Road Of Bones

“Alerted by the clumsiness of your approach,” Levshin said. “And since you did not have a vehicle nearby, pursuit was hopeless. Right?”

Milescu nodded miserably. “Yes, sir.”

“Which one of you was the sniper?” Levshin asked.

A hand went up. Its rat-faced owner said, “I was,” remembering to add the “sir” a split second too late.

“What is your name?”

“Stolypin, sir. Gennady.”

“Have you practiced with your weapon?” Levshin pressed him.

“I’m familiar with it, sir.”

“What was the range from which you fired this morning?”

“Say one hundred meters, sir,” the sharpshooter replied.

“Using a telescopic sight?”

“Yes, sir,” Stolypin replied.

“And yet, you missed—what was it? Three times?”

“No, sir,” Stolypin said.

“No? You didn’t miss three times?”

“I missed the man, sir. Once, as he was running.”

“And your other two shots? What became of them?”

“I hit the car both times, sir.”

“Did it stop?” Levshin asked.

Stolypin swallowed hard. “No, sir.”

“Another failure, then,” Levshin said. “What shall I tell Moscow, when I am asked if you deserve to be employed? More to the point, if you deserve to live?”

“We can fix it,” Milescu said, sounding desperate.

“How will you do that?” Levshin challenged him. “Invent a time machine and go back to the moment when your idiot incompetence spoiled everything?”

“No, sir,” the gunman said, “but we can find them. We can bring them in or kill them, as you like.”

“So, are you psychic now? If you combine your five pea-brains, can you reach out and tell me where the targets are right now?” Levshin asked.

Milescu swallowed the sarcasm and replied, “They need to get away from Yakutsk, sir. If they can’t fly, that means they have to cross the river. Travel east. There are no airstrips. They must drive to Magadan, and either sail from there or fly from Sokol Airport.”

“And your plan,” Levshin replied, “is…what, exactly?”

“Stop them at the Lena crossing, sir. Or, if we miss them there—”

“Meaning you’ve failed again,” Levshin said, interrupting.

“—then we fly ahead to Magadan and meet them when they get there, sir.”

“I think not,” Levshin said. “If you can’t catch them on the ferry, if that very simple task defeats you, I don’t think that you deserve a flight to Magadan. If that happens—if you should fail again, and your superiors decide to let you live—you’ll follow up and take them on the road. The trip would do you good, I think. Make men of you, perhaps.”

Milescu muttered something that was probably, “Yes, sir,” while his companions stood slump-shouldered, staring at their shoes.

“Go on now,” Levshin ordered. “And if any of you have religion, pray you don’t fuck up again.”

* * *

THE LENA FERRY was a death trap. Bolan knew that if they weren’t ambushed on arrival at the dock, or killed on board, they would find shooters waiting for them on arrival in Nizhny Bestyakh. No matter how he broke it down, they had to find another way across the river.

And with no bridge anywhere nearby, that meant a charter boat.

Another problem: if their enemies had any sense at all, they wouldn’t just stake out the ferry terminal; they’d also have watchers on the Yakutsk waterfront, to head off any end-runs via private boats. That meant contact with a pilot couldn’t happen on the docks.

Where else would they find sailors at that hour of the morning?

“Drinking breakfast,” Anuchin offered. “Vodka is the Russian equalizer.”

There was no shortage of taverns in Yakutsk, as Bolan soon discovered. Bars catering to river boatmen were located near the waterfront, but not directly on the docks, dispensing food and alcohol around the clock as crews departed or arrived on varied schedules. In winter, when the river froze, Bolan supposed they were a place for stranded sailors to commiserate over the tedium of being stuck on shore.

In any case, he didn’t think the hunters seeking Anuchin would be looking for her in saloons at breakfast time.

The first place that they tried had two early customers, both of them obvious holdovers from the previous night, well advanced in pursuit of oblivion. The second bar had better prospects—six in all—and two of them were relatively late arrivals, only warming up their shot glasses.

Anuchin donned a smile and approached the better-looking of the nearly sober pair, a robust forty-something character with gray hair showing underneath a yachtsman’s cap that had seen better days. Hell, make it better years. Bolan stood by while she confirmed the skipper could speak English, more or less, then led him to a table in the corner nearest to the tavern’s door.

“You want to go Nizhny Bestyakh, but not on ferry, eh?” The captain smiled. “Afraid someone will see you, da? Maybe a lovers’ getaway?”

“I see we can’t fool you,” she said, flicking a glance toward Bolan that was shy and bawdy, all at once. Some actress. “Naturally, we would expect to pay a premium for causing you such inconvenience.”

The skipper beamed. “I still remember love, you know,” he said. “But I must also eat and pay for fuel, eh? So…six thousand rubles?”

Something like two hundred U.S. dollars. Bolan nodded, told him, “Done,” and peeled off a dozen 500-ruble notes.

Their new best friend in town—Yevgeny Glushko—made the money disappear into a pocket and asked Anuchin, “So, when did you wish to go?”

“There’s no time like the present, eh?” she answered.

“You’re in luck!” Glushko declared. “My boat is fueled and ready. We can leave at once.”

“You have a car?” Bolan asked.

“Car? No car. I walk from pier.”

“Relax,” Bolan replied. “I’ll drive.”

Moscow: 3:22 a.m.

FOR BREAKFAST, Colonel Eugene Marshak had a glass of bacon-flavored vodka. He regretted that he had no eggs to go along with it, but since real food meant waking up his wife, he settled for another glass of bacon.

Waiting for the cursed telephone to ring.

He wasn’t drunk, couldn’t allow himself that luxury as long as loose ends in Yakutsk were threatening to weave a noose around his neck. Marshak’s superiors were watching him—perhaps a few of them were losing sleep, as well—and if he didn’t solve the problem soon, that task would pass to other, more capable hands.

Which meant the end of him, for all practical purposes. He likely wouldn’t be imprisoned, as was common in the bad old days, but being stripped of rank and influence was tantamount to social death. He would be unemployable, beyond some menial position. He would lose the Moscow flat, his summer dacha on the coast.

Mariska would most certainly abandon him, which might turn out to be the only bright spot in the whole disaster. She could leave with nothing, since there would be nothing left to steal, and Marshak could descend into an alcoholic haze without her shrill, incessant carping to disturb him.

Or he could assert himself, demand more of his soldiers in the field and solve the problem now, before it spun further beyond control.

The phone rang once, and Marshak scooped it up. “Yes!”

“I’m afraid there’s been another problem, sir,” Stephan Levshin told him.

“Why am I not surprised?” Marshak replied with acid in his voice. “Explain yourself.”

“I sent five men to watch the airport,” Levshin said. “The targets came, but managed to evade them.”

“Five against how many?” Marshak asked.

“Two, sir. The woman and a man.”

“Were shots fired?”

“I’ve contained it, sir,” Levshin said.

“Contained it how?”

“A silencer was used. The only damage was to the escaping vehicle.”

“So, then, at least this was a quiet failure, eh? Unlike the last one,” Marshak said.

Levshin had no response to that. The empty phone line hummed and crackled until Marshak spoke again.

“Do you at least have some idea of where they’re going? What they hope to do?”

“They must get out of Yakutsk to survive, sir,” Levshin said. “They cannot fly, which only leaves the road.”

“Which road?” Marshak demanded.

“Sir, there’s only one from here.”

Marshak considered that and understood. “To Magadan, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A cold and lonely road, as I recall,” Marshak said.

“No escape, sir. That’s a promise.”

“Which you should be careful not to break,” Marshak advised.

There was more silence on the far end of the line. This time, it brought a smile to Marshak’s face. It felt good to intimidate subordinates, remind them of their proper place.

To stress his point, he declared, “I will be following your progress, Stephan. If it seems to me that you require further assistance, it will be provided.”

Levshin sounded nervous as he answered, “Sir, I’m confident that I can solve this problem with the staff on hand.”

“A staff reduced by careless losses, as it is,” Marshak replied. “If I decide to send you help, you’ll be advised.”

“Yes, sir.” A nice hint of dejection was audible in his voice.

“And, Stephan?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You realize that both of us are under scrutiny. If you fail, I am judged a failure.”

“Sir—”

“And I will not go down alone.”

Marshak replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle, poured himself another shot of bacon and began rehearsing his report to his superiors.

* * *

THEIR VESSEL WAS the Zarya, which Bolan knew meant “sunrise.” It was forty-odd-feet long and might have been a trawler once, before it was converted to river commerce. Several years had passed since it was painted, and the metal fittings didn’t gleam, but it felt solid underfoot and there was power in the engine room, once Glushko got it rumbling.

They’d been doubly cautious on the waterfront, leaving the car a long block from the Zarya’s berth and walking in with weapons close at hand. If they were spotted, no one tried to make a move. Bolan allowed himself to hope the hostile forces might be spread too thin to cover every point of exit from Yakutsk, but he and Anuchin were agreed to be prepared for trouble on the other side, when they arrived.

As for the possibility of being hit before they got across…well, they would have to wait and see.

When they had cleared the dock, he found some privacy and dialed Brognola’s number on his satellite phone. It was fourteen hours earlier in Washington—say, 6:40 p.m.—so he tried the home number and heard it ring twice before the big Fed picked up.

“Are we scrambled?” Bolan asked.

“Wait one.” A click on the line told him his old friend had engaged the scrambler, turning their words to gibberish for any eavesdroppers between D.C. and the Sakha Republic. “Okay. Are you clear?”

“Change of plans,” Bolan said. “We got blocked at the airport.”

“So, now what?” Brognola asked.

“Now we improvise,” Bolan replied. “We’ll be traveling overland.”

The big Fed processed that, maybe called up a map in his mind. “That’s a long way to run,” he observed, “if they’re dogging you.”

“Without wings,” Bolan told him, “it’s all that we’ve got.”

“Roger that. And you’re coming out…where?”

“Magadan,” Bolan said.

“Okay. Hang on a second.” He came back seconds later: “They have an airport, Sokol. You can catch Alaska Airlines there.”

“Unless it’s covered,” Bolan said.

“You’re right. They wouldn’t be that careless,” Brognola agreed. “It’s also on the Sea of Okhotsk, so you’ve got a clear shot out to the Pacific, once you’re past the Kuril Islands.”

“Quite a swim,” Bolan said. “What is that, about five thousand miles to San Francisco?”

“Smart-ass. I was thinking we’d have someone meet you,” Brognola replied.

“Sounds better,” Bolan admitted, “but they’ll likely meet with opposition. Maybe the official kind.”

“I’ll have a word with someone at the Pentagon and see what they can slip under the radar, so to speak.”

“Appreciate it,” Bolan said. “I’ll try to stay in touch as we proceed.”

He didn’t need to say what it would mean if there was no callback. The downside of a covert op on hostile ground was understood, a given, and remained unspoken. Bolan wasn’t superstitious in the least, but there was nothing to be gained by tempting fate.

“Stay frosty, eh?” Brognola said.

“We may not have a choice,” Bolan replied. “Siberia, you know?” He cut the link and found Anuchin watching him. “I’m working on a lift, from Magadan,” he said, and thought now all they had to do was make it there.

* * *

MARSHAK HAD WAITED as long as he dared. The others wouldn’t thank him for letting them sleep, if matters spun out of control in the meantime.

He had arranged a three-way conference call, the lines secure against all outside listeners, although Marshak himself was taping every word. It was a hedge against disaster. Call it life insurance.

His companions on the line were Kliment Gabritschevsky, second deputy director of the Ministry of the Interior, with responsibility for the Public Security Service; and Grigory Rybakov, pakhan—“godfather”—of the Izmaylovskaya gang, Moscow’s oldest and strongest clan of the Mafiya. Between them, they wielded more power than most elected officials in Russia.

“What news from the East?” Gabritschevsky inquired when they had disposed of the curt salutations.

“A new disappointment, I fear,” Marshak said. “The traitor returned to Yakutsk Airport with an accomplice, but Stephan’s soldiers were unable to detain them.”

A jab at Rybakov, since he’d supplied the man Levshin was using in Yakutsk. The mobster took it silently, while Gabritschevsky said, “That’s troubling, Colonel. If you can’t even contain two people, what does that say for the state of national security?”

“They are contained, Deputy Minister. If they remain in Yakutsk, I will root them out. If they attempt to flee, they have a single avenue remaining.”

“Ah. The Road of Bones,” Gabritschevsky said.

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Listen,” Rybakov cut in. “If you need more soldiers on the ground out there, just say so.”

“Four are dead already,” Marshak answered. “Five, with the interrogator. I may need real soldiers if you want the job done properly.”

“What do you have in mind?” Gabritschevsky asked.

“Spetsnaz,” Marshak said, the Russian special purpose regiment, trained in counterterrorist techniques and black ops that included hostage rescue, sabotage and targeted assassination.

“That’s a big step,” Gabritschevsky cautioned.

“It’s a big fall, if they get away,” Marshak replied.

Rybakov spoke up to say, “You mentioned an accomplice.”

“Yes.”

“Is this the man who killed my people?” Rybakov asked.

“I believe so,” Marshak told him. “There’s no proof, of course, but he is traveling with the woman.”

“Proof enough,” Rybakov said. “I want his head.”

“Talk to your men,” Marshak replied. “The ones still living. This makes twice they’ve let him slip away.”

“Perhaps I should send Boris out to supervise,” Rybakov said, referring to his second in command, a thug named Boris Struve.

“Send who you like,” Marshak said. “But the FSB retains command, unless I hear an order to the contrary from my superiors.”

Rybakov remained silent, but Gabritschevsky said, “We’ll leave the chain of command intact, for now. Use Spetsnaz sparingly, if you require its services. Nothing to draw attention, eh?”

“I understand, sir,” Marshak said.

“And get results!” the deputy minister commanded. “We’re all depending on it.”

“As you say, sir.”

Marshak’s hand was steady as the other lines went dead, but there was no mistaking Gabritschevsky’s meaning.

He was running out of time.

CHAPTER FIVE

Bolan and Anuchin took turns watching the docks through Captain Glushko’s old Zeiss binoculars as the Zarya completed its river crossing. There were no uniformed police officers in view, nor any gunmen obviously waiting for a chance to shoot them down before they landed on the river’s eastern shore.

Could slipping out of Yakutsk be that easy?

Bolan guessed that it couldn’t.

“They may be watching us from hiding,” Anuchin said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

He nodded. “It’s definitely possible.”

Bolan knew next to nothing about law enforcement in the Sakha Republic or Russia’s Far Eastern Federal District, but he assumed there had to be some cops assigned to Nizhny Bestyakh. Even if they were bought and paid for by the Mafiya, the FSB, whoever, they would still be placed in an embarrassing position by an open firefight on the waterfront. His enemies, if they were halfway smart, might choose to spot Bolan and Anuchin, trail them into town and choose a spot where they could close the trap without dozens of witnesses.

Or maybe they had dropped the ball again.

In which case, Bolan and the woman had an edge. They couldn’t count on any great head start, but if they had even a little time to spare, using it wisely was a must.

“Be ready when we disembark,” Bolan advised her. “If someone makes a move—”

“Hit back,” she finished for him.

“Right. And otherwise—”

“Head for the motorcycle shop.”

Their skipper had informed them of the shop’s location, with a hand-drawn map to clarify, noting that cycles could be bought or rented from the owner, who—no great surprise—was one of Glushko’s oldest friends.

“Be sure you talk to Ilya,” he insisted. “Tell him that I send you. He give you good price.”

Bolan had thanked him for the tip and watched the skipper closely to make sure he didn’t phone ahead. Their pose as lovers on a hasty getaway was thin, at best, and if the Zarya’s captain caught a whiff of bounty money he might sell them out.

Why not? A pair of strangers—one of them a foreigner, at that—meant nothing to him when his bills came due. Glushko was local, had to live in Yakutsk after they were gone. Why borrow trouble from the Mob or the authorities if he could bag a double payday from a single river crossing?

But the skipper didn’t make a call.

Which, naturally, didn’t mean he wouldn’t, once they cleared his deck. A quick heads-up to someone, maybe old friend Ilya at the motorcycle shop, and any soldiers waiting for them in the general vicinity could gather for the kill.

And it would have to be a kill. That much had been agreed. Anuchin was dead set against enduring more interrogation, and surrender ran against the grain for Bolan, going back to schoolyard brawls in childhood. Anyone who tried to stop them now would pay a price in blood.

Bolan could feel the Zarya slowing, hear its engines winding down as Glushko began his docking maneuvers. Nothing fancy for the old tub, just a gentle sidling in against a pier with old tires hanging off the side to serve as bumpers. When the hull and rubber kissed, a teenage boy came running up to help Glushko secure the mooring lines.

The soldier checked out the wharf rats who surrounded them. A motley gang of fishermen, dock hands and sailors, people looking for a bargain at the nearby fish stalls. Any one of them could have a weapon tucked away beneath a coat, a shawl or sweater. Any pair of eyes that swept the Zarya’s deck could be comparing Anuchin’s face to photographs they’d seen.

Bolan shook hands with Captain Glushko on the pier, knowing they’d never meet again, then followed Anuchin into town.

Aboard the Lena Ferry: 9:19 a.m.

“THIS JOB IS SHIT,” Viktor Gramotkin muttered.

“Just be thankful that you have a job,” Nikolay Milescu said. “That your tiny brain is still inside your head.”

“It’s not my fault Stolypin missed his damned shot at the airport,” Gramotkin said. “If I’d had the rifle—”

“Yes. You talk a good fight,” Milescu said. “Tell Levshin about it, why don’t you?”

“That bastard? I’m not scared of him.”

“Of course not,” Milescu said. “We all saw the way you put him in his place.”

“You wait. The next time he—”

“Yes, yes. Shut up and take another turn around the deck downstairs.”

“You think we missed them?” Gramotkin asked him. “Nikolay, they missed the goddamn boat!”

“Check, anyway, and stop your bitching.”

Gramotkin left him, grumbling as he moved off toward the nearest stairwell.

Thankful for the respite from complaints, Milescu scanned the upper deck once more, confirming what he knew without a second look.

A wasted effort.

They’d been first aboard the ferry when it left Yakutsk, and studied every face that boarded after them. The female sergeant from the FSB wasn’t among them, and it therefore made no sense to think her bodyguard was on the boat, either.

But they had orders. They would ride the ferry, watch and wait, until a message came from Yakutsk or from Nizhny Bestyakh to tell them the targets were spotted. Then, depending on the ferry’s position, they would either proceed at a snail’s pace to join in the hunt, or waste more time while the boat unloaded, then reloaded and retraced its path.

Milescu recognized the need for consequences when they had bungled the job at the airport in Yakutsk. Another boss might have killed them on the spot—or at least killed Stolypin, for missing his shots—but Levshin had given them a second chance of sorts. Milescu only hoped they wouldn’t be stuck midriver on the ferry when the targets showed themselves again.

There was, of course, no question that the runners would be caught. Even if they somehow evaded capture in Nizhny Bestyakh, where could they go? One miserable road was their only escape route, and how would they travel? In some junker bought or stolen off the streets? Where did they hope to go, with soldiers behind them and more waiting ahead in Magadan?

Milescu almost felt sorry for the stupid traitor and the stranger who had volunteered to help her. What a lousy bargain he had made, at any price.

Like Grigory Rybakov, Milescu thought, loaning out his soldiers to the FSB. What did the godfather hope to gain by meddling in the cloak-and-dagger world of secret agents? Wasn’t running Moscow’s underground economy sufficient challenge?

Still, it was not Milescu’s place to question orders. He had come this far from Kapotnya’s filthy streets, in the southeastern quarter of Moscow, by following directives from older, vastly richer men. Why would he break the pattern now, when it would only leave him destitute at best—or, far more likely, get him killed?

If he was told to ride the ferry day and night until the river froze, then he would ride the ferry, waiting for the targets to reveal themselves. And he would keep any objections to himself. Let Viktor Gramotkin be the lightning rod, if any word of disaffection found its way to Stephan Levshin or the boss of the Izmaylovskaya clan.

Let the blow fall on him, while Milescu smiled all the way to the bank.

* * *

YEVGENY GLUSHKO’S MAP was accurate. It led Bolan and Anuchin to the motorcycle shop, located eight blocks from the waterfront, sandwiched between a restaurant and tannery. The warring smells of spicy food and curing hides combined for an assault on the soldier’s nostrils as he watched the cycle shop from half a block away.

Once again, he found no obvious ambush waiting there.

“Ready?” he asked Anuchin.

“Ready,” she said, slipping a hand inside the pocket of her long coat where a pistol was concealed. She might have trouble getting to the submachine gun hidden in her heavy shoulder bag, but if it went to hell within the next few seconds, Bolan thought he could take up the slack with his Kalashnikov.

He stepped out of the alley first, with Anuchin covering his back, then felt her take a place beside him as they crossed the street. Pedestrians passed by, ignoring them. Bolan relaxed a little as they reached the shop and stepped across its threshold, but he still remained on full alert.