Free Snow Wolf by Glenn Meade Page B

too long a military man not
to recognize the stench of cordite after a weapon had been fired, and at once
his suspicions were aroused.
    The door to the bedroom was open and Kraskin
saw the body of Pitrov, dressed in a blue silk dressing gown, sprawled across
the bed. Even from a distance his eyes didn't deceive him. He saw the bullet
wound to the head and the dark crimson patch spread on the white cotton sheets.
    "Oh my God," Kraskin breathed.
    "Strange words for a communist,
Colonel Kraskin."
    There was a faint click behind him.
Kraskin turned at once and saw the man. He was seated in the shadows by the
curtained window. His face was barely visible. But there was no mistaking the
silenced Tokarev in his hand.
    Kraskin made a move for his holstered
pistol, managed to get the flap undone, but the man stood up smartly and came
out of the shadows. He pointed the Tokarev at Kraskin's head.
    "I really wouldn't, comrade. Unless
you want to lose an eye. Sit down, at the table. Keep your hands on top."
    Kraskin did as he was told. The man
stepped toward him.
    "Who are you?" Kraskin
demanded, his face chalk-white.
    "My name is Alex Stanski. I'm here
to send you to Hell."
    Kraskin's face flushed white.
"You'll never get away with this." He nodded toward the bedroom door
where the body lay. "And for the crime that's just been committed you'll
be hunted down like the vermin that you are."
    "You're hardly one to talk about
crimes, Kraskin. By the laws of any land you ought to be put down like a mad
dog. You were responsible for the shooting of at least fifty schoolchildren
during the kulak wars. I believe your specialty was to sexually assault them
before you dispatched them with a bullet in the head. When they find Pitrov's
body and yours they'll put it down to a lovers' tiff that turned tragically
violent. The gun I'm holding is Pitrov's. You killed him and then
yourself."
    "Yes, very convenient,"said
Kraskin dryly. "So who sent you?" He shifted again in his chair, felt
the flap of his holster lift against the tablecloth.
    "That really doesn't matter. But
this does." Stanski removed a photograph from his tunic pocket and tossed
it on the table.
    "Pick it up."
    Kraskin did as he was told.
    "Look at the photograph. Do you
recognize the girl?"
    Kraskin saw a young dark-haired girl
standing on a deserted beach. She was smiling for the camera, and held a child
in her arms.
    "No, why should I?"
    "Her name was Ave Perlov. And this
is where it gets personal, Comrade Kraskin. You interrogated her in Riga a year
ago. If I'm not mistaken, you had quite a time with her before you sent her to
the firing squad. Torture is too mild a word. She had to be taken to the wall
on a stretcher."
    Kraskin smiled. "I remember now. One
of the partisan bitches."
    "She was only nineteen, you
bastard."
    Kraskin saw the flash of uncontrolled
anger and knew it was time to make his move. As he tossed the photograph away
he saw Stanski's eyes flick to it and Kraskin's right hand reached into his
holster and the Tokarev came out smartly.
    Kraskin managed to get off a quick shot
and it chipped Stanski's left arm below the elbow.
    But it wasn't enough.
    Stanski leaned in close and shot him
between the eyes.
    As the gun exploded, Kraskin was flung
back in his chair, the close shot cracking open the back of his skull and
tearing out half his brain.
    Stanski picked up the photograph from the
floor and replaced it in his tunic pocket. He looked down at the neat hole
drilled in his uniform sleeve, saw the patch of blood spread. There was no
pain, not yet, just a dull ache in his arm. He found a towel in the bathroom
and wrapped it around the wound before he pulled on the military overcoat.
    When he came back into the room, he opened
the doctor's black bag and removed the knife. He knew he had very little time
before someone reacted to Kraskin's gunshot, but he worked calmly.
    He moved back to Kraskin's body and
unbuttoned the man's trousers. He removed the flaccid penis. The