by Tom Hron
“You can’t imagine how awful it is sitting at home without any true purpose in life? Charities, cocktail parties, self-important people—I can’t stand them anymore.
“I had my own money when I married, and then my dear husband left me more. I’m worth fifty million dollars, but what good is it to me? I’ll go crazy if I continue living like a worm in a hollow shell. Don’t you understand?” Her face suddenly looked as if she were in pain.
He stared at her once more, partly because of her wealth, which surprised him, and partly because she wanted so much to join Simon and him in their mad adventure, whatever the costs might be. She looked relatively young yet, lithesome and vibrant. Why would she want to throw her life away?
“What about your family? Shouldn’t you think about them?”
“There’s no one but my grandson, and he’s well cared for by his maternal grandparents. He has school and friends and surely doesn’t need another grandparent spoiling him rotten. Actually, it may be healthier for him to see me doing things with my life.”
“Give me time to think about it and let’s talk tomorrow when I’m not so tired. I would never stop blaming myself if anything happened to you.”
“Yes, tomorrow, and I’m sorry I pressed you. It’s only because I’m so lonely.”
He looked at her again, sharing the friendship that had sprung up from so much sorrow. At last he said, “Molly, I’m lonely, too,” and then he fell back asleep.
Later in the day, he woke and found himself alone in the room. He lay still, feeling his strength coming back. Tomorrow . . . what about tomorrow? Could they actually bootleg into Russia and get away with it? Could they find the pink diamonds?
The next morning Molly, Sasha, and Simon marched into his room, one following the other, all asking how he felt. Already, the nurses had made him walk a little and said he’d heal in a few days. He had also seen the winter sun peek in his window, so his spirits were better.
“You guys look like you’re ready to go on the warpath, so I hope you feel as sure of yourselves later on,” he said.
Simon’s face beamed. “I told them last night you would go.”
“You must be as crazy as I am for wanting to make this trip, and I hope you realize it may be our last. If we’re not killed outright, then we stand the chance of getting locked up for the rest of our lives, so maybe your big smiles are misplaced.”
Then he saw their smiles get even bigger. They must be crazier than I am . . .
“Molly, will you lend me the money I asked for yesterday? I’d like to have Simon start looking for airplanes yet today.”
Her face grew serious. “The money won’t be a loan, and I want this to be an arm’s length business deal so you can focus on profits rather than repayment. Trust me on this and don’t argue, because we haven’t time.
“Sasha and I talked last night and this is what I want to do. She’s willing to give me her diamond as a deposit, and I’ll have it appraised like we discussed yesterday. She will give me three others when we get to Siberia.
“You can be the boss and I’ll be the business manager. We split the profits when we’re done. If the trip goes badly, I’ll eat the losses. However, I get whatever is left over if we lose, the airplanes, equipment—Lord knows what it might be.
“How you pay Simon will be none of my business, and I won’t intrude on a friendship that you both seem to prize. Now, do we have a deal?”
He blinked, then blinked again. “Molly, there’s a side of you that scares me. Maybe if you’ll come over and let me kiss you, you will lighten up a little.”
Everyone laughed, and then she did let him kiss her. Moments after, he remembered two questions he needed to ask, riddles that had nagged him all night.
“Sasha, how and where did you find the diamonds?”
“They were hidden in the legs of my father’s camera tripod. I grew up under communism and my father taught me all of his little secrets.”
“You have never mentioned any kind of message. Why are you so sure your father is still alive? Maybe he really did drown in the Marcha River.”
“No. My father ran six kilometers daily and could swim like a fish. He hid the diamonds where he knew I’d find them and realize what they meant.” Suddenly, she looked a little breathless. “Don’t you understand? If he’d written anything it might have been found, and everyone would have known he’d simply ran away. A discovery of diamonds by the authorities would have made them believe just the opposite. Why would anyone ever leave such riches behind?”
He did understand . . . yet he didn’t. The key to connecting all the dots and seeing the big picture lay in the appraisal of the diamond that Molly had in her possession. He needed to send her back to Fort Worth and find out what it was worth.
“Molly, take the diamond and leave for home right away. Get the appraisal done and call Simon on a pay telephone, if you can even find one these days. He’ll give you a number—don’t use any cell phones. I don’t want to take any chances that someone might overhear us.
“Sasha, leave and don’t come back. More important, pretend that you’re finished with us. You are the one who’s facing the greatest danger, so it’s critical that you stay near friends who will protect you. And give me your e-mail address in Akademgorodok and an innocuous message I can use to let you know that we’re on our way.”
“It’s not my government who’s following me, it’s someone else,” she answered. “My father worried he might be working for the Mafiya, so I’ve been very careful.”
Jake wondered if he should tell her about the knife attack, then decided he should, though it might only prove her worst fears.
“The man who stabbed me said two words, ‘Kto vi?’ I know for sure that you’re being followed.”
Simon broke the dead silence. “The bastard asked, ‘Who are you?’ I hope the hell you didn’t tell him.”
“No, but I busted his nose . . . though somehow I think we’ll hear from him again. And we will see another threat as well. The moment Molly wires me money, alarm bells will go off all the way to Washington, because sums greater than ten thousand are traced by the federal government. What’s more, if we withdraw three thousand or more in cash, the bank will report us to the IRS as well. We need to hide what we’re doing.”
Molly’s eyes brightened. “I know what we can do. Have Simon fly to Las Vegas and meet me there. I’ll call my bank and wire several large sums to three or four casinos. Everyone will think I’m crazy, but that will only make things look more believable. We will gamble on my credit line, but I’ll simply cash my chips rather than lose very much. No one will be the wiser.”
Simon smiled. “At least this expedition is starting off right, but it must be a dream because I get to have a good time with a beautiful lady.”
Jake lifted his hospital bed with its electric buttons, straightening himself. It seemed Molly wasn’t an ordinary woman by any means, and now his plan made a lot more sense . . . although he wondered how she’d feel when he told her what else she must do.
“There are two more things you have to do, and do the best you can in the short time we have. I want you to take flying lessons in both airplanes and helicopters, and try to make your solo flights in each. I know it’s a lot to ask, but we may need your help before this is over. There are good flight schools in Fort Worth and Dallas, so pick one you like.
“I want you to take shooting lessons as well. Work hard on becoming a good shot with rifles and pistols. The people we’ll face are called Kalashnikov cowboys. I’ll leave it to you to find out what that means, then if you want to quit, I’ll understand.”
Her smile fell, but she stood rock steady. “I’m not quitting, so what else do you want?”
“Get a passport and visa, then buy an airline ticket to Novosibirsk. I want you acting like the person you are in real life. Tell everyone that you’re looking for business investments, and then I’m sure the Russians will let you stay for as long as you want. Ask permission t
o visit Akademgorodok, accidentally run into Sasha, and become friends . . . best friends who vacation together in a rented dacha on Lake Baikal.”
Sasha’s smile and color quickly came back . . . but then she blinked her eyes. “Simon and you are flying from Anchorage to join us? Will you apply for passports and visas, too?”
“No. Your government would never let us stay long enough to search for your father, let alone fly around looking for him. Your country has strict rules on civilian flying, so we will have to sneak across.”
Sasha’s face paled once more. “My country will execute you if you are caught—”
He had worried about that very thing for half the night, but for some reason the fear had left him. Maybe he’d lost all his common sense when he’d searched her body for a wire, or maybe it was the crazy dream of finding diamonds. And what if he could have both?
“Simon and I are good at playing sneaky, so don’t worry. Besides, Siberia is the biggest wilderness in the world, so it will be nearly impossible for anyone to find us.”
She stood quietly for a moment, then kissed him and said good-bye with her eyes sunken with worry. He understood because his own courage felt like jelly when he thought about all the dangers ahead. Why was he going, and what was his terrible recklessness all about? Was it some kind of stress disorder? Endless questions raced through his mind.
Then Molly said good-bye as well, leaving the room with a bounce in her step. Their so-called business manager had turned out to be someone very special, someone who would play her part to perfection. His gut feeling told him that she would know how to fly the next time he saw her, maybe not like a high-time pilot, but good enough to get them out of a pinch.
Simon’s voice shook him from his thoughts. “What kind of planes do you want me to get? I know enough about Siberia to realize Lake Baikal is about a million miles away.”
“Piper Super Cubs are the only ones that will work well enough. Buy late models in good condition with low-time engines, then we can burn everything from lighter fluid to low-grade gas. Lord knows what kind of fuel we’ll find along the way, if any.
“We will modify both with long-range wing and belly tanks, which will give us a thousand miles before we need to stop. If we carry twenty gallons more in five-gallon cans, that will add another couple hundred miles, besides leaving us containers for more fuel. Add extended baggage compartments, skis, tundra tires, and short-field propellers because we’ll need them.”
”What else do you want?”
“The usual winter things . . . sleeping bags, snowshoes, rifles, camping supplies. I want to leave Anchorage on the first of March with the start of the Iditarod Sled Dog Race. We will look like we’re following it to Nome . . . except we won’t be coming back.”
His slip-of-tongue silenced them. They might be committing suicide.
After a minute, Simon asked in a low voice, “Is this for Sasha, the diamonds, or something else entirely?”
Jake shook his head, not trusting his voice . . . or even his thoughts. Maybe you just went off the deep end at some point in life. Women, money, getting even with people who had done you wrong—suddenly those kinds of things mattered more than anything. And what was something worth if you couldn’t bet your life on it?
Then he listened to his friend’s receding footsteps in the hospital’s long hallway and wondered why he’d bet three other lives as well.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOME, ALASKA
“I’m suspicious, so let’s check the planes with our bug sweeper before we leave.” Jake eyed their Piper Super Cubs, because they had left both sitting unattended overnight on Lake Hood’s ice. Could it be?
Moments later, Simon made a face as he waved a small, handheld receiver over the fuselage of his Cub, and then icy fog puffed from his mouth as he stomped back and forth beside it. “I can’t believe it. Somebody’s planted beepers in our airplanes, and they intend on tracking us by satellite wherever we go. How in hell did you know?” The signal inceptor whistled every time it passed over the battery cover located behind the wings.
“There’s been lots of talk around town about why we bought two Super Cubs with long-range tanks, and I suppose the feds think we’re going to shoot wolves from the air, so they want to catch us.”
“Now what? We can’t let them follow us.”
“No, let them. We will give their beepers back once we get to Nome . . . at night when no one is looking. Two or three Fish and Wildlife airplanes will be tied down, waiting for us and whoever else they’re following. We will let them track themselves the following day.”
Simon laughed. “Why didn’t I think of that? They won’t take off together, and then they will go crazy chasing each other all the way back to Anchorage and Fairbanks. Meanwhile, we will be long gone. God, will they ever get pissed when they find out what we did.”
“Serves them right because they’re only trying to get even with us, nothing more.” Jake walked to his airplane and climbed into the cockpit. Super Cubs always felt uncomfortable to him, although no other aircraft had the same rugged performance. Arguably, they were the best little airplanes ever built.
He hollered at Simon. “Let’s go, and remember that I’m Snowbird and you’re Iceworm. And don’t forget the frequencies we’re using.” Then he closed the clamshell door and pushed the starter button. Would they ever come back? The engine kicked over and he forgot about his worries, because it was time to fly.
After takeoff, he turned over Cook Inlet and watched the tidewater ice, dirty white blocks the size of Caterpillars, pass by below. The ice was a bulldozer of sorts, since it tore apart everything on the bottom and along the shorelines, as it plowed back and forth twice daily. Always moving and piling up, the icy giants left the seawater dark brown and dangerous and no one could ever hope to crash-land and live.
The snowy swampland sweeping toward the Susitna River came into view, and Denali Mountain and Rainy Pass were clearly visible farther on. First stop, Finger Lake, he thought to himself. The Iditarod racers would begin checking in soon, pausing just long enough for the ever-vigilant judges to examine each team for signs of sickness, fatigue, and abuse of the dogs. Drop one this early and you were out of the race.
The Iditarod was Alaska’s annual grand event, attracting attention from around the world. On the first Saturday of every March the state suddenly filled with all kinds of people—dog lovers who lived solely for the sport, veteran mushers who watched their opponents with ice cold eyes, famous celebrities who covered the race for the major television networks. Aleuts and Athabaskans, airline pilots and bush pilots, bitter enemies and close friends, townspeople and trappers, everyone showed up and behaved like people usually behave when they drink and argue too much.
It usually took ten days for the sled dogs to cover the distance from Anchorage to Nome, despite all the blizzards and mandatory rest stops and moose attacks they faced along the way. They would run the 1,049 miles even faster if their owners would let them.
The dog teams beat their mushers to death as they raced up and down mountains, around tree-lined corners, over drop-offs, and into overhanging obstacles. Bruises, broken bones, full-blown frostbite, and delirium were commonplace. A person could only be hit on the head so many times.
The main reason the Iditarod ran so successfully was its unpaid air force, an odd gathering of derelict airplanes and helicopters that would scare the pants off the Federal Aviation Administration in the “Lower 48.” Across the mountains and over the passes the aircraft flew, piloted by men and women dressed in “bunny boots” and goose-down parkas two inches thick, carrying the people and supplies for the long race, betting their lives against the weather and lack of airports. The frozen lakes, rivers, and tundra were their runways. Every airplane was equipped with skis and every helicopter with “snowpaws,” letting each land on soft snow with some measure of safety, though there were always an unfortunate number of wrecks. Bush pilots would be bush pilots and there were no roads, and th
e Far North was never meant for the fainthearted anyway. The sky was a beehive with small aircraft zooming around . . . perfect cover for anyone who wanted to get lost in a crowd.
Simon and he had hung out with the different pilots who were going back and forth between downtown Anchorage and the airport and given them rides. They had stood on the frozen seaplane lake and watched the first skiplanes leave, one after another, following the dogs. Finally the time had come to leave for Siberia.
He watched the ground pass beneath his wings and saw several wolves sneaking across the highlands, hunting moose in the deep snow. Life goes on, however heartless it seemed, he told himself. Alaska was still a wilderness—untouched, raw, and fatal if you were foolish or unlucky. Sixty or more people were killed every year in small airplanes, victims of bad piloting and bad luck. Would Siberia be as unforgiving?
Then he heard Simon on the radio. “Snowbird, look at the mountain.”
Alaskans usually called Denali “The Mountain.” And when one gazed at its summit, he or she quickly realized it made sense. No other name worked because its sheer size simply blew your mind. The peak soared more than 20,000 feet in 25 miles when you looked up. No other summit in the world rose from sea level to its top in so little distance, and few individuals could pass Denali and stay untouched by its magnificence.
He gazed at the great mountain standing against the blue sky. Awesome, stupendous . . . no word seemed quite right. Finally, he gave up and decided to give his friend a hard time. Lifting his microphone, he said sternly, “Iceworm, maintain radio silence.” The buzz of the engine settled around his ears, and now Simon would wonder . . .
“Balshoye spasiba.”
He laughed . . . leave it to Simon to get even when he had least expected it. He knew enough Russian to guess the words were something sarcastic. Laughing harder, he pictured the others who might have overheard the radio message. They would be scratching their heads.
