Page 22 of White Wolf

“Papa,” he whispered, leaning into his father. “What–”

“Hush,” his father said.

Everyone was seated at the long plank table, save Ivan, who prowled around the kitchen peeking into cupboards. And the captain, who leaned against the wall with his arms folded, looking bored with them all. This must be an everyday occurrence for him, Sasha thought, invading homes and watching families tremble in their boots.

He tried and failed to understand what Stalin’s thugs would want with anyone in Tomsk. It was strange beyond imagining.

Stranger still was Philippe. The smiling man with a French name who spoke flawless Russian.

The men dug into the food with gusto.

Sasha couldn’t bring himself to lift his spoon. “Why are you here?” he asked Philippe, and his father kicked him hard beneath the table.

Philippe chuckled. “A very reasonable question. Ah, where to begin?” He pushed his bowl to the side and folded his hands on the tabletop, expression contemplative. “We are a long way from the capital, but I trust you know what happened in Moscow?”

Sasha nodded.

“The Germans are very committed to this war effort,” he continued with a sigh. “Surprising? No. But alarming. TheVozhdis equally committed. He’s using every means at his disposal to ensure that we turn back the fascists. These are frightening times in the Motherland,” he said, earnest, “and anyone who can helpshouldhelp. For the good of us all. Don’t you agree, comrade?”

Sasha’s tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to curl his hands into fists. He wanted to run. He wanted todosomething.

He nodded.

“Some men have more to contribute than others. Some have quite a lot to contribute – you could almost call them gifted.” His smile made Sasha think of the hunt, the moment of stillness when the sights were leveled and the trigger finger was ready. The held breath before the shot. “Men like you, Sasha.”

The statement hit him like a fist to the stomach. “What?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

“Sasha,” his mother hissed.

But he’d already started down this path, and didn’t seem able to back out now. “Gifted?Me? What could Stalin want with me?”

One of the men snorted.

Patiently, Philippe said, “You’re modest. An admirable trait. Especially at your age – how old are you, Sasha?”

He didn’t like the question, but saw no reason to lie. “Nineteen.”

“Wonderful! Your life is just beginning! Young, and strong. Just the kind of specimen my project requires.”

This time it was Sasha’s father who spoke up. “Project?”

“TheVozhdhas employed me to design a very special, state-of-the art weapon. One that will enable us to beat back the Nazis once and for all.” Philippe smiled wider than ever, bright eyes disappearing into the lines around them. “An incredible weapon, known only to a few.”

“Everyone’s become a soldier,” Papa said, grimly, “and there aren’t enough men to work the factories, is that it? They need someone to make the guns, and tanks, and bullets?”

Philippe’s smile twitched to the side. “No, comrade. This isn’t a gun, or a tank, or a bullet we’re talking about.”

“Then what?” Sasha asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you all the details. But I need your help, Sasha. You’re the last piece of the puzzle.”

“But…”

“Tell him what it is,” one of the men spoke up. It was the gray-eyed captain, his mouth a cruel, straight line. “Stop with your speeches and tell the boy what you plan to use him for.”

Philippe turned to look at him, and a stare-down ensued.

Philippe said, “Captain, will you give us a moment?”

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