Blood of Vipers by Michael Wallace Page B

understand. Did you forget we’re allies? Or are you
     trying to start
     another war?” When Osimov didn’t answer, Cal added, “I demand to
     speak with the
     American liaison.”
    Osimov said nothing, but peered at him
     through his
     eyeglasses. Cal refused to be intimidated. After several
     minutes, the Russian
     pushed away from the table and rose to his feet. He called out
     and two soldiers
     appeared from the opposite doors of the kitchen. They were armed
     with rifles,
     expressions hard, but were relatively clean and with only a day
     or two of
     stubble. Professionals. Osimov brushed past them and into the
     front room of the
     house.
    “Where are you going?” Cal tried to rise to
     his feet, but
     the guards lowered their weapons at him and shook their heads.
     He sat back down
     to wait.
    As night fell, it grew dark in the room.
     There may have been
     running water, but the electricity was out. Just when Cal
     thought he’d continue
     to sit there while the room turned black, another soldier
     appeared with a
     lantern, which he lit and placed in the center of the table.
    Light or no, the exhaustion was catching up
     with Cal,
     overwhelming even his hunger. After nodding twice, he crossed
     his arms on the
     table and leaned his head down.
    One of the soldiers jabbed him in the ribs
     with his gun. “ Prosnis! ”
    “Lay off, I’m awake.”
    He sat up, blinking, but the nodding started
     a moment later.
     Unable to rest his head on the table, he thought he could tuck
     his chin to his
     chest and drift off, but before he could steal more than a
     second or two, the
     guard was jabbing him again and shouting for him to wake up. A
     few minutes
     later, the same thing. Finally, he didn’t care and ignored the
     jab.
    The guard yanked his chair out and he
     sprawled to the
     ground. After that, they didn’t let him sit down, but kept him
     standing in the
     center of the room until Osimov returned. That was at least an
     hour later.
    Cal’s temper was shot by then. “What the hell
     is your
     problem? I’m an American—you can’t do this to me.”
    Osimov looked surprised. “What, have these
     men been
     mistreating you?”
    “You know damn well what they’ve been doing.”
    “Keeping you awake?” He shook his head, and
     smiled as if at
     the petty nature of Cal’s complaint. “Lieutenant Jameson, do you
     typically fall
     asleep during debriefings?”
    “You bastard, what do you want?”
    Osimov picked up the chair where it lay
     sprawled to one
     side. He held it out and gestured. “Please, sit down.”
    When Cal complied, he took his place on the
     opposite side of
     the kitchen table, and slid across a large brown envelope.
     “These were taken in
     February, at Auschwitz. Go ahead, look. There is nothing secret
     here. Soon
     enough everyone will see.”
    Cal unwound the string and slid the
     photographs out. He
     didn’t know what the man was playing at, but his irritation grew
     as he set the
     stack in front of him. He’d heard about the atrocities—by now,
     everyone
     knew—and so what good would come of this?
    “What are you playing at, Osimov?”
    “Look.”
    The first photograph was a row of men
     standing in front of a
     brick building. They were skeletally thin, faces slack with
     hunger and
     exhaustion, and wore gray striped prison garb with six pointed
     stars sewn to
     their shirts.
    “Go ahead, look at the next one,” Osimov
     said.
    “I’d prefer not to.”
    His voice hardened. “I insist.” When Cal
     still didn’t move,
     he slapped his hand on the top photograph, and shoved it to the
     side. The one
     underneath showed a pit filled to overflowing with dead, naked
     women. More
     bodies lay on wheelbarrows and in piles in front of the pit.
    “Look at them!” Osimov said when Cal turned
     away. “You will
     look or I will order your prisoners shot, do you understand?”
    Cal looked. Each photograph was more awful
     than the next.
     The dead stacked