"Nasty," Wiktor said to the woman. "Going to be some infection. A little deeper and he would've lost the use of his arm. Did you know what you were doing?"

"No," she admitted. "He just looked good to eat."

"In that case, your aim is atrocious." He pressed the flesh, and Mikhail clenched his teeth to stifle a moan. Wiktor's eyes sparkled. "Look at him. He doesn't make a noise." Again he pressed the wounds, and thick fluid spooled out. It smelled wild and rank. Mikhail blinked away tears. "So you don't mind a little pain, do you?" Wiktor asked. "That's a good thing." He released the boy's shoulder. "If you make friends with pain, you have a friend for life."

"Yes sir," Mikhail said hoa.r.s.ely. He stared up at the man, and wavered on his feet. "When... when can I go home, please?"

Wiktor ignored the question. "I want you to meet the others, Mikhail. You know our fool, Belyi. Next to him is his sister Pauli." He nodded toward the thin young girl. "That's Nikita." The Mongol. "Across the fire is Alekza. Your teeth are showing, my dear." The blond girl smiled slightly, a hungry smile. "I think you've probably already met Franco. He prefers to sleep upstairs. You know Renati, and you know me." There was a hollow coughing, and Wiktor motioned to the figure lying under the cloaks. "Andrei isn't feeling well today. Something he ate." The sick coughing continued, and both Nikita and Pauli went over to kneel beside the figure.

"I'd like to go home now, sir," Mikhail persisted.

"Ah, yes." Wiktor nodded, and Mikhail saw his gaze cloud over. "The matter of home." He walked back to the fire, where he knelt down and offered his palms to the heat. "Mikhail," he said quietly as Andrei's coughing faded, "very soon you're going to be..." He paused, searching for the correct words. "In need of comfort," was what he supplied. "In need of... shall we say... family."

"I... have a..." He trailed off. His family lay dead, out in the meadow. His shoulder wounds throbbed again.

Wiktor reached into the fire and pulled out a bit of fiery branch, holding it where the flames had not yet charred. "Truth is like fire, Mikhail," he said. "It either heals or it destroys. But it never-never-leaves what it touches unchanged." His head slowly swiveled, and he stared at the boy. "Can you stand the flames of truth, Mikhail?"

Mikhail didn't-couldn't-answer.

"I think you can," Wiktor said. "If not... then you were already dead."

He dropped the branch into the flames and stood up. He took off his sandals and drew his muscular arms out of the cloak to let it rest on his shoulders. He closed his eyes.

"Stand back." Renati pulled at Mikhail, tension in her voice. "Give him room."

Across the fire Alekza sat up on her haunches, the fine blond down on her legs glinting like spun gold. Nikita and Pauli watched, kneeling on either side of Andrei. Belyi rubbed his hand across his lips, his pale face flushed and anxious.

Wiktor's eyes opened. They were dreamy, fixed on a far distance-a wilderness, perhaps, of the mind. Sweat sparkled on his face and chest, as if he were straining at some inner effort.

Mikhail said, "Wha-" but Renati quickly shushed him.

Wiktor closed his eyes once more. The muscles of his shoulders quivered, and the tawny robe with its snow-hare collar slid off to the floor. Then he bent his body forward, his spine bowing, and his fingertips touched the earth. He sighed deeply, followed by a quick intake of breath. His beard hung to the ground.

June one year ago, Mikhail and his sister had gone by train with their parents to see a circus in Minsk. There had been a performer whose bizarre talent had stayed with Mikhail. The Rubber Man had leaned over in the same position that Wiktor now a.s.sumed, and the Rubber Man's spine had stretched with brittle cracking noises like sticks being stepped on. Those sounds now came from Wiktor's backbone, but it was clear in another few seconds that instead of lengthening, his torso was compressing. Bands of muscle stood out around Wiktor's rib cage and ran down along his thighs like quivering bundles of piano wires. Sweat gleamed on the man's back and shoulders, and a darkness of fine hairs suddenly began to spread over the slick flesh like clouds moving across a summer field. His shoulders bowed forward, muscles straining upward under the skin. Bones popped, merry little sounds, and there was the noise of sinews bending and re-forming like squealing hinges.

Mikhail stepped backward, colliding with Renati. She held his arm, and he stood watching a demon from Hades struggle with the flesh of a man.

Short gray hairs emerged from Wiktor's scalp, from the back of his neck, from his arms and b.u.t.tocks, thighs and calves. His cheeks and forehead rippled with hair, and his beard had clutched hold of his throat and chest like a phantasmagoric vine. Beads of sweat dripped from Wiktor's nose; it cracked, bringing a grunt from him, and began to change its shape. He lifted his hands to his face, and Mikhail saw the flesh writhe beneath his gray-haired fingers.

Mikhail tried to turn and run, but Renati said, "No!" and held him tighter. He couldn't bear to watch any more of this; he felt as if his brain were about to burst open in his head, and what would ooze out would be black as swamp slime. He lifted his hand, put his fingers over his eyes-but he left himself a narrow crack, and through it he watched Wiktor's shadow contort on the wall in the leaping firelight.

The shadow was still that of a man, but it was rapidly becoming both more and less. Mikhail couldn't shut his ears; the cracking of bones and squealing of sinews were about to drive him mad, and the smoky air smelled of rank wildness, like the inside of a beast's cage. He saw the contorted shadow lift its arms, as if in supplication.

There was a fast, shallow breathing. Mikhail closed the gap between his fingers. The breathing began to slow and deepen, becoming a husky rasp. Then, finally, a smooth bellows rumble.

"Look at him," Renati said.

Tears of terror streaked from his eyes. He whispered, "No... please... don't make me!"

"I won't make you." Renati released his arm. "Look if you choose. If not... then not."

Mikhail kept his hand over his eyes. The bellows breath neared him. Heat brushed his fingers. Then the noise of breathing faded as the thing backed away. Mikhail shuddered, choking down a sob. Truth is like fire, he thought. Already he felt like a pile of ashes, burned beyond all recognition of what had been before.

"I told you he was too small." Belyi sneered from across the chamber.

The sound of that mocking voice caused a flame to spark at the center of ashes. There was still something left, after all, to burn. Mikhail drew a deep breath and held it, his body trembling. Then he released it, and dropped his hand from his face.

Not ten feet away, the amber-eyed wolf with sleek gray fur sat on its haunches, watching him with intense attention.

"Oh," Mikhail whispered, and his knees buckled. He fell to the floor, his head spinning. Renati started to help him up, but the wolf made a low grunt deep in its throat and she retreated.

Mikhail was left to stand on his own. The wolf watched, head c.o.c.ked slightly to one side, as Mikhail struggled up to his knees, and that was as far as he could get for now. His shoulder was a ma.s.s of pain, and his mind spun like a kite seeking a balancing tether.

"Look at him!" Belyi said. "He doesn't know whether to scream or s.h.i.t."

The wolf spun toward Belyi and snapped its jaws shut about two inches in front of the young man's nose. Belyi's sardonic grin fractured.

Mikhail stood up.

Wiktor turned back to him and advanced. Mikhail took a single step in retreat, then halted. If he was going to die, he would join his parents and sister in heaven, a long way from here. He waited for what was to be.

Wiktor came on toward him, stopped-and sniffed Mikhail's hand. Mikhail dared not move. Then, satisfied with what he smelled, the wolf lifted his hind leg and sprayed a stream of urine onto Mikhail's left boot. The warm, acidic-odored liquid got on Mikhail's trousers and soaked through to his skin.

The wolf finished its task and stepped back. He opened his mouth wide, fangs gleaming, and lifted his head toward the ceiling.

Mikhail, fighting on the edge of another faint, felt Renati's strong hand grip his arm. "Come on," she urged. "He wants you to eat something. We'll try the berries first."

Mikhail allowed her to guide him out of the chamber, his legs wooden. "It's going to be fine now," she said, sounding relieved. "He's marked you. That means you're under his protection."

Before they got very far beyond the archway, Mikhail looked back. On the wall he saw a fire-scrawled shadow, lurching to its feet.

Renati took his hand, and they ascended the stone stairs.

THREE Grand Entrance

1.

Stone stairs, Michael thought. Just the thing to break an ankle on. He blinked, and returned from his inner journey.

Darkness all around. Above his head an open white parachute, hissing as the wind strummed the taut lines. He looked down and to all sides; there was no sign of the green blinker.

A broken ankle wouldn't be pleasant, and certainly not the way to begin his mission. What was he descending onto? A marshy field? A forest? Hard, tilled earth that would twist his knees like bits of taffy? He had the sensation of the ground coming up fast now, and he grasped the chute's lines and angled his body slightly, bending his knees for the impact.

Now, he thought, and braced himself.

His boots smashed into a surface that gave way under his weight like mildewed cardboard. And then he slammed down against a harder surface that shook and creaked but held him from falling any farther. The harness tightened under his arms, the chute snagged on something above. He looked up and could see a jagged-edged hole in which stars sparkled.

A roof, he realized. He was sitting on his knees under a roof of rotten wood. Somewhere out in the night, two dogs barked. Working quickly, Michael unsnapped the harness straps and shrugged out of the parachute. He narrowed his eyes, could make out heaps of material around him; he grasped a handful. Hay. He had crashed down into a barn hayloft.

He stood up, began to get the chute unsnagged, and drew it in through the hole. Faster! he told himself. He was in n.a.z.i-occupied France now, sixty miles northwest of Paris. The German sentries on their motorcycles and in their armored cars would be all over the place, and the radio messages might be crackling: Attention! Parachute spotted near Bazancourt! Patrol all nearby farmland and villages! Things might get hot very soon.

He got the chute into the loft, then began to bury the silk and pack in a large pile of hay.

Four seconds later he heard the sc.r.a.pe of a latch drawing back. He tensed, becoming motionless. There came the soft squeaking of hinges below. A reddish glow invaded the barn. Michael slowly, silently slid his knife from its sheath, and saw by the lantern light that he was balanced near the loft's edge. A few more inches and he would've gone over.

The lantern probed around, spreading light. Then: "Monsieur? Ou etes-vous?"

It was a woman's smoky voice, asking where he was. Michael didn't move, nor did he lay aside the knife.

"Pourquoi est-ce que vous ne me parlez pas?" she went on, demanding that he speak to her. She lifted the lantern high, and said, again in the crisp country lilt of Normandy French, "I was told to expect you, but I didn't know you'd drop on my head."

Michael gave it a few seconds more before he leaned his face over the loft's edge. She was dark-haired, wearing a gray woolen sweater and black slacks. "I'm here," he said quietly, and she jumped back and probed the light up at him. "Not in my eyes," he warned. She dropped the lantern a few inches. He glimpsed her face: a square jaw, deep-cut cheekbones, unplucked dark brows over eyes the color of sapphires. She had a wiry body and looked as if she could move fast when the situation demanded it. "How far are we from Bazancourt?" he asked.

She'd seen the hole in the roof about three feet over the man's head. "Take a look for yourself."

Michael did, pulling his head up through the hole.

Less than a hundred yards away a few lamps burned in the windows of thatch-roofed houses, cl.u.s.tered together around what appeared to be a large plot of rolling farmland. Michael thought he'd have to congratulate the C-47's pilot for his good aim when he got out of this.

"Come on!" the girl urged tersely. "We have to get you to a safe place!"

Michael was about to ease down to the loft again when he heard the rough muttering of engines, coming from the southwest. His heart seized up. Three sets of headlights were quickly approaching, tires boiling up dust from the country road. Scout cars, he reasoned. Probably loaded with soldiers. And there was a fourth vehicle bringing up the rear, moving slower and carrying much more weight. He heard the clank of treads and realized with a cold twist of his insides that the n.a.z.is were taking no chances; they'd brought along a light panzerkampfwagen: a tank.

"Too late," Michael said. He watched the scout cars fanning out, surrounding Bazancourt to the west, north, and south. He heard a commander yelling "Dismount!" in German, and dark figures leaped from the cars even before the wheels had stopped turning. The tank came clanking toward the barn, guarding the village's eastern side. He'd seen enough to know he was trapped. He lowered himself to the loft. "What's your name?" he asked the French girl.

"Gabrielle," she said. "Gaby."

"All right, Gaby. I don't know how much experience you have at this, but you're going to need it all. Are any of the people here pro-n.a.z.i?"

"No. They hate the swine."

Michael heard a grinding noise: the tank's turret was swiveling as the machine neared the rear of the barn. "I'll hide as best I can up here. If-when-the fireworks start, stay out of the way." He unholstered his.45 and popped a clip of bullets into it. "Good luck," he told her-but the lamplight was gone, and so was she. The barn-door latch sc.r.a.ped shut. Michael peered through a crack in the boards, saw soldiers with flashlights kicking open the doors of houses. One of the soldiers threw down an incandescent flare, which lit up the entire village with dazzling white light. Then the n.a.z.is began to herd the villagers at gunpoint out of their houses, lining them together around the flare. A tall, lean figure in an officer's cap walked back and forth before them, and at his side was a second figure, this one huge, with thick shoulders and treetrunk legs.

The tank treads halted. Michael looked out a knothole toward the rear of the barn. The tank had stopped less than fifteen feet away, and its crew of three men had emerged and lit up cigarettes. One of the men had a submachine gun strapped around his shoulder.

"Attention!" Michael heard the German officer shout, in French, at the villagers. He returned to the crack, moving silently, so he could see what was happening. The officer was standing before them, the large figure a few steps behind. The flare light illuminated uplifted pistols, rifles, and submachine guns, ringing the villagers. "We knew a kite flier fell down in this arena!" the officer went on, mangling the French language as he spoke. "We shall now wish to grasp that intruder in our gloves! I ask you, humans of Bazancourt, where is the man we wish to cage?"

Like h.e.l.l you will, Michael thought, and c.o.c.ked the.45.

He went back to the knothole. The tank crew was lounging around their machine, talking and laughing boisterously: a boys' night out. Could he take them? Michael wondered. He could shoot the ones with the submachine guns first, then the one nearest the hatch so the b.a.s.t.a.r.d wouldn't jump down it and slam- He heard the low growl of another engine and more clanking treads. The tank crew shouted and waved, and Michael watched as a second tank stopped on the dusty road. Two men came out of the hatch and started a conversation about the parachutist that had been reported on the radio. "We'll make a quick sausage out of him," promised one of the men on the first tank, waving his cigarette like a saber.

The barn-door latch sc.r.a.ped. Michael crouched where he was, against the hayloft's rear wall, as the door swung open and the beams of two or three flashlights probed around. "You go first!" he heard one of the soldiers say. Another voice: "Quiet, you a.s.s!" The men came into the barn, following their lights. Michael stayed still, a dark form in shadow, his finger resting lightly on the automatic's trigger.

In another few seconds Michael realized that they didn't know if he was hiding here or not. Out in the village square the officer was shouting, "There will be severe penetrations for all those cohabitating with the enemy!" The three soldiers were looking around beneath the hayloft, kicking cans and equipment over to prove they were really doing a thorough job. Then one of them stopped and lifted his flashlight toward the loft.

Michael felt his shoulder p.r.i.c.kle as the light grazed it and swung to the right. Toward the hole in the roof.

He smelled scared sweat, and didn't know if it was the Germans' or his own.

The beam hit the roof, began to move steadily toward the hole.

Closer. Closer.

"My G.o.d!" one of the others said. "Look at this, Rudy!"

The flashlight stopped, less than three feet from the hole's edge.

"What is it?"

"Here." There was the noise of bottles clinking. "Calvados! Somebody's stocked the stuff away in here!"

"Probably some d.a.m.ned officer. The pigs!" The flashlight beam moved, this time away from the hole; it grazed Michael's knees, but Rudy was already walking toward the bottles of apple brandy the other man had uncovered from their hiding place. "Don't let Harzer see you taking them!" warned the third soldier, a frightened and boyish voice. Couldn't be more than seventeen, Michael thought. "No telling what that d.a.m.ned Boots would do to you!"

"Right. Let's get out of here." The second soldier speaking again. Bottles clinked. "Wait. Got to finish it up before we leave."

A bolt drew back; not the door this time, but the mechanism of a submachine gun.

Michael squeezed his body against the wall, cold sweat on his face.

The weapon fired, chattering holes through the wall below the hayloft. Then a second gun spoke in a surly rasp, sending slugs up through the hayloft floor. Hay and bits of wood spun into the air. The third soldier fired up into the hayloft, too, zigzagging a spray of bullets that knocked chunks out of the boards two feet to Michael's right.

"Hey, you idiots!" shouted one of the tank crewmen when the noise of firing had died. "Stop that target practice through the barn! We've got gasoline tins out here!"

"Screw those SS b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Rudy said, in a quiet voice, and then he and the other two soldiers left the barn with their booty of Calvados bottles. The barn door remained ajar.

"Who's the mayor here?" the officer-Harzer?-was shouting, his voice edgy and enraged. "Who's in charge? Step forward immediately!"

Michael checked the knothole once more, searching for a way out. He caught a whiff of gasoline; one of the men on the second tank, parked in the road, was pouring fuel from a can into the gasoline portal. Two more cans stood ready for use.

"Now we can converse," someone said, from beneath the hayloft.

Michael silently turned, crouched down, and waited. Lamplight filled the barn.

"My t.i.tle is Captain Harzer," the voice said. "This is my companion, Boots. You'll notice he's well clothed to the name."

"Yes, sir," an old man answered fearfully.

Michael brushed hay away from bullet holes in the floor and peered down.

Five Germans and an elderly, white-haired Frenchman had entered the barn. Three of the Germans were troopers, wearing field-gray uniforms and their coal-scuttle helmets; they stood near the door, and all of them carried deadly black Schmeisser submachine guns. Harzer was a lean man who held himself in that strict rigidity that Michael a.s.sociated with devout n.a.z.ism: as if the man had an iron bar up his a.s.s all the way to his shoulder blades. Near him stood the man called Boots-the hulking, thick-legged figure Michael had seen in the flare light. Boots was perhaps six three, and weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred sixty or seventy pounds. He wore an aide's uniform, a gray cap on his sandy-stubbled scalp, and on his feet were polished black leather boots with soles at least two inches thick. In the ruddy glow of the lamps two of the troopers held, the broad, square face of Boots was serene and confident: the face of a killer who enjoys his work.