The gate guards pay no attention to her. Carson takes in a few lungfuls of cool-but-damp air. It burns off some of the mist in her head. She hopes she can do this next part without getting dizzy.
She feels like absolute scum for leaving Dunya passed out and duct-taped to her chair. That poor girl’s going to be in so much trouble. She’ll probably get bounced from the brigade. But as Dunya poured out her heart, even Carson could tell the nurse’s lonely and desperately unhappy. Leaving’s the best thing for her. The thought doesn’t help Carson ignore the slime all over her.
She unlocks the command building’s main door with the key she stole from Dunya’s abandoned trousers. Carson ghosts down a dim hallway until she reaches Mashkov’s door, then turns ninety degrees. The pay office has a steel door with a serious lock on it. Dunya said the painting would be in there or Mashkov’s office. Carson’s lockpicks are with her laptop in Volnovakha. Figures.
Next stop: Mashkov’s office.
It’s unlocked. She carefully slides inside, using the hall light glowing through the door’s obscure glass to silently pick her way across the room. Short stabs of light from the penlight she got from Dunya’s desk help her get oriented. It’s just as Dunya described it: a steel desk and credenza; a thick wooden conference table to her right with eight wood side chairs; a table next to the door behind her. To her left, a steel bookcase and the door leading to Mashkov’s room. No sound from in there—he must still be sleeping.
Wham. The building rattles. Seconds later, what sounds like an air raid siren moans to life nearby.
What the hell?
The gap under the door to Mashkov’s bunkroom lights up.
Carson dashes out the office door on tiptoes, eases it closed, then scans the hallway. The pay office is locked. The office across the hall is, too.
The lights snap on in Mashkov’s office.
Someone pounds on the building’s main door. She’d left it unlocked.
Carson spots a door marked “TOILETS” and shoulders through it an instant before the front door flies open. A sink, a urinal, and a stall. She bolts into the stall as running boots charge up the hallway. She climbs on the toilet, plants her feet on the seat, and sits on the tank. Her heart hammers her ribs. Fuzz creeps into the corners of her vision. The black-and-white tiled floor looks cool and clean and inviting. What if I just fall off now?
Wham. The building shakes again.
The washroom door slams open. The overhead light blinks on. Mashkov’s voice: “—protects the other lorries. Get drivers to move the ones that aren’t burning. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Yes, sir!”
Carson’s hand fumbles for her collapsible baton. It’s not there; she never got it back. Then she reaches for her pistol but comes up empty. She never got that back, either.
Mashkov coughs. There’s pissing in the urinal. A water bottle cracks open. A splash; hand washing. Paper towels. Then the door bangs open again, followed by trotting boot soles.
Quiet. Carson blows out the breath she’s been holding. She carefully climbs off the toilet, then braces herself against the wall as her brain spins.
When she can see and stand straight, Carson hustles to Mashkov’s office and starts a fast search for the painting. She scans the credenza’s top and under tables, all while listening for doors opening or boots on linoleum. Nothing. Keys to the pay office? On a hunch, she checks Mashkov’s desk drawers. She finds no loose keys, but her pistol’s in the second drawer on the left with a full magazine loaded and a spare. Her baton and knife are next to it.
Where’s the picture?
The door to Mashkov’s bunkroom stands open. The room’s a bit larger than Dunya’s storage closet, but not by much. Industrial steel shelves line the wall to her right; to her left, three overhead cabinets are set above a cot just like Dunya’s. Wall hooks hold uniforms and a blue vinyl suit bag. No painting.
The command building’s front door bangs open. Boots hurry up the hallway toward her.
Carson slips inside the bunkroom, draws her pistol, and presses her back against the latch-side wall. Someone—probably male—tromps into the office. The desk chair rattles. Metal slides on metal. The credenza? The someone mutters something Carson can’t make out. She checks her watch: twelve minutes since she walked into the building. Every minute more is a gift she can’t count on.
The searcher says “Aha!” Boots trot out of the office, down the hall, and end with a door slam.
Carson stows her pistol and takes another look around Mashkov’s roost. Nothing here looks like the painting as it was when she had it. There aren’t any obvious hiding places, either; the room’s not large enough for that. Except…
She drops to all fours and shines the penlight under the cot. Behind the spare pair of boots and the shower sandals she sees dust bunnies and a button. No painting.
The front door opens and closes. Boots scrape on the hall’s linoleum.
Again? Carson draws her pistol. She’d rather not shoot anyone, but she’d rather not spend any more time here, either.
The boots pace toward Mashkov’s office. They stop somewhere around the open door.
In one move, Carson steps into the office, pivots, and levels her pistol, ready to fire.
Her sights are lined up on Galina’s forehead.
She’s alive. She’s free. She came back…for me?
Galina sticks her fists on her hips. She’s wearing a camo uniform shirt over a black tee with the DNR flag on it. “There you are. I went to the clinic first.”
Carson unwinds and sticks the pistol in her back waistband. “Took you long enough.”
They hug in the doorway. Carson usually has to think about hugging, but not this time. They say “You didn’t die on me” (Galina) and “I’m so glad you made it” (Carson) simultaneously, then laugh.
Carson asks, “How’d you know I was still alive?”
“I was watching the gate. A man took clothes to the clinic. I recognized Bohdan’s shirt. Dead people don’t need clothes.”
“Good catch.” Wham. Carson thumbs toward the sound. “That your work?”
Galina puts on a sly smile. “Could be.”
If the painting’s in the pay office, Carson can’t get to it. For all she knows, it’s in some hole Dunya doesn’t know about. She also can’t stay here to search, not with Galina’s fireworks show going on. “Let’s take off before somebody else shows up.”
She lost. So close…
A large, loud fire east of the command building throws an orange glow on everything around the plaza. Shouts and water spray fill the air. The plaza was empty fifteen minutes ago; now it’s filling with growling trucks and running drivers. It’s easy for Carson and Galina to lose themselves in the chaos. The two guards at the gate are more interested in the fire than the two women who hurry by.
Carson wants to go back to the clinic to check on Dunya, to make sure she’s okay, that she’s not panicking or choking on her own puke. But she can’t; there’s no time, and it would put Galina in danger. “Does your plan have a way to get us out of here?”
Galina sweeps an arm across the plaza. “You see all these lorries? I know how to drive them all.”
Chapter 40
SUNDAY, 15 MAY
Mashkov slumps on a plastic armchair outside the mess hall. Past one a.m. and it’s still busier than daytime. He grinds the smoke grit out of his eyes well enough to make out Vasilenko pacing toward him out of the murk.
They exchange salutes. Vasilenko says, “The fire’s out, sir.”
“Finally. What’s the damage?”
Vasilenko coughs. “Four lorries destroyed, five more damaged.”
Forty-five thousand kilos of supplies that’ll need another way to get to Monday’s fight. “Casualties?”
“Nothing major. A couple of burns, some smoke inhalation. But…” The sergeant shuffles. “We’re short a chief medic.”
“Where’s Lieute
nant Fetisova?”
Vasilenko looks like he swallowed a rock. “She’s…ehm…drunk and tied to a chair. Sir.”
Mashkov leans his face into his hands. Does it never stop? “Show me.”
Dunya had been cut loose by the time they reach the clinic, but the discarded strips of duct tape tell the story well enough. She huddles in the chair, her trousers on the floor, crying into her knees.
Mashkov sighs and massages his temples. “Leave us,” he tells Vasilenko. Once the sergeant’s gone, Mashkov slowly sinks into a crouch and watches the medic blubber for a few moments. “What happened, Dunya?” His keeps his voice kind.
Snuffle, snuffle. “Lisa got me drunk.” Her words are slow and slurred.
“How did she know where you keep the spotykach?”
“I…I brought it out. To be friendly.”
“Anything else?”
Dunya backhands the tears from her eyes. “She got my…my key to the command building.”
That goes right past Mashkov for a moment. When he puts the pieces together, a rock drops into his heart. “Did she want the painting?”
“Yes. So she can go home.”
Dunya’s key doesn’t open the pay office. But if Tarasenko found the spare keys… “Did she tell you where she’s going?”
“No.”
Mashkov stands, shaking his head. “You’ll have to go.”
“I know.” He can barely hear her. “I’m sorry.”
“I am, too.” He starts to turn away, then stops. “Why, Dunya? Why did you do this?”
Dunya looks up for the first time, squinting straight into his eyes. “She paid attention to me.”
Again, he doesn’t catch her meaning the first time. Then he thinks about it, and how she’s acted around him for almost two years, things she’s said in passing, and it all becomes clear. He should’ve seen it. Perhaps he could have prevented tonight’s disaster. “Goodbye, Dunya. I hope you find what you want.”
Mashkov charges to the pay office. The painting’s still between the desk and the safe. He can breathe deeply for the first time since he saw Dunya in the clinic.
Well, to hell with Tarasenko. They’re all better off without her here. With any luck, she’ll be in the West long before the brigade needs to begin its movement west this morning. As for Rogozhkin and the other million? They’ll never see him or it again. A bad ending. Mashkov has no idea how he’ll keep fuel in his brigade’s vehicles without that money.
Mashkov pours another glass of tea from the samovar in the corner of the Operations Center when he notices Vasilenko waving to him from the plotting table. The tea here has hardly enough kick to jump-start his brain on his way to the room’s center. Mashkov’s head is full of fuel burn rates and cargo load management from spending the past three hours huddled with the brigade’s acting logistics officer. “Yes, what is it, Lenya?”
Vasilenko’s eyes are bloodshot and droopy. His entire body sags. “I didn’t want to bother you with this—I know you’re busy with the movement orders—but you need to know about it.”
“What?”
“Remember the Škoda with the tracker beacon? It started moving around midnight.”
“Škoda…? Oh, yes. Where did it go?”
Vasilenko stabs a forefinger at the end of a red pencil line snaking along roads to the west and north of the base. Mashkov bends and squints at the tiny print next to the fingertip: Byryuky.
The sun rises in Mashkov’s head, burning off the fog. Tarasenko’s back at the farm. With Rogozhkin…?
“How long has it been there?” His voice is stronger and clearer than it’s been since the first explosion.
“About ninety minutes, sir.”
Mashkov sweeps the room until he finds his chief of staff. “Shatilov! To me! Now!”
There’s still time to save the plan. We can still get the money…and deal with that damned Tarasenko and the Russian.
Chapter 41
Rogozhkin paces the cracked-asphalt schoolyard, stretching his legs after sitting in the Hunter for longer than was good for him. The long, narrow school building is a fine place to hide from Syrov’s men in case Command tells them to drag Rogozhkin with them to Rostov-on-Don. Buried in the southern fringe of Mospyne less than a kilometer and a half from Syrov’s bivouac, set back from the road, nobody around until Monday morning—they’d have to be very lucky indeed to find him if they actually tried. Not that they’d be likely to do that. Five thousand euros each with another fifty thousand for the dead sniper’s family should buy a little gratitude.
The eastern sky slowly takes on a low violet glow. The first stirrings of dawn. Soon it’ll be his favorite time of day, that fraction of time when the sun nears the horizon but hasn’t yet peeked above it, when the wind calms and the mists pool and night becomes twilight. The promise of a new day without the actuality of it spoiling things.
What do I do now?
Tomorrow morning, he’s supposed to report to Tulantyev and submit to being the scapegoat for the Makiivka Brigade going rogue. The coup against Mashkov wouldn’t have failed if he’d been there to provide adult supervision; he’d engineered enough changes in the command of local units to know how to do it right. Fucking Proskurin…
With any luck, that damned militia will get itself wiped out in tomorrow’s push against Kyiv’s army near Dokuchajevsk and the whole issue will be moot. They rebelled, they failed, end of story. But even if that helps Rostov or Moscow to sweep the whole thing under the rug, his career is still over.
Is it too late to retire?
Rogozhkin checks his watch: four-fifteen. He can’t call Tulantyev until after five. Until then he’ll have to try to snatch a few minutes of sleep while his brain tortures him with possibilities and alternatives, each worse than the last.
“Where are you, Edik Gregorivich?”
Rogozhkin’s gut sours. Tulantyev’s using my patronymic. He must be annoyed. “In Mospyne, sir. There are a couple of things I need to clean up before I head back to base. Syrov’s section should already be on its way there.”
“You were supposed to go with them.” The general sounds grumpier than usual at this hour.
“I understand, sir. If I may…I’d like to retire. Now. I can go to the military assistance group in Donetsk and—”
“You what?” Tulantyev sounds like he just woke up all at once. “It’s too late for that. Moscow’s involved now. God alone knows how they found out so soon. They want to make an example of someone so this doesn’t happen again. Proskurin’s dead, so they’re looking at you. You should’ve put in your papers yesterday or Friday.”
Rogozhkin mutes his phone and grumbles a string of curses. Of course Moscow’s involved. They’re involved in everything except the actual conditions in the field, the ones that make all the difference. He lets his anger settle before he un-mutes. “Why not Proskurin? Being dead makes him the perfect scapegoat. They’ve done it before. No trial needed, nobody to object. On top of it all, it’s really his fault anyway. Why not—”
“You want to try that? Go ahead. Maybe they’ll buy it. More likely, they want a live body they can send to a gulag, just to get their point across. You grew up in Siberia, didn’t you? Maybe it won’t be so bad for you.”
“There’s nothing good about a military prison, sir. Not for a man my age. It’s a death sentence. You know it as well as I do.”
“Yes, yes, I know it.” The general sighs. “Look, Edik, if it was up to me, I’d let you retire right now, go run a tavern in Sevastopol or whatever. But it’s out of my hands. Some inspector-general is coming down here from the Defense Ministry. He’ll arrive tomorrow. You’re to be here when he arrives. Do you understand?”
It’s worse than he’d thought. They’ve already decided to hang him out to dry. “Yes, sir. I understand perfectly.” Better than you think.
Rogozhkin’s still brooding by the time the sun crests the horizon and floods the land with light.
<
br /> In his thirty-three-year career, he’s never disobeyed a direct order. He’d grumbled about the more boneheaded ones, even complained a few times to his superiors, but never refused to do as he was told. That kind of behavior wasn’t tolerated by the Soviet Army nor by its Russian successor. More important, it went against his sense of honor. In the First Chechen War, he’d seen the damage that insubordinate troops could do and vowed he’d never let that happen under his command.
But now he has to choose between two ugly alternatives:
Follow orders and be sent to a hellhole of a military prison he’d never leave alive.
Save his life but destroy his honor and reputation by becoming a deserter.
He weighed the alternatives nonstop from the time he ended his call to Tulantyev to this moment. The first rays of morning sun are like disinfectant, pure and strong and capable of killing the disease inside him, whatever it is.
He can disappear. He knows how. The army trained him to be invisible.
His honor? Nobody cares about his honor except himself. There’s no such thing as “honor” in today’s Russia. Everyone’s a gangster now, working the angles, grasping for whatever he can get, however he can get it. This so-called “war” here is nothing but another grab for power, for resources, for advantage. A cynical game played by the suits in the Kremlin and the gilded epaulets in the Ministry of Defense.
All he has to do is get out of this backwater, reach the West, and reinvent himself. That’s the promise of the West, isn’t it? Second chances?
He groans into the Hunter—too much pacing on his bad leg—and checks his phone for email. There’s one waiting from the 45th Guards legal office; he already knows what that says. He starts shutting down the active apps, a bit of housekeeping he still does even though it’s no longer necessary.
He finds the tracker app. Brings it up out of curiosity.
The red dot’s at the farm in Byryuky, two kilometers from here.
Zrada Page 22
