Read The Balkan Escape (Short Story) Online
Authors: Steve Berry
The Balkan Escape (Short Story) (3 page)
“Over there,” Sokolov said, pointing.
She stayed back, gun ready, and followed him to the far side where the rock floor dropped down five meters. Her flashlight beam revealed a façade chiseled from the stone, blocks rising on two sides and joined across the top, connected by clearly defined joints.
“A doorway,” she muttered.
“That is what you came for.”
She knew Thracians always framed the openings to their tombs in elaborate ways.
“I find it two days ago,” Sokolov said. “This is real tomb. The other is some sort of ante-chamber.”
“You didn’t tell the others about this?”
He shook his head. “Not a word.”
“Why?”
“Go and see.”
“How about we both go?” she said.
He climbed down first, using the boulders as makeshift
steps. She followed, her finger on the gun’s trigger, ready to instantly react. Was this his plan? Lure her down here. Were the others waiting inside? If so, why give her a loaded gun?
At the bottom she examined the portal more closely.
“Another level extends out,” he said to her. “Beneath where we stand, into the mountain. Maybe caused by lava flow from long ago. Not unusual. Creates caves.”
She studied the doorway as he spoke. Definitely human-made. Rubble lay piled before the portal. The remnants of a marble door, blasted away.
“I do that,” Sokolov said. “I wanted to see what is inside.”
She stared at the chunks and realized the door itself had been a precious artifact. “You’ve been inside?”
“Twice.”
She motioned with the flashlight and he disappeared into the blackness. She followed, met by a wall of dank, musty air. Enough daylight slipped in for her to see a circular room about twenty meters in diameter. She quickly aimed the flashlight at the far end and discovered limestone walls, still lined in places with ancient timbers. Her light angled upward and exposed the expected Thracian beehive architecture to a domed ceiling. The vault’s central camera contained the image of a horseman being bestowed a wreath by a goddess, the maroon coloring of the frescoes still vibrant. A high relief of stone statues—women—encircled the vault. Parts of the walls had collapsed, rubble piled on the floor. She aimed the beam at the floor and noticed it was littered with debris. A glitter here and there alerted her that it was not insignificant.
Gold, silver, bronze, and clay objects were strewn amongst rock.
“Earthquakes do damage,” he said. “But tomb is remarkable.”
He was right. Perhaps the most fully intact Thracian sanctuary ever found.
In the center stood the deathbed, fashioned of stone, like the altar from the earlier chamber. Lying across the top were the remains of a skeleton, bones arranged anatomically as they’d been when released from the grip of flesh and muscle. The skull was large and possessed a huge gash across the right side.
“He died from head wound,” Sokolov quietly said.
Her grip on the gun tightened as they threaded a path to the remains. She drifted three steps back, adding distance between them, enough that she could see exactly what he was doing.
Bits of cloth lay scattered amongst the bones—perhaps, she thought, burial robes long gone to dust. A gold band wrapped the neck bones. Gold brooches, earrings, and greaves lay to one side. A gold armlet, corded and patterned, encircled one of the wrists. Bits and pieces of a leather belt remained, inset with a gold band. A gold dagger, figured, tapered, and burnished, lay near the right hand. Remnants of shoes embellished with gold stripes rested opposite the skull.
“He is important,” Sokolov said.
She agreed. Only Thracian leaders possessed such wealth.
She kept one eye on the Russian and studied the rest of the room. Dark shadows signaled more objects. The flashlight cut a swath through the darkness. On the far side, to the right of the entrance, stood a bronze-plated wooden chariot, its four wheels more than a meter across. Amazingly, the petrified wood had survived. She stepped toward it and noticed lavish ornamentation. She’d read about the
chariots, seen drawings, bits and pieces here and there. But nothing whole. This was a major archaeological find. Lying beside the chariot were wooden and leather objects that appeared to be harnesses. She knew somewhere nearby would be the bones of horses, sent with their master into the afterlife.
“I have wife in China,” Sokolov said. “We meet when I am there last year. I want to be with her.”
His tone suggested that he meant it. If so, she envied his conviction and wondered if she’d ever meet anybody for whom she’d risk everything.
“Russians do not let me go. I work in oil production and know too many secrets.”
“Why are you even here?” she asked. “This doesn’t involve oil.”
“That was my question to you, which you never answer.”
“I came for this tomb. Nothing more.”
She saw that he believed her.
“Russian’s short on experts in geology. My colleague was to come but he became sick. They tell me just few days in Bulgaria, and Comrade Varga will watch over me. He is Russian security. My keeper. Not someone to take lightly.”
She still wanted that one opportunity with Varga.
“I decide to leave,” Sokolov said. “When you show up I know the time is now.”
But she had to say, “We’re both trapped.” She motioned around with the gun. “Of course, we do have a fabulous treasure.”
Beside the cart lay exquisitely shaped rhytons, amphorae, and phials, each gilded and embossed with more mythological scenes.
She shook her head. The find was priceless.
Thorvaldsen had told her that, if anything was found, he’d finance a dig to study the site. That was
the thing she admired about her friend, one way they were exactly alike. History was far more important than wealth.
“If I get to Greece,” Sokolov said. “I get to China.”
She knew the border was less than fifty kilometers south.
“Varga does not want me to go.”
She glanced beside the chariot to a stone slab where more gold bracelets, hatches, and ornaments lay. Propped at its base was some bronze body armor adorned, she saw, with more goddesses. A sword with a gold-studded pommel stood beside it. Though the Thracians had been fierce warriors and accomplished horse breeders, they’d also excelled as goldsmiths.
And this tomb was clear proof of that fact.
She stepped back toward the deathbed.
“I want to be with my wife,” he said. “Varga knows I am gone. He is looking for me.”
A detail he’d omitted earlier.
“I trust you,” he said. “You have my gun.”
“Comrade Sokolov,” a voice called out from outside.
Varga.
She stared at Sokolov.
“Did you think me that stupid?” the disembodied voice asked. “I knew you wanted to help her yesterday. Your eyes, comrade. They betray you. I was told to watch you carefully.”
Her gaze raked the tomb. Only one exit.
Had it been Sokolov’s task to lead her here?
“You are important man,” Varga called out. “But I care not. Neither do your superiors. They told me to deal with any problems you create as I wanted.”
Something thudded to the ground just outside the portal.
Her gaze locked on it.
Another bundle of plastique explosive with another timer clicking down.
40 seconds.
39.
38.
Her question about Sokolov’s loyalty had just been answered.
The Russian ignored the bomb and rushed toward a pile of rock.
“Help me,” he said, as he started clearing the pile.
She immediately assisted.
As they worked she saw an arched opening appear in the circular wall, maybe a meter high. Tight, but enough to crawl through. Now she knew why he’d led her here.
She glanced back.
23 seconds.
22.
“Go,” he said. “Fast.”
On all fours, still gripping the gun and the light, she scooted through the tunnel, Sokolov following.
“I find this tunnel when I am inside,” Sokolov said as they kept crawling. “It became exposed when I blast. I hide it. Is to be my way out.”
Her mind was still counting.
Under 10 seconds.
The darting beam of her light revealed the end five meters ahead and she quickened her pace, emerging and clearing a path for Sokolov, who leaped out just as the concussion from the explosion spewed dust and gravel from the crawl space.
She lay face down, arms covering her head, eyes closed.
The blast subsided. Debris settled.
She raised her head, as did Sokolov.
“Where are we?” she asked.
He stood. “Good place.” His tone had changed. More exuberant. “Come.”
She followed him through the tunnel on a straight run. Two turns and fifty meters later they emerged out into a light rain.
“This is the far side of mountain,” he said. “Long way from camp.”
She was glad to be out of there.
“Now Russians think me dead,” he said. “I can leave and no one cares.”
“I thought you were important to them.”
“This is the thing about Russians. Nothing is
really
important. That belief will be their destruction one day.”
“Are you always so depressing?”
He shook his head. “Not anymore. I am free. I know you to be a capable woman when I first see you. I am glad you do not shoot me back there.”
“How did you know that I might?”
“Not hard to realize. But you are good person. You don’t pull a trigger unless necessary.”
“How would you know that?”
He pointed to her face. “It is there. I take a chance with you. Much better than trusting Russians.”
She smiled. “I assume that’s a compliment?”
He gave her a slight bow. “Most respectful.”
This man had saved her life. She owed him.
“Thanks,” she said. “For everything.”
He pointed to what she thought was west. “Village is not far. You can make it there on foot and find your way back to Sofia. I go this way.” He pointed south. “My wife waits for me.”
“You must love her so much.”
“I do. She is with child. My child. I hope it is a son.”
He extended a hand, which she shook.
“Too bad about tomb,” he said. “Probably destroyed.”
She shrugged. “Not necessarily. It’s been there a long time. We’ll come back and dig it out.”
He nodded. “Good-bye. Take care.”
She watched as he trotted off toward a thick stand of trees. She couldn’t just let him leave. “Comrade Sokolov.”
He stopped and turned.
“I can get you out of the country,” she said. “You’ll need some money. I can make it easier.”
He shook his head. “Getting away from those men inside mountain. That was what I need your help for. I am okay. We both get what we want.”
That they did.
“You take care, too,” she said to him.
He smiled. “Who knows? Maybe one day you return favor.”
Maybe so, she thought.
Bulgaria has always interested me. It’s a fascinating country tucked against the Black Sea, deep in the Balkans. I visited in 2007 and decided that one day it would appear in a story. Though its debut has come in a piece of short fiction, the locale will definitely return in a future novel.
Thracians are intriguing. The culture existed, as depicted in the story. It rose, thrived, then was absorbed by conquerors. Unfortunately, Thracians developed no written language and left only their tombs as reminders of their existence. Several hundred of those tombs have been the located, many containing a vast array of gold and silver objects. The Valley of the Thracian Kings, in central Bulgaria, is real and worth a visit. This tomb, in the southern Rila mountains, was my concoction. But it is accurately depicted, as is the surrounding geography.
This story is a prequel.
When Lev Sokolov trots off after Cassiopeia Vitt thanks him for saving her life, his final comment to her is prophetic.
Five years later they will meet again.
That tale is told in
The Emperor’s Tomb
.
Read on for an excerpt from
THE EMPEROR’S TOMB,
by
STEVE BERRYPublished by Ballantine Books
NORTHERN AREAS, PAKISTAN
FRIDAY, MAY 18
8:10 AMA
BULLET ZIPPED PAST
C
OTTON
M
ALONE
. H
E DOVE
to the rocky ground and sought what cover the sparse poplars offered. Cassiopeia Vitt did the same and they belly-crawled across sharp gravel, finding a boulder large enough to provide the two of them protection.More shots came their way.
“This is getting serious,” Cassiopeia said.
“You think?”
Their trek had, so far, been uneventful. The greatest congregation of towering peaks on the planet surrounded them. The roof of the world, two thousand miles from Beijing, in the extreme southwestern corner of China’s Xinjiang Autonomous Region—or the Northern Areas of Pakistan, depending on whom you asked—smack up against a hotly disputed border.
Which explained the soldiers.
“They’re not Chinese,” she said. “I caught a glimpse. Definitely Pakistanis.”
Jagged, snowy summits as high as twenty thousand feet shielded glaciers, patches of green-black forest,
and lush valleys. The Himalaya, Karakoum, Hindu Kush, and Pamir ranges all merged here. This was the land of black wolves and blue poppies, ibex and snow leopards.
Where fairies congregated
, Malone recalled one ancient observer noting. Possibly even the inspiration behind James Hilton’s
Shangri-la
. A paradise for trekkers, climbers, rafters, and skiers. Unfortunately, India and Pakistan both claimed sovereignty, China retained possession, and all three governments had fought over the desolate region for decades.“They seem to know where we’re headed,” she said.
“That thought occurred to me, too.” So he had to add, “I told you he was trouble.”
They were dressed in leather jackets, jeans, and boots. Though they were more than eight thousand feet above sea level, the air was surprisingly mild. Maybe sixty degrees, he estimated. Luckily, both of them carried Chinese semi-automatic weapons and a few spare magazines.
“We have to go that way.” He pointed behind them. “And those soldiers are close enough to do some damage.”
He searched his eidetic brain for what they needed. Yesterday, he’d studied the local geography and noted that this slice of earth, which wasn’t much larger than New Jersey, was once called Hunza, a princely state for over nine hundred years, whose independence finally evaporated in the 1970s. The fair-skinned and light-eyed locals claimed to be descendants of soldiers in Alexander the Great’s army, from when Greeks invaded two millennia ago. Who knew? The land had remained isolated for centuries, until the 1980s, when the Karakoram Highway passed through and connected China to Pakistan.
“We have to trust that he’ll handle it,” she finally said.
“That was your call, not mine. You go first. I’ll cover.”
He gripped the Chinese double-action pistol. Not a bad weapon. Fifteen rounds, fairly accurate. Cassiopeia prepared herself, too. He liked that about her—ready for any situation. They made a good team, and this striking Spanish Arab definitely intrigued him.
She scampered off toward a stand of junipers.
He aimed the pistol across the boulder and readied himself to react at the slightest movement. To his right, in the tomb-like illumination that filtered through the spring foliage, he caught the glimmer of a rifle barrel being aimed around a tree trunk.
He fired.
The barrel disappeared.
He decided to use the moment and followed Cassiopeia, keeping the boulder between himself and their pursuers.
He reached her and they both raced forward, using more trees as cover.
Sharp bursts of rifle fire echoed. Bullets pinged around them.
The trail twisted out of the trees and rose in a steep but climbable slope, held to a rocky bluff by retaining walls of loose boulders. Not much cover here, but they had no choice. Beyond the trail, he spied canyons so deep and sheer that light could enter only at high noon. A gorge dropped away to their right, and they ran along its edge. Bright sun blazed on the far side, dulled by black mountain slate. A hundred feet below water rushed and tumbled, gray with sand, tossing foamy spray high into the air.
They clambered up the steep embankment.
He spotted the bridge.
Exactly where they’d been told.
Not much of a span, just shaky poles wedged upright between boulders on each end, horizontal timbers fastened on top, connected by thick hemp. A footwalk of boards dangled over the river.
Cassiopeia reached the top of the trail. “We have to cross.”
He didn’t like that prospect, but she was right. Their destination was on the far side.
Gunfire echoed in the distance and he glanced behind them.
No soldiers.
Which bothered him.
“Maybe he’s leading them away,” she said.
His distrust made him defensive, but there was no time to analyze the situation. He stuffed the gun into his pocket. Cassiopeia did the same, then stepped onto the bridge.
He followed.
The boards vibrated from the rush of water below. He estimated less than a hundred feet to the other side, but they’d be suspended in open air with zero cover, moving from shadows to sunlight. Another trail could be seen on the far side, leading across loose gravel into more trees. He spotted a figure, maybe fifteen feet high, carved in the rock face beyond the trail—a Buddhist image, just as they’d been told.
Cassiopeia turned back toward him, Eastern eyes peering from her Western face. “This bridge has seen better days.”
“I hope it has at least one more left.”
She gripped the twisted ropes that held the span aloft.
He tightened his fingers around the coarse strands, too, then decided, “I’ll go first.”
“And the reason for that?”
“I’m heavier. If they hold me, they’ll hold you.”
“Since I can’t argue with that logic”—she stepped aside—“be my guest.”
He assumed the lead, his feet attuned to the steady vibrations.
No sign of any pursuers.
He decided a brisk pace would be better, not giving the boards time to react. Cassiopeia followed.
A new sound rose over the rushing water.
Deep bass tones. Far off, but growing louder.
Thump. Thump. Thump
.He whipped his head to the right and caught the first glimpse of a shadow on a rock wall, maybe a mile away, where the gorge they were negotiating met another running perpendicular.
At the halfway point it seemed the bridge was holding, though the moldy boards gave like a sponge. His palms loosely gripped the rough hemp, ready to apply a death lock if the bottom fell out beneath him.
The distant shadow grew in size, then was replaced with the distinct shape of an AH-l Cobra attack helicopter.
American-made, but this was no salvation.
Pakistan operated them, too, provided by Washington to help a supposed ally with the war on terrorism.
The Cobra powered straight toward them. Twin-bladed, dual-engined, it carried 20mm guns, antitank missiles, and aerial rockets. Fast as a bumblebee, and equally maneuverable.
“That’s not here to help,” he heard Cassiopeia say.
He agreed, but there was no need to voice that he’d been right all along. They’d been herded to this spot, for this precise purpose.
Damn that son of a bitch—
The Cobra started firing.
A steady procession of pops sent 20mm rounds their way.
He dove belly-first to the bridge boards and rolled, staring past his feet as Cassiopeia did the same. The Cobra roared toward them, its turboshafts sucking through the dry, limpid air. Rounds found the bridge, ripping wood and rope with a savage fury.
Another burst arrived.
Concentrated on the ten feet between him and Cassiopeia.
He spied fury in her eyes and watched as she found her gun, came to her knees and fired at the copter’s canopy. But he knew that armor plating and an aircraft moving at more than 170 miles an hour reduced the chances of causing damage to zero.
“Get the hell down,” he yelled.
Another burst of cannon fire annihilated the bridge between him and Cassiopeia. One moment the wood-and-rope construction existed, the next it was gone in a cloud of debris.
He sprang to his feet and realized the entire span was about to collapse. He could not go back, so he ran ahead, the final twenty feet, clinging to the ropes as the bridge dropped away.
The Cobra flew past, toward the opposite end of the gorge.
He held tight to the ropes and, as the bridge divided, each half swinging back toward opposite sides of the gorge, he flew through the air.
He slammed into rock, rebounded, then settled.
He did not give himself time to be terrified. Slowly, he pulled himself upward, scaling the remaining few feet to the top. Rushing water and the thump of chopper blades filled his ears. He focused across the gorge, searching for Cassiopeia, hoping she’d managed to make it up to the other side.
His heart sank when he saw her clinging with both hands to the other half of the bridge as it dangled against the sheer cliff face. He wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do. She was a hundred feet away. Only air between them.
The Cobra executed a tight turn within the gorge, arching upward, then began another run their way.
“Can you climb?” he screamed over the noise.
Her head shook.
“Do it,” he yelled.
She craned her neck his way. “Get out of here.”
“Not without you.”
The Cobra was less than a mile away. Its cannon would start firing any second.
“Climb,” he screamed.
One hand reached up.
Then she fell fifty feet into the rushing river.
How deep it flowed he did not know, but the boulders that protruded along its path did not offer him any solace.
She disappeared into the churning water, which had to be nearly freezing, considering its source was mountain snow.
He waited for her to surface. Somewhere.
But she never did.
He stared down at the roaring gray gush, which carried silt and rock along with a swish of foam in a formidable current. He wanted to leap after her, but realized that was impossible. He wouldn’t survive the fall, either.
He stood and watched, disbelieving.
After all they’d been through the past three days.
Cassiopeia Vitt was gone.