Galina glances in the rear-view mirror, then twitches the car to the right. “A what?”
“Aglen. RPG-26.”
“It was in a lorry.”
“Clearly. Stop the car.”
“Are you insane?”
“Why are we running when we can fight back? Stop the car.”
Galina mutters as she steers the car as far to the right as she can without blocking the right-rear door. Rogozhkin slides out with the RPG slung over his shoulder, then sticks his head inside. “Miss Tarasenko, I may need you. Can you step out?”
Need me for what? To take over if you keel over from blood loss? She crawls from the car, then ducks as a shell rips by and explodes a few meters ahead of them. “What?”
Rogozhkin slaps the car’s roof. “Galina, drive fast. Keep him occupied. When he’s gone, come get us.”
Galina’s face is wide-eyed shock. “What? Leave you both here? What if you can’t kill that thing?”
“Then don’t come back. Go to the West and save your husband. Turn left at the end of this road, then right onto the second dirt road. That will lead you to Novotroitske. Go.” He slams shut the door.
Carson gets it. She’d have liked to have a say in this, but she sees what he’s doing. She leans down to look through the window at Galina, who spreads her hands in the universal what now? gesture. Carson doesn’t want to be stranded here, but the BMP’s rapidly catching up and she doesn’t have time to cook up something else. So she nods and points to the west.
Galina drives off, spraying them with loose gravel.
Rogozhkin’s moved behind a shallow outcropping of rock and is preparing the RPG. Carson crowds in behind him. “Why do you need me here? You have way more experience—”
“So she’ll come back. If it’s just me, she won’t.” He peeks around the rocks, then pulls in his head almost instantly. “Ten seconds. I need you to make yourself flat against the slope. This has a backblast.”
She does as she’s told. The cannon’s boom gets louder with every shot. The shells rip past, the heat crackling the air. Black bursts kick up around the Octavia as it shrinks in the distance.
Shoot the fucking thing! Shoot!
Rogozhkin shoulders the launcher. He goes still. Then his fingers press the trigger bar. The grenade’s whoosh ends abruptly in a bang.
The BMP clatters past them. Black smoke streams out its top hatches. It slowly drifts to the left.
Thirty meters down the road, it flies off the edge of the quarry, somersaults, then disappears into the dark.
Chapter 55
The Ukrainian Army stops the Octavia just shy of the H20 highway in Novotroitske, west of the line of contact.
Carson finds their standardized, vivid green-and-brown camouflage comforting after six days of soldiers looking like they’d got their uniforms at yard sales. Not that she really cares at this point. As long as they don’t throw her in jail, they can dress like Smurfs if they want.
A sergeant in full battle-rattle flags them down as they approach a line of water-filled orange-plastic barriers. Galina opens her window without being told and hands the soldier her ID book before he asks for it.
He shines a flashlight on the passport, then on Galina’s face. “Where are you going?”
“Novotroitske Hospital.”
“Where have you been?”
“Dokuchajevsk. We were stuck—they closed the roads because of this battle thing.” She throws in a little extra attitude: wars are so inconvenient!
Carson glances toward Rogozhkin. He pretends to be asleep on the back seat, curled up on his left side so the sergeant can get a full view of the blood on his hip.
The sergeant flashes his light on Carson’s face. “Your ID?”
Carson hands him her Canadian passport, hoping he won’t notice there’s no visa or stamp for her entry. Will these guys search the car? She and Galina had cleaned it out once they got to the quarry’s western end, tossing all their long weapons (except for Galina’s shotgun) into the pit and making sure the paintings and Rogozhkin’s backpack of cash are well-buried. That doesn’t stop her gut from developing a swarm of locusts.
The sergeant hands back Carson’s passport, then pins Rogozhkin with his flashlight. “Who’s he?”
“He works for my company.” Carson lays a protective hand on Rogozhkin’s knee. “A militia took him prisoner on the other side. They stole all his papers and shot him when we were escaping. That’s why we have to go to the hospital.” The fatigue and emotional wear-and-tear in her voice are completely real. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Please?” She hates pretending to be pathetic—too many women she knows do that to get their way—but it’s the right play for now and she doesn’t have to work too hard at it.
The sergeant’s flashlight beam rests on Rogozhkin’s blood-caked hip. The otherwise-new jeans and once-pressed shirt sell the story of a Westerner caught in a bad place. The sergeant shakes his head, then waves them through with his flashlight. “Stay off the highway. It’s closed to civilian traffic.”
“Thank you, sir,” Galina says, her voice all sweetness. “And thank you for protecting us from the terrorists.”
Mashkov slumps in his folding chair and massages his temples as the drumbeat of doom overwhelms his radio headset.
Third Battalion, south of the quarry, got hit hard by Kyiv’s artillery. Then it collided with a counterattack by two full armored battalions that’s stalled the Russian units that were supposed to break the enemy lines. So much for Moscovia’s supposed military superiority.
Second Battalion lost almost ninety percent of its supplies, including nearly all its reserve ammunition. Between the shelling and Rogozhkin and his damned women, the battalion also lost fourteen fighting vehicles and dozens of men.
And the Second Battalion BMP that chased Rogozhkin along the quarry? Its comms suddenly went dark. Mashkov has no doubt what happened.
That damned Rogozhkin and his triple-damned women got away…with the brigade’s money.
Mashkov sighs heavily and rocks out of the chair. As he stretches his back, he says, “Evgeniy, whatever happened to that Russian tank unit that wandered off the line?”
Shatilov leans his palms on the plotting table, looking like he’s missing the last three pieces he needs to finish the puzzle. “No idea. It disappeared. Maybe it got caught in the barrage.”
“That would be ironic.” The offensive’s less than two hours old and it’s already in trouble. Kyiv’s army knows its business now, not like two years ago when it could hardly get out of its own way. Why are we sitting here? Why don’t they let us fight? We need a maximum push, now!
The sergeant’s voice says, “Colonel, General Kedrin is on the phone for you.”
Finally. The First Corps commander must be calling to put the brigade in the fight. Better late than never. Mashkov races to grab the receiver from the sergeant’s outstretched hand. “This is Mashkov.”
“Colonel Mashkov.” A buzz of crosstalk in the background almost drowns Kedrin’s normally soft voice. “I’m told you’ve been asking to be committed to the assault.”
“Yes, sir.” This is it! He’s going to let us fight! “We’re ready to help in any way we can. We’ve taken some losses from the shelling, but I still have one entirely uncommitted battalion and two others that are still mission-capable. The men are ready to go.”
“I see.” Kedrin sighs. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Minister has told me personally that your brigade is to stay in place. You won’t be in this fight, Mashkov.”
It’s like Kedrin reached through the line and punched him. “Sir, I don’t understand.”
“I think you do. Our…partners won’t have it. I trust you understand what that means.”
The Russians. This is their revenge for him taking back the brigade. “You need everyone you can get, sir. The offensive’s already slowing—”
“I’m well aware of the operation’s p
rogress, Colonel.” His voice has turned hard. “If I commit your brigade, our partners may ensure the offensive fails. When the operation is over, we’ll talk. There’s a lot to talk about, Mashkov. Kedrin out.” The line turns to static.
Dazed, Mashkov drifts to the open door to the farm’s gravel driveway. The cool, damp air washes over his face and helps clear Shatilov’s secondhand smoke out of his lungs.
Shatilov asks, “What was that about?”
The Makiivka Brigade’s an outcast. Mashkov’s men are shut out of the biggest operation likely to happen this year…because of him. If the operation fails, he doesn’t doubt someone will find a way to blame the brigade…because of him.
What have I done?
When he blinks his eyes clear, he sees a tank crouching at the end of the driveway. A late-model T-72, olive with no markings. No markings. Russian.
The turret whines until its 125mm gun points straight at him.
Mashkov barely has the will to breathe. “Zrada.”
Carson checks Rogozhkin into the Volnovakha Central District Hospital’s trauma center, then shuffles outside to slump on a bench under a pair of trees near the main entrance. If nothing else, the Russian has a high pain threshold—he’d ordered Galina to drive the half-hour south over back roads from Novotroitske to the “big city” of Volnovakha so he could get “proper care.”
She stares at her phone for a long time. Then she thumbs the contact for “Mom.”
Olivia answers on the first ring. “One-Two-Six, where have you been? We fretted.”
“People still fret?”
“I do. Are you well? Are you safe? I understand there’s fighting near your location.”
Carson holds up the phone to capture the muttering of heavy weapons in the distance. “I’m west of the line. I’m still breathing. I’ll be safe when I’m in Toronto.”
“Yes, of course.” Olivia clears her throat. “I’ve orders from Allyson to transfer you to her as soon as you make contact. Before I do, though, is there anything you need immediately?”
Clean clothes. Clean water. A week of sleep. Enough pain meds to make that actually work. Decent food whenever I want it. “Don’t look too hard at my expenses.” Speaking English is weird after spending almost a week using nonstop Ukrainian or Russian.
“I rarely do. Also, Nought-Nine-One landed in Kyiv last night. Do you know him?”
One of the Russian associates. “Yeah. What’s his deal?”
“He’s there to support you if you need him. Do you?”
Carson’s about to say a little late? but reconsiders just in time. “Maybe. There’s some stuff I’ll need soon. Should I ask you or Allyson?”
“What is it that you need?”
Carson tells her. It’s a longish list.
Olivia’s silent for a few beats. “I…can get those things for you. However, it’s unlikely you’d keep them long once Allyson susses it. I fear you’ll need to speak with her.”
“Figures.” Carson grinds the heel of her hand into her forehead. “Where is she?”
“Shanghai. She’s desperately trying to solicit Chinese business.” She sighs. “I’m rather aged to learn Mandarin, but needs must. Shall I connect you?”
Carson makes a mental note to someday ask Olivia how many languages she speaks. “Yeah.”
Shanghai’s five hours ahead of Donetsk, so Allyson’s wide awake and full of questions when she picks up the line. Carson gives her a report covering Friday through an hour ago. Then the grilling starts. Carson knew this would happen and wants it out of the way before she asks the boss for things that are way out-of-scope.
Allyson ends the inquisition with, “Are you well?”
“No. Thanks for waiting ‘til the end to ask.”
Allyson tsks. “Olivia informs me you need certain resources to finish the project. What are they?”
Carson goes through the list again. It’s better organized this time, but isn’t any shorter. She describes in more detail what she intends to do with each item.
Allyson’s end of the connection grows quiet, then frigid. “You expect to spend our entire profits from this project to end the project?”
Here we go. “They’re expenses. Bill the client.”
That starts another wrangle of the sort they usually have. Carson wishes she had a hundred euros for every time Allyson says she’s mentoring Carson, but the relationship’s been more like a controlling mother/rebellious daughter thing since the start. Today’s no different. They argue over every item on Carson’s wish list. Forty minutes later, Allyson’s okayed all but two minor things.
“Do you do this with Mr. R?” Allyson’s voice is all about exasperation.
“Yeah. I tell him I need something, he gives it to me. That’s what he pays me for.” Or pays himself; nearly all the money Rodievsky “pays” her comes off her father’s debt.
“He has more resources than do I.” Allyson’s throat rumbles. “We’ll speak about this when you reach Bonn.”
“Not going there. Like I said…I got things to do here first.”
Carson wakes up Galina—asleep in the Octavia—to drive about three kilometers south of the hospital to the nice-enough Comfort Hill Hotel near the city center. Her room is just as she left it.
As they unload, Galina stands with her fists on her hips and frowns. “My poor car.” The bodywork is scratched, dented, and peppered with dozens of bullet holes; the windshield is nearly opaque and the rear window’s mostly gone; the suspension’s wrecked; blood stains the front and back seats; and the driver-side mirror is missing.
Carson squeezes her shoulder. “She did her job.”
They each eat an enormous breakfast in the hotel restaurant, then walk a few blocks to the Central Market, another haphazard collection of permanent storefronts and cluttered market stalls under metal-roofed sheds. There Carson launches her version of a shopping spree: clothes, underwear, disposable razors.
Walking around more or less freely without body armor and without bracing for someone to shoot her is Carson’s working definition of paradise. She’s always liked street markets and bazaars for the people-watching and for the vibrant life they have. She needs this. She needs to decompress, to melt back into the real world.
Galina follows her around, looking like she’s about to break out laughing. She’ll hold up something to show Carson and say, “This is cute.”
“Yeah, but it won’t work with my capris.” Which she doesn’t own.
Then back to the hotel. A long, long shower with her own soap, shaving her legs and pits, washing her hair with her own shampoo. More ointment on the cuts and scrapes. Her bruises are approaching that always-attractive green-purple stage; she ignores everything below her neck as she brushes her hair. Normal is horribly underrated.
She stretches out on one of the twin beds and tells Galina, “Wake me in an hour.”
Her stomach growls her awake at one in the afternoon. Galina’s snoring on the bed next to hers.
Rogozhkin’s sitting up in his single bed when Carson steals into the hospital’s recovery ward to visit. He’s washed, freshly shaved, and alert, draped in a cotton hospital gown sprinkled with tiny pink and blue flowers. The place is reasonably clean and doesn’t smell bad; better than average for a hospital on the edge of the Third World.
He smiles at Carson. “Miss Tarasenko. I hardly recognize you dressed like a woman.”
“Nice.” Carson’s a bit embarrassed about how long it took her to choose her outfit: black dress slacks and low-heeled pumps with a long-sleeved linen blouse in cobalt blue. She perches on the edge of Rogozhkin’s bed. “How bad is it?”
“A grazing wound. Not bad, given my history, just messy and painful. They sewed it up and gave me some good German antibiotics. How are you?”
“Alive. Colorful. When can you leave here?”
“They want me overnight for observation. They keep calling me ‘Mr. Stepaniak.’ A little joke of y
ours?”
“I needed the name of a Ukrainian citizen to check you in. You don’t look like a Galina Demchuk.”
Another smile. “I’m glad you noticed.” He settles into a pillow propped against the robin’s-egg-blue wall. “You came back. I wondered if you would.”
She had, too. “I made a promise. I’ll keep it. What’s next for you?”
He pours himself a cup of water from a plastic pitcher on the wooden stand next to his bed. “I originally wanted to retire to Crimea. Have you ever been there?”
Carson shakes her head.
“Too bad. It’s quite nice. But now that I’m a dead deserter…” He shrugs. “Now I think Cyprus might be interesting. Excellent weather, the sea and beaches all around. Nice people, the Cypriots. They’re used to Russians by now—I’ll blend in. And the banks aren’t too fussy about where their money comes from.”
She knows about the last two parts. Cyprus is a favorite destination for rich Russians trying to offshore their assets. The Cypriots are very understanding about granting residence permits and passports to visitors who contribute enough money to the local kleptocracy. “That should be nice for you. Just don’t let them know that million’s all you have. Make them think you’re spreading it around and they’ll take you more seriously.”
Rogozhkin’s left eyebrow peaks. “You know how the system works there?”
“I know people who know.” Like Rodievsky. “After the bribes, most of your money will go to your new house. What will you do? Can’t see you waiting tables.”
He laughs. “Neither can I. But…” He spreads his hands. “All I’m qualified to do is kill people.”
“That doesn’t limit your options. You’re Russian.”
“True.” He leans toward her, bracing his hands on his knees. “What about you? What’s next for…Lara, is it?”
She smiles without meaning to. Flirting’s nice. “Go home. Heal. Get back in shape.”
“I didn’t notice that you’re out of it.”
“Nice. Spend a couple weeks with Yurik. I need some real combat training if I’m gonna keep doing this shit.” She waves toward the window, taking in most of the Donbass.
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