Road Of Bones. Don Pendleton
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There was more silence on the far end of the line. This time, it brought a smile to Marshak’s face. It felt good to intimidate subordinates, remind them of their proper place.
To stress his point, he declared, “I will be following your progress, Stephan. If it seems to me that you require further assistance, it will be provided.”
Levshin sounded nervous as he answered, “Sir, I’m confident that I can solve this problem with the staff on hand.”
“A staff reduced by careless losses, as it is,” Marshak replied. “If I decide to send you help, you’ll be advised.”
“Yes, sir.” A nice hint of dejection was audible in his voice.
“And, Stephan?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You realize that both of us are under scrutiny. If you fail, I am judged a failure.”
“Sir—”
“And I will not go down alone.”
Marshak replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle, poured himself another shot of bacon and began rehearsing his report to his superiors.
* * *
THEIR VESSEL WAS the Zarya, which Bolan knew meant “sunrise.” It was forty-odd-feet long and might have been a trawler once, before it was converted to river commerce. Several years had passed since it was painted, and the metal fittings didn’t gleam, but it felt solid underfoot and there was power in the engine room, once Glushko got it rumbling.
They’d been doubly cautious on the waterfront, leaving the car a long block from the Zarya’s berth and walking in with weapons close at hand. If they were spotted, no one tried to make a move. Bolan allowed himself to hope the hostile forces might be spread too thin to cover every point of exit from Yakutsk, but he and Anuchin were agreed to be prepared for trouble on the other side, when they arrived.
As for the possibility of being hit before they got across…well, they would have to wait and see.
When they had cleared the dock, he found some privacy and dialed Brognola’s number on his satellite phone. It was fourteen hours earlier in Washington—say, 6:40 p.m.—so he tried the home number and heard it ring twice before the big Fed picked up.
“Are we scrambled?” Bolan asked.
“Wait one.” A click on the line told him his old friend had engaged the scrambler, turning their words to gibberish for any eavesdroppers between D.C. and the Sakha Republic. “Okay. Are you clear?”
“Change of plans,” Bolan said. “We got blocked at the airport.”
“So, now what?” Brognola asked.
“Now we improvise,” Bolan replied. “We’ll be traveling overland.”
The big Fed processed that, maybe called up a map in his mind. “That’s a long way to run,” he observed, “if they’re dogging you.”
“Without wings,” Bolan told him, “it’s all that we’ve got.”
“Roger that. And you’re coming out…where?”
“Magadan,” Bolan said.
“Okay. Hang on a second.” He came back seconds later: “They have an airport, Sokol. You can catch Alaska Airlines there.”
“Unless it’s covered,” Bolan said.
“You’re right. They wouldn’t be that careless,” Brognola agreed. “It’s also on the Sea of Okhotsk, so you’ve got a clear shot out to the Pacific, once you’re past the Kuril Islands.”
“Quite a swim,” Bolan said. “What is that, about five thousand miles to San Francisco?”
“Smart-ass. I was thinking we’d have someone meet you,” Brognola replied.
“Sounds better,” Bolan admitted, “but they’ll likely meet with opposition. Maybe the official kind.”
“I’ll have a word with someone at the Pentagon and see what they can slip under the radar, so to speak.”
“Appreciate it,” Bolan said. “I’ll try to stay in touch as we proceed.”
He didn’t need to say what it would mean if there was no callback. The downside of a covert op on hostile ground was understood, a given, and remained unspoken. Bolan wasn’t superstitious in the least, but there was nothing to be gained by tempting fate.
“Stay frosty, eh?” Brognola said.
“We may not have a choice,” Bolan replied. “Siberia, you know?” He cut the link and found Anuchin watching him. “I’m working on a lift, from Magadan,” he said, and thought now all they had to do was make it there.
* * *
MARSHAK HAD WAITED as long as he dared. The others wouldn’t thank him for letting them sleep, if matters spun out of control in the meantime.
He had arranged a three-way conference call, the lines secure against all outside listeners, although Marshak himself was taping every word. It was a hedge against disaster. Call it life insurance.
His companions on the line were Kliment Gabritschevsky, second deputy director of the Ministry of the Interior, with responsibility for the Public Security Service; and Grigory Rybakov, pakhan—“godfather”—of the Izmaylovskaya gang, Moscow’s oldest and strongest clan of the Mafiya. Between them, they wielded more power than most elected officials in Russia.
“What news from the East?” Gabritschevsky inquired when they had disposed of the curt salutations.
“A new disappointment, I fear,” Marshak said. “The traitor returned to Yakutsk Airport with an accomplice, but Stephan’s soldiers were unable to detain them.”
A jab at Rybakov, since he’d supplied the man Levshin was using in Yakutsk. The mobster took it silently, while Gabritschevsky said, “That’s troubling, Colonel. If you can’t even contain two people, what does that say for the state of national security?”
“They are contained, Deputy Minister. If they remain in Yakutsk, I will root them out. If they attempt to flee, they have a single avenue remaining.”
“Ah. The Road of Bones,” Gabritschevsky said.
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Listen,” Rybakov cut in. “If you need more soldiers on the ground out there, just say so.”
“Four are dead already,” Marshak answered. “Five, with the interrogator. I may need real soldiers if you want the job done properly.”
“What do you have in mind?” Gabritschevsky asked.
“Spetsnaz,” Marshak said, the Russian special purpose regiment, trained in counterterrorist techniques and black ops that included hostage rescue, sabotage and targeted assassination.
“That’s a big step,” Gabritschevsky cautioned.
“It’s a big fall, if they get away,” Marshak replied.
Rybakov spoke up to say, “You mentioned an accomplice.”
“Yes.”
“Is this the man who killed my people?” Rybakov asked.
“I believe so,” Marshak told him. “There’s no proof, of course, but he is traveling with the woman.”
“Proof enough,” Rybakov said. “I want his head.”
“Talk to your men,” Marshak replied. “The ones still living. This makes twice they’ve let him slip away.”
“Perhaps I should send Boris out to supervise,” Rybakov said, referring to his second in command, a thug