The Searcher

by Christopher Morgan Jones

  “I think my muscles have wasted away.”

  “It’s the altitude. It’s hard.”

  They drank water and sat for a few minutes, not saying anything. As Hammer stood, brushing snow off him, Webster finally spoke.

  “Thanks, Ike.”

  “Hey.”

  “I thought I wasn’t coming down again.”

  “We’re a long way from down.”

  • • •

  Light he may have been, but Hammer found himself half walking, half slipping on the steeper stretches of the path, and thanking God every time a wary slide came to a stop. Webster had the ice pick, and instructions to drive it into the ground the moment he felt his weight getting away from him. The moon was out again to give them some help, but otherwise the mountain was making it clear they had no business being there.

  Defiant, stubborn, they went on, until their descent became gentler, and they passed the fork in the path, and at last they saw below them the black shine of the river cutting through the valley and above it, still a way off, the two blue lights of the border station. Hammer pointed them out.

  “Get past that and we’re halfway home.”

  Webster didn’t answer. He sat down, with his back to the slope and his legs bent across the path, and even in the glow from the flashlight Hammer could see that he was pale.

  “Sorry. I just need a minute.”

  “Take your time. No rush.”

  But for the last half hour Hammer’s thoughts had been squarely on Vekua, and where she was, and what she was planning for them, and what might happen if she made it back to Diklo. All his imaginings were red with violence. Rummaging in his bag, he found the water and biscuits and squatted by his friend.

  “Here. This’ll help.”

  In the quiet he could hear the river running below them and the wind in the trees across the valley, and for the first time since leaving Diklo felt again the beauty of the place, like a taunt.

  “What about Iosava?” he said.

  “My God. Iosava. You’ve met him?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I bet it was a pleasure.”

  “Some client to have.”

  “He wasn’t my client.”

  “So what was he?”

  Webster drank and passed the bottle to Hammer.

  “After the funeral there was a big black Merc waiting outside my hotel and a bodyguard asking me did I want to see Mr. Iosava.”

  “You were asked?”

  “Not exactly. So I go to his house.”

  “You meet the bear?”

  “You, too? We need to free that poor fucking bear. So I went, and he gave me all this guff about Karlo being a great man cut down before he could finish his biggest story, and in his honor we had to finish his work, which was to pin the bombing on the president.”

  “And you said yes.”

  “No. I told him I’d investigate what happened to Karlo and if he wanted to pay me to tell him what I found that was fine by me. It didn’t feel good, believe me.”

  Webster’s breaths were short and he took a moment to collect himself.

  “I needed the money.”

  “The money helps.”

  “Doesn’t it? Anyway, that was it. Tbilisi was a nightmare. I couldn’t get in anywhere. I met this guy two years ago on a case, he’s like the president’s right-hand man, and I called him to see if he could pull some strings. Nothing.”

  But Hammer, alert, held up a hand. From the ground a deep noise seemed to be coming, right beneath them, a vibration at first and then an alien low drone that didn’t belong here and set his nerves instantly on alert.

  “What is that?” he said.

  Webster listened and the noise became more distinct. “Helicopter. It’s coming from the north.”

  The north was Russia.

  “Fuck,” said Hammer. “She made it back.”

  “Really?”

  “No one saw us cross the border.”

  “Your fire may not have helped.”

  “It’s her. They wouldn’t care about a fire.” He stood up and scanned the sky, but could see nothing. “She’s desperate now. We need to get down to the tree line.”

  Up here they were completely exposed, two alien shapes on a field of white waiting to be picked out, with no cover for another quarter of a mile at least. Hammer helped Webster up and they set off, forcing a fast pace, the sound growing louder and clearer until they could hear the purr of blades from beyond the ridge above them.

  From time to time Hammer turned to check on Webster, who was now limping heavily and grimacing with every step.

  “Not far now,” he said, but to Webster the trees must have seemed a mile off.

  In an instant the throbbing opened up into a roar and they found themselves looking up at the helicopter as it flew over the ridge, heading away from them toward the border, oblivious to the startled figures below. Blue and red lights flashed and lit up the markings on its belly.

  “Switch off your flashlight,” said Hammer.

  “That’s Russian.”

  “So is she.”

  Hammer thought it was going to cross the border but it stayed close to the ridge, scanning the hillside with a powerful beam, before turning over the valley in a full loop until it was heading right for them.

  “Fuck,” said Hammer, and flattened himself on the path, waiting for the light to play over his back. Webster, more slowly, did the same. Seconds passed, and then the buzz of the blades changed timbre, and Hammer lifted his head to see the helicopter settling slowly toward the river about half a mile ahead.

  He got up into a crouch and watched as it came to land on a small patch of level ground by the water. The engine noise died and the blades whirred down, and by the light reflected off the snow Hammer saw four men get out, and with them two dogs.

  “We have to go,” he said, turning and giving his hand to Webster.

  “Go where?”

  “Back. Down to the river. We just passed the turning. The way you came.”

  Behind them, not so far away, flashlights flashed on the snow and orders were shouted into the night. Even Hammer knew that they were Russian.

  “What are they saying?”

  “Shoot anyone you see,” said Webster, with fear in his voice, and a new energy.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Rushing now, silent, going only by the light of the moon and no longer worrying about the drop or even conscious of it, they went back up the hill until they came to the split in the path and took the left fork, turning back on themselves down toward the river. Their tracks would give them away but then so would their scent, and their only hope was to get to the water before the men behind them. They loped on, and no matter how hard Webster pushed himself they both knew that their lead was narrowing.

  “Do you have a plan?” said Webster, breathing hard.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Then go ahead and see if it works.”

  Hammer hesitated, and then realized there was sense in this.

  “You got your gun?”

  Webster nodded.

  “They shoot, or they get within thirty yards, shoot back. Otherwise let’s be quiet.”

  They exchanged a look.

  “And keep going, for fuck’s sake. We’re close.”

  But he had no idea how close they were; how long until he reached the water; whether what he hoped to find there would be there. He went with great reluctance, wondering whether, far from rescuing his friend, he had merely brought him to a different place to die.

  He ran now, glanced behind him continually, risked his footing at every turn of the path. The men behind were gaining on Webster, no question, and he felt a horrible sickness at the inevitability of the pursuit. He wavered: should he have stayed and shot it out? No. These men, who
ever they were, were professionals, and he was a reluctant novice. All he could do was go on.

  The river rose slowly beside him, and after five minutes he was close enough to see it rippling over pebbles in the shallows. He shone his flashlight along the bank but saw nothing useful and kept going. Behind him, Webster and the Russians were out of sight, concealed by a collar of land, and Hammer waited with dread for the sound of the first shot.

  Then there it was, pulled up onto a little beach that was like a widening of the path. A flat-bottomed boat, hull uppermost, covered in a thin layer of snow. He ran to it and turned it over. It was roughly made of wood and along every joint painted lavishly with tar to compensate for the workmanship; underneath there were two wooden paddles, crossed on the stones.

  Hammer dragged it the few feet to the water, leaving it as close as he could without fear of it floating away, threw the paddles inside, and went back to smooth the snow where the boat had been sitting. Then he ran back toward Webster, hardly conscious of his pounding heart, barely wanting to know what he would find round each corner.

  From somewhere beyond him he heard Webster’s voice in a cry of pain, followed immediately by shouts a little further off. He ran faster still, struggling for purchase on the cold ground, seeing just enough in the dark, willing each turn in the path to be the last. Finally, he found him, trying to stand by pulling himself up on an outcrop of rock. Two flashlights flickered against the blackness behind him, much nearer than before. Hammer put his arm round his shoulder and whispered.

  “You OK?”

  “My leg. I can’t . . .”

  “It’s OK. Lean on me.”

  Webster was almost a head taller, but Hammer was strong, and his blood was flowing, and there was no other way. With their three good legs they set off, Webster against the slope, Hammer by the diminishing drop, a strange lopsided creature hobbling at speed through the night. Webster’s weight bore down on him and somehow he held it up. There was no more looking back; but he felt the men behind him, could almost hear the dogs sniffing and straining. Webster’s breath was quick and shallow in his ear.

  “Ike, you go on.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The path widened by the river and Hammer went faster still, using all the strength he could call on, until he was almost carrying his burden, and at last they were by the little boat. He looked behind him and saw the faint glare of flashlights in the sky above the final turn in the path.

  “Get in. Stay low.” He pushed the boat into the water.

  With Hammer’s help, Webster climbed into the boat and lay down weakly on the bare wood. Bending down with his hands on the stern, Hammer ran the boat through the first shallows, and when the freezing water was up to his knees jumped in, rocking the thing violently and ending up kneeling beside Webster. He turned to look, and saw no light; the Russians must be hard by the last turn; at any minute they would appear. He moved to the front of the boat, where it narrowed, and paddled as hard as he could, two strokes one side, two the other, guiding them into the middle of the river, checking over his shoulder all the while.

  The waters here were still, and the boat hardly swift, and no matter how hard he worked the brisk escape that Hammer had imagined seemed becalmed. He contemplated jumping out and pushing them into the main channel, where the river raced, but after a few firm strokes the two Russians appeared, one flashlight trained on the ground, the other tracking the path ahead and the river below them. Hammer stopped paddling, crouched down, and let the boat drift. From his pocket he took his gun.

  Along the path the two Russians went, quickly but paying thorough attention to the ground, until they were barely twenty yards away, and above the soft babble of the river he could hear them talking. Like the Georgians who had held Webster, they appeared military but wore standard winter clothes: woolen hats, bulky jackets. Where the path widened they stopped to inspect the ground where the boat had been left, and where the footprints they had been following ran out. One shone his flashlight up the slope above, and the other began to sweep his across the river in the direction of the boat.

  Lying as low as he could, Hammer looked over the side, raised his gun, and wondered whether he had any chance of hitting a man at this distance, in the dark, while moving. Hardly moving; but then he felt the boat’s front end swing round, and the rippling of the water grow louder. The current was taking them; the boat settled into it, gaining speed, and Hammer ducked down out of sight.

  The flashlight swept over and past them, lighting up the trees on the far bank, and Hammer briefly thought that their low craft had been mistaken for a piece of driftwood, or not seen at all. But the light swung back and came to rest on them, in the same moment that a voice shouted from the bank and a shot ripped through the air above their heads. Before Hammer could collect himself the wood by his ear splintered and tore, and a third shot followed it, hitting the boat below the waterline. Hammer recoiled from the noise and the shock of it; Webster held his hands behind his head, his forearms over his ears. Icy water started pouring in.

  “Motherfucker,” said Hammer.

  They had distance on their side, and the advantage was growing, but the boat gave no protection and a single decent shot might do for either of them. He raised his head, aimed, not carefully, and fired twice before dropping back down. The men were running along the bank, failing to stay level but still close enough. Three more shots came and one hit the boat, passing straight through an inch above Webster’s thigh.

  “Jesus!” said Webster. “We need to shoot the fuckers.”

  Not a chance, thought Hammer, though he didn’t say it. But he peeked again, and fired twice at the source of the light that still held them. A different sort of shouting followed.

  “They didn’t like that,” said Webster, leaning up on his arm and firing twice, waywardly. Water was streaming into the boat, which was now sitting dangerously low. Two shots whistled by, so close Hammer could imagine their flight through the air.

  “Do that again,” said Hammer, as Webster sank back beside him. “I need a second.”

  Webster collected himself, then raised himself up and shot, twice again. In that instant Hammer shone his flashlight downstream and in a flash lit up the bank. They were near to it now, a mere ten yards, but the current was speeding them along and drawing them no closer. He clicked off the flashlight.

  “And once more, when I say.”

  A second passed, and another. Hammer could hear the men running on the far bank, cursing and slipping.

  “Now. Hold on.”

  Webster lifted his head and fired. Hammer stuck his paddle deep into the water and the boat, swinging around it, headed under the trees on the bank. The fear Hammer felt was physical. It was in his arms and his legs, in his exposed back as he raised himself up and grabbed for one of the low branches that overhung the water. He found one and, while the boat carried on its course beneath, held on somehow, losing and then righting his balance and bringing the boat in to the shore before it could get away from him. A bullet splashed with strange softness into the shallow water.

  In one movement he jumped out, pulled the boat under the cover of the trees, and beached it, scraping it onto pebbles.

  “Come on.”

  Webster, still lying down, fired a final shot and at an awkward crouch followed his friend.

  “Up,” he whispered. “Quickly.”

  Hammer took him by the arm and guided him up the slope. The Russians seemed to have lost sight of them; the flashlight beam flitted along the bank, back and forth.

  “Keep going.”

  The wood was dense here, and soon there was no light from the moon. Hammer felt his way, bringing Webster after him. When they were sure that they were hidden, they stopped and sat.

  “You’re a genius,” said Webster, with the last of his breath. His voice was thin, pained.

  “If your friends had
hidden their boat I’d be a dead genius.”

  They were silent for a while. Hammer’s trousers stuck to him, and whenever he moved were freshly cold. The white light searched the trees then stopped for a moment some way beneath them. A shot sounded. The light moved on, further away upstream. Another shot.

  “What now?” whispered Webster, picking up pine needles and letting them drop through his fingers onto the ground. Their eyes grew a little used to the dark.

  “We walk,” said Hammer.

  TWENTY-TWO

  They didn’t walk so much as slip, scramble, grope from one tree to the next.

  Before, they had been within half a mile of the border, but they had just gone at least a mile in the wrong direction. A mile and a half, thought Hammer, was really nothing—he ran three times as far each morning, even on a gentle day—but he didn’t run with an injured companion, in almost full darkness, along a steep slope through a stiff mesh of dry branches, and after half an hour he was scratched and exhausted. The only benefit of it was that Webster, beside him, could stagger from tree to tree without falling.

  After a while it felt safe. The Russians fired three more shots into the woods, each one far away and speculative. When they stopped and listened, Hammer and Webster could hear their pursuers talking, discussing what to do next, and eventually saw them by the light of their flashlights making their way back in the direction of the helicopter.

  Hammer checked his watch. Half past twelve. Six hours since he had left Diklo, and heaven knows how many more until his return. He wondered whether he might leave Webster here and come back for him later when everything was calmer, but dismissed the thought. It was rash, illogical. Things would not get calmer. His lot was set.

  To mark their progress, and to give Webster hope, he devised a schedule. They would walk for twenty minutes and rest for five. They still had some food left, and a little water. If they ran out, he could always drop down to the river and fill their bottle. They would be OK. There was no hurry.

  That was one of the lies he told Webster; he kept to himself his visions of Vekua’s return to the village, his calculation that it would make sense for her to keep Natela alive, his fear that his ability to figure these things out had long ago deserted him. While they made their slow way through the brush every part of him was straining to be with her, but he didn’t let it show. When it had been Webster at risk he had felt fear, but not like this. This started in his chest and spread up into his throat and down through his body; it consumed him.