Owen eased back from his discovery and stood, taking a pull of hot water from his translucent red water pouch, glancing around as he drank. The pit in which he worked had been dug into a clearing in the Ukrainian foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. Covered in grasses and wildflowers when they arrived, most of the glade had since been cleared in a dusty hive of activity. Workers rushed around heavy canvas tents in what had been the front yard of an abandoned farmhouse offering a spectacular view of the tree covered valley floor below. For the umpteenth time, Owen couldn’t help but wonder what had caused its inhabitants to leave.
“Union break’s over.” Ernie’s voice boomed as he strode by, munching on a chocolate bar. In spite of his sweet tooth Doctor Ernst Beck, or as his friends knew him – Ernie, kept in shape. A shock of gray hair added to the physical bearing of one of the world’s leading scholars in Holocaust studies, the team leader, and Owen’s best friend. Nonetheless, even after a full month’s work under Ernie’s tireless direction the research team was hardly closer to figuring out how or why what appeared to be a squad of German soldiers had ended up in a mass grave dozens of miles from the nearest known Second World War battlefields.
Owen clambered from the pit, cradling his find. The late afternoon sun baked through his sweat stained Detroit Tigers ball cap as he carried the femur over to be tagged, cleaned, and processed at the field laboratory set up by Doctor Cynthia Davila of UC Davis. Every bit as unpretentious as Ernie, Cindy ranked as one of the top forensic biologists in the U.S.
Cindy darted into view. Her shoulder length hair had been drawn back in a ponytail that whipped after her head, mind and body brimming with the vitality of a woman half her age. Owen had once joked to Ernie that being around Cindy was like being trapped in a closet with a ferret. Ernie had smiled, and then warned him against repeating his observation. Owen’s eyes sparkled, watching her casting about, a cup of yogurt in hand, searching for a spoon.
“You can try tonguing it,” Owen said, grinning as he needled his notoriously straitlaced colleague and friend.
Cindy spun on her heels, the back of her hand wiping a bead of sweat from her bronze skin as she disappeared into her lab. She liked Owen, but often wondered when he was going to start acting like a thirty year old man and not one of her students.
An acrid antiseptic smell assaulted Owen’s nostrils as he followed Cindy inside, the door hissing closed behind. A grad student poured a powder into a sterile 15-mL conical polypropylene tube. On the stainless steel table, next to him was a significant part of a reconstructed human rib cage. Just past the remains sat an expensive Dremel multi-function rotary tool. Labeled pans marched across another table’s surface; detergent, five percent bleach, sterile distilled water, and one hundred percent ethanol. Beyond that table was yet another with a large drying rack. In the far corner of the room, a custom deep freezer hummed, quietly awaiting its latest addition.
Owen hefted the thigh bone.
Cindy pointed at a table.
Owen set it down, and turned to leave, pushing outside before the burnished door finished pneumatically opening; nearly running into Ernie striding by deep in conversation with a Polish graduate student named Anna.
“I’m telling you they’re coming back. Someone in the Netherlands even got a picture.”
“Picture of what?” Owen interrupted.
“Wolves,” Anna responded without breaking stride.
“Pack it up people.” Ernie’s voice thundered across the work site, “Ten minutes.”
Owen eyed the path leading into the forest and down to their base of operations. The town of Dibrovno sat at the bottom of the isolated valley, squeezed into a horseshoe shaped bend alongside the western bank of a sparkling blue river. A single rutted and potholed dirt road ran out from the town and to the main highway fifteen miles away. Nevertheless, in spite of its remoteness it had appealed to Owen from the start. One reason being the immense twelfth century castle located on the river’s east bank. The citadel’s highest spires overlooked red and brown roofed buildings erected on the west bank during the centuries following the castle’s construction. Stone pilings sunk in the soft riverbanks had created a labyrinthine network of basements, wine cellars, and tunnels. Cobblestoned stone steps thrust upward from countless alley ways, past intricately carved wooden doors to constricted streets.
To Owen’s continued delight, the people had proved every bit as authentic as their town. Each day, heavy set women wearing triangular babushkas and flowered aprons displayed their wares at roughhewn wooden booths set up on the main square. One could buy anything from delicate hand woven table runners and intricately patterned scarfs to blown glass vases and distinctively colored pottery. Rich and varied scents wafted across the square from any number of street vendors selling a variety of fried cheeses, steaming soups, crocks of lard filled with bacon or onions, freshly baked breads, hot doughnuts topped with crème or a choice of jams, plus endless varieties of fresh, smoked, or blood sausages.
Dibrovno should have made a hell of a tourist destination. Even so, he hadn’t seen a single tour bus or hiker since they arrived.
At that thought Owen scowled, remembering when they had arrived several weeks ago and the mayor’s strange statement that a wolf pack made it unsafe to work outside after nightfall. Owen had nearly laughed aloud but for Ernie hustling him from the mayor’s office while reminding him, “Until recently wolf attacks were not uncommon in these parts. Where do you think the legends come from?”
Owen shook his head at Ernie’s willing acceptance of the mayor’s subsequent demand that they return to town each evening before nightfall. He and Ernie had been friends for nearly a decade. At first Owen had thought their relationship was in part a reaction to the fact Ernie and his wife couldn’t have children of their own. Over the years, however, Owen realized what he had with Ernie was special. They had countless shared interests; from attending baseball games to spending afternoons playing board games like Axis & Allies to evenings discussing the world’s problems over pints of beer. So the strange look that had creased Ernie’s face that day—
Owen shook off his daydreaming as a chill passed through him. Noticing he was alone, he packed up his tools with more urgency, glancing up now and again at the overnight observation platform they had built to the mayor’s specifications, twenty-five feet off the ground and jutting out from a huge old oak tree. As Owen eyed the platform, his remembrance of the mayor’s comments made him shiver once more; even the word wolf seemed laden with an undefined if irrationally felt menace.
A loud bang caused him to jump.
He cast about, the farm house’s front door swinging back and forth, a strange feeling crawling across his skin. He stared into the home’s dark shadows, the feeling of being watched inescapable. His heart was hammering away in his chest when a pinching sensation caused him to look down to see his hands jammed hard into his jeans pockets. He pulled them free, eyes creeping back up.
An empty farmhouse stood before him, the feeling of being watched inexplicably gone.
He smiled and exhaled, feeling stupid as he grabbed his equipment and broke into a jog; anxious to catch up with everybody else.
Chapter 12
August 2016 – Eastern Ukraine
Brody swiveled in his seat, awestruck. As far as the eye could see were buildings torn apart by artillery, bombing, and missiles. Refugees, their belongings piled high on rickety pull carts or sputtering cars belching clouds of bitter black exhaust, trundled along the crumbling road’s edge.
Brody’s suspect, travelling under the name Karlovic, had been tracked to two villages. One was in the western part of the country, but the other was near the Russian border of all fucking places. After landing in Kiev Brody had been taken by helicopter to an airfield west of Donetsk. There the CIA had provided him a fake ID showing him to be a newspaper reporter and hooked him up with two reluctant but compliant reporter
s from the Washington Post. Brody’s handler, a veteran CIA field officer going by the name Brandner, had proved far from comforting.
“There’s something you should know,” Brandner had said. “This isn’t to get back to anybody else. You read me?”
Brody had nodded once in the affirmative. Go figure, the CIA holding back Intel from the Bureau.
“This guy you’re after. Karlovic. We think he’s a mercenary, but we aren’t sure. All we know is that when things get hot, he turns up. On the off chance you find him call as much back-up as you’ve got. Don’t even think about hot-dogging this one. Both times my best operators have come close to him it has gotten ugly.”
“How ugly?” Brody took a chance, “Anything strange? Maybe bodies ripped up like an animal got to ‘em?”
“Yea right,” Brandner said, his eyes widening ever so slightly in response. “I said Karlovic is a pro. That doesn’t mean he’s a monster.”
“How long have you guys been after him?” Brody said.
“Since the 70s.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you won’t find him.”
“Thanks,” Brody said, not at all trying to hide his dripping sarcasm.
“One more thing,” Brandner said.
“I can hardly wait.”
“Help never comes for free in this line of work. Don’t trust anyone.”
Brody scowled at the memory, and what had subsequently occurred. Following a bone jarring ride over roads destroyed by weeks of fighting he had reached the town where Karlovic may have gone to ground. It was a dead end.
Brody fingered his press pass, thinking again of the CIA agent’s warning as the rented van swayed back and forth, the crump of big guns rumbling in the distance. He and his new colleagues, a bearded young correspondent named Simon and his partner Ryan; an easygoing fellow of twenty-five, were trying to get back to the airfield that would take them safely away from the Eastern Ukraine even as Ryan recorded every which way he could turn his camera.
The wrecks of knocked out tanks, armored personnel carriers, and trucks lined the road in a ragged column of spiraling smoke and dead bodies. Clouds of flies buzzed over scorched human remains belching foul sulfurous gasses in the oppressively humid air. They approached a checkpoint along the river where hundreds of people streamed across a pedestrian bridge that had survived the fighting. Big military trucks thumped across wooden slats spanning pontoon floats forming a temporary vehicle crossing. Artillery fire and god knows what else had twisted the main bridge into a mangled mess, the setting sun starkly illuminating its steel girders poking haphazardly into the sky. The van braked to a halt in the heavy traffic.
Brody gazed at a woman shambling along next to the idling vehicles, her skinny arms pulling a cart piled high with her meagre possessions. Behind the cart trailed two children; a girl of about five and a boy maybe a year younger. It was the girl that had caught his attention, for whatever reason she had waved at him.
He waved back.
She smiled.
A lump formed in Brody’s throat. She had bright eyes and a blue dress once undoubtedly pretty, but soiled with dirt. He forced himself to smile back, knowing she would never come close to experiencing the sheltered upbringing he had enjoyed. At that thought, he reached into his travel bag. In spite of being a gym rat he just about never went anywhere without a treat. In this case he had picked up a roll of Lifesavers and bag of Sour Patch Kids just before leaving Detroit Metro Airport. Waving the kids over, he deposited the candy into their grateful hands. Their mother nodded her thanks.
Brody stared back, lips pressed tight, watching as they disappeared into the sea of humanity. Meanwhile, Simon was leaning out the window trying to interview the dazed combat survivors staggering along on foot. The men came from the Ukrainian army and militia, many of the latter wearing the Azov Battalion’s wolfsangel insignia. Word was the unit’s emblem was based on the badge of the former Nazi SS Panzer Division Das Reich. Though beaten, some of the men seemed hopeful; elements of a U.S. Airborne Brigade had reportedly arrived in the Western Ukraine to rebuild their ranks. Others could care less, ears bleeding from the massive concussive blasts caused by the heavy weapons that destroyed their vehicles. Brody looked past the men and into a large field next to the road, eyes settling on the carcass of a T-64 main battle tank. Despite weighing as much as a tractor-trailer the tank’s turret laid on the ground, upended and at least a hundred feet away from the burned out chassis. He willed the van onward.
Time to find the professors, with any luck he could be at their location by nightfall.
Anywhere would be safer than here.
It had to be.
Chapter 13
August 2016 – Dibrovno, Western Ukraine
The winding path sloped downhill, the team of researchers stretched out in a shambling column. The deep greens and soft brown tones of the imposing old growth canopy cooled the air, sunlight fragmenting and streaming down like laser beams to dapple across the team’s route. As they moved deeper into the valley however, the suns reach lessened and the path narrowed. The region’s population, once booming, had fallen.
On the valley floor, wild boars roamed about an abandoned homestead, gorging on cabbage and potatoes planted by a former home owner that had given up, gone elsewhere or just disappeared. After another ten minutes marching, they came upon the remaining farms clustered just outside of town. Rows of sunflowers, rapeseeds, and well-maintained fields supported modest numbers of sheep, cows, and goats munching away at the rich grasses underneath. The path opened up into a rutted trail. They passed an old man walking next to a creaking horse drawn wagon. The man’s wizened face stooped forward from a vulture thin neck and shoulders beat down by decades of back breaking manual labor. In front of another farmhouse, Owen, who had caught up with his colleagues, spotted a middle-aged woman gesticulating, sweat glistening on her flushed cheeks. Ravens circled above a large heap in the yard.
Owen sidled up next to Peter, one of the team’s helpers, “What’s she saying?”
Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head ‘no’ as he picked his way over a downed tree branch.
“Oh c’mon man,” Owen said, upping his pace to match Peter’s.
“She’s sick of it.” Peter finally responded. “Something gutted one of her pigs last night. Paw prints everywhere, big ones.” An edge creased Peter’s voice, belying his attempt to seem above the peasant woman’s old world lamentations.
Owen surveyed the exposed stone foundation and low windows. Then he turned his attention back to Peter, noticing for the first time the man’s air of semi-sophisticated weariness. “You’re not from around here?”
“I came for the work,” Peter said, tipping his blue cap up. “I ended up staying. Besides, once you ignore the rumors the town’s people are pretty friendly.”
“Rumors?”
“When I left Kiev I got ribbing from my friends,” Peter said. “This area has a bit of a history.”
“How so?”
“Silly stuff, like what a drunken uncle might say to tease a child.” He marched off, ignoring Owen’s upraised eyebrows.
A few minutes later they reached Dibrovno. Sturdy homes crowded close to the street, bright-colored perennials in wooden window boxes gamely holding their own against the heat. The river gurgled over rocks polished smooth by its relentless waters. The team split up in one’s and two’s, heading off to their rented rooms, or maybe for a drink and bite to eat. Owen’s stomach growled. He yelled over his shoulder toward where Ernie had been lagging behind, “How about dinner after we drop off our stuff?”
Nobody replied.
“Ernie?” Owen turned.
His friend stood in the middle of the street, hands resting on canted hips as he stared at one of Dibrovno’s foremost landmarks. The Church of the Holy Cross was a Romanesque stone building dati
ng back to the town’s earliest days. Ernie, a monthly parishioner when at home, had been visiting every morning before work. When Owen had inquired about Ernie’s renewed piousness he had demurred. Owen, not being one to push things, let it go. Nevertheless, Ernie’s peculiar behavior was getting wearisome. Owen walked toward his friend as he eyed a richly painted fresco where the outer wall’s moss was studiously kept at bay. He reached out his hand and grasped Ernie’s shoulder.
Ernie jumped, but recovered quickly, “Did you know that a Cossack raiding party burned this church down 700 years ago?”
“We’ve discussed that siege,” Owen said. “Something on your mind?”
“You ever wonder if we’re it?”
“It?”
“Yea, the end of the evolutionary line,” Ernie said. “As good as it gets.”
“Compared to what?”
“I don’t know,” Ernie said. “Maybe people are holding some assumptions that might not be true. For instance, what do you think happened to those German soldiers?”
“Who knows,” Owen said. “Besides, that’s Cindy’s job. Our job is to identify who they were.”
“Grow up. Cindy’s under a ton of pressure, and in case you forgot we’re a team.”
Owen flushed red, but before he could apologize Ernie walked off.
Owen skulked after him. The sound of up tempo folk music and voices filtered toward him from the main street ahead.
Rounding a corner Owen shouldered his way to the front of a decent-sized crowd, slipping past grinning men in black vests and laughing women in flowered skirts watching a group of people dancing down the middle of the street. In the midst of it all, a reed-thin man with a mane of silver streaked hair hopped about and laughed as he energetically sawed back and forth on a violin. Next to him a teenager played a pan flute. Another carried a black accordion, his fingers dancing back and forth on the white keys flashing in the diminishing sunlight. Farther back a middle-aged man meandered through the edge of the crowd, strumming a guitar like instrument. Amidst the band dancers swirled, women and men smiling and perspiring as their feet skipped to the music’s rhythm. Owen gestured at the last man, a questioning look on his face as he made eye contact with Ernie.
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