“My father loved history and about learning how things came to be,” she continued. “He’d say, ‘To learn where you’re going, you have to know where you’ve come from.’ He put that love into me, and I majored in world history at college. My doctoral paper was titled The Cutting Edge: Armaments Technology as a Guiding Force in Sociopolitical Evolution. Later I expanded it into my first book.”
“Sounds like an impressive topic.”
“Oh, it is, and a valid one.” Valentina’s voice began to take on a lecturer’s enthusiasm. “Consider how different Europe might be today if the English longbow had not proven decisively superior to the French arbalest at the Battle of Agincourt. Or how World War Two might have played out had the Japanese not developed the shallow-water drop shroud for their aerial torpedoes, permitting the attack on Pearl Harbor. Or how the United States might never have come to exist had the British Army put Major Ferguson’s breech-loading rifle into general issue during the Revolutionary War…”
Smith laughed softly and lifted a gloved hand. “Points taken, but it’s still your history I’m interested in.”
“Oops, sorry, Pavlovian reflex. At any rate, after receiving my doctorate, I found I couldn’t get a decent teaching position. My views were considered somewhat un-PC in certain quarters. So, to stave off starvation, I became an authenticator, appraiser, and procurer of rare and historic weapons for museums and private collectors. It turned into a rather lucrative profession, and I found myself roving all over the world, chasing down various finds for my clients. Eventually it led to my curatorship of the Sandoval Arms Collection in California.”
“I’ve heard of it. But how did you get here?” Smith prodded gently, tapping the magazine of his leveled rifle on the cave floor.
She bit her lip lightly for a moment, the introspective look deepening in her eyes. “That’s…a little more esoteric. As you should have guessed by now, I am a firm member of the ‘If it’s worth doing it’s worth overdoing’ school of thought.”
“I’ve had my suspicions.” Smith smiled.
“As my education developed I found I was not content to merely study about weapons. I wanted to learn how to use them and to see and feel how they were applied,” she continued. “I studied fencing and kendo. I learned the skills of the old Western gunfighters from the champion shootists of the Single Action Shooting Society. I bribed my way into Philippine prison cells to discuss technique with butterfly-knife artists. Before his untimely death I sat at the feet of the legendary ‘White Feather,’ Marine master sniper Sergeant Carlos Hathcock, and learned combat marksmanship. Firearms, blades, explosives, military heavy weapons: I learned how to make them, maintain them, and employ them. Everything from the flint axe to the H-bomb.”
She lifted her hand from the action of the model 70 and flexed her black-gloved fingers, studying them. “I found myself becoming a uniquely lethal individual, all on a purely theoretical level, of course. But then I visited Israel, following up a lead on a cache of genuine ‘garage factory’ Sten guns from their War of Independence. And one evening I found myself having dinner with a fellow historian from Tel Aviv University.”
Valentina’s voice grew softer. “He was a totally fascinating little man who not only taught history but had lived it. He was a holocaust survivor and had seen action in the first three of Israel’s wars of national survival.
“We were dining at a small outdoor restaurant near the University. I recall we were discussing the historic Mideastern Jewish communities as a possible bridge between the European Jewish and Arabic cultures. Our meals had just been brought to the table. I’d ordered steak and I’d just picked up my knife when the smartly-dressed Arabic couple at the next table stood up and started killing people.”
Smith listened and studied the subtle emotions playing across Valentina’s face. He could sense it wasn’t the remembering of a fear or revulsion, but an abstract reexamination of a defining moment in a life. A time and place this woman had revisited many times before.
“I heard gunshots and I was sprayed by the blood and brains of my dinner partner as he took a bullet through the head. Then the female terrorist shoved her pistol in my face and screamed ‘God is great…’”
The historian’s voice trailed off.
Gently Smith rested his hand on her back, letting the gesture grow into a few inches of caress. “And then?”
Valentina came back into herself. “And then I was standing over the thoroughly shredded bodies of the two Hamas terrorists. I was saturated with blood, none of it my own, and that steak knife was still in my hand, dripping. I had, in the vernacular, ‘flipped the switch’-spectacularly, although I have no conscious memory of doing so. My studies were no longer abstract, but very much applied.”
Smith could understand the spark that had jumped between them now; like had recognized like. He’d had his own defining moments, his own flipping of switches. “How did you feel afterward?”
“That’s the interesting point, Jon,” she mused. “I didn’t ‘feel’ anything. They were dead and I was alive, and I was quite pleased with that outcome. I found my only regret to be that I hadn’t reacted quickly enough to save my friend and the others in that restaurant. I’ve been told that I have the perfect sniper’s mentality. I can rationally divorce myself from the emotional trauma of physical violence.”
She shrugged and made a face. “If I work at it for a bit anyway.”
“And that incident brought you to the attention of Covert One?”
“That and a couple of under-the-table research and acquisition projects I’d done for the Departments of Defense and Justice. Mr. Klein seemed to think my rather esoteric talents might prove useful to his little organization. And they have. Now I view myself as following in my father’s footsteps. I’m a game control officer eliminating the rogues and man-eaters from our societal jungle. Maybe, eventually, I can make up for being slow that one night in Tel Aviv.”
“Fred Klein knows how to pick his people.” Smith smiled at her. “I’m pleased to know you, Professor Metrace.”
“Thank you, sir.” She nodded. “It’s a pleasure to be appreciated. Some men tend to look around for the garlic and holy water after delving a little too deeply into my past.”
Smith smiled without humor and looked over the barrel of the SR-25. “I make no claim on moral superiority.”
“That’s a relief. And now, Colonel Jon Smith, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“I have a fair idea of how you ended up with Mr. Klein, but just who are you? Where do you come from?”
Smith squinted at the sky. The cloud cover was definitely edging lower again. “My biography’s not nearly as interesting as yours.”
“I’m easily amused.”
Smith was considering his answer when a small clump of dislodged snow rolled over the edge of the cave overhang, dropping in front of them with a soft pelp.
“Oh, dear,” Valentina murmured, her eyes going wide.
Instantly, Smith snaked his legs under himself. Then he launched out of the cave mouth in a headlong dive. Landing flat on his stomach, he rolled onto his back, sweeping the long barrel of his rifle in an arc to bear on the cliff face above the cave.
The Spetsnaz trooper in arctic camouflage was a pale wart on the frost-streaked basalt. Stealthily, he had edged out along an almost nonexistent ledge to a point some thirty feet above the cave mouth. The gloved fingers of one hand were hooked into a fissure in the rock, those of the other were closed tightly around the object he carried.
Looking down, the Russian’s mouth opened in a scream as he saw Smith’s explosive emergence from the cave. The sound of the cry was drowned out by the flat crash of the SR-25 as Smith squeezed off half a dozen rounds of 7.62mm as rapidly as he could pull the trigger, the copper-jacketed mil-spec slugs blasting the enemy off the cliff face.