The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Twenty-one

Mia cursed to herself and tried uselessly to slip farther down under her bed covering. The irony was excruciating. After months of fighting on the front and some four weeks in various hospitals, she was about to be exposed by someone she knew and liked.

Like friendly fire, identification by a cheerful comrade could be just as lethal as by the enemy. In the few seconds that passed as the major strode down the central aisle of the ward, a half dozen thoughts zipped through Mia’s mind.

Would she be arrested? Almost certainly. Would Pavlichenko vouch for her? Why would she? All explanations would lead back to Molotov. Would she notify the ambassador and embroil the State Department in a charge of spying? That line of thought was bleak indeed.

The inner debate ended when Pavlichenko stepped up to the foot of her bed, ready to be introduced to “our own sniper, Marina Zhurova.”

The hero of the Soviet Union must have been weary of introductions and of shaking hands and muttering encouragement, for she scarcely glanced up. Even after Mia held out her own good hand to shake, and they exchanged pleasantries, Pavlichenko looked at her for several long seconds before confusion clouded her expression.

Mia’s hand shook, and she withdrew it while the nurse chattered on about what an honor it was, surely, for a beginner to meet the most famous woman sniper in all of Russia. Pavlichenko’s face seemed to dull, and Mia dared not take her eyes from her.

After what seemed like hours, Pavlichenko nodded blandly and wished her a good recovery.

As the star sniper stepped back and resumed her circuit from bed to bed, Mia dropped back onto her pillow and released a long exhalation. Had the visitor recognized her? In the context of the hospital, apparently not. As the major disappeared through the door of the ward in the company of the hospital administrator and a coterie of military officers, Mia lay embittered by her helplessness.

She had to get out. Soon, perhaps within days, someone would come from the army, check her medical chart, and realize she was fit for duty of some sort. The next day, they’d send her off to some unit, where she would be trapped indefinitely. Alone. No. She returned to her escape plan. Not a good plan. A dreadful plan, in fact, but the only plan she had.

During the night, she would simply leave and walk as far south as possible. Judging by the way the light passed from one side of the ward to the other, she could roughly guess which way was south. Her field canteen was still in her pack under her bed, and she could fill it from the hospital pitcher. Food? Well, she could do without food for a couple of days. Without sleep, too, if necessary. And she would keep walking, asking directions judiciously, from children perhaps, and she would continue walking. At some point, she would reach Red Square, where the large hotels were, which were filled with Western journalists. And one of them would help her get to the embassy.

There, that was settled. Encouraged at finally having made a decision, she allowed herself to doze off.

Someone shook her foot, awakening her. She opened her eyes to Lyudmila Pavlichenko.

“You have one minute to tell me what the hell you are doing here and why I shouldn’t denounce you. Start talking.”

Mia took a breath, clearing her head, forming her thoughts to a sixty-second summary. “I came to Moscow for the White House, to investigate the theft of Lend-Lease materials. I found the thieves, a chain of command starting, I’m pretty sure, with Molotov. But when I tried to report them to the ambassador, Molotov had me arrested and put on a plane to be killed. But the plane was shot down, and I survived by joining a Red Army unit fighting in the area. I actually fought as a sniper, which you’ll find ironic, and I’m here because I was wounded in action.”

Pavlichenko blinked in disbelief at the fantastic tale. “Who is Marina Zhurova?”

“A comrade killed in the ambulance carrying us both to the hospital.” She opened her mouth to add more detail, then realized it was unnecessary. “And I’m desperate to get back to the embassy.”

Pavlichenko frowned as some of the narrative sank in. “Molotov? Theft? Are you sure?”

“Yes. You have to believe me and help me get out of here.”

Pavlichenko shook her head. Nonetheless, she leaned forward and spoke softly. “Whatever the truth of your story, you see those men standing in the doorway at the end of the ward? That is Major General Kovpak and three officers from STAVKA. They are watching me talk to you, so I have to denounce you.”

“What? I thought…” Mia stammered.

“Hush, and listen. So you have to act quickly. In about three hours, when I get back to my quarters, I will send someone with a motorcycle to the laundry exit on the south side of the hospital. You must be there at, say, ten o’clock. If you are not, he will leave again. At ten o’clock, I’ll telephone my superior officer and say I saw you here, and after a lot of thought, I finally remembered who you were, and I’ll give him your real name. After that, I have no idea what will happen, but by then you should be at your embassy. That’s all I can do for you. Do you understand?”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and marched back to the officers at the door.

Mia had no watch and so asked the nurse the time when she came by with the usual soupy stew that was supper. Seven o’clock. When the activity on the ward died down and it seemed like more than two hours had passed, she slipped on her boots, gathered up her coat and field pack in her good arm, and slipped through the doorway toward the toilets. There, she changed out of her hospital gown and back into her military trousers and boots. The tunic that had been cut open under the right arm up to the armpit hung like a shawl on one side of her, but her belt held it shut.

She had no idea where the laundry was but had at least determined north from south, and pressed on toward the south side of the hospital. She wandered endlessly along corridors, stepping out of sight whenever she heard someone approach.

Finally, on one of the lower levels, the smell of disinfectant and the creaking of cylinders turning told her she’d found the laundry. She waited as long as she dared, hoping for a chance to slip through the room unseen, but each time she peeked around the edge of the doorway, she saw women working. Finally, she simply stepped inside and strode past them.

The four haggard women with red hands and faces tending the machines glanced quizzically at her as she marched past them, but apparently they cared only about their duty to sterilize laundry and bandages. Security was outside their purview, and while they would certainly report seeing a woman in a shoulder cast pass through, they had no interest in stopping her.

Then she was outside. Because her coat covered only one shoulder and half of her chest, she shivered in the cool night air. It was also the first time in weeks she had walked any distance, let alone hurried, and she trembled with the exertion.

She waited, with no idea of the time. Surely she wasn’t late, but would her rescuer be? She dared not pace, for fear of attracting attention, and so she huddled near the closed door, shifting from one foot to the other. How, she wondered, would she fit on the back of a motorcycle with her awkwardly protruding elbow?

Finally he arrived. Without stopping his motor, he turned off the headlight and glanced around, obviously searching for her. Relieved, she stepped out where he could see her.

He putted toward her and stopped. “Get in, quickly.”

With a silent thanks to Major Pavlichenko, she saw it was a sturdy old M-72 motorcycle with a sidecar. She’d seen them at the front, usually with some sort of gun mounted on the sidecar, but this one was bare. All she had to do was clutch her coat and pack around her and step in.

The backward lurch as he took off jolted her shoulder, and she grunted. He careened around the corner in the darkness, and only when they were some distance from the hospital grounds did he turn on his headlight.

He was silent most of the way and she assumed he knew the route, but as they came close to the inner city of Moscow, he asked over his shoulder, “Where do you want to go?”

“The American Embassy, please,” she replied, as if to a taxi driver.

“Where’s that?”

“Um…” She searched her mind for something to guide him. “It’s called Spaso House, on Spasopeskovskaya Square, in the Arbat District.” That’s all she could remember.

“Ah, the Arbat. Of course,” he said. “Nice place for the rich capitalists.”

She wasn’t sure what to reply, since a discussion of capitalism was, as the Americans said, beyond her pay grade. Whoever the driver was, he was almost certainly some poor sod struggling to keep body and soul together in wartime. And he was saving her life, so he was, at that moment, her best friend. “I guess so,” she said vaguely, and bent forward against the cold.

Her open coat was all but useless, and the night air rushed across her, catching her hair and finding its way around her midriff. She shivered and her teeth chattered.

Finally, to her relief, Spaso House came into sight. He stopped near the front entrance, waited only until she clambered out of the sidecar, and then took off again. She stood alone, in her ragged, blood-soaked uniform, a coat that half covered her, a filthy knapsack, and a block of plaster of paris that held her right elbow in the air. Still shivering, she marched to the front door under the columned portico.

She banged on the door for a long time, until a uniformed guard, a corporal by his insignia, opened it. He gawked at her for a moment, and she realized what a sight she must have presented.

“What do you want, soldier?” the guard asked in English in spite of her uniform. Obviously he hadn’t been assigned to the post on the basis of intelligence. She answered him in English.

“My name is Mia Kramer. Ambassador Harriman will know me. Would you please tell him I’m here and need his help?”

“I’m sorry, but the ambassador’s not here. I’ll be happy to announce you to the deputy ambassador, but he’s asleep right now. Please come back tomorrow morning.”

She was cold and losing patience. “Look, even if the deputy ambassador has retired early with his chocolate milk, there must be other staff members still awake who can identify me.” She searched her memory. Who had been present at the brief breakfasts? No one.

“Wait. The ambassador’s driver. Robert something.” The corporal remained unmoved. “Robert… Dunham? No, Dornwend. Robert Dornwend. He’ll know me.”

“Mr. Dornwend is off duty now and in his quarters. You can talk to him tomorrow morning.” He was about to close the door when she stepped forward and blocked it with her good hand. Immediately he drew his sidearm and pointed it at her. “Take your hand off the door or I’ll shoot.”

That was the last straw. “Look, you stupid shit. I work for Harry Hopkins and the White House and have important business with your ambassador. You can see what kind of shape I’m in. If you don’t let me in, I’ll have your sorry ass busted to civilian, and you’ll spend time in Leavenworth for obstructing White House business. Now, if you won’t wake your candy-assed deputy ambassador, then at least go get Robert Dornwend. Surely you’re not afraid of him.”

Stunned, he lowered his pistol but still held the door three-quarters shut and seemed to consider the remote possibility she was right. “Stay here while I check if Mr. Dornwend is available.”

“Tell him it’s Kramer,” she called through the closing door. “Mia Kramer!”

She waited again, stamping one foot and then the other, for warmth. She was close, so close. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. She couldn’t measure them except by the throbbing in her shoulder. Twenty throbs per minute. She grew ever more furious. And then the door opened again.

“Miss Kramer?” The kindly face that greeted her was puffy with sleep, and his hair was still disheveled from bed. No matter, she would have hugged him, if her shoulder cast didn’t prevent it. “Dear Lord, come in.”

He drew her by her good arm into the lobby, still dimly lit and unheated for the night. But it was legally American soil, and she was now, definitively, home again.

“We wondered for so long what happened to you. I’m sure you have a long and shocking story to tell, but for now, come in and have something warm to drink.” He urged her past the guard, who stood, aloof, staring over their heads, his demeanor announcing I just followed orders. Yes, he had, the prick.

Robert led her to the kitchen, flicked on the lights, and set a kettle of water on the stove. “Ambassador Harriman is spending this evening with Mr. Molotov. Something part business and part social. You know how the Russians are. A Kremlin car will bring him back here, but I’m sure it won’t be until the early morning hours. And then he’ll sleep. In the meantime, after your little cup of tea, I’ll take you to one of the guest rooms, and you can also enjoy a good night’s sleep on home soil, as it were.”

“You’re so kind, Mr… uh, Robert. It’s really a great relief. And I’m sure Molotov is filling Mr. Harriman’s head with all kinds of crap I’ll have to undo when we talk.”

“I have no doubt of that, my dear,” he said, pouring hot water over a little gauze tea sack. “I won’t ask you anything tonight except for your assurances that you are all right. I mean, the bloody uniform and the cast are a little alarming.”

“I’m fine now, Robert. The cast is for a broken shoulder and thereby hangs a tale. I’m afraid I can tell it only once, though, to Mr. Harriman.” She added sugar and sipped, comforted by the familiar taste yet slightly amused at how bland American tea tasted compared with the Russian brew she’d been drinking at the front. “What’s the news of the war? I’ve only see one side of it in The Red Star.”

“Oh, that is a bit complicated to tell. Some business is happening in Warsaw, an uprising against the Nazis that the Russians refuse to support. The ambassador can presumably explain that. And our troops have reached the city of Arnhem, in the Netherlands. The reports are vague, so it’s probably not going well.”

She finished her tea. “With the liberation of Paris, we all thought the war was nearly over, didn’t we? But defeating the Germans is an uphill battle. The Russians are paying for every mile of advance, too.” She thought of Sasha and Fatima.

He took the empty cup out of her hand and carried it to the sink. “It’s a terrible thing the world has gotten itself into. We can only pray we’ve learned something from it. Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”