She walked along the muddy paths between ragged rows of shelters. In the week or so they’d been at work, the coalition had made progress. The teams had set up potable water stations, and every person received a daily allotment. All shelters now had strong plastic sheeting to keep out the wind and snow. High protein biscuits – not terribly appetizing, but highly nutritious – were distributed daily, along with blankets, sleeping mats, and other necessities.
Her team had begun surveying work using the maps provided. Sophie could see small flags marking the rough grid that had been laid out around the camp. Rows and columns of shelters had been designated with letters and numbers, allowing team members to locate specific areas of the camp quickly in an emergency.
She heard a sound down the nearest row, the telltale deep coughing that marked the pneumonia currently plaguing Parnaas. She listened at each shelter until she found the right one. Sophie dug into her pockets for a mask and slipped it on, entering the makeshift hut. The guards came with her.
An elderly man supported a woman, probably his wife. She lay on the freezing ground, coughing up mucus and blood. Several other refugees huddled nearby, their glances darting back and forth between the sick woman and the armed guards who had so suddenly appeared. Sophie pulled out her walkie and called for a Jeep to be brought to this sector. Then she spoke to her armed companions.
“This woman is very ill,” she said in Russian. “She will be taken to the infirmary. I have called for a vehicle.”
The guards looked at the elderly woman uneasily. They were young men, probably early twenties, and may well have never seen a dying person before.
“Perhaps you’ll want to step outside for a bit,” Sophie suggested. “Unless you’d like to catch it, too.”
The guards glanced at each other and backed out.
“Sveiki,” Sophie greeted the shelter inhabitants softly in Orlisian, not wanting the guards outside to catch her.
The old man stared at her in surprise, a faint light of hope appearing in his eyes.
“This is your wife?” He nodded. “I would like to take her to the doctor. She needs medical treatment.” Sophie could see fear on his face. “She will be safe there.”
A few minutes later, the Jeep rolled up, and the attendants bundled the old woman inside. Sophie continued her vigil up and down the rows of the camp.
She looked at every face. She couldn’t stop herself, despite knowing the population here was in the six digit range and growing daily. Refugee registration would start in the next day or so. In the meantime, she looked, desperate to find the one face she was searching for. It was all she could do not to stand in the middle of the row and scream for him at the top of her lungs.
She saw more people with the hammer and sickle symbol on their faces. Some had it carved into their cheeks. Only men, she noticed. Mostly young, a few older. All capable looking, intelligent. Sophie found an excuse to speak to a couple of them on trivial matters. All were well spoken, educated.
She wondered.
-
Will visited her later that night when the team was back over the border in relative safety. He didn’t bother with the niceties.
“I hear Commandant Jaros started talking today. The Rev says he dropped by the office to find you two as thick as thieves, so fascinated with one another that you didn’t even notice he was there. What the hell are you up to?”
Sophie didn’t look up from her computer screen. “Beating him at his own game. I want to figure out what drives him.” She turned to Will, who was frowning. “I’ve got to plan ahead. If – when – we find Vanguard, I need a way to get him out of the camp that doesn’t involve a bullet in his back or a one-way trip home for the entire coalition.
“The Commandant gave me an idea today. I’m reading up on his background, trying to figure out what really motivates him.”