War of The Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad - [World War II 01] (53 page)

No. He’s somewhere else. Somewhere I’ll find him. I am sure, because it is my instinct.

He is the Headmaster.

But I am a hunter. I am his hunter.

* * * *

TWENTY-FOUR

HE NOTICED THE MOTION FIRST. A GRAY OBJECT BOBBED
atop the wall like a baby bird above the ledge of its nest. The thing twisted left and right, then shook up and down like an angry fist. After watching for several seconds, he recognized it as a field periscope, a favorite tool of the hidden Red sniper.

“Nikki!”

He concentrated into the scope to slice the crosshairs through the battle haze hanging on the park. A Russian stronghold at the right corner of the park had come under attack earlier that morning; the attack had faltered an hour before, but smoke and dust lingered above the open ground, catching and reflecting the light like a Berlin drizzle to obscure Thorvald’s vision.

He turned from the scope. His left eye, closed for most of the morning, was slow to open. The vision of his right eye—his aiming side—was filmed with a translucent, magnified image of the wall on the far side of the park. In the darkness of his cell, the image hovered like a reclining ghost.

He called again for Nikki; the sunlight dancing around but not into his hole caused the apparition on the right side of his vision to crinkle and disappear like burning paper. He blinked.

The corporal answered.

“Yes, sir, Colonel.”

“Get the helmet and the stick.”

Thorvald looked back through the scope. Who is this morning fool with his periscope swaying like a seasick child? He can’t be a sniper. He’s too eager, trying to take in the whole battlefield instead of moving precisely, imperceptibly, to avoid detection. No, this periscope is not in the hands of a sniper, at least not a veteran one. It must be a third party, perhaps an inexperienced officer or observer.

Nikki has confessed that he told the Reds I’m here to kill their Rabbit. This idiot might be someone who wants to record our little war. An intelligence officer, a correspondent for that stupid front newsletter of theirs, whatever. But certainly not a sniper.

I can put a bullet into that periscope. I could scare the piss out of the clumsy watcher, I could splatter glass all over him and all over Zaitsev, who I’m sure is sitting nearby. Why doesn’t Zaitsev tell him to get down or go away and let a sniper do his work? This is no place for whoever that is. I could twitch a finger and demonstrate that for him. I wonder what the waving periscope would do if I told Nikki to hoist the helmet.

But I won’t. Because this is too easy. Zaitsev must be baiting me. Yes, that’s it. He’s watching for me to shoot, hanging this target out like a salt lick. I see it now: there’s a trap in that periscope’s single eye. I won’t come out of hiding, Rabbit. You must do better for me.

That periscope. Stupid. I could put the crosshairs there, right on the mirror and lens. Zaitsev won’t see my muzzle flash. I’m far enough back in the darkness of this hole. He’d have to be looking right at me to spot it. There. Right in the middle of the periscope, if the cretin would hold it still for a moment.

It would feel good to show Zaitsev firsthand whom he’s up against.

Wait. Feel the rifle, blend it into the hands. The wood in both palms, skin of the rifle, my blood warming the wood. My cheek against the stock, laid there, resting, still as wood. The metal against my eye socket and the trigger under my finger, smooth, also skin but harder, wanting something from me. The scope pulls my eye in and throws it out bigger, to that periscope. The trigger wants something from me.

Suddenly, surprisingly, the periscope jumped high above the wall, exposing a helmet and the top half of a man’s torso. The man raised a hand and pointed at Thorvald.

Thorvald fired.

What happened?

The man fell down.

Damn it! Thorvald thought. Damn it! What happened? I fired.

He dropped his rifle. His ears rang; the report was captured and showered back on him by the metal roof and the bricks. He skidded away from the opening between the bricks as if there were a dog snapping at him there. He dug his face into the dirt, expecting Zaitsev’s round to come flying in the next instant. He brought his knees up to his chest, balled in the dirt, waiting for the burn of a bullet.

Seconds passed. Thorvald’s muscles ached from the hard squeeze he’d locked his body into. His heartbeat soared in his temples. His breathing rattled in his open mouth. His eyelids were shut hard; behind them, his eyeballs jumped left and right. All over his body, his skin fizzed with fear.

Slowly, Thorvald relaxed his grip on himself. No bullet had answered his. Not yet. He moved cautiously, straightening in the dirt, not knowing what motion might betray him. He felt pickled in dread. He hated the sensation of being watched, of thinking the Rabbit could see him through a scope, the nausea of wearing, if only for a second, the cross hairs.

He saw me. He must have. The damned Rabbit tricked me, he got me to jump at his bait. He must have seen me.

Thorvald shook his shoulders and legs as though shaking off a coating of ice. He was cold on the outside, hot deep within. The cold was strong on his brow. He wiped a hand across his forehead and pulled back damp fingertips.

He lay on his back for several minutes to ease his nerves and control his breathing. He looked up at the wavy underside of the metal sheet. Like a coffin lid, he thought. Almost a coffin.

Why did I do that? Why did I pull the trigger?

Calm slowly returned to his gut. He could think more clearly now, without panic. Damn Zaitsev for making me feel that. Damn him. I hate the fear, I hate it when it comes.

He’ll be repaid. He will. Yesterday, this was just an assignment, one that interrupted my work at Gnössen. This was a job I did not want. But now he will surely die. Now this is personal. The Rabbit dies soon.

But the first order of business, Heinz, is to stay German, stay orderly, even with the fear. It is so, yes? Good. Now proceed, coolly, precisely.

I wonder, why did I shoot? In fact, it’s not so important. I understand, I pulled the trigger because I was ready to pull it, keyed up. The target got itself shot. That’s the way it works when it works, without thought.

All right. But what made the periscope stand up?

He replayed the moment he’d pulled the trigger. The crosshairs were on the moving periscope; then, without reason or warning, the man leaped up to expose his head and torso. Thorvald had felt the stock slam into his shoulder. He didn’t remember whether he’d adjusted his aim upward to follow the head. A chest shot is probably what he sent. Just as well. It was a hit, no question.

The target rose. He pointed.

This way. At me.

He must have seen me. He pointed this way.

At me. I fired. He went down.

Who else could he have pointed at? Who else?

Who else is there? Nikki? Nikki.

Thorvald turned toward the rear of the cell. He heard the immediacy in his own voice.

“Nikki!”

The corporal did not answer.

He shouted again. He can’t hear me in this damned hole, he thought. He waited.

The corporal called from behind the wall.

“Did you shoot, Colonel? I thought I heard you. Did you get him?”

“Where were you?”

“Fifty meters to the right with the helmet on the stick.”

Thorvald stiffened. “You put the helmet up?”

“Yes, sir. You told me to.”

Thorvald would have slapped the boy had he been facing him.

“Corporal, I told you to get it ready. Not to put it up. You almost got me killed!”

A shiver ran up Thorvald’s back at the words. He recalled himself curled up like something moist found under a rock. It degraded him; it cut into his sense of command here in Stalingrad.

“Corporal, sit right where you are and stay there! You will do nothing, nothing until I tell you! Understand?”

Nikki sounded confused, contrite. “Yes, sir. I thought—”

“Quiet!” Thorvald let it come out of him, the stain of shame the fear had left behind when it withdrew. It felt good to make it leave. He tipped his head down as if to pour more out of his mouth onto Nikki.

“Don’t think! I will think. You sit and wait until I speak. Nothing more. Now sit!” He knew he was speaking to the corporal as though the boy were a disobedient mutt. He added, for meanness, “And stay!”

He squirmed to the front of his hole, his face flushed with vexation. He looked out between the bricks. The man with the periscope had seen Nikki’s helmet. That was what happened, was the reason he’d jumped.

Who was the jumping man? He wasn’t a sniper; no sniper would have risen above the wall. What was he doing in my battle with Zaitsev?

And what did Zaitsev have to do with what happened? Did the Rabbit control the situation? Was the jumping man a planned bait, or did it just happen? Did Zaitsev, knowing I had used the helmet on the stick each of the past two days, get some fool to come along on his hunt for me? Did he tell him, “If you see a helmet above that wall over there, stand up and point it out to me”? Could the Red legend do something like that? Is he cold enough to use live bait on me? Or am I even facing Zaitsev? Perhaps the jumping man was part of another advance patrol of lesser snipers, more student bunnies on the lookout for signs of me. Or someone else, some unlucky soldier unaware of the magnified eyes watching the park, someone who wandered into the midst of our battlefield, some sympathetic journalist from America or London, rambling along the front looking for news.

What happened?

Thorvald admitted that he did not know.

This troubled him. He’d relied on outsmarting the Rabbit. Up to now, events had unfolded under his control; even Nikki’s betrayal of him to the Russians hadn’t proven to be more than a waste of a few days. But this latest incident had taken place on its own: Nikki’s raising of the helmet without his knowledge, the jumping man across the park, his instinctive shot. Thorvald was not comfortable with instinct. He considered himself a man guided by intellect. Whereas instinct was part reflex and part gut feeling, intellect came not from the stomach but from the mind. The result of instinct was luck, but intellect begat control. And the Germanic mind was the finest in the world at control.

The morning sun ascended and the shadows decreased. It was not yet afternoon, and though the sun was in front of him, his hole remained filled with shadow like brackish water in a bowl. He looked at his watch, bringing it close in the dim light. 10:45. He asked himself again: Did Zaitsev see my flash? If he did, he would have returned fire, wouldn’t he? One man, one bullet. He would have ended it if he could have. Can I conclude that he didn’t see me? Was I right, that this shooting cell under the metal sheet and surrounded by these bricks, this innocent-looking pile of debris, is a perfect sniper haven? Am I safe here? Perhaps. I might indeed be safe here.

For now, I’m stuck. I can’t crawl out until after nightfall. What will Zaitsev do next? Will he make a move? Will he try me again with another bait? Or will he grow impatient and careless? Will I get my shot today at the Rabbit’s ears?

Thorvald picked the Moisin-Nagant out of the dirt. He cradled it again in his hands. He wrapped the sling around his left wrist, brought the wooden stock gently against his right shoulder, and lowered his eye to the cool metal of the scope. He shrugged once, hefting the rifle into place to fit in his grasp, against his cheek, in his arms. His finger crept to the trigger.