Filip pictured the map in his head. Two rail lines ran from the west and joined at Omsk, one more northerly, through Perm, Yekaterinburg, and Tyumen; the other followed a more southern route, through Samara, Ufa, and Chelyabinsk. After joining at Omsk, they continued east past Lake Baikal until the line split again at Chita. Filip’s group of legionnaires held the southern line to the west of Omsk, and another group of legionnaires held part of the track to the east. If this man could cut the third and final line into Omsk . . .
Surrounding the Bolsheviks was appealing, but Filip had to be cautious. “It sounds promising, to cut them off.”
The man’s lips twitched. A smile? “Will you join us?”
“Our goal is to move all our men east, not to interfere with internal Russian affairs.”
“You may want neutrality, but it seems the Bolsheviks have gone to war with you.”
That was true enough. “And we will fight back, but only as needed.”
“For now.” The man held out his hand. “Kirill Sokolov.” He nodded at the other man. “Yuri Fedorov.”
Filip shook both their hands. “Filip Sedlák.”
“If you need us again, one of us is usually by the bridge. But take care. The Bolsheviks are executing anyone they want to get rid of.”
***
Filip didn’t have the authority to promise Sokolov or Fedorov anything, but cooperation made sense. The legion wanted the Bolsheviks off the railway. The White Russians wanted more than that—they wanted the Bolsheviks out of Russia—but the two could, in theory, cooperate when it came to the Bolsheviks in Omsk.
Filip left the city and rode for a time, then slowed his horse when he was confident no Bolsheviks tracked him. Three figures took shape in the distance. Two stood. The other hunched and moved around something on the ground. They might have information for him, and he was far enough from Omsk now that anyone wanting to report him would have a long walk to the nearest authorities.
He dismounted. Then he winced. He knew how to ride—not enough to impress Nadia, but enough to get by—but he wasn’t used to hours in a saddle. The inside of his legs burned, and he almost rethought his plan. He’d considered himself and his Beholla pistol equal to three peasants, but he hadn’t counted on how sore he’d be.
The three went about the task as before, though they had to have heard Filip’s horse. Two men and a woman.
“Greetings.” Filip kept his distance, still unsure of how he’d be received.
The one bending over stood and slipped something into his pocket. Filip looked from the man to the ground, and his feet suddenly felt stuck to the steppe. They were scavenging from the bodies of five executed men. He couldn’t see the faces. Someone had tied white handkerchiefs over them. But he could see the uniforms, two of them with legion patches.
“We were here first,” the largest of the three said.
“I don’t want anything from them.” Filip watched the woman tug boots from a body. “Who are they?”
“Spies, counterrevolutionaries. The Bolsheviks shot them. They don’t need their clothing anymore, do they?”
Stripping the dead was reprehensible, but Filip forced back his indignation. “What did they do?”
The man shrugged.
Spies, counterrevolutionaries, and legionnaires. A bullet in the chest was what Filip could look forward to if he were caught. He reached into his pocket and took out a few Kolchak rubles. “May I look at the faces?” He held the rubles out.
The large man raised an eyebrow. The woman frowned. “Why would you want to see their faces?”
Filip didn’t want to confess that he might recognize them. “I’m looking for a friend’s missing brother. Sounds like the type who might get involved with this sort of trouble. Has a scar along his nose.”
The woman pulled off the handkerchiefs. Two of the faces belonged to men Filip knew. A third looked familiar, though he couldn’t place the name. He noted the curly hair and blue eyes of the fourth, the cleft chin and birthmark of the fifth.
“Not your man.” The big man glanced over the bodies.
That wasn’t true. Some were his brothers. Was it worth pulling out his pistol so he could take the bodies and give them proper internments? But how would he move all five? The legion would have to bury them somewhere. Perhaps this spot was as good as any. “Will you bury them when you’ve finished?”
The woman let out a chuckle.
“If I paid you, would you bury them?”
The second man, thinner and hairier than the other, seemed to consider it. “I’ll come back when it’s dark.” He nodded to a hovel in the distance. “I’ll bring my shovel.”
Filip had no way of knowing if the man lied, but under the circumstances, it was the best he could do. He might owe respect to his fallen brothers, but he also owed information to his living brothers, and their needs came first. He handed over his money and hoped for the best. On days like this, he hoped all those promises that he’d heard in church about redemption and resurrection were really true.
***
Kral waved Nadia in when she arrived at his boxcar. A man sat before Kral, his back to her. He wore worn civilian clothing, yet something about the curly brown hair was familiar. Filip?
“You’re sure about those descriptions?” Kral asked.
“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.” Definitely Filip’s voice. “I paid a peasant to bury them. Don’t know if he will, but I didn’t think my horse could carry that many bodies.”
Bodies? What bodies? At least Filip was back, and alive, even if he slumped on the makeshift table. He needed rest, but she doubted he’d get it. Kral was bold, and time wouldn’t improve their situation, so the legion would strike soon.
“You have more information?” Kral looked past Filip to Nadia. Filip didn’t even turn to see who Kral questioned.
“One of the patients told me about shift changes at the train depot,” she said. “If they still use the same schedule, I thought it might be valuable.”
Filip’s head whipped around as she spoke. He must have recognized her voice.
Nadia met his eyes for a moment, then focused on Kral. “I wrote it down for you.” She handed over her notes. The proper thing was to stand erect and focus on the lieutenant until she was dismissed, but her eyes returned to Filip, who stared right back with a puzzled expression on his face.
Kral cleared his throat, and both of them straightened. “Thank you, nurse Sedláková.” He turned to Filip with a raised eyebrow. “Your wife?” Something about that tone—was it disapproval? Surprise that someone like Filip had tied himself to someone like Nadia?
“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.”
“Then I’ll dismiss you both. But, Sedlák, I’ll need you first thing tomorrow morning. Rest up.”
Filip nodded, then hurried to step from the car so he could help her down.
“Thank you,” she said.
He’d taken her hand to help her from the train and didn’t let go of it right way. He looked at their entwined fingers for several long seconds before releasing her. “Sorry, I’m filthy.” He wiped his hand on his clothes, then stopped when he only succeeded in creating poofs of dust on his smock. “Why were you reporting to Kral?”
He wasn’t angry, was he? “The Bolsheviks left a lot of wounded men when they withdrew. I thought that since they attacked from Omsk, they might have useful information. And since Kral needed intelligence badly enough to send you for it, I thought it would be helpful. I wasn’t trying to interfere.”
“I wouldn’t call it interfering. I’d call it helping. Thank you. You’re magnificent.”
Magnificent? All she’d done was ask a few wounded, lonely men the right questions. Her cheeks grew warm. “I had hoped it would keep you safer, somehow. I should have thought of it before Kral sent you.”
“Well, I made it back, and now we have two sources.”
“And the bodies you spoke of?” She was reluctant to bring up the Bolsheviks’ latest victims, but she wanted to know. “Legionnaires?”