waited a moment.
“If it concerns me, I have a right to know. . . It’s my life at stake here, and I’m not a child.”
The old woman answered.
“It is all of our lives at stake here, young lady, and a good many other lives as well.”
Hammond relented.
“No, she’s right. It is her life, and she does have a right to know.” He looked hard at the girl. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a man called Beria? Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria.”
“No, why? Is he important?”
“You could say that. How about a man called Paslov, Stanislav Ivanovich Paslov?”
She nodded.
“Oh yes, I know him. He questioned me in Magdeburg. They all seemed frightened of him, but I thought he was sweet; well, for a Bolshevik.”
The old woman looked to the heavens.
“Paslov works for Beria. I promise you, he is anything but sweet.”
“So, who’s Beria?”
Hammond explained, and told her that Beria wanted her for some reason. When she smiled and made a flippant comment about feeling flattered, he shook his head.
“I wouldn’t be, if I were you. Among his many other talents, he’s a sadistic killer. He’s chartered Paslov with getting you back. He’s determined, he’s angry, and he’s dangerous.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means you must be important to them, and it means they won’t give up.”
She leaned across the table and stroked at his arm.
“Never mind; you’re strong and handsome and clever. You saved my life on the train, and you’ll protect me now. I know you will.”
Embarrassed, Hammond drew back from her touch.
“So why would such a powerful man as Lavrenti Beria be after you?” he asked.
The pout changed to petulance, and then to a look of cold determination.
“It could be because I killed one of his filthy Russian officers in Berlin. A Bolshevik pig, who thought he could rape and kill German women just because they were German and he was Russian. Well, he won’t rape any more. I made certain of that.”
Hammond carefully framed the next question, shocked by the girl’s sudden transformation from flirtatious seductress to cold-eyed killer.
“And there were others, too, weren’t there, Catherine? Other men that you killed?”
She glared at him.
“Don’t patronize me with your soothing tones and condescension. I saw how easily you did those bastards on the train. Don’t speak to me as though you’re some all-American hero, and I’m a lunatic bitch. Your country and mine have a common enemy, it’s called Bolshevism, and we’re both in the middle of a total bloody war. It was in forty-one, and it still is. They were the hated enemy then, and they still are: barbarians, and rapists, and bloodthirsty butchers.”
Hammond broached another question, this time without the soothing mannerisms and conciliatory tone she had found so irritating.
“So who was this Russian officer? The one you killed in Berlin?”
“There were many more than one.”
“All of them Russian officers?”
“Yes.”
“It may be a naive question, but why?”
“The teachings of Kali: cut the head from the demon, and the body dies.”
She spoke in monotones and stared into her own private torment. Hammond pressed.
“So who was the first?”
He had raised his voice, intending to interrupt her abstraction. She snapped back at him.
“In Berlin?”
“I suppose so.”
“I didn’t know his name, but he was the same filthy Bolshevik pig who made me watch while his soldiers gang-raped and then murdered my mother. The same filthy Bolshevik pig who laughed in my face when I begged them not to hurt her. The same filthy Bolshevik pig, who mauled at my breasts and put his hand between my legs while he held me there. The same filthy Bolshevik pig who left his animals to defile and murder my mother, while he took me into the next room and raped me. The same filthy Bolshevik pig whose laughing face I can still see, and whose filthy breath and vile stench I can still smell whenever I close my
“If it concerns me, I have a right to know. . . It’s my life at stake here, and I’m not a child.”
The old woman answered.
“It is all of our lives at stake here, young lady, and a good many other lives as well.”
Hammond relented.
“No, she’s right. It is her life, and she does have a right to know.” He looked hard at the girl. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a man called Beria? Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria.”
“No, why? Is he important?”
“You could say that. How about a man called Paslov, Stanislav Ivanovich Paslov?”
She nodded.
“Oh yes, I know him. He questioned me in Magdeburg. They all seemed frightened of him, but I thought he was sweet; well, for a Bolshevik.”
The old woman looked to the heavens.
“Paslov works for Beria. I promise you, he is anything but sweet.”
“So, who’s Beria?”
Hammond explained, and told her that Beria wanted her for some reason. When she smiled and made a flippant comment about feeling flattered, he shook his head.
“I wouldn’t be, if I were you. Among his many other talents, he’s a sadistic killer. He’s chartered Paslov with getting you back. He’s determined, he’s angry, and he’s dangerous.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means you must be important to them, and it means they won’t give up.”
She leaned across the table and stroked at his arm.
“Never mind; you’re strong and handsome and clever. You saved my life on the train, and you’ll protect me now. I know you will.”
Embarrassed, Hammond drew back from her touch.
“So why would such a powerful man as Lavrenti Beria be after you?” he asked.
The pout changed to petulance, and then to a look of cold determination.
“It could be because I killed one of his filthy Russian officers in Berlin. A Bolshevik pig, who thought he could rape and kill German women just because they were German and he was Russian. Well, he won’t rape any more. I made certain of that.”
Hammond carefully framed the next question, shocked by the girl’s sudden transformation from flirtatious seductress to cold-eyed killer.
“And there were others, too, weren’t there, Catherine? Other men that you killed?”
She glared at him.
“Don’t patronize me with your soothing tones and condescension. I saw how easily you did those bastards on the train. Don’t speak to me as though you’re some all-American hero, and I’m a lunatic bitch. Your country and mine have a common enemy, it’s called Bolshevism, and we’re both in the middle of a total bloody war. It was in forty-one, and it still is. They were the hated enemy then, and they still are: barbarians, and rapists, and bloodthirsty butchers.”
Hammond broached another question, this time without the soothing mannerisms and conciliatory tone she had found so irritating.
“So who was this Russian officer? The one you killed in Berlin?”
“There were many more than one.”
“All of them Russian officers?”
“Yes.”
“It may be a naive question, but why?”
“The teachings of Kali: cut the head from the demon, and the body dies.”
She spoke in monotones and stared into her own private torment. Hammond pressed.
“So who was the first?”
He had raised his voice, intending to interrupt her abstraction. She snapped back at him.
“In Berlin?”
“I suppose so.”
“I didn’t know his name, but he was the same filthy Bolshevik pig who made me watch while his soldiers gang-raped and then murdered my mother. The same filthy Bolshevik pig who laughed in my face when I begged them not to hurt her. The same filthy Bolshevik pig, who mauled at my breasts and put his hand between my legs while he held me there. The same filthy Bolshevik pig who left his animals to defile and murder my mother, while he took me into the next room and raped me. The same filthy Bolshevik pig whose laughing face I can still see, and whose filthy breath and vile stench I can still smell whenever I close my
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