by Marc Cameron
* * *
The population on the dilapidated base was purposely kept small, with little movement outside prescribed times when American satellites were not passing overhead. Most of the buildings were vacant, so the handful of officers and senior enlisted men had their pick of quarters.
Captain Lodygin had chosen the wing of a deserted barracks at the back of the compound.
“This is the confinement area?” Kanatova said, nodded her head as she got out of the sedan.
“No,” Rostov said, waving at the drab concrete building on the outskirts of the base. Its back to the perimeter fence and barren mountains, the barracks was separated from the other buildings by a gurgling stream that contained more sewage than water. “Lodygin is a loaner. This is where he prefers to live.”
The FSB agent stopped at the bottom of the concrete steps, her hand on the peeling paint of a metal rail. “Captain Lodygin keeps prisoners at his residence?”
Rostov motioned for the driver to stay with the car, wondering how to couch his answer so he did not sound too callous and scare away the young redhead. In the end, he decided that if she was an agent for the FSB, she should be capable of handling unvarnished truth.
“Captain Lodygin is an interesting soul,” Rostov said. “But his methods have, thus far, yielded results. He does not have an interrogation cell in his home so much as he lives in a room off the interrogation cell.”
Kanatova nodded thoughtfully, seeming to chew on this information as she made her way up the stairs and through the twin metal doors. Their footsteps echoed down a long tile hallway that was covered with a thin patina of glacial dust and lined on either side with wooden dormitory doors every three or four meters. There was a forgotten emptiness to the place, like a condemned prison. Rostov caught a whiff of strong cleaning solution as they walked—and something else he could not quite identify.
“You have been to this place before?” Kanatova said as they neared a pool of light that spilled from an open door at the far end of the passageway.
“No,” Rostov said. “The captain has only described it to me.”
“Most interesting,” the FSB agent said. “Where are the guards? Why have we not been challenged?”
“I am not certain,” Rostov said honestly, as they reached the open door. “We will have to inquire.”
They found Lodygin sitting at a small metal table in front of a bowl of soup, addressing a young woman across from him with a spoon. He was dressed in his uniform trousers and a T-shirt, but his tunic and light green shirt hung over the back of a chair beside him. The young woman across from him wore a thin cotton shift. She dipped a spoon into a bowl of soup identical to his and put it to her mouth with a shaking hand. Soup drizzled back into the bowl and she stared at Lodygin and went through the motions of eating without ever opening her mouth. Dark hair hung on trembling shoulders in greasy matted strands. Providenya saw little sun this time of year and everyone was pale, but the girl looked as though the life had been drained from her body. Her hands were free but a chain connected a bruised and bloody ankle to the leg of her metal chair. The chair appeared to be bolted to the floor.
Rostov was immediately struck with the foul odor of the well-used toilet bucket in the corner. He had to concentrate to keep from retching when he saw the metal ring affixed to the back wall above a thin prison mattress. A single filthy sheet for bedding was crumpled at the end, sopping up a spill from the bucket. Torn underwear, now little more than sad pieces of cotton and elastic lay on the tile next to the mattress. The sight of them made Rostov want to vomit.
“Colonel!” Lodygin said, jumping to his feet. “I wish you would have informed me you were going to visit. I would have made myself more presentable.” He gestured toward the girl with an open hand. “Our Rosalina has been very cooperative in the last few minutes, so she earned some much needed nourishment.”
The girl convulsed at Lodygin’s every word, a look of hopelessness in her sunken eyes such as Rostov had never seen. For the first time, the colonel noticed a short wooden truncheon on the table, resting on top of a pair of flaccid latex gloves beside Lodygin’s soup bowl.
Kanatova ignored the girl, looking instead at the captain. “So, this Rosalina has provided you information on the Black Hundreds?”
A smile crept over Lodygin’s face. He walked around the table to stand beside the girl and stroked her hair with the back of his hand. “She has told me a great deal about her friend Kaija Merculief, who is involved with this Black Hundreds.”
“I do not care about Kaija Merculief,” Kanatova spat, apparently lacking in patience. “We require information on the Black Hundreds group. I will need to speak with this girl myself.”
Rosalina threw back her head in despair. “Kaija is a friend from school only,” she sobbed. “I do not know about any Black Hundreds—”
Without warning, Kanatova drew a black H&K pistol from beneath her down jacket and shot Lodygin in the center of his forehead.
“I believe you,” she said.
Chapter 55
Alaska
“Now!” Quinn said, scooping up the rifle. He grabbed the pack and sock with his free hand. “Follow me. Move, move, move!”
Quinn counted strides as he ran, knowing that each bounding step put approximately one meter of distance between himself and Zolner. He stopped when he’d widened the gap twenty more meters and immediately dropped the pack on the ground. Settling in behind the scope, he squeezed the sock to bring the crosshairs of his scope where they centered on the Russian’s prone body. He took two full breaths, giving his nerves a quick moment to settle, then exhaled, pausing at the bottom to send the round in the stillness of his respiratory pause. He didn’t wait for impact but worked the bolt and fired again, using the same hold.
The .338 Lapua’s two-and-a-half-second flight gave Quinn time to get back on the scope before the projectile made it to the target. He’d seen Zolner fire as well, but the shot had fallen far short, kicking up a shower of snow just past the imprint where Quinn had been set up before. It would have been a hit.
“Hot damn, Quinn, you hit his rifle,” Beaudine yelled, binoculars to her eyes. “Bet he’s never had anybody shoot back at him like that. Have you, Mr. Worst of the Moon?”
The first shot from the Lapua sent up a splash of mud a foot in front of Zolner as he adjusted to Quinn’s new location. The second, still traveling 1200 feet per second, slammed into the ground a few inches closer and then bounced, striking the big CheyTac in the metal stock. At first Quinn thought the round had been a hit on Zolner, but the greater likelihood was that the solid round had sent up spalling from the metal rifle stock on impact along with fragments of copper. It was impossible to tell through the scope at over 1300 meters, but from the way Zolner rolled away, it looked as though he’d been struck in the arm and face.
Zolner was up and running by the time Quinn could send another shot his direction. As good as he was, shooting of any kind was a perishable skill. A moving target at nearly a mile away proved to be impossible to hit. The Russian didn’t even pause when he reached his ATV but sped away after Volodin.
“Can you believe that?” Beaudine said. “He just abandoned his fancy gun.”
“Smart,” Quinn said, sitting up to brush the tundra muck off the front of his jacket and pants. “What’s the doctor doing?”
Beaudine swung the binoculars around. “They’re long gone,” she said. “Must have gotten their machine tumped back on its wheels.”
A quick check of the Arctic Cat showed Zolner’s round had come in perfectly under the front fender and clipped the oil line. The machine was oil cooled, which meant it was out of commission. There were two extra quarts of oil under the seat, but the rubber hose was too short to reuse once the damage had been trimmed away.
“I can fix it,” Beaudine said, holding up one of the empty .338 Lapua cases and the file from her Leatherman multi-tool. “It’ll take a minute, but I can do it.”
Quinn nodded.
“We can saw the end of the empty and use it as a hard splice. You’re pretty handy to have around.”
“Like I said, the only thing close to happy times I had with my daddy was when we were fixin’ engines.”
“He taught you to use the empty rifle bullet as a fix?”
“Hell, no.” Beaudine frowned. “If we would have had guns and bullets around the house I woulda shot the son of a bitch a long time ago. He just taught me to use what we had on hand.”
“Okay then,” Quinn said. “If you don’t mind doing the fixing, I’m going to pour some more antiseptic on my thigh. I’m pretty sure the stuff I was laying in back there came out of the south end of a north-bound caribou.”
Beaudine handed him the brass shell casing and Leatherman. “Your hands are stronger. It’ll go faster if you do it. In the meantime, drop your pants, and I’ll take care of your antiseptic again. It’s the least I can do since you sewed me up.”
Quinn did as he was told, sitting on the edge of the Arctic Cat with his pants and long underwear pooled around his boots. He held the empty rifle case against the handlebars with one hand while he sawed first at the narrow-necked end of the cartridge with the Leatherman file. He’d work on the primer end next. Beaudine opened a new packet of Betadine and began to pour it on each spot where the shotgun had hit his thigh.
“Lucky for you, she was using birdshot.”
“I’ll say.” Quinn concentrated on what he was doing to keep from wincing. It was not particularly delicate work, but he had to move the file evenly back and forth on the brass shell casing, working to form a tube that could be inserted in between the broken oil lines.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to try and get at them?” Beaudine offered again.
“No, thanks,” Quinn said. “Better concentrate on fixing this. We slowed Zolner down but he’s not going to be far behind Volodin and the girl. He might even catch them.”
“If he doesn’t bleed out.” Beaudine grinned. “I still can’t believe you actually hit him.”
“Technically the bullet bounced into his rifle and then hit him.”
“At three quarters of a mile, a hit’s a hit,” Beaudine said.
Quinn stopped filing long enough to look up and stare across the empty tundra. “Anyway, this Worst of the Moon doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to bleed out.”
Beaudine squatted beside the Arctic Cat, trimming the oil line with a pocketknife. “Everybody bleeds out,” she said.
Quinn turned and looked at her over his shoulder, first at her face and then at his thigh. “We didn’t.”
Chapter 56
Providenya
Colonel Rostov felt as if his guts had turned to jelly as he watched a thin whisker of smoke curl from the barrel of Kanatova’s H&K P7. He carried a Makarov pistol in a regulation flap holster on his hip, but the way this woman summarily shot Lodygin without warning . . . Rostov knew there was no way he could get to his weapon before she shot him as well.
Rosalina, reduced to a bundle of nerves from her recent treatment, lost control of her bladder at the gunshot, and fell forward across the table, knocking the soup bowl to the floor.
Instead of shooting Rostov as he expected, Kanatova returned her pistol to the holster and produced a handcuff key from her pocket. “Don’t just stand there,” she said as she stooped to free the girl’s ankle from the chain. “Take off your coat.”
“My coat . . . ?”
“Give me your coat!” Kanatova snapped, causing the colonel to shrug the thing off as if it were on fire. “Now turn away. The poor thing deserves some privacy.”
Rostov turned slightly, but kept an eye on the FSB agent in his peripheral vision, smart enough not to show his back completely, but concerned enough that beads of sweat began to pop up on his bald head.
“Come, my dear,” Kanatova said to the girl. “We must get you clean and into warm clothing. Do you live with your mother?”
“Yes.” The reply was hardly louder than the peep of a bird.
“How long have you been here?”
“I do not know,” Rosalina said. “Two days, I think.”
Kanatova’s green eyes shot daggers at Rostov. “Your poor mother must be worried sick. I will call and let her know you are with me now.” Arms around the shattered girl’s heaving shoulders, she turned again to Rostov. “I have seen what I was sent to see, Colonel.”
“You will take the girl with you?”
“I will,” Kanatova said, drawing her closer as if she were a beloved younger sister. There was a fierceness about her that made her seem to glow, even in the dimness of Lodygin’s dismal room.
Rostov shook his head, feeling some measure of control return to his spirit. He was after all, a colonel in the GRU. “And what of Captain Lodygin?”
“Dump him in the sea,” Kanatova said, her freckled nose drawing into a tight sneer. “I do not care. It is apparent Lodygin was a sadistic bastard and that is what I will report to General Zhestakova. The man had no business questioning young women about such sensitive subjects—much less being in charge of your project.”
“I assure you, I did not know of his proclivity—”
“Is that so?” Kanatova said, tilting her head as if passing judgment. She turned to look at Rosalina. “My dear, have you ever seen this man before?”
“No.” The girl shook her head. “Only the other one.”
“Very well.” Kanatova shrugged. “In that case, Colonel, I must ask you to return me to my plane.”
Rostov put a hand on the edge of the table to keep his knees from buckling. “Of course,” he said. “Yes . . . of course.” He could think of nothing else to say. She had made it quick, and, in a manner, kind, when she’d killed Lodygin, just as General Zhestakova said it should be.
* * *
A stocky woman with her gray hair piled high in a tight bun swung her elbows as if she were marching when she walked out from the plane to meet Aleksandra Kanatova beside the old ZiL. The woman carried a bright blue wool blanket and wrapped it around the girl’s shoulders like a loving grandmother. Rostov nearly collapsed in relief when Kanatova returned his greatcoat. The FSB would not go to the trouble of returning a coat if they meant to murder someone.
“Mrs. Dudkov will look after you, my dear,” Kanatova said to the girl, patting her on the shoulder as the matron escorted the girl to the plane. “I will be along in a moment.”
“Thank you for your assistance in this delicate matter, Colonel Rostov,” Kanatova said when the girl was safely out of earshot and boarding the plane. “Finding information on any plans the Black Hundreds have regarding Novo Archangelsk is paramount to all else. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Rostov said. Some of his bluster had begun to seep back in now that he knew he would survive this encounter. “You bought an incredible amount of trust from the girl when you rescued her from Lodygin.”
“Yes . . . Lodygin,” Kanatova said as if the name was bitter on her tongue.
“I assure you,” Rostov stammered. “I was only interested in the information he brought me. I knew nothing of his activities with the girl.”
Kanatova smiled, giving him a sly wink. “Oh you knew, Colonel. You knew all too well.” The smile bled from her face. “The important thing is that you did not take part in those activities.”
“Quite right,” Rostov said, squirming, fighting the urge to tug at his collar for more air. “The girl trusts you now. That is good. She will tell you everything she knows, I am sure.” He felt as if he was on the verge of collapse by the time she extended her hand. She was a civilian and did not salute, but it made sense that she would offer to shake hands.
Kanatova nodded a curt good-bye and turned. The same cold, gray wind that had brought the terrifying redhead to Providenya tugged at her hair as she walked back toward the aircraft. Rostov felt as if he could draw a full breath for the first time in hours.
Ten yards away, Kanatova stopped suddenly, patted the top of her bare head and turne
d, smiling.
“I am a fool,” said. “My ushanka, I have forgotten it in the car.”
Eager to see her on her way, Rostov turned and bent into the back door to retrieve the blue fox hat. He’d just leaned across the seat when he felt the cold steel of Kanatova’s pistol at the base of his skull.
Rostov pitched forward at the shot, knees slamming against the pavement, arms trailing at his sides. The young conscript behind the wheel came around and helped Kanatova lift the body, shoving the lifeless lump into the back seat, head down on the floorboard.
“Your ushanka,” the soldier said, nodding toward the blue fox hat, still on the seat. Wisely, he did not offer to bend forward and retrieve it.
“I have others,” Kanatova said waving her hand at the ZiL. “I will leave the disposal of the body to you then.”
The young soldier gave a curt salute and hurried around to the driver’s seat. A moment later, the black sedan crunched away over the broken pavement, its grim interior heavier now with the stain of another dark story.
Chapter 57
Alaska
It took two hours, a cup of spare gasoline, and three tries to get the oil cleaned off the broken hose well enough so that Gorilla tape could hold both ends over the makeshift .338 Lapua cartridge splice. Thankfully, Zolner’s bullet had destroyed nothing but a piece of plastic fender and the rubber oil line.
The clouds gave way to a bluebird-clear sky, but with the cloud cover went the insulation that held any semblance of warmth close to the earth. The snow began to crust under foot. Water and mud froze into solid ice. Though the sun offered little in the way of warmth, it seemed to be everywhere at once. The glare bouncing off the crystalline landscape was like a dazzling field of diamonds.
The after-effects of the adrenaline dump from the sniper versus sniper battle with Zolner began to take its toll both on Quinn and on Beaudine by the time they got the ATV started an hour later. Wet clothes and plummeting temperatures made it impossible to get warm, but Lovita’s akutaq helped stave off hypothermia. Even Beaudine bowed to the reality that the sweet fatty confection was necessary to stay alive.