by Kaylea Cross
Lack of fear? Or that flicker of contempt in his deceptively youthful face?
He did not trust those blue eyes. Only lies would come out of this man’s mouth.
“What do you want? Why have you captured us? The Soviet Union has no jurisdiction here.” The man spoke first in English, then repeated his words in perfect Russian. Even the accent was excellent.
“I commend you on your language skills, comrade.” He examined one of the leaflets that had been stuffed in the man’s pocket. “You speak Arabic too, I see?” He shook his head at the foolishness of the anti-Soviet propaganda. “Pity most of the people in this region cannot read.”
The other foreigner was younger, his face softer—too soft to be involved in such worldly machinations. He was the weaker of the two. He was the one to break.
“Where are you from? What are you doing here?” Dmitri addressed the dark-haired man with the scared brown eyes.
“We’re explorers. We were going to climb Mount Noshaq but you just shot our guide.” There was enough righteous condemnation in his voice to be convincing, but Dmitri wasn’t fooled. Amateurs. The world was full of amateurs.
“His own fault.” Dmitri spread his fingers and shrugged. “He should not have run.” The warning was clear.
The dark-haired man choked out an affronted breath and started to bluster.
“Say nothing, Sebastian.” The blond cherub ordered.
Dmitri smashed the butt of his rifle into his face. The man screamed and rolled in the dirt, blood dripping from his nose into the dust.
Dmitri ignored him and concentrated on the dark-haired man, Sebastian. “Do you work for the Americans?” No reaction, “The British?” He found his answer in a flash of the man’s pupils. He paced. “So once again the Wakhan Corridor hosts the Great Game.” He sighed and tossed the crumpled leaflet at the man, whose eyes were now huge with fear and uncertainty. The other man lay on the ground, blood smeared across his upper lip.
Dmitri narrowed his gaze. He was a dangerous man, no doubt. But Dmitri was also a dangerous man with the might of the USSR backing him. “Take photographs of everything, then burn the leaflets,” he ordered his soldiers, who immediately started unloading the sacks from the camels.
One of his soldiers took their photographs, and the blond man boiled with emotion palpable even in the bitter silence.
“What should we do with the guides?” The starshiná asked.
Dmitri saw bloodlust in his men’s eyes but he was clear on the rules of engagement. “Let them go, and let them take their animals.”
“No!” the blond man shouted as if he was in charge of this operation. Mudak.
Dmitri went to kick the worm again but the man’s pathetic cowering made him spit on him in disgust. The sound of a rifle being cocked split the air.
“Shall I finish him, Kapitán?”
Spies were subject to different rules than civilians and soldiers.
“We only need one alive,” the lieutenant reminded him.
One to break and find out what else the British imperialists were plotting. He watched the unease build on the blond man’s face and felt a moment of pleasure that he’d unsettled him.
The dark-haired man stuttered, “You can’t just shoot us. You’ll start a full-scale war.”
“You and your US allies are the ones inciting war.” And the USSR was being drawn in despite itself. A mistake in his opinion, but no one had wanted to listen to him. Dmitri crouched beside the weaker man. “Your masters will never admit they know who you are, let alone claim you. No one will care when you die.”
“We are mountaineers—”
“Your family will never know where your body lies.” Dmitri pulled his Stechkin APB out of the holster and checked the chamber. He pointed it at the blond man. Smiled. “Tell me you’re a British spy.”
“You’ll shoot me anyway.” The blond man sneered, but his eyes flared as Dmitri began squeezing the trigger. “Stop! I need to talk to you in private.”
Dmitri laughed. “The time for privacy expired.”
“Ya russki agent!”
Dmitri froze and the brown-haired man spluttered, “What the hell are you telling them that for. Now they’ll just shoot me.”
“Shut your stupid fucking mouth, Sebastian.”
Dmitri stood and narrowed his eyes. “Tell me your code name and handler.” Patriotism demanded he check the man’s story, but Dmitri was looking forward to personally taking care of the arrogant little shit when the GRU denied ever hearing of him.
* * *
Axelle dragged herself from her sleeping bag in the main yurt and lit the burner for tea. She was wearing the same clothes she’d worn yesterday and was pretty sure she stank worse than the resident yak. Personal hygiene would have to wait. Normally she slept in one of the smaller structures, but because of their late arrival last night and their need to bottle-feed the cubs she hadn’t bothered to seek her own bed. She’d simply laid her sleeping bag on the floor and closed her eyes. Josef lay, open-mouthed, snoring. Anji hugged a pallet in the corner, curled protectively close to the cubs who, thankfully, were still sleeping. They’d fed them once in the night, all three of them being woken by the insistent cries of the helpless creatures. If that was any indication about having a baby, no wonder her mother had stopped at one.
Thoughts of her mother came out of nowhere and she blocked them fast.
She made tea for everyone and thought about checking her email but didn’t want to receive orders she couldn’t follow—like leaving the collars in place until they had a better understanding of the situation. Because if they lost one more leopard she didn’t think she could live with herself.
She downloaded the latest positional data from the satellites and made notes about GPS coordinates. They had eight animals to try to capture. Eight of the most elusive cats in the world, who’d all been caught before, and were all pretty savvy about not being caught again. She went over to the gun rack and, soundlessly as possible, started mixing the drugs and packing the tranquilizer darts and antidote, assembling the kit they’d need, along with daypacks full of water bottles and food.
She made two feeds of milk for the cubs and left them on the food counter. Then she shook Josef awake and bade him to silence with a finger across her lips and a glance at the still sleeping trio. He nodded, slipped on his boots, grabbed his pack and the tranquilizer gun and followed her into the silence of the morning. It was cold and they both pulled fleeces tighter around their torsos to keep out the breeze as they sipped warm tea from thermoses. She went to the equipment tent and took out the heavy cable traps and spring mechanisms. She heaved four over her shoulder, nearly sinking beneath the weight. She also grabbed a hammer. Josef picked up the other six snares and the shovel, and they carried them over to where the animals were corralled. They had a dirt bike but no way could they carry everything they needed on that machine. Josef hated horseback riding but they had too much ground to cover and too much at stake for him to balk.
She saddled two horses while Josef packed the equipment onto the back of the yak.
“Ready?” she asked.
Josef nodded, and they both mounted up.
An hour later, Axelle dragged the reluctant bovine to one of their most successful trapping sites—an area that intersected the home range of two collared males. The foothills were drenched in sepia tones, while the Hindu Kush stabbed into a veil of dreary cloud that matched the sullen rock.
Usually it took hours to set each snare but they didn’t have hours. Her heart beat like a countdown to disaster and every inhalation hurt. At more than nine thousand feet, the dilute air didn’t help.
“We’ll use previous trap sites.” That would save time digging fresh holes in half-frozen earth and also from having to choose new locations. The disadvantage was the cats might not be dumb enough to fall for the same trick twice.
They approached the first site as the sun conquered the jagged rim of the mountains. Gold and pink bathed the s
nowcapped peaks and began to burn off the cloud, but neither she nor Josef had time to give the spectacular view more than a cursory glance. She checked the ground and found fresh scrape markings along the canyon floor.
“Looks like they’re still using this area.” Which confirmed what the collar data told them. They tethered the horses and mule, then she dropped to her knees and started clearing loose gravel out of the pit where they’d previously set the snare. She worked frantically, smashing the stones with a small spade, Josef arranging the spring to attach to the snare that would hold the leopard in place. Satisfied her hole was big enough, she set the loop over a piece of plastic sheeting, disguising the metal with a thin layer of dirt. They checked the snare mechanism—it worked. Finally she set up the radio transmitter, which would send out a signal when the snare was sprung.
Her heart pounded from exertion, and her lungs heaved. It had taken less than an hour to complete but they needed to work faster.
“Let’s set another snare in Sven’s zone.” The neighboring male’s territory abutted this one.
They followed the edge of the escarpment a mile north, eating lunch on horseback, without talking, without rest. Axelle’s throat was raw from the effort of subduing the emotion rioting inside her. The unseen threat of a bullet in the back made her feel paranoid and small. She straightened her spine and forged onward. There was no alternative and only the leopards mattered.
By midafternoon the sun blazed down and the wind burned her cheeks.
There was a sense of loss and abandonment to the foothills. The only living things they’d encountered thus far were sage bushes and birds. By 6:00 p.m., they’d ridden twenty miles in a rough circle around base camp and set eight traps. It was a record-breaking achievement but hard to celebrate. They had two snares left and both she and Josef were exhausted. They headed into a short bottleneck canyon along a narrow stream that was in full spate from the glacier melt under the afternoon sun. The sense of being watched intensified, and the hair on her arms rose. She glanced up and froze.
A snow leopard with fierce gray eyes sat sphinx-like on an overhang above them. Axelle recognized him from the yellow tags in both ears. It was the cat they’d named Samson—a large male with blood staining his jaw as he guarded the dead markhor at his side. He was the dominant male in the area, 120 pounds of sublime feline, and though snow leopards didn’t attack humans, he was aggressive when cornered.
Axelle’s horse snorted and danced sideways beneath her.
“Keep going,” she urged Josef while kicking her horse past the watchful eyes of the cat.
“He’ll never step in a trap if he sees us setting it,” Josef protested.
They rounded a corner and she pulled the yak alongside her horse and grabbed the tranquilizer gun from the pack. She loaded a dart and swung her leg over the front of the mare’s neck and jumped down.
“You can’t dart him without him being snared.” Josef grabbed her arm. “Axelle, the Trust will dismiss you on the spot if they find out.”
She pulled away from him. “He’s here. Now. By the time we see him again—if we see him again—that poacher could have already skinned the hide from his back.” Her voice shook and she tried to calm herself. Getting overemotional solved nothing. She’d learned that as a skinny little brat buried under a pile of rubble. “I’ll make sure your Ph.D. position isn’t jeopardized. You won’t be held responsible for anything I do.” She swallowed dirt and grit and something that felt suspiciously like tears. “And if they fire me? So what? I’ll find you a new supervisor. A better one.” Even though this job was the only thing that mattered in her life.
“There isn’t a better supervisor.” Josef’s jaw clenched. “I’m not worried about my Ph.D.”
“Well you should be.” Her eyes scanned the western horizon. “The sun’s going down. We need to hurry.” She started climbing to get above the cat. “Tie the animals and be ready to give chase with blankets and the antidote.” The leopards tended to head for high ground when scared, but she needed Samson to go down, away from the steep precipices and bone-breaking falls.
She climbed swiftly into position. The cat hadn’t moved. He eyed Josef, who he perceived as the bigger threat, and protected his kill. She took aim and hesitated, knowing she was breaking the exact protocol she’d helped instigate, but couldn’t think of a single viable alternative.
What if she released the collars and it turned out this was a short-term glitch with the data? She’d be screwed.
Anji had gone searching for Sheba’s collar today but she hadn’t heard from him and she didn’t have time to call him now. What if they were wrong about the poacher?
What if they were right? Was taking a chance worth the life of this leopard?
Dammit.
She shook off the paralyzing indecision, took aim and breathed out. Then she squeezed the trigger. The dart hit Samson square in the flank and he swung around to face her with a snarling hiss. She stood and waved the rifle over her head, making herself big and tall and scary. Hell, scary didn’t begin to describe how she was feeling right now. The cat’s upper lip drew back over gleaming teeth and he advanced a step. She growled right back at him, and he whirled and leapt straight over the edge of the cliff.
Axelle scrambled down the rocks, slipping and skidding, trying to hold the rifle high so it didn’t get damaged. She hopped to the floor of the canyon, raced around the corner to find the cat and Josef in a face-off, and now she was blocking the cat’s escape route. The cat froze. The horses jerked on their reins, eyes rolling, hooves stamping, stirring the dust as they smelled the predator. Quickly, she loaded another dart.
“Hurry. Up,” Josef ground out as the cat advanced a pace toward him.
She aimed just as the leopard tensed to spring. The shot echoed around the canyon and immediately Samson started to stagger.
It only took a moment for him to go completely under the influence of the tranquilizer. She grabbed a sleeping bag to cover him because the drugs lowered heart rate and could lead to hypothermia, especially as the sun slipped ever lower in the sky. She wrapped him gently as Josef popped the collar. It took a few seconds. She stroked the animal’s luxurious thick fur and absorbed his warmth as she felt his pulse. They should be collecting samples and doing weights and measurements, but she didn’t have the heart until she knew all her cats were safe.
“Let’s move the horses out of the canyon and give him the antidote.” It was almost dark and they needed to get back to camp.
Josef sat back on his heels. Worry crinkled his craggy brow. “I hate this.”
He wasn’t talking about losing data.
Emotions scrambled around her chest and wouldn’t settle no matter how deeply she sucked in air. “I hate it, too.” The lump grew in her throat until she couldn’t speak.
She hadn’t cried since her husband died, over a decade ago, and she wasn’t about to start now. Ignoring the unexpected wash of black emotions, she helped Josef move the horses. Then she stood back as one of the most beautiful creatures on earth woke to a better chance of survival.
* * *
Jonathon Boyle ignored the sweat that dampened his armpits as he sat outside the prime minister’s office. The atmosphere in Number 10 was stuffy in the extreme. The weather outside was a record high for May but nary a window was cracked in the hopes of snagging a breeze. The new leader of the British people seemed to have an unhealthy aversion to fresh air.
The door opened and his eyes widened a fraction as his gaze met that of Franklin Dehn, the U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. Despite their connection by marriage, the man walked past him without a word and Jonathon allowed himself a moment of quiet loathing. Even in the grips of intense heat the other man was a cold fish. Nothing fazed the American. God knew, Jonathon had tried.
The PM’s secretary stood in the doorway, ushering him inside with a clawed hand and impatient twist of her lips. Scrawny old bat. He picked up his jacket and briefcase from the plush burgund
y chair and went to greet the new British PM.
“Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Prime Minister.” He held out his hand.
“I think we can dispense with the formalities, considering how long we’ve known each other, Jonathon.” David Allworth shook his hand as if he were pumping iron and waved him to a hardback chair. “I don’t have much time”—he checked his watch—“but I suppose you’re here because of the rumor that Dmitri Volkov surfaced again after all these years?”
Jonathon folded his hands one over the other. An effeminate gesture he’d cultivated years ago that served him well. Despite having had a wife and child, people believed he was homosexual, and he used the misconception to his advantage. Women certainly seemed to like it. Maybe it made them feel safe.
“I know it is none of my business. Although the man did try to bomb the British embassy in Sana’a, with me in it. That does tend to make it rather personal.”
The clock ticked on the mantel. How many prime ministers had that clock marked time for? At least three that he knew of.
“I doubt you were the intended target in Yemen.” A smile accompanied the soft laugh.
Which proved exactly how little the man knew about the world of espionage and counter-espionage. And that, Jonathon figured with an imaginary shrug, was the whole point of being good at keeping secrets.
“Of course not.” He waved the notion away. “I’m hardly important enough to warrant my own bomb.” That bomb had pissed him off. He hadn’t expected it and it was the second time the Russian had got the best of him. “But I don’t understand why they think the man has surfaced now, after all these years. He’s supposed to be dead…” It was a risk coming here for information, showing an interest, but espionage was all about playing the odds.
“He probably is dead,” Allworth told him with a patronizing little smile. “It was just a rumor that he was seen in Pakistan. I sent someone to check it out anyway.”
