After lunch came the hardest thing. Signe told Sophie about the years that she and Michael lived in Vollka. Places they’d been. Favorite excursions. Friends. Events. And always she’d pull out the photos, pictures of Michael as a child and a preteen, before he’d come to America. His young face made Sophie want to weep.
If she had to search for him in Orlisia outside the refugee camp, she needed starting points, contacts. He might go to familiar places and people. Sophie wrote it all down in a growing series of notebooks, never knowing what piece of information might be the critical one when she was on the ground in occupied Orlisia.
Oh God, it hurts so bad.
You have to. Always be planning.
At the end of their time, Maxwell invited her to his study, something he rarely did. Curious, Sophie followed him upstairs, where Maxwell put a paper shopping bag on the desk between him.
“I have some things to tell you that I didn’t wish Signe to hear.” Maxwell’s mouth settled into a grim line, and Sophie’s heart froze. “Intelligence sources have determined that the person in charge of the Parnaas camp is Commandant Vasily Jaros.”
“I’m not familiar with the name,” said Sophie, frowning. “Should I be?”
“Probably not. He served in the first Soviet occupation of Orlisia.” He toyed with some papers on his desk, deep concern in his expression. “He has a dark mind and an irrational hatred of Orlisia. This accounts in part for the concerns that the State Department has for the safety of the refugees. New estimates say there are more than a hundred thousand people in that camp with winter fully upon them. The Soviets could kill them all just by taking away their shelters.”
“We’ve examined the satellite photos inch by inch, looking for evidence of mass extermination,” Sophie said softly. “There’s nothing. A burial trench, yes, but that’s to be expected in any refugee situation. Whatever the Soviets are planning to do, they want them alive.”
“So it would seem.” Maxwell opened his desk drawer and handed Sophie a thumb drive. “Here’s a workup of Jaros. Read it carefully. If you make it in, he’ll be a formidable enemy.”
Sophie dropped the device into her bag. She started to rise, but Maxwell gestured to her to stop.
“I don’t tell you often enough how much we appreciate what you’re doing to find Michael. How much I appreciate you coming here every week to talk to Signe. I know it causes you great pain.”
Sophie opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. There was no point denying it.
“I’m aware that the odds of finding my son alive are very slim, but Signe and I believe that if anyone has that chance, it’s you.” Maxwell pushed the shopping bag across his desk to her. “Take what’s in here. It’s untraceable back to me. It is a gift from some prominent members of the Orlisian community.”
Sophie looked into the bag and gasped. It was bundles of US currency. “How much?”
“About 100,000 dollars. For whatever is needed to get my son out of Orlisia.” His expression turned bleak. “If you learn he’s dead, bring his body home to us if you can. Then take the rest and use it to ensure other Orlisian sons survive to return home to their parents. Food, clothing, shelter, whatever your coalition needs.” Sophie’s hands shook as she closed the bag. She’d never seen that much money in her life.
I’m going to have to take this back to Brooklyn on the freaking train!
“Signe does not know about this,” said Maxwell, gesturing to the bag. “She wouldn’t react well.” Signe’s hatred of the Soviets now ran so deep that it was unlikely she’d give even a penny of family money to a Soviet soldier, even if she bought Michael’s safety with it.
“Understood.”
“And, Sophie?” She looked up at Maxwell questioningly. “Let me call you a cab.”
Sophie worked late into the night. Using aerial photos, she planned how they might divide the overflowing camp into sections, each holding no more than twenty thousand refugees. She had a working plan when the phone rang at 11:30 p.m.
Who the hell is calling this late?
“Sophie. It’s Will.” Her heart leaped at the tense, triumphant sound in his voice.
“Green light?”
“Green light. The coalition has clearance to enter Orlisia.”
“Two breaths and then one, two, three, four. Take it easy, kid. These are chest compressions. You’re not beating the snot out of the guy.” Everyone laughed, Sophie included. The instructor winked at her.
Green light or not, it took a frightening amount of time to get tens of thousands of pounds of equipment and fifty-five people ready to enter a warzone. It had been nearly two weeks since the coalition had gotten the go-ahead. Two weeks of endless prepping, inventorying supplies, obtaining visas. The logistics were staggering.
The real delay, however, was the Soviet Republic. They questioned every piece of equipment, every person on the roster. Now, finally, the last preparations were nearly complete. They departed in just days.