Black operator complete.., p.29
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 29
"It would have made no difference," she said to him more gently than he deserved, “This is the outcome they wanted, and the difference is men are dead sooner rather than later."
“Then there's no hope?"
She paused, as if thinking about something. "There's always hope. Nikolai and Mikhail might still be alive."
Rhodes was staring at her now. "I saw her kill them."
She shook her head. "Maybe, but if they are alive, they'll try to rescue us."
"From the gulags?" Kennedy wailed again, "You said yourself, people go there to die."
"Unless they have help, outside help. I'm sorry, Sebastian, I know it's a faint hope."
He didn't reply and sat in silence. Cris edged toward her, toward the sound of the voice, and put his arm around her. "We'll get out of this, Maria. I know we will."
“Cris, people don't escape from the gulags. Not ever."
"There’s a first time for everything."
He was about to say more when the lock rattled, and the heavy door slid open. Four men climbed in, and they were all dressed in warm clothes. They carried gas lanterns, hung them from the roof, settling themselves in all four corners of the car and aiming their guns at them. Now they could see, Cris realized they had backpacks. A few minutes later the train jerked away. They delved into the packs, taking out food, sandwiches, and Thermos flasks with hot tea. He gazed at them, and their hard, sneering stares left no room for any doubt. They could ask for food and drink if they wanted, but it wouldn’t make scrap of difference. These men had their own supplies, and they weren’t about to share. Besides, the prisons weren't traveling in the car for reasons of comfort. They were traveling to their deaths, why waste food and drink on condemned men?
The journey lasted six days, and during that time, they had no food and no drink. The sole exception was when they stopped every four hours, and the guards kicked them out onto the ground side of the track. A chance to relieve themselves, and they scooped up handfuls of snow, pushing into their mouths to absorb the liquid. When the train finally came to a standstill at the end of the journey, he felt faint and weak with hunger. No doubt that was their intention, and even worse, he was numb with cold. They all were, their frozen limbs making it impossible to move faster than at a slow plod. Their bones screamed in agony as they moved after such a long time with no nourishment in Arctic conditions.
"You, come with me," two of the men shouted at Maria.
She gave him a mouthful of Russian, and the way his face reddened, it was nothing pleasant. He advanced on her with his rifle raised to ram her in the back, and Cris jumped in. All he got for his pains was another beating, and when they'd finished, he felt like he'd been run over by a truck.
There was no transport. They marched Maria in one direction, and he estimated it was to the north. He and Kennedy were escorted to the east, and after a journey that lasted three hours, when he guessed they’d traveled about twelve miles; they came to the gate of the camp that was to be their home, and their burial place. The gate opened, they took them inside, and the gates slammed shut. Despite his encouraging words to Maria, he felt more depressed than ever.
There were guards everywhere, well fed men in warm greatcoats carrying assault rifles, old-fashioned AK-47s. Good enough for the camps, good enough to shoot any prisoner who tried to escape. The prisoners walking around like skeletons reminded him of the photographs and movie footage he'd seen after the liberation of the Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland, at the end of the Second World War. While he watched, one man fell in the snow, and a guard walked up to him and started kicking him. The savage beating lasted for several minutes, until another guard came up, put his hand on his arm, and said a few words. He shrugged, and they shouted for a group of the skeletal prisoners to come. They picked up the corpse and struggled between the four of them to carry it away. Punishment, gulag style, and he knew that when they'd walked through those gates, they'd left civilization behind. They'd come through the gates of hell, and the one difference between this place and Satan's kingdom was the ambient temperature.
There were no formalities. They pushed the two men toward a long, wooden hut. The wood was rotting and cracked in places, no doubt it would offer little protection against the bitter night cold. The guards grinned as they shoved them through the door. Kennedy tripped and fell, banging his head on the floor. Rhodes helped him up.
"I guess this is where we stay. We’ll need to find a bed."
"You'd better be careful which bunk you take. If a man finds you’ve taken his bed, he’ll kill you."
* * *
They finally left, and Mikhail began the long process of helping Nikolai down from the roof. In the end, it took him two hours of pushing and shoving, and eventually he had no choice but to do it the hard way. He pulled him to the very edge, jumped down, pulling him down after him, doing his best to soften the blow as he fell. They rolled into soft snow, but it made little difference to Nikolai's terrible stomach wound. He was in incredible agony, and the violent movement made it worse. Unable to control his pain, he screamed, long and loud.
He couldn't carry him. The two bullets that had impacted his shoulder made it impossible. All he could do was take hold of his coat and pull him across the snow, like a sled. Screaming in agony, and he closed his ears to stop the terrible noise penetrating his brain. After another half-hour, he made it to the Zil, the Russian-built military four-wheel drive jeep. One-armed, he pushed and pulled Nikolai onto the rear seat, climbed into the driver's seat, and started the engine. He followed the signs for the nearby town of Ruskeala. It wasn't far, less than a kilometer, and all he needed was to find a public telephone and call collect to their organization in Moscow. He drove slowly, searching for a sign that indicated a phone, but he never made it.
The first indication of trouble was the flashing blue light, and then a battered Russian Lada police cruiser overtook them, forcing them to a stop. The ancient vehicle was an anachronism from the seventies, but still in use in many parts of Russia. Two cops climbed out and walked back toward them. If he had any ideas of talking his way out of this one, he pushed them to the back of his mind. He'd be wasting his time. Two severely wounded civilians in a military jeep was sufficient. Add that to the obvious bullet wounds, the fact the border post had been under attack, border guards were dead, and their chances were zero.
Both cops had their guns out, one standing either side of the Zil. "Get out."
"My friend in back needs help. He's badly wounded."
The cop on the passenger side looked at him and roughly shook him. Nikolai screamed in agony, and the man nodded. "I believe he is telling the truth. This man needs treatment."
The cop standing next to Mikhail nodded. "This one doesn't look much better. Where are your wounds?"
He told them he'd taken two bullets in the shoulder, and the cop nodded. "Very well, we'll take you to the local medical center. The town does not have a hospital, but the doctor will patch you up." He laughed, "He also serves as a veterinary surgeon, and on occasion makes extra money by performing abortions and suchlike. He's generally very good, although sometimes the vodka gets the better of him. If you live, you can consider yourselves under arrest."
He chuckled again, and they left Nikolai in the jeep. The cop slapped handcuffs on Mikhail and put him into the Lada. He drove away, and the other cop followed in the Zil. They halted outside a long, single story modern building, with a sign that indicated they'd reached the local health center. The cop climbed from the Lada and hammered on the door. It took twenty minutes to get an answer. The man who came to the door looked less than inspiring.
"What is it?"
"Two casualties from the shootout at the border post."
"I didn't know anything about a shootout. I've been asleep."
"You weren’t likely to. Most of them are dead, and these two are the only survivors. Do your best patch them up, and we’ll take them to the local Militia Post and book them."
"Book them for what?"
"The murder, of course. Hurry up, Doc. We are due off duty in a couple of hours."
He scowled. They ignored him and carried Nikolai into the building, dumping him on a bloodstained rubber sheet on a crude table. Then they brought in Mikhail and pushed him into a chair where he could watch the proceedings. The doctor injected Nikolai with some sort of anesthetic and went to work. It took him over an hour, and when he finished, he was covered in blood that had leaked onto the floor. He'd rigged a bag of plasma onto a drip stand and bandaged up the wounds. He looked at the cops.
"I've done the best I can do in a short time, but he needs the attention of someone more skilled in battlefield wounds."
"Too bad, we don't have time. Will he live?"
A shrug. "I've pumped him full of antibiotic drugs, so with luck any infection won’t spread. If nothing goes wrong in the next twenty-four hours, yes, he should live. What about the other one, you want me to look at him?"
"Shoulder wound, two bullets. Yes, but make it quick."
Mikhail spent an agonizing half-hour while the doc probed the wound for lead and debris. He'd given him a local anesthetic, but whatever it was, it was less than a hundred percent effective. He fought and struggled to prevent himself from crying out in agony. The doctor finished binding the wounds.
"That's it. I've done what I can. Who's going to pay me for this?"
They both laughed. "Send a bill to the militia. Come on, let's go. I'm hungry, and my breakfast is overdue."
They left the Zil and shut them into the back of the Lada. Nikolai was awake, and the drugs they'd injected him with had taken effect, reducing the worst of the agony. He looked at Mikhail.
"Where are they taking us?"
"The local Militia Post in Ruskeala."
The man in the passenger seat overheard him. "That's just a temporary stop. We’ll be calling our headquarters in Moscow, and my guess is the FSB will be interested in both of you. It's not just a simple murder, an attack on a border post is a terrorist offence, and that means internal security."
Mikhail and Nikolai stared at each other. As bad as it was, it was about to get worse. And then it did get worse. They reached the Militia Post and dragged them inside, throwing them into a huge cell filled with drunks, smugglers, rapists, and murderers. The dregs of the streets were all in there, and they had one thing in common. They were all predators. For twenty-four hours the only food or drink came in plastic buckets, filled with a lukewarm cabbage soup. Even to get that, Mikhail had to fight through it while Nikolai guarded the tiny space they occupied on the crowded floor.
By morning, they were finished. The other inmates were beginning to rouse from the night’s sleep, and it was clear they were ready to take out their anger and frustration on the two newcomers. Then the door opened, and a cop shouted, “Mironov and Dennikin. Come with me."
He helped Nikolai to stagger along behind the cop. The uniformed man didn't seem concerned they might escape, which wasn't surprising. They were both stiff from the wounds and shuffling along like zombies. Besides, they were still inside the secure section of the Militia Post cellblock, and they had nowhere to go. Mikhail had no illusions about the fate awaiting them. They'd have contacted FSB in Moscow, and no doubt the truck had arrived to transfer them to their headquarters for interrogation. After that, assuming either of them was still alive, a bullet in the head, and it would all be over.
To their surprise, the cop indicated the door to an interview room.
"Get in there, and take a seat. I'll get someone to bring some sandwiches and coffee. I have a few questions for you."
They seated themselves in the room, and he waited until the food and drink arrived on a tray. They didn't ask questions, didn't begin to question their luck. Perhaps it was the hearty meal given to condemned men, but if they were going to die, why not at least die with full bellies?
"My name is Anton Gurko, Sergeant Anton Gurko of the Ruskeala Militia. You are Nikolai Mironov and Mikhail Dennikin, yes?"
They nodded, unable to speak with a mouthful of food.
"Where is she?"
Both men stop eating. Mikhail put the remains of the sandwich on the plate and pushed it away. "So that's it. You think we're going to repeat what you already know. Your people took her, the men who attacked us. By now, they'll be on their way to the gulag."
He looked mystified. "Gulag? Which gulag?"
He grimaced. "You're a cop, and you ask me that? The only gulags I've ever heard about are in Siberia, and that's where your people have taken them."
"FSB," the cop murmured, “Not militia. Not my people.”
"FSB," he agreed, "So why ask stupid questions? Do what you want, and don't expect any help from us."
The cop didn't look too offended. If anything, he seemed to relax and looked reassured. "You two men really were her bodyguards."
“We were, but it didn’t help her in the end. They’ve taken her, and they’ll kill her.”
"Not everyone wants her dead."
"Excuse me?"
“I belong to Tereshkova's organization." He looked around warily, as if expecting someone to be in the room, listening to the conversation, "The thing is, I can help you. What can you do to save her?"
Mikhail stared at him in astonishment. "You're serious? You’re a cop, and you want to help?"
"That's right. If they've taken to a gulag, she won't last long; you know that. If I could get you out of here, could you do anything to help? To get her out?"
Mikhail was dumbfounded, and he was thinking fast. The sheer logistics of getting them across thousands of miles of the Russian interior were mind numbing. To enter the harsh, terrible interior of Siberia, then locate the gulag where they were holding her, and get her out. To deal with heavily armed guards who would be there to prevent her escape.
"It can't be done. We can barely walk."
"I can get you drugs, painkilling drugs, antibiotics, whatever you need." He chuckled, "One thing we have here in quantity is drugs. We confiscate them every day. What else would you need?"
“Weapons."
He nodded. “I can arrange that. What about transport?"
Transport. The mere mention of the word made him think of the crushing near-impossibility of making the journey. In the state they were in, wounded, and Nikolai suffering extreme pain. Yet Maria needed them, and they’d let her down.
This friendly cop can supply us with most things, but he can't get us to Siberia. Not in time, not before they kill her, unless he can summon up a magic carpet. The Militia Sergeant means well, but he isn’t a magician.
"Anton, to have any chance, we’d need fast transport. Forget road or rail, it would take too long. The only way we could get there in time is by air, and even you, my friend, couldn't arrange flights for two wounded fugitives."
"You’re saying you need a plane, is that all?”
"Plane? You're not serious?"
"I'm serious. I will call and make the arrangements. Anything else?"
They went over a shopping list of all they’d need to do the impossible, to reach Siberia and rescue a prisoner from the gulag. Still not believing he could fix it up, they let Gurko lead them out. He pushed open the fire exit door, and the chill of the morning slapped them in the face as they stumbled out into the snow. He went toward the Zil, which was in the parking lot behind the Militia Post.
The engine started, and he drove them away in the open jeep, shivering for almost an hour until he came to a halt next to a derelict airstrip. The sole structure on the wide, flat open space was a wooden building of about twenty meters a side. Next to the building, a plane stood on what they assumed was the runway. A vintage aircraft, with skis fitted to the undercarriage struts in place of wheels. Mikhail shook his head in astonishment.
"You cannot be serious. That piece of junk won’t get off the ground. It belongs in a museum.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate that aircraft or the man who flies it. The pilot’s name is Peter Schiller. His grandfather was German, Erich von Schiller, one of the rare Germans who fought on the Communist side during World War II. He even served in the front lines as a commissar and broadcast propaganda to the Germans. The history books tell us Erich did a great deal to help defeat the Nazis. Peter is his grandson, and he’s as Russian as me." His lips parted in the ghost smile, “Although deep down I suspect he’s still something of a German, which means he doesn't trust the Russians. As for the aircraft, you'd be surprised how well it flies. We need to meet him, and you can talk to him."
He brought the Zil to a stop outside the wooden structure, and they climbed up. During the journey, they’d both swallowed mouthfuls of painkillers. They could walk more easily, though Nikolai was conscious the wound in his stomach could open any time. They followed Anton into the building, and two men were sitting on battered couches. One was reading a newspaper, the other filling a gun with bullets. A big, ancient revolver, and as he saw the door open and the men coming, he slammed the chamber closed and swung toward them. He relaxed a little when he recognized Gurko.
“Anton, my friend, what have you brought for me this time? Do they want to leave Russia with a few stolen icons, or perhaps part of the Imperial treasure of the Czars? If so, I can arrange it, providing they cut me in."
Peter Schiller was of average height and looked like a typical German. He even carried himself erect, like a soldier, as his forefathers would have when they marched east to conquer the Russian Colossus. Blonde hair, crew cut, and pale blue eyes, like his German ancestors. The grim, steel-helmeted troops with their panzers who’d poured into Russia in 1941. Before they retreated in disarray when the Russians forced them back to Berlin, and reduced what remained of the city to a smoking heap of ruins.
"This is Mikhail and Nikolai. They work for Tereshkova."
His eyes flared open. “Maria Tereshkova?”
“They grabbed her at the border.”
He frowned. “We heard about the fracas at the border post night. I assume she’s dead?"
