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“Tu débandes?” Dortlich said.
“Va te faire enculer” Grentz said. They had picked up the French when the Totenkopfs refitted near Marseilles, and liked to insult each other with it in the tight moments before action. The curses reminded them of pleasant times in France.
The Soviet trooper on the steps split the fuse ten centimeters from the end and stuck a match head in the split.
“What color’s the fuse?” Milko said.
Grutas had the field glasses. “Dark, I can’t tell.”
From the woods, they could see the flare of a second match on his face as the trooper lit the fuse.
“Is it orange or is it green?” Milko said. “Does it have stripes on it?”
Grutas did not answer. The soldier walked to the truck, taking his time, laughing as his companions on the truck yelled at him to hurry, the fuse sparking behind him on the snow.
Milko was counting under his breath.
As soon as the vehicle was out of sight, Grutas and Milko ran for the fuse. The fire in the fuse crossing the threshold now as they reached it. They could not make out the stripes until they were close. Burns at twominutesameter twominutesameter twominutesameter. Grutas slashed it in two with his spring knife.
Milko muttered “fuck the farm” and charged up the steps and into the castle, following the fuse, looking, looking, for other fuses, other charges. He crossed the great hall toward the tower, following the fuse and saw what he was looking for, the fuse spliced onto a big loop of detonating cord. He came back into the great hall and called out, “It’s got a ring main cord. That’s the only fuse. You got it.” Breeching charges were packed around the base of the tower to destroy it, coordinated by the single loop of detonating cord.
The Soviet troops had not bothered to close the front door, and their fire still burned on the hearth in the great hall. Graffiti scarred the bare walls and the floor near the fire was littered with droppings and bumwad from their final act in the relative warmth of the castle.
Milko, Grentz and Kolnas searched the upper floors.
Grutas motioned for Dortlich to follow him and descended the stairs to the dungeon. The grate across the wine room door hung open, the lock broken.
Grutas and Dortlich shared one flashlight between them. The yellow beam gleamed off glass shards. The wine room was littered with empty bottles of fine vintages, the necks knocked off by hasty drinkers. The tasting table, knocked over by contesting looters, lay against the back wall.
“Balls,” Dortlich said. “Not a swig left.”
“Help me,” Grutas said. Together they pulled the table away from the wall, crunching glass underfoot. They found the decanting candle behind the table and lit it.
“Now, pull on the chandelier,” Grutas told the taller Dortlich. “Just give it a tug, straight down.”
The wine rack swung away from the back wall. Dortlich reached for his pistol when it moved. Grutas went into the chamber behind the wine room. Dortlich followed him.
“God in Heaven!” Dortlich said.
“Get the truck,” Grutas said.
10
Lithuania, 1946
HANNIBAL LECTER, thirteen, stood alone on the rubble beneath the moat’s embankment at the former Lecter Castle and threw crusts of bread onto the black water. The kitchen garden, its bounding hedges overgrown, was now the People’s Orphanage Cooperative Kitchen Garden, featuring mostly turnips. The moat and its surface were important to him. The moat was constant; on its black surface reflected clouds swept past the crenellated towers of Lecter Castle just as they always had.
Over his orphanage uniform Hannibal now wore the penalty shirt with the painted words NO GAMES. Forbidden to play in the orphans’ soccer game on the field outside the walls, he did not feel deprived. The soccer game was interrupted when the draft horse Cesar and his Russian driver crossed the field with a load of firewood on the wagon. Cesar was glad to see Hannibal when he could visit the stable, but he did not care for turnips.
Hannibal watched the swans coming across the moat, a pair of black swans that survived the war. Two cygnets accompanied them, still fluffy, one riding on his mother’s back, one swimming behind. Three older boys on the embankment above parted a hedge to watch Hannibal and the swans.
The male swan climbed out onto the bank to challenge Hannibal.
A blond boy named Fedor whispered to the others. “Watch that black bastard flap the dummy— he’ll knock shit out of him like he did you when you tried to get the eggs. We’ll see if the dummy can cry.” Hannibal raised his willow branches and the swan went back into the water.
Disappointed, Fedor took a slingshot of red inner-tube rubber out of his shirt and reached into his pocket for a stone. The stone hit the mud at the edge of the moat, spattering Hannibal’s legs with mud. Hannibal looked up at Fedor expressionless and shook his head. The next stone Fedor shot splashed into the water beside the swimming cygnet, Hannibal raising his branches now, hissing, shooing the swans out of range.
A bell sounded from the castle.
