Andy shook himself out of the mental doldrums and immediately gathered up the folds and straps of the RAPS, carrying the whole thing over to a thicket of brush some twenty-five meters away. He was glad there was no permafrost as he began to strike the ground with the entrenching tool, digging up chunks of dirt that would have been frozen solid within a couple of months. The top layer was a bit difficult, but by the time he was about six inches down the task became easy. He kept going until he had cleared out a one cubic yard mini-excavation. He felt a tug of sadness when he shoved the parachute into the hole. It had saved his life, bellowing open to stop his earthward plummet, then obeyed the tugs he made on the toggles with the accuracy of a faithful guide dog. Now it was doomed to rot in a hole out in the middle of nowhere in Southwest Asia.
With the concealment done, Andy swung the backpack over his shoulders and set off walking eastward in the direction the ground sloped. It took him a half hour of rapid travel before he reached the road. He turned south and went a hundred meters to find a badly faded and bent sign that informed him that Khorugh was twenty kilometers away. Andy quickly converted the kilometers to miles in his head by multiplying the number by .6, coming up with twelve miles. Not too bad a walk for a guy in excellent physical condition. The cold weather helped kick up his energy level as he briskly stepped out toward his destination.
.
0715 HOURS
THE whine of a truck engine in lower gear as it went downhill could be heard in the distance behind Andy. He turned and saw a Mitsubishi five-ton hauler coming toward him at about twenty miles per hour. He waved at the driver, and the guy put on the squeakiest brakes the SEAL had ever heard, bringing the vehicle to a shuddering halt. The trucker, showing a wide Slovak face, grinned at him. Where are you going, brother? he asked in Russian.
To Khorugh, Andy said, opening the door and hopping into the cab. I have been walking all night.
The driver pressed on the accelerator, setting the truck back into motion. You will find some vodka in the glove compartment. Take a couple of swigs, brother. It is cold outside.
Spasebo, Andy said, thanking him. He opened the compartment and pulled out a half-liter bottle of cheap vodka with the brand name Zavalinka. After a couple of gulps, he replaced it. Whew! That was refreshing.
The man grinned. I thought you needed a good oldfashioned jolt of vodka after such a long walk through the frigid darkness. He eased back on the speed as the road steepened downward. My name is Yuri Petrovich.
Being a spy was not second nature to Andy, and he almost blurted out his real name, but he recovered quickly. I am Jan Kowalski.
So what brings a young Russian lad like you to Tajikistan? Yuri asked. I can tell by your speech you are from far up north, but your name is Polish.
My grandfather served in the Great Patriotic War after joining the Red Army when they liberated Poland, Andy said. I am in Tajikistan because a friend has gotten me a job as an auto mechanic.
You are indeed lucky, brother, Yuri said. There is not much work in these parts. I used to drive this same truck when I worked for the local commissar of property in the old days. Without that experience, I would have had to return to Russia.
Well, there is no work up there either, Andy remarked.
You see? Yuri said. I am a lucky fellow, hey? But I will be glad to leave this cursed place someday. Will you work in Khorugh?
Yes. I must find my friend in a part of the city that is called Krasgorod.
Of course, Yuri said. That is where most of the Russian population lives. I will be going quite near the locality. You will not have far to walk when I let you out.
Then I am a lucky fellow too, Andy said.
Both fell into silence as Yuri negotiated the curving mountain road. Andy's loneliness came on him again as he stared out at the bleakness of the Tajik mountains. This was a shitty assignment. He should have told that goddamn Army general back on the Combs to piss up a rope.
They hit the flats, and Yuri began running through the gears as he picked up speed.
.
KHORUGH, TAJIKISTAN
0810 HOURS
YURI came to a stop at a red light. Here is where you get off, he said, pointing to the right. Stay on that street and it will take you straight into Krasgorod where Russians live and work. Good luck.
Thank you, Andy said.
He stepped down to the street and trotted over to the curb, then settled into a slow walk in the indicated direction. The area was drab and shabby with down-at-the-heels shops and apartment buildings built right up to the sidewalks. A few kiosks were scattered along the street offering a variety of simple fare: canned goods, vodka, magazines, newspapers, cheap notions, and other similar merchandise. All the signs on the establishments were in the Cyrillic alphabet, and the young Russian-American could pronounce the words but couldn't understand them. He realized then that the Tajik language used the same letters as Russian. He saw a kiosk obviously dealing in tea and coffee. The sign said -c-+-+ ba kaba, but in Russian it would have had the words -c-E-+ -+ k-+e. After examining a number of others, he found a few words he could figure out. Now he realized that if his mission went completely to hell and he was on his own, he would be traveling through a country where it would be impossible to speak or understand the people. And he couldn't go looking up Spencer Caldwell either. The best thing he could do would be to make a rapid exfiltration due west.
However, after he had gone three blocks, a few signs in Russian appeared, then increased in number as he continued walking deeper into the neighborhood. Eventually all the signs were in the language brought into that part of the world by the Soviet Union.
A man wearing a worn quilted jacket and an old cap with loose earflaps sat on a stool in front of an apartment house. Andy went over to him to ask for directions to the bar where he was supposed to mingle with the locals. Dobroye utra, he greeted him. G'dyeh Domashni taverna, pazhzhaista?
The man, with a deeply lined face, looked up at him with pale blue eyes. Who has the money to go to the Domashni Tavern?
I do not know, Andy replied. I want to know how to get there.
Can you read?
Of course I can read, Andy snapped. He knew how to deal with such impudence in a Russian and put a threatening tone in his voice. Where is that restaurant?
Stay on this street and look at the signs, the fellow grumbled, uncomfortable under the younger man's glare. And since you can read, you will see the name you are looking for.
Andy continued on his way, looking for both the sign and a building that appeared as if it were a combination restaurant and bar. After going two more blocks, he saw what he was looking for. The SEAL hurried across the street and went inside. A quick glance showed the place was not unlike a traditional combination cafe and saloon in Russia. A couple like it had been established in Brighton Beach by immigrants from the Motherland. A bar that ran the entire length of the establishment was on one side, while a row of a half dozen tables was on the other. Some booths that went the rest of the way down the narrow room completed the picture.
Andy took a stool at the counter. When the barman came up, he ordered a coffee and omelet. The guy shouted the order down to a cook stationed in the center of the bar, then turned back to the new customer. Do you need an eye-opener?
Vodka, Andy said. When the guy returned, he had a tumbler instead of a shot glass filled with the liquor. This made Andy grin inwardly. He was really back into the Russian culture where the national drink was consumed lustily and often. He took a sip, then asked, Do you know where I might find a fellow by the name of Ivan Karlovich Gelshenov?
The bartender's eyes opened wide at the mention of the name. Is he a friend of yours?
Yes. He is an old friend, as a matter of fact.
I can make a call and get a message to him, the bartender said. But you might have to wait for a while.
I have nothing else to do, Andy said.
The man turned and went down to the cash register where a
phone sat. He picked it up and dialed.
.
DOMASHNI TAVERN
1030 HOURS
ANDY Malachenko alias Jan Kowalski alias Mikhail Molotosky nursed his fourth cup of coffee as he sat at the bar. He had turned down more offers of vodka, feeling that this was a situation that could very well require quick reactions of sobriety rather than the stumbling slowness of drunkenness. And once more he wished like hell he was back with the Brigands. An unexpected tap on his shoulder caused him to snap his head around.
A large man stood there, looking at him with open curiosity. Are you the fellow who looks for Ivan Gelshenov?
Yes.
What is your relationship with Ivan Karlovich Gelshenov?
He is a friend of my uncle, Andy replied.
What is it you wish? To say hello? Deliver a message?
Andy looked into the man's eyes, sizing him up as a real bad character. That's my business.
There is nothing in Khorugh that is your business, the stranger pronounced softly but with a threatening tone. I ask you again. What is it you wish with Ivan Karlovich?
He sent word to me that he could get me a job as a motor mechanic.
Alright, the man said. Come with me.
.
AKLOSCHENKO'S OFFICE
1115 HOURS
THE only light coming into the room was dimmed by the dirty windows. There was a single lamp for illumination, but it was not turned on. Andy Malachenko sat in a chair, his jaw aching from the numerous punches he had taken. Three men had situated themselves at each side and to his rear while a very fat individual sat at the desk to his direct front. When he first walked into the office, he had been jumped and wrestled to the chair and forced to sit down. A rough search of his person produced his weapon, the passport, and his money. This was the prelude to some very impolite questioning, and each answer that displeased the interrogators earned Andy a hard smack in the face. At this point he knew it would only take another series of blows before he would have a loose tooth.
It was obviously the right time to give in.
Alright, he said, rubbing his sore chin. I do not know Gelshenov. I heard of him through a cousin of his in Moscow. He is a close acquaintance who lived in a flat on the same floor as mine. I'm in some trouble with the police in Moscow. My pals and I have been selling 'protection' to kiosks in a couple of neighborhoods. One of the bastards blabbed and they had begun arresting the guys I work with. It was time for me to make a run for it. I got into the gang's stash of cash and hid out while Gelshenov's cousin made arrangements to get me a passport. That's not my real name.
So you're not Jan Kowalski, eh?
No.
The man who had met him in the restaurant laughed. That is a Polish name. Do you realize that?
Andy grinned slightly. It was the best that could be done in such a short period of time. At any rate, I was hoping that Gelshenov could get me a new start down here.
The man at the desk finally spoke. Ivan Gelshenov is dead. But since you do not really know him, you will not mourn, hey?
No.
So what is your real name? the man at the desk asked.
Mikhail Andreovich Molotosky, Andy replied.
I am Aleksander Akloschenko, the man at the desk said. He dismissed the other two thugs, leaving the guy who had met Andy in the tavern. This fellow is Pavel Marvesky. He gave Andy a friendly look. Well, Mikhail Andreovich, if you are looking for a job, I believe we can be of a great deal of help to you.
Chapter 12
TAJIKISTAN
HIGHWAY PANJ
3 NOVEMBER
1015 HOURS
THE Russian gangster Andrei Rogorov was concentrating on being more chauffeur than bodyguard for his boss Pavel Marvesky. It was in this role that he drove his boss and the new gang member Mikhail Molotosky up into the Kangal Mountains. The destination of that midmorning ride was the gangster village of Logovishchyeh.
Andy Malachenko, in his cover as Molotosky, sat in the backseat with Marvesky exchanging occasional comments during the monotony of the journey. The big boss Akloschenko had returned Andy's pistol, money, and passport to him, and all was safely nestled in the backpack he had placed between his feet. The vehicle they rode in was a badly used 2000 Mercedes-Benz Kompressor Sedan with a battered, dented body that was rusted along the bottom of the chassis. The car's paint was so faded it was difficult to tell if the original color had been robin's-egg blue or azure. The appalling condition of the expensive automobile was as much the result of the freezing corrosion of the Tajik winters as Rogorov's careless driving. Fender benders were so frequent among the local motorists that if no one was injured and both cars could still be driven, the incidents were forgotten.
Marvesky, who had been gazing absentmindedly out the window, turned toward Andy. We realize you are used to a big city, Mikhail Andreovich, but the only work we have for you is in the country.
That is better than nothing, Andy remarked.
We forgot to ask if you had any military service.
I was in the Army for three years as a conscript, Andy replied, wondering if that part of his cover story was important. I served as a rifleman in a motorized infantry regiment.
That is excellent, Marvesky said. You will be in the company of ex-soldiers, and a knowledge of military tactics and weapons will come in handy.
What sort of work will I be doing? he asked.
It is very interesting, Marvesky said. You will actually be going into Afghanistan a lot.
Whew! Andy said. My military service occurred long after that unhappy time because of my age. But I do not feel good about going there even if the war is over. I have spoken with a lot of veterans who say that was a bad time for them.
This is an entirely different situation, Marvesky informed him. We are in complete charge of the countryside where we operate, and even have some of the Afghans as our friends. They are part of our group.
That's much better than it was in the 1980s.
Of course. However, it is very important that you learn how to ride a horse, Marvesky informed him.
I already know how to ride a horse, Andy said, instantly regretting blurting the information out. He really needed more practice when it came to being an undercover operative.
Marvesky gave him a hard look. Where in the hell did you learn how to ride a horse in Moscow?
Andy thought very quickly, then spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. I used to work at a riding stable in the suburbs. He forced a laugh. Mostly I shoveled shit in the stables, but one day I asked my boss if I could learn to ride. He thought it would be a good idea since I could help out with the kids' classes.
That is very fortunate, Marvesky said. Who were the people using the stables?
The nobodniks, Andy answered.
Marvesky frowned. I do not believe I am familiar with the term.
Those are the newly rich of the Russian Federation, Andy explained. Most of them were former bureaucrats under Communism who signed government property over to themselves. They usually sold it for inflated prices, or used the land to start businesses. But now there are other emerging entrepreneurs who are making the big rubles. And dollars, and deutschmarks and francs too. They all thought owning horses and going riding like the nobility in the Czar's days was the 'in' thing to do. They have many trendy attitudes.
I have been here in Tajikistan since I was a boy, Marvesky said. My father was a bureaucrat. He frowned. But he was too much of a damned drunk to do himself or us any good after the Soviet system fell.
Bad luck, Andy said.
I must warn you about something, Mikhail Andreovich, Marvesky said. When you arrive in our organization, you will be tested. By that, the other men will want to see what you're made of. Do you understand?
Andy nodded. Certainly. It is like hazing in the Army when the older soldiers bully the new recruits.
It will be worse, Marvesky warned him. All these men were confined in a military prison. And most had been there for
many long years.
Alright, Andy said. Thanks for the warning, Pavel Dimitrovich.
.
DOLIROD
1300 HOURS
THEY reached the small town of Dolirod after turning off the main highway. Marvesky pointed out the window. You will find this a handy place to visit, he explained to Andy. It is a market center with a few shops to purchase necessities and there are a couple of blacksmiths and artisans who manufacture iron and leather goods. Most of the fellows at Logovishchyeh purchased leather bandoleers here to hold the magazines for their assault rifles.
Andy glanced around as they rolled through the little hamlet. I see there are some trucks parked by that gasoline station.
Yes, Marvesky said. The drivers can also get simple meals to fill their bellies at the restaurant inside. He chuckled. There is also a bordello. If you do not end up with a woman, you will no doubt visit the place with the boys from time to time.
What are the women in there like?
Marvesky now emitted a loud burst of laughter. Look at the place. What do you think?
Andy grinned. Better than nothing, hey?
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LOGOVISHCHYEH
Combat Alley (2007) Page 11