The Boy Who Fell from the Sky, Jule Owen [classic romance novels txt] 📗

then selects a potato from the bag on the floor and starts to peel it with his pocket knife. Handing a potato to Yolkov, he says, “Here. I’m not doing all the work.”

Yolkov starts to peel. “Five months in this hell-hole,” he says.  

“We’ve been on the road a year.”

“A year!”

Evgeny nods. “We started in the desert, would you believe it, and then we went everywhere there is to go on the Federation map.”

“Do you have a family?”

“Yes. A wife, Marta.” Evgeny digs into the inside pocket of his shirt, pulls out a crumpled, faded photograph. “And Edik, my son. See, he is fifteen. Getting so tall! Do you have kids?”

“I have a wife, Bria. No children.”

Evgeny holds Yolkov’s eyes, sorry to have made so much of his son. 

“Don’t you miss them? All that time on the road! A year!” Yolkov says.

“Of course I miss them! Like missing limbs. I wish we’d finish this crazy mission Dragomirov is on. Then I can go home.”

“I want a hot shower, running water, a cold beer, dry socks, a proper bed. Even though it would mean certain court martial, I would walk back to town now if I thought I had a cat-in-hell’s chance of making it five hundred yards through the jungle alive. . . . It is odd the boy survived.”

“It’s a mystery how he got here in the first place. Doesn’t speak a word of Russian. Luckily, I speak English.”

“You spoke to him?”

“I was with the group that found him.” 

“Is he what Dragomirov was hunting for?”

 “No. I don’t think so. Dragomirov is searching for a girl.”

“A girl?”

“They call her the Lamplighter.” 

“Who does?”

“The maggots. The non-people living beyond the city walls. They think she’s some kind of sign. I don’t know. It’s all crazy stuff. Anyhow, she caused several rebellions amongst the maggots, whether she intended to or not. Dragomirov caught her at one point and took her to a lab for Dr Lapin to examine with his machines. Some of the men say Dragomirov thinks she’s some kind of weapon.” 

“A weapon?!”

“Yes, some kind of hyper-tech advanced, enhanced human. But the men talk nonsense most of the time. Half of them think the world is about to end.”

The two men laugh.

“What happened to the girl?” Yolkov asks.  

“She escaped. God knows how. We have the tightest security imaginable. Now the man is obsessed with trying to get her back.” Evgeny stops talking suddenly. It occurs to him he’s doing what he has been told many times he shouldn’t do, shooting his mouth off. He says, “I should be getting back.” 

Still with his back pressed against the tree, Klokov is soaking up this conversation with a surging glee. He has caught the traitor red-handed and can hardly wait to get back to Churkin and tell him what he’s heard. Dragomirov will praise him for his vigilance. He thinks about the promotion he’ll surely get and all the benefits that go with it. No more damned mouldy biscuits.  

Then without warning, without sound or the faintest disturbance to alert him, something cold and sharp presses against the skin of his neck. Cold like metal. Sharp like a knife. Straining his eyes down, he sees it. There is a hand and an arm, holding a blade to his throat. 

A voice says, “Don’t move. Don’t even breathe. I will kill you right here, drag your body into the forest for the night creatures to clean, and never give it a second thought.” It’s a deep, growling kind of a voice. The knife slowly lifts from Klokov’s skin. Breathing out with relief, he staggers forward. Borodin comes from behind the tree, sheathing his knife. “Why are you spying on my camp and my men? Why are you creeping around? I could have killed you.” 

Klokov scrambles to salute. “I wasn’t spying on your men, sir. I was spying on one of ours.”

“Who?”

“Our fat cook. I’ll show you.” Hard-ass leads Borodin the few steps from the undergrowth to the fire with the spit and the cooking pot. 

Yolkov is tending to the roasting fish and peers through streaming, smoky eyes as Borodin approaches and salutes. Evgeny has disappeared. 

Dragomirov’s face and neck are red. He’s having a terrible evening. 

First, Rostov came to tell him that the FSB director isn’t available for a conference call, but he sent a message to say that Borodin is one of the best trackers in the Russian army and Dragomirov should make full use of his skills and resources in his search for the Lamplighter, and he must respect Borodin’s rank and authority. In other words, Dragomirov is going to have to bow and scrape to the overgrown animal. 

Now, before Rostov has even finished, Borodin himself has come bursting into his private quarters, shoving ahead of him some cretin from the lower ranks, bringing in all sorts of jungle debris on the bottom of his boots.

“I found this man hiding in the trees beside my camp. By his own admission he was spying.” 

Klokov is shaken. This isn’t how he imagined things at all. “I wasn’t spying on Colonel Borodin’s men, sir.” 

Rostov, smarting from the dressing-down he’s just received on account of the failed attempt to organise a call with the FSB director, yells at Klokov, “Did anyone ask you to speak, soldat?!”

“No, sir!”

“Then shut up!”

“What were you doing in Colonel Borodin’s camp?” Dragomirov asks. 

Klokov hesitates. 

Major Rostov yells, “Speak when you’re asked a question!”

“Sir! I was following soldat Evgeny Shukshin.”

“What? Why?” Dragomirov asks. 

“Following orders, sir!” 

“Whose orders?”

“Kapral Andrei Churkin.”

Dragomirov sighs and says to Rostov, “Major, go and get Churkin.” Rostov moves towards the door. “Actually, hold on, Rostov.” Dragomirov turns to Klokov again. “Do you know why Kapral Churkin wanted you to follow – who is it again?”

Rostov and Klokov both say “Shukshin” at the same time.

Dragomirov nods. “Do you know why you were ordered to follow this man?”

“We thought he was a spy, sir!”

“A spy? Who was he supposed to be spying on?”

“Us. For Colonel Dragomirov, sir.”

Dragomirov, confused, frowns at Rostov. “Any idea what’s going on here?”

The penny drops for Major Rostov, with a cold, creeping horror. He says, “Sir, I’m not sure we want to discuss . . .” He tries to indicate Borodin with his eyes, but Dragomirov snaps impatiently. “Say it, whatever it is, Major.” 

“I briefed Churkin and other section leaders yesterday, sir. I asked them to be vigilant and not discuss or share classified information. I also asked them to search for weak links in their ranks.”

“Why did you ask them that, Major Rostov?”

“Because you asked me to, sir.”

“I did?”

“Yes, sir. You said you thought we have a leak.”

Dragomirov remembers and coughs, not daring to even glance at Borodin, who’s standing silently in the corner of the room, observing. He turns to Klokov. “Well, what did you find? Is . . . What’s his name again?”

“Soldat Evgeny Shukshin.” 

“Is Shukshin a spy?”

“Yes, sir,” says Klokov.

Rostov says, “You’re sure? This is a serious allegation.”

“Yes, sir!”

Borodin speaks from the shadows, his low growl of a voice making Klokov noticeably paler. “What is your evidence?”

“Evidence, sir?” 

“On what basis are you accusing your fellow soldier of treachery?”

“I heard him speak to your cook, sir, and he passed on classified information.”

“What did he actually say?” Dragomirov asks. 

“He spoke of cooking and his family.”

“What did he say relevant to your accusation?” Rostov says, impatiently. 

“It is relevant. It’s context.”

“Context?”

“His character. What sort of man he is, soft and weak. A liar and a blabbermouth, stealing food from our kitchen to give to Colonel Borodin’s cook. And he lied about his family.”

“Giving army food to others members of the same army is not stealing. Arguably, it’s helpful behaviour and commendable,” Borodin says. “How did he lie?”

“He showed your cook a photograph of his family. He’s always showing his photo to strangers. Anyone who will listen, boasting of having a son.”

“How is that lying? Does he not have a son?”

Rostov clears his throat. “He did have a son. His entire family died in a wildfire five years ago while he was away on active duty, but it won’t go in here,” he says, violently tapping his own forehead in a way that must have hurt.

“It sounds like the man is due sympathy and understanding more than condemnation,” Borodin says.  

“It is a dangerous thing to fight with weak-minded men,” Dragomirov says, focusing on Rostov, who looks uncomfortable.

Borodin says, “Presumably, you have been aware of these things for a while and have found him able to perform his duties – otherwise, he wouldn’t be here. This isn’t a revelation to you, surely?” 

Dragomirov was barely aware of the cook’s name and rank before this moment, but he isn’t going to give Borodin the satisfaction, so he inclines his head in a gesture that might be interpreted as agreement or might be stretching, and turns again to Klokov. “Well?”

“I meant he’s not alright in the head, not to be trusted. He said other things to Colonel Borodin’s cook. Classified things.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know if I should . . .” He glances at Borodin and then back at Dragomirov. 

Borodin says, “If this information was passed to my cook, it will be passed to me later anyway.” 

Klokov glances at Dragomirov, who nods. 

“Your cook was complaining because you are constantly in the jungle,” he says to Borodin.

Dragomirov smiles, but Borodin is poker-faced. 

“Shukshin told him we’ve been on the road for more than a year, told him of the Lamplighter. He told him we’d lost her and were trying to find her again.”

“We already know about the Lamplighter,” Borodin says. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Klokov says. 

Borodin turns to Dragomirov. “You must judge your own men, but it sounds like nothing to me. Do you have any news on the authorisation you said you would have tonight?”

Dragomirov says, “We will have it later this evening.” Rostov and Dragomirov exchange glances, giving Dragomirov away to Borodin, but it doesn’t matter because he already knows Dragomirov is lying.

“Let me know as soon as you get it through, won’t you? And please do brief your people not to snoop around my camp while we’re here. I am sometimes over-sensitive on the matter of intruders and may accidentally slip with my knife next time. Goodnight.” He nods at Dragomirov and is gone. 

There is a special punishment cage beside the prison block. It’s made of wood from the forest, and the door is barred with a thick pole. It isn’t possible to stand in the cage, and jungle grass and earth serve as the floor, making it easy for any snake, spider, or insect to crawl in. It’s rarely used. The last time was when Osin drank a day’s worth of his section’s ration of vodka, getting sick drunk and resulting in his comrades missing their daily allocation. No one argued for him. 

No one argues for the mad fat cook, either, as he is dragged by Klokov and Churkin across the yard, with Rostov overseeing and Dragomirov taking it all in from the door of his quarters. Evgeny begs and sobs and grabs at the doorframe. Klokov merely stamps on his hands and pushes him inside with his foot. When he won’t stop crying, he pours a bucket of water over him.

“Next time it