Riders of the Pale Horse

by T. Davis Bunn

  Allison smiled nowadays with ease, a beautiful even-toothed smile. Fair skin was suddenly fashionable. Women singed their hair with chemicals in a vain attempt to copy her curls. Lean and rangy figures were in. Her friends spoke of Allison’s ideal beauty. Still, Allison had numerous ways to divert the attention, laugh it off. For when Allison Taylor looked into the mirror, her heart still told her she was seeing Raggedy Ann. She was precocious, intelligent, able, eloquent. But on the social side, Allison Taylor walked with two left feet.

  “My dear,” Cyril said, raising his glass and drawing her attention back to the table. “Thank you so much for joining me.”

  She clinked glasses, smiled, watched as their duck arrived. Each plate was carried by a different waiter—two for the duck, two for the side plates of steamed vegetables. The main ones were set into place and the silver covers raised in unison to reveal thinly sliced fowl in a rich Madeira sauce. “If this is the way I’m going to be treated for the next three months, I may never go home.”

  Their talk turned light and reminiscent until the meals were completed. Allison allowed Cyril to steer the conversation through numerous lighthearted veins until she set down her utensils and declared, “All right, I’ve finished. Time to tell me what’s going on.”

  “Very well.” Clearly he had been waiting for that moment. Cyril signaled for the waiter to clear the table. “The situation, as you Americans would say, is beyond critical.”

  He fiddled with his glass until the waiters had departed, then leaned across the table and said quietly, “At present, there are only nine countries that publicly acknowledge having nuclear weapons: they are Great Britain, France, Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, China, and the United States. South Africa recently claimed to have developed four nuclear bombs, then dismantled all of them. Three other nations are widely believed to possess such bombs—Israel, India, and Pakistan.”

  His words struck hard. “Nuclear weapons?”

  “Now there are another eight countries actively seeking to acquire nuclear weapons through the new international black market,” Cyril continued unabated. “They are Brazil, Argentina, North Korea, Iraq, Iran, Egypt, Syria, and Libya. One great concern is that the rising tide of Islamic fundamentalism may fasten upon these weapons as the ultimate terrorist weapon.”

  “What on earth do I have to do with nuclear weapons?”

  “Bear with me,” he replied crisply. “I will get to that soon enough. Three bombs the size of Hiroshima’s would be sufficient to destroy two-thirds of Israel’s entire population. Or imagine a holiday launch boating up the Thames, docking just opposite Westminster, and igniting a small warhead. Think of what such a bomb and the resulting fallout would do to Manhattan, or Washington, or San Francisco. Terrorists would be able to threaten any of our coastal cities with annihilation. For some time we have had unconfirmed evidence.” Cyril then permitted himself a small smile. “As you are new to the game, my dear, I shall interpret that for you.”

  “Some game,” Allison said softly.

  “Yes, well, better than other names I might use. In any case, what we call unconfirmed evidence normally resides somewhere between bizarre gossip and a bald-faced lie. But this time we have been able to substantiate at least some of the rumors. There is now evidence that a second route has opened. Perhaps not for fissionable materials, but rather for engineers. You see, just as worrisome to us as the transport of material is the transport of people.”

  “Know-how,” she interpreted. “Transfer of brain power.”

  “Quite so. In 1994 the West received its first confirmed reports that Iran and Iraq were granting jobs to Soviet nuclear scientists.” Cyril studied the depths of his glass. “It is all so unprecedented, you see. The Soviet Union’s dismantling itself in the space of just a few years. The largest spy network on earth becoming such a laughingstock they couldn’t manage to find their own toes with their shoes off. Terrorists the world over presented with offers to buy fissionable material and hire nuclear scientists as though ordering from Harrods.”

  “I still don’t see where I—”

  “Permit me to come to that in a moment.” With one finger Cyril began tracing a map on the tablecloth. “On the opposite side of the Caspian Sea from Turkmenistan lies an extremely volatile region shared by the Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia. It appears that the Chechen-Ingush region of southern Russia is now being used as a jumping-off place for this modern-day traffic in people. The product is taken overland through the high passes of the Caucasus Mountains and down into Tbilisi, which is the capital of Georgia.”

  “Product,” she repeated. “It sounds inhuman.”

  “Not so inhuman, I would imagine, as calling them the creators of atom bombs. Or the perpetrators of mass destruction.”

  “Where are they headed?”

  “Again we have only rumors to go on,” Cyril replied. “But an increasing amount of evidence suggests that an international smuggling ring, dealing in both fissionable material and nuclear engineers, is operating in Jordan. Jordan is an ally of Iraq, yet at the same time it remains a friend to the West. Quite a feat of political juggling, as you can imagine. Iraq is prohibited by UN sanctions from using its aircraft or from letting foreign flights in or out of the country. Yet Jordan, which borders Iraq, remains open to the outside world. Once the product is there, then further overland transport would be quite feasible.”

  Cyril watched Allison carefully and added, “This group is purported to be located in Aqaba, to be precise.”

  Allison straightened as yet another flood of memories surfaced. “Aqaba! Isn’t that where—”

  “Exactly,” Cyril interjected. “Ben Shannon has kindly agreed to allow us to place someone within his compound. Unfortunately, we made the error of initially assigning him an agent from our embassy in Amman. Let us simply say that they did not get along. He has now taken the liberty of telling us whom he will work with.” The stare intensified. “He is willing to work with us only if you will go in as our agent in the field.”

  3

  Loading the trucks proved to be a dangerous affair, especially after Rogue ignored the guards’ warning.

  They had taken their purchases back to the mission compound later that morning, with Robards driving one canvas-topped truck and Wade the other. The trucks were a pair of discarded army-issue troop carriers, noisy and cantankerous as old camels and much less comfortable. Wade’s seat was covered with a thin strip of padding that had long since been mashed into something resembling plastic-covered concrete. The steering wheel was a giant affair that bucked and trembled and demanded a steel grip. The gears were spaced three feet apart and ground out a wailing protest at each change. Both trucks stood high and top-heavy on bald tires and bad shocks. The windshields were cracked, the paint blistered, the bodies badly rusted. The trucks shook and rocked and creaked and chugged noisily, even when standing still.

  Wade could hardly wait to start their journey.

  The seven men guarding the compound were from the town’s Ossetian population. They were slightly fairer in complexion and lighter of eye than the Chechen, yet displayed the suspicious squint of the southern folk and the same hostility toward all but those fully accepted by the clan.

  The pair on duty barred the way with rifles raised until they spotted Wade, then opened the gate and allowed them through. As Wade stepped from the cab, there was a moment of solemn greetings, a series of nods and respectful words that raised Robards’ eyebrows. Wade answered with his customary embarrassed hesitation.

  Yet as soon as Wade and Robards made preparations to load the wares, the atmosphere turned ugly. Murmurs became angry protests as Robards slid down the loading ramp and fastened the hinges into place. When he helped Wade do the same for the second truck, the volume rose to dangerous levels.

  “What on earth is going on here?” the parson demanded. He scuttled over from the parish office, his cassock raising fitful dust clouds. “Oh, it’s you. Back already?�
��

  “No reason not to go ahead and get the job done,” Robards said easily, dusting his hands on the sides of his trousers and paying the angry guards no mind. “Who’s got the warehouse keys?”

  “It’s the schoolhouse, actually,” Reverend Phillips said, distracted by all the angry shouts and arm waving. “Wade has the keys. What on earth are those guards saying? I can’t make it out when they talk among themselves.”

  Wade selected his words with delicacy. “They don’t like to see the medicines moved.”

  “Stands to reason,” Robards said, giving the sky overhead a careful inspection. “They’re not going to be overjoyed to hear their jobs just took a hike.”

  “But I explicitly told them when they were hired that the work was temporary,” the parson said petulantly.

  “Hearing is one thing and letting go another,” Robards said, and pointed at the northern horizon. “I’m not too pleased with the look of those.”

  Reverend Phillips squinted, searched the heavens, said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”

  Robards dropped his gaze and inspected the guards who were quieting somewhat under his studied calm. Then he pointed toward a gray-bearded elder who stood by the back wall and watched the proceedings with lively eyes. “That the head honcho over there?”

  “Sort of,” Wade replied. “At least the others seem to listen when he speaks. His name is Mikhail.”

  “Ask him what those clouds mean.”

  Wade did so. The elder neither looked upward nor turned away. He replied with one croaked word, which Wade translated as, “Snow.”

  “How long?” Robards demanded.

  There was another exchange, then, “Four, maybe five days.”

  Robards nodded his thanks toward the old man, then asked, “When were they last paid?”

  The parson protested, “I really don’t see—”

  “End of last week,” Wade replied.

  “Tell them anybody who gets in the way won’t be paid for this week,” Robards commanded. “But if they’ll help us load the trucks, each will receive a two-week bonus, cash, when we pull out of here. Tell them our destination is the highlands and we’re racing the clouds.”

  The news of a bonus satisfied all but one burly man with bad teeth and a wandering eye. He gestured threateningly with his rifle, stationing himself between the trucks and the schoolhouse.

  Reverend Phillips said worriedly, “Perhaps it would be best if we went inside and discussed this a bit longer.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Robards agreed, his eyes on the man blocking his way. “You go right ahead, Reverend. We’ll be along directly.”

  The parson took a step, realized no one was following his lead, and stopped.

  The courtyard grew very still. Robards stared at the truculent man, and for a second time Wade saw the casual veneer stripped away. So did the man, and for a moment his resolve weakened. He cursed the other guards for leaving him isolated. Then he swung his rifle around to the ready.

  Robards held out a hand toward Wade without taking his eyes off the resistant guard. “Give me the warehouse keys,” he said quietly.

  The keys danced slightly in Wade’s trembling hand, sounding like little bells in the suddenly still air.

  The guard’s gaze slid away from Robards at the sound, a glance lasting less than half a heartbeat, but it was all Robards needed. He moved so fast that his actions melted into one continuous flow. Suddenly he was standing with the rifle in his hands, and the guard was lying unconscious at his feet.

  The elder laughed a creaking bark and clapped his hands at the feat. Robards tossed him the rifle, which he caught one-handed, as though expecting it all along. Robards said, “Tell the old man he’s welcome to join us if a guide’s pay would interest him.”

  “Truly I could find the passes in fog or blinding snow,” the tribesman replied smoothly, and swept a hand out to include all his clansmen. “Alas, I must see to the well-being of those who rely upon me for bread and hearth.”

  “He’s just upping the price,” Robards said when Wade had translated. “Tell him we’ve got to get these trucks loaded. Then we’ll get down to brass tacks.” He pointed to the clouds gathering among the high peaks and said, “His first duty is to make all these guys understand that we’re racing the wind.”

  Once the loading had begun, Robards had settled himself on one of the trucks and directed traffic, sending his chosen band out on a score of errands and in the process firmly establishing himself as leader. Mikhail had been persuaded to join them as guide. The other guards had been paid off and sent packing, with Mikhail standing next to Robards to back him up. The taxi driver, Anatoly, was summoned and then dispatched again—first to collect Robards’ belongings from the hotel and then to purchase food—before receiving final payment. Wade was sent to set up a rendezvous with the Chechen trader, then to buy maps, and finally to purchase a money belt for all the remaining dollars.

  The parson was loathe to see the Red Cross funds drive off into the hazy distance with a total unknown, but Robards was insistent. If there was trouble, he explained, either for themselves or the ones they were being sent to supply, their only hope of escape might well be a ready fund of valuta, or hard currency. Wade ended the hand-wringing argument by simply walking away from it, the cash strapped to his waist in his newly acquired money belt.

  The caravan passed the blockhouse apartments ringing Grozny just as the sun touched the horizon. As promised, the Chechen trader was waiting for them in an outcrop of trees beyond the only petrol station on that side of the city. They topped up one truck from the fuel cans strapped above the rear wheels. Mikhail took the other truck and all the cans, and waited in line for fuel. Wade acted as translator for Robards and the trader.

  They were still at it when the truck returned with both tank and canisters brimming. The Chechen trader watched with narrowed eyes as the Ossetian elder appeared through the gathering gloom.

  “Ask our Chechen friend if he’s willing to come along as one of our guides,” Robards instructed as he stacked the purchased weapons and clips and waxed bullets.

  His eyes still on the new arrival, the Chechen replied, “Alas, I am unable to depart from my responsibilities, much as I regret the need to decline such an invitation.”

  Robards accepted the news with the barest of nods. His voice purposefully casual, he asked Wade, “You think this is a ploy to up the price?”

  “He sounds pretty definite,” Wade replied. “And he doesn’t appear to like the looks of our companion. The Ossetians are seen as usurpers on ancient Chechen homeland.”

  “Then ask him which in his opinion is the best road for us to take from here to the passes,” Rogue said, motioning for Mikhail to carry the purchased arms back to the trucks.

  “The Georgian Military Highway begins in Vladikavkaz, the Ossetian capital to the southwest,” the trader replied, waving casually toward the night. “The Russian soldiers and the Ingush are fighting there, and the city is no longer a haven of safety for strangers. However, this very road skirts the city and joins with the highway farther south, before the mountains begin.”

  When Wade had finished translating, Robards gave the trader a friendly nod. “Tell him we’re really grateful for the advice, which we’d be foolish not to take. Ask him if we were to drive all night, how far we could get.”

  “Truly,” the Chechen replied, his dark eyes gleaming in the trucks’ headlights, “all such undertakings are in the hands of Allah, especially in such troubled times. But if thy way remains safe, then thou shouldst arrive upon the highway with its guards of Russian soldiers before the sun rises yet again.”

  “Then we’d better get started,” Robards said with great cheer, shaking hands and waving the Chechen off with jolly fanfare before climbing into the truck beside Mikhail. Wade walked back and started the second truck beside the elder. As they started down the road, Robards hooted his horn and waved and shouted another round of thanks to
the silent Chechen.

  Once around the second bend, however, Robards pulled off and stopped. Wade walked up to the lead truck, climbed onto the running board and grabbed hold of the mirror mounting. Through the open window Robards said, “Ask Mikhail here if we can trust the Chechen’s advice.”

  “We can trust him to greet us a second time just as soon as we are far enough removed from Grozny to escape the Russians’ surveillance,” the old man replied, his voice creaking with vehemence. “We can trust him to bring along a vast number of his Chechen thieves, for they are cowards and lower than the dust beneath our feet and will do nothing unless they outnumber honest men by a hundred to one. Then we can trust them to steal everything we carry, and cut our throats and leave our offspring to mourn us in poverty.”

  “Sounds about right to me,” Robards declared. “Ask him if there’s a pass to the east of here.”

  “There are only a few other passes below the level of the eternal snows in all of the great Caucasus range,” he replied firmly, “and they are very distant. There you will find wars as well, and without Russian soldiers to grant a shred of order.”

  “Then we’ll just have to circle around and hope the weather holds,” Robards replied. “Ask him what lies directly east of here.”

  “The territory of the Ingush,” the Ossetian elder replied, “who are as treacherous and cowardly as the cursed Chechen, if not more so. Truly the steppes are a haven for wolves who walk on two legs. But at least the Ingush will not be expecting our passage.”

  “Hope he’s right,” Robards replied. “Nothing on my map but a great big blank. Reminds me of those ocean charts from a couple hundred years ago. Get away from civilization, and they start drawing in dragons and sea monsters.”

  Wade asked, “How far will you have to take us out of our way?”

  Robards restarted his engine, let it roar long and hard, then replied, “Far enough to keep us alive.”