Plokhoi finished with his radio and took his seat in the saddle.
‘We have orders,’ he said. ‘North of us, the Germans have broken through between Syrtsev and Alekseyevka. They’re stepping up their rail traffic to keep supplied. We’re to move to the Borisovka line and break the tracks in as many places as we can.’ He checked his watch. ‘We need to move if we’re going to get it done tonight. Ivan, how much wire have we got?’
The heavy-set partisan reached behind him to pat his saddlebags.
‘One,’ he said. Two others in the crowd did the same and counted off.
‘Three reels, Colonel,’ Ivan concluded. ‘Who’s got the C-3?’
Five men sounded off.
‘Caps?’
Another five said yes.
‘Alright,’ Plokhoi said. Without another word, he urged his horse out of the center of the riders. The partisans fell in behind him. Plokhoi did not break into a canter, he kept his band at a brisk walk across the bean field.
They moved with eerie quiet for fifty-seven riders, like a moon shadow.
Katya had no idea that for days she’d been riding with men carrying explosives, blasting wire, and caps. She didn’t know much about such things, but she guessed these were dangerous things to gallop with in your saddlebags. This partisan cadre wasn’t just stolid men with rifles roving the countryside: They were a bunch of disassembled bombs waiting to be put together, aimed, and exploded. Riding in their dark core, with them spread out on both sides of her like wings, she felt a little like a pilot again, part of a dark shape gliding through the night, loaded with bombs, heading for the target.
Skinny Daniel, big Ivan, and glum Josef were never far from her.
Plokhoi must have assigned her to them, since they’d rescued her instead of Leonid. A punishment, perhaps. That would explain Josef’s instant dislike. She pushed Anna through the crowded partisans, to pull alongside Plokhoi.
‘Witch,’ he said.
‘Colonel. Has there been any information about Lieutenant Lumanov?
On your radio?’
‘No.’
‘Have you asked?’
‘No.’
‘Colonel…’
‘I take orders. When I’m told to pick up a downed pilot, I send men to do it. When he disappears, I send men to do something else. Watch the sky tomorrow, Witch. There’s a downed pilot every two minutes. What do you expect?’
There was no coldness in the man’s voice. He expressed what all of them knew and feared most, that each was expendable in the higher goal of defending Russia. So what did Katya want more? To search for Leonid or to stop German supply trains from feeding the enemy’s armies? She wanted to say
Plokhoi watched her with an intent expression.
‘Tonight I’m sending two teams, five men in each. I can’t risk more than that. You’ll go with…’
‘I know. Ivan, Daniel, and Josef.’
‘What’s the matter, Witch? You don’t like your bodyguards?’
‘I don’t need bodyguards.’
‘We’ll see. I’ll send along one new man with each team. You take the
Katya knew she could trust the
Katya nodded. She glanced at the radio, the size of a bread box, strapped to Plokhoi’s back alongside his carbine. The metal box was the only way to find Leonid, to speak into it and beg for whoever was the power behind these murky partisans to send more men to find him. The radio voice, the unseen authority in the air, would ask her, What do you want, Katerina Berkovna? What would she answer?
Plokhoi said, ‘Go back, Witch. We’ll be splitting up in ten minutes.’
* * * *
July 8
0145 hours
four kilometers north of Borisovka
Big Ivan lay in the dirt beside Katya.
‘Pour some more,’ he urged in a whisper.
Katya tipped the little bottle of vegetable oil and dribbled it over the man’s meaty hands.
‘See,’ he spoke with the voice of a purring bear, ‘the C-3 is hard like a brick when you take it out of the wrapper. You got to do it like this, like bread dough, to make it soft. That way, you can shape it any way you want. Here.
You do it.’
Katya did not reach for the gray explosive clay. Ivan held it out to her.
