Free Nine Layers of Sky by Liz Williams Page B

wave after wave of forest. An officer moved down the train, collecting papers. Ilya handed his over with barely a glance. The officer passed on. The outskirts of Petrograd appeared through the window of the train.
    Ilya waited until the train had left Petrograd and headed north. The carriage was crowded now, filled with soldiers. It was past noon, the sun a round coin behind the clouds. Ilya took a slab of bread and cheese from his pocket and ate it, staring out of the window at the white expanse of the Gulf of Finland. They were not far from the border. He recalled the Cheka official’s instructions.
You will see a church with a broken dome,
then a damaged house. You will have to leave the train at
that point. After that comes the forest. The building is perhaps a mile from the ruins of the village, heading northwest
toward the sea.
Ilya kept close watch through the window and at last saw the church with the fallen dome by its side. Stained wood showed through the faded gilt. The house was no more than a wall, scarred by fire.
    Snow began to fall, whirling in from the gulf, cold salty air gusting through the cracks in the carriage. As the train slowed down and the forest once more began to press in upon the track, Ilya got to his feet and made his way along the train. The soldiers watched him with indifference. The train seemed endless: row upon row of the same grey faces, the same patched uniforms. Ilya stepped over guns, over packs, over men’s boots until he reached the last carriage of all. He made his way to the end, conscious of eyes on his back, and hauled open the door.
    He stepped out onto the little ledge at the back of the train, into the sudden punch of cold air, and pulled the door closed behind him. He put his hands on the rail. The track stretched away until it became lost in the trees. Making sure that the sheath of the sword was settled firmly across his shoulders, and that the pack containing the explosives was securely fastened, Ilya swung over the railing and dropped down onto the track. The train trundled away. Ilya stumbled over the rails and into the forest, then leaned against a pine to catch his breath. After the musty, sweat-soaked air of the train, the forest was a blessing. Ilya began to track toward the sea, noting fallen branches and the way the light fell, taking care not to circle back.
    By the time he reached the facility, it was dusk; a good time, Ilya thought. His superiors had done their research: the target, Tsilibayev, preferred to work late.
    “He feigns eccentricity,” the man from the Cheka had said. “He works alone.”
    If Tsilibayev appeared that peculiar, Ilya thought, then it was curious how he had managed to survive the most recent purges. Unusual behavior was a luxury that few could afford, genius or not.
    He paused for a moment, to get his bearings. He craved a cigarette, but it wouldn’t be wise. Someone might see the light. As he stood ankle-deep in snow, he heard the lightest, softest footstep behind him. He turned, hand halfway to the sword, but it was a hare: winter-white, gazing at him from great dark eyes. It watched him for a moment, then loped away. Ilya chose to take it as a symbol: still the superstitious peasant boy beneath the twentieth-century façade, more easily believing in signs and the stars than in science. He listened. There was the sudden rush of snow deep in the woods, then nothing. Ilya walked on, following the point to where another sound began to filter through the silence: a low humming, like a generator. He was drawing close to the facility.
    Soon he could see it: a series of low huts with corrugated iron roofs, standing in a clearing. A cold wind blew through from the gulf, stirring Ilya’s hair. He stood still and listened. Someone was moving about in the long building to his left. There were two guards in the gatehouse, dozing over their guns. There was no sign of any dogs. Ilya slunk under the barbed wire, then through the trees to the