“Believe me, I know.” She told him what the Commandant’s plans were for the refugees.
Will’s face flushed red with anger. “If he thinks we’re here to do nothing more than keep these people alive through the winter just so he can ship them off to Siberia, he’s dead wrong. He’ll never be allowed to take an entire population prisoner and turn it into a slave workforce!”
“What do you mean ‘allowed to’, Will? He’s already done it.”
After Will left, deeply troubled, Sophie went back to the screen to read further into the profile Maxwell Trent had provided for her.
Vasily Jaros, age 59, commandant in the Soviet army. Currently serving as commandant of the Parnaas refugee camp. She skimmed a long list of military honors, making mental notes. The personal information section revealed much more.
Married for 41 years to Elena Sidorov. One child, male, Anton Jaros, born June 8, 1968. Began a promising career in the Soviet military. Died August 12, 1989, at the age of 20, during the final battle of the Orlisian Revolution in throwing off Soviet rule.
Only one child. A son. Lost as his adult life had barely begun, in the battle that had ended the Soviet Republic’s control over Orlisia. It didn’t take much to figure out where Commandant Jaros’ hatred of Orlisia sprang from. She read on.
Extraordinarily intelligent. Given extra educational opportunities in the areas of physics, mathematics, and music before pursuing a career in the military. Fiercely loyal to the Soviet Republic, its history, and the Soviet way of life. Considered incorruptible, not susceptible to bribes. That wasn’t good news.
Excellent player of chess and other games of strategy.
Maybe she could play him for Michael’s life? Not likely, although Sophie wasn’t a bad chess player herself. She’d look for a chess set in his office.
Fluent in Russian, English , and several other dialects common to the Soviet Republic.
“I knew you spoke English, you bugger,” she murmured.
She pushed back from the computer and thought for a while, vague ideas swirling in her head. She made herself a cup of tea, considering strategies and discarding them. Always be planning, Sophie. She smiled as she remembered Kei-Yee from that Chinese aid agency. I wonder if she has any idea how well that lesson stuck with me.
Sophie frowned, thinking of something else Kei-Yee had told her. She tapped out a quick email to Alex back home. Just a theory, but it was worth checking into.
The next day, Sophie spent as much time as she could with Commandant Jaros, who seemed more than happy to have her company. Whatever else he might be, he was a man of enormous natural intellect and knowledge, just as the profile had indicated.
Just like her.
Sophie found herself looking at Jaros surreptitiously. Had the loss of his son made him mad? Or had he always been this unbalanced? The latter seemed unlikely given how much success he had achieved in his early career. But a loss that deep could destroy anyone.
If I lose Michael, what will prevent me from following the same path?
They took lunch together in his office. Sophie entertained Jaros with stories about the backstabbing and politicking so prevalent in American companies. His merry laughter rang out through the meal.
He would answer few personal questions about himself, other than he was married and lived to serve the Soviet Republic. He did tell her, however, that he’d fought in the first Soviet occupation of Orlisia and won many accolades. Sophie mentally compared his stories to the profile she’d reviewed the night before, and everything checked out.
“I will show you my most prized possession.” He crossed the room to pick up a box from his desk. Jaros flipped open the lid and removed an object, his eyes dancing. In his palm lay an elegant knife, inscribed with Cyrillic script acknowledging a military accomplishment.
This was no ceremonial blade, Sophie realized. The way he hefted it, looked upon it … this was clearly an item he was comfortable handling. Nauseated, Sophie thought of those carved symbols on the prisoners’ faces. Instinctively, she knew this was the knife that created them. And this, the man who had wielded it.
“Both commemorative and practical I see,” she said neutrally, her eyes meeting his. The Commandant laughed.
In the afternoon Sophie took her walk, the same two young Soviet soldiers trundling behind her. Despite the icy wind that whistled down the lines of shelters, Sophie wore no hat, allowing her red hair to fly free. It blew out behind her like a flag. Like a beacon.
She looked at more faces, hands clenched so tightly in the pockets of her vest that her fingernails dug into her palms, drawing blood. The thin, silent faces of the refugees looked back at her.
Where are you?