Road Of Bones. Don Pendleton
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Let the blow fall on him, while Milescu smiled all the way to the bank.
* * *
YEVGENY GLUSHKO’S MAP was accurate. It led Bolan and Anuchin to the motorcycle shop, located eight blocks from the waterfront, sandwiched between a restaurant and tannery. The warring smells of spicy food and curing hides combined for an assault on the soldier’s nostrils as he watched the cycle shop from half a block away.
Once again, he found no obvious ambush waiting there.
“Ready?” he asked Anuchin.
“Ready,” she said, slipping a hand inside the pocket of her long coat where a pistol was concealed. She might have trouble getting to the submachine gun hidden in her heavy shoulder bag, but if it went to hell within the next few seconds, Bolan thought he could take up the slack with his Kalashnikov.
He stepped out of the alley first, with Anuchin covering his back, then felt her take a place beside him as they crossed the street. Pedestrians passed by, ignoring them. Bolan relaxed a little as they reached the shop and stepped across its threshold, but he still remained on full alert.
A scruffy guy in greasy coveralls, his gray hair tied back into a ponytail, approached them. Anuchin mentioned Glushko’s name and asked for Ilya, whereupon the man nodded and answered her in what appeared to be a Russian dialect.
Bolan knew he had a choice to make: reveal himself as a foreigner, or let Anuchin make the deal and hope it went all right. Without impugning her ability to rent a motorcycle, Bolan was the one who had to drive it, so the choice was made.
“English?” he asked the shop’s proprietor.
“Yes. I speak.”
“We’re heading east on the Kolyma Highway,” Bolan told him. “We need a bike that can handle the road with two people and some gear aboard.”
“The Road of Bones, eh?” Ilya answered, looking at the two of them as if they’d lost their minds. “Maybe a helicopter you should rent and fly to Magadan.”
“We want to try the scenic route,” Bolan replied. “Do you have something suitable in stock?”
“Best bike in shop for what you say is BMW,” Ilya advised. “The R1200GS dual-sport model. Come this way, I show.”
They followed Ilya to the rear of his shop, past various bikes, until he stopped before a black-and-silver machine with the familiar BMW logo on its fuel tank. Like most dual-sport bikes—also known as “on-off road” models—the R1200GS had heavy-duty suspension front and back, with fenders elevated well above the knobby tires. It had an oversize eight-gallon tank, feeding an 1170 cc two-cylinder engine. The touring package included dual stainless-steel panniers—the equivalent of saddlebags—and a rack for a pillion bag or other gear in back. The whole package measured roughly six feet long, with its swooped seat for two, three feet off the ground.
“It looks good,” Bolan told him, “but I’ll need to take it for a test drive.”
“Sure, sure,” Ilya said. “Your lady is collateral, okay?”
It had been a while since Bolan went two-wheeling, but it came back to him in a rush once he was mounted on the BMW. He rolled out of the shop in first gear, checked both ways before he nosed into traffic, then opened up the engine as he circled a couple of blocks and returned. It shifted smoothly and he had no difficulty with the brakes or throttle. Bolan estimated that the bike weighed something like 450 pounds with nothing packed in the panniers, and tried to guess how it would handle once it had been loaded, with a second passenger riding behind him.
There was literally no time like the present to find out.
Returning to the shop, he told Ilya, “I like it. So, how much?”
Ilya considered Bolan’s question, as if it had never crossed his mind before. At last, he said, “Five hundred thousand rubles. You call it sixteen grand, U.S.”
“I call it sold,” Bolan said with a smile.
Washington, D.C.: 7:35 p.m.
HAl BROGNOLA double-checked his time zones from the World Clock website on his laptop, and confirmed that it was 3:35 a.m. in Moscow. He felt a certain sense of satisfaction as he dialed the number that had been relayed to him through Stony Man.
If I don’t sleep, Brognola thought with pleasure, no one sleeps.
The distant telephone rang three times before someone picked it up. A groggy male voice muttered in French, “Who is this?”
“Harold Brognola, calling from the DOJ in Washington.”
“You’re working late,” the other man replied. “Or is it early there?”
“One or the other,” Brognola said. “I’m looking for Gerard Delorme.”
“And you have found him, monsieur.”
“With Interpol?”
“The very same, but out of uniform just now,” Delorme said.
“We need to talk on a secure line,” the big Fed advised him.
“I can scramble here,” the Frenchman said, now sounding wide-awake. “Give me a moment, s’il vous plaît.”
“Sounds fair.”
Brognola heard a buzz and humming on the line, resolved a second later as Delorme returned.
“That’s better,” Delorme advised. “You must be calling about my disaster in Yakutsk, oui?”
“Sorry to hear you lost one of your assets,” Brognola replied. “We’ve managed to redeem the other for you, but it’s touch and go right now.”
“The danger is continuing. Je comprends. I understand, of course.”
Brognola wasn’t comfortable giving details of the planned escape route to a total stranger, but he said, “My agent has an exit strategy in mind. It would be helpful if we knew the other players. Who’ll be hunting them? What kind of resources will they commit?”
“The who, I am afraid to say, is everyone,” Delorme said. “My asset, as you call her, has sufficient evidence to topple—and perhaps imprison—leaders of the FSB, the Russian Mafia and certain persons highly placed in government, together with their friends abroad.”
“That big, is it?” the big Fed asked.
“Indeed,” Delorme said. “As to resources for the hunt, who knows? I can’t predict how brazen they may be. The FSB alone has more than three hundred thousand employees. Most of them clerks, I grant you, but there is the Counterintelligence Service and Border Guard Service. Add the Militsiya and MVD Internal Troops, perhaps the Federal Protective Service…”
“Okay,” Brognola said. “I get the picture.”
“I regret to say, their chances are not good.”
“I don’t suppose there’s anything that you can do to help, from where you are?”
“The Russian Federation is a member state of Interpol,” Delorme said, “which means I have a two-room office at the Lubyanka, with a secretary who makes coffee that tastes like dishwater. My function is advisory. The janitors have more authority.”
“But you know things,” Brognola said.
“Indeed. I was surprised—and gratified, I must say—when these assets trusted me enough to make contact. I served as their liaison to the FBI’s legal attaché here, in Moscow. I’m aware that contact was established with the CIA, as well, but details were withheld from me.”
“So, you’ve had no contact with either of the assets since that time?” Brognola asked.
“The woman called me when they planned to leave,” Delorme said. “Then I heard about her partner from an officer