Dark Territory

by Leo J. Maloney

  “I see it,” said Alex as she took a swipe at her snow goggles. “You picking up any radio chatter, Linc?”

  “Negative. I don’t think the Ukes and the NKs will be complaining to the Russians. Did you pass any traffic?”

  “One truck,” Alex said as she slowed the bike on the bridge. The heavy steel structure was perched about fifty feet above the river, its roaring black water peppered with swirling ice floes. “If the driver saw my rifle, he probably thought I was out for some biathlon practice.”

  Linc laughed. “Diana’s very pleased, by the way.”

  “Good.”

  Linc hesitated, but he just had to ask. “What’d you feel when you hit him?”

  “Recoil,” Alex said. She got off the bike, looked around, and stamped the kickstand down. “I hate this part, Linc,” she complained.

  “Just do it,” he said. “It’s only a tool. We’ll buy you a new one.”

  “Yeah, but not this one.”

  She unslung her rifle, kissed it, and leaned through the girders. Then she let it go and watched it slowly spinning down through the darkness. She waited until it made a tiny splash and disappeared. Then she pulled out her rangefinder and got rid of that too.

  “Done,” she said.

  “Outstanding,” Linc said. “Get crankin’.”

  An hour later, she pulled into the outskirts of Ussuriysk. She was exhausted, shivering, and hungry. Her last two Power Bars hadn’t done much, and she’d finished all the water in her pocket flask. Thankfully, Linc was with her, so she didn’t have to navigate or think much. He guided her along the snow-shouldered streets of the small Russian town, past one pretty church with gleaming red onion-spire caps, and then into the mouth of a dark, slimy alleyway that had frozen bedsheets crackling from clotheslines strung across the apartments above. Two blocks down at the end of the alley, she could see the back of a tavern that must have been a hundred years old.

  Alex stopped the bike and dismounted. “Guess it’s time to dump Natasha too.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” Linc said. “She’ll get recycled.”

  “Is that a pun?”

  “Sort of.”

  She stripped out of her sniper cocoon, fur cap, and goggles, leaving her dressed in a blue-black Mountain Hardwear jacket, jeans, and boots. She found a garbage can that reeked of rotten fish and stuffed everything deep inside, including her sniper gloves—they’d be covered with gunfire residue. Then she pulled a back pack from the Ural’s saddlebag, rummaged past her photography gear, slipped into a pair of girlie-pink woolen gloves and matching ski cap, whispered “Thanks” to Natasha, and walked.

  “How’s my train timing?” she asked Linc as she clipped along the alleyway.

  “Perfect. It’s just pulling in from Vladivostok. But those things can sit in the station for two hours or be gone in five minutes. Better hustle.”

  Alex walked faster as the rear service door of the tavern loomed. She yanked it open and strode right through the steam-fogged kitchen, where a couple of Mongolian cooks stared at her. Then she pushed through the doors and into the tavern. It was long and dark, filled with rough-hewn tables and benches, with a heavy wooden bar on the right. The place was packed with nothing but men, and in one corner, a balalaika musician strummed Russian folk songs. His half-in-the-bag audience sang along while their beers slopped over their tankards.

  Alex walked up to the bar, where a huge man with a Santa Claus beard was just bringing a large shot of vodka to his lips. She snatched it out of his hand, threw her head back, and swigged the entire thing down. Then she grabbed his beard, kissed him wetly on his merry red cheek, and said, “Spaseebah!”

  “Pajalstah!” The big man laughed. His belly jiggled as Alex marched right past his approving comrades and out the front door.

  The train station was nothing—just one small stop on the Trans-Siberian’s 9,289-kilometer trip from Vladivostok to Moscow. There was only one small ticket building, closed for the night, but she already had her ticket. Her dad had told her long ago that you never went near an airport after a hit. Trains were much easier, and the conductors could be bought if you had to.

  The Trans-Siberian was just pulling in to the platform. The locomotive was a hulking steel box with a blazing light up top, two glass windshields for eyes, three red stripes across its face, and a big red Soviet star for a nose. The follow-on cars were long and silver and lined with curtained windows. The first passenger car stopped in front of her, and its door slid open. Nobody got off, and there were no other passengers on the platform. A conductor leaned out, wearing a long green woolen coat and a fur hat. He looked like a Stalin relic.

  “Passport,” he said in heavily accented English.

  Alex smiled her college girl smile and handed it up, along with her ticket. He looked at them both, glanced at her backpack, and handed them back.

  “Where you come from, young woman?” he asked.

  “Vladivostok.”

  “Um-hmm. And your profession?”

  “I’m a funeral photographer.”

  His thick eyebrows furrowed. “What is that?”

  “It’s like a wedding photographer, except the groom doesn’t move.”

  He cocked his head and smiled. “Welcome to Russia.”

  She got on.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The long, low, whistle of the train’s locomotive woke Alex from a slumber of the dead.

  She blinked at the compartment’s ceiling, unsure of exactly where she was. Then she felt the vibrations, and heard the comforting clacks of iron wheels turning, so she released the breath she’d been holding—along with the strands of a nightmare about whistling bombs falling from the sky. It was weird how real-life sounds could slither into your brain and darkly feather the edges of a dream.

  She raised her head and looked around. She was lying on a brocade divan that doubled for a bed, and was covered by a thick, maroon, down quilt. First things first; she slipped a hand under her pillow, found her Benchmade blade, then pulled the coverlet off and sat up. She was still wearing all her clothes, except for her boots, and barely remembered making her way to this compartment’s bed. It was almost like having a hangover, except she’d only been drunk on action and adrenaline—both of which were exhausting after the fact.

  Pretty nice digs, she thought.

  The sleeping compartment was small—Second Class, not First—but had all the accouterments that a bachelorette sniper needed. Her bed faced another across the way, which was piled with ornate pillows. Below the large, rectangular window was a ceramic-topped table—neatly piled with soft drinks, water bottles, and snacks, all labeled in Cyrillic. The thick, closed drapes kept the compartment bathed in a soothing golden hue, but when she reached over and flicked one aside the morning sun stabbed her eyes. She squinted hard and turned away. Apparently she’d slept all night, which was a rare treat for a person in her business.

  Alex reached for a water bottle, twisted the cap off, and took a long, cool swig. Only then did she pull the ear comm from her backpack, switched it on, and pushed it deep in her auditory canal.

  “Morning, Petunia,” said Lincoln Shepard’s cheery voice.

  “Jesus,” said Alex. “You stalking me? I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

  “Caffeine’s bad for shooters. Gives you the shakes.”

  “I’m off duty. Where am I anyway?”

  “You’re on a train.” Linc almost snickered.

  “Wise guy.”

  “Actually, you’re approaching Khabarovsk, arriving at 09:10 local time for a twenty-five minute stop.”

  “Can I go shopping?”

  “No. Wanna know how long this whole schlep takes?”

  “If you must.”

  “It’s about 2,500 miles from Vladivostok to Irkutsk, total travel time seventy-one hours. You’ve only knocked off about t
en so far.”

  “Oh God,” Alex moaned. “I’ll go out of my mind.”

  “Read a book. You’ve got a full day today, then another tomorrow, and an arrival time of 16:47 on the third day. After that you’ve got another 1,500 miles to Omsk, and that’s your exfil into Kazakhstan, but we’ll have no comms for most of that.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “There’s a patch of about a thousand miles where that train’s in dark territory—no cell towers anywhere, or uplinks from the engineer’s cab. So you better not need me for anything.”

  “Did I ever?”

  Linc didn’t laugh at that, which was the sign he was about to get serious.

  “And one more thing, Alex.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Ugh,” he grunted. “Interesting choice of words for you. Anyway, we swept that train for chatter, and there’s nothing coming up about your most recent activities. However, Russia House says there’s somebody aboard using a satellite phone.”

  Zeta Division didn’t have a full complement of translators, but instead used contractors formerly employed by the NSA. Hence, the “Russia House” moniker.

  “A satphone, huh?” Alex mused. “Maybe the user’s a ham radio hobbyist.”

  “Yeah, or FSB. So watch your six.”

  “Roger. Can I go get breakfast now?”

  “Bon appétit. And enjoy your R&R, Alex. Have to admit, I’m just a bit jealous. I heard tell that the Trans-Siberian has some breath-taking views.”

  “If I see any, I’ll let you know. After emerging from the D.T., of course.” She could practically hear him smile as she pulled the comm out, wiped it with a tissue, and returned it to her backpack. Then she pulled on her boots, slipped her ceramic blade inside the right one, and was just about to go grub-hunting when she caught a glimpse of herself in the compartment’s oval mirror.

  That’s nasty, she thought as she examined her unwashed hair. She hadn’t showered in days. Her stomach growled. Shut up, she admonished. You can wait. She pulled a thick towel from the suitcase shelf above the bed, scanned the compartment once to make sure she wasn’t leaving anything revealing behind, shouldered her backpack, and went out.

  The ladies’ was at the end of her train car, along a slim corridor lined with tall windows. A rush of bucolic Russian farmscape flashed by in waves of yellow wheat, and the car rocked side-to-side like a tugboat floating on easy swells. As she made her way, a man smiled and flattened himself against the windows to let her pass. He was a rather handsome Russian in a black turtleneck and brown woolen blazer, with swept-back blond hair and fashionable glasses. She smiled in return, a little embarrassed at her unwashed state.

  The ladies’ had a tiny shower stall. She locked the door, stripped, squeezed in, pulled the curtain, and nearly screamed when the freezing water hit her like an arctic waterfall. She broke her shampoo and rinse record—finishing in under a minute—then toweled off roughly and fast. She switched to a fresh bra, boy shorts, and socks, then jumped back into a cream cable sweater and her jeans. Finally, she put her boots back on. She wiped off the foggy mirror, peered at her face, and decided that the blush of youth required no makeup. With a quick finger-combing of her hair, she went out to follow the scents of breakfast.

  The Trans-Siberian railway was a throwback to the steamships of old, with various classes and appropriate décor—depending upon one’s culture and status. The trains were long, usually comprised of ten cars or more, some of them ancient enough to still have slat wooden floors. At the back, of course, were the Third Class cars—packed with Chinese and Siberian peasants sitting on slat benches reminiscent of church pews. These were hardy folk who could endure hours of having their rumps bruised.

  Center to the trains were the Second Class cars, commonly populated by foreign tourists or middle-class Russians, most of whom paid for sleeping berths. When they dined, they sat facing each other on padded seats across polished tables, in meal cars that resembled upscale urban diners. Finally, up front were the First Class accommodations, where the wealthy reposed in suites of bed chambers and sitting rooms, and dined in plush rolling restaurants whose chefs and wait-staff could compete with New York’s Russian Tea Room at its prime.

  All of this was mildly interesting to a twenty year-old who’d dropped out of college to become a special operations agent for Zeta Division. Dan Morgan—her father, mentor, and, at times, tormentor—had instilled in her a curiosity for classical lifestyles, all the while preparing her to mirror his experience as a former CIA agent. But as far as classics were concerned, Dad’s fascination ran more to finely tuned automobiles than cellos, so Alex had an appreciation for the curves and sheens of well-made transportation vehicles. And this train was damn pretty.

  But Alex would not be distracted by her current plush environment, as she’d learned to regard every enclosed structure, mobile or not, as a potential trap from which to escape. She didn’t care much for the fact that she’d be stuck on the Trans-Siberian for days, especially given the hit she’d just pulled off. She’d have to remain super vigilant, and, as she made her way forward in search of the Second Class dining car, she had her ear comm on again, her cell phone in her hand, and her boot knife ready to be drawn.

  As the train rolled into a screeching stop at Khabarovsk, she passed through the connector and into another berthing car, where she stopped to gaze out the windows. The station was nothing more than a long concrete slab butting up against a small station house and a row of newsstands and tourist trinket shops. The conductors had hopped down to help oncoming passengers with valises, while a throng from the train spilled out to snatch up whatever they could buy—probably the morning newspapers, snacks, and those Russian nesting dolls that now featured Vladimir Putin as top dog.

  Alex pushed on through the next “submarine” chamber and into the Second Class dining car, where a waft of sausage and eggs nearly made her swoon. The car looked like an Italian bistro plucked from Milan, with gleaming wooden tables lining both flanks, leather-backed bench seats, green brocade window curtains with tasseled sashes, and a curved ceiling of timber beams and tiffany lamps.

  At the far end was a half-circle serving bar, behind which a pretty blonde attendant in a Caribbean blue suit worked the juice and coffee machines. The car was half-full of diners stabbing at steaming eggs and fresh fruit. Alex plunked herself down at the first empty table on the right, facing the distant bar, and shortly thereafter, the train began rolling again.

  “Good morning, Miss Alex.”

  She looked up to find her “Stalin” era conductor from the night before gazing down at her. Without his long woolen coat and fur hat he looked even more like the old dictator, with a drooping moustache and thick grey hair combed back from his forehead. Now he was wearing an olive tunic with a leather cross-strap and money pouch. She smiled up at him.

  “Good morning to you, Sasha,” she said.

  He raised a bushy eyebrow.

  “How do you know this is my name?”

  “You said it was Alexander, last night, when you took me to my berth. Isn’t Sasha the nick-name for Alexander?”

  He wagged a thick finger at her. “You are very smart, for an American.”

  “Spaseebah.” She dipped her head.

  Sasha grunted and moved on to check the tickets of the newly-boarded. But the encounter chilled her a bit. He’d remembered her first name, so he probably remembered the family name on her passport as well: Morgan. She was using her bona-fide, government-issue document, a practice which, in the old days of espionage, would have been totally verboten. But ever since the advent of social media, the traditions of “cover” for intelligence agents had become more complex.

  A girl her age would have to have a Facebook page, replete with pics of herself and her “friends.” If she was using a phony name and got pinched, any cyber warrior worth his salt would do a deep reverse-im
age search and she’d be up the creek, no paddle. So sometimes, especially with a quick hit, you had to play it straight and hope for the best. Her father, being an old school spy, hated these new trends of the Great Game.

  The waitress in blue took her breakfast order, then Alex toyed with her cell as she watched two men enter the car through the door past the bar. The first was huge, with a muscle builder’s physique under a waist-length black leather jacket, sunglasses, and tight blond curls— maybe forty years old. The man behind him was ancient and bent, wearing a long woolen coat and walking with an old-style wooden cane. They took a booth near the bar on the left, with the big man’s back to her and the old man’s face in full view.

  He reminded her of someone; then she smiled inside as she remembered. Peter Conley, her father’s best friend and currently an agent with Zeta, had a poster in his office cubicle of Albert Einstein, the famous physicist. It was a totally out-of-character shot, with Einstein sticking his tongue out. This man had exactly that look—wild white mane, merry blue eyes—but without the pink appendage. For some reason, she subtly snapped a picture of him with her cell. Maybe she’d show it to Conley later for a laugh.

  As the waitress delivered her mango juice, coffee and scrambled eggs, Alex was taken aback as a man slipped into her booth. It was the same guy who’d flattened himself against the windows earlier to let her pass.

  “Dobroyoutra,” he greeted her with a charming smile.

  “Dobroyoutra,” Alex returned. “No yaneegovoryupo-russki.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “You seem to speak it very well.”

  “Only enough to get myself in trouble.”

  The man chuckled, then extended his hand.

  “I am Uri Yankovski.”

  Alex took it. His grip was firm and warm, and it was clear he was going to hold hers until she gave up her name.

  “Alex.”

  The waitress rescued her by arriving with her food. Uri smiled up at her and said, “The same,” in English, then added, “but tea for me if you please.”