Road Of Bones. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ “Yes, sir,” Levshin said stiffly. Wounded pride be damned. The man was growing arrogant. “Our escorts for the package have been killed, Colonel. Along with the examiner.”

       “Better,” Marshak allowed, although the news was bad—nearly the worst it could have been. “And what about the package?”

       “Gone, sir.”

       So it was the very worst scenario.

       “Can you explain this?” he asked.

       “The mechanics of it only, sir,” his second in command replied. “At least one individual surprised them. The casings tell us he was armed with a Kalashnikov, one of the 5.45 millimeter models. Two of the escorts returned fire, with no apparent effect.”

       “You think one man?” Marshak pressed him.

       “Yes, sir. From the appearance of the scene.”

       “I’ll have to tell our friend,” Marshak said.

       “Yes, sir.”

       No names, although the line was meant to be secure. Who really knew these days?

       “I don’t suppose there’s any way to find out what they learned, if anything?”

       “No, sir. Without the package…” Levshin left the obvious unspoken.

       “No.” Marshak released a weary breath. “You must retrieve it, Major. At all costs. I will arrange for reinforcements as required.”

       “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I don’t believe the package has left the area. There’s been little time, and it may have been damaged.”

       “Ah.”

       Some hope, at least, if the interrogator’s ministrations made it difficult for Tatyana Anuchin to travel. Still, she’d managed to escape, aided by whom? At least one killer and a wild card in the game, unknown to Marshak. If the man—or men—were good enough to sneak up on the capture team and take them down, could he—or they—smuggle the woman out of Yakutsk?

       Out of Russia?

       That was unacceptable. Unthinkable.

       “You understand how bad it is for all of us, unless we put it right,” Marshak reminded Levshin.

       “Absolutely, sir. Our friend’s men failed you. I will not.”

       “See that you don’t,” Marshak replied, and cut the link.

       Six dead in Yakutsk now, counting the traitor Dollezhal. Digging so many graves in permafrost was tiresome, but there had to be room enough for half a dozen bodies in the Lena, surely. Failing that, Stephan could drop them down a mine shaft.

       Out of sight, and who would give a damn?

       Grigory Rybakov, of course. Four of the dead were his men, out on loan to help the FSB and cover his own ass at the same time. To plug the leak before it drowned them all.

       And how bad would it be if Sergeant Anuchin escaped?

       Russia’s constitution banned extradition of citizens to stand trial abroad, but in rare cases trial on foreign charges might proceed in Russian courts, with “necessary foreign experts” participating in the prosecution. That wouldn’t save Rybakov’s men in the States or in Europe, of course, but Marshak cared little for them.

       He was concerned about himself, the damage to his reputation, his career—and yes, to his accumulated fortune—if the bitch who had betrayed him wasn’t found and silenced. He could deal with an internal inquiry, assisted by superiors who had as much or more to lose than Marshak did.

       But if the case went public, he was lost.

       A colonel made a nice fat sacrifice for others higher up the chain of rank. A general, perhaps, or someone in the prime minister’s cabinet. Maybe the prime minister himself?

       Before any of his superiors went down, they would be pleased to let him take the fall, resign in shame, perhaps receive a token prison term. There’d be a pension of some sort when he was finally paroled, of course…unless he had an accident in jail, or even prior to trial. Such things weren’t unknown in Russia.

       They were commonplace, in fact.

       The answer was to find Anuchin and destroy her, with the man or men who cared enough to rescue her. And those who had employed them, if he had the opportunity.

       And it had to be accomplished soon.

      * * *

      WHILE ANUCHIN showered, Bolan used his cell phone for a call to Yakutsk Airport. The Russian agent had gone through the telephone directory with him and had compiled a short list of three charter airlines operating from the local airport.

       Bolan passed on Yakutskiye Avialinii, which Anuchin described as an official airport subsidiary, and tried his luck with the second company in line. Private Jets Charter Service had an English-language website and an operator who agreed that they could fly two passengers to Tokyo aboard a Dassault Falcon 50 or a Hawker 800 on three hours’ notice for nine thousand dollars U.S.

       The soldier put the nonrefundable deposit on his Visa card, and drifted to the bathroom, knocking hard enough for her to hear him in the shower.

       “Almost done,” she told him.

       “Take your time,” he called back through the door. “Our flight takes off at seven-thirty.”

       She turned the shower off and said, “You’ve booked a plane?”

       “It’s set,” he answered. “All we have to do is check in with their booking agent at the terminal.”

       There was silence from Anuchin then, except for sounds of rustling fabric. Bolan guessed a towel, then clothing she had taken from a closet in the safehouse. Feeling like a voyeur, he retreated to the living room.

       She joined him moments later, dressed in slacks, a blouse and sweater, with a towel around her head. There was a certain stiffness to her movements, which was no surprise after the ordeal she’d been through.

       Still, she declared, “That’s better.”

       “You can rest awhile before we go,” Bolan said. “Longer, on the flight.”

       “They must have asked you questions.”

       “Just my name, and whether I could pay,” Bolan replied.

       “Your name. Which is…?”

       They hadn’t got around to formal introductions yet. “Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. “And yours, I know.”

       “Of course, you must. You’re CIA?” she asked.

       “A cousin, several times removed.”

       “You realize the airport will be watched,” she said.

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