Road Of Bones

A scruffy guy in greasy coveralls, his gray hair tied back into a ponytail, approached them. Anuchin mentioned Glushko’s name and asked for Ilya, whereupon the man nodded and answered her in what appeared to be a Russian dialect.

Bolan knew he had a choice to make: reveal himself as a foreigner, or let Anuchin make the deal and hope it went all right. Without impugning her ability to rent a motorcycle, Bolan was the one who had to drive it, so the choice was made.

“English?” he asked the shop’s proprietor.

“Yes. I speak.”

“We’re heading east on the Kolyma Highway,” Bolan told him. “We need a bike that can handle the road with two people and some gear aboard.”

“The Road of Bones, eh?” Ilya answered, looking at the two of them as if they’d lost their minds. “Maybe a helicopter you should rent and fly to Magadan.”

“We want to try the scenic route,” Bolan replied. “Do you have something suitable in stock?”

“Best bike in shop for what you say is BMW,” Ilya advised. “The R1200GS dual-sport model. Come this way, I show.”

They followed Ilya to the rear of his shop, past various bikes, until he stopped before a black-and-silver machine with the familiar BMW logo on its fuel tank. Like most dual-sport bikes—also known as “on-off road” models—the R1200GS had heavy-duty suspension front and back, with fenders elevated well above the knobby tires. It had an oversize eight-gallon tank, feeding an 1170 cc two-cylinder engine. The touring package included dual stainless-steel panniers—the equivalent of saddlebags—and a rack for a pillion bag or other gear in back. The whole package measured roughly six feet long, with its swooped seat for two, three feet off the ground.

“It looks good,” Bolan told him, “but I’ll need to take it for a test drive.”

“Sure, sure,” Ilya said. “Your lady is collateral, okay?”

It had been a while since Bolan went two-wheeling, but it came back to him in a rush once he was mounted on the BMW. He rolled out of the shop in first gear, checked both ways before he nosed into traffic, then opened up the engine as he circled a couple of blocks and returned. It shifted smoothly and he had no difficulty with the brakes or throttle. Bolan estimated that the bike weighed something like 450 pounds with nothing packed in the panniers, and tried to guess how it would handle once it had been loaded, with a second passenger riding behind him.

There was literally no time like the present to find out.

Returning to the shop, he told Ilya, “I like it. So, how much?”

Ilya considered Bolan’s question, as if it had never crossed his mind before. At last, he said, “Five hundred thousand rubles. You call it sixteen grand, U.S.”

“I call it sold,” Bolan said with a smile.

Washington, D.C.: 7:35 p.m.

HAl BROGNOLA double-checked his time zones from the World Clock website on his laptop, and confirmed that it was 3:35 a.m. in Moscow. He felt a certain sense of satisfaction as he dialed the number that had been relayed to him through Stony Man.

If I don’t sleep, Brognola thought with pleasure, no one sleeps.

The distant telephone rang three times before someone picked it up. A groggy male voice muttered in French, “Who is this?”

“Harold Brognola, calling from the DOJ in Washington.”

“You’re working late,” the other man replied. “Or is it early there?”

“One or the other,” Brognola said. “I’m looking for Gerard Delorme.”

“And you have found him, monsieur.”

“With Interpol?”

“The very same, but out of uniform just now,” Delorme said.

“We need to talk on a secure line,” the big Fed advised him.

“I can scramble here,” the Frenchman said, now sounding wide-awake. “Give me a moment, s’il vous plaît.”

“Sounds fair.”

Brognola heard a buzz and humming on the line, resolved a second later as Delorme returned.

“That’s better,” Delorme advised. “You must be calling about my disaster in Yakutsk, oui?”

“Sorry to hear you lost one of your assets,” Brognola replied. “We’ve managed to redeem the other for you, but it’s touch and go right now.”

“The danger is continuing. Je comprends. I understand, of course.”

Brognola wasn’t comfortable giving details of the planned escape route to a total stranger, but he said, “My agent has an exit strategy in mind. It would be helpful if we knew the other players. Who’ll be hunting them? What kind of resources will they commit?”

“The who, I am afraid to say, is everyone,” Delorme said. “My asset, as you call her, has sufficient evidence to topple—and perhaps imprison—leaders of the FSB, the Russian Mafia and certain persons highly placed in government, together with their friends abroad.”

“That big, is it?” the big Fed asked.

“Indeed,” Delorme said. “As to resources for the hunt, who knows? I can’t predict how brazen they may be. The FSB alone has more than three hundred thousand employees. Most of them clerks, I grant you, but there is the Counterintelligence Service and Border Guard Service. Add the Militsiya and MVD Internal Troops, perhaps the Federal Protective Service…”

“Okay,” Brognola said. “I get the picture.”

“I regret to say, their chances are not good.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything that you can do to help, from where you are?”

“The Russian Federation is a member state of Interpol,” Delorme said, “which means I have a two-room office at the Lubyanka, with a secretary who makes coffee that tastes like dishwater. My function is advisory. The janitors have more authority.”

“But you know things,” Brognola said.

“Indeed. I was surprised—and gratified, I must say—when these assets trusted me enough to make contact. I served as their liaison to the FBI’s legal attaché here, in Moscow. I’m aware that contact was established with the CIA, as well, but details were withheld from me.”

“So, you’ve had no contact with either of the assets since that time?” Brognola asked.

“The woman called me when they planned to leave,” Delorme said. “Then I heard about her partner from an officer in the Militsiya. I was afraid that she would simply disappear.”

“I’m sure that was the plan,” Brognola said. “We’ve put a crimp in it, but information’s hard to come by. If you pick up anything—”

“I’ll call immediately,” Delorme said.

“I’d appreciated it,” the big Fed replied, and rattled off his numbers—office, home and cell. “Time doesn’t matter.”

“As I see, from looking at my clock,” Delorme said. “I wish your agent luck.”

He’ll need it, Brognola thought as he cut the link.

Yakutsk: 9:58 a.m.

STEPHAN LEVSHIN CHECKED the LED screen on his cell phone, failed to recognize the caller’s number, but decided to answer.

“Yes?”

On the other end, an unfamiliar voice said, “I am told you are the man to call about a certain woman and her friend?”

“Who told you that?” Levshin said, not denying it.

“I don’t remember,” the caller said. “It is either true, or not.”

“In that case, it depends upon which woman we’re discussing, and which friend.”

“I don’t have names,” the caller said, “but someone had a photograph. The woman hasn’t changed since it was taken. And a man was with her. If the person who advised me was mistaken, and there’s no reward…”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Levshin said. “A stranger calls, anonymous, and asks for money? You must understand my skepticism, eh?”

“I understand you only pay for goods collected, yes?” the stranger said. “If I direct you to the ones you seek, it cannot be an act of charity.”

“Say this, then,” Levshin countered. “If I follow your directions and collect the proper goods, you will be compensated. If you are deceiving me, it would be most unwise.”

“No threats, or it is goodbye, eh? We understand each other, without that.”

“I hope so,” Levshin said.

“All right. You need to look in Nizhny Bestyakh, at a motorcycle shop. The owner’s name is Ilya Vitruk. You’ve already missed them there, but he can tell you where they’re going.”

“What’s the address?”

Levshin’s caller rattled off a number and a street name, which he dutifully repeated.

“If your information is correct—”

“I’ll call you back,” the stranger said. “We can arrange the payment when you’re satisfied.”

The line went dead, leaving a void of doubt in Levshin’s mind. He knew his people had been circulating photographs of Tatyana Anuchin throughout Yakutsk and, more recently, in Nizhny Bestyakh. The photos had his temporary cell phone number printed on the back, for easy contact. Since he had no fear of the police, and would discard the phone as soon as he had found the runners, Levshin saw no risk to the procedure.

And, perhaps, it had paid off.

A motorcycle shop meant they were running. Eastward, since it was the only compass point available. The Lena River blocked them westward, and striking off to north or south meant running overland to nowhere, without highways. Northward lay the Arctic Circle, with perhaps a scattering of villages where they could never hope to hide. Southward lay Mongolia, but only if they crossed the Stanovoy and Yablonovy mountain ranges, with peaks above eight thousand feet and no passable roads.

So, it was Magadan or nothing for the fugitives.

Over the Road of Bones.

Levshin had calls to make, and quickly—to his people on the Lena River, and to others already scouring the streets of Nizhny Bestyakh, in case his targets had managed to cross the river unseen.

Which it seemed that they had.

The call might be a ruse, of course, even someone’s idea of a joke. If it was, the prankster would live to regret it, but not very long. Meanwhile, Levshin would treat it as a serious lead and hope for the best.

He’d scramble troops to the target and see what they found. If it paid off, then another call was necessary, to Moscow next time, for a status report to Colonel Marshak. He’d be relieved to know the net was tightening around the peasants who presumed to threaten him and those above him.

Levshin’s task was to eliminate that threat, to see that order was preserved. Success was paramount.

And the alternative, he knew, was death.

CHAPTER SIX

With space for packing at a premium, Bolan and Anuchin shopped wisely in Nizhny Bestyakh. They started with new outfits for the road, judging that it was better to perspire a bit by day than freeze at night. Their choices—thermal underwear and socks, insulated gloves, flannel shirts under sweaters, with hunting pants and jackets over all—were chosen with respect for what Anuchin knew about the Road of Bones.

As for the rest, they bought two compact sleeping bags; a two-person tent that folded into a twenty-inch square and weighed under seven pounds; a case of bottled water, half the bottles emptied and refilled with gasoline; and enough MREs—as in “meals, ready to eat”—for a week on the road, if they ate twice a day. Bolan passed on the idea of buying a camp stove, preferring to leave space in the BMW’s panniers for extra ammo magazines. Last-minute accessories included a first-aid kit, a small tactical flashlight, an NV-01 survival knife from the Kalashnikov factory and an entrenching tool useful for digging or chopping.

For weapons, they each carried pistols—the MR-444 for Bolan, an MP-443 for Anuchin—but most of the hardware captured when Bolan had rescued Anuchin was left in a garbage bin without firing pins. The soldier kept his short AKS-74U, while Anuchin chose a little PP-2000 SMG.

Thus prepared, they rolled out of Nizhny Bestyakh on a two-lane blacktop, eastbound. The bike ran smoothly on asphalt, was easy to handle, but Bolan knew they’d have some rough riding ahead of them, between rural villages. How well the motorcycle would handle rough country in practice was anyone’s guess.

Likewise, Bolan could only guess how much free time they had before Anuchin’s trackers picked up their trail and returned to the chase. In another life, he had eluded and defeated mafiosi by the hundreds, in urban jungles spanning the world from Los Angeles, Chicago and New York City to London, Paris and Rome. Always outnumbered and outgunned, he’d learned to play the odds, turn them around and use the overconfidence of his opponents to destroy them.

But a hunt in wide-open country, where the quarry had to move and couldn’t go to ground, was an entirely different game. In this case, Bolan’s enemies held all the high cards—numbers and weapons, familiarity with the killing ground and the ability to plug both ends of a restricted pipeline. Bolan couldn’t veer off-course, reverse directions or duck down a rabbit hole into Wonderland.

Still, he and Anuchin had surprised their adversaries twice, with her escape from custody and—Bolan hoped—with their passage from Yakutsk through Nizhny Bestyakh. They had a lead, however slim it might turn out to be, and the Executioner had worked with less.

The men who’d underestimated him were legion. Those who had survived that grave mistake were few and far between, remnants of an endangered species driven to the point of near-extinction.

In the bad old days, the men who’d hunted Bolan knew who they were looking for, what he had done, what he could do. They came for him despite all that, driven by greed or rage, a hunger for revenge or fear of their employers’ wrath, a few propelled by simple arrogance.

The hunters who would follow him along the Road of Bones were at a disadvantage, then, in that respect. They’d only caught a glimpse of Bolan’s style, with five men down. It could have been dumb luck. The home team would be confident.

And they would pay for it in blood.

But whether he’d be able to complete the job remained an open question. Bolan wouldn’t know until they got as far as Magadan and found out what was waiting for them there.

How many enemies?

What kind of help from Hal?

One thing was certain, though: it would be one hell of a road trip.

Nizhny Bestyakh: 11:03 a.m.

IT WAS GOOD to be off the damned ferry at last. Nikolay Milescu had begun to get seasick—or would it be river-sick?—riding the old tub back and forth across the Lena, scanning faces as they boarded, knowing the return trips to Yakutsk were a mind-numbing waste of his time.

At last they had a lead. His team was back together, five men strong, and closing on the target Stephan Levshin had identified. Milescu hadn’t asked the FSB man where he got his information. He didn’t care as long as it was accurate and placed them closer to their targets.

They were still running behind, Milescu understood, but if they managed to acquire fresh information here, the traitor and her bodyguard would be on borrowed time.

The target was a motorcycle shop, not much to look at, with no customers in view as they arrived. The five men had packed into a Lada Samara sedan, with Naum Izvolsky at the wheel. Milescu had him park in front of the shop, blocking off pedestrian access, and told the driver to stay with the car while he led the others inside.

Levshin had given them an address, but no names. A long-haired grease monkey approached them at the shop’s open threshold, half smiling, and asked how he could help them.

“You sold a motorcycle this morning,” Milescu informed him, not asking.

“I sell them all day, every day,” the man replied.

“Only one interests me,” Milescu said. “A man and a woman came shopping. This woman,” he added, producing the photo. “You recognize her.”

“This is just a face,” the shop’s proprietor complained. “With women, you know, it can be distracting. I look more at other things.”

Milescu laughed at that, the others joining him, then asked, “What is your name?”

“Ilya,” the older man replied. “Ilya Vitruk.”

“Ilya,” Milescu said, “I don’t care if this one walked in naked and you spent the whole time staring at her tits, understand me? You saw money, too. You sold a motorcycle to this woman and a man.”

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