As tears go by

// 26 The Safe House

The safe house was at the end of a mule track starting off from the Provinciale n 3. The mule track snaked through the woods of pines, beeches, larches, birches. It was covered by a pristine coat of snow. There were no ruts, non footprints on it. It was not a good idea to leave marks. She had to keep making detours through the woods. An hour later she arrived in front of the main door. She looked around. It was silent and deserted. She studied the towering mountains in the cold distance. They were the famous "Pale di San Martino". She eyed the house again. It was like her grandparents' dacha in the Oblast of Stavropol. In the middle of the forest, on the side of the mountain. Just go down the road and you arrived in Stavropol, main drags, palaces, malls, houses, people, Victory monument, gas stations. Where she was now there was no city at the bottom of the valley, just trees and rocks and snow.

She fished out Luvi's key and looked at it. It was a regular key. She put it in the lock and worked it. It was somewhat hard but it dovetailed. She went in, closed the door and leaned against it with her back, her knife at the ready. She stood still, glancing around. Smelled the air. Reached out with a hand over her head to check the temperature of the air. No difference. Her eyes were adjusted to the dimness. It was strange. In front of her there were two lumpy white shapes. Then she realized. It were cars covered by tarps. She looked around. Tool chests lined the walls. In a corner there was a car hydraulic lift. She sneaked between the two cars and canvassed the place. The air was stale and smelled of rust and engine oil. She uncovered a tarp. Under it, an old rusty Fiat Uno, a junker. She removed the second tarp and whistled in awe. Under it there was a red Renault 5 turbo 2 from Eighties. A high-performance hatchback vehicle built and designed for rallying, but also sold in street version. A little monster. The engine had been placed behind the driver in the mid-body. She made out a door on the other side of the room. The sun light blasted against the cracks, giving away the rectangular shape of its purpose. She walked over and opened it. Behind the house there was a clearing covered at least by thirty inches of snow. At the end of it, a wood of tall florid pine trees stood out against the sky dome. At her right, there was a wooden staircase going up one story. She put her foot on the bottom rung. It did not creak. It was solid and sturdy. Last rung ended on a wraparound balcony. In front of her, there was a door with a small encased window. She used the same key. It worked smoothly. No rust or jammed lock. It opened on a kitchen. The interior was all wooden-made, except the stove and the pots and the pans on a shelf. There was a low ceiling with exposed beams. On the forth wall, a window sided by a closed door on the fourth wall. It was colder than outdoors. The same cold was in all parts of the room, no difference between up and down. She walked over to the table and ran a finger on it. No dust. She took off her ski boots and let go her backpack on the floor. She stood still for five minutes, reading the interior with her five senses. With the knife poised in her hand, she walked over to the second door. It opened on a small room. A wall was covered by a bookcase full of books. Under a big window that framed the Pale di San Martino there was a comfy sofa. In the middle of the room there was a desk and a chair. On the desk, there was a display of five disarmed hand grenades. The bookcase was sided by two doors. She opened them: behind one there was the pantry. Shelves filled of canned food, coffee, biscuits, wine, beer, water, sugar, trail mix, and milk powder. The other door opened on a steep ladder which went up to the attic. She climbed up. The attic was full of men's clothes, ski. A metal cabinet full of drawers. In one of it she found a German Heckler&Koch VP70 with stock. The stock could be used as a holster when not mounted. VP stood for Volkspistole, People's pistol. It was the first polymer-framed handgun, predating the Glock 17 by twelve years. That one was the "M" the military version, which allowed a three-round burst mode, with a 2,200 rounds per minute cyclic rate of fire. The three-round burst mode was possible only when the stock was mounted. She raked the slide, tried the trigger and the stock fire switch. The trigger was tough to pull but she could manage it. Despite the trigger, the People's pistol was lighter than other metal framed pistols she used. The pistol chambered the 9×19mm Parabellum. In another drawer she found several cardboard boxes. There were at least a thousand slugs and two spare mags. She carried it downstairs and put it on the kitchen table. She went back to the pantry. She took a couple of tins of canned food, a beer, a bottle of water and went back to the kitchen. She was starving. Near the stove there was a box of firewood. She started the fire. The air warmed up in moments. She opened the canned food, and put it directly on the stove. Onion soup and Trippe alla Parmigiana. The heated food filled the room with a pleasant smell. She sat at the table and field-stripped the pistol. She cleaned of the VP70, then she had her meal and gulped down everything. Outside it was dark. She went into the books room, put the gun on the floor near the sofa, lay on it and stared out through the window the black canopy of the night. The waves of the sea overwhelmed her. Their hypnotic rolling made her asleep in a few seconds. Before falling asleep, she saw something strange, a glimmer, a spark of light on the wall behind the desk. She thought to investigate, but she could not move and fell asleep.