin Prospect, took note of the KGB chaperone , then reluctantly returned to his hotel.

A contact in the Ministry of Foreign Trade, who demanded an explanation for the evasion.

Lebel pretended angry indignation: as a trusted friend of RLISSIA he ought to be allowed to travel in Moscow more freely. He considered it a matter of mutual trust and he gave his word as a gentleman that he would not break that trust. Besides, he had strong business interests in Moscow and he would hardly destroy those interests by doing something he shouldn't, now would he'?

The man from the Ministry merely smiled and said to him. "Impossible, Henri. You know the way it works here. Foreigners are suspect. Even if you do nothing we have to watch you.

Lebel said indignantly, "Then von realize this. I can buy excellent fur from the Canadians and the Americans and without the irritation of being followed everywhere I go in New York or Quebec."

The man's face paled just a little, but then he smiled. "is that a threat, Henri?"

"No, simply a fact. And another thing. I fought for the Communist Resistance in France. I lost my wife and was sent to Auschwitz for my ideals. You people know I'm not a spy."

The man laughed. "Of course we know you're not a spy, Henri, but you're a businessman, not a communist."

"That doesn't stop me from having certain ... sympathies."

Lebel's sympathies had long since vanished but business was business. "Besides, some of the wealthiest businessmen in France supported the Communist Resistance during the war."

"True. But I still can't grant you your request."

Lebel tossed aside the refusal and said very angrily, "Then I suggest you seriously consider this. I'm tired of these petty games you people play. Tired of being followed like some mistrusted schoolboy. Tired of being scrutinized like some unwelcome guest and feeling half a dozen pairs of eyes on me every time I go to the bathroom. I'm considering no longer representing your interests in Europe. Quite frankly, it's not worth the bother. I can buy my furs elsewhere."

The man permitted himself a knowing grin. "But not sable, Henri. You have to come to us for that, Besides, we could simply have someone else represent us."

It was true-and Russian sable fur was the finest and the most sought-after-but Lebel had an ace up his sleeve, "Not registered sable. But a firm in Canada have bred a marten species not unlike yours and believe me the sable pelts are the finest I've come across. So either we stop this petty pantomime and you trust me, or I go to them."

Lebel stood up to leave.

"No-wait, Henri. I'm certain we can resolve this," That settled it. A Couple of phone calls to the upper echelons of the Ministry and a fine sable coat for the official's wife finally clinched the deal. Lebel would be bestowed with honorary Soviet citizenship, which would do away with the need for him to be under surveillance as a foreigner.

The next day he went back to the apartment off Lenin Prospect, checking to make 'sure he wasn't followed. He wasn't. It was still a terrible risk but he considered it worth it. He knocked on the door and frena appeared.

When she saw him she went white, and when the shock subsided her eyes were wet as she led him inside the two-room apartment.

For a long time they embraced and kissed and cried. There were two things Lebel learned that day. One, that he still loved frena Dezov, and much more than he even realized, and two rather more disturbing, that she was married. Or rather had been' when they had their affair in the camp. The husband, a much older, stern-faced army colonel, had later died in the final battle for Berlin.

Somehow Lebel wasn't unduly bothered by conscience about their affair in the camp. With death so close you took what human comfort you could. Besides, there was no such thing as a truly honest businessman, and in business he had sometimes committed sins considerably worse than adultery. And lrena wasn't sad about it, quite the opposite. She confessed that the day she learned of her husband's death she opened a bottle of vodka and got quietly drunk with joy. The man was a brute and the only good he had done was leave her an army widow's pension and a country dacha on the outskirts of Moscow.