Читать книгу Road Of Bones - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

Bolan and Anuchin took turns watching the docks through Captain Glushko’s old Zeiss binoculars as the Zarya completed its river crossing. There were no uniformed police officers in view, nor any gunmen obviously waiting for a chance to shoot them down before they landed on the river’s eastern shore.

Could slipping out of Yakutsk be that easy?

Bolan guessed that it couldn’t.

“They may be watching us from hiding,” Anuchin said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

He nodded. “It’s definitely possible.”

Bolan knew next to nothing about law enforcement in the Sakha Republic or Russia’s Far Eastern Federal District, but he assumed there had to be some cops assigned to Nizhny Bestyakh. Even if they were bought and paid for by the Mafiya, the FSB, whoever, they would still be placed in an embarrassing position by an open firefight on the waterfront. His enemies, if they were halfway smart, might choose to spot Bolan and Anuchin, trail them into town and choose a spot where they could close the trap without dozens of witnesses.

Or maybe they had dropped the ball again.

In which case, Bolan and the woman had an edge. They couldn’t count on any great head start, but if they had even a little time to spare, using it wisely was a must.

“Be ready when we disembark,” Bolan advised her. “If someone makes a move—”

“Hit back,” she finished for him.

“Right. And otherwise—”

“Head for the motorcycle shop.”

Their skipper had informed them of the shop’s location, with a hand-drawn map to clarify, noting that cycles could be bought or rented from the owner, who—no great surprise—was one of Glushko’s oldest friends.

“Be sure you talk to Ilya,” he insisted. “Tell him that I send you. He give you good price.”

Bolan had thanked him for the tip and watched the skipper closely to make sure he didn’t phone ahead. Their pose as lovers on a hasty getaway was thin, at best, and if the Zarya’s captain caught a whiff of bounty money he might sell them out.

Why not? A pair of strangers—one of them a foreigner, at that—meant nothing to him when his bills came due. Glushko was local, had to live in Yakutsk after they were gone. Why borrow trouble from the Mob or the authorities if he could bag a double payday from a single river crossing?

But the skipper didn’t make a call.

Which, naturally, didn’t mean he wouldn’t, once they cleared his deck. A quick heads-up to someone, maybe old friend Ilya at the motorcycle shop, and any soldiers waiting for them in the general vicinity could gather for the kill.

And it would have to be a kill. That much had been agreed. Anuchin was dead set against enduring more interrogation, and surrender ran against the grain for Bolan, going back to schoolyard brawls in childhood. Anyone who tried to stop them now would pay a price in blood.

Bolan could feel the Zarya slowing, hear its engines winding down as Glushko began his docking maneuvers. Nothing fancy for the old tub, just a gentle sidling in against a pier with old tires hanging off the side to serve as bumpers. When the hull and rubber kissed, a teenage boy came running up to help Glushko secure the mooring lines.

The soldier checked out the wharf rats who surrounded them. A motley gang of fishermen, dock hands and sailors, people looking for a bargain at the nearby fish stalls. Any one of them could have a weapon tucked away beneath a coat, a shawl or sweater. Any pair of eyes that swept the Zarya’s deck could be comparing Anuchin’s face to photographs they’d seen.

Bolan shook hands with Captain Glushko on the pier, knowing they’d never meet again, then followed Anuchin into town.

Aboard the Lena Ferry: 9:19 a.m.

“THIS JOB IS SHIT,” Viktor Gramotkin muttered.

“Just be thankful that you have a job,” Nikolay Milescu said. “That your tiny brain is still inside your head.”

“It’s not my fault Stolypin missed his damned shot at the airport,” Gramotkin said. “If I’d had the rifle—”

“Yes. You talk a good fight,” Milescu said. “Tell Levshin about it, why don’t you?”

“That bastard? I’m not scared of him.”

“Of course not,” Milescu said. “We all saw the way you put him in his place.”

“You wait. The next time he—”

“Yes, yes. Shut up and take another turn around the deck downstairs.”

“You think we missed them?” Gramotkin asked him. “Nikolay, they missed the goddamn boat!”

“Check, anyway, and stop your bitching.”

Gramotkin left him, grumbling as he moved off toward the nearest stairwell.

Thankful for the respite from complaints, Milescu scanned the upper deck once more, confirming what he knew without a second look.

A wasted effort.

They’d been first aboard the ferry when it left Yakutsk, and studied every face that boarded after them. The female sergeant from the FSB wasn’t among them, and it therefore made no sense to think her bodyguard was on the boat, either.

But they had orders. They would ride the ferry, watch and wait, until a message came from Yakutsk or from Nizhny Bestyakh to tell them the targets were spotted. Then, depending on the ferry’s position, they would either proceed at a snail’s pace to join in the hunt, or waste more time while the boat unloaded, then reloaded and retraced its path.

Milescu recognized the need for consequences when they had bungled the job at the airport in Yakutsk. Another boss might have killed them on the spot—or at least killed Stolypin, for missing his shots—but Levshin had given them a second chance of sorts. Milescu only hoped they wouldn’t be stuck midriver on the ferry when the targets showed themselves again.

There was, of course, no question that the runners would be caught. Even if they somehow evaded capture in Nizhny Bestyakh, where could they go? One miserable road was their only escape route, and how would they travel? In some junker bought or stolen off the streets? Where did they hope to go, with soldiers behind them and more waiting ahead in Magadan?

Milescu almost felt sorry for the stupid traitor and the stranger who had volunteered to help her. What a lousy bargain he had made, at any price.

Like Grigory Rybakov, Milescu thought, loaning out his soldiers to the FSB. What did the godfather hope to gain by meddling in the cloak-and-dagger world of secret agents? Wasn’t running Moscow’s underground economy sufficient challenge?

Still, it was not Milescu’s place to question orders. He had come this far from Kapotnya’s filthy streets, in the southeastern quarter of Moscow, by following directives from older, vastly richer men. Why would he break the pattern now, when it would only leave him destitute at best—or, far more likely, get him killed?

If he was told to ride the ferry day and night until the river froze, then he would ride the ferry, waiting for the targets to reveal themselves. And he would keep any objections to himself. Let Viktor Gramotkin be the lightning rod, if any word of disaffection found its way to Stephan Levshin or the boss of the Izmaylovskaya clan.

Let the blow fall on him, while Milescu smiled all the way to the bank.

* * *

YEVGENY GLUSHKO’S MAP was accurate. It led Bolan and Anuchin to the motorcycle shop, located eight blocks from the waterfront, sandwiched between a restaurant and tannery. The warring smells of spicy food and curing hides combined for an assault on the soldier’s nostrils as he watched the cycle shop from half a block away.

Once again, he found no obvious ambush waiting there.

“Ready?” he asked Anuchin.

“Ready,” she said, slipping a hand inside the pocket of her long coat where a pistol was concealed. She might have trouble getting to the submachine gun hidden in her heavy shoulder bag, but if it went to hell within the next few seconds, Bolan thought he could take up the slack with his Kalashnikov.

He stepped out of the alley first, with Anuchin covering his back, then felt her take a place beside him as they crossed the street. Pedestrians passed by, ignoring them. Bolan relaxed a little as they reached the shop and stepped across its threshold, but he still remained on full alert.

A scruffy guy in greasy coveralls, his gray hair tied back into a ponytail, approached them. Anuchin mentioned Glushko’s name and asked for Ilya, whereupon the man nodded and answered her in what appeared to be a Russian dialect.

Bolan knew he had a choice to make: reveal himself as a foreigner, or let Anuchin make the deal and hope it went all right. Without impugning her ability to rent a motorcycle, Bolan was the one who had to drive it, so the choice was made.

“English?” he asked the shop’s proprietor.

“Yes. I speak.”

“We’re heading east on the Kolyma Highway,” Bolan told him. “We need a bike that can handle the road with two people and some gear aboard.”

“The Road of Bones, eh?” Ilya answered, looking at the two of them as if they’d lost their minds. “Maybe a helicopter you should rent and fly to Magadan.”

“We want to try the scenic route,” Bolan replied. “Do you have something suitable in stock?”

“Best bike in shop for what you say is BMW,” Ilya advised. “The R1200GS dual-sport model. Come this way, I show.”

They followed Ilya to the rear of his shop, past various bikes, until he stopped before a black-and-silver machine with the familiar BMW logo on its fuel tank. Like most dual-sport bikes—also known as “on-off road” models—the R1200GS had heavy-duty suspension front and back, with fenders elevated well above the knobby tires. It had an oversize eight-gallon tank, feeding an 1170 cc two-cylinder engine. The touring package included dual stainless-steel panniers—the equivalent of saddlebags—and a rack for a pillion bag or other gear in back. The whole package measured roughly six feet long, with its swooped seat for two, three feet off the ground.

“It looks good,” Bolan told him, “but I’ll need to take it for a test drive.”

“Sure, sure,” Ilya said. “Your lady is collateral, okay?”

It had been a while since Bolan went two-wheeling, but it came back to him in a rush once he was mounted on the BMW. He rolled out of the shop in first gear, checked both ways before he nosed into traffic, then opened up the engine as he circled a couple of blocks and returned. It shifted smoothly and he had no difficulty with the brakes or throttle. Bolan estimated that the bike weighed something like 450 pounds with nothing packed in the panniers, and tried to guess how it would handle once it had been loaded, with a second passenger riding behind him.

There was literally no time like the present to find out.

Returning to the shop, he told Ilya, “I like it. So, how much?”

Ilya considered Bolan’s question, as if it had never crossed his mind before. At last, he said, “Five hundred thousand rubles. You call it sixteen grand, U.S.”

“I call it sold,” Bolan said with a smile.

Washington, D.C.: 7:35 p.m.

HAl BROGNOLA double-checked his time zones from the World Clock website on his laptop, and confirmed that it was 3:35 a.m. in Moscow. He felt a certain sense of satisfaction as he dialed the number that had been relayed to him through Stony Man.

If I don’t sleep, Brognola thought with pleasure, no one sleeps.

The distant telephone rang three times before someone picked it up. A groggy male voice muttered in French, “Who is this?”

“Harold Brognola, calling from the DOJ in Washington.”

“You’re working late,” the other man replied. “Or is it early there?”

“One or the other,” Brognola said. “I’m looking for Gerard Delorme.”

“And you have found him, monsieur.”

“With Interpol?”

“The very same, but out of uniform just now,” Delorme said.

“We need to talk on a secure line,” the big Fed advised him.

“I can scramble here,” the Frenchman said, now sounding wide-awake. “Give me a moment, s’il vous plaît.”

“Sounds fair.”

Brognola heard a buzz and humming on the line, resolved a second later as Delorme returned.

“That’s better,” Delorme advised. “You must be calling about my disaster in Yakutsk, oui?”

“Sorry to hear you lost one of your assets,” Brognola replied. “We’ve managed to redeem the other for you, but it’s touch and go right now.”

“The danger is continuing. Je comprends. I understand, of course.”

Brognola wasn’t comfortable giving details of the planned escape route to a total stranger, but he said, “My agent has an exit strategy in mind. It would be helpful if we knew the other players. Who’ll be hunting them? What kind of resources will they commit?”

“The who, I am afraid to say, is everyone,” Delorme said. “My asset, as you call her, has sufficient evidence to topple—and perhaps imprison—leaders of the FSB, the Russian Mafia and certain persons highly placed in government, together with their friends abroad.”

“That big, is it?” the big Fed asked.

“Indeed,” Delorme said. “As to resources for the hunt, who knows? I can’t predict how brazen they may be. The FSB alone has more than three hundred thousand employees. Most of them clerks, I grant you, but there is the Counterintelligence Service and Border Guard Service. Add the Militsiya and MVD Internal Troops, perhaps the Federal Protective Service…”

“Okay,” Brognola said. “I get the picture.”

“I regret to say, their chances are not good.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything that you can do to help, from where you are?”

“The Russian Federation is a member state of Interpol,” Delorme said, “which means I have a two-room office at the Lubyanka, with a secretary who makes coffee that tastes like dishwater. My function is advisory. The janitors have more authority.”

“But you know things,” Brognola said.

“Indeed. I was surprised—and gratified, I must say—when these assets trusted me enough to make contact. I served as their liaison to the FBI’s legal attaché here, in Moscow. I’m aware that contact was established with the CIA, as well, but details were withheld from me.”

“So, you’ve had no contact with either of the assets since that time?” Brognola asked.

“The woman called me when they planned to leave,” Delorme said. “Then I heard about her partner from an officer in the Militsiya. I was afraid that she would simply disappear.”

“I’m sure that was the plan,” Brognola said. “We’ve put a crimp in it, but information’s hard to come by. If you pick up anything—”

“I’ll call immediately,” Delorme said.

“I’d appreciated it,” the big Fed replied, and rattled off his numbers—office, home and cell. “Time doesn’t matter.”

“As I see, from looking at my clock,” Delorme said. “I wish your agent luck.”

He’ll need it, Brognola thought as he cut the link.

Yakutsk: 9:58 a.m.

STEPHAN LEVSHIN CHECKED the LED screen on his cell phone, failed to recognize the caller’s number, but decided to answer.

“Yes?”

On the other end, an unfamiliar voice said, “I am told you are the man to call about a certain woman and her friend?”

“Who told you that?” Levshin said, not denying it.

“I don’t remember,” the caller said. “It is either true, or not.”

“In that case, it depends upon which woman we’re discussing, and which friend.”

“I don’t have names,” the caller said, “but someone had a photograph. The woman hasn’t changed since it was taken. And a man was with her. If the person who advised me was mistaken, and there’s no reward…”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Levshin said. “A stranger calls, anonymous, and asks for money? You must understand my skepticism, eh?”

“I understand you only pay for goods collected, yes?” the stranger said. “If I direct you to the ones you seek, it cannot be an act of charity.”

“Say this, then,” Levshin countered. “If I follow your directions and collect the proper goods, you will be compensated. If you are deceiving me, it would be most unwise.”

“No threats, or it is goodbye, eh? We understand each other, without that.”

“I hope so,” Levshin said.

“All right. You need to look in Nizhny Bestyakh, at a motorcycle shop. The owner’s name is Ilya Vitruk. You’ve already missed them there, but he can tell you where they’re going.”

“What’s the address?”

Levshin’s caller rattled off a number and a street name, which he dutifully repeated.

“If your information is correct—”

“I’ll call you back,” the stranger said. “We can arrange the payment when you’re satisfied.”

The line went dead, leaving a void of doubt in Levshin’s mind. He knew his people had been circulating photographs of Tatyana Anuchin throughout Yakutsk and, more recently, in Nizhny Bestyakh. The photos had his temporary cell phone number printed on the back, for easy contact. Since he had no fear of the police, and would discard the phone as soon as he had found the runners, Levshin saw no risk to the procedure.

And, perhaps, it had paid off.

A motorcycle shop meant they were running. Eastward, since it was the only compass point available. The Lena River blocked them westward, and striking off to north or south meant running overland to nowhere, without highways. Northward lay the Arctic Circle, with perhaps a scattering of villages where they could never hope to hide. Southward lay Mongolia, but only if they crossed the Stanovoy and Yablonovy mountain ranges, with peaks above eight thousand feet and no passable roads.

So, it was Magadan or nothing for the fugitives.

Over the Road of Bones.

Levshin had calls to make, and quickly—to his people on the Lena River, and to others already scouring the streets of Nizhny Bestyakh, in case his targets had managed to cross the river unseen.

Which it seemed that they had.

The call might be a ruse, of course, even someone’s idea of a joke. If it was, the prankster would live to regret it, but not very long. Meanwhile, Levshin would treat it as a serious lead and hope for the best.

He’d scramble troops to the target and see what they found. If it paid off, then another call was necessary, to Moscow next time, for a status report to Colonel Marshak. He’d be relieved to know the net was tightening around the peasants who presumed to threaten him and those above him.

Levshin’s task was to eliminate that threat, to see that order was preserved. Success was paramount.

And the alternative, he knew, was death.