Free Tin Sky by Ben Pastor Page A

switch places with Tibyetsky. “I’ll give you directions.”
    No sooner had the station and its many tracks leading to the Donbas become visible ahead, with the south-eastern brick factories, than another checkpoint barred the way, and it was manned by the SS. “Whatever the level of your spoken German, put this under your tongue,” Bora told Khan on the spur of the moment, handing over the first thing he found in his pocket,the button recovered from Krasny Yar. The Russian, however, was ahead of him. He’d already placed the unlit stub of his cigar between his upper molars and right cheek, inventing an abscess that might justify any imperfect speech.
    “Documents please, Herr Major.” The SS men leant over to look inside the vehicle.
    Bora carried several typewritten passes allowing him to move around alone or with a driver at any hour of day and night. He presented his paperwork, and the examination was soon followed by “Fine, thank you, Herr Major.”
    When Khan’s turn came, however, the SS scrutinized the Panzer Corps Soldbuch a long time, flipping the pages back and forth. They said nothing; only kept reading a few steps away from the vehicle. Motionless in the passenger’s seat, Bora looked at them. They were young, untried, replacement fellows whose training surely amounted to a handful of weeks. He ostentatiously pulled back his left cuff to check his wristwatch, because doing it in a furtive manner would give his anxiety away. “Is there something wrong with my driver?” He judged his irritation just right. “You can keep him here if you want to; I haven’t got time to sit here all day.”
    The SS promptly gave the papers back, and made room for the vehicle to pass.
    Once in Velikaya Osnova, the officers traded places again. A tickled Khan spat the cigar stub out and a wad of saliva after it. “You wouldn’t have really left me behind back there.”
    Bora calmly looked over. “What do you think?”
    “That it takes one to know one who’s ready to shoot his way out of a tight spot.”
    They met no more delays, nor did they converse, until they reached the detention centre. Bora drove through the car entrance into the inner courtyard, away from the street, parked and came to open the general’s door. Khan put one leg out to dismount, the same leisurely movement he’d made to emergefrom the tank’s cupola. He remained seated a moment more, looking up at the German. “What marks did you earn for the paper on my early career?”
    “Top marks, same as for Uncle Terry’s.”
    “Ah. Good student.” Exiting the vehicle, Khan adjusted the canvas blouse on his hips. “And probably a good chess player. We’ll have to talk about it some time. Even if I can’t imagine when.”
    On the third floor, the rooms set up for special prisoners were lined in a row from one end of the corridor to the other. Platonov occupied the room farthest from the landing, but even so, the cries from his nightmares would be all too audible from the same level. Bora directly led the way up one more floor, to the single room set up for the interrogator.
    Every level of the structure had been inhabited by visiting German businessmen and engineers in the late 1930s. Naturally, every suite was thoroughly bugged; then, as now, the windows were high and had solid, artistic grilles across them. In this room, modern wallpaper in a zigzag pattern resembled stylized factory roofs, smokestacks trailing vapour. During the battles for Kharkov, the fine furnishings had disappeared: the Abwehr had had to hunt all over for decent beds and a bare minimum of comfort.
    Khan looked inside before stepping in. “I’ve seen better.”
    It would not have done to reply that he’d have much preferred for a defector to be flown out of the Rogany airfield directly to Berlin, and it was unnecessary for Bora to remind Tibyetsky that he was merely honouring his demands to wait in the area for Bentivegni’s arrival. “Your things will be brought up