Page 17 of White Wolf

“As free as is possible in our part of the world,” he allowed. “Which is freer than most.” He smiled at his misty reflection in the window, the glare of sun on snow washing out his face, making him look younger and less lined.

Nikita said, “That’s not the sort of thing a man should be saying to someone in a black coat.”

Philippe chuckled. “No, I suppose it’s not. But rest assured, Captain, I have no plans to draw your ire.” His eyes scrunched up into slits when he smiled, an expression that transformed an otherwise boring face into something grandfatherly and charming. “I can promise you that I am every inch the patriot.”

“A French Russian patriot,” Nikita deadpanned, gratified to see a tiny twitch at the corner of the man’s mouth. He was remarkably calm for someone sitting across from a Chekist…but not unflappable. “What are you doing in the Soviet Union, Monsieur?” he asked in French.

Philippe smiled. “Your French is good,” he responded in kind, then switched back to Russian. “I have lived here since before it was called the Soviet Union. I suspect there are things you can’t guess about me, just as there are things I can’t guess about you. For instance: I would love to know how a member of the secret police came to be so well-spoken.” He smiled again, the kindly gesture full of threat. “Perhaps your story is as full of twists and turns as my own. Perhaps not. Either way, I think both of us have many secrets.”

Nikita decided he hated him, and that he might prove dangerous in the long run. He schooled his features, though, shrugging and turning to face the window again. The glare of the snow was so bright he was forced to squint, eyes watering.

The trees began to thin, the trunks flashing fewer and fewer, and then a break appeared, an unobstructed view of white tundra, cut through by a jagged, gleaming ribbon of a stream, bright as fire beneath the cloud-veiled sun. Animals stood at the water’s edge, a dark cluster of them, no more than smudges as the train shuttled past. Nikita was not an outdoorsman, and he couldn’t have said if they were deer or bear, only that they walked on four legs, and stood testament to a wilderness he’d only imagined up ‘til now.

“Wolves,” Philippe said, softly, tone almost reverent. “Have you ever seen a wolf before, Captain Baskin?”

The animals – wolves, if the old man was to be believed – were soon swallowed up by snow, and then more trees as the forest enfolded them once more. “No. Only the skins.”

“This should be educational for you, then.”

“How so?”

“Look into the eyes of a wolf, and all you think you know about the world pales in comparison.”

~*~

Ivan took a bite of his pirozhki and said, “I want to know about the weapon,” showering flecks of pastry across himself, the seat, and the carpet at their feet.

“Don’t spit food on us, you animal,” Nikita said with affection, brushing crumbs from his jacket and withholding a smile. Of all his boys, Ivan was the one who could tease a grin and a chuckle out of anyone. Brutish and charming at the same time, he was deadly efficient, and completely devoted to making everyone laugh.

Philippe seemed sufficiently charmed – probably because Nikita had been silent the past half hour, and Ivan’s appearance moments before was a break in the monotony.

“Ah, the weapon,” the old man said, folding his hands in his lap and turning to face Ivan. “It’s complicated, I’m afraid. Only a few of us know how to hone it.”

Ivan looked to Nikita for help, who only shrugged. He looked back. “It’s a tank?”

“No, no.” Philippe laughed. “Dear boy, it’s much more subtle than that.” He stroked his beard and leaned back in his seat, considering. “Think – ah, yes – think of a tank as a blunt instrument. A club. By comparison, my weapon is a scalpel. Surgical, precise. It can go where a tank cannot, and do the things a gun never could. It requires a special sort of man to wield.”

Ivan crammed more pastry in his mouth, until his cheeks bulged, dark brows clamping down over his eyes as he chewed. “We’re not special?” He made a dismissive sound that sprayed more crumbs. “Nikita can wield anything you give him,” he said, making a sweeping gesture toward him. “Try and see.”

Nikita was touched, in a way.

“I mean no disrespect to your captain,” Philippe rushed to assure. “It’s just that…well, I suppose you’ll have to see.”

“See what?”

“Ivan, leave it,” Nikita said.

Ivan huffed in annoyance. “I’m just asking. We get sent all the way to Siberia for someonespecial, I want to know what it’s all about. Don’t you?” he asked, turning to Nikita.

Nikitadidwant to know. Badly. This whole business stank of a fool’s errand.

Philippe shrugged, but his smile was smug. “I’ve promised Russia a way to beat the Germans, and that’s what she’ll have.”

~*~

When Nikita got up on the pretext of stretching his legs – and he did need to; the train ride to Tayga would take a full day and half a night – Philippe thankfully stayed behind. It was dusky beyond the windows, those tight hours between daylight and dark when the snow seemed phosphorous in the waning pale sunlight. Ivan was teaching Pyotr how to hide cards up his sleeves. Feliks had balled up his hat to use as a pillow, draped his coat over himself, and gone to sleep stretched across two seats.

He found Kolya in back, near the door of the car, sharpening a knife with long, steady passes of his whetstone. His other knives were laid out on the seat beside him; the one in his hands was his favorite, Nikita knew, double-edged and perfectly balanced, it could slice as well as it could stab, long enough to slide right through a man’s ribs and pierce his heart.

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