The Teacher translated.
“I know you’ll succeed,” she said.
The Peasant seemed pleased, and he ducked out through the entrance of the cave and slipped away.
“The chances of him obtaining a rifle with a telescope are almost negligible,” said the Teacher. “You know that.”
“He needs an ideal, that’s all.”
“Only the German army has them, and I’m betting within it, only specialized units. They’re not apt to leave any about. They don’t forget to put their toys away.”
“If he can just get a half-decent, not-too-beaten-up Mosin or even a German Mauser, I believe I could make that shot from a hundred yards with open sights. It is much the same, finding the position, achieving the concentration, controlling the breathing, willing the trigger finger.”
“The telescope gives you two hundred yards more distance, maybe two-fifty. It gives you a chance to escape. Believe me, you do not want to be caught by the SS after killing one of their leaders.”
“And so I die. It’s a war. It happens all the time.”
“I believe an executioner’s shot behind the ear would be the most you could hope for. That would be a happy ending. I doubt you’d find a German so inclined. The reality is likely far more unpleasant.”
“No point of thinking so negatively,” she said. “At Kursk, even as we closed with the Tigers, we had no negative thoughts. We thought only of duty.”
“I envy you such purity. Anyhow, it’s time to rest.”
“Thank you, I will,” she said.
The Teacher took her by the arm, to help her to move, and the next thing he knew, he was blinking stars from his head while feeling the press of something hard and keen-edged against the precise part of his throat where, less than a quarter inch away behind a thin screen of flesh, his jugular throbbed.
She had turned his weight against him, dumped him swiftly to the ground, and pounced, pinning him there by force of knee jammed into his back and arm wrapped around his forehead that now held a small knife with a sharp blade against the soft, vulnerable part of his neck.
“You know much too much for a teacher, sir,” she whispered. “You found me too damned easily for a teacher. Now, sir, tell me who you really are, or I’ll cut the big one and watch you spurt dry, kicking, in seven seconds.”
CHAPTER 19
Ivano-Frankivsk
The Street
They wanted to take him to the hospital, but it seemed pointless.
“Tell him,” he said to Reilly for the policeman, “he didn’t hit me. Not really. He brushed against me, I spun, I lost my balance, I fell.”
An ambulance had arrived and several witnesses had gathered.
Reilly explained laboriously in Russian that, thankfully, the Ivano policeman understood.
“He wants you to tell him again.”
“It was just a sloppy driver. He thought he could beat me to the space and accelerated.” Swagger waited for her to catch up. “I caught him coming out of the corner of my eye and stepped back. The car didn’t hit me. Its side sort of pushed against me, I felt the pressure, spun, and lost my balance. He probably didn’t even know it happened.”
It went on for a few minutes. No, they couldn’t identify the make or color of the car, no, they didn’t get a plate number. None of the witnesses cared to contribute, either, though they were curious to see how the policeman ended it with the two Americans.
As it happened, he ended it by handing Bob a carbon of a report in Ukrainian off his tablet. It appeared to be some kind of incident record, which Bob took and thanked him for, then watched him walk away. The small crowd also melted off into the night, looking, presumably, for other dramas to distract it.
They walked to the hotel, a multicolored slab of building from “Communism: The Perky Years,” across the street.
“You sure you’re okay? He hit you harder than you told the cop.”
“Really, it’s nothing,” said Swagger. “I expect I’ll be stiff tomorrow.”
“No mountain climbing for you.”
“I guess not.”
“So? Did someone just try to kill us?”
“It’s just on the line between murder and accident.”
“But why would anyone care about something that happened in Ukraine seventy years ago with all its survivors and witnesses gone?”
“How would they even know we’re looking?”
“It’s not like I’ve been discreet. It never occurred to me. I’ve just done what I always do: I call sources, I check on the various Web archives of the various Russian ministries, I talk to people, I go places.”
Bob pondered. “Well,” he finally said, “we may have spilled somebody’s vodka. Let’s call Stronski.”