Justine Saracen - The Sniper’s Kiss

“I had a hell of a time finding you. I knew you were in Washington, working on the war in some way, but I never thought you’d be here. Wow. Nice going.”

She drew him to a quiet corner. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

He pursed his lips, as if reluctant to speak. “The police have reopened the case of Father’s death.”

“What? Why? It’s been over a year now, and they found no evidence of a crime.”

Van shrugged helplessly. “Apparently Smerdjakov, you know, his boss, found a letter that you’d sent his wife saying how much you wanted to get rid of him.”

“But that’s nonsense.”

“You never wrote a letter?” Van crossed his arms.

Mia found herself stammering. “Well, I did, but it was just some silly love letter written in a fever of infatuation. I mentioned something about having big plans once I was free of him, but I just meant after I’d moved out. She knew I’d applied for a better job and planned to leave.”

She winced, recalling her reckless trust in someone so shallow. “So now I’m a suspect again?”

“Not officially. I mean, the police have the letter, and they’ve questioned Grushenka. I just wanted to let you know what’s going on so you could, well, get away if you need to. I mean, they can pick you up at any moment here.”

“Van, I’m not going to run away from my job at the White House just because the police found an old love letter from me that said I was unhappy at home. You were, too. We both hated his hypocrisy, the way he ruined God for us.”

“Yeah, he did, didn’t he? Certainly as an explanation for the whole wretched world. The war, the suffering, the guilt and obligations that have nothing to do with reality. It’s like a train ride I don’t want to be on.”

“So you’re an atheist now?”

He shrugged. “It’s not God that I don’t accept, Mia, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket.” He buttoned up his coat. “Take care of yourself,” he said, and strode toward the door.

She watched him pass the security guard and disappear across the Rose Garden. Typical cynical Van. But she was inclined to agree with him.

Alexia snapped to attention in the guard station at the Kremlin Palace. “At ease, soldier.” Nikolai Vlasik, head of Stalin’s bodyguards, passed by with a slight nod. She resumed her guard position holding her ceremonial rifle across her chest.

She hoped he hadn’t noticed how bored she was. The Special Purpose Regiment had an important function, of course, guarding the heads of government. But it didn’t feel like service to the motherland.

Perhaps it was the cold that crept into her from the concrete floor of the station. Outside the station it was twenty below zero, and though she kept the door shut and wore a thick wool coat, her shiny leather boots seemed to conduct the cold right up her back.

The already dark afternoon and evening dragged by, and finally, at eighteen hours, her relief came. She stepped out, saluted, stepped to the side, and marched stiffly away while the new guard took up position.

Her ice-cold feet ached as she crunched through the snow along the northern corner of the Kremlin. She passed the rows of antique French cannons mounted in front as trophies and fast-marched to the end of the barracks, where the women of the regiment were housed.

She yanked the door closed behind her, breathing in the warm interior air and stamping life back into her feet. Only Ainur, a dark-eyed woman from Kazakhstan, was off duty and slouched on her bunk reading The Red Star, the army newspaper.

“If only they let us stand guard in valenki,” Alexia moaned, dropping onto her bunk and drawing off her boot. She untied her footcloth and rubbed icy toes.

“Then you’d look like some peasant from the kolkhoz.” Ainur snorted. “But it’s only because I’m your best friend that I say that.”

Alexia snorted back. “My feet are my best friends, and they hate you.” She tied on clean footcloths that were at least room temperature and padded over to her friend’s bunk. “So, what’s the news?” she asked, nodding toward the newspaper.

Ainur glanced back down at the article. “Leningrad. The Volkhov and Leningrad fronts are just starting a new offensive to break the encirclement south of Lake Ladoga. This might be the breakthrough.”

“I wish I was there helping out.”

“I thought you had an aversion to those kinds of bloody battles.”

“You make me sound like a coward. I’m not. I’m a good patriot and willing to die for the homeland. But I was raised by a priest, who told me that killing is sin.”

“Priests are traitors. So, now you’re reconsidering? About killing, I mean.”

“I might. Frankly…” Alexia glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “I’m a little tired of the backbiting among the officers and others coming and going at the Kremlin. When you stand guard around them, they forget you’re there, listening to the nasty little conspiracies they come up with. Always trying to undermine each other and curry favor with the boss they’re all terrified of. It doesn’t feel like you’re helping the war at all.” She sighed and leaned over Ainur’s shoulder toward the paper.

“So what else is in the news? Anything more cheerful?”

“A nice report about our snipers. Zaitsev, of course. Everyone loves him. But this says they already have heroes from the Women’s Sniper Training School in Podolsk. Look here. They even have pictures. Very attractive. But of course the big name is Pavlichenko, with a score of over three hundred.”

Alexia took the paper out of her hands and perused the article. Half a dozen women were named and their “kill” scores listed. The largest photo showed Lyudmila Pavlichenko, a round-faced woman with an appealing sisterly face but dreadfully cut hair who posed stiffly with her sniper’s rifle across her chest.

“They look good, posing with their rifles, don’t they?” Ainur said. “I bet they get a lot of respect from their comrades.”

Alexia shrugged. “We get plenty of respect, too, and we don’t have to fire our guns.”

“Yeah, maybe standing at the wall or by Lenin’s tomb. But no one looks at us when we’re freezing in our guard boxes.”

“I was thinking more of state occasions. When Tatyana and I stood guard at the conference in Tehran, I could feel the foreigners staring at us.”

Ainur snickered. “They were staring at you because you’re pretty and look so fine in your uniforms. Vlasik also seems to think so. Have you noticed the way he watches you?”

Alexia gave another dismissive shrug. “If that gets me service at the foreign conferences, he can ogle me all he wants. That was the best assignment I ever had. I like traveling outside of Russia, meeting foreigners.”

“Be careful. If anyone hears you talking like that, you could get in trouble.”

“As long as you don’t betray me, I’m fine. Now let’s go to the mess hall. I have to go back on duty soon, and I need something hot in my stomach.”

Alexia drew on her boots again, and as they marched together down the corridor toward the mess hall, she bumped elbows with Ainur. “So, tell me more about the women’s sniper school.”

As if to underline Ainur’s assessment of him, Nicolai Vlasik summoned Alexia to his office the next day. Alarmed that he had somehow learned of their conversation, which could easily land her in Lubyanka Prison, Alexia hurried to his door. She tugged down her tunic, checked that her boots were free of mud or snow, and knocked.

A gruff voice called out, and she entered, closed the door behind her, and saluted smartly.

Vlasik sat upright behind his desk, his hands clasped under his impressive array of high-powered medals. She disliked looking at his squarish, slightly jowly face and stared at a spot directly over his head. His long silence made her certain he had gotten word of her remarks. Her mouth went dry.

“How long have you served in the Kremlin Special Purpose Regiment?”

“Five months, sir.” Her heart fluttered. So short a career, now come to an end.

“Interesting. In such a short time, you have already come to the notice of Comrade Stalin.”

Alexia dropped her glance to look at him directly. The word Stalin had her full attention. “Come to his notice? How?”

“Marshal Stalin approved your performance in Tehran and has specifically recommended you for a task.”

So, obviously no Lubyanka. Now if he would only get to the point.

“In a few days time, two Americans from the White House will be visiting the Kremlin, and a private guard will be assigned to each one for security. You will escort them to meetings, remain in attendance unless directed otherwise, escort them to their hotel afterward, and then report back to me each evening. Is that clear?”

“Uh, yes, sir. If I may ask, who are the persons in question?”

“We will inform you before you’re sent out. You’ll be personally representing the Soviet Union so you must be on your best behavior.”

She snapped to attention. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, for the moment. You are dismissed.”

As she hurried back to her barracks to tell Ainur, she could barely stifle a grin. Escorting American visitors from the White House. Suddenly being a guard was interesting again.

January 1944

After an international flight to RAF Kinloss Airport and a train ride to Invergorden, Scotland, Mia stood wearily on the dock next to Harry Hopkins. They both stared mournfully at the Catalina flying boat rocking in the icy water in front of them. Much wider than any plane she’d ever seen, its propeller engines hung from the wings over the fuselage, and it reminded her of some vast bird of prey.