Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  Quinn drove, grateful for the relative warmth of Beaudine’s body clamped around his back as they bounced over the frozen tundra. As uncomfortable as it was, the freezing ground made for much easier going and cut the chances of getting bogged down. He intersected the trail to Ambler less than ten minutes from the time they fixed their oil line. It was easy to follow since both Volodin and Zolner’s machines had passed over the mushy ground before it began to freeze. They left behind great tracks of now crystalizing mud, like a dotted line through the snow.

  “You think he’s still out there?” Beaudine said, arms tight around his waist.

  “Zolner?” Quinn said. “I’m sure of it.”

  He took the Arctic Cat northeast on a meandering route over hummocks of willow and berry bush, bitten red by frost and bent with snow. The Kobuk River was somewhere to their south, blocked from view by thick pockets of spruce- and scrub-covered hills.

  “He ran off and left his gun though,” she said. “That’s a good sign.”

  “Maybe,” Quinn said, eyeing the wide-open tundra around them. Zolner had a duffle on the back of his ATV, and he didn’t seem like the kind of man to carry a single weapon. He was still a threat that would eventually need to be dealt with.

  They crossed a myriad of braided streams that tumbled down from the Kobuk Mountains to the north. Most were shallow with water gurgling under silver edges of ice that crept out from the banks. Two of the streams proved deep enough to splash over their ankles, soaking their socks and driving the aching cold deeper into their bones. With no time to stop and build a fire—and nothing to burn anyway—they pushed on, hoping Ambler, and the case of poison gas, lay within their reach.

  After an hour of bone-jarring riding, the trail turned abruptly east. The willow bushes became thicker and spruce trees began to appear with more regularity. Open tundra finally gave up to thick forest as they arced gradually southward toward the river. The ruts grew deeper and side trails from other ATVs began to crisscross the main route, disappearing into the trees. The dense forest made for chilly shadows but provided welcome relief from the glare of sun on snow. Quinn rode past four deserted cabins. His body craved the warmth of shelter, dry clothes, and a fire, but he kept his thumb on the throttle. Volodin was close—and if he was close, so was the gas. The thought of Zolner waiting somewhere in the shadows was a constant worry and kept Quinn’s mind off the cold.

  It was late afternoon when they rode past a pair of ravens pecking at an old diaper in the Ambler landfill.

  “This is where it gets dicey,” Quinn said, his head on a swivel.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Beaudine said, through chattering teeth, her cheek pressed against his neck for warmth.

  “The town dump,” Quinn said. “Keep your eyes open. Zolner has to know we’re following him.”

  “Gotcha,” Beaudine said. She pointed through the trees toward a low hill to the east. “Looks like the top of a cell tower.”

  A rush of hope surged through Quinn’s body, like a glimpse of the finish at the end of a grueling race. Reality tamped back the elation. Survival was now slightly more probable, but they were a long way from the tape.

  * * *

  “Palmer,” the President’s national security advisor said when he picked up.

  “It’s me, sir,” Quinn said, giving the specific and pertinent details first. In written briefs and oral situation reports, Winfield Palmer was not a man for small talk. He preferred a BLUF—Bottom Line Up Front type of report. The niceties could come later if there was time. There never was. Quinn spoke as he rode, coming into town from the northwest. He stayed right at the angled T intersection to head into the village of Ambler. A left would have taken him to the gravel airstrip.

  Spattered with mud from head to foot and shivering to the point of convulsions, they drew stares and giggles from a gang of runny-nosed school children riding their bikes over a homemade jump in the snow. Quinn smiled and waved as he began to brief Palmer.

  “We need fast air transport out of Ambler ASAP. Volodin and his daughter are ahead of us but we’re not sure—”

  “But you’re okay?” Palmer interrupted him, giving an audible sigh of relief. The display of uncharacteristic emotion made Quinn grin despite the cold.

  “We are both in working order, sir,” Quinn said, leaving out information about Lovita’s death until his final report.

  “What the hell happened out there?” Palmer said. “You’ve been out of commo for a day and a half. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re in the middle of a shit-nado. I am in dire need of decent intel if you have any to spare.”

  And, he’s back, Quinn thought, recognizing the brash Winfield Palmer he knew and loved.

  Quinn brought the national security advisor up to speed as fast as he could, using a considerable amount of energy to keep his cold-soaked brain in focus. For all he knew, it was all babble and Palmer was preparing to have him committed for mental observation.

  He kept an eye out for any sign of Zolner or Volodin as he rode. He’d not gotten a good look at either, but suspected they would stand out as much as he and Beaudine did in a village of just over two hundred Inupiaq natives.

  “I’ll call you back as soon as I know more, sir,” Quinn said. “I need to hunt up the local tribal or village police officer first.”

  “Very well,” Palmer said. “I’ll contact Special Agent Beaudine’s supervisor so we can de-conflict and task the Bureau folks in Anchorage.”

  Quinn was glad to hear that the call to align different agencies and resources would come from Palmer’s office. Moving assets in the Bureau could be like trying to turn the Queen Mary at full steam. It could be done, but not quickly.

  “And the ride out of Ambler?” Quinn pressed.

  “It may not be pretty,” Palmer said. “But I’ll get you something.”

  Quinn dropped the phone in his jacket pocket and pulled over beside two blond women walking up the road in front of a long beige building that had to be the school. One of the women looked like she could be the other one’s aunt. Both were white and each wore the same type of insulated XTRATUF rubber boots. Neither looked native to Ambler.

  “Hello,” Quinn said, bringing the Arctic Cat to a stop and killing the engine. “Have you seen an older Russian man with a young blonde woman? They would have come into town in the last two hours or so.”

  Both women shook their heads.

  “We just came from the school,” the younger one said. She was pretty, round faced, and looked like many of the first-year bush teachers Quinn had met, exhausted but brimming with innocent hope.

  Quinn nodded. “Is there a TPO or VPO in town?”

  Some villages had Village Public Safety Officers trained by the state, others opted for a Village Police Officer or Tribal Police Officer over which they had a little more control. Good, hard working folks for the most part, TPOs and VPOs didn’t have as stringent a background requirement and might very well be an eighteen-year-old kid—armed with nothing but a Taser and their wits.

  “Hon,” the older of the two women said. Quinn guessed she was in her mid forties and from somewhere in the south. “You need the health clinic, not the VPO.” The longer she looked at Beaudine, the more her face pulled back in horror.

  Quinn turned to check Beaudine and realized he’d become accustomed to seeing her with a black eye and what she’d started calling his “Frankenstein Treatment.” He doubted he looked much better. They were both covered in tundra muck, oil, and blood.

  “We were in a plane crash,” he said honestly. “Other side of Needle.”

  “FBI.” Beaudine gave the women a wink with her good eye. “If you do run into the Russian man, don’t approach him, okay? Just find us.”

  “Is he dangerous?” the older teacher said.

  “He is,” Beaudine said. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s really important that we find a woman named Polina. Know her?”

  “Everybody knows everybody in this town,” the y
ounger of the two women said. “Polina’s married to our shop teacher.”

  “They live in a little yellow house over by L.J.’s store,” the older teacher said. “He’s still coaching basketball, but she should be at home.” She waved at a young Native man approaching from the opposite direction on a red Honda ATV. His broad smile was framed with wispy chin whiskers, and he wore a dark gray uniform shirt that was easily three sizes to big.

  “Hey, Lois,” the young man said. “What’s up?”

  Lois introduced him as Clarence, one of her former students before becoming the Village Police Officer. From his youthful face, Quinn figured it hadn’t been that long ago.

  “Clarence,” Lois said. “These guys are with the FBI. They need to talk to Polina.”

  Clarence’s brown eyes flew wide. “FBI? No shit?” He grimaced. “Sorry about the language, Miss Lois.”

  Beaudine nodded.

  “We don’t get many FBI guys all the way out here,” the VPO said, passive and absent any guile. “What happened to your face?”

  “Plane crash,” Quinn said again. He knew it wouldn’t be the last time they had to explain.

  “How about you?” Beaudine said to the VPO. “Have you seen a older Russian man with a young woman in the last couple of hours.”

  “I heard some guys at the fuel depot talking about a goofy Russian,” Clarence said. “I never seen him though. Maybe he caught a flight out. We’ve had a couple of planes come and go today.”

  “How many?” Quinn asked, shooting a glance at Beaudine.

  “Three,” Clarence said. “One to Anchorage, one to Fairbanks, and another that flies the downriver milk-run to Kotzebue. You want me to take you to the fuel depot? Irving Briggs is the one who was talkin’ about the Russian. You can ask him.”

  Quinn mulled over the idea of Volodin already being on a flight out with the gas. “I think we’d better start with Polina.”

  Beaudine nodded in agreement.

  “I’ll show you her house,” Clarence said, preparing to make a U-turn on his ATV. “But I ain’t goin’ in. Polina yells too much.”

  Chapter 58

  Homes in the Arctic were not simply weatherworn—they were weather-beaten, weather-savaged. Polina’s sad frame house sat well back from the gravel street, tucked well back in the willows. The scrubby trees did little to protect the paint job from driving winds, and anything that had once been yellow was now bleached and sickly tan.

  Quinn considered having Clarence watch the back door in case Volodin or Zolner happened to be inside and tried to duck out. In the end, he decided against it for exactly the same reason. The Village Police Officer seemed like a great kid, but he was young, inexperienced, and unarmed—no match for the likes of Zolner or anyone else who put up much of a fight. Quinn gave the VPO his cell number and asked him to go and check with the local air-service agent to see if Volodin or Zolner had caught one of the flights out. In truth, it was probably better to have the kid out of the way.

  Quinn removed the bolt from the Lapua and shoved it in his jacket, not wanting to leave the rifle unattended with all the roving kids on bikes—or an enemy who happened to come up behind him. A weapon like the .338 in the hands of Zolner would prove disastrous.

  There were several sets of tracks leading to and from the front door of Polina’s little yellow house, some from different adults, some from kids.

  “I got blood,” Beaudine said, AR-10 in hand. She nodded to a trail of bright red droplets, stark against the white snow.

  Quinn saw something else in the snow and scanned ahead looking on either side of the house, Kimber out and at his side.

  “Caribou,” he said, nodding to a pile of rib bones.

  Beaudine gave an audible sigh of relief. “Good,” she said. “I guess.”

  A dog that looked like a cross between a Corgi and a German shepherd trotted out from under the steps on the stubby legs common to village mutts with generations of inbreeding. Quinn dropped it a piece of salmon skin he had in his pocket and moved through the willows toward the house.

  Beaudine kept her distance, moving so she could see Quinn as well as behind the house. Quinn was about to knock on the front door when a woman backed out onto the slanting plywood porch, facing the door as if to lock it as she left. She had the bronze skin of an Inupiaq. The rich purple fabric of her Native kuspuk was pulled tight from her pregnancy.

  “Whatcha doin’?” the woman asked when she turned around, eyeing the Kimber in Quinn’s hand. She was not so much intimidated by the gun as she was put out that he had it pointed toward her.

  “Police,” Quinn said. “We need to talk to Polina.”

  The woman gave a heavy sigh. “That’s me,” she said.

  Beaudine moved up quickly at the appearance of the pregnant woman. “Is Kaija here?”

  “Kaija?” The young woman held her belly when she laughed. “Kaija’s in Russia.”

  “Nice try,” Beaudine said. “We followed her into town.”

  “Well, look for yourself,” Polina said. “She’s not here. Whatever you do, I gotta sit down. My back hurts.”

  Quinn checked the bathroom and the two small bedrooms as soon as he walked in and found nothing but piles of clothes on top of old mattresses laid out on the linoleum floor.

  Polina lowered herself onto the tattered orange couch and told them her story. According to Polina, her mother was Siberian Chukchi, Native cousins to Alaska’s Arctic people. Her father had been a Russian schoolteacher who immigrated to the United States when Polina was still young. She’d known Kaija in grade school, and the two had hooked up again recently over the Internet via ICQ.

  “But you haven’t seen her?” Quinn asked, fighting the urge to sleep brought on by the enveloping heat of Polina’s oil stove. He kept his mind awake and busy studying the girl’s face for the micro-expressions that would tell him if she was lying. Her almost constant swaying movement and apparent discomfort from her pregnancy made reading her all the more difficult.

  “She sends me packages sometimes,” Polina said. “To the lodge where I work. But I haven’t seen her.”

  “Why doesn’t she just send them here?” Beaudine asked from a wooden chair from the nearby dinette. Quinn could see from her heavy eyes that the warm confines were getting to her as well.

  “My husband gets jealous of Russian friends,” Polina said. “He’s a teacher at the school.”

  She had an answer for everything. It was either a well-rehearsed lie or the simple truth. Quinn had yet to make up his mind.

  “You have no idea where she’s going?” he said.

  “Sorry,” Polina said, stuffing a hand between her lower back and the couch.

  “It would be better if you kept your hands were we could see them,” Quinn said.

  Polina pulled her hand back but she said nothing.

  Beaudine moved forward to the edge of her seat. “We’re going to need—”

  Prone to the jerkiness of the completely exhausted, both she and Quinn jumped when his cellphone rang in his jacket pocket.

  Quinn answered the call.

  “Is this that FBI guy?” a tentative voice asked. It was Clarence, the VPO.

  “Go ahead,” Quinn said.

  “I got someone here you’re gonna want to talk to,” Clarence said.

  Quinn shook his head to focus. “We’ll be down there in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, bye,” Clarence said.

  “Hang on,” Quinn said before the VPO could hang up. “Who is it that we’ll want to talk to?”

  “Tell me your name again?” Clarence asked the person he was with. His voice muffled as if his hand covered the phone. “Okay, I got it,” he said when he came back on the line. “He says his name is Kostya Volodin.”

  Chapter 59

  Chinatown, Manhattan, New York

  August Bowen tipped his rickety wooden chair against the wall of the Golden Dragon Chinese restaurant and took a sip of his bubble tea. Outside, East Broadway seemed to overflow
with a flood of wide-eyed tourists. A gaggle of a half-dozen blue-haired women in matching sweaters stopped under the glare of the evening streetlights to peer in through a large picture window at the split pig’s head and smoked duck carcasses hanging on metal hooks. Bowen was pretty sure two teenagers were buying heroin from a tout selling knockoff designer purses right outside the door.

  Ronnie Garcia sat across the table chasing a pot sticker around her plate with a pair of bamboo chopsticks. Thibodaux looked up over a steaming bowl of noodles, his visible eye blinking as if in deep thought. None of the three were the type to sit with their back to the door so they crowded in at the wooden table, yielding the actual “gunfighter seat”—the chair with its back to the wall—to Bowen since he was the only bona fide lawman of the group.

  “You know you’re not fightin’, right?” Thibodaux said at length, pointing at Bowen with his chopsticks.

  “What do you mean?” Bowen said.

  “I mean tapioca bubble tea ain’t a meal,” Thibodaux said. “It’s a damned dessert. Since you’re not actually gettin’ in the ring it’s okay for you to eat real food.”

  “I guess,” Bowen said, letting his chair tip forward so it was flat on the floor. “I thought I’d better be ready just in case . . .”

  Garcia’s eyes narrowed, all judge-like. “I get the impression you want to fight this moron.”

  “I kind of do,” Bowen said, “if I’m honest. It would give us a chance to draw out whoever it is that’s after him.”

  “He knows who’s after him,” Thibodaux scoffed. “We’ll get that info from him directly. You gotta try some of this soup.” He waved the elderly waiter over and ordered another bowl of hand-pulled noodles, this one for Bowen. He dug into his own bowl again once the waiter had shuffled off with the new order, talking in between bites and slurps, using his chopsticks to drive home his points. “We got no obligation to the Ortega brothers for this. I mean, what the hell is a mismatch anyhow? It ain’t a fight, it’s a circus, and Daux Boy worked out too many hours in the gym to be part of some sideshow.”