The Solomon Effect

by C. S. Graham

  “You say he’s Chechen? That doesn’t sound good. Any chance he has ties to al-Qa’ida?”

  Andrei shrugged. “Not that we know of. But it’s possible. He worked with the CIA and American Special Forces in Afghanistan back in the eighties, when you Americans and Osama bin Laden were allies, supporting the mujahedeen against us.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said Jax.

  Andrei showed his teeth in a smile.

  “So what did you learn from this guy?” said October.

  “Unfortunately, very little.” Andrei shrugged. “He had a weak heart.”

  She frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s dead,” said Jax.

  Her eyes widened. “You mean you tor—”

  Jax brought his heel down on her instep, hard, and said to Andrei, “What can you tell us about the kid?”

  “We sent someone out to talk to the mother this morning. She still thinks her son died with the others on the Yalena. If the boy is alive, he hasn’t contacted her.”

  Jax grunted. “He’s obviously being careful.”

  “He needs to be careful. When my men were leaving the mother’s farm, they noticed a black Durango parked up the road.”

  They were coming in low over a village, the blades of the chopper flattening the long grass that thrust up through the new snow. Jax said, “Someone’s staking out the mother’s house?”

  “So it would appear. We’ve set a couple of militiamen to watch the watchers.”

  “Why didn’t you just pick them up for questioning?” said October.

  “Because I have no more use for small fry. I want the big fish. If we leave them alone, the minnows in the Durango will lead us to him.”

  Adjusting his field glasses, Carlos Rodriguez watched as the old priest came out of his cottage to load two bundles into the sidecar of a rusty Ural motorbike.

  Ugly and ungainly but fiercely sturdy, the Urals had been the workhorses of the Soviet Union. This one still bore the stamped star that showed it had come off a military assembly line, although the machine-gun mount had been cut off and a spare tire mounted on the back of the sidecar. The priest himself looked like some latter-day Rasputin, only bigger and broader, with long, flowing black robes and a wild gray beard that tumbled down past his belly.

  Tucking up the hem of his robes, he swung one leg over the old Ural and gave it a hard kick. Rodriguez lowered his field glasses.

  “Keep him in sight, but don’t get too close.”

  Salinger nodded and eased their silver Range Rover into gear.

  They trailed the priest through bleak fields of winter wheat edged with scrub and sodden earth streaked with snow. A few kilometers out of the village, he turned in beneath a soaring arched gate of white stucco and red brick topped by a narrow roof of red tiles. A stylized rendition of a seven-pointed elk antler decorated the arch’s keystone.

  “Think the kid is hiding here?” said Kirkpatrick as they followed the priest into a neglected court. The two Russians, Zoya and Nikolayev, turned in behind them in a black Durango that was a twin to the one the little shit wrecked.

  “Maybe. Or maybe not. The guy’s a priest. He could just be visiting some parishioner.”

  They watched the priest’s Ural thump along a rutted dirt lane that wound behind a big, dilapidated old house, then passed into a stand of pines. Through the branches of the trees they could see the ruins of row after row of what looked like stables, their red brick walls crumbling where stretches of the ancient tiled roofs had given way.

  “What the hell is this place?” said Kirkpatrick.

  “I don’t know.” Rodriguez signaled to the Russians in the Durango to pull over. “But I think we’ve just found our boy.”

  59

  The chopper came down on a grassy helipad beside a dreary Soviet-era building of dirty glass and rust-stained concrete. Two blue-and-white militia vans stood at the ready, their idling engines belching clouds of white steam into the cold air.

  A tall, lean militia captain with high cheekbones and a tight mouth snapped to attention and delivered a stuttering report.

  “What do you mean you lost the men watching the widow’s farm?” Andrei bellowed.

  “They just…left.”

  “And your men didn’t follow them…why?”

  The militia captain swallowed hard enough to bob his Adam’s apple up and down. “One of them was taking a leak.”

  “And the other was—what? Asleep? Screwing his girlfriend in the backseat?”

  A rush of scarlet darkened the militia captain’s face before slowly draining away to leave him a sickly white.

  Jax said, “I can think of only two reasons they’d leave. Either they’ve given up trying to find the boy and are pulling out, or…”

  Tobie finished for him. “Or they found him.”

  Andrei stood with his fists on his hips, a muscle bunching and flexing along his tight jaw as he stared through the silently drifting snow at the distant cluster of wooden houses. “If you were a sixteen-year-old kid too scared to go home, who would you turn to?”

  From a distant barn came the lowing of a cow and, nearer, the disgruntled caw-caw of a crow perched on a nearby electric pole. Looking toward it, Tobie saw the spire of an ancient church thrusting up above the bare, snow-covered branches of a stand of willows.

  “The priest,” she said suddenly. “Remember when Anna Baklanov was showing us Stefan’s picture? She said Jasha used to make fun of the boy for being so devout.”

  Andrei swung toward the nearest militia van. “It’s worth a try. Let’s go.”

  Stefan sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, his spine pressed against one of the iron columns supporting the stable block’s soaring roof. Tipping back his head, he could see a giant hook hanging from the center of the beam above. He craned his neck, following the line, hook after hook, disappearing into the gloom. It seemed strange that the hooks should still be here, long after all the blood stallions and broodmares had disappeared.

  He shivered. The interior of the stable block was starkly empty and open, the fine polished oak that had once formed the stalls having long ago been ripped out and carted off for firewood. The row of small, arched windows set high on each side wall let in little light. He shivered again, and reached over to draw the dog closer. The pup let out a little whimper and licked his face.

  “It’ll be all right once Father Alexei gets here,” whispered Stefan, his voice echoing eerily in the vast, hollow chamber. “You’ll see.”

  He heard the whine of the priest’s motorbike long before he saw it. Scrambling to his feet, he was standing in the broken archway at the end of the stable block when the priest brought his old Ural to a coughing standstill and cut the engine.

  Stefan bolted out the door. “Father!”

  Climbing stiffly off the motorbike, the old priest turned to open his arms wide. “Stefan. My boy.”

  Stefan flung himself against the priest’s broad chest. “Father,” said Stefan again. Pressing his face into the habit’s scratchy wet wool, he breathed in the familiar, comforting scents of incense and vodka and cooked cabbage.

  “Come, come,” said the priest, drawing back to cup Stefan’s cheek with one big, work-worn hand. “It’s all right. Tell me what has happened.”

  “They want to kill me!”

  “Who? Who wants to kill you?” said the priest, just as the dog at Stefan’s side let out a growl that rumbled low in his chest.

  Looking up, Stefan saw a shadow, heard the crunch of snow beneath a heavy boot. He took a step back, whispered, “It’s them. It’s the men who killed Uncle Jasha and the others.”

  Turning, Father Andrei shoved Stefan behind his big body and shouted, “Run, boy!” just as the men across the clearing opened fire.

  60

  Stefan dove through the broken archway, his shoulder exploding in pain as he hit the litter-covered concrete floor and rolled to one side, his arms coming up to wrap around his head. A cascade of
gunfire chipped the brick walls of the stables and pinged off the rusting iron columns. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he screamed, “Father!” Then, “Pup!” and provoked another volley.

  Pushing to his feet, he sprinted down the long stables, beneath high-arched windows that showed patches of dull white sky overhead. He heard the voice from his nightmares shout in stilted Russian, “Nikolayev, stay outside and take the left perimeter. Zoya, you take the right. Kirkpatrick and Salinger, come with me.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” whispered Stefan, flattening against the nearest wall with a shaky gasp.

  The hollowed-out shell of the stables stretched before him, long and narrow and totally empty except for the two marching rows of iron columns and the silent line of hooks that marked the center of each overhead beam. He could see a side door about halfway down the far right wall that had once opened to the pasturelands beyond. But if he tried to make a run for it, the Russian named Zoya would cut him down in an instant.

  He was trapped.

  The militia vans were just turning under the stud farm’s high gateway when Jax heard the distant crackle of gunfire. “Shit,” he whispered under his breath.

  They’d learned from the priest’s housekeeper that the old man had bundled up some clean clothes and a slab of roasted pork, fresh bread, and apples, and set off on his motorbike for the ruins of some abandoned royal stables. But from the sounds of things, they were too late.

  “Step on it!” yelled Andrei. He hit the siren, the wailing notes blaring out as they bounced and swayed over the rutted lane.

  They fishtailed around a stand of pines, breaking out of the trees into a stretch of abandoned pastures with row after row of stable blocks of red brick and stucco walls and collapsing red-tiled roofs.

  “There,” said Andrei, pointing to a rusty Ural motorbike with a sidecar parked in front of the relatively intact stable block at the far end. A dark mound of faded black lay halfway between the motorbike and the arched entrance to the stables.

  As the wailing militia vans bore down on them, a man in a heavy gray sweater broke away from the near side of the stable block. Leaping the tumbled remnants of a fence, he bolted across the abandoned pastures toward a thicket of willows edging a distant small stream.

  “Give me a gun,” Jax shouted to Andrei.

  “Here.” Andrei tossed him a Makarov pistol, military issue, with a special twelve-round detachable box magazine.

  Sliding on leaf mold and snow and mud, their van skidded to a halt beside a silver Range Rover and a black Durango, heat radiating off their engines to melt the surrounding snow. Andrei handed a second Makarov to October. She took it without comment.

  They piled out of the vans, Andrei shouting orders, directing half the militiamen after the dark figure heading for the creek, the others around the far side of the stables.

  Jax charged his pistol by pulling back the slide, then pushed down the side-mounted safety lever. “Stay here,” he told October as he and Andrei and the militia captain headed for the broken arch of the entrance in the end wall.

  “Why?”

  “In case they slip past us and double back around to the cars.”

  A distant shout jerked their gaze toward the fields, where a second man could now be seen running toward the old riding school. “Oh.”

  Jax sprinted for the stable entrance, tinglingly conscious of what a great target black leather made silhouetted against white snow and sky. He ducked left; Andrei went right.

  The militia captain was a little slower.

  Jax saw a flash, heard the pop of a pistol from halfway down the stableblock. Looking back, he saw a hole like a giant cigarette burn appear above the captain’s left eye. He dropped just inside the doorway.

  Flattening on the cold concrete floor, Jax tightened his grip on the Makarov and willed his eyes to adjust to the sudden gloom.

  Despite the row of small high windows on each long wall, the stable block was a vast haze of dusty shadows. He heard a rustling from farther down the block, but didn’t dare shoot in case it was Stefan.

  Levering up on his elbows, he crept forward, the Makarov held at the ready. As his pupils dilated, features began to solidify out of the murky gloom. Rows of rusting iron columns. Three vague, rectangular shapes near the back wall. A gaping patch of white where once had stood a side door.

  A light whimpering sounded at the far end of the building. From some ten feet up ahead to his left came a muzzle flash and the popping of an automatic, fired in rapid succession.

  Jax fixed on the shadowy outline of a man with his gun hand stretched out, and fired. He nailed the shooter once, twice, three times. The figure cried out. Lay still.

  A voice from somewhere to the right shouted, “Salinger!”

  Andrei opened up, his automatic belching fire and the smell of burnt powder. Jax heard the sound of bullets striking flesh.

  Then all was quiet.

  His throat dry, Jax held his breath, every fiber of his being straining with the effort of listening.

  A faint rustling drew his attention to the right. The indistinct shape of—a man? a boy?—rose up to make a dash for the side doorway. Without knowing which, Jax couldn’t shoot. He yelled, “Stefan?”

  The figure kept running, a black silhouette that showed for an instant against the white of the fields before darting to the right, footsteps crunching snow as he headed toward the front courtyard. Then came the thunderous boom of what sounded like a Colt 45, and the answering pop-pop-pop of a Makarov.

  October.

  Heedless of whoever else might be lurking in the gloom, Jax shoved up. Racing toward the entrance, he heard another exchange of shots followed by a sputtering cough as the Ural roared to life.

  He burst through the crumbling archway, the Makarov held in a tight two-handed grip, his body crouching into a shooter’s stance. He saw October standing in the center of the road, firing over and over at the disappearing whine of the Ural.

  Jax straightened slowly.

  “Who the hell taught her to shoot?” said Andrei in disgust, coming up beside him.

  “The U.S. Navy.” Jax glanced at the militia vans. The guy on the Ural had shot out all the front tires. “Shit.”

  He walked to where October still stood in the center of the dirt road, the Makarov held in a tight grip. “You all right?”

  She nodded. “It was him. The one I saw before, in the garden.”

  “Saw? Saw when? What garden?”

  She glanced at Andrei, and shook her head in warning. Straightening slowly, she let the gun dangle in a loose grip at her side. “Sorry I missed.”

  Jax reached out to clasp her shoulder and squeezed. “Hey. You kept yourself alive. That’s a good thing.”

  A volley of shots sounded from the direction of the creek, followed by a shout, and another thunder of murderous fire.

  “Think there’s anyone left alive to talk?” said Jax.

  Holstering his gun, Andrei turned back toward the stables. “Let’s go see.”

  61

  The two Russians the militia shot down near the creek were dead. So was the militia captain, and the village priest, and a blond, blue-eyed shooter wearing a camouflage jacket and a turtleneck sweater hiked up to show the U.S. Special Forces tattoo on his side.

  “Somehow, I don’t think we’re dealing with al-Qa’ida,” said Andrei, studying the elaborate depiction of a snake swallowing a sword.

  Jax shook his head and went to hunker down beside the body of the second shooter, a tall, thin man with brown hair and gray eyes and a pale, faintly freckled face. “Doesn’t look like it, does it?” He pushed to his feet. “Any chance I can get these guys’ fingerprints?”

  “I’ll have them faxed to Division Thirteen.”

  “Oh, Matt’ll love that.”

  They found Stefan Baklanov huddled beside an old feed bin at the far end of the stable block, a half-grown black-and-tan pup cradled in his arms.

  “He’s hurt,” said the boy. />
  Crouching beside him, October ran one hand over the pup’s rear flank. Her fingers came away sticky with blood. “If you’ll carry him outside,” she said in her flawless Russian, “I’ll take a look at him and see what I can do.”

  The boy hesitated, then swallowed hard and pushed to his feet.

  Their attempts to get anything out of the boy were next to useless until some three hours later when, freshly showered and fed, and in clean clothes, Stefan Baklanov sat on a sofa in his mother’s home, the bandaged pup at his side.

  “The men who hired your uncle to raise the U-boat,” said Andrei, “who were they?”

  The boy hugged the dog tighter and threw a questioning glance at Jax.

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Andrei. “Who shot your uncle?”

  “Americans,” Stefan whispered.

  “How do you know they were Americans?” said Jax in English.

  Tobie started to translate for him, but Stefan answered easily, “I heard them talking.” He turned his head to meet Jax’s hard gaze. “They sounded like you.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Jax.

  Andrei snorted. “You mean, you don’t want it to make any sense.” To the boy, he said, “Do you know why these Americans wanted your uncle to salvage that particular U-boat?”

  Stefan sank lower on the sofa, his gaze on the worn carpet at his feet.

  “It’s all right,” said Tobie, ignoring Andrei’s frown. “No one is blaming you.”

  Stefan fiddled with his dog’s ears. “They said the U-boat carried a weapon.”

  Andrei’s voice sharpened. “What kind of a weapon?”

  “A disease. I don’t know what kind.”

  “Do you know why the Americans killed your uncle?”

  Stefan nodded. “They found out he was planning to double-cross them. I don’t know how.”

  Jax said, “The man in charge of the Americans—do you know his name?”

  Stefan drew the pup up to him in a tight embrace and shook his head. “I only ever heard Uncle Jasha call him ‘Major.’”