“Who told you to do it?” Nefski asked calmly, his arm about her rigid shoulders. He could feel her trembling; her arms and neck muscles were going into spasm, her skin covered in goose pimples. Nefski shifted his arm down about her, gently rubbing her buttock. “There’s no need for all this, eh, Alexsandra? It only causes trouble for everyone.”
She lowered her gaze to the windowsill. Nefski told her brusquely to look up, ordered her to look out through the frost-edged glass, down at the prison yard, at her three brothers, and she knew Nefski had done such things many times before. The officer was now pushing the brothers against the wall, his boots kicking theirs as far apart as possible.
“Well?” Nefski asked her. “Tell me a story, Alexsandra. A true story.” Her face was white as the snow, and taut, the blood draining from her cheeks.
“You look kosher,” he laughed. “Well—?” The officer down in the quad looked up at Nefski, and the colonel lifted his finger. The officer roughly jerked Michael away from the wall, turned him about, and ordered him to look up. He seemed confused.
“Well, I’m waiting,” Nefski told her.
Tears were streaming down her face.
“The oldest one,” Nefski said. “Ivan. Did he—?” She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t.
“You see,” he told her, “you have brought it to this. You. You and your brothers. Traitorous Jews. All of you. But I will spare them, Alexsandra — if you tell me what I wish to know.”
“Neskazhi im!”—”Don’t tell them!” It was Ivan screaming up at her, his voice barely audible from behind the high, closed windows. The officer shouted, his voice echoing from the stone walls. A guard stepped forward, driving the Kalashnikov’s butt into Ivan’s stomach. As Ivan fell, the officer kicked him hard on the back, keeping him down in the snow.
“You bastard!” she shouted at Nefski.
Nefski opened the window and made a sign to the officer, and a squad of six of the nine guards marched Alexander and Myshka back toward the cells. The officer had drawn his pistol. Now Nefski knew that Alexsandra finally understood her lover’s name wouldn’t protect her — or her brothers.
“She’s tough,” Nefski said to Ilya in mock admiration, while lighting a second cigarette from the first. It was starting to get dark, the jagged ice at the confluence of the Amur and Ussuri rivers now silhouetted like black daggers as it broke up the dying sunlight. The officer in the courtyard, his foot still on Ivan, looked up at Nefski again, waiting.
“Well?” Nefski asked Alexsandra. “What’s it to be?”
She said nothing, her gaze below transfixed, her knees shaking.
Nefski dropped his hand. The officer fired at point-blank range. She screamed, hands leaping to her face, then turned to attack Nefski, but Ilya held her, dragging her back into the chair. Nefski turned his back on her and walked to the window, smoking his cigarette. Two guards entered to return her to the cell.
“Next time,” Nefski told her without turning around, “it will be the second oldest, Alexander, and then Myshka.”
With her screams reverberating down the stairwell, she was taken away. Ilya asked Nefski when they would try again with Alexsandra. Nefski said nothing.
“Do you think she’ll crack?” Ilya asked him.
“Possibly.” He paused to draw heavily on the cigarette. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
David and his driver, Parkin, had arrived in Bouillon, where Lili’s parents lived, only minutes before the first salvo of long-distance Russian SS-11s crashed into the ancient town. The SS-11s, designated “rockets” by NATO, rather than “missiles,” with their nuclear warhead connotation, made a strange shuffling noise in the air. The first rocket had exploded high up on the spur of Ardennes woodland upon which the ancient castle of Bouillon sat, overlooking the confluence of the two flood-swollen arms of the Semois River that embraced the ancient Walloonian town.
David had come to tell the Malmédys about Lili, but within minutes, people were rushing for shelters, Parkin and David finding themselves separated, calling out, agreeing to meet back at the Humvee parked outside the Café Renoir. Soon they lost sight of one another, Parkin finding himself carried by the crowd into a shelter holding about sixty people. Mostly locals, they went out of their way to make Parkin feel welcome, telling him, as if it were somehow a comfort, that the Russians launched their rocket attacks only in bad weather when Allied bombing of their launch sites was limited, and that the Russians were not really trying to hit Bouillon but the Fabrique Nationale small-arms complex north of Liege and Allied supply depots that had been identified by SPETS dropped behind Allied lines into the Ardennes. The CEP — circular error of probability — one of the elderly Bouillonese told him, was plus or minus two hundred meters, “well over,” the man explained to Parkin slowly in English, “how do you say, monsieur — over ‘alf a mile, eh? Bah! The Russians cannot hit anything.”
“Then, monsieur,” said another elderly gent, “why are we in here?”
They had to remain in the shelter for over an hour, and with the sharp splitting sounds of wood exploding in the Ardennes and the earth-shuddering thumps of hits on Bouillon, Parkin, pushing his schoolboy French to its limit, asked if anyone knew of Monsieur Malmédy and where he lived.
“C’est moi,” came a friendly voice in the crowded shelter. All Parkin could see was a beret and a hand. There followed a rattle of French that Parkin didn’t have a hope of understanding. He was grateful his French was so poor. He had no desire to tell the old gentleman. That was Lieutenant Brentwood’s job, and Parkin was praying Brentwood had made it to a shelter.
When the “all clear” sounded, even before Parkin helped the frail Monsieur Malmédy up the stairs to street level, they could hear a commotion. People were pouring out of the shelters, but suddenly all movement seemed to cease, many standing with mouths agape — like stunned mullet, thought Parkin. A huge cloud of dust and smoke obliterated the castle, its eastern ramparts no more than an avalanche of smoking rock and debris that had cut a great swath out of the forest beneath the castle, some of the rubble having taken out a dozen or so trees and houses along the esplanade. Fire trucks were already screaming across both bridges, and over the river they could see trees near the railway station aflame, despite the drizzling rain. Parkin looked about for the Humvee, relieved to see it still there, but Brentwood was nowhere in sight. “Bloody hell!”
“Pardon?” asked Monsieur Malmédy.
“Where are the other shelters?” Parkin asked him, gesticulating back to the one they had just emerged from, but Malmédy was unsure of what he meant, another man helping out, pointing to the white office building off to their right. Parkin indicated to Malmédy that he should follow him. Malmédy hesitated.
“Lili,” said Parkin.
“Ah!” the old man happily exclaimed, and graciously motioned Parkin to go before him.
Bloody hell, thought Parkin. He thinks I’m taking him to Lili. Parkin looked about for Brentwood but couldn’t see him. Surely he couldn’t be far from the Café Renoir. Policemen were already on duty on the nearest of the two bridges, stopping outgoing traffic from the old part of the town to allow an ambulance, its siren blaring, to pull out of the congested line leading from the rail station.