“There is no need,” the elder said, his eyes fixed on the scarred man.
“We have no objections,” Wade replied, “if it will help maintain the peace.”
The scarred man faltered, then motioned for his men to climb aboard.
“My clan will ensure your honesty,” the elder warned. He gestured for several of his own men to move forward and keep watch.
“I thank you,” Wade said solemnly.
“My child is much improved,” the elder replied. “It is a duty for friends to share the road’s burdens.”
Within a few minutes the four men were again gathered at the back of the first truck. The elder demanded, “Did you find what you seek?”
“There was nothing,” the scarred man muttered, his gaze smoldering. He started forward, beckoning for his men to follow, only to be stopped by the elder and his clansmen.
“There is now the unsettled matter,” the elder said, “of payment for the healer’s services.”
Past winters had chewed great hunks from the road, leaving potholes of ominous depth and edges that were ragged and crumbling. The trucks climbed in an unending stream, grinding abused gears and belching streams of black smoke that rose to join the clouds hovering overhead. Razor-edged peaks jutted aggressively to every side.
They had long since left behind the last sign of green. On either side, in place of trees, loomed piles of crushed rock and scrabble, careless waste heaps dropped by departing glaciers. Their brethren glinted gray white and ominous upon neighboring peaks, and watched the passing of men with timeless silence. This was their world, cold and harsh and as forbidding as the load that weighed down the clouds.
Wade spotted Mikhail’s arm emerging from the truck window ahead to point them both into a turnout. They passed two round-shouldered buses disgorging weary streams of passengers. In the distance the River Terek poured a milky white waterfall between two great daggerlike sentinels and down into a chalk-colored pool. The water was almost lost beneath the thundering spume.
Rogue halted his truck beside a battered farm wagon pulled by a muttering tractor. Wade followed his lead and eased in close to the tractor’s other side. He joined the pair at the pool’s edge, and wondered at the calm with which both Mikhail and Robards looked out over the creamy waters.
Mikhail pointed far in the distance toward the two greatest peaks in the Caucasus range, twin edifices that rose and rose and were finally swallowed by the clouds. “Together they are called Elbrus,” he said, “the king and queen of the Caucasus. Five thousand six hundred meters. The highland Balkars lived at the base there since the dawn of time. But they were all shipped to Kazakhstan by the butcher Stalin, may his name be erased. They are now trickling home in twos and threes, with fifty years of bitterness to unleash on those who now occupy their ancestral homes. Today the area belongs to the Kabardino-Balkaria Autonomous Republic and is a part of Russia. For how long, as the Balkar numbers grow once more, is in the hands of fate.”
Wade translated for Robards, who nodded thoughtfully, as though taking it all in. He then turned around and said, “I think that should give them enough time.”
“Who?” Wade demanded. “For what?”
“Let’s hit the road,” he replied. “We’re racing nature today.”
Wade walked to his truck, started the motor, backed out, then drew up to within inches of Robards’ bumper. That way, the highway traffic would be forced to grant them both entry at the same time. Together they shouldered the trucks out into an empty pocket, and Wade rammed his way up through the complaining gears. The endless and ever-changing vista of rocks and ancient ice rose and fell before him as the road clambered up and up and up.
Suddenly the covering that separated the cabin from the back of the truck parted slightly, and a voice almost stopped his heart with, “It appears that you are as good at escapes as you are at healing.”
Wade whirled about and saw it was the Russian who had helped him care for the sick man. He eased back and fought the wheel around yet another hairpin curve. “You made it, then.”
“Yuri Bazarov, at your service,” the man said. “And most certainly in your debt.”
They encamped toward dusk under a sullen sky. Rogue parked them as far from the gathering of tired and dusty transports as the encircling river would allow. There were a few quiet greetings from some of the other travelers, but no more offers to draw nearer and join in the comfort of a larger group. By then their habits were known. They were marked as loners and left in peace.
While Mikhail made their evening meal, Rogue and Wade worked to construct three tunnels in Wade’s truck, walled and roofed by boxes of medicines and floored with the extra bedding. A cramped space was also cleared at the back of the truck, where the trio could gather and sit upright.
The trio of Russians made no protest when Robards suggested they not show themselves, nor even leave the trucks, until well after dark. It was best to expect trouble, Rogue said through Wade, than to have trouble catch them unawares. Yuri spoke for them all when he replied in his rough English that the tunnels were a far better home than the one they had left behind.
After finishing his preparations, Rogue sidled over to where Wade was standing. “Hope you don’t mind if I handle the business end of this setup myself,” he said. “Having more experience in it and all.”
“I’ve already told you,” Wade replied. “I don’t want anything.”
Rogue inspected him. “What’s gotten under your skin?”
“I just wish I knew who they were.”
“Three guys on the lam,” Rogue answered. “Nothing’s changed since we cut them loose except their address.”
Wade looked up. “Do you think they’re criminals?”
“Not any more than anybody forced to try and survive under impossible conditions,” Rogue rejoined. “Bad laws make the best of men crooks in somebody’s eyes.”
Wade turned his attention back to the fire. “I wish I knew that for sure.”
“They’re right over there, Sport. All you’ve got to do is ask,” Rogue said and turned away.
As Robards climbed into the back of the truck, a figure appeared out of the gloom. He wore the tattered yet clean shirt and trousers and mismatched jacket of a man making a formal call. He clutched the brim of a sweat-stained fedora with both hands. A heavy-duty flashlight protruded from one jacket pocket. “Healer,” he called softly. “The blessings of Allah upon you.”
“Peace upon you as well.”
“My wife has been taken ill. She is with child.”
“I am not a doctor,” Wade warned, repeating the familiar litany.
“You are all there is,” the man replied simply.
Wade reached into the back of his truck for his makeshift satchel. “I will be back as soon as I can,” Wade said to a watchful Mikhail. He walked over to where the man was waiting. “Let us go.”
It was over an hour before Wade returned, drained more from his lack of medical knowledge than from giving what little help he could. Wade ate dinner with Mikhail while a soft murmur of voices and the muted clink of dinnerware sounded from the back of one truck.
Wade set his dinner plate aside to find the old man’s gaze resting steadily on him. “The man was Ingush,” Mikhail stated.
“Yes.”
“Ossetian and Chechen you treated at our last stop. And now Ingush. Do you seek to make friends of all the world?”
“I saw only need,” Wade replied simply.
The old man inspected him. “You are a religious man?”
Wade’s fatigue was the greatest truth elixir he had ever known. He shook his head. “I try to be. I wish I were more so.”
“What does this mean?”
“I believe. But God has always seemed distant to me.”
The old man turned his face back to the fire and was silent for a long while before saying quietly, “My people claim to be the oldest on earth, with lines that still run pure. Our elders tell how we are descended from
the Narts, a tribe from before the measure of time, half giant and half human. There are ruins of Nart villages hidden among our secret mountain valleys. These I have not seen, but my father, he walked as I ride by truck. He spoke of these as real, and I carry his stories with me. Now I am old and face the unseen door. And I seek what before I was content to leave in the hands of priests. I, too, find no answers, save one.”
He aimed his gaze back toward Wade. “To seek is in itself a meritorious act. And sometimes the One who is sought speaks when we are not listening. I have watched you as you work your arts of healing, and I have seen a face that knows what I know not. Perhaps you seek what others have found, while all the time the great Lord speaks to you in a different tongue and at a different time.”
Wade offered hesitantly, “The Bible says that he who repents and believes in Christ is saved for all eternity.”
“Yes,” the old man agreed. “So the priest says as well.”
Their conversation was stopped by the sound of Robards calling from the back of the truck. Wade stood and walked over. Rogue said, “We had a little trouble in the beginning, but this guy’s English improves with practice. He’s got a question he wants to ask you.”
There was a silence, then the one called Yuri spoke up in Russian.
“How do we know we can trust this man?” “First, I want to know who you are,” Wade responded, “and what you are running from.”
“We flee an impossible life in a hopeless situation,” Yuri replied vaguely.
“I have a right to know,” Wade insisted stubbornly.
Yuri exchanged glances with the other two and received some form of silent communication, because he turned back and said, “We are all engineers. We have grown tired of working for ten different bosses and being ordered to do work made meaningless. We are weary of being paid with paper which will not buy enough to feed our families.”
A knell sounded deep and ghostly within him. “Where do you go?”
“We have been promised work,” Yuri replied. “Work and enough money to offer our families a life. In the south. That is all we know, and all we know to tell.” He nodded at Wade. “And now I ask my own question. How can we trust this giant of a man to do as he says?”
“He is a stranger to me as well,” Wade replied. “I met him only a week ago and hired him on the advice of an ally to bring me here. He has done as he said, and more. I believe him to be a man of his word.”
The three huddled together to converse among themselves. Then Yuri questioned, “And he will take us where we wish to go?”
As Wade translated, Rogue slid easily from the truck and arched his back. “That’s enough talk for one night. We got you gents out, and we brought you here. Seems to me that’s about the best answer you could find. As to taking you where you want to go, I’ll cart you to the gates of Hades itself, long as I don’t have to follow you inside.” Rogue inspected the darkness, then added, “Looks safe for you three to come on out and stretch your legs.”
Yuri and the man who had been sick slid from the truck and followed Rogue out into the surrounding shadows. The third man, the one who had never spoken, walked around to the far side of the fire and sat looking out over the rushing waters. The cloud blanketed all heavenly illumination, leaving only the faintest of ghostly lights to show where the river was. The water’s muted roar was a constant call, spoken in the language of the mountains, a tongue held forever secret from the minds and hearts of man.
Wade skirted the fire and squatted down beside the loner. “May I ask your name?”
There was a pause, then, “Ilya.”
“You were a prisoner?”
Hard eyes turned his way. “Why do you say this?”
Wade pointed a hesitant finger. “Your hair. And you’ve lost a lot of weight. Your head looks shrunken around your eyes.”
A smirk showed through the shadows. “You are observant. Too observant, perhaps, for your own good.”
Wade did not know what to say, so he squatted there in silence. His knees hurt to remain in that position, but something told him it was best not to move just then.
“I was convicted of the crime of trying to leave a country that did not want me in the first place.” The man’s tone was mild, almost conversational. “I was a technician at one of the military air compounds. A civilian. When Estonia became independent, Russians like myself suddenly became lepers. My wife could not go alone into the marketplace. Nobody would sell her anything. Passersby would spit upon her and my children. They held elections, and said that because we were Russian we could not vote. No matter that I had been born in Estonia. And my wife. And our children. No matter that I had no other home. We were aliens, and it was only a matter of time before we would be kicked out. So we decided to leave for the West. But when we arrived at the Finnish border, the guards took one look at my documents and sent me to prison.”
Wade eased himself down, then ventured quietly, “Because you were a nuclear engineer trained to work on nuclear bombs carried by the Russian fighter aircraft stationed there.”
“Too observant,” the man repeated quietly.
“I have heard the stories,” Wade persisted, “of how Arab states are offering great wealth to attract nuclear engineers. And how Russia and some of the other states have responded by making it illegal for their nuclear technicians to leave the country.”
There was a long silence, then, “They took me to Patarei, an old czarist fortress on the outskirts of the capital, Tallinn. For three weeks I was kept in a cage too small for me to even stand up. They fed me slops from a bucket. There was no light, no blanket, a wooden plank for my only furniture. Then I was transferred to a cell with two others, a teenager jailed for three years for stealing twenty rubles and another lad sentenced to two years for stealing a tire. We were let out for fifteen minutes each day. We could walk around a yard with a thousand other men. They played rock music in the yard to keep us from talking. The music was so loud it left my head ringing all the rest of the day.”
He fished a cigarette from his pocket. The lighter’s flame illuminated haunted eyes. “My wife made a tremendous fuss with the military commander, and he brought my case up before the local tribunal. Finally I was released. Three nights later we escaped into Russia. The Estonian border guards were only too glad to see the backs of one more Russian family. Our papers weren’t even checked.”
“And now you will go build bombs for the Arab terrorists,” Wade said quietly. “And create more suffering for more people.”
The Russian pulled hard on his cigarette, sucking his cheeks into hollow caverns. “Tonight my wife and children sleep in a refugee camp in Austria. The same is true for my two friends. We go to where we can make for them a home.”
“And what of all the homes your work will destroy? What of the world your children will inherit?” Wade kept his voice quiet, insistent. “You no longer even have patriotism to justify your actions.”
“Go away, little man,” he said, tossing his cigarette into the fire. “Your questions I do not need.”
Wade stood, turned around, and caught sight of Robards’ gleaming eyes watching him from across the camp.
The night closed in upon them with a mist so heavy it was almost solid. Every open surface was swiftly drenched. The air was bitter with a wet cold that seeped to the bones. The river’s muted roar and the call of other watchmen who could no longer see one another were the only sounds that pierced the stillness. Wade took the first watch, and every few minutes emerged from the cabin’s relative dryness to circle the trucks. He was careful to stay close enough to keep touch with the cold metal. His flashlight’s beam showed nothing except an impenetrable white wall.
The mist isolated him, for some reason making him think of home. It was a past so distant from that particular place and time that it felt as though it belonged to another person. Wade smiled to himself and knew it was both true and not true. He was different, and yet somehow the same. He carried his thoughts with him
into his bedroll and allowed the voices of his mind and heart to lull him to sleep.
While blackness still reigned, Wade shot awake to the sound of hammering and shouting. He clambered down from the back of the truck just as Robards bolted over the neighboring tailgate, a flashlight in one hand and gun in the other. “What the blazes?”
They came around front to find the man whose wife Wade had treated the night before beating on the hood with the butt of his automatic rifle while Mikhail watched over him, gun at the ready. “There is little time,” the man said. “I saw no movement about your trucks, and my wife said I should come.”
Wade was still foggy with sleep. “Time for what?”
“The air begins to freeze,” the man replied. “Death stalks above.”
“Look!” Robards said. The beam of his flashlight reflected on tiny pinpoints of white. Frozen ice motes began to dust the windshield. “This what he’s talking about?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him whatever debt he owed us has just been wiped from the books,” Robards said, opening his door and swinging inside. “Let’s move out!”
Wade turned back to the stranger. “My friend says—”
The man hefted his gun to stop Wade. “May Allah bless your way with safety, healer. Until our next meeting, farewell!” He turned and vanished into the night.
“Get that truck started!” Rogue yelled over the roar of his own motor.
Yuri’s head protruded from the canvas curtain as Wade clambered aboard. “What is it?”
Wade stamped on the starter pedal, pumped the gas and nursed the choke as the motor faltered, caught, and held. The engine bellowed, eased, roared again. Wade slammed the gears home as Rogue’s truck started forward. Then he shouted back over his shoulder, “Snow!”
10
Ali showed up just as Allison was opening her office door to begin another day. “So very nice to see you another time, Western Lady. You are sleeping good?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
Riders of the Pale Horse Page 12
