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Authors: Blair Bancroft

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BOOK: Limbo Man
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“Tell me we’re not going to Siberia.”

“I could tell you that, but it would be a lie.” Vee groaned. “You went to college in Siberia, what is problem?”

“Maybe I figure I’m going to be really tired of flying by the time we hit Moscow.”

“Is too bad.” Sergei shrugged, waggled a finger to the hostess for a refill of champagne. “Long flights good for catching up on sleep.”

“Couldn’t you have just made a phone call? Or tried e-mail?” Vee instantly regretted the poor-little-me sound that had crept into her voice.

“So far you have been a true professional, Valentina. Do not spoil your image.”

Dammit!
Using the skeptical professional brain she had ignored all too often in the last few days, Vee couldn’t help but wonder if Seryozha was getting her out of the way. Leading her on a snipe chase away from whatever was planned in the U. S. Trust, trust, trust, it all came down to trust. And how could she trust Sergei Tokarev any far
ther than she could throw him?

But what about Sergei Ivanovich Whatever?
The man she’d slept with. The man whose shoulder had been a pillow on all the flights they’d made together in the last few days. The man she didn’t have to turn because he already seemed to be on the side of the angels.

She had no choice. She had to trust him, follow his lead wherever he took her. Fortunately, their cover was firmly in place. They’d endured a brief hang-up when they declared firearms in their checked luggage, but the matter had been resolved in a matter of minutes after a quick phone call to Airport Security. As far as the U. S. government was concerned, they were golden. Daddy was trusting her instincts. She, in turn, was going to have to trust Seryozha. And pray.

At Sheremetyevo they scarcely had time to stretch their legs. Ten at night back at home, it was eight a.m. in Moscow. They changed airports, flying Aeroflot to Irkutsk, a mere three-thousand-plus miles east of Moscow. Vee peered down at the vast empty spaces covered by mountains and massive forests, punctuated by occasional clusters of smoking chimneys, and wondered, as she always did, at the size of it all. She thought she caught a glimpse of Novosibirsk and the university perched in the wilderness outside, but it might have been wishful thinking. By the time they made their final approach to Irkutsk, a city only a few hundred miles north of Mongolia, Vee just wanted it all to go away. She barely glanced at Lake Baikal, a body of water so large it contained one-fifth of the world’s fresh water. Nobody, friend or foe, should have to spend this much time on an airplane.

And then Vee saw the bush pilot waiting to greet them. Dear God, it wasn’t over. “I’m going to get you for this,” she hissed into Seryozha’s ear.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Valentina, I am sorry. Where is the tough FBI agent I met in New York?”

“Rolled flat under the Russian bear.”

He laughed and gave her a swift hug before shaking hands with the classically devil-may-care bush pilot, whose name was Georgi—“call me Gosha”—Rybin. He looked a bit like a Viking warrior gone amuck, Vee thought. His outdoorsman’s face could have been any age from thirty to fifty. His blue eyes were keen and far-seeing, and he sported a blond beard as long and bushy as the thick string mop of hair dangling from his head. His brown leather jacket was so seamed with age, it looked as if it might be a hand-me-down from World War II. But the muscles bulging beneath it were very here and now. Gosha Rybin gave the appearance of a man who, if necessary, could tuck his bush plane under his arm and walk home. Unfortunately, his Siberian accent—rather like a good-ol’-boy-Texas drawl—was so strong she could only catch two or three words in each sentence.

Vee sagged in relief when she realized the two men were making arrangements for the following morning. A bed. She was actually going to sleep in a bed tonight.

In spite of severe jet lag, Vee managed a good meal at the hotel restaurant. She even rallied enough to appreciate the strong hot tea served in tall glasses, with silver filigree holders to protect the fingers. All the restaurant service lacked was for the bill to be added up by fingers flying over an abacus, something Vee’s mother had seen back in the days of the Cold War before the wonders of modern technology found their way to Siberia.

By eleven o’clock Vee and Seryozha burrowed into their separate beds, trying to pry their bodies away from U. S. Eastern Standard Time where it was high noon. Frankly, Vee thought, before she dropped over the edge into the great black void, her body was too tired to give a damn about losing thirteen hours of her day, about sex or the lack thereof, or even about the miserable fucking bomb. She slept.

 

Gosha’s plane turned out to be exactly what Vee expected the moment she saw the rough and ready bush pilot. A twin-engine Antonov that had been flying since before the age of jets. If she hadn’t objected to the Cessna that flew them from Green River to Omaha, why did this plane strike terror in her heart?

Maybe because she was thirteen time zones from home, speaking a language she’d practiced very little in the last eight years. Because the hunt was counting down, tension building. Because she really, really feared they were on another wild goose chase. Because, in spite of the camaraderie between Seryozha and Gosha, who obviously knew each other, something didn’t feel right.

Or maybe because she’d gotten word before they left Orlando that Weldon Robey was found dead in his lounge chair, a miniature carousel clutched in one hand, her gun in the other. Daddy was not pleased. She was so far out on a limb she could feel the thin branch cracking under her. Were they on a genuine hunt to save thousands of lives, or was she being led straight off the end of the plank?

Since Seryozha could have snapped her neck with ease any time these last few days, she was going to have to stick to trusting him. But it wasn’t easy.

“Courage,” Seryozha urged as they strapped in. “After this, we are almost there. Only a short drive to a
dacha
in the forest.” A
dacha
was the Russian equivalent of an American cottage—some used solely as vacation homes, others occupied year-round. They were usually made of logs and surrounded by a picket privacy fence, even in the middle of nowhere. Extremely picturesque. Oddly enough, her mother had told her, the Russians had been ashamed to have tourists see them—until they learned that Americans were utterly charmed by log cabins.

Vee unclenched her teeth so she could ask, “A
dacha
where?”

“Outside Bratsk.”

Bratsk. Well, dammit, she’d been to Bratsk, but flying in from Novosibirsk hadn’t been such an ordeal. She’d wanted to see the famous dam on the Angara River that flowed north out of Lake Baikal, heading toward the Arctic Sea. At the time the dam was built, it had been the largest dam in the world, a source of power for a good part of Siberia. Vee liked Bratsk. The small pioneering community in the midst of the Siberian forest was as close to the end of the world as she’d ever been.

She felt an odd sense of relief. The end of their infinitely long journey wasn’t unknown territory. Yet she was still in a land far, far away and painfully aware there was no back-up. Their sole security rested on fast thinking, plus a Glock, a Sig-Sauer,
and a couple of stubby revolvers.

And could she really be sure about Sergei’s Sig-Sauer and his .38?

 

Chapter 18

 

Compared to their recent flights, the trip north was short, less than ninety minutes. After leaving the Baikal area, they followed the winding flow of the Angara River on its way to meet the even mightier Yenisei. Below them Vee saw nothing but river, forest, and the occasional belching smoke of a lumber mill. Mile after mile after mile. She couldn’t help but think that when global warming drowned milder climates, humanity would be able to retreat to the vast reaches of the Siberian forests.

They were into the last days of September now, and soon the sunlight outside was sparkling off towering evergreens dusted in snow, like a thin coat of whitewash over an area long associated with exile, torture, and death. Vee shivered, burying a sudden surge of fear in a determined rush of pragmatism. Snow, and she didn’t even have a pair of boots.

“Not to worry,” Seryozha said, leaning close to her ear. “We will buy boots.”

Vee stared. They were growing much too close . He was sucking her in, body, mind, and soul.

And if she let him, she had failed. Let her side down. She wasn’t going to do that, no way, no how. Vee crossed her arms, continuing to stare out the window as the forest seemed to rise to meet their descent. Roads through the trees became visible . . . a modern town of concrete buildings spread out below.

“There is even a movie theater,” Seryozha told her. “All the comforts of home. Sometimes they even show American films.”

“Right.” Vee eyed him from under her lashes, scepticism rampant.

“Is small world, Valentina. “Not so different from your Alaska.”

He was probably right, but Vee felt as if she was about to step down onto the surface of the moon . . . or maybe Mars.

The driver of an aging Lada taxi dropped Gosha at the two-story hotel in the center of town, then pointed out a place where they could buy boots. Within an hour of landing, they were on a road leading into the forest on the far side of town. Vee admired the willowy white-barked birch trees that were now visible among the evergreens, yet the pristine wilderness was marred by the smoke and stench from a nearby lumber mill. Evidently, even the far reaches of Siberia were working their way toward having a pollution problem as serious as their western neighbors.

After a drive of two or three miles, the taxi pulled up in front of a log cabin that sported an ancient Ford pick-up in the driveway and a white picket fence surrounding a scrap of lawn that was as neat and well-kept as the rest of the property.  Somehow not what she’d expected from the next contact on Sergei’s list, but then he hadn’t told her much. Only that the man’s name was Kiril Mikoyan and he was elderly. Vee was uncomfortably aware that while in Russia she was only a tag-along, capable of little more than watching Sergei’s back and waiting to see what he would do next.

Sergei lifted the latch on the gate and, together, they crunched over untouched snow to the
dacha
’s front door. Not a home with a lot of visitors, Vee noted.

Silence. Sergei frowned. “Not good if he has left.”

“Left? As in flown out of Bratsk? Surely Gosha would have known if he had?”

“Many pilots fly to Bratsk. Commercial flights also.” Sergei walked to the side of the house, leaped the low fence, then swung Vee over. She thought she caught a small grunt of pain, but obviously he was vastly improved from the wreck she’d met in the hospital—what?—little more than two weeks ago.

They tromped past the truck to the back of the cabin, where they found a chopping block and a large woodpile under a lean-to, but no sign of Mikoyan. Sergei pounded on the back door, muttering imprecations under his breath when there was no response.

Something had gone very wrong, Vee realized. More than coming half way around the world to discover a contact was not at home. Color had drained from Seryozha’s face until his skin rivaled the snow around them. Paler than the day they’d met in the hospital. “Seryozha?”


Nichevo
.” He waved her concern away, his poker face slamming down as hard as a knight’s helm, obscuring any hint of his thoughts.

Dejectedly, they trudged back toward the waiting taxi. “Maybe he’s just out?” Vee suggested to Sergei’s gloom.

“Without his truck?” he shot back. “This is very bad, Valentina. If he’s gone, it
i
s because the bomb is in play. He has gone to arm it.”

Vee stopped abruptly a few feet beyond the truck. “Mikoyan’s your bomb expert?” she demanded.

Glumly, he nodded. “ He is the only person left who worked on the ten bombs when they were made. He armed them with the original batch of U-236, which has now decayed to useless. And he is surely the best qualified to re-arm them with the freshly made isotope.”

“Damn.” Vee heaved a sigh. “To come all this way—”

The taxi driver honked, waved a hand out the window, pointing. A silver-haired man strode up the road, his body obscured by a gray lumber jacket. On his arm was a large wicker basket full of . . . something.

Sergei shouted, waved and took off at a lope, Vee following as fast as she could. Surely the man was Mikoyan.
Thank you, Lord!

“Mushrooms,” the vigorous old man declared when he noticed Vee peering into his basket. “Not many left, but I wished to gather them before they were buried in snow.” His sharp gray eyes turned to Sergei. “You have come for me then? This is it?”

A few quick questions, and Sergei’s shoulders slumped. Another dead end.
Mikoyan knew only that a summons would come, he would be flown to the right place, arm the bomb, and then be sent on his way to a promised new home in Canada
. F
or which he was exceedingly grateful to Sergei Ivanovich.

Seryozha swallowed a string of profanities. The luck that had sheltered him for so many years seemed to have run out. But he
could
n’t leave
the old man
loose, ripe for plucking
,
so
t
hey’d have to take
him
with them. If all went well, Mikoyan would end up in Canada, as promised. There was a point when the charade had to stop. A point-of-no-return when the sting operation would hang poised on the brink of annihilation, and only fast footwork could keep them all from becoming ash. With luck, Mikoyan wouldn’t join Robey in the grave.

BOOK: Limbo Man
11.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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