Beautiful Assassin by Michael C. White Page A

seen the way the higher-ups had treated me with deference. And there was the official-looking document that Captain Petrenko had nailed to a beam in the bunker several weeks earlier:
    This is to certify that Senior Sergeant Tat’yana Aleksandrovna Levchenko, 25th Division, 54th Regiment, 2nd Company, is a sniper-destroyer of the invading German fascists. She has single-handedly eliminated 244 of the enemy. The Soviet people offer her their heartfelt thanks.
    Army Military Council
    Closing my journal, I stared at the sausage, then eyed the Wild Boar coldly. “Your sardel’ka, Comrade Gasdanov, is far too small to satisfy myhunger,” I said to him. At this, Nurylbayev and Drubich and a few of the others dared to let out a chuckle.
    The Wild Boar stared at me with his gray little pig eyes. “The hell with you then,” he said. Snubbed, he turned his attentions back to Zoya.
    “Have some more, Corporal,” he said, squatting in front of her.
    This time, taking my lead, she told him, “No, thank you, Sergeant.”
    “Go on,” he said, insisting. “Don’t listen to her . You’re skinny as a scarecrow.”
    “No,” she repeated.
    “Men like women with some meat on them.”
    “Leave her alone, Sergeant,” I interjected.
    “Butt out. This is not your business, Levchenko,” he replied, pivoting on his heels and pointing the dagger threateningly at me.
    “I can make it my business,” I said.
    “Is that so?”
    “It is.”
    He leaned toward me so that the others wouldn’t hear him. This close I caught a whiff of his sour breath, a strong metallic smell like diesel fuel. “The big hero,” he said mockingly. “The famous kraut killer. Huh! You think I give a shit about all that, Levchenko?”
    “I don’t particularly care what you think, Sergeant.”
    “Wait till it comes to real fighting. When you have to look a man in the eyes and kill him. Then we’ll see what you can do.”
    “If it’s trouble you’re looking for, Gasdanov, I can give you all you want.”
    “Do you think your threats scare me?”
    “The major would be very interested to hear about your ‘activities.’”
    Major Roskov was NKVD, one of the blue caps, the Party’s secret police among the troops. Along with the political commissars, the NKVD, or chekisty as many called the hated and feared secret police, saw to it that the Party’s political will was carried out even at the front lines. They wielded much more power than the military officers, and they could countermand any orders given by the military. They also had spies everywhere and were well known for their brutality. Evenbefore the war, we’d heard the rumors about what they’d done to the Poles in the woods at Katyn. And we’d seen firsthand how they would shoot anyone who dared retreat. They’d established what were called “blocking detachments” in the rear of our lines, machine-gun emplacements whose sole purpose was to shoot, not Germans, but our own retreating troops. Everyone in the company gave Major Roskov a wide berth and was careful what they said around him. Even Captain Petrenko, who didn’t take shit from anyone, was usually guarded around Roskov. The blue hats would come around, disciplining those who had spoken out against some action of the military or handing out medals or giving political lectures to urge the troops on against the Germans. Though some of the blue hats were bold fighters, most led an easy, often pampered existence, usually far from harm’s way, slinking back only when a battle was over to lap up whatever credit they could garner. But they could be brutal when it came to discipline. While I detested men like Roskov, I realized that sometimes they could be useful. Like now.
    “The devil take you both,” cursed the Wild Boar, who stood and spat on the ground near my boot. As he stomped off, he muttered under his breath, “Fucking shlyukha .” Whore—what the German had called me. Drubich got up and followed the Wild Boar through the