Diana's Disciples

by Eddy Will

  The car sped along the banks of the Somesul Mic River, the embankment deserted in the pouring rain. A loaded barge chugged against the flow of the current, churning up a white crown at the bow of the vessel. Jack registered the laboring riverboat but his mind was in a remote region of Transylvania near the Ukrainian border. Somewhere some one hundred miles north of the city, his wife was fighting for her life, while a demented billionaire was plotting to end it. It was dark and it was raining hard and he wondered if it was any different at Okhota Lodge. They would reach the Lodge around midnight, but was that soon enough?

  ‘Hold on, Anna,’ he thought, as he watched the dim light in the barge’s steering house and the outlines of a lone person at the helm. ‘I am coming for you.’

  “Look”, Styx said, interrupting Jack’s thoughts. She placed an I-pad on his lap, the screen displaying a satellite image of Okhota Lodge. The structures and outbuildings were clearly visible, as was the vast green expanse of forest surrounding the lodge for dozens of miles.

  “That’s it? That’s all there is? It’s nothing but forest,” Jack said. Of course that would have been the purpose of the lodge. A small road hidden for long stretches by foliage led to the lodge. Jack compared the satellite photograph with an actual map image. On the map the same small road stopped some ten miles from the lodge.

  “I bet that is where the public road turns into a private one,” he said, tapping his index finger on the screen where the road abruptly ended. “And that should be our starting point,” he said. He had no idea how he would find Anna within the vastness of the forest.

  The driver turned and drove passed the Gothic St. Michael’s Church, its tall tower reaching to heaven and piercing the black clouds above. A statue of Matthias Corvinus sat proudly on a horse and gazed stoically at the bustling new world below. They left the busy main roads and winding through a slew of smaller streets and alleys ended on a narrow road running along the ancient Canalul Morii, a 17th century canal crossed at regular intervals by small foot bridges. The driver raced down the street along the canal and stopped abruptly, spinning the steering wheel to the right. They entered a tall steel gate that had rolled open for their arrival and was closing before the car had pulled in. The trio found themselves in a small courtyard surrounded by a two story house that had been built centuries ago. Technology, however, was no stranger to the compound by the canal. Bright security lights lit up the cobble-stone yard and modern cameras craned and turned, watching the passengers climb out of the taxi.

  A heavy dark wood door swung open just as the gate silently snapped shut and a stout man with short white hair and a face deeply etched by a rough and violent life stepped into the cone of the porch light.

  “Sergey,” the man roared and his gruff countenance creased into a broad smile, cracking and re-arranging seemingly immovable burrows lining his face. He opened his thick arms and embraced an equally delighted Tarpov.

  “Come in, come in, let’s not stand out here and wait for the rain to stop,” the white-haired man said and entered the house. Jack noticed thick stone walls as he stepped through the door and into a warm living room, a roaring fire cackling lively in a massive fireplace. The ceiling was low by modern standards and Jack had to duck to avoid hitting it.

  “It was build for short Romanians three hundred years ago, not so good for tall, corn-fed American,” the man said, laughing. Tarpov’s quick introductions identified the host as Boris, no last name, and as a friend from another time and world, again, no details.

  “Sit,” Boris said, his voice booming in the small space, “the room is taller when you sit,” he said. “I have tea or maybe Vodka, whatever you wish.” Tarpov opted for both, while Jack and Styx stuck to tea. Boris shouted the order to the next room in Russian and sunk into a large wooden chair, reminiscent of an ancient throne and studied his guests. His lively, sparkling eyes scanned Jack and Styx, his experienced and well-trained mind running through a long checklist and summarizing the conclusion thereof.

  A younger man with a muscular build and straight blond hair entered carrying a tray containing the requested items: tea glasses, tea pot, an unmarked bottle of Vodka and two water glasses. He quickly placed the items on a low table and vanished the same way he had entered. Boris filled the water glasses with Vodka and poured tea for Tarpov and the Westerners.

  “Nostrovia,” he said and raised the tall glass of vodka. “Without appearing rude to my guests I’d like to forgo the long rituals of Russian hospitality and come straight to the point,” he said and lit a filter-less cigarette he had pulled from a small wooden box on the table.

  “Please do,” Jack said, wondering how many business acquaintances had heard the same line, and he wondered if Boris had ever indulged anyone in those lengthy mysterious rituals.

  “Sergey has given me his shopping list and I have been able to make some inquiries,” the KGB-operative-turned-purveyor-of-information and less-than-legal transactions of goods and services said, blue smoke drifting from his mouth as he spoke.

  “I appreciate your effort,” Jack said, sipping hot tea.

  “Don’t appreciate yet, young American, you have neither heard the outcome nor the not inconsiderable fee I will charge,” Boris said, chuckling a guttural laugh. “I have a car waiting not far from here, which is filled with everything that my friend Sergey has requested on your behalf,” he said, looking straight at Jack, lest there is any doubt about who will foot the bill for the service.

  “Thank you,” Jack said, choosing his words more carefully.

  “I had not been made aware of the presence of a lovely young lady, but I trust that my acquisitions will be nonetheless adequate,” Boris said, his gaze briefly shifting to the redheaded punk who sat silently cupping a hot glass of black tea. She smiled at the Russian but said nothing.

  “And a mysterious one at that,” Boris said, chuckling again. He turned back to Jack, the chuckle vanished.

  “As for the information Sergey asked for, the news is grim and therefore free of charge. I reached out to contacts within the local police force and it appears you can expect no help from the law. Okhota Lodge is owned by a private cooperation, the names of actual persons behind the entity well hidden in the complexities of the company. But it is not a secret that said cooperation is a generous benefactor to the local council, in other words they have been stuffing the pockets of elected officials making any kind of action against the Lodge a practical impossibility. At best you can expect no help at all, at worst you could be presented with roadblocks, the real as well as the figurative kind, wasting time you don’t have and creating problems you don’t want. It is one of the drawbacks of the new free market economy the people enjoy,” Boris said, again chuckling.

  “Really?” Jack said, stunned at the implied power of the cooperation which owned the lodge and by extension the hunt which had been designed to kill his wife.

  “You are on you own,” Boris said. “And I would guess that it’s a cold world out there.” The former KGB operative did not chuckle; he was very serious in his implication.

  “I understand,” Jack said, “what happens next?” He was eager to move on with or without the help of local authorities.

  “I require seventy-five thousand dollars and I will take you to the car,” he said slowly and solemnly and drew hard on the cigarette, his eyes never leaving Jack’s.

  Jack stared at the Russian. The price was exorbitant even for the black market, but he had no choice which Boris knew. Smoke drifted from Boris’s nose and rose up swirling around the man’s eyes.

  “You have a deal,” Jack said, swallowing his shock and surprise.

  “Nostrovia,” Boris said and raised his glass again, only this time he drank the vodka in big gulps.

  Jack pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table.

  “Its just over eighty thousand dollars, so I have some credit with you,” he said and rose, indicating the meeting was over. He was not interested in a lot of celebr
atory drinking and neither was Boris, who slammed the empty glass on the wooden table and climbed from his throne. He grabbed his long wool coat and, ignoring the stack of money on the table, headed for the door.

  It was time to go.

  The Russian opened a narrow gate in the court yard and slipped into an alley, waiting only long enough for Jack and his crew to follow. He hurried along the ancient canal, oblivious of the pouring rain, his white head held high, until he reached a garage. The building was old like all the structures along the canal, but the garage door was new, secured by an electronic pad on the side of the garage door. Boris raised the small protective cover and punched numbers with his thick short finger. Seconds later the door slid up soundlessly. Parked inside was a black SUV.

  “It’s almost new,” Boris said, “and you will not be disappointed.” He pulled keys from his pocket and handed them to Jack. “It was very nice doing business,” he said, reaching out his stubby hand.

  “I bet,” Jack said and shook the KGB man’s hand. It was the first time that he had shaken hands with a real life former KGB operative and that alone, some might argue, was worth the exorbitant fee.

  Twenty minutes later Tarpov had led Jack out of the winding and snarled streets of Cluj and when they had settled in on Highway DJ108 heading north for the province of Maramures, the Russian climbed to the back of the vehicle and began inspecting the cargo he had ordered from Boris.

  Chapter 50

  The Carpathian Mountains, Romania, August 4, 2012, 10:22 PM

  Anna had slowed her pace when night fell and had headed in a straight and predictable path as much as the rough terrain allowed. It had not been exhaustion but calculation that had slowed her pace. She hoped to give Remington’s hunting team an opportunity to keep up with their seemingly tiring prey. She had ignored the cold and rain and pressed on. Thick black clouds had ripped into long shreds allowing pale moonlight to flood the drenched forest. Anna was soaked to the bone and the clothes hung heavily on her, but the clearing skies brought a welcome change. She struggled up a steep incline and found a large fallen tree that promised a degree of shelter. Looking back she found the terrain suitable to defend should Remington surprise her again. In the moonlight her position offered a clear view of the lower lying ground. This would be base camp, she decided.

  Anna climbed downhill for maybe fifty yards and hid the GPS tracking chip in the bark of a tree, the trunk of which had snapped some twenty feet up, causing the upper portion of the tree to hang precipitously in the limbs of neighboring pines. A major wind storm would tear the suspended trunk from its perch and bring it crashing to the ground. But not tonight, Anna figured. She made sure the chip was not visible to the human eye and returned to her position higher up. There would be no more surprises tonight. Anna would easily spot an approaching hunter in search of the GPS tracking chip from her lofty perch, giving her time to evade or defend. She wrung the rain and river from her clothes, hesitant to make a fire, which would give away her position. Next she ate, chewing slowly on strips of rabbit and eating berries. The forest dripped from the rain now gone, water finding its way from branches and leaves. A breeze rustled the foliage, shaking the remaining rain water to the ground. It was a chilly wind pushing up the steep incline and into Anna’s camp.

  She laid out her weapons in readiness and prepared to rest when the cold wind blew a distinct scent into her camp. Anna turned her face to the wind, smelling the air. The scent was faint but unmistakable. It was smoke. The smoke of burning wood.

  She sat up, alarmed at the acrid sensation in her nose. The forest was too wet for a fire. The fire that produced the smoke had to have been man-made. The image of a warm, cozy camp fire came to mind. It was the very kind of fire she had been afraid to light. And for good reason. The bright light of the flames was visible from afar but the smell of smoke carried much further. The breeze had sent a warning up the hill and into her brush camp.

  “I’ll be damned,” she said.

  So the hunting party had settled around a warming fire, assured by the fact that the GPS tracking chip had stopped moving.

  Anna sensed an opportunity, the one she had been waiting for. She was curious and a plan took shape in her mind. She gathered up her weapons and headed down the steep mountainside following the scent of smoke. She moved silently across the soft wet ground of the forest while her eyes searched the black night for the flames of a fire. She only had to keep moving into the wind and she should discover the hunter’s camp.

  She had traveled through the dark forest for some time and was beginning to doubt her strategy. The scent of fire was still in the air, but it had not grown in intensity and she had not stumbled over a camp fire. How far does smoke travel in the wind, she wondered? Then she saw the small yellow light in the distance. She stopped and focused her eyes on the distant glow. She listened for sounds but only heard the breeze rustle through leaves. Anna removed her bow and readied an arrow. She had found the camp. Moving slowly and deliberately, treading lightly on the ground to avoid the telltale snapping of a twig or crunching of leaves, she kept her eyes in the direction of the camp. She avoided looking straight at the glow, for the bright flames would shrink her pupils, making it hard to see in the night.

  Sounds drifted with the wind; sounds of human voices. She stopped and listened, but was unable to understand the fragments of words carried by the breeze. She crouched low to the ground and moved from tree to tree, each time stopping behind a trunk and searching the dark for a guard. As she drew closer, the fire grew in size. The hunters had built a large campfire and she was not surprised she had been able to see its flames from afar. She counted a half dozen bodies moving or sitting around the fire. She moved closer, crouching behind a thick trunk some twenty yards from the camp. Two tents had been set up, sitting neatly next to one another; the openings faced the fire and the flaps had been rolled back.

  ‘Sons of bitches,’ she thought. ‘All the comforts of home.’

  Two men stepped away from the fire and walked in her direction. Anna suppressed the impulse to bolt from her spot. The men stopped and, consulting a hand-held device, pointed in her direction.

  ‘The GPS chip,’ Anna thought. One of the men lit a cigarette, the bright flame of the lighter flashing and lighting up the man’s young face. They stood and talked in a language Anna did not understand. The men felt no threat and no need to take precautions, and their arrogance angered her.

  Death was close enough to end at least one life with a well-aimed arrow, and yet, they felt they owned the forest. Anna settled into her spot behind the trunk and waited. Remington crawled out from the larger tent. He zipped up a thick red goose down jacket and rubbing his hands, he moved to the fire and held his hands to the flame. Anna stared at the monster whose ultimate fantasy was to see her die a slow death at his hands. She hated the man and stifled an impulse to charge into the camp and kill her hunter with an arrow to the heart. She doubted she would get close enough to get a shot off before one of the others cut her down. She didn’t care if she died as long as Remington also perished. But the thought of her failing to kill Remington and allowing him to kill her inside his own camp while his men held her down, stopped her from charging the camp. She wanted to win, not die trying.

  And so she stayed put and watched her would-be killer move around the fire, joking and laughing. Eventually the men retreated into the tents. Remington had his own tent, which was of little surprise, and four of the remaining six men shared the larger tent. The same men who earlier had taken a short walk and shared a cigarette stayed up. They stood by the fire and talked quietly. From time to time the flames leapt up and threw a yellow-reddish light on the men’s faces. One was older, with life having etched deep channels on the sides of his mouth. The other was younger with a light complexion and a round face. He had eyes devoid of human emotion, much like the eyes of a shark. His lips pursed lightly, he listened intently to the elder’s instructions regarding the tracking device in his hand. She knew f
or what mission the cold-eyed man was being prepared. The young man nodded in short quick bursts as he sucked on his cigarette in equal fashion. The elder held out his hand as if he was cutting a path through the darkness straight to Anna’s camp. The younger man checked his shoelaces, nodded at his superior and set off into the night in search for Remington’s prey. Anna watched him leave the camp. The older man sat on a rock by the fire and stared into the flames. He won’t see me, she thought, his night vision temporarily ruined by the flames. She gave the cold-eyed tracker a head start before she followed him into the dark woods. The tracker did not expect a threat. He did not look back, his focus frequently drawn to the brightly-lit display in his hand. The tracker trudged through the dense brush with little regard for stealth or quiet. Anna, on the other hand, tracked the tracker soundlessly. His step was heavy and his movement cumbersome, he was a man unfamiliar with the wild. He was a city-boy whose path had intercepted with Diana’s deadly world. He slowed his hike through the woods and stopped to study the GPS tracker. Taking his cue from the instrument he searched the dark for a path and set off again. He moved at a slower pace now, though not with a lighter tread. What would the man do if he did not find the camp, if he failed to get an ‘eyes-on’ on his prey? And what would she do? They had moved far enough away from the hunter’s camp that she could close in and fire an arrow without alarming his camp. And so she followed him, waiting for an opportunity, a signal of what to do next.

  That signal came some ten minutes later. The tracker had been following a steady path in the direction of the hidden GPS tracking chip. He was oblivious to his surroundings, his head mostly facing the screen in his hand, and intermittently checking the physical path immediately ahead. Anna had closed in to maybe twenty yards when the tracker did the unexpected. He suddenly turned around without hesitation and walked back in the direction from which he had come and directly towards Anna. He moved quickly as if he had remembered something he had forgotten at the camp.