The peasants shuffled up the dirt path to a large building where a man, whom Cobb gathered must be the foreman, addressed them for a moment. As he did so, the first breezes of the day came up to him from the Black Sea. They carried a multiplicity of aromas that indicated to Cobb that many of the grapes had already been picked and crushed. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, for this was the period that Keradin cherished most. They were about to harvest those special grapes, the most heavily sugared of all, that would eventually go into the finest wines. It could be a matter of days, though perhaps some were ready now, before they were ready for harvesting. Time was of the utmost importance to insure that the now-molding grapes contained just the right amount of sugar, that they had shriveled just enough to attain that magic essence the General treasured.
Keradin would be in the fields today, assessing the grapes himself, indicating those he wanted picked so that he might experiment. He usually wandered on his own, as shown in U.S. intelligence photographs. He would appear with a wide-brimmed hat shading him from the hot sun as he meandered through his vineyard, removing an occasional cluster of grapes from underneath the leaves to check their development, sometimes picking a grape to taste, other times slicing a cluster from the vine and dropping it into the picker’s basket slung from his shoulder. Remembering the soft peaceableness of his own mentor, and the similarity of habits between the two men seemed incongruous to Cobb.
To thoroughly know the entire compound and its daily habits, Cobb would have to make himself a part of its routine as quickly as possible. As the workers moved up the hillsides, each with a basket slung from one shoulder and balanced on the opposite hip, he moved out of a row and picked up a basket that had been carelessly dropped nearby. His dress was perfect, though he noted that many of the workers’ rough clothes were more stained by the harvest than his own. In a few moments, however, his own disguise was as blotched with juice as the others’.
The workers seemed to move with a numbing purpose, mechanically cutting, gently placing clusters of grapes in their baskets. They rarely talked, and this was fine with Cobb, though he longed to hear the local dialect to learn the oddities of local pronunciation.
As the sun climbed higher, the day quickly warmed, waves of heat rising from the now dry ground. Rivulets of perspiration ran from under his cap, streaking his dusty features before they coursed down his back and chest. Pratt had once referred to him as a chameleon, and now Cobb adapted so rapidly to those around him that few would have recognized the movement of his head and eyes as he studied and memorized everything around him. Yet, with a natural expertise, he selected the proper bunches, separating them neatly from the vine with a quick slash of his knife and placing them gently in the basket to avoid damage to the fruit.
Three times he filled his basket and worked his way in the slow shuffle of the peasants to the dumping station near the crusher. Each time, he selected a different route so that he could learn every path, every fence, every root and rock. Most important of all, by watching the comings and goings from the main house, he could determine just what each room might be used for and where each door led. Through habit, he laid out a simple floor plan in his head. The estimated depth of a given room might certainly be questionable, but he learned years ago that his guesses were usually within reason. He also identified the servants and what seemed to be their responsibilities. All this could help him later.
Once again, he noted that security was lax at best. Once the workers had filed in for the day, the gates were closed. Though they and the fences were watched continuously by men dressed in civilian rather than military clothes, Cobb sensed that they did not consider themselves under the same pressures that existed in Moscow. A number of military men, almost none in uniform, drifted in and out of the main building. Cobb could have picked them out as military anywhere. It soon became obvious to him that General Keradin’s staff was so highly organized, so professional, that a simple, relaxed system could exist, easily replacing the formalities of Moscow.
Cobb moved higher up on the hillside toward a row of vines that appeared more ready for harvesting. As he peered under the leaves, he could see that these grapes were almost perfect. Perhaps it was the soil, perhaps a deeper gulley between rows that held water for a longer period, perhaps even that these plants were a bit taller and caught the direct sun longer to produce a higher sugar content. These he would begin with in a moment.
He sat down on the edge of a cistern. Removing his cap, he mopped his forehead with a grimy rag he had found near the crusher. The cloth came away with a dark silt of sweat and dust. Neatly folding it, he wiped at either corner of his eyes to remove the clinging dirt.
A deep voice came to him at the same instant a shadow fell across his feet. “Well, it is a hot day, eh? Very good for the sugar. What do you think, eh?”
Cobb stiffened. For just a second, he had allowed his guard to slip. That was something he tended to avoid, even in everyday life. Perhaps the lack of sleep the night before was the reason. Whatever, there was no doubting that voice or that accent. He had listened to recordings of it over and over again. In person, General Keradin’s voice was sharper, perhaps just a bit more friendly, since he was in his own vineyards.
He looked up at the familiar face that he had studied so often in the past days. It was shadowed by the wide-brimmed hat, but he recognized the bright, inquiring eyes above the high cheekbones. There was just the quirk of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “The sugar is very high along this row,” Cobb responded, jumping to his feet, cap in hand in a gesture of humility.
“Oh?” Keradin raised a bushy eyebrow as he looked from the peasant to the clusters of grapes. He moved over by a vine, cradling a bunch in his hand, turning it one way and then the other. Selecting a few of the grapes, he held them to his eye, then popped a few into his mouth. His eyes opened wide in wonder. “You’re right.” He savored the sweet juice with his pursed lips. “I didn’t know we had anyone in the fields who knew the correct moment,” he added, turning back to Cobb. Keradin was a stocky man of medium height, rather nondescript in slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. But the confident eyes and authoritative voice was that of a military man.
“Yes, sir,” Cobb responded. He bent down, exposing a cluster of grapes still shaded by the vines in front. “The sun won’t hit these until afternoon, when some of the heat is already out of the rays. These,” he continued, straightening up and pointing to another cluster, “have been in the sun since early morning. When they are this close, a couple of hours of sun makes all the difference in the world with the sugar. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, these lower ones should be ready.”
“How long have you been working here?” the General demanded. “I don’t remember you the last time I came down here.”
“Only a few days, sir.” Cobb inclined his body slightly from the waist in a sign of respect. “Just for the picking, sir. My family comes from Georgia, outside Kutaisi, where they used to make such wines as you make here — deep, golden, sweet.” He paused, then added, “I work various vineyards as they need me, sir.”
“I see.” Keradin squinted in the bright sunshine. “Do you also know how to make the wines, how long the must should stay with the juice?”
“Yes, sir,” Cobb nodded. “My family made this wine for many generations — first in Georgia, then here in the Crimea after the war.”
“Ah! Perhaps you’re what I’m looking for. I have been experimenting the last few years — three, maybe four, whenever I can get the time — for a special aftertaste.” His eyes lit up. “Perhaps you understand what I mean: like the wines of Georgia?” He raised his eyebrows in question.