Carrie nodded. She took off her glove and wiped her face with the back of her hand.
‘A lot of men have died because of you,’ he accused. Nothing to say. Carrie stayed quiet.
‘Passport.’ He held out his hand like a guard at a checkpoint. Carrie unzipped an inside pocket from her jacket and brought out the false passport that Yumatov had delivered to her. Her captor didn’t have a scanner so he couldn’t verify it. He read the name, leafed through to the Russian visa, and, to her surprise, gave it back to her. ‘Sit.’ He pointed to the wooden stool, which had tipped over, the red scarf tangled in one of its three legs.
She moved toward the straw, stepped across the boy’s body, picked it up, folded the scarf, made sure the legs were firm on the floor, and sat. He took a flashlight from his coat and shone it high along the wall. It stopped on a smudged and dirty red plastic handle just above head-height behind the stack of soiled straw, the alarm that would bring the train to a screeching halt. He turned the flashlight off. Carrie saw her soldier move his leg. A speck of hope rippled through her. He had only been protecting his horses. Her captor saw it, too, and shot the soldier with two rounds, one in the torso, one in the head. Carrie recoiled and looked away. Then she spun back, torn with anger. ‘Fuck you, whoever you are!’ she yelled. ‘No one has died because of me. They have died because of pricks like you.’
He typed into his phone. Outside dawn had broken. The rising sun managed to stream light into the carriage. For a fleeting beat a shadow fell across the open doorway, enough for him to notice and turn, but not tense, not expecting trouble until a new crescendo of gunfire filled the carriage. He stood still, mid-turn, like a marionette, battered in one place, then the other, so ferociously that he couldn’t even fall. Some shots went wide. None hit with accuracy. When they stopped, he fell onto Carrie’s stool and slid to the floor. His phone tipped out of his hand, message unsent.
The door was closed and bolted. Hektor Tolstoye, limb hanging loose, came forward. He had shot with his left hand. He looked around, saw the soldier he had bribed, took in the other corpses. The horses quietened as if they understood that something terrible had happened. He tilted his head down to a green canvas bag hanging from his shoulder. ‘Help me, please. I need a fresh magazine.’
The bag was coarse, heavy canvas material, weighed down by ammunition. Carrie counted three long magazines, a shorter one, and a pistol. The metal was ice cold, sticky on the skin. Hektor Tolstoye unclipped the spent magazine with his thumb. It clattered to the floor. He held the weapon steady while Carrie clipped in the fresh one. ‘Check for wounded,’ he said.
Carrie obeyed as if they were working together in the field. She began asking herself where Hektor Tolstoye got his weapons, which would be a big risk to have on a train. But this was Russia, a violent place. He had them. He had shot her enemy. He had his reasons for helping her. She went through the process of checking the dead, laying her fingers against the neck of each one, skin warm, cooling fast, nervous systems settling, muscles twitching, first the boy and she worked her way around. The soldier who loved horses lay curled up against the container, protecting his pregnant mare. Dead.
Hektor picked up the scarf and handed it to her. It was warm, weighty, full of colors. He lifted the trapdoor near the stool. Clumsily, with just his good hand, he removed metal bars on which the soldier had hidden his weapons. ‘Before Olenegorsk, the train will stop on a red signal,’ he said. ‘You go down through here and come out on this side.’ He pointed to the right of the railcar. ‘There is a bank with bushes which will give you cover. Stay hidden until the train has gone. Go up the bank and you will come to the road. If there are people, stay hidden, and wait. If it is empty, walk north a hundred meters to a bigger road. Mikhail will be there in the green Skoda. Wear the red scarf, so he can recognize you clearly.’
Beneath her feet, through the trapdoor, the ground rushed by, rail track, sleepers, caked ice.
‘What about all this?’ She swept her hand around the carnage.
‘I will arrange. You leave. I close the doors. They find it in Murmansk.’ He reached into the bag and bought out the pistol and a spare magazine. ‘For you.’
‘No.’ Carrie had often been offered a weapon and always refused.
‘Give it to Mikhail. He needs it. For me. A favor.’ It wasn’t a favor. He wanted her to be able to protect herself. But this was not a time to argue. She opened her bag, let him drop it in.
‘There are people who want to destroy Russia,’ said Hektor. ‘But why so much over you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Carrie tensed her muscles protectively around the flash drive.
‘Rufus asked if you could be his mother.’ Hektor attempted a brief smile, clawing at a lighter future.
‘Tell him sure. We can be pen pals first.’
‘Pen pals?’
‘We email each other. Keep in touch.’ Carrie clasped her hands together, looked at the blood on them. The train slowed. Hektor checked his watch. First came a jerk of the engine cutting speed, brakes gently applied. Carrie arranged her bags with the medical pack at her front like a parachute and the other slung around her back. ‘Too dangerous.’ Hektor lifted it off her. ‘I will give you.’ The train slowed more. Hektor tottered and reached out for balance with the right hand he didn’t have. He leaned against the wall. The moving ground came into focus through the trapdoor. There was clarity in the dawn light, the red signal reflected off the snow, a final judder, and the train came to a stop.
Carrie swung down her legs and lowered herself to the ice. Her right foot slipped. She held the edges of the trapdoor until she felt secure and took the bag from Hektor. His eyes remained steady on her until her closed the trapdoor. Carrie was bent double in a glare of morning sun on ice. Wind whipped between the track and the carriage. She shivered and drew in freezing fresh air which caught in her throat. The railcar shook. A huge wheel clicked forward. Carrie scrambled out as the railcar lurched. She ran until she reached undergrowth, branches scratching her face, brittle, spiky, and cold. Above lay the bank that would lead to the road. She waited for the train to pass. Railcar after railcar, four or five like the one with the horses, others open with guns, tanks, and military equipment. She watched the train disappear into the distance where there was mist and the contours of Olenegorsk.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Carrie grasped branches and found footholds in the ice. The bank was steep and slippery. There were plastic bags blown onto bushes and frozen hard. She pulled herself up to a vast white landscape. She looked for a green Skoda, saw only a narrow, rutted road flanked by thin, dark trees. The phone signal was good. She messaged Rake: Off train. Olenegorsk. It helped her feel normal. I’m here. Running late. Where are you? What a luxury! Rake was her go-to guy. Yes, she thought, let’s sort out today’s shit and make it work. Two words came back from Rake. On plan. She tried to think of something useless, funny, affectionate. Normal times, she would take a photo and send it. Normal wasn’t infected with electronic tracking surveillance and burner phones.
The sky looked restless with jagged, black snow clouds, wisped with white ones which twisted and curved into a river-like line of deep blue. On one side of the road stood spiky, barren trees, on the other slanted, wind-battered telegraph poles, snow clinging to their frozen wood bases, icicles hanging like a modern-art installation, cables drooping, but holding up. She saw vehicle movement by the intersection ahead, this the smaller farm road crossing the bigger one that led to the town. There were two vehicles. She swiped away her breath cloud like smoke obstructing her view. One vehicle stopped, taller than the other, maybe an SUV. The other kept coming slowly, weaving around potholes and ice packs. It was green and had to be the Skoda as Hektor had described. She lowered herself back down the bank, out of sight to stay under cover until she could see the make of the car.
The vehicle sloped down on the driver’s side. Its green bodywork was peppered with rust spots. The bonnet was silver, the passenger front door a d
irty faded blue. A front-wheel hubcap was missing, and a crack streaked right across the middle of the windscreen. In the middle of the upper radiator cage, almost unblemished, was the winged arrow of the Skoda logo.
Carrie draped the red scarf over her hat and let it fall onto her shoulders. She scrambled back up the bank. The Skoda drew up beside her, fogged with cigarette smoke until the driver lowered the window.
‘Mikhail?’
He pushed open the passenger door. The leather seat was torn. Rust had eaten through the floor. Carrie climbed in, kept her medical bag on her lap, the other at her feet. Mikhail tossed his cigarette out the window. He wore black woolen gloves with finger holes, missing the right-hand middle finger. A scar ran down the left side of his face which was gaunt, cheeks drawn in, covered in a couple of days’ growth. He was extraordinarily thin, veins protruding from his wrist and neck, which was disproportionately big. He was not a well man, might be an overactive thyroid. Carrie drew the pistol from her bag. ‘This is from Hektor.’
‘Keep it,’ he said.
‘But—’
‘Keep it,’ he repeated. He moved the stick into gear, made a single turn in the road, and began back toward the intersection.
‘Who’s that?’ Carrie pointed ahead to the second vehicle.
‘Friends. Better car to take you to Nikel.’
They rode in silence. Carrie messaged Rake. In car. There was no heating. Windows were down. Wind cut through, unforgiving, tearing through the trees and telegraph poles, sending icy pellets against Carrie’s face. She drew the scarf tighter and dabbed lip balm onto her cracked lips. The second vehicle was a black SUV stretch, which would be sturdy and warm with good suspension and solid heating. A driver sat behind the wheel. A second man leaned on the hood, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Mikhail stopped some yards away. He leaned across her to open her door.
‘What—’ Carrie felt a churn in her stomach. It wasn’t right, although everything made sense, the new vehicle, the friends, keeping the gun she had anticipated. Mikhail’s surly, monosyllabic conversation. Stay calm. She checked her phone. Nothing from Rake.
‘They will take you.’
They, not him, Hektor’s cousin. Mikhail kept his gaze straight ahead. He pulled out another cigarette, unfiltered and crushed, from his top jacket pocket. He hung it between his lips and pushed in the Skoda’s lighter. Carrie got out, gripped the top of the door to stay steady on the ice. Between her and the SUV what looked like a farm sack lay in the middle of the road. She leaned down to check back with Mikhail. He plucked out the lighter and lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply, not looking at her.
The man waiting outside the SUV pushed himself off the hood, arm outstretched in beckoning wave. She hoisted her bag more securely onto her shoulder. Treading carefully, she walked to meet him.
He shouted something, lost in a howl of wind. Carrie’s eyes watered. She pulled the scarf right around her face, protecting everything except her eyes. His face was covered, too, small goggles over the eyes, quality cold-weather clothing. He walked fast on the other side of the road, pointed to the Skoda, held up his right hand, five fingers splayed as if to say: Got to talk to Mikhail. Give me a few minutes.
There was someone else in the SUV. Carrie spotted movement in the back. Its engine ran, exhaust white, vanishing in swirl. She stepped left to skirt around the farm sack. Except, closer, when she saw what it actually was, her strength drained. She had to stop herself buckling. She cried out from deep in her belly but had no voice. She squatted down to see more. She put her arm out to check and pulled it back because it was pointless. The amputated arm was enough. The red, scarred face lay on the ice, the neck twisted. She recognized the brown jacket. Less than an hour earlier Hektor Tolstoye had saved her life. Now, he was dead, his body here as a warning. She looked back toward the Skoda. Through the cracked, filthy windscreen, she saw Mikhail, just as she had left him, hands on the wheel, cigarette in mouth, eyes straight ahead, Hektor Tolstoye’s cousin. Or so she had been told.
The man from the SUV leaned on the roof of the Skoda, head at the window, as if casually chatting to Mikhail. In his right hand was a pistol. He killed Mikhail. The wind carried the two cracks of pistol shot. Blood splattered the windscreen. The killer stepped back, holstered the pistol, and moved quickly toward Carrie. He pulled up his goggles and lowered his scarf. A broad smile stretched across his face. ‘Ruslan Yumatov. Remember? I helped you in Moscow.’
He touched her elbow, informal, friendly, and moved on ahead to the vehicle to open the back door for her. Rufus sat inside, upright in the middle of the bench seat, the safety belt around him, clutching his battered book of fairy tales. He saw Carrie. His eyes glimmered with recognition and surprise. Carrie mustered every strand of broken energy to show him a face of certainty, to portray falsely that he would be all right.
‘Hello, Rufus.’ Carrie’s voice cracked.
He looked at her expectantly. He would have seen his uncle murdered, which would have been Yumatov’s point. Rufus’ lips opened to speak. He said nothing and looked back down at his book.
‘Great kid. Fantastic future.’ Yumatov laid his arm on her again and switched to English. ‘Do what I ask, Carrie, and he’ll be fine.’
She didn’t shake him away because she didn’t want to give him the pleasure of her discomfort. She got into the back of the SUV and gave Rufus a tight, consoling hug. Yumatov shut her door and got in the front. The driver pulled away. Carrie looked back at the battered green sedan, the body lying in the middle of the farm track, misty snow. Rufus trembled, hands shaking, as he pretended to read Russian fairy tales.
Yumatov turned, arm slung over the back of his seat. ‘You got your uncle’s flash drive?’
Carrie didn’t look at him, didn’t answer. She ran her fingers through Rufus’s hair.
‘Work with me, Carrie, and we’ll all be fine. It’s four to five hours to Nikel and Rake’s expecting you. The FSB are letting him through at the border. Message him that you’re safe and on your way.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Svanvik, Finnmark, Norway
In car. Safe. Carrie’s message came as Mikki swung into Nilla’s farm near Svanvik, a sprawl of dark wooden buildings, smoke curling from chimneys, sleds lined up, and dog and boot prints on the snow.
‘She’s on her way,’ Rake said. ‘We have seven hours max.’ He opened the vehicle door and heard barking. A young woman, using ski poles to stop herself sliding, came toward them.
‘Nilla Carsten?’ asked Rake.
She pointed down a short slope toward a wooden fence, an open gate, and a compound of kennels. Near the entrance, Nilla was giving a lesson on how to harness a dog. Kennels were dotted around behind her. A noticeboard allocated a dog to each kennel. Color-coding told their temperament and recommended which dog was suited to which. Rake couldn’t help noting the combination; Skye, a lead dog, Jake and Ranta, an excellent pair of point dogs who came after the lead. Skye and Jake had the strongest sense of smell. Nilla held a wriggling brown and gray husky called Finn. Half a dozen students gathered round. ‘You hold Finn between your legs like this,’ she instructed in English. ‘Bring your heels together like this.’ She took her hands off the dog, held them in the air. ‘That gives you control over her. See? No hands. She might twist around. She might try to get free. But you have her secured.’ Nilla held up the yellow and red harness, which is when she saw Rake, took a beat, twisted the halter in shape, and kept teaching. ‘Bring the harness into a loop, big enough to fit.’ She slipped the halter over the dog’s head, opened it out, secured it over the neck and through the two front legs. She beckoned over the young woman with the ski poles. ‘I’ll be back in a moment, Izzy. Get them to practice.’
She said to Rake: ‘Hello, trouble. You caused hell in Washington, now you’re on my farm so what’s up?’
‘Come to get you back to work,’ said Rake.
‘I’ve been suspended pending an investigation.’
‘It’s been
lifted. Check your phone.’
Nilla drew her phone out of a jacket pocket and saw several messages. ‘Why?’ she asked with cool suspicion in her eyes.
‘We need you to lead us back across the border.’
She pointed across the road where a sign said Office. Rake and Mikki followed her. Inside, cold-weather gear hung from wall hooks. Boots lined shelves. Fur gloves were piled up on tables. There were chairs, benches, maps, brochures, and a smell of coffee. A bearded man in his thirties worked a laptop behind the one desk. ‘My brother, Stefan,’ said Nilla. ‘We own the farm. He runs it.’ Stefan nodded, kept working, disinterested, people coming in and out all the time. Nilla pulled off her gloves and hat and let her hair fall.
She held Rake’s head between her hands and kissed him full on the lips. ‘You’re dangerous and I forgive you.’ She stood by the window, her lips moving silently as she read messages. She spoke in Norwegian to her brother, short enough and in a firm enough tone for Rake to get the gist. She needed the room. Stefan left. She kept reading. Mikki examined the cold-weather gear like he was in a shop, flipping through seal and reindeer skins, silk undervests, face masks, and fur gloves. ‘Take your pick,’ said Nilla, her eyes on her phone. ‘We’ll need it.’ She scrolled her phone messages and looked intensely at Rake, a thin smile on her pursed lips. ‘I am no longer suspended. My security clearance is restored. I am to work with Major Raymond Ozenna until further notice, blah blah, blah, so why doesn’t Major Ozenna tell me what the fuck is going on.’
Man on Edge Page 21
