Kurbsky turned to his men. “Go over your weapons, pistol, AK, check your grenades, then do it again. After that, rest. It’s been quite a day already, and a lot more to it before it’s over.”

IT WAS JUST after noon when the truck turned in the gate of the old vineyard, moved along the track under a spread of tree branches, and came to a halt. They all dismounted and followed Ramsan as he led the way through decaying vines, a battery lantern in his left hand, and came to an old stone outhouse. He opened the door and stood on the step. It was very black wood.

He leaned down and felt on the inside of the step. “There’s an iron ring. That’s it.” He pulled and raised a section of the floor that folded back to disclose stone steps about six feet wide dropping into darkness. He turned and offered the lantern to Kurbsky, who took it but shook his head.

“You take it. After all, you know the way. I’d feel safer.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“Well, it is now.” Kurbsky passed him the lantern, and Ramsan looked as if he was about to speak, then he took a deep breath, switched on the lantern, and went down.

IT WAS PERFECTLY dry, very airy, and as Ramsan had said, a good six feet in diameter. He played the light out well in front of them so they could see the false wall up ahead. He paused on getting to it, reached into a corner and pulled some sort of lever, and the wall pivoted. There was a cellar on the other side with an archway.

Ramsan turned and said, “The door can only be locked from the other side. Leave it ajar.” He carried on, leading the way through one archway after another, walked through the last one, and suddenly switched off the lantern and ran.

Panic ensued. “Where the hell is he?” Kirov cried, just as floodlights were turned on to reveal the underground hall Ramsan had mentioned. On a stone shelf about four feet high, two light machine guns on tripods were mounted, with two men behind each one. Other men were ranged at the sides, AK-47s at the ready.

Ramsan, still on the run, was making for the broad steps he had mentioned, soldiers waiting there, and Shadid Basayev walked through.

One of the Tigers called, “You lying bastard,” raised his AK to fire at Ramsan, and was cut down by a burst from one of the machine guns.

“Is this what the rest of you want?” the General asked. “I am Shadid Basayev. If I say slaughter the lot of you now, my men will be happy to oblige. It’s all one to me. Who is Kurbsky?”

“That would be me.” Kurbsky stepped forward.

“And these are the Black Tigers?” Basayev nodded. “A sad-looking bunch, if you don’t mind me saying so, and only eleven?”

“We used to be fifty.”

“That’s good, we must be winning the war.” He stood there, hands on hips. “Come on, Lieutenant, what’s it to be?” He stepped very close. “Of course, you could shoot me now in a mad moment, but my men wouldn’t like that.” Kurbsky stared into his eyes, trying to work him out, and Basayev smiled. “One soldier to another. Articles of war strictly observed at all times.”

It wasn’t that Kurbsky believed him. It was just that if there was even the smallest of chances that he was telling the truth, it was better than all of them being reduced to bloody pulp on the spot here.

“All right, lads, stand down.”

He started to remove his packs and placed his weapons on the ground, and, reluctantly, his men followed his example. Chechens moved in and started stripping the Tigers of anything worth having. Father Ramsan stood on the steps, watching impassively.

“So our man of God is still with us,” Kurbsky said.

Bounine did a strange thing. “Bastards.” He bit the end of his thumb. “Infamità. May you rot in hell.”

“Hey, what is this? Is your sergeant an Italian or something?” Basayev demanded.

“No, he’s Russian, but he studied law at the university in Rome.”

Basayev was confounded. “So did I.”

“I was some years after you,” Bounine said.

“Did they remember me?”

“They spoke of the Italian girl who became your wife as a most wonderful person, and much loved.”

“She was… she was. We must talk.” He turned to Kurbsky. “Now, what am I to do with you? Like me, I suspect you are a true soldier. I’ve been reading this German philosopher lately. He says that for authentic living, what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. Would you agree?”

“Heidegger,” Kurbsky said. “His writing was Heinrich Himmler’s bible.”

“You’ve read Heidegger? We must talk some more.” He turned to one of his officers. “Take these two to the cell on floor one. No need to tie them. Lock them up with a bottle of wine. I’ll send for them later.”

Kurbsky said, “What about my men?”

“They’ll be dealt with.”

“You gave me your word. One soldier to another.”

“So I did. Do you doubt my word? That would make me very angry. Take them away-now.” His voice lifted, the officer nodded to four men, and they herded Kurbsky and Bounine up the steps in an echoing hall, then up a second flight. There was an iron-banded door at the top with a key in the lock, and they were pushed into a room with two narrow beds and a barred window.

The officer said, “One of my men will be back with the wine, but may I offer some advice? Do not annoy the General in any way. The results could be disastrous.” He went out.

Kurbsky said, “I get the feeling I may have handled this whole affair terribly badly.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Bounine told him. “We were sold out by the man of God before we even got here. So much for General Chelek’s reliable source.”

The door opened, they turned, and a soldier tossed a bottle of wine at them, which Bounine just caught. The door closed, the key turned.

“Some sort of brandy with a screw top. Must be good.” Bounine got it off, tried it, and shrugged. “Not bad, really. A kind of plum brandy.” He handed the bottle to Kurbsky, who tried it, and at that moment, elsewhere in the monastery, someone screamed.

“Mother of God, not that,” Bounine said in a kind of prayer. He put out his hand for the bottle and held it against him. After a while, the screaming stopped. “Thank God.”

“I’m afraid not.” Kurbsky stood at the barred window, looking down into the courtyard. Bounine joined him.

A long pole was stretched between two tripods about seven feet above the ground. Three men manhandled a body with a noose around its neck and a hook on the end, which they slipped over the pole, and the corpse simply hung there.

“Could you tell who it was?” Bounine asked in a low voice.

“Too much blood on his face.” Kurbsky held out his hand. “Give me the bottle.”

He took a long drink, and someone else screamed. “The bastards,” Bounine said. “They’re going to finish all nine.”

“All eleven when he remembers he’s got us waiting.” Kurbsky handed the bottle over.

AN HOUR AND a half later, there were seven out there hanging shoulder to shoulder. “Like washing on a line to that bastard,” Bounine said.

There was thunder again, a rumble, and the skies opened in a deluge again. They watched body eight hung up.

“Not long now.” Bounine put the bottle to his lips. “Christ, it’s finally empty.”

He looked as if he was going to toss it away, but Kurbsky took it from him and smashed it against the wall. He handed it back, ignoring new screams, and the broken and splintered end looked incredibly dangerous.

“Hold it carefully. It’s a hell of a weapon.”

“What for?” Bounine asked in despair.

“To fight with. I’ve got a weapon too.” His hand went down to his right boot; he found the gutting knife, pulled it out, and held it up and sprung the blade. “My little secret.” He closed the blade. Whoever it was had stopped screaming. He went to the window and watched as they hooked him up. Shadid Basayev and Father Ramsan walked down steps from the main door. Laughter drifted up, and Basayev said something to Ramsan, who turned and went back inside.