Nothing mattered now but the film. Without that precious item everything he had done, all that Katia had worked for, had been for nothing. He had to hope Katia could keep the pair of Russians busy long enough for him to somehow find the film on the downed man. It was a desperate gamble, and with every step he expected to feel bullets tearing into him. He ran in a crouch, hoping that if he kept low enough the passenger with the Kalashnikov would not be able to fire at him without the risk of hitting the fallen man. The driver was running hard towards him, slipping in the snow of the draw as he came. There was a torrent of sound: Katia’s voice shouting something, the crack of the Colt firing, the rattling bark of an AK-47. He was close now, but so was the second man.
He pulled the stiletto out and snapped the blade open, flinging himself the final few steps towards the fallen man who lay on his stomach, his body contorted by the fall. But snow fountained upwards as a slug tore into the ground bare inches away from the unconscious man’s head, and he heard a man’s voice shouting in desperation. That shot wasn’t at me—it was at Katie’s contact! Who the hell fired that shot?
Tyuratam Gulag, Kazakhstan
“Stop!”
The sound came from the truck, a hoarse, ragged scream. As Hardin prepared himself for a leap onto the driver, only feet away across the still form of Katia’s fallen contact, he saw the man lining a pistol up with his head. The shout came again, a desperate sound that commanded attention.
“Stop!”
The driver halted. Hardin stopped as well, his feet deep in snow and almost touching the fallen man’s right hand. The motorcycle lay a few meters away, steam rising as the pipes and hot cylinders melted the snow. He stared full into the dark, round barrel of his assailant’s pistol. He held his stiletto ready, preparing to throw himself aside and lunge for the man’s legs. The man facing him was a youth; his chest was heaving from exertion, but the pistol did not waver.
For a breathless moment there was no sound.
Nobody moved.
The passenger, the one who had shouted, stepped slowly into the light cast by the truck’s headlights. Katia saw his figure in silhouette, saw the dull wood and metal gleam of the AK-47 in his hand. Stepping slightly away from the dilapidated structure she ensured he could see the heavy gun in her hand.
“Dmitri!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “Stay where you are. Don’t do anything stupid, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” the young man called back. His pistol did not waver.
“Do not come any closer, Colonel Ushakov,” Katia called, hoping the nervousness she felt did not show in her voice. “If you do I’ll shoot my contact through the head.”
Hardin did not take his eyes off the pistol pointing at him.
“I have a shot,” the youth called back. “I can take him.”
“Are you sure, boychik?” Hardin murmured, his voice hard, his body crouched and tensed for a leap. “Are you faster than I am? One shot is all you’ll get. If you can’t kill me in one shot I’ll kill you before you can fire a second.”
The commanding shout came again. “Dmitri! You will do as I tell you! Lower your weapon.”
The youth was perspiring but did not lower the pistol. “I can’t. I can’t. If I do he’ll come for me.”
“Babushka! Call off your man so we can talk.”
“Do as he says,” Katia called.
Hardin fixed his eyes on the youth. “You lower your weapon, and I’ll stand up.”
“You stand up first.”
“Then we do it together. Agreed?”
The youth thought for a second, then nodded. “Yes.”
The tension was stifling. Slowly Hardin rose from his crouch, and as he did the youth gradually lowered his gun.
Tyuratam Gulag, Kazakhstan
“I can kill my contact, Colonel Ushakov.” Katia’s heart was pounding and her breath came hard and fast. “I have a shot. From where I stand I can put a bullet into his head.”
“Privyet, Katerina,” the stocky KGB officer called easily, his voice calm, his stance carefully neutral. His hands were still on the weapon but he made no attempt to raise it. “That’s your name, isn’t it? We seem to have a situation. You can kill Loginov, but Dmitri can kill your pilot friend.”
He knows my name. But he does not know John is an American. That he must not find out. He knows he is a pilot though—the PVO must have reported the incident and he has guessed the truth. “If he tries my first shot will kill my contact. My second will kill you. And I think you need my contact alive.”
The silhouette of Colonel Ushakov shrugged easily. “Alive or dead, it makes no difference to me.”
“I think it does. I believe you hit my contact, not the motorcycle, when you fired your weapon. He hasn’t moved but I believe he is still breathing. That’s your prize, your promotion, even your ticket out of the Lubyanka if you’re in enough trouble with your superiors. And I think you are, Colonel Ushakov. That’s why you’re here yourself and not some subordinate. That’s why you leapt out of the truck the way you did. You have a personal stake in this and you need him alive, don’t you? Since you have wounded him he is no good to me. But take note, Colonel, your prize is probably bleeding to death as we speak, depending on where you hit him and I can’t tell that from where I am. At the very least he is in shock. If you delay I may not need to shoot him at all.”
“He’s still breathing,” Hardin affirmed, looking down at the man lying prone in the snow at his feet. “He’s bleeding, but he’s still alive.”
There was a long moment of silence before Ushakov spoke again, his voice now tense. “All right, you’re correct. I do need Loginov alive. What do you propose we do about this?”
She did not dare converse with this man more than she absolutely had to. She could feel the keen intelligence in the words he spoke, knew that he was trying to get her measure, learn about her. How badly did he want this man alive? As badly as she suspected? She had gambled that such was the case, but her bluff had worked. All has gone so far wrong. She knew she was now going to have to give up her contact. Angry tears stung her eyes as she called out, “We’re going to make a deal, Colonel Ushakov.”
“What’s your deal?”
“You get the man you call Loginov. You get the camera we both know he carries, but I must have the film.”
“No deal,” he called flatly. “He is no good to me without the film.”
“Then I will shoot him and at least one more of you, either you or your boychik.”
“You would make me an accomplice,” he shouted angrily. “How can I make such a bargain? How can I just turn State secrets over to you? I cannot do as you ask, babushka!”
Tyuratam Gulag, Kazakhstan
Hardin listened as they conversed, never taking his eyes off the man Ushakov had called Dmitri. He was young and scared, but Hardin wasn’t sure he could kill the young soldier before being shot himself. If Katia’s bargaining did not go well, however, he would have to try. He did not, very badly did not, want to see her fail.
“Would you rather shoot it out and risk getting nothing?” Katia’s voice was hard and cold.
“I would prefer that to giving you the film.”
As the bargaining went on he became aware of a very slight motion in the deep snow around his left boot. His heart raced but he kept his eyes locked on Dmitri’s. Was Loginov’s hand moving? Or was he imagining it?
Tyuratam Gulag, Kazakhstan
He had learned the trick with cigarettes long ago. It always made his comrades laugh to see one materialize in his hand. Just like magic, they said. Aleksei in particular had been fascinated by his sleight of hand. The way of it was easy enough, it just took a little practice. Now he could do it in his sleep.
He grinned inwardly, supremely pleased as he felt his life slowly ebbing away. With the last of his strength he would do it again.
One last magic trick.
Tyuratam Gulag, Kazakhstan
“I can’t accept Loginov without the
film,” Ushakov shouted, his voice filled with frustration and rage. “I can’t make that bargain, babushka. It is impossible for me. I would be pissing away everything! You must know that.”
Abruptly Hardin spoke, his voice flat. “It’s no good. He’ll never agree to it. Make a deal for the motorcycle.”
Fury raged in her and tears burned her eyes, but she knew he was right. There was no way to convince Ushakov to part with the film; he was willing to die rather than concede, and whatever the outcome then Hardin would certainly die, either by the young soldier’s gun or Ushakov’s.
She was not willing to face that.
“Do as I say,” Hardin repeated quietly.
“I would agree to give you the motorcycle in exchange for Loginov, the camera and the film,” Ushakov called. “And I will do something else, babushka, so that you will not choose to shoot, because I think you still might. I can ensure you will not be pursued.”
“How will you do this?”
“I cannot have it known that I made a deal like this with you. Even though I have Loginov, if it is learned I bargained for him I will be imprisoned. So I must ensure that no knowledge of this ever gets out. No one will ever know your name when I file my report.”
She stood silently in the snow, unable to reply. Her heart pounded as visions of the actions she had taken, the friends she had knowingly condemned to death, spun before her. All the guilt she had forcibly repressed welled upward, catching in her throat and forcing tears from her eyes. She had been strong because of the hope that her mission would be successful, but now her strength was being taken from her and she could not bear it. Her ideals would vindicate her from the guilt of what she had done to Ilia, Genrikh and the others, but those ideals rested on the small camera hidden in Loginov’s pocket. Without that success all had been for nothing.
“Why would you make such a bargain with me?” she called. But she already knew the answer.
“Let us say I need him that badly. I know you struggle with this, Katia,” Ushakov called. “But you are not leaving empty-handed. In exchange for what I want I am willing to give you freedom—do you have any concept of the compromise I am making? Do you understand what I am giving away? I would be executed for making such a deal with you. But I must, don’t you see? I cannot get Loginov without exchanging something of value and I have few options. So this is my deal: your freedom for Loginov. I urge you to accept my offer before I think better of it.”
“Do it,” Hardin ordered as the wind drove the snow into the beams of the headlights. “I’m not prepared to take a bullet over this.”
She felt broken and drained. She could not restrain the cold tear that slid down her cheek. “Very well. I agree.”
“May I take up my prisoner?”
“One more thing, Colonel. If you think to get in your truck and run me down or run the motorcycle over, I will do enough damage to your engine to strand you out here and your prisoner will die. You will back down the hill, turn at the bottom, and go on your way.”
“Dmitri,” Ushakov called steadily. “Put your weapon away and pick up Loginov.”
Hardin took a step back. Dmitri slowly slid the pistol into a pocket of his overcoat, then bent and hoisted the limp form of Loginov out of the snow and onto his shoulder. Katia kept the Colt fixed on Ushakov’s chest as Dmitri turned and retreated through the snow towards the truck. She saw that her contact was wearing an Army uniform, though it was a bit too small for him. A bloody patch on his lower left side indicated the bullet’s entry point and a stone had gashed his head when he fell, probably causing a concussion or worse.
“I know this is difficult for you,” Ushakov called after a moment as he stepped up onto the running board, hanging onto the open door.
“To every high mountain there is a higher one, Colonel Ushakov.”
“I suppose there must be. You played the game well. I would urge you now to leave the Soviet Union.” For a moment his eyes locked on hers. “Dasvidanya, Katia Bekturov. Good luck.”
“Dasvidanya, Colonel Ushakov.”
Dmitri slung the limp man into the front seat, stepping in after him and slamming the door. Ushakov entered and the truck’s powerful motor turned over, coughing smoke as it caught. Slowly the truck backed away down the hill, turned around and disappeared, leaving the gulag once more in darkness.
Tyuratam Gulag, Kazakhstan
Dmitri steered east across the dark, snowy steppe, returning to Baikonur at a pace slightly more sedate. Ushakov removed his belt and secured the unconscious Loginov’s hands, taking Dmitri’s belt to secure the scientist’s feet. A bullet from the AK-47 had struck Loginov in the side but the exit was clean. He could not tell what internal organs might have been hit. There was a deep gash in Loginov’s forehead where it had apparently struck a rock and the skull might have been fractured. The man’s breathing was ragged and shallow. Ushakov took a dirty rag from the seat beside him and wadded it against the bullet wound, but didn’t dare touch the head injury. That done, he rifled the pockets of Loginov’s coat until he found what he sought. Carefully he drew out a small plastic-wrapped Minox camera, the silver casing cracked where Loginov had fallen on it. Relief flooded him; only when the camera was out of the plastic and resting in his palm did he realize he had been holding his breath. “There it is. I was almost tempted to doubt it, Dmitri. Right up to the end. Almost.”
“Are we going back for them now?”
Ushakov stared thoughtfully out over the dark steppe. “No, Dmitri. We are not.”
“But why? If you get them, then no one will care what deal you made.”
“Honor among thieves, comrade,” he replied. “Honor among thieves.”
He flipped the tiny camera over and opened the film compartment.
His heart stopped. There was no film in the Minox.
Dmitri slammed his foot on the brakes and the truck’s wheels locked. The truck skidded sideways on the steppe and came to a halt.
“Where did it go?”
“I don’t know, damn it. What did you see back there? Is there any way Loginov could have given it to that pilot?”
“I don’t know,” Dmitri responded wretchedly. “I was watching the pilot the entire time, not Loginov. But I don’t think he moved. He looks in bad shape; there’s no way he could have gotten the film to that pilot without my knowledge.”
“He must have thrown it away onto the steppe when he realized he would be captured,” Ushakov mused quietly. “Shit. He would be such a man to do that, he’d know the trouble it would cause me. We’ll never find it now.”
“What will that mean for us?”
Ushakov thought quickly. Losing the film meant trouble. But how much trouble? He would be questioned for failing to search Loginov when he apprehended him…but he could not search him when the babushka had her gun pointed at him, nor had he thought to. Another blunder! He had not considered the possibility that Loginov might have gotten rid of the film. And the bargain he had made must never be learned or he would not last long. Timofeev knew of the babushka but not her name, and Timofeev had learned to avoid curiosity. What could he do if Loginov had thrown the film away? In truth there was nothing he could do except interrogate the man, and Loginov was tough enough that he would never divulge the fate of the film, possibly even if drugs were used. If he survived his injuries, and that did not seem certain.
But what if Loginov had somehow managed to give the film to the pilot? Like Dmitri, Ushakov did not see how that was possible. The pilot had not had time to do anything, he had been too busy worrying about Dmitri. He had not touched Loginov, nor had Loginov moved after hitting the ground. There had been no time to affect a transfer, so he must have thrown the film away. And for Ushakov to remain above suspicion, it would have to look as though there had been a struggle, leaving Ushakov somehow unable to conduct a thorough search. Had that truly been the case, the onus to search would have been Dmitri’s. Some amount of blame would fall on Dmitri for failing to conduct a thorough sear
ch. But Dmitri was not trained in such matters; Ushakov could protect the young soldier. They would be in the clear, and the only wrinkle to his plan would be in the event that Loginov regained consciousness and revealed something untoward. But he had friends in the depths of the Lubyanka from his time posted there. Friends who would look out for his interests.
Now he wished he’d let Katia shoot the bastard.
“Should we go back?”
“No. We’d never find it and the babushka won’t be there anymore. She doesn’t have it anyway. She wept when she agreed to my terms, and you can’t fake something like that. For all that she is a traitor and a spy, she dealt honorably with me. And you had her pilot friend pinned the entire time. No, they do not have the film. Loginov threw it away. Get out of the truck, Dmitri.”
The youth complied without question. Ushakov stepped down into the snow, meeting Dmitri in the harsh gleam of the truck’s headlights. The big engine rumbled; snow was falling heavily and the wind was blowing hard from the north, making visibility difficult. “I can only see one way to get out of this without being interrogated ourselves, Dmitri. You’re going to have to shoot me.”
They youth’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand?”
“Listen, Dmitri. There will be trouble over the missing film. I have friends at the Lubyanka, but to remain out of suspicion it must look as if we fought with Loginov and I was unable to conduct a search for the film. Then you and I will be in the clear, and I will have enough power to keep us above suspicion. But to accomplish this you have to shoot me.”
“But…what if he gave the film to the pilot somehow?”
“I will be in very good standing for apprehending him and breaking this case. We will never mention the deal we made. If Loginov survives, he will be interrogated at the Lubyanka and I should be able to place myself in a position to manage the interrogation pipeline. I know how the system works. If Loginov reveals that he actually did manage to pass the film to the pilot, I will see that he is killed and the information is suppressed. I will have enough power after this to do that. But for this to work you will have to shoot me.”
A Cold Flight To Nowhereville Page 27