Page 107 of Winterveil

“I can’t do that with a single pistol,” said Julian. “He still has all the power here.”

“That’s what he’d like you to believe. But the truth is, everyone is afraid when they’re staring down the barrel of a gun. It’s the great equalizer.”

Hard power. Realpolitik. Material force. Norms and ideologies ceased to matter when you were looking death in the face. Lethal weapons simplified the world. That was true on a global scale, in the nuclear age. But it was true on an individual level, too. The same rational choice model applied. The zero-sum game was between the person holding the gun and the one at their mercy.

Klaudia reached for one of the pistols.

Nadiya looked at her approvingly. “At least you know how to shoot, don’t you?”

“Passably.” Klaudia had taken the weapons management course as a first year, and she hadn’t needed to bribe anyone in order to get an A.

“That’s a relief.” Nadiya glanced at Giselle, who had not ceased to look horrified. “It’s going to be okay. If all goes to plan, no one will even need to pull a trigger.”

“Yeah,” Giselle said, rather unconvincingly. “All right.”

She took the gun, but her hands were shaking. Klaudia was a bit surprised. Rural Americans of Giselle’s demographic were largely avid hunters. A stereotype, yes, but one confirmed by statistics. Except nothing about Giselle was stereotypical. Especially not the way she looked at Nadiya.

For a long moment no one spoke. They had been outside for long enough now that Klaudia had begun to feel the chill settle into her skin, and she shivered. Then—

“There was something else I saw in the tunnel.” Giselle spoke up suddenly. “On the wall . . . there were words in Russian.”

She bent over and began to trace the letters into the snow. Klaudia watched over her shoulder. When Giselle finished, she leaned back on her heels, allowing Klaudia full view of what she had written.

“Zavesa zimy,” Klaudia read.

“What does that mean?” Julian asked.

“Veil of winter.” Klaudia pressed her stiffening hands into her pockets. “It’s a Soviet term for anything related to the Cold War. It’s almost always used in the context of explaining certain actions or justifying certain behavior. There’s a famous speech by the secretariat where he said ‘everything is permitted under the veil of winter.’ ”

Silence lay over the clearing, as crisp as the air itself. Nadiya grimaced. Giselle stared pointedly at the ground.

But Julian lifted his gaze skyward. The mist had not fully dissipated, though the sunlight that filtered through it was white and sharp. “I wish,” he said, “that we could just get this over with.”

“I can tell him,” Crispin said, so abruptly that Klaudia flinched. She had almost forgotten he was there. “I can tell Deckard to . . . accelerate the timing.”

“Really?” Julian’s expression grew hopeful. When Crispin nodded, he said, “Well, tell him to do something special for our last night. I’ve always wanted to see the northern lights.”

A small smile crept over Crispin’s face. It was the first time Klaudia had ever observed him looking anything but somber and eerie. For some reason it made her skin prickle.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I will.”

Thirty-Five

Spring 2037

Camp Peary, Virginia

They went back to the lodge—maybe for the last time. Crispin had vanished, presumably to communicate their plans to Deckard. Giselle wondered why he had suddenly become so tractable. Why Julian, in particular, had managed to get some sort of hold on him.

Klaudia and Julian, meanwhile, were sitting at the table in the great room, maneuvering pieces on a chessboard. Giselle caught only snippets of their conversation, but once or twice she heard Klaudia laugh. Not what she had expected, in their final moments before whatever sinister denouement Deckard had planned. But it was a nice sound—soft, almost shy. Giselle wished she’d had the opportunity to hear it more often.

Nadiya was crouched on the floor, loading all the pistols. She moved sinuously, assuredly, the same way she did when any kind of weapon was involved. Giselle allowed herself a moment to stare at the curve of her throat, the glossy sheen of her hair. Then she approached and knelt down beside her.

In the middle of emptying a cartridge, Nadiya looked up. The smile that came over her face made Giselle feel like she was looking at the sun. Not the pale scald of midday light, but the sunset: warm, lush, and orange-gold.

“Can I help?” Giselle asked. She hadn’t meant to whisper.

“It’s okay,” said Nadiya. “I’m almost done.”