The Searcher

by Christopher Morgan Jones

  His other lie was about their journey, and how far they had to go. Perhaps it was a mile and a half to the border, but it was another mile at least up to Diklo and he had no idea how far they would have to go before they could cross the river back to the other side. He knew of no more boats.

  Two lies, then, and one unspoken subject. Very plainly, the Russians had come to kill them. For a while it hadn’t been convenient, or appropriate, but now their time had come. Something had changed, and as they went Hammer did his best to make sense of it.

  Across the river on the opposite bank were the four Russians—three, perhaps, if one had been hit. By now, if they had any sense, they would have alerted the soldiers in the border station high up above this point, and they would be coming down through the trees to block the way. It was a long way down, but unless they were as drunk as Vekua had made out, which he doubted, they would make good time.

  There wasn’t long. Hammer kept pushing forward, quietly encouraging Webster, supporting him when he could. Their only advantages, as far as he could see, were the darkness and the density of the trees. Little else.

  Now he kept one eye on the ground above him, and scanned the darkness for any sign of light. Each time he looked there was just blackness. Not ahead, not above, not below, except when a glint of moonlight reflected from the water found its way through the trees.

  And then there was something. The merest glow on the hill, a faint flickering movement up the slope some way ahead. Hammer stopped for a moment, pleading fatigue, and watched it carefully. It was coming down and toward them, not quickly but with a steady inevitability.

  “We have to go,” he whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “Look up there.”

  The glow was hardening into two distinct lights.

  “Fuck. Which way?”

  “Ahead. There’s nowhere else. Quick and quiet as you can.”

  Twigs crunched under their feet and sometimes Webster struggled to contain a stifled cry of pain. Whoever was coming for them was making easier work of the terrain, and before long it became clear to Hammer that unless he had underestimated the remaining distance; they were about to be cut off. To go back was hopeless: there was no shelter there, nowhere to hide, just hundreds of miles of mountain and wilderness. They could try to cross the river again, but he had no idea how, or how to get past the Russians on the other side. And above them was a climb steeper than Webster could attempt, even if they’d known where it led. No. Their only chance was to go on, to push through, to pray that somehow they made it across. And with each minute, no matter how hard he willed it, he saw the odds lengthen irrevocably.

  There was no resting now, but when he was certain that they would be blocked he stopped and waited for Webster to catch up. The flashlights were close, perhaps fifty yards up the slope and another hundred ahead. They had five minutes, at most.

  “How many bullets have you got left?” said Hammer.

  “I have the box.”

  Webster was gasping for breath and the words barely came out. In the deep night his face was as pale and insubstantial as the moonlight on the river.

  “We can’t get past them. I’m going to climb for a bit, get above them, then take them out.”

  Webster said nothing.

  “It’s OK. They can’t see us and I can see them. Give me your gun. You have this one.”

  Webster felt in his pocket and handed the gun to Hammer, who took it with that same thrill of repugnance and excitement.

  “Stay right here,” he said, but before he could set off up the hill he heard a sound, a hiss, somewhere close below them.

  “Was that you?”

  The sound came again, closer, oddly human in this bleak place. Hammer’s finger found its way inside the trigger guard of the gun, and he squinted down to the river. There was a shape there, a solid blackness against the general dark, and it was moving. Beside him, Webster stiffened. Hammer gripped the gun.

  “Ike.” The hiss had become the quietest whisper, and Hammer took a moment to realize who it had to be.

  “Come on,” he said, and took Webster’s arm.

  Irodi waited for them to reach him, and then without a word set off down the hill, skipping noiselessly over the ground and sliding between the trees. After a minute he stopped and waited for them, pointing toward the border. He said something softly in Georgian, and Hammer realized that they were standing on a path that went wide and clear and level about twenty yards above the river. Somehow, in their rush up from the river, they had missed it.

  “Oh good,” said Hammer, and checked Irodi on the arm as he was about to set off. More light reached them here, and drawing Webster to him he showed Irodi his injured leg.

  “OK,” said Irodi, understanding at once, and without hesitating squatted down and gestured for Webster to come to him. As he approached, Irodi pushed his shoulder into Webster’s groin and stood, lifting him off the ground as a father might a child. Over his other shoulder was slung his antique rifle.

  “OK,” he whispered, and started walking, so fast it was almost a run. Hammer jogged just behind him and watched the hill for the flashlights, which were now so close he could see the branches they picked out as they swept the wood.

  When it seemed only a matter of moments before they must be discovered, Irodi slowed, and held up his free hand to caution Hammer. Carefully he let down Webster, motioned with a flat hand and some emphatic pointing that the two of them should wait here and then continue, and darted up into the woods. Hammer and Webster watched the two soldiers descending inevitably. For an instant, one appeared in the flashlight beam of the other, and Hammer saw olive green combat trousers and a thick green military jacket. When they drew level, they would scan the path, and when that happened the only thing preventing their discovery would be the trees they were crouching behind. Taking only shallow breaths, guns in hand, they waited.

  From somewhere above them came a noise like a dry branch snapping; it took Hammer a moment to realize that it was a shot. The two soldiers, briefly panicked, stopped and turned, frozen, half expecting a second shot that didn’t come. One extinguished his flashlight and shouted at the other to do the same, and they disappeared. From the other side of the river voices shouted in Russian and the two dogs started to bark.

  For half a minute all was still. Then the beam of a single flashlight streaked across the wood and went out again. Hammer could hear whispering, urgent voices. There was movement, and again the thin band of light flashed over the trees, from a different point, and another shot sounded, fuller and louder than the first. It was met with a third from deep in the woods, and this time the two soldiers both fired, without aiming, up the slope.

  Hammer tapped Webster on the arm and together they set off, Hammer in his own exhaustion supporting his friend as best he could. From the darkness above them came scraps of scared conversation and the familiar sound of twigs breaking underfoot, then more shots. They kept going, quietly and steadily, hardly daring to look anywhere but ahead, and to Hammer it felt like crossing the landslide: that each step might be the last. On the opposite bank they could see men milling uncertainly round the helicopter, looking in their direction, evidently trying to decide what to do.

  But step followed step, until at last they were well beyond the guards, and the confusion in the woods was behind them. The two Russian guards had begun by moving cautiously toward the sound of the gun, but now they seemed fixed to the spot, as lost and helpless as Hammer and Webster had been only minutes before. Shots still rang through the trees but the answering fire was less intense. They went on, yard by yard, a good distance, until a silent presence came running through the trees to their left and dropped onto the path beside them.

  “Sakartvelo,” said Irodi, putting his hand on Hammer’s shoulder.

  “Thank Christ for that,” said Webster, letting Irodi take over fro
m Hammer in supporting him.

  “What did he say?”

  “Georgia. This is Georgia.”

  “Ask him for me,” said Hammer. “How’s Natela?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Half a mile further on was Vano’s 4 x 4, parked on a spit of pebble and sand above the river, which was shallow enough here to be forded, and as he drove Irodi explained in broken Russian that on hearing the helicopter he had come down to see if he might help, and at first had meant to pick off a Russian or two from the woods; but when he heard the American crashing about in the trees and saw the border guards heading toward him he had changed his plan. Probably the Russians would not follow; the only ones who came into Georgia were Dagestanis, and these were white Russians, military, and keen to keep their operation contained. To see such people here was rare.

  “Ask him about Natela,” said Hammer. “There were shots.”

  Natela was OK. They had heard gunfire and it scared her. She had gone outside to see where it had come from; Irodi had gone to follow her and found her arguing with the guard Vekua had stationed there. He wanted her to go back in the house, and when she refused and carried on walking he had fired his rifle in the air and made it clear she was going nowhere. After that no one was to leave. She was fine. Angry but fine.

  “So who’s there now?”

  Vano was there.

  “How did you get away?”

  The guard was a city boy. He didn’t have a clue.

  In the stiff front seat, which even over these rough tracks felt unimaginably comfortable, Hammer fought sleep. His body had had enough, and his mind was so full of colliding images that thought was hard; but he forced himself, and continued to quiz Irodi. Communicating through the exhausted Webster as best he could, Hammer explained what had happened on the mountainside. Yes, Vekua could make it, Irodi said, without a flashlight, perhaps. It was not icy yet and there had been a little moon. But up there you must be a goat; one slip was the end.

  Hammer told Irodi to hurry. She was in Diklo now, he was sure.

  He had no plan. If they found Natela safe he would take her away and somehow arrange for a helicopter to take them down from the mountains. Then throw himself on the protection of the embassy, perhaps, or have Iosava find them a safe passage out. That was the extent of his thinking. If she wasn’t safe, he didn’t know what he would do.

  How quiet Diklo was under its coat of snow, and how Hammer longed to fall into that tiny warm bed with Natela and sleep until spring; but the moment he stepped down from the car the cold air brought him to himself and forced him awake. After a brief, whispered conversation the three of them agreed that Hammer and Webster would stay put while Irodi went the back way to the house and found out what was going on inside. If Vekua wasn’t there, they would take Natela and go. If she was, they would talk again.

  Irodi left, moving without effort or sound into the blackness of the houses.

  “How much are you paying him?” said Webster.

  “Nothing like enough.”

  “You should hire him.”

  Webster still had the stick Hammer had found for him in the woods and by leaning on it now rested his injured leg.

  “He won’t be long,” said Hammer.

  “I’m fine.”

  It should have taken him three minutes at the most, four if he was going a long way round. After five, Hammer began to be concerned.

  “I’m not sure this is good.”

  As he said it a voice broke the quiet, cutting clear through the night.

  “Mr. Hammer! You can come now. All your friends are here.”

  Hammer considered his options and found them wanting.

  “That her?” said Webster.

  “That’s her. Any ideas?”

  “Improvise.”

  Hammer gave him his arm for support and together they walked to Vano’s house.

  • • •

  The guard was still there, shifting his weight from foot to foot to keep out the cold. As Hammer and Webster came within sight he pointed his gun at them and said something in Georgian.

  “He wants weapons,” said Webster.

  “I imagine he does,” said Hammer, and fished one of the two guns from his pockets. Webster handed his own over and the guard patted him down before moving on to Hammer, stopping when he reached his waist.

  “My memory’s going,” said Hammer, as the guard pulled out the second pistol. Finally happy, he followed them inside the house.

  At the head of the table was Vano, stiff with dignified rage, and by him Eka and Natela. Irodi was sitting at the foot, and gave Hammer a look of apology as he came in. Vekua was standing beyond the table by the sink, pistol in hand. Next to her were the two rifles.

  “Sit, please,” said Vekua.

  Hammer shook his head. “You want to tell me why you’re holding these good people? What did they do?”

  Vekua smiled. It was the same simple smile that she had used to charm him when they had first met, but behind it now there were signs of real agitation—the muscles were tight in her jaw, and her lips pressed firmly together. She spoke deliberately, but without conviction.

  “I am not holding anyone. I have asked everyone to remain here and I have taken their guns, which I am entitled to do. As an officer of the law. Please, sit.”

  Hammer looked at Webster and they sat down opposite each other.

  “You OK?” said Hammer, taking off his gloves and putting his hand on Natela’s thigh. She nodded, but said nothing.

  “I’m sorry about this,” said Hammer, looking from Vano to Eka. Vano responded with a taut nod.

  “So you have your friend,” said Vekua. “He exists.”

  “You knew he existed.”

  “What happened after you tried to kill me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You tried to drag me off the mountain. Then you left me to die.”

  “You seem OK.”

  Vekua steadily held his eye, the smile gone.

  “He was where I thought?”

  “More or less.”

  “What did you do with the guards?”

  “I did what I do. I bought the guards.”

  “You bought them?”

  “I paid them, more than you were paying them, and now they’re mine. They’ll say anything I want, but the truth’ll do. That they were working for Koba and that he was working for you. How they set the bomb off. Killed Karlo. The whole thing.”

  Vekua nodded several times, as if something finally made sense.

  “OK. Enough. This is bullshit, of course. What happened to your leg?”

  Blood was showing through the cloth. Without looking up, Webster said, “I slipped coming down. Hit a rock.”

  She turned back to Hammer. “You and your friend, I will take you to Tbilisi, and you will be questioned about your part in the Gori bombing.”

  Hammer let out a long sigh and shook his head.

  “You know, Elene, maybe you have the energy for it but I’m too tired to lie. Too tired. I didn’t pay the guards. We had to shoot them. I had to shoot them. I didn’t want to but there was no other way. I hope they weren’t dear to you. But it’s OK because I reckon we have enough already, and we’re not the only ones who know it.”

  Vekua was frowning now. Before he went on, Hammer turned and exchanged a look with Natela; he wanted to tell her that this would all be all right, he was going to look after her, but the next two minutes would be difficult. Trust me, in short.

  “No one’s coming with you. I trusted my life to you once already today and that’s enough. I’m going to explain where we stand, you and I, but first it’s important you hear something. Most important thing you ever heard. Everything I tell you, I’ve already dictated to a woman in my company in London, and she wrote it down, and if anything happens to me she’s g
oing to send it to the editor of the Tribune and a few other influential people. And she’ll post it online somewhere for good measure. You understand the lay of the land?”

  “There is nowhere for you to call.”

  “No. There is. There’s a nice little spot about two miles west of here and we just came that way. How d’you think I got Natela up here?”

  Vekua considered it, and tried one last way round.

  “You are a bold man. In Russia you killed two men. You tried to kill me. This in return for my help. I should arrest you, leave you in a Georgian jail for ten years. But the country does not need this disturbance. I will take you to Tbilisi, and you will fly home.”

  “How did you know there were two of them?”

  To her credit, she held his eye.

  “Come.” Vekua picked up the rifles. “We go.”

  “You’re not there yet, are you? OK. Your world is falling apart. It was always going to. That’s what happens to people like you.”

  “Get up.”

  “I’m not finished. I have a proposal for you. You’ll want to hear it, because it’s the only way you can get out of this mess.”

  Vekua was still now, all her attention on Hammer.

  “For this to work,” he said, “I need to know what you’ve done. Some pretty bad things, I imagine. I think you killed all those people in Gori. I saw you kill Koba tonight. He was yours, right? All the way through?”

  Vekua said nothing.

  “And Karlo?”

  Hammer stared at her, wanting her to acknowledge part of this, to show the smallest crack.

  “My point is, there’s no going back, Elene. Your future’s across the border.”