Zrada

by Lance Charnes

  Rogozhkin’s eyebrows jump. “You really think I’ll let you walk off with all that money?”

  Just what she expected. “I need something to bait the hook. If you don’t want me to take it all, then give me a couple straps and the case. I can bluff him. You keep the rest.” She remembers she’s not supposed to have the combinations. “We’ll have to open the case first.”

  “That’s been done.” He turns and calls out, “Syrov! Bring the briefcase.”

  A minute later, the lieutenant plunks down the Halliburton between Carson and Rogozhkin. The colonel shines a small flashlight on the top. “Open it.”

  She does. They all admire the cash. Then Rogozhkin says, “Lieutenant, get us something to put that in.”

  Once Syrov disappears, Carson asks, “What’re you gonna do with it?”

  “The money belongs to the militia.”

  “Not what I asked.”

  He waggles an index finger at her. “You should start convincing your friend to join you when you go to talk to Stepaniak.”

  Carson nods. As she heads for the car, she cranes over her shoulder toward Rogozhkin. “You should start telling your men to not shoot me.”

  Carson marches into the field on the treeline’s south edge to get away from eavesdroppers. That so-called supper probably won’t last her until midnight, far less until breakfast tomorrow. When she got to Dnipro (how long now? five days?), she found a good döner kebab place that was open until nine. Out here in the sticks, she’d be lucky to find a grocery store open past five or six.

  Whatever. She punches the contact for “Mom” on her agency phone.

  Olivia answers on the first ring. “One-Two-Six! I’ve been frantic.”

  Just hearing Olivia’s voice makes everything at least fifty percent better. “I can’t imagine you frantic.”

  “In my way. I see you’re near Mospyne.” She butchers the pronunciation. “What are you about now?”

  Carson gives her a report on everything that’s happened since they talked on Thursday. It takes her a while to realize that’s yesterday; so much has happened since. Olivia listens and makes sympathetic noises until Carson runs out of steam. She’s been babbling.

  “This Russian person.” Olivia puts a disapproving spin on the word. “Do you trust him?”

  “No. I don’t trust anybody in this fucking country, including me. You called the SAS?”

  “No.”

  “You promised.”

  “I…suggested.”

  “Should’ve known. Look, I’m gonna kill One-Thirteen tonight.”

  “Oh, dear. I know the two of you have had your differences, but I’m certain we can—”

  “I’m serious. When we go into that farm tonight, when I see him, I’m gonna shoot the asshole dead. And I’ll smile when I do it.”

  Olivia sighs. “Of course. Given what you’ve told me, I can’t say I disagree. However, he may be a villain, but he’s also an associate. I need to inform Allyson.”

  “You do that.”

  Olivia’s end of the line is all about typing for a while. As she types, she asks, “Is there anything you need that I can get for you?”

  A new body. Two days of sleep. Three decent meals in a row. “Nothing you can get me.”

  “Pity.” More clacking. “Allyson would like a word.”

  “Do I…?” …have to? She swallows the question. “Do you know where I am?” It comes out wistful, not challenging.

  “It appears you’re in the countryside. Other than—”

  “I’m sitting in a field.” She looks around her, hating how lost she sounds. “Stars are coming out. The sky’s so damn big here. Like back home. Ever since I got here, it’s been…well, it’s alien here. Like going back in time. But it’s also a lot like home. It’s fucking with my head. I’m remembering shit I never think about. So I don’t have any brainspace for Allyson’s bullshit, okay?”

  Olivia lets a few silent seconds go by. “May I offer a bit of advice?”

  “Sure.” It’s never good to ignore Olivia’s advice.

  “Talk to her. I know you’re not in the mood for her just now. I know how the two of you are. But please listen to what she has to say. If you don’t, the next time you do speak, she’ll be angry, and you’ll not want that.” She pauses. “Shall I connect her?”

  Shit. Carson sighs. “What does she want? If she’s not sending a chopper, she’s got nothing I need.”

  “One-Two-Six…” Disappointed voice. “She wants to tell you why you’re there.”

  “A little late.” Carson chews on that for a beat. “You know, right? You tell me.”

  “Right.” Olivia sighs. “We suspected One-One-Three may be working on two or more sides of this situ—”

  “Shit. You didn’t bother telling me?”

  “She feared you’d enter the project with a preconceived notion and that One-One-Three would sense your suspicion. Allyson chose you not only because of your familiarity with this sort of thing but also because she trusted you to take charge of the situation and bring it to closure.”

  “So I’m cleaning up her mess.”

  “If you wish to see it that way…yes.”

  Carson would love to scream at somebody now, but not at Olivia. It’s just as well she’s not talking to Allyson. “Tell Allyson to go fuck herself. She dumped me in this shit—she doesn’t get to second-guess me. Now I need to go shoot a tree or something.”

  “Save your anger for when you need it.” Olivia’s voice has turned confidential, like a murmured conversation in the dark should be. “Whatever you need to do, be quick and discreet about it. One-One-Three is a liability for us all. Solve our problem tonight.”

  Chapter 32

  Carson and Galina huddle behind a low rubble heap about two hundred meters west of Stepaniak’s hide. The half-moon—visible for once in the partly cloudy sky—splashes filmy light over the completely open ground between them and the farm buildings.

  Carson sweeps the compound with her binoculars. “Nothing. Not even a lit cigarette.” No matter how she shifts, the corners of broken concrete blocks dig into Carson’s ribs where Stepaniak shot her. “No windows on the end of the two long buildings, just the doors. Trees masking the south side of the north building. If he’s in there, he won’t see anything.”

  A red light flashes twice from the square building’s roof. It’s the signal that Rogozhkin’s three snipers are in place on the roofs.

  Galina sighs. “I hate this. Helping the Kacápskyi.”

  It’s not Carson’s favorite thing either, but she’s used to it. “Look at it as them helping us. Ready?”

  They scurry single-file across the field between the rubble and the south building. Now and then, Carson’s left knee slams into the briefcase. At least the damn thing isn’t full anymore.

  Carson slows when she reaches the concrete pad at the west end of the south building. She steps lightly toward the door, then glides her back onto the latch-side wall and silently sets down the briefcase. Galina does the same on the hinge side, holding her shotgun across her chest with the muzzle pointing downward.

  Carson angles her Fenix tactical light at waist height and flashes the rusting metal door. The knob’s gone. She pushes the door with one finger; it swings a couple of inches with a creak the Russians can hear across the highway. Carson flattens her back against the wall again in case someone decides to shoot the noise. No gunfire. She pulls her phone from her hip pocket, brings up WhatsApp, and passes it to Galina. “Send yourself a text.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can communicate.”

  Galina’s thumbs dance over the screen. A moment later, a tiny ping comes out of her sweatshirt’s pouch pocket. She hands back Carson’s phone. “What’s your plan?”

  “You go to the other end. There’s no windows on the south side.” She thumbs to her left. “Text when you’re there. On ‘go,’ enter and work your way to the center.”
>
  Galina nods several times. The dark hides her expression. “Okay. What if I find him?”

  Rogozhkin’s plan has them “luring” Stepaniak into the open for the snipers to deal with. It’s a bullshit plan. “Got a problem with shooting him?”

  Galina stares out into the dark for a while. “No.” Her voice barely carries past the door.

  “It’s okay if you do.”

  “No.” Louder this time.

  Carson’s still not sure Galina’s serious. “Okay. He’s wounded. Don’t know how bad. Stas said I fucked him up, but who knows what that means. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Is it good or bad that Galina’s stopped scolding me for swearing? “Go.”

  While she waits, Carson peeks around the corner at the building’s north wall. Long, narrow windows along the top, just like on the other side. Every minute, this looks more like the chicken coops at Amvrosiivka. How many damn chickens do these people need?

  Her phone screen lights up with a text in Ukrainian from Galina: Ready.

  It’s time. Go.

  Carson kicks open the door, then rolls through the opening until she hits a heavy industrial steel shelf unit loaded on both sides with empty cages. No chickens anymore, but the stench makes her eyes tear. No footsteps or gunshots. No moonlight makes it inside; she’ll have to use her flashlight. No chance of surprising anybody.

  She surveys the situation using brief pulses from her flashlight. There are four of these shelf units across the building, each ten meters long with two-meter aisles between them. The floor’s covered with leaves, dirt, and feathers. If she wanted to switch her flashlight to full power, she could light up the far wall a hundred meters away.

  Carson brings the Halliburton inside. She won’t need it, but she’d hate to have somebody swipe it with €40,000 still inside. Then she fast-walks to the south wall, turns, and shines her flashlight down the aisle just long enough to confirm it’s empty. Light off; slide to the next aisle; light on. Repeat until she hits the north wall. Turn again, ghost down a random aisle in the dark, head back to the north wall. Repeat. Galina’s flashlight beam occasionally flares in the distance. Their lights pick out a couple of rats and a marten looking for a meal.

  She doesn’t see Stepaniak or any evidence he’s ever been here.

  Carson and Galina meet almost exactly in the building’s center. Galina says, “I found nothing.”

  “Same here. Let’s check out the square building.” Carson hesitates. “Stay in the shadows. Snipers don’t need to know where we are.”

  It’s one story, flat-roofed, about thirty meters to a side. All the windows were boarded over long ago. Once they force open a door, Carson and Galina find a warren of what were offices or storerooms. Now they’re just empty rooms full of graffiti, rotten insulation, broken beer bottles, and the occasional rat.

  The women emerge into the shadows along the building’s east side on the edge of what’s left of a gravel parking area. The Patriot’s a few meters away, lonely in the middle of all the empty space. They duck behind the rusty hulk of a roll-off garbage bin.

  Carson peers at the north building through her binoculars. It’s the same size as the south building, but it appears to be split in half. The west end is another oversized chicken coop; the east end has a number of roll-up cargo or shop doors crusted with peeling paint and sprayed-on tags. A standard entry door stands partly open about twenty-five meters from the far end.

  Galina whispers, “If he’s here, he must be in there.”

  “Yeah.” Carson doesn’t like the idea of a single point of entry. It’s too easy to shoot anything that comes through. Is there a door on the east end? On the north side? Booby traps? Tripwires? She hates this shit—she’s a cop, not a soldier.

  Galina watches her, waiting. What’s the right play here? When in doubt, get more information. Carson grabs Galina’s arm to pull her close. “Go around there”—she points to the west end—“and about halfway down. Tell me what the wall looks like on this part.” The east end. “Doors? Windows? Signs of life? I’ll see if there’s a door on the east end. Then we’ll make a plan. Got it?”

  Galina half-stands to look past the bin to the north building. “Yes. I understand.”

  “Come here.” Once Galina crouches next to her again, Carson opens the briefcase to pull a strap of euros. She holds it out to Galina. “Take this.”

  “Why?”

  “In case something happens to me.”

  “Nothing will happen to you.”

  “Just…for fuck’s sake.” Carson grabs the neck of Galina’s tee, pulls, then dumps the bundle of cash into her shirt. Galina yelps and tries to push Carson’s hands away, but it’s too late. “I don’t trust the Russians and I don’t trust Stepaniak. If things go south, take off. Try to get to the car and go home. That’s more than enough money to get your husband out of that camp and get you both to Poland. No, don’t argue. Say ‘yes.’”

  Galina grumbles and takes more time than necessary to straighten her tee and sweatshirt. She finally mutters, “Yes, fine. Nothing will happen to you. I will see you inside.” Then she sprints toward the north building.

  Rogozhkin lies prone in a knot of trees roughly two hundred fifty meters west of the derelict farm, watching the action through his binoculars. At least, trying to watch; the women are staying under cover so effectively that ever since they entered the southernmost building, he’s hardly seen them.

  He sets down his field glasses and uses a handkerchief to wipe his eyes. It’s been a long day, and it’ll be a longer night.

  What did Yartsev mean by, “V Company is in your area”? How close? What are they doing? Rogozhkin’s hoping against hope that Yartsev’s still alive. He was—is—a good man. But Rogozhkin also mourns the loss of that inside line he had into the brigade’s movements. Being blind is always bad, especially in the field.

  How can the militia know where I am?

  Something tickles the inside of his skull. He brings up the tracker on his phone. The return from the GLONASS beacon should still be in Starobesheve.

  It isn’t. It’s across the highway. What the…?

  He hisses, “Syrov! To me!”

  The lieutenant materializes from the shadows and drops next to Rogozhkin. “Sir?”

  “The men who came back from Starobesheve. Did they bring the beacon with them?”

  “Yes, sir. We installed it on the women’s car. If they try to get away, we can track them. So can the militia. They won’t get far.”

  Shit. He can’t even get mad at Syrov—it’s a good idea. They’d eliminated the militia patrol’s ability to move; they should have the field to themselves now. It should’ve taken half a day at best for the militia to get that company ready to move out. And yet…

  “Destroy the beacon immediately.”

  “But—”

  “Just do it. Now. Is anyone left over there?”

  “One man, but he didn’t install it. I’ll have my sergeant tell him where it is. What’s happening?”

  Rogozhkin aims his binoculars across the field to his ten o’clock, toward where they left the women’s car. Oh, shit.

  Carson’s guess was right; there’s a door in the building’s east end. Its knob is also missing, and the door’s cracked a few inches. It’s dark on the other side.

  She makes a slow 360-degree survey of the area. Mostly scrub weeds and a salting of shrubs, backed by a black wall of trees along a road. The bulky front end of a Tigr shows through a gap in the trees. Rogozhkin’s men are over there someplace. Are they to stop leakers or clean up any mess she makes? She hopes she won’t find out the wrong way.

  Her phone vibrates in her hand. A text from Galina: windows behind trees next to wall door in middle.

  Gap in the trees?

  yes near center.

  Will door open?

  Pause. no blocked.

  Two ways in: the door next to Carson, and the one in t
he south wall. She doubts Stepaniak would hole up anyplace he can’t see out of. He must be near the center of the building. Go to south door enter on go.

  Carson pockets her phone, clutches her Ksyukha to her chest, then rolls through the door. A glow in the distance outlines a doorway. She ends up crouched off to the north side, out of any line of fire.

  She risks a brief pulse from her flashlight to get oriented. A vehicle service bay: workbenches, a floor jack, a roll-up door. Small noises amplified by hard surfaces fill the space. She edges to the doorway into the next room. The distant glow is gone; whoever owns it must’ve heard her.

  It’s almost completely black in here. She has to feel her way to the opposite wall, past the door, through the next room. If she takes full steps, she crunches debris; if she shuffles, the grinding of dirt and dead leaves on concrete gives her location away. If whoever’s down there has infrared goggles, she’s done.

  Her phone vibrates, startling her. From Galina: at the door.

  Go im to your right.

  Carson stands absolutely still, breathing through her mouth to cut down on the noise in her head. She hears the squeak of a door and the soft brushing of careful footsteps. The steps pause, replaced by post-run breathing. Then the scrape of a pivot. Slow, receding steps.

  Carson texts Galina: Im behind you now.

  A brief light bloom from a phone screen reveals Galina’s position, four meters ahead.

  Two suppressed gunshots echo down the hall: phutphut. The muzzle flash sears afterimages on Carson’s eyes. The nearly instant clangclang tells her the bullets punched through the door she’d come through a short while ago.

  Carson and Galina carefully work their way toward the source of the shots, sliding almost silently around doorframes, then breaking toward the outside walls for cover. Galina’s to the left; Carson’s creeping forward to the right, almost doubled over. As she crabs through another doorway, Stepaniak (because it has to be him) puts a round through the soft wood doorframe above her head, spraying her with splinters.

  Her phone vibrates. stopped make a noise.