by Rik Stone
The man in the suit was still in a stupor, so Yuri had no trouble pushing him on ahead. Hassan had been leaning against the car, smoking, but stood away on seeing them come up the hill. He stubbed his cigarette underfoot, pulled in through his nose, spat phlegm, and then opened the rear door.
“Do you need medical attention?” Yuri asked Anna as Mehmet dropped her to her feet and helped her onto the back seat.
“No,” she said. “Everything aches and I was more than a little worried when I looked down at myself back there, but I’m okay … I must admit, Yuri, I thought only Jez could make my heart skip a beat, but when you came through that door it started doing somersaults.”
Yuri knew women found him attractive, of that there was no doubt, but now in his mid-fifties he knew he wouldn’t have stood a chance with Anna even if Jez wasn’t around. But he responded as anyone who knew him would have expected and laughed.
“Yes,” he said conceitedly. “I tend to have that effect on women. But are you sure you don’t need a medic?”
“I think I’ll survive, Yuri. I’ve been through worse.”
And he knew she had.
Chapter 11
The Komi District, Northern Russia
Mother Nature had hit Jez with everything she had to offer, including minus ninety wind chills from a purga, the brutal north wind that blows up from the Polar Regions. And for that, he and Pavel had to dig in for two full days and wait for it to pass. Eventually moving on, they followed the snaking path of the largest tributary of the Pechora: the Usa River. While the weather and the terrain had been grueling, it held the gunships at bay; if the search for them was still live, it hadn’t crossed swords with them on the journey. Now facing the flat lands of the Tundra, Jez stared blankly over the vast wasteland.
“Don’t just stand gawping,” Pavel said. “We haven’t conquered the badlands yet. C’mon, let’s press on.”
Jez had never dealt with this part of Siberia. The Tundra was flatland and looked easy to cross. But nothing is easy in Siberia and it came with its own set of troubles: five-meter snowdrifts; winds howling across the open spaces from the north and encrusting them with snow; even when the winds receded, the harrowing passage through the depression of a blue-grey desert persisted. They came across the occasional hungry polar bear, but a shot in the air took care of that threat.
“Dodging the bears is one thing,” Pavel said, having just scared one off, “but when the permafrost melts, there’s no escaping the pools of water left in its wake. Swarms of mosquitoes everywhere and believe me, there’s no getting away from those things. If you’re not wearing a mosquito head net, they’ll suck you dry in a couple of hours.”
Jez strode out in silence, willing the never-ending trek to come to an end, and then he saw the colliery tower they’d been looking for and his spirits lifted. At last, the coalmine on the outskirts of Vorkuta City. It had been the site of yet another Gulag, but it was gone by now and the mining workers from nearby had spread their habitation out over the old forced labor camp to form a new, independent society. They approached the town, past a pit heap, and then took a shortcut over a cemetery that was peppered with a host of wooden crosses.
“Most of these graves belong to German prisoners from the Great War,” Pavel told Jez. “They must have been good men because they say you can’t keep a good man down. When the ice melts in July, the land heaves and up they come, coffins and all.”
Frosted face or not, Jez burst out laughing.
There were no streets, just an indiscriminate scattering of shacks. Jez knew the population was mixed; some had moved up from warmer climes to follow the work while others were ex-convicts. As he passed through what looked like a ghost town, eyes seemed to bore into him and the hairs on his neck stood on end. Whatever might be said about this place, it could never be accused of being friendly, but concern soon faded; the people here would be too busy worrying about the vagaries of their own existence to worry about a couple of strangers passing through. On the opposite side of the mining community, the outline of the main city came into view and it looked like a tidal wave of snow had hit it.
“Bury the snowshoes here and leave a marker in case we have to make a run for it later,” Jez said.
The tenement blocks lining the sidewalks were crusted in ice and vehicles at the roadside stood in a silent queue, unable to move. Overhead cables looked battle weary to the hoarfrost and the residents would suffer in a big way should they surrender to it. As they negotiated the unwelcoming streets, Jez almost bumped into one of several Frontier Service Officers who had hurried out from an alley. The officer stopped and stared hard at the rifle sleeve slung over Jez’s shoulder.
“Sorry,” Jez said, undoing enough of the snowsuit to show his uniform. The soldier nodded and hurried on with his colleagues.
Pavel said, “You have the uniform, Jez. I think it’ll be safer if I wait outside town. Go for the train tickets and then come get me here.” He pulled out his topographic map and pointed out a location on the main road outside the city where they should meet up.
Jez stripped out of his snowsuit then handed that and his rifle to Pavel, and left him to walk up the main street towards where he hoped the railway station would be. After a short walk, his suspicions were confirmed, and he tentatively entered an empty ticket office. The hall was small and, although draughty, a shade warmer than the walk through the streets without the snowsuit. There were three ticket kiosks, one manned. Two three-seat-benches stood frosted against one wall while a people’s poster, with hammer and sickle dominating, took center stage on the one opposite.
But then someone behind him spoke. A deep, graveled voice. “That uniform, it’s designated to Moscow ground forces. What are you doing here?”
Jez froze. Impossible! The voice. He knew it. When Captain Otto Mitrokhin, the officer he assassinated on the steps of KGB headquarters, had framed him for murder, Jez had been interrogated and tortured by members of Smersh: the 79th unit absorbed into the KGB after the Second World War. One of those men had a deep, graveled voice and Jez had only heard such tones that one time in his life. This had to be the same man. Be calm. He turned and faced his nemesis. Be confident and when all else fails, bluff.
“And who is it wanting to know? Your name, please,” Jez demanded.
Gravel stood with the quietly spoken partner that had helped him with the interrogation back then. Both wore trilby hats; both wore ankle-length, black trench coats; both wore wire-rimmed spectacles with pebbled lenses; both were the same height, and both were stocky build. The quiet man whispered a laugh at Jez’s words and the gravel man spun on him with a freeze-out glare. The quiet man looked away but held the smile.
“If I thought you were being intentionally insubordinate I’d …” he said to Jez, but then stopped as if recognizing a hopeless situation. “I am Sergeant Afanasiy working out of Moscow KGB.” He flipped his identification. “I’ll ask you again. What are you doing here in that uniform?”
Jez gulped. “Yes, Sergeant, sorry, Sergeant. I’m Corporal Kord. As you said, I’m attached to a division of Moscow ground forces. We were trailing fugitives when my unit was attacked … I’m not sure exactly, but it was somewhere near the northern end of the Ural Mountains. They ambushed us and I think I was the only one to escape. I have little Arctic experience, so I think I was plain lucky to get this far. I took a room in town yesterday when I arrived. I left my Arctic gear there.”
“What are you doing here at the railway station?”
“I uhm, what … oh, yes. I’m buying a ticket so I can return to Moscow and rejoin my company, Sergeant.”
“You say your unit has been slaughtered. Shouldn’t you be trying to contact your company commander and let him know what has happened?”
Shit! Play dumb.
“I tried. I couldn’t find a telephone.”
The sergeant shook his head, dismayed. “You grunts … There are Frontier Service Officers all over the place. You could’ve used their
communication system.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t think of that. I’ll go there now.” Jez made to leave.
“Just a minute, you say you were one of those chasing the Chechen rebels?” Afanasiy said, nodding. “Let me see your papers,” he demanded, stretching out an open palm.
“What? Chechen rebels … oh, er, yes, Sergeant, it was the rebels who ambushed us.” At least he now knew how the security forces had justified the attack on the Gulag. Jez gave him the ID he had been given before starting maneuvers and fortunately it didn’t give rank.
The quiet man pulled the card from Afanasiy’s hand and whispered, “This ID isn’t standard issue for Moscow ground forces.”
“No, sir, I’ve been selected for special duties so I wasn’t pigeonholed.”
It was paying off, Pavel insisting he thought out a story before getting here.
“An idiot like you? Hmm, I don’t know. But I do know there’s something very familiar about you,” the quiet man said, so softly that Jez had to let it sink in slowly, and when he understood, panic constricted his throat.
“Maybe you’ve seen me in Moscow, sir. I’ve had duty in Lubyanka. You could have seen me there.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think so.”
The quiet man continued to study the ID card and looked to Jez as he did.
“Of course, yes, that’s it,” he said to Afanasiy. “He’s the double of Lieutenant Kornfeld. Face, build, everything.”
Shit, how could he have worked that out? It was so long ago. But wait, no, it had only been a matter of months. The coma had made a bigger time gap in his mind. Jez was heading for trouble. He tucked his thumbs into his holster belt and positioned his right hand so he could easily pull his throwing knife. This was the last thing he wanted, but at least he could make a stand before either of them could draw pistols.
The quiet man remained thoughtful and then his face opened. “No, you can’t be Kornfeld. He was killed. But you should do something with that face of yours – grow a beard or something,” he laughed. “Someone who didn’t know might shoot first and then ask questions. Believe me, you’re a dead ringer.” Another whispered laugh crept from his throat.
Afanasiy took his turn to look thoughtful. “Okay, you’re misplaced. Can you drive?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I can.”
“Good! Forget your commander for the meantime. We’re on our way out to the Gulag where the Chechens had their headquarters. But we couldn’t find a driver who knew how to get there and were about to return to Moscow. If you’re familiar with the place you can drive.”
“But–”
“No buts. Grab those cases and follow me.”
Further argument would be futile, Jez thought. He picked up the bags and followed the Smersh men from the station.
Chapter 12
Sergeant Afanasiy pointed to the only car in the street that wasn’t covered in snow. “That one,” he said and without another word, went shoulder to shoulder with his partner and steamed ahead. Jez smiled as he followed what looked like a pair of bookends. The car, a yellow Moskvitch 412, was parked halfway along the street, which explained why Jez hadn’t heard them pull up at the station. Afanasiy turned and handed him the keys, and like a dutiful corporal, Jez opened the back doors for the Smersh men, flipped up the long lid over the trunk, and put the bags in. He then stood back and shook his head. Whoever issued this beaten-up old taxi had been having a laugh; even with its snow chains, Jez wouldn’t trust it to get across Moscow in summer let alone anywhere in these extreme conditions. He looked at the two men, grinned, and then switched his attention forward, started the engine and selected first gear. The chains at first slipped, but even taking a grip on the compacted ice, the vehicle struggled to pull away.
“It isn’t any of my business I know, sir. But what are Smersh investigators doing out in this wilderness?” Momentarily, Jez took his eyes from the road. The car went off centre and the wheels bumped against a snow pile.
“Keep your attention on the road, fool,” the quiet man hissed like a striking snake. “And you’re right, it isn’t any of your business … Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“Of course, sir. I found my way here from the Gulag,” he answered a little flippantly. Before the whisperer had chance to pick up on it, Jez went on. “Over there, Sergeant, the watch tower. It’s Labor Camp nine to ten.”
“Humph!”
They drove through the wide streets until coming to the wasteland that lay between the city and the old Gulag. Afanasiy seemed unable to let go of Jez’s earlier question and his deep, guttural voice rasped, “We’re going out because of information received that there might’ve been military involvement at the Gulag. Someone on the in–”
“Silence!” the whisperer cut in. “Sergeant Afanasiy, this is not open to discussion. And, Corporal, concentrate on what you’re doing and do it quietly.”
Jez leaned back and, staring into the rearview mirror, watched Afanasiy posturing at his partner’s reprimand.
Snow ploughs had cleared the main roads from the city through to the mining complex, but no further, and when the car meandered around a sharp bend it was forced to draw up in front of a three-meter snow pack blocking the road. The silhouette of the coal tower loomed dark and gloomy over the virginal white surrounds. It would now be clear to the Smersh men that the only way of continuing was by foot.
“What’s this?” the whisperer blustered.
“It’s the reason I protested back at the station, Sergeant. There are no passable roads out of the city. Even if you were following a snow plough you would have trouble. This one only gives access to the mining works. But you wouldn’t let me tell you.”
“Idiot! I will have you flogged for this,” Afanasiy said. “Turn round. Take us back to the station at once.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” he said.
Jez moved forward a quarter-circle before slamming the gear stick towards reverse without declutching. The gearbox made a grinding noise as the cogs refused to mesh and the revving engine screamed.
“What now?” Afanasiy asked, the words grinding thick from his throat.
“I don’t know, Sergeant. It doesn’t seem to have a reverse gear.”
“Get out and make sure the tires aren’t just slipping on the ice,” the whisperer ordered.
“Yes, sir,” he said then got out and went to the front of the car.
The whisperer wound down the window. “What are you doing at the front, you fool? The traction is made at the back.”
Jez put a hand to his hip and scratched his head with the other. Then he pointed a finger in the air and, with a nod, indicated to the door next to the whisperer. Both men instinctively turned to the open window and found themselves staring into the barrel of a Dragunov SVD rifle.
“The way I have this aimed,” Pavel told them, “I reckon a single shot would explode both of your heads.”
The Smersh men visibly gulped while raising hands to their heads, and Pavel smiled appreciatively at them.
Jez said, “Out!” to his new captives. “And keep your hands on your heads where I can see them.” The men shuffled from the car and before going any further, Jez removed their spectacles. He frisked the little men, took their weapons, IDs, money, and then he grabbed the whisperer by the collar and pushed him hard against the car. “Right, what military involvement were you investigating?”
The quiet man regained his composure and answered softly. “My colleague was babbling. There is no indication of military involvement. We are here to collect information about the Chechen rebels and nothing more.”
Jez stood back, withdrew his knife, and then sunk his knee into the whisperer’s groin. The little man doubled over, puffed out air, and clutched at his stomach. Before he could regain his posture, Jez cut the lobe from his ear, held the small piece of flesh up in front of Afanasiy’s face and offered him an option. “Not original, but it was all I could think of at short notice. Thing is, we have plenty o
f time for me to come up with a more creative approach … Oh, and don’t worry about your friend suffering anymore. He is clearly stubborn. You? I’m not so sure, so I’ll give you a chance. Answer my questions and the pair of you just might walk away from this. Refuse, and I will slowly cut little pieces off you … and I don’t need to tell you about the effects of torture.”
Afanasiy’s gravel voice went up several octaves. “We are acting outside of our normal line of command,” he said. “A high-ranking officer in the Kremlin called us into his office and told us of his fears that one of the generals might be connected to the rebel Gulag.”
“Afanasiy,” the whisperer growled softly while clinging to his ear.
Afanasiy responded to his name, but not for long. He shook his head sympathetically to his colleague, but then turned back to Jez. “When giving us the task he said it must be kept covert and that all the information we collect goes directly back to him.”
“And what is the name of the general under suspicion?”
Again Afanasiy looked to his partner. “I’m thinking of your safety as much as mine,” he told him and came back to Jez. “An informer had told him it was General Petrichova, but there wasn’t enough hard evidence against him to make a report to the assembly.”
There was every possibility there might be something incriminating at the camp. Jez gave Pavel widened eyes. He turned back to Afanasiy and pressed the side of the blade against his cheek. “And which high-ranking officer gave you the task?”
Afanasiy faltered, but when Jez pressed the knife harder, he hurriedly said, “Irishka, it was General Irishka.”
“Irishka! Shit, Pavel, we’ve let a chance slip,” he said and pondered. “Nothing much we can do about that now … So, what to do with these two? They are of no more use to us and I don’t like the idea of leaving them alive; they could be a nuisance later on.”
Pavel ignored the question and ordered the men, “Strip to your underclothes.”
