Between likely death from Carl’s knife tomorrow and likely execution in the commander’s office the day after, Alex chose the second. At least there he had a chance. A slim one, but a chance.
“I’ll do it,” he said. The Count nodded and put away the revolver. “Good. Get ready, physics boy. Work those fingers. Tomorrow night, you go to work.”
“And remember, there’s no margin for error in this equation.” Alex left the Count’s corner and lay down on his bunk. The barracks slept in its usual sick, heavy way, but sleep wouldn’t come to him.
He stared into the dark, trying to picture the imported safe in detail. Three disks. Ten numbers on each. Ten to the third power—one thousand possible combinations. Impossible to test in seven minutes.
So he would have to hear one true click through the wind, his own heartbeat, and the footsteps of the guards. For the first time in his life, physics felt less like salvation than a curse. He would have to hear the whisper of metal and trust it with his life.
At exactly three in the morning, the world went dark. The yard lights, the tower searchlights, the windows of the administration building—all of it died at once. It was as if some giant hand had pulled the plug on the universe, and the camp dropped into blackness.
The silence broke under the distant, confused barking of guard dogs that had lost their bearings. Guards cursed in the dark, bolts snapping back on rifles. Alex was already running.
Beside him moved Sly, the Count’s best burglar, assigned to Alex as helper or handler—maybe both. They crossed the open strip between the barracks and the service buildings, a place usually swept by wind and light. Now there was only darkness and bitter cold.
“Fifteen minutes,” Sly whispered into his ear. “Then the backup generator kicks in, and if we’re still inside, they’ll shoot us on the commander’s rug.” The back door of the administration building gave way to Sly’s pick in three seconds. No magic. Just knowledge of cheap locks.
Inside, the building smelled of floor wax, old paper, and good tobacco. The smell of authority itself. They flew up the stairs, Alex’s heart pounding hard enough to blur his vision.
But his mind was clear. Fear had stepped aside for concentration. The commander’s office was right there. Sly stayed by the door, gripping a knife.
Alex stepped to the corner where the safe stood. A massive black block of steel, like a monument. He pulled the wooden listening tube from his pocket—the old medical horn stolen from the infirmary.
He pressed the wide end against the cold metal door and the narrow end to his ear. “Light,” he mouthed. Sly struck a match and cupped it so the weak flame lit only the dial.
Alex closed his eyes. In that moment, the camp, the guards, the Count, even his own life all fell away. There was only physics now. Acoustics of solid metal. Sound is a wave, and when metal rubs metal, it vibrates.
He began turning the first dial slowly. Through the tube, the mechanism sounded like a landslide. Scrape, scrape, scrape—the teeth passed the gates in a steady rhythm.
Then came the slightest break. Not even a click, really. More a change in tone. A tiny collapse in the sound wave. A resonance. “Four,” Alex whispered, and began turning the other way.
The second dial was harder. The grease inside had thickened in the cold. The sound was dull and sticky. Alex stopped breathing. Blood hammered in his ears and interfered with the listening.
He forced his heartbeat to slow. He pictured the mechanism in cross-section: springs compressing, pins sliding. “Seventeen,” he breathed a minute later.
Sweat ran into his eyes. His glasses slipped down his nose, but he couldn’t spare a hand to fix them. “Heads up,” Sly hissed. “Stairs.”
From below came the heavy stomp of boots and the beam-sweep of flashlights. The night patrol was coming up to check the important offices. “Faster, college boy,” Sly whispered sharply. “Thirty seconds.”
The match went out, and darkness returned. Now Alex worked by touch and sound alone. The third dial was the last.
His hands shook, but his fingers remembered the task. Then it came—a click loud as a gunshot to his ears. The bolt had released.
Alex yanked the handle down, and the safe door opened without a sound. On the lower shelf lay a heavy canvas bag. He grabbed it, shoved it under his coat, slammed the door shut, and spun the dial to scramble the code.
Flashlight beams cut across the hallway. “Who’s there?” an officer shouted. “Window,” Sly snapped.
Jumping from the second floor onto packed ground would mean broken legs. But under the office window, snow from the roof had piled into a deep drift. Alex knew loose snow would absorb the impact. He just had to tuck and roll.
Sly threw up the window. Frozen air hit Alex in the face. He jumped first…
