He cursed through spittle-covered lips. "Damn your mother! Of course I'm hurt."
The tall man lit a cigarette and placed it between the Russian's lips. "Is there anyone in the farmhouse?"
The soldier took a deep drag and exhaled through his nostrils. He assumed that the stranger was one of the political officers who infested the army like fleas.
"Two fascists," the Russian said. "A man and a woman."
The stranger went inside the farmhouse and emerged minutes later.
"What happened?" he said, again kneeling by the soldier's side.
"I shot the man. The fascist witch came after me with a knife."
"Good work." He patted the Russian on the shoulder. "You're here alone?"
The soldier growled like a dog with his bone. "I don't share my loot or my women."
"What is your unit?"
"General Galitsky's Eleventh Guards army," the soldier replied with pride in his voice.
"You attacked Nemmersdorf on the border?"
The soldier bared his bad teeth. "We nailed the fascists to their barns. Men, women and children. You should have heard the fascist dogs scream for mercy."
The tall man nodded. "Well done. I can take you to your comrades. Where are they?"
"Close by. Getting ready for another push west."
The tall man gazed toward a distant line of trees. The rumble of huge T-34 battle tanks was like distant thunder. "Where are the Germans?"
"The swine are running for their lives." The soldier puffed on the cigarette. "Long live Mother Russia."
"Yes," the tall man said. "Long live Mother Russia." He reached into his overcoat, pulled out the Lugar and placed the muzzle against the soldier's temple. "Auf Wiedersehen, comrade."
The pistol barked once. The stranger slid the smoking pistol into its holster and returned to the car. As he got behind the wheel, a hoarse cry came from the passenger in the backseat.
"You killed that soldier in cold blood!"
The dark-haired man was in his mi
d-thirties, and he had the handsome chiseled face of an actor. A thin mustache adorned a sensitive mouth. But there was nothing delicate about the way his expressive gray eyes burned with anger.
"I simply helped another Ivan sacrifice himself for the greater glory of Mother Russia," the driver said, speaking in German.
"I understand this is war," the passenger said, his voice tight with emotion. "But even you must admit the Russians are human, like us."
"Yes, Professor Kovacs, we are very much alike. We have committed unspeakable atrocities against their people, and now they are taking their revenge." He described the horrors of the Nemmersdorf massacre.
"I'm sorry for those people," Kovacs said in a subdued tone, "but the fact that the Russians behave like animals doesn't mean that the rest of the world must descend into savagery."
The driver heaved a heavy sigh. "The front is beyond that ridge," he said. "You are welcome to discuss the goodness of mankind with your Russian friends. I won't stop you."
The professor drew in on himself like an oyster.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and chuckled to himself.
"A wise decision." He lit a cigarette, bending low to shield the light from his match. "Let me explain the situation. The Red Army has crossed the border and blown through the German front as if it were made of fog. Nearly all the inhabitants of this lovely countryside have fled their homes and fields. Our valiant army has been fighting a rearguard action as it runs for its life. The Russians have a ten-to-one advantage in men and arms, and they are cutting off all land routes west as they race toward Berlin. Millions of people are on the move to the coast, where the only escape is by sea."