by Peter Telep
If she reported Nadia’s loss, they’d come for her. Izotov’s assistants were already trying to reach her regarding the deaths of the FSB agents.
It was better now to overlook the losses and keep focused on Kasperov. If she brought him back, losing the girl would mean nothing.
She was close now. Closer than ever.
* * *
“SAM, we’ve got a corporate chopper taking off, heading up to the mine,” said Charlie. “Just the pilot and copilot on board.”
While the kid’s voice buzzed through his subdermal, the words seemed unintelligible at first as Fisher focused once more on the Snow Maiden, who was now holding a suppressed pistol to his head. He glanced over at Briggs, who was lying on his side. His eyelids fluttered open.
Fisher sat up and blinked hard. They were outside another mining entrance. It appeared that she’d dragged them out with the help of several ruddy-faced young men who where standing behind her, counting U.S. banknotes—tens and twenties. There were no security men, no bosses, just this small group and the Snow Maiden, and they, too, were all hidden from view by a line of parked bulldozers to their immediate left. His pistol, crossbow, trifocals, and OPSAT were gone. He wasn’t sure about his karambit, but he wasn’t reaching back for it. Not yet.
“What’s your name?” she asked, her English heavily accented but discernable.
Fisher averted his gaze and muttered, “Grim, if you can hear me, we might be needing a little help.”
Suddenly, the Snow Maiden hunkered down and ripped the SVT patch from his throat. “What’s your name?”
“My name’s Sam,” he said in Russian.
She switched to Russian. “Who was the man you were chasing?”
“My daddy.”
“Answer me!”
Fisher widened his eyes. “You want to find Kasperov, right?”
“You know where he is?”
“That guy we were chasing . . . did he get away?”
She nodded.
“Then there’s no time. We need to go!”
She snorted. “We need to go? I don’t think so.” She pressed the suppressor against his forehead. “Where is Kasperov?”
Fisher narrowed his gaze. “I know who you are, Snegurochka. I’ve heard all about you.”
“Then you know this conversation will not end well.”
“Not for you.”
She leaned in closer and brought a hand up to his chin. “You look tired. You look . . . broken. You’ve been doing this too long.”
“Or not long enough.”
“Where is Kasperov? You tell me now, otherwise I’ll cut you slow, the way I cut Nadia’s friend.” In her other hand she now gripped his karambit. Well that answered the question regarding his knife.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
“You mean besides my new friends here?” She gestured back to the miners.
“Yeah.”
“If you know all about me, then you know I brought an army.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“I have comrades posted throughout the entire city, with another twenty people back in Juliaca. Not only will we capture Kasperov, but I’ll be bringing you two back with me. Three prizes in one day. And, of course, I’ll be interrogating you myself.” She ran the tip of the karambit across Fisher’s cheek, not deep enough to cut him but with a promise that she would.
“That sounds like a date. Can we go now?”
“You really are in a hurry.”
“We need to go.”
“How many bodyguards does he have?”
Fisher cursed. “Look, we’ve got no time. He’s on the run right now.”
Briggs sat up now, glanced back to the miners, and spoke rapidly in Spanish: “She’s a Russian spy. We’ll double what she gave you. Think about it.”
“Show me the money,” said one of the miners.
Briggs grimaced and said, “I got five hundred bucks in my pocket. He’s got even more.”
“They’re lying,” cried the Snow Maiden.
“I promise we have the money,” said Briggs.
“Hey,” Fisher cried, regaining the Snow Maiden’s attention. He steeled his voice. “Coming after us was your first mistake.”
“Oh, really?”
“Letting us live was your second.”
She chuckled under her breath.
“Trying to hold two weapons on me at once? Well, that was your third.”
As he was speaking, Fisher was already visualizing his maneuver the way great athletes visualized their victories before even competing.
His arms came up in the sweeping, poetic movements of an Olympic swimmer, seizing the Snow Maiden’s pistol with one hand and forcing it away from his head while he grabbed the wrist of her knife hand and drove it back. That must’ve been the arm where she’d been shot, as her struggle was much weaker on that side.
Briggs needed no cue, no orders. He was already rushing behind the Snow Maiden to put her in one of their now well-practiced blood chokes.
Her reflexes took over, her hand involuntarily flexing, and she fired a round into the air while Briggs applied more pressure.
To Fisher’s surprise, one of the miners, the tallest, rushed over and dug fingers into the Snow Maiden’s grip, prying free the karambit, which tumbled to the slush-covered ground. Seeing this, Fisher placed both of his hands on her pistol and began wrestling it free. He managed to squeeze his fingers up, above hers, and pressed the magazine release button. The magazine tumbled from the handle. She still clutched the gun, but now she only had one round in the chamber.
With a guttural hiss, the Snow Maiden reached up and tried to claw Briggs’s face, even as Fisher tore the pistol from her grip, the force nearly knocking him onto his rump.
The Snow Maiden slipped her legs behind Briggs’s ankles and suddenly tripped him back, onto the ground, the impact breaking his hold on her.
Even as Fisher brought the pistol around, the Snow Maiden was rolling backward, launching herself into a reverse somersault and landing on her boots.
She gasped, her face and neck flushed, a weird grin splitting her lips. “Pull the trigger,” she urged him. “And don’t worry, the round won’t explode in the chamber.”
Fisher glanced at the pistol and the red LED light just beneath the hammer. Damn, it was electronically keyed only to her.
“Maybe the knife?” she suggested, glancing toward the blade half covered in mud.
Fisher looked to the miners. “Double what she paid you,” he said in Spanish.
The tall one nodded.
And at once, Fisher, Briggs, and all four miners surrounded and pounced on the Snow Maiden.
It took two miners to hold down each of her wrists, with Briggs fighting to maintain his grip on her ankles while Fisher produced several sets of zipper cuffs from his parka’s inner pocket and quickly bound her wrists and ankles. She fought against them as if they were priests trying to perform an exorcism, screaming and cursing in Russian.
“Charlie says the chopper’s five minutes out,” said Briggs. “Gotta be for Kasperov.”
“I need a car,” Fisher told the tallest miner in Spanish.
“I have one,” the man said in English.
“And our gear? Pistols, a crossbow? Some night-vision goggles and big watches?”
“She put them in a bag over there.”
“I need them back.”
“Okay. You’re Americans, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“CIA?”
Fisher shook his head. “Your English is good. Can we get moving?”
“Sorry. Come with me.”
Fisher turned back and hollered, “Briggs, search her! See if she’s got our phones.”
“Already did, here!” He tossed Fisher his smartphone. “Weird thing is, she only had our phones. Nothing else. No way to contact her people.”
Fisher shrugged. “Okay, get her down to the helipad. I’ll meet you there.”
He took off runn
ing after the miner.
24
AFTER collecting their gear, Fisher followed the man down along a steep dirt path to a narrow service road lacing its way up the mountain. A broken string of cars was parked along the embankment, some owned by the workers, others by the supervisors and machine operators, the miner explained. He was lucky enough to afford a small four-cylinder sedan because before coming up to La Rinconada he’d been an attorney in Arequipa, but his practice had suffered greatly after a corruption scandal involving one of his partners. Fisher couldn’t believe that a man with his education would resort to the crapshoot of the mines, but he assured Fisher that many of the workers had once been professionals in the cities before they’d fallen on hard times. The temptation of quick money was too great to resist.
He said his name was Hector and admitted that he’d heard a rumor about the rich Russian who’d returned to the city. They said he was beginning work on his humanitarian project. They hadn’t seen him yet, but they had followed his bodyguards, wondering if any of them would be robbed. Hector did not know where Kasperov was, but he did know the swiftest route to the helipad located just outside the city, lying on a small plateau.
Fisher paid him a hundred dollars for his help—a meager amount that would go a long way in Peru—and the man surprised him by saying that he would’ve helped without the money but that yes, he would accept it. His two sons had moved to the Salinas Valley in California, and he had a place in his heart for all Americans, whom he had said had shown his sons the love and support they needed. In barely five minutes Fisher knew this miner’s life story, and he couldn’t help but be moved.
Now, as they neared the helipad, a speck appeared in the sky, and as they slowed, Fisher thrust his head out the window and shielded his face from the glare.
The chopper was a twin-engine AgustaWestland AW139 with four windows on each side of the fuselage and seating for a dozen or more, Fisher estimated. This helo wasn’t the over-the-top rich man’s transport and was painted in a rather subdued white and gray, but neither was it a flying rust bucket.
A dust cloud appeared in the car’s side-view mirror, where Fisher watched the approach of two mining company SUVs, which turned to reveal company logos on the doors. It seemed Kasperov was receiving a well-protected send-off from the mining bosses who’d scored some easy money from the oligarch.
Fisher told Hector to pull off the road about thirty meters from the helipad. He thought a moment, then cursed and removed his pistols, leaving them and the crossbow on the floor before he got out.
“No matter what happens, you just sit here, okay?” he asked Hector.
“Okay.”
Fisher stepped away from the car and faced the oncoming vehicles. He waved with both hands as the rotor wash whipped over him and tugged at his parka.
At least six men burst out of the SUVs with pistols drawn. They screamed in Russian and Spanish for him to get down on his knees and place his hands behind his head.
He took a deep breath and complied.
As big Anatoly approached, Fisher shouted in Russian, “I’m an American. I have an offer from President Caldwell. Tell Kasperov we’ve rescued his daughter from the GRU!”
“Oh, really, you’re an American?” Anatoly asked. “Then to hell with you, American! I saw you back in the mine!” He kicked Fisher in the stomach, knocking him onto his side.
Boots were everywhere now as Kasperov’s men surrounded him, one cuffing his right wrist and fighting to cuff the left as he fought to pull away.
More shouting erupted from the lead SUV.
Fisher glanced up—
And there he was, the man himself, Igor Kasperov, removing the black fur ushanka from his head and allowing his long, sandy hair to flutter free in the wind. His expensive black parka was fitted with military-style Velcro and zippered pockets, suggesting he was some general come down from the mountain to inspect his troops. He scratched at the pearl-colored stubble on his cheeks and squinted toward the helipad.
Watching him emerge from the SUV was, for a moment, like seeing the bronze statue of some legend come to life. For a moment, even Fisher felt a little starstruck, since he had reviewed hours of interviews and had scrolled through hundreds of photos that suggested the software genius was some media-created persona and not a real human being.
“I want to talk to him!” Kasperov cried. “Bring him here! Now!”
Anatoly hauled Fisher to his feet. They searched him, and Anatoly confiscated his phone before ushering Fisher back toward the SUV. The handcuffs were on tight now, the blood cut off to Fisher’s hands, which were already growing numb.
Two of the other guards were hauling Hector the miner out of car, and Fisher yelled, “Don’t hurt him! He’s just my ride!”
Kasperov had climbed back into the SUV, out of the wind and cold. One of the other guards held open a back door, and Fisher was shoved inside, falling into a seat beside Kasperov and his supermodel girlfriend, her perfect face encircled by her parka’s white fur trim.
“Who are you?” demanded Kasperov.
Fisher took a few seconds to compose himself, then spoke rapidly in Russian. “Sir, I’m here with an offer from President Caldwell. She’ll offer you political asylum, but more than that she’ll help rebuild your company.”
“Everyone wants a piece of me now.”
“We’re just here to help.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You gave your daughter a pendant with some gold inside, some gold from the mines here.”
Kasperov looked startled. “How do you know that?”
“Because she told us. She helped us find you.”
The man grabbed Fisher by his parka’s collar and spoke through his teeth: “Where is she?”
“The GRU was holding her in Sochi. My team got her out. We flew her back to the U.S. She’s in a safe house near Langley. If you want, you can talk to her right now.”
“Bullshit! You’re holding her prisoner!”
“Anatoly took my phone. Let me have it. We’ll call Nadia. I’ll prove it to you.”
“You’re stalling for some reason. You’re a Russian agent, aren’t you?”
“We just captured the agent who’s been after you. They call her Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden. I think she’s working alone, but we can’t be sure.”
Kasperov drew back his head. “Snegurochka? I know her.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“We worked on a case together.”
“Then you know what a hard time we’ve had. Please, let me have my phone. Let’s call your daughter. It’ll just take a minute.”
Kasperov glanced to his girlfriend, who whispered something to him. He faced Fisher and said, “All right.” He motioned to Anatoly outside, who opened the door. “Take off his cuffs. Give me his phone.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Take off his cuffs!”
Anatoly reluctantly complied, freeing Fisher and returning the smartphone. Fisher rubbed his wrists, thanked Kasperov, then quickly called Charlie back at the plane. “I’m sitting here with Mr. Kasperov.”
“Whoa, really?”
“Calm down. I need you to patch me through to the safe house. He needs to speak with Nadia right now. Tell Grim to get the POTUS on the line and have her standing by.”
“Gotcha. Just give me a second.”
A commotion outside sent the other bodyguards jogging by, and Fisher craned his head to spot another car, a dilapidated sedan missing its front bumper and bouncing on worn-out shocks toward the helipad.
“That’s my partner,” Fisher told Kasperov. “And he’s got the Snow Maiden with him. Can you tell your men to back off?”
Kasperov fished out his own smartphone and made a call, barking orders to Anatoly.
“Sam, I’ve got her on the line.”
“Nadia, it’s Sam again. I’m here with your father. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, please, let me talk to him.”
Before ha
nding the phone over to Kasperov, Fisher glanced empathically at the man. “Like I said, all we want to do is help. You have to believe that.” He handed over the phone.
Kasperov scrutinized Fisher before tentatively accepting the phone.
“Nadia? Is that you?”
While Fisher could not hear what Nadia was saying, Kasperov broke down almost immediately, backhanding away the tears and telling her how sorry he was and how much he loved her. He asked if she was safe, and Fisher suspected that she told him more than enough to help their case.
He returned the phone to Fisher, who spoke once more with Charlie: “Is the president standing by?”
“I have her now.”
“Good. Madame President, Mr. Kasperov is here.” Fisher widened his gaze. “You just spoke to your daughter. Now I’m giving you the President of the United States. If, after this, you still think I’m a Russian agent, then you’re not the genius they say you are.”
Kasperov’s eyes had grown pink. He stared at Fisher for a moment, his gaze much softer now as he lifted the phone to his ear and spoke in English: “This is Igor Kasperov . . .”
He didn’t say much at first, probably because Caldwell was selling him hard on coming to the United States. In Fisher’s humble opinion they had a viable and convincing offer: They would reunite the man with his daughter, provide him with protection against the wrath of the Russian government, and help him rebuild his business empire. No amount of cash could buy those outcomes now.
“I can’t say why I fled Russia. Not here, not now,” said Kasperov. “But, okay, I go to Juliaca. I board your plane, but I want your guarantees in writing. All right, then. Good-bye, Madame President.”
He handed over the phone, and Fisher reassured him that they’d videoconference with Nadia once they returned to the plane, and they’d provide any other proof he needed.
Kasperov resumed his native tongue. “So you really are an American agent. Do you have a name?”
Fisher grinned wearily. “You heard it. I’m Sam.”
Kasperov glanced away and began to laugh.
“I’m sorry?” Fisher asked, wondering if Kasperov would let him in on the joke.
“I want to know your whole name. Your real name.”