“The only person with that information was the contact you’re supposed to meet in Perm.”
“Who’s that?”
She didn’t answer immediately, and Tucker knew why. If Felice Nilsson got her hands on Tucker, the less he knew, the less he could divulge.
“Forget I asked,” he said. “So the leak is either my contact or someone he told.”
“Most likely,” she agreed. “Either way, it has to be Abram Bukolov they’re after. But the fact that Ms. Nilsson is on that train rather than out in Perm, pursuing our contact, that tells us something.”
“It tells us whoever is paying her wants this to play out for some reason. This isn’t all about Bukolov himself. Maybe it’s something he has . . . something he knows.”
“Again, I agree. And trust me when I tell you this: I don’t know what that could be. When he contacted us, he was tight-lipped. He told us only enough to make sure we’d get him out.” A moment of contemplative silence stretched, then she asked, “What’s your plan? How do you want to play this?”
“Don’t know yet. Assuming those leather jackets I saw at Khabarovsk were hers, they were in a hurry, and I think I know why. The next stop on this route is at the city of Chita, a major hub, where trains spread out in every direction. They had to tag me in Khabarovsk or risk losing me.”
“Do you think her men got aboard?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll have a look around. I wonder if part of their job was a distraction—a spectacle to let Felice slip aboard without fuss.”
“Either way, you can bet she’s in contact with them. You said there were no other stops before Chita?”
“Afraid not.” Tucker checked his watch. “We’ll arrive in two and a half days. I’m going to check the route map. If the train slows below thirty miles per hour, and the terrain is accommodating, we can roll off. It’s the surest way to shake Felice off my trail.”
“You’re getting into the mountains out there, Tucker. Take care you don’t tumble off a cliff.”
“Glad to know you care, Harper.”
“Just worried about the dog.”
He smiled, warming up to this woman. His image of the battle-weary librarian was developing some softer edges, including a glint of dark amusement in her eyes.
“As to Felice Nilsson,” she continued, “don’t kill her unless you have to.”
“No promises, Harper, but I’ll keep you posted.”
He disconnected and looked down at Kane, who was upright in his seat by the window. “How does a little backcountry romp sound to you, my friend?”
Kane tilted his head and wagged his tail.
So it’s unanimous.
As the train continued chugging west toward Chita, Tucker spent the remainder of the day strolling the train, twice bumping into Felice. They chatted briefly. Both times she deftly probed him about his plans.
Would he be heading directly on to Perm?
What would he do when he got there?
Which hotel had he booked?
He deflected his way through her questioning with lies and vague responses. Then he spent the rest of the afternoon seeking an easy place to jump from the train.
Unlike Hollywood portrayals, one could not simply open a window or slip out between cars. While in motion, all the train’s exits were locked, either directly or behind secure doors. Such security left Tucker with two choices. Either he remained aboard and attempted to shake loose of Felice at the Chita station, where she likely already had accomplices lying in wait—or he discovered a way to get through those locked exits and leap blindly from the train in the dead of night.
Not great choices.
Still, in the end, he had little trouble making the decision, leaning upon his military training and mind-set. It came down to a simple adage drilled into him as an army ranger.
Act, don’t react.
7
March 8, 11:03 P.M.
Trans-Siberian Railway
With the night darkening the berth’s windows, Tucker made his final preparations. He had spent the last few hours of daylight walking through his plan, both mentally and physically, rehearsing his movements, along with timing and tracing the routines of the staff.
After one final task—a bit of breaking and entering—he called Ruth Harper.
“Did you get the photos I took of Felice’s papers?”
Earlier in the day, he had snuck into her berth while she was out. He rifled carefully through her bags and compartments, discovering four passports, her credit cards, and a Swedish driver’s license. He took photos of them all with his cell phone, left the room as tidy as he had entered it, and sent them to Sigma command. He wanted to know all he could about his opponent.
“Yes, we got the pictures and are running them through our databases.”
“Hopefully, by the time you finish that, whatever you find will be irrelevant.” Because he didn’t plan to still be on the train by then. “In forty minutes, the train will have to slow down for a hairpin turn along the river outside Byankino.”
“Which is where exactly in the vast expanse that is Siberia?”
“About three hundred miles east of Chita. A lot of small villages lie nearby and even more forest. That means lots of territory to lose ourselves in.”
“I assume you don’t mean that literally. The downside of such isolation is that you’re going to have trouble finding transportation to Perm—at least low-visibility transport.”
“I think I’ve got an idea about that.”
“You know the saying: No plan survives first contact with the enemy.”
Tucker pictured Felice’s face. “We’ve already made contact with the enemy. So it’s time to get proactive.”
“Your call. You’re on the scene. Good luck with—”
From the door to his berth came a light knocking.
“I’ve got company,” he said. “I’ll call when I can. In the meantime, nothing to our friend in Perm, agreed?”
He didn’t want his new itinerary—improvised as it was—leaked out to the wrong ears.
“Understood,” Harper acknowledged.
He disconnected, walked to the door, and slid it open.
Felice leaned against the frame. “I trust it’s not past your bedtime?”
The expression on her face was one of coy invitation. Not too much, but just enough.
Well practiced, he guessed.
“I was just reading Kane a bedtime story.”
“I had hoped you’d join me for a late-night snack.”
Tucker checked his watch. “The dining car is closed.”
Felice smiled. “I have a secret cache in my berth. We could debate the literary merits of Anna Karenina.”
When Tucker didn’t immediately reply, Felice let a little sparkle into her eye and turned up the corners of her mouth ever so slightly.
She was very good, doing her best to keep her quarry close.
“Okay,” he said. “Give me ten minutes. Your berth is . . . ?”
“Next car up, second on the left.”
He closed the door, then turned to Kane. “Plans have changed, pal. We’re going now.”
Kane jumped off his seat. From beneath it, Tucker pulled free the shepherd’s tactical vest and secured it in place. Next he opened his wardrobe, hauled out his already-prepped rucksack, and shoved his cold-weather gear—jacket, gloves, cap—into the top compartment.
Once ready, Tucker slowly slid open his berth door and peeked out. To the right, the direction of Felice’s berth, the corridor was clear. To the left, an elderly couple stood at the window, staring out at the night.
With Kane at his heels, Tucker stepped out, slid the door shut behind him, and strode past the couple with a polite nod. He pushed through the glass connector door, crossed the small alcove between the two carriages, and pushed into the next sleeper car. The corridor ahead was thankfully empty.
Halfway down, he stopped and cocked his head. Kane was looking back in the direction th
ey’d come.
Somewhere a door had opened, then banged shut.
“Come on,” Tucker said and kept walking.
He crossed through the next sleeper car and reached a glass door at the end. Beyond it, he spotted the small alcove that connected this carriage with the baggage coach.
As he touched the door handle, a voice rose behind him, from the far end of the corridor. “Tucker?”
He recognized her voice but didn’t turn. He slid open the door.
“Tucker, where are you going? I thought we were—”
He stepped into the alcove with Kane and slid the glass door closed behind him. The shepherd immediately let out a low growl.
Danger.
Tucker swung around and locked eyes with a porter sharing the same cramped space, standing in the shadows off to the side. He immediately recognized the man’s hard face, along with his deadly expression. It was one of Felice’s team. The man had exchanged his black leather duster for a porter’s outfit. Equally caught by surprise, the man lunged for his jacket pocket.
Tucker didn’t hesitate, kicking out with his heel, striking the man in the solar plexus. He fell back into the bulkhead, hitting his skull with a crack and slumping to the floor, knocked out.
He reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out a Walther P22 semiautomatic; the magazine was full, one round in the chamber, the safety off. He reengaged the safety and shoved the P22 into his own belt, then rummaged through the man’s clothes until he found a key ring and an identification badge.
The picture it bore didn’t match the slack face before him, but Tucker recognized the photo. It was the porter who had shyly petted Kane when they had first boarded. With a pang of regret, he knew the man was likely dead. Felice and company were playing hardball.
Tucker took the keys, spun, and locked the connector door just as Felice reached it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, feigning concern, a hand at her throat. “Did you hurt that poor man?”
“He’ll be fine. But what about the real porter?”
Doubt flickered in Felice’s eyes. “You’re talking crazy. Just come out and we can—”
“Your English accent is slipping, Ms. Nilsson.”
Felice’s face changed like a passing shadow, going colder, more angular. “So what’s your plan then, Mr. Wayne?” she asked. “Jump from the train and go where? Siberia is hell. You won’t last a day.”
“We love a challenge.”
“You won’t make it. We’ll hunt you down. Work with me instead. The two of us together, we can—”
“Stop talking,” he growled.
Felice shut her mouth, but her eyes were sharp with hatred.
Tucker stepped away from the door and unlocked the baggage car. He pointed inside and touched Kane’s side. “SCENT. BLOOD. RETURN.”
His partner trotted into the darkened space. After ten seconds, Kane let out an alert whine. He reappeared at Tucker’s side and sat down, staring back into the baggage car.
Tucker now knew the true fate of the unfortunate porter.
“We’re leaving,” he said to Felice. “If you’re lucky, no one will find the body before you reach Chita.”
“Who’s to say you didn’t kill him?” Felice said. “He caught you burglarizing the baggage car, you killed him, then jumped from the train. I’m a witness.”
“If you want to draw that kind of attention to yourself, be my guest.”
Tucker turned, stepped over the limp body of her partner, and entered the baggage car, closing the door behind him.
Kane led him to the porter’s body. The man had been shoved under a set of steel bulkhead shelves. Judging from the bruising, he had been strangled to death.
“I’m sorry,” Tucker murmured.
He donned his jacket, gloves, and cap, then slung his rucksack over his shoulder. At the rear of the car, he used the porter’s keys to unlock the metal door. It swung open, and a rush of wind shoved him sideways. The rattling of the train’s wheels filled his ears.
Directly ahead was the caboose door.
With Kane following closely, Tucker stepped onto the open platform, shut the door behind him, then unlocked the caboose and stepped into the last car. He hurried across to the rear, through the last door—and a moment later, they were at the tail end of the Trans-Siberian Express, standing on a railed catwalk.
Beneath them, tracks flashed past. The sky was clear and black and studded with stars. To their right, a slope led to a partially frozen river; to their left, scattered snowdrifts. The locomotive was chugging up a slight grade, moving well below its average speed, but still much faster than Tucker would have liked.
He tugged the collar of his jacket up around his neck against the frigid night.
At his knee, Kane wagged his tail, excited. No surprise there. The shepherd was ready to go, come what may. Tucker knelt and cupped Kane’s head in both of his hands, bringing his face down close.
“Who’s a good boy?”
Kane leaned forward, until their noses touched.
“That’s right. You are.”
It was a routine of theirs.
Standing but keeping a grip on Kane’s vest collar, Tucker navigated the catwalk steps until they were only a few feet above the racing ground. He poked his head past the caboose’s side, looking forward, waiting, watching, until he saw a particularly thick snowdrift approaching.
“Ready, boy?” he said. “We’re gonna jump! Steady now . . . steady . . .”
The snowdrift flashed into view. Tucker tossed his rucksack out into the darkness.
“GO, KANE! JUMP!”
Without hesitation, the shepherd leaped out into the night.
Tucker waited a beat, then followed.
8
March 8, 11:24 P.M.
Siberia, Russia
Tucker immediately realized all snowdrifts were not alike, especially in Siberia. Having gone through weeks of thawing and freezing, the drift’s face had become armored by several inches of ice.
He hit the frozen surface hip-first, hoping to transition into a roll.
It was not to be.
He crashed through the top of the berm before his momentum flipped his legs up and over his head, sending him into a somersault down the drift’s rear slope. He slammed onto his back and began sliding on his butt down the long, steep surface, his heels stuttering over the ice-encrusted snow. He tried jamming his elbows into the drift, to slow himself, but got no traction. To his right, alarmingly close, rose a lizard-back of boulders.
Above him, he heard a growl. He tipped his head back in time to see Kane’s sleek form come galloping down the slope. The shepherd was there in seconds and clamped his teeth into Tucker’s jacket collar. Once latched on, Kane sat down on his haunches and lifted his head, his strong back muscles straining to take Tucker’s weight.
Ahead and a few feet to the right, a sapling jutted from the snow. On impulse, he swung his left leg out, curled it, and hooked the trunk with his ankle. The momentum whipped him around, dragging Kane along, too, before jerking them both to a sudden stop.
All was quiet.
Tucker lay perfectly still and mentally scanned his body. Nothing seemed broken. He could feel Kane’s weight hanging from his collar.
“Kane? How’re you doing, pal?”
The shepherd replied with a muffled growl that Tucker recognized as roughly, Okay, but now it’s time for you to do something about this.
“Hang on, give me a second . . .”
Tucker lifted his hips, freeing his right leg from under his butt, then extended it and hooked it around the sapling trunk above the other ankle. He set his teeth, flexed his legs, and dragged himself and Kane up the slope until he could reach out and grab the sapling with his left hand. He then reached back with his other arm and snagged Kane’s vest.
The shepherd unclamped his jaws, and with Tucker’s help, Kane scrabbled up the slope, his nails scratching on the ice until he reached the sapling.
&nbs
p; Finally, Tucker let his legs uncurl and swung his body around, his feet again facing downhill. He slammed his heels into the ice several times until he had formed adequate footholds, then sprawled back to catch his breath.
Kane gave his hand a lick: relief and reassurance.
Tucker sat up and got his bearings. While plunging headlong down the slope in almost complete darkness, the angle had seemed precipitous. Now he could see the grade was no more than twenty-five degrees.
Could be worse . . .
To their right, fifty feet away, a line of skeletal birches and heavy Siberian pines snaked down the slope. Far below, a dark smudge ran perpendicular to the incline.
A river. But which one? For every charted stream and lake in Siberia, a dozen more were unrecorded and unnamed. Still, rivers meant civilization. Follow one and you’ll inevitably find the other.
But first he had to find his rucksack. All his supplies were inside it.
He looked around, scanning the snow, but saw nothing. It was too dark to make out any fine details. And unimpeded, his rucksack could have rolled all the way down to the river, taking with it everything he needed to survive in this harsh climate.
He had only one hope: to borrow someone’s keener eyes.
Tucker turned to Kane. “SPOT RUCKSACK,” he ordered.
Thankfully, rucksack was one of Kane’s thousand-word vocabulary. When traveling, most of Tucker’s worldly possessions—and survival tools—were contained in that pack.
After twenty seconds, Kane let out a low-key yelp.
Tucker twisted around and followed Kane’s gaze uphill and sideways, toward the tree line. Even with Kane’s guidance, it took Tucker another thirty seconds to spot it. The rucksack had become wedged into the fork of a white-barked birch tree.
He rolled onto his hands and knees, grasped Kane’s vest collar with his left hand, then began sidling toward the tree line, kicking toeholds into the ice as he went. It was slow work, eating up too much time. Halfway there, Tucker realized Kane needed no support. The shepherd’s nails worked as natural pitons.
Working together, they reached the forest of Siberian pines and birches. Under the shelter of the bower, the snow was powdery and soft. Leaving Kane propped against a trunk, he climbed upward and angled toward the tree into which the rucksack was wedged.
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