by Rik Stone
“Ah, but it does give me the authority to go after him without worrying about Petrichova. I did agree to step away from the problem, you’re right, but now we can’t transfer; and Petrichova has given me express orders to track the Jew down. What else can I do?” He held out his hands in innocence. “Look on the bright side. The trafficking investigation has just taken a back seat, and letting us off that hook means we can use everything at our disposal to make sure the job on Kornfeld is done properly this time.”
Andrei didn’t look impressed.
Back in Lubyanka, Otto felt the meeting with Petrichova justified a celebration. He retrieved the vodka bottle and glasses, poured out and tried to put himself in the Jew’s position. “Think, your back is against the wall – what would you do? For starters, if he’s on the move he’ll have disposed of the bitch… on the move... Andrei, get me Federation maps from Minsk to Vladimir.”
The maps were on the top shelf of a cabinet in the corner of the office, stacked flat. Andrei sifted through until he found the sectors for Minsk, Smolensk, Moscow and Vladimir, and laid them side by side as one big map. Otto discarded Minsk and studied the one next to it, Smolensk.
“Right, the way I see it, army or no army after him, the Kornfeld family are the most important thing to the Jew. Otherwise why risk everything for them in the first place? I think he’ll be headed home to Vladimir. He could have escaped south, I’m sure, but he decided to kill Puchinsky instead. So he’s gone past thinking of his own safety. We’ll blanket the sectors from Smolensk to Vladimir with regular army personnel. He’s probably already out of Belarus.” He ran a finger a half circle on the map. “And he’ll skirt around Moscow rather than take a chance on anyone recognizing him here.”
“If what you say is right, fair enough, but it would be easier for Kornfeld to just go through Lithuania and escape over the Baltic. I mean, he’d have to be mad to travel back east.”
Otto gave him a long look. “Normally I’d agree, Andrei, but I think mad is what he’s become. Revenge or otherwise, it was nothing short of crazy to shoot the woman when he could have got away. No, I stick to my first thoughts. We put the regular army on red alert in these sectors. Those patrolling will take a further directive – detect and follow from a distance. I don’t want him harmed.”
“Why?”
“I want to be there when he dies. For the sake of Adrik, I want to have the final action in his downfall. But what you said about the Baltic sounds reasonable. To be on the safe side, we’ll make sure all ports from Estonia through to the western limits of Poland are covered. I will not allow him to escape again.”
*
There were so many bits and pieces in the ski jacket that Jez didn’t feel much different from being in full kit. On his travels from Belarus he’d kept himself upright, did his utmost not to look weighed down. He covered an eastward path by public transport and, with the hat’s earflaps down and him sporting a beard that had begun taking on a life of its own, he was sure no one could think of him as a soldier on the run. Even so, while Minsk didn’t care so much about Russian problems, going into Smolensk would be a different story. The Soviet Army would be out looking for him in force there, and walking would be the safer option.
Preparation being the most important aspect of moving through hostile territory, he’d begun by protecting the Glebska persona and settling his hotel account. If need be, he could use it again.
The planning helped: a positive way of taking his mind off Anna. However, try as he might, memories sneaked into his brain and he couldn’t get the blame out of his head. If he hadn’t taken his sisters to Rostov, none of this would have happened. If he’d listened to Anna, she’d still be alive and Viktor… Stop, he told himself, all that may be true, but self-recrimination doesn’t help. Negative thoughts wouldn’t bring her back or change other events, but they would make him sloppy and that might get him killed. He had to concentrate on his mission: he had to stay one step ahead, and he could only do that by remaining in control of his emotions – at least until he’d killed Mitrokhin.
Hydration was the first key to staying alive. He’d hung on to the wash bottle and mess-tin combo and could keep his thirst quenched by drinking water from snowmelt. Warmth on the move wouldn’t be a problem; he had the ski coat and the leather jacket under it.
But if he didn’t choose his billets carefully, and with temperatures below minus 10, waking up might not happen. On the positive side, with the chill that low it would be a dry cold, so no thawing and refreezing. Dampness wouldn’t be a problem.
Fitness would assist in keeping him healthy. For the cross-country journey he’d absorb stamina training. He’d run hard then walk fast, doing push-ups and body crunches when he stopped. The pain threshold from physical exertion would steel his mind and give him the mental strength he needed. Stress was okay too, it would keep him alert. His mind would stay active. What he didn’t need, what he couldn’t cope with, was distress.
Soon he would die and felt afraid, but fear can be a healthy point of view, as long as it was only that which common sense dictated. There would be no guilt, no loneliness, anger or depression. With a calm approach he would succeed in his task. His mantra for that success would be “kill Mitrokhin”, and that mantra would be his reason for living.
He’d found many things to do over the days since Anna had been shot. The most difficult was training his mind to stay away from the trauma itself: the vivid images of seeing Anna gunned down in front of him; the guilt of Viktor’s death. There was no formula he knew of to suppress such thoughts. For that, he was constantly forced to share his existence with the dark shadows of grief.
The landscape changed, and even though the terrain was just a white mass, he could see the uplands rising up towards the horizon. Up till now, he’d slept in scrubland by day and traveled by night. But he’d reached a point where, if he kept the city of Horki to the south so that only the rural plains stood between him and the first of the hills, it would be safe to travel in daylight. If he could reach the foothills before dark, he’d have time to bed down on high ground, a safe place in the unlikely event of a thaw.
He tried to hold a pattern: run for 100 meters, walk for 100 meters. But tiredness from days of missed rest, too much snow and cruel weather conditions made even the open plains hard work. Snow filled his eyebrows and beard. He shook his face clear and directed his attention to the hills ahead. It was difficult to gauge distance on flat land covered with snow, but possibly another 4 kilometres, certainly no more.
Progress improved, his spirits lifted, he dropped his pace and took a breather. Under different circumstances he might have admired the beauty of the winter wonderland that surrounded him, but too much had gone by. How could a pleasant… Whoosh – an overhead hiss startled him. What? WHUMP – the ground shuddered. Mortar! His heart pounded wildly. He knew the sound all too well. He was under mortar attack.
Chapter 45
Jez turned his head and saw jeeps stacked up one behind the other, coming at him. They were equipped for combat with mounted mortar cannon and sub-machine guns rigged on the integral bases behind the front seats. The heads of soldiers bobbed behind mortar blast protectors as the vehicles maneuvered over snowdrifts. He couldn’t tell how many vehicles, but seeing them fan out and fire, the number no longer seemed relevant.
He ran. He wanted to drop the ski jacket to quicken his pace, but he’d lose his weapons. The only thing he could do was wind in his head and race flat out. WHUMP! A mortar shell exploded 50 meters forward and to the right of his position. Shrapnel whizzed by, and though he could hear it, he felt nothing. He hadn’t been hit. He crouched lower, but the rabbit-skin hat fell off. No time to pick it up. Stop for nothing. With the rifles set to automatic, they traced straight black lines in the snow on either side of him and then swept horizontally across his horizon – Kalashnikov AKMs. They didn’t quite have him in their sights, but they would get there soon enough.
Not safe running in a straight l
ine, he zigzagged, sacrificing distance for evasive tactics. Even so, it wouldn’t take them long to get a bead on him. He looked ahead for anything that might impede his progress, and saw a murder of crows take to the air on the opposite side of the nearest hill. If only he could join them, he thought. Instead, he ran a short distance to the left and then a longer distance to the right, on occasion reversing the strategy so as not to reveal a pattern.
WHUMP! WHUMP! One after another, mortar shells exploded; and while Jez’s evasive actions proved successful, progress slowed. The jeeps occasionally stopped to drop-blast their mortar shells more accurately, but it didn’t stop them gaining ground.
Clearly, while the snow slowed him, it had no such effect on the pursuit vehicles. They would catch him before he could get to the hills. He had to make a stand. WHUMP! A shell exploded 30 meters ahead. That would do, fight from the mortar’s footprint, die like a soldier. He ran towards it. The jeeps closed in. WHUMP! Another explosion – and it was in the same hollow he was headed for. He ran in the opposite direction to make them realign their weapons.
The aim moved. Shells exploded away from the crater, so he veered back and got close enough to jump. Any other time of year the landing would have been soft, but now solid ground jarred his bones as he made contact with the fissure’s base. The earth moved and rumbled, feet banged against brittle crust that cracked and broke beneath him. A thin layer of earth had been all that remained after the two explosions and Jez crashed through the crater into another hole.
He dropped the depth of the first hollow and through into the hole below. But he couldn’t see out to shoot. If his life hadn’t been about to end he might have laughed. Too low to make a stand, he would have to… but just a minute, what was that? He wasn’t in a hole, but a pothole, a chance, a slim chance, but a chance.
He pulled the landfall aside, squeezed through and scrambled along the tunnel in a direction in line with the hills. The cave got bigger. He could stand up straight. He started running again, and half a minute carried him 100 meters in. WHUMP! Grit and soil blasted along the chasm behind him, stung his legs, back and buttocks as fragments struck. They’d realigned a fix on the crater too soon. It had to be Mitrokhin up there. The regular army weren’t that good.
With adrenalin pumping, he gave that extra push, but the channel narrowed and lowered. Lack of headroom forced him to his hands and knees. Movement slowed. The ground shook. Tremors shuddered through his arms and legs, and then a blast was followed by a rumble.
The channel collapsed and fallen earth charged towards him. Rapid breathing, his heart raced, but he had to steady his thoughts. He couldn’t lose control, but the ground rumbled, ever closer.
Still on his hands and knees, he pushed his back hard against the roof. Earth fell around his feet and legs as the miniature cave fell in. But his body remained rigid, acting as a stanchion. His part of the crown hadn’t fallen, but ahead and behind, the rumble continued and the fragile earth crashed down. The structure of the hollow folded, and when it stopped he’d become entombed. Panic engulfed him. There was no way out.
Chapter 46
He had to hold position, but yearned to stretch out, push beyond the confines of his grave. Nausea made sweat pop from his skin. He became dizzy and wanted to expel the contents of his gullet. But if he did that, he might choke and die.
Fear smothered him and he cursed himself mentally, but couldn’t resist the dread. Control broke and he panicked. He wanted to scream as terror ripped inside his chest. But all he could do was hunch up and wait to die. He would disappear without trace, gone as if he’d never existed.
Moments of sanity – training, for God’s sake think of the training. Think of all those years of combat experience. Get a grip. Shallow breathing, perform shallow breathing as if in a silent running situation. If he could do that, he would extend the life of the air. But if he allowed fear to dominate, then Mitrokhin had won.
Moments, minutes, how could he tell? He quietened down and took stock. Why should this be so different to the life-threatening situations he’d been in before? The only answer that surfaced was because he didn’t want to die before he’d avenged Anna and Viktor. Humor welled up, calmness stepped in and irony somehow brought understanding to his mind. He’d fretted he might die before Anna was avenged, but vengeance was his only reason for staying alive. No, he wouldn’t be beaten.
Earth tremors reverberated, but then the shuddering became distant. Mitrokhin was blanket-bombing the whole area, making sure there was no way of escape. The quakes lessened. The minutes ticked, and the bombing stopped. He needed to think. How would he handle the situation if this were a training exercise?
The pressure of the roof on his back had exhausted him. First, he should rest – but then what? If the roof wasn’t secure, it would fall and he would die. But he would have to take that chance at some point, and now seemed as good a time as any. Gingerly, he dislodged his body – nothing moved. He rested, but not for too long; the bank of oxygen trapped with him would be spent all too soon, so he needed to work quickly. He dug a hand into the fallen earth and pulled away ice-cold lumps, but they were workable. If he could move it, he could carry on towards the hills.
He pushed rock-like fragments under his body, like a dog digging a hole and moved forward while shoving the debris behind. Air pockets were released but would have to be conserved, so the slow going coupled with energy exerted couldn’t be a factor. He had to keep his breathing limited. Some hours passed, then some more. He weakened. The oxygen diminished and the air thickened to the point that he could taste his own sweat in it. The skin on his fingertips had worn through and some nails had split to the cuticles, but he pushed on, relentlessly denying pain. And then a stimulating flow of adrenalin warmed his stomach as his hand pushed away the solid mass, through mud and into open space. He grasped at fresh air.
Almost frantically, he pushed against the last bank of earth that stood between him and liberty. At last it buckled and fell away. He crawled forward towards freedom. But his fingers met with slime, and more dread filled him. Acrid air invaded his space. He choked, and renewed fear struck his heart. If he was still underground, the gases could be poisonous: maybe carbon monoxide or, if there were sulphur springs, hydrogen sulphide. He had to move quickly. Frantically, he clawed his sweat-saturated body up the slope from its confines.
He had to drag his legs from the collapsed earth, and at last he stumbled to his feet. But he hadn’t reached the outside world as he’d hoped, just a bigger tunnel. Water dripped and echoed hollowly from the roof of the cavern. He stood up straight. Absolute darkness, more unyielding than any place he’d been. He couldn’t see anything, and reaching skyward his hand stretched up into nothingness, a large space, and clearly deep underground.
Perspiration had wet his underclothes, and the sudden change in temperature brought a chilled dampness which at first was welcoming but now set him atremble. This was a black void with muddy earth beneath his feet and a floor that sloped upward to his left. He moved in that direction, groping at the walls for guidance. The ground became steeper, the mud less gummy, but the acidity still attacked his nostrils and rasped his throat.
The cold air became icy, but searing heat visited his stomach as rumblings beat out further along the tunnel. They came from the same direction as he was heading. Alarm gripped him: it might be Mitrokhin. But then he realized the rumbling wasn’t from explosives or people. It was different, more like stampeding animals, and that thought brought a new, different kind of panic. Rats!
He pressed his back firmly to the cave wall, hoping they might run straight past his feet. What else could he do? A trapped man couldn’t fight off hordes of rats. Dread constricted his chest and breathing became harder. The noise grew louder and closer, but also clearer. No longer did it sound like stampeding animals. Maybe they’d just rounded a bend in the cave, but the noise became more of a fluttering. As quickly as he’d made the deduction, they were on him, flapping around his face wi
th a numbing shrill. A deafening screeching deadened his ears. A colony of bats, no way of second guessing how many, but it sounded like thousands.
Thoughts took him back to when Mitrokhin had chased him over the plains. The murder of crows that had risen behind the hill had been these bats fleeing the explosions. The way they’d cast a single shadow over the sky – it should have been obvious. Calm returned. Even with the knowledge that they might be rabid, he fell still. The creatures would be worried for their own safety.
Time passed, the shrieks and flapping rose higher, until they lifted over his head and quietened as they settled on the canopy above. If his notions were right, then they’d returned from the valley, which meant he’d chosen the right direction. Worried about the possibility of toxins and rabies, he thought he’d better make a move – before the bats changed their minds.
He shuddered and his skin crawled at the thought of the mud he’d crept through. The pungent odour had been bat dung – guano. And fortunately for him, wet. Powdered guano contains hazardous organisms. If breathed in they can invade the lungs. He took in his good fortune as he leant against the cave wall. Almost every moment of the previous few hours had brought him nearer to death than he’d ever been. Humility overcame him, and with it a new awareness of human frailty. He’d been given another chance to fulfil his mission.
He’d been too involved with staying alive to acknowledge his injuries, but relief brought the unwelcome awareness of pain, and it came to him like a fanfare. But he couldn’t let it make a difference. The lesions would have to wait in line. He had to get out.
With fingers probing at the walls, he edged along the tunnel until he came to a three-way crossroads. His eyes had grown accustomed enough to the light to observe outlines, and he could see one route headed steeply down. Of the other two, he chose the bigger, but after 50 meters it narrowed and lowered until he was crouching. Another 50 meters and it became light, a bright cavity, painful to the eyes. Only two meters from fresh air, but the remainder of the hole had narrowed too much for him to advance.
