Bannerman's Promise

by John R. Maxim

  BANNERMAN’S PROMISE

  BY

  JOHN R. MAXIM

  For Tamara, Tatiana, and Pyotr

  For Aleks and his Moscow cops

  And, always, for Christine

  Prologue

  The burial pit took a full day to dig.

  It was sixty meters in length.

  The place they chose was a beet field, hidden by pines, outside the village of Vigirsk. A single bulldozer, brought in by flatbed, worked in a drenching rain. The rain was good. It muted the sound of the heavy equipment and made it all but invisible from the nearest paved road, nearly two kilometers distant.

  When night fell, the rain became mixed with snow and the mud began to harden. The flatbed and a canvas-covered lorry drove off. It was time to begin gathering the dead.

  The trucks made many trips.

  There was a driver and two helpers in each truck. These men, conscripted at a roadblock near Vigirsk, were to find and collect the corpses. To see that they did, two other men with guns rode with them.

  The men with guns told them that they had nothing to fear. Finish this before sunrise, their leader said, and you can go home to your families.

  Guns or no, he seemed a decent sort. They wanted to believe him. He had promised that they would not become ill, that the time of contagion had passed. The best proof, he said, is that we are here as well.

  This much they believed. For the rest, they could only hope. They, like the man on the bulldozer, had been promised a reward. You'll see, he told them. You are doing a great service for your country. You won't just get a medal for it. You'll get something much better.

  A reward.

  They worked almost through the night. They went house-to-house, to every vehicle, every outbuilding, gathering the dead of Vigirsk. That done, they began gathering the animals. They finished before sunrise.

  They had not asked, of course, who these men were. Internal Security, probably, but better not to know. They were certainly well disciplined, which at least meant they weren't gangsters. Not one of them took rings off the fingers of dead women or went looking for valuables or took the icons that hung in the little church.

  The snow had changed back to sleet again. The six of them sat shivering, caked with mud, listening to the freezing rain which slapped at the canvas. It is best, they decided, to plan for the worst. They loosened the ties of the canvas so that they could dive out through the sides if it came to that. Each one was assigned an exit so that there would be no confusion. They would scatter six ways, every man for himself. You can't outrun a bullet, but a small chance, they agreed, is better than no chance at all.

  Soon they heard the noise of the bulldozer starting up again. It was very near. They fell silent, listening, half expecting that it would come and shove them into the pit, truck and all.

  But the sound, much clanking and grinding, came no closer. The lorry driver peeked under the canvas. He saw that the bulldozer had begun filling the burial pit at the near end. The operator was having a hard time of it. His treads were slipping in the mud and the motor was coughing badly. Very old machine. His task was made all the more inefficient by his fear of getting too near the edge and having it give way beneath him. Or perhaps he simply did not want to see what he was burying.

  The driver of the flatbed had been a tank commander in Afghanistan. There, he told the others, he had seen many pits for the dead. But never one like this. Not one with whole families from babies to grandmothers on the bottom and hundreds of animals on the top. Goats, cows, pigs, even horses. This was why they needed a flatbed with a winch. Try to lift a dead cow without one.

  One of the men who rode with him said that the hardest part was the. babies. But after that, he said, the hardest part was wasting all that good meat. It's more than a year, he said, since he got his teeth around a decent piece of beef or even horse.

  “That meat is full of anthrax,” said the flatbed driver. “One bite and you're dead the next day.”

  “Shit,” muttered his other helper.

  The flatbed driver raised an eyebrow. ''Shit means what? You think the meat is good? I didn't see you stuffing chickens into your coat.”

  The helper snorted. “Even after Afghanistan,” he said to the others, “this one still believes everything they tell him.”

  The flatbed driver bristled. “And you know better, I suppose. You, who have hardly been a hundred kilometers from the farm where you were born.”

  “That farm is why I know better. You think I have never seen anthrax?”

  The veteran of Afghanistan frowned. “Have you?” he asked. “Or are you only good for talk?”

  The helper looked away. “Forget I said anything. When a man with a gun says it's anthrax, it's anthrax.”

  The lorry driver leaned forward. “Tell me how you know it isn't.”

  The lorry driver touched a finger to his lips.

  “They are coming back,” he said.

  Outside, car doors opened and closed. Quiet voices, then silence. Now footsteps sucked at the mud. They grew closer and stopped. The rear flap tore open. All six men froze, fearing that the men with guns had come to finish them. But it was only the nice one and another who had never spoken. They carried not guns but cardboard boxes. Right away, the six could see bottles in one of them. Big bottles. Whole liters.

  “You see?” the one from around here said. ”I keep my word.”

  The two left their boxes and walked back to their car. One opened the trunk. They returned, this time, with a kerosene heater which the nice one lit for them. The silent one carried two large thermos jugs, some towels, and a cake of brown soap.

  They wet two of the towels and passed them around. Steam rose from them. It did feel good to get the death off their hands.

  Meanwhile, the one who had never spoken or smiled was suddenly behaving like Father Winter. From one box he took small loaves of bread which he handed to each man. Next there is real butter in a wooden tub and a big jar of blackberry jam. Underneath are perhaps ten kilos of sausage and a knife for slicing it. In the box with the vodka there is more of the same plus the cartons of cigarettes. They were Marlboros. Best kind. If these men meant to shoot us, they said with their eyes, they would not waste all this. They would surely not give us a knife.

  The one from around here took out a vodka bottle and unscrewed the top. He handed it to the lorry driver. ‘Take a good swallow and pass it,” he said.

  The vodka was Stolichnaya, the driver noted. The good stuff. Meant only for export. The label was even in English.

  “Get a little drunk,” he said. “Eat all you want. You don't have to save some for later because this is only the beginning.”

  All six men blinked.

  “Before you go home,” he told them, ”I will give you an address in Yekaterinburg. From now on, at the beginning of every month, you will all come and visit me. You will come on the same day. If each of you can say that he has kept his promise, that he has not spoken of this—even to his wife or his priest—you will each get a food parcel as good as these. I don't have to tell you what they are worth.”

  They knew. The richest of them could work a full year and not have enough for even one. They smiled, one after the other.

  “How long will this continue? That is up to you. If one of you gets a case of loose lips, it ends for all of you.”

  He paused to let this sink in. He watched as they glanced at each other, noting their expressions and where the glances lingered. Their faces told them what he wanted to know. They were clearly in agreement that this was too good to pass up. Some glances lingered longest on one of the flatbed helpers. This told the man that this one probably had the most to say already. But the helper answered them with a shrug that said, Hey
. No problem with me.

  A distant car horn sounded. Their benefactor looked toward its source, then nodded to the other.

  “We'll be back in a few minutes,” he told them. “Meantime, enjoy yourselves. Try to save us a swallow and enough for a sandwich.”

  His passenger, an older man, was still pulling on galoshes. He was dressed like a big shot, black suit, black coat, except that on his head he wore one of those Scottish caps, red plaid, and it had a little pom-pom on the top. What sort of man, the lorry driver wondered, rides in a Zil and wears a hat like that? The man climbed out under the umbrella.

  This was a good development, thought the lorry driver. Someone in authority had arrived. It was no longer just men with guns who, so far, had no names.

  The man in the tam-o'-shanter stood on the edge of the pit, looking into it. He was shaking his head, wearily. The others joined him there.

  He nodded toward his chauffeur, who turned the flashlight on and shined it where he pointed. The man from the Zil could see better now. Before, they had been only shapeless mounds, glistening under a glaze of sleet. He seemed confused.

  “Only animals?” he asked. “Where are the villagers?”

  “Underneath,” said the one who had been in charge. “This way if anyone should ever start digging . . .”

  “Good idea.” The older man nodded. “Well done.”

  Another nod. “How many dead?”

  “Not as bad as we thought. Ninety-two.”

  “You're sure that you have all of them?”

  “We've combed this whole valley. Every building, every vehicle, even the privies.”

  “Some will have relatives elsewhere. How will you deal with inquiries?”

  “An outbreak of anthrax,” the younger man answered. “The dead, we'll say, have personal effects with them, for obvious reasons. Their livestock burned in pits. We'll quarantine their homes as well and restrict all access. Anyone who knows anthrax will understand the need for these measures.”

  “Anthrax kills like this? No survivors?”

  “It can. Not as quickly, perhaps, but in a day or so. Without treatment, the pulmonary form is always fatal.”

  The man in the plaid hat seemed doubtful. He put the question aside. “What have you learned about the accident? How it happened, I mean.”

  The younger man blinked. “Accident? Who told you it was an accident?”

  “General Borovik told me. You say it wasn't?”

  “Borovik!” He spat the name. ”A worse accident was Borovik being bom. A catastrophe was trusting this shipment to him and those morons he uses.”

  “Colonel...” A weary sigh. “Just tell me what happened, if you please.”

  The younger man took a breath. Count to ten, he told himself. Don't go too far.

  “Two of Borovik's ... people ... picked up the shipment in Yekaterinburg and drove it out under a truckload of pigs.”

  “Pigs.” The older man frowned. “That means Borovik used the Kerenskys for this?”

  “Young ones. Nephews. Same blood.” Which guarantees subhuman, he thought but did not say. “They had barely started to Moscow when they decided to take a little off the top for themselves.”

  “They didn't know they were carrying nerve gas?”

  “Of course they knew,” he said sharply. ”I told them myself. For one hour, I drilled into them how to handle those

  canisters.” ·

  “And yet they opened one of them?”

  “Smashed it open. With a hammer. The hammer was still in his hand.”

  “But why would they . . . ?”

  Again, he caught himself. He apologized. It has been a long two days, he said. We are all very tired. No insubordination was intended.

  The older man said nothing.

  The older man chewed his lip. His eyes found those of the silent one. The silent one shrugged, barely perceptibly. The visitor looked away. For a few moments, he watched the work of the bulldozer. The pit was nearly half filled in.

  “That driver. Is he reliable?”

  “He'll keep his mouth shut. So will the others.”

  “What others?”

  “In the lorry. We had to round up some drivers and some strong backs. I think I... we”—he included the silent one— “have reached an understanding with them.”

  The old man looked at the silent one. He looked into his mind. He saw the doubting flick of an eyebrow.

  “You can't let them go,” he said. “Any of them.”

  The former colonel took a breath. “I'll be responsible,” he said. “Leave them to me.”

  “Are they from this place?”

  From Kemensk. Five towns away.”

  “Miners or farmers?”

  “One farmer. The rest work for the mines.”

  “You don't suppose a farmer would know anthrax when he sees it?”

  The younger man hesitated. “If he's seen it, perhaps. It's not so common in the Urals.”

  The older man rubbed his chin. “Coming here,” he said, ”I saw dead birds on the road. Does anthrax make birds fall from the sky?”

  No answer.

  “Does it kill chickens? I see chickens in the pit.”

  “General. . .”

  “If those men talk, you'll be up before a firing squad. You realize that, don't you?”

  He started to speak. The older man raised a hand.

  “That means you, Captain Sostkov here, and all of your men. You would take such a risk?”

  “General . . .” He gritted his teeth. ”I will not execute those—”

  “And where will it end? How many more will follow you to the wall?”

  He stiffened. “If you're suggesting that I would betray you ...”

  “Nothing of that sort. You would die first. You would die for your country and perhaps even for me. But would you die for General Borovik?”

  The former colonel knew what he was being asked. Would he give up his life knowing that Borovik still had breath in him? Or would he first give up Borovik?

  There could be little doubt where that would end. Borovik would switch sides in two seconds. Still, to go back on his word, to sacrifice those six men before he's had a chance to make them understand ... the future... how wonderful it will be ... don't let this one tragedy ruin it...he could not bear the thought of it.

  He straightened. “General,” he said again, firmly, ”I will not execute those men.”

  His voice had softened but his eyes had not.

  They had locked upon those of the young former captain. The man who did not speak. The man whose eyes had flashed with pride when his hero, General Arkadi Kulik, remembered and spoke his name.

  The lorry driver watched them through the flap.

  He could hear little of what they were saying. Only a word here and there from the man who had just come. He had one of those voices that carried.

  But all would be well, he told himself, because the man in the Scottish cap looked so very sad. Now he was hugging the one from around here. Giving him a squeeze.

  The lorry driver turned to the kerosene heater, lighting one of his Marlboros off the mantle.

  When he looked back, the two men were heading toward the truck again. The one in the cap stood with his chauffeur, watching them go.

  Suddenly, the silent one halted. He was looking toward the pit as if something there caught his attention. Now he was walking toward it. He stopped at the edge, scanning it. Now he called out to the nice one.

  “He has a tongue after all,” remarked the lorry driver. The others, busy eating sandwiches, were not so interested.

  “It's a woman,” the lorry driver heard him say over the growl of the bulldozer. “She's still alive.”

  Impossible thought the lorry driver. Did she climb up through dead livestock? But the other man rushed over to look.

  “Where?” he seemed to be saying. “Shine the light on her.”

  The first one did so. The nice one leaned closer. Suddenly, a dull pop. The nice o
ne went rigid. He staggered for a step or two, then turned to the other, disbelief on his face. Another pop, sharper this time. The lorry driver saw the pistol. He saw the nice one fold up and sink to the ground, his whole body twitching.

  The one who shot him swung his beam toward the bulldozer. At the same time, he aimed his pistol. He held both of these on the driver, but the driver, it seemed clear, had neither seen nor heard. He kept working. Now, with the beam still blinding the driver to him, he pressed his pistol against the fallen one's neck. Another pop. Almost silent. He holstered his pistol. He stood erect. With his boot, he put the nice one over the side.

  “We're dead men,” he said at last.

  No time to discuss this. The lorry driver leaped from the back and ran to his cab. He pressed the starter. Nothing. He tried again. This time God was good. He threw it into gear. His own helper, his face white, clawed his way in from the other side. He collapsed at once, dead or dying, into the footwell. Something slapped at the door of his cab. Bullets. The window exploded, cutting his face. It's only glass, he told himself. Go. From the back came another scream of pain.

  No question. They would get him.

  If not here, then on the road to Kemensk.

  If not now, then later.

  But he would make the bastards work for it.

  1

  From the air, thought Lesko, Russia could have been Nebraska.

  The Finnair jet from Zurich had begun its long descent, bouncing through scattered clouds. He peered out toward the south, looking for some sign of the Moscow skyline. He saw nothing but farmland. Spring crops coming up.

  It was all very flat. Not that many roads. Not many trees either except for an occasional stand of pine or birch. But at least it was green, mostly. Somehow, he had always thought of Russia in black and white.

  He felt Elena's hand on his arm, squeezing it. The squeeze was her promise that this would be fun. He grumbled inwardly. For her sake he would try to enjoy it but this was still dumb.