The hammering of his heart kept him from drifting off. His belly rumbled. He and Ramsey had saved half of their bread ration these last three days. It wasn't much, but it might help them survive beyond the Gulag walls.
Whitlock had worried that someone might steal the bread, which they had to leave in their bunks, but no one had touched it. Petty theft was a problem in the barracks — almost any item would be snatched up the second you took your eye off it — except when it came to food. Food was the only thing of real value in the Gulag compound, and it could be a matter of life and death, of survival or starvation. Stealing another man's food was severely punished by a group beating. Even the worst bullies and thugs in the Gulag knew better than to suffer mob justice. This was a rule that crossed all boundaries of nationality and faction within the Gulag’s population. Whitlock had witnessed one such beating, so maybe it wasn't all that surprising that their bread supply had gone untouched.
His thoughts drifted to food: Thanksgiving dinners with mountains of mashed potatoes and gravy, hamburgers on the grill, a clambake on the beach at Cape Cod with corn on the cob and lobster… playing as a boy on the beach… that time he got so sunburned that everyone called him lobster boy…
His mind drifted lazily as summer sunshine —
He jerked awake. Just a little longer, he promised his exhausted mind and body. Got to stay awake.
If he fell asleep, they might miss their opportunity to escape this place.
He glanced over at Ramsey, who was sound asleep. Maybe he had tried to stay awake, but poor Ramsey was really suffering from the work, and the growing cold of the autumn days had not helped his cough. Whitlock wasn't sure how much longer Ramsey would last in this place. There might not be another chance.
Whitlock shifted on the bunk so that he could look out the ventilation slats in the barracks. When he moved, the thin blanket fell away, and he was surprised by how cold he immediately felt. Winter was just around the corner.
He looked toward the gate. Was it midnight yet? If not, then it was goddamn close. Gate 3 nearest the barracks was lighted by a single dim bulb. Usually, he could see a guard standing there. He squinted, searching for the familiar bulk of the Russian's uniform.
No one there.
Whitlock stared. As a pilot, he had excellent vision. His eyes could just make out something fluttering on the fence beside the gate.
The scarf.
Inna had said in her message that she would tie her scarf to the gate as a signal. How in the world had she gotten rid of the guard?
There would be time later to ask her about that, he thought. Right now, it was time to go.
He reached toward Ramsey, then paused. Maybe he should just let the poor bastard sleep. Even after his sojourn in the infirmary, Ramsey was getting weaker by the day. How long would he last on the run?
The mere thought of abandoning Ramsey was too much. To have left him behind would be the ultimate cruelty. Whitlock shook him gently by the shoulder and Ramsey startled awake.
“Damnit, I was just getting to the good part," he muttered. “I think her name was Betty.”
“You can dream about Betty later,” Whitlock said. "It's now or never if we want to get out of this place."
Not long after the stars had come out, Honaker and his team, Cole included, moved into position beyond the Gulag walls. It was Vaska who placed them, hidden beside the dirt road that connected the Gulag to the village. Crouched in the darkness with their guns and knives, they could have been setting up an ambush rather than a rescue.
For the umpteenth time, Cole considered how indebted they were to Vaska. Without the Russian’s help, they would literally have been stumbling around in the dark. It was against Cole's nature to trust anyone easily, and it still worried him that Vaska could betray them with a simple word to this Barkov character, or to the Gulag commandant. Maybe Vaska was all right, but if Mrs. Vaska ever got tired of fish pie and wanted something a little better, there might be in trouble.
There was something slow and steady about Vaska that Cole trusted. Vaska was a hunter and a trapper, after all, so Cole had formed an immediate connection with the Russian.
It was hard to tell how long they crouched there in the darkness. At one point, someone came along the road, but it was only one of the villagers who worked at the prison. They could hear him singing. He sounded a little drunk. Oblivious, the villager passed within a few feet of the hidden Americans.
Another hour went by. No one else passed on the road. At night, the road between the Gulag and the village was hardly a thoroughfare. For such a large facility, the Gulag in the distance was oddly quiet. The only sounds came from the village that lay maybe a quarter of a mile away. They heard barking dogs, some shouting between a husband and wife, the sound of someone chopping wood.
"You must have patience," Vaska said. "She is coming."
Cole had to hand it to Vaska, because he himself hadn't seen a thing. He reckoned it helped that Vaska was on his home turf. Also, Vaska had brought along his dog, whose ears were about a hundred times better than their own. From where he was standing, Cole could hear the dog growl. He tightened his grip on the rifle.
Moments later, Inna emerged as a shadow on the road from the Gulag.
She gasped when Cole emerged from the shadows.
"I have done it," she said excitedly. "The gate is unlocked, and I left Harry the signal. He should be here any minute."
"If he ain't here in thirty minutes, we've got to call it off," Cole said. "We need a head start on whoever is gonna chase us, and the closer we get to morning roll call, the less time we have."
"He will be here," Inna said.
"I sure as hell hope so," Cole said. "For his sake — and ours.”
By previous arrangement, it had been decided that Cole would be the one to step out of the shadows while the others still waited, hidden, with weapons drawn, just in case Inna or Whitlock, when he showed up, had accidentally brought along any Russians.
Inna crouched beside Cole, struggling to remain calm. She seemed to be holding her breath. Once or twice she fidgeted or cleared her throat as if to speak, but Cole quieted her with a touch. It was better not to call any attention to themselves. Anyone else might be concealed in the darkness nearby.
She had mentioned this thug named Barkov. What if he had followed along behind Inna, unseen?
Fortunately, Vaska's laika had much keener senses than any of the men. He had told them the dog’s name was Buka, which translated roughly to surly. The name fit.
Buka began to growl.
Whitlock and Ramsey had both had slept in their boots. Other than their tattered coats and their supply of bread, which barely filled a single pocket, they had nothing else to pack or carry.
No one seemed to pay any attention to Whitlock and Ramsey. It wasn’t unusual for men to get up during the night to relieve themselves. The door of the barracks was not watched, although the compound itself was guarded. They slipped out into the night.
"I have to tell you, Harry, I don't think I can make a run for it if it comes to that," Ramsey whispered. "You'll need to leave me behind."
"We'll walk," Whitlock whispered back. "If we run, we'll only attract attention to ourselves."
Side by side, they took their time crossing the distance to the gate. They expected at any moment for someone to shout at them to halt. Nobody seemed to be around. Inna definitely was nowhere to be seen. There were a couple of figures moving through the gloom in another part of the compound, but those guards were too far away to identify them as escaping prisoners. They reached the gate, found it unlocked, and walked beyond the Gulag walls.