Kill Switch (9780062135285) (8 page)

“Crap,” Tucker finished with a smile. “But how did you know about me and my dog?”

“I was out hunting and spotted your tracks outside of town. I followed them back to my church.”

“Sorry for the intrusion.”

“Think nothing of it. Orthodox churches are intended as sanctuaries. The heat is always on, so to speak. And speaking of heat . . .” The man nodded to the bar's front door. “It seems you've drawn a fair share of your own heat.”

Tucker shrugged. “I'm not sure if the soldiers are in town because of me, but I'm not a big fan of coincidences either.”

“The last time we saw such a group in the area was before the wall came down. They were looking for a foreigner, an Englishman.”

“What happened to him?”

“They found him two miles out of town. Shot him and buried him on the spot. I do not know any of the details, but he was on the run, like you and your dog.”

Tucker must have paled.

Dimitry patted his arm. “Ah, but you have an advantage the Englishman lacked.”

“Which is?”

“You have a friend in town.”

Tucker still felt ill at ease and expressed his concern. “Do you know the phrase
look a gift horse in the mouth
?”

“As in being suspicious of good luck?”

“More or less.”

“I understand your concern. So let me dispense with the formalities and settle things. Have you or do you intend to wreak havoc on Mother Russia?”

“No.”

“Will you harm my flock?”

“Not unless they try to harm me.”

“
Nyet,
of course not.” Dimitry waved his hand dismissively. “So with that business dispensed of, I am going to assume you are simply a lost traveler, and those Moscow thugs were chasing you for stealing soap from your last hotel.”

“Fair enough.”

“I had my fill of the government back in the eighties, when I served as a paratrooper in Afghanistan. I killed a lot of jihadists, and the army gave me a lot of shiny ribbons. But now I am forgotten, like most of us from that war—­at least the ones who truly got our knives dirty. I love my country, but not so much my government. Does that make sense to you?”

“More than you'd imagine.”

“Good. Then that, my wayward friend, is why I am going to help you. I assume you and your keen-­eyed partner spotted the air base?”

“We did.”

“Do you know how to fly a plane?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. But I have a friend who does. In fact—­” Dimitry looked around the bar, half standing, before spotting what he was looking for. “There he is.”

Dimitry pointed toward a pine table near the window where two men were sitting.

“Which one?”

“No, no,
underneath
.”

Tucker peered closer until he could make out a figure under the table. His legs were splayed out, and his head sharply canted to accommodate for the tabletop pressing against his skull. A ribbon of dribble ran from the corner of his mouth to his coat sleeve.

“That is Fedor,” Dimitry said as introduction. “Our postman. He flies in our mail.”

“He's drunk.”

“Massively,” Dimitry agreed. “It is night, after all. In the morning, though, Fedor will be sober. Of course, that does not entirely solve your problem, does it? The Moscow thugs will be patrolling the skies during the day. Your departure must wait until tomorrow night, which means we must keep Fedor sober for, well, longer than he is accustomed.” He paused with a frown. “Now I begin to see a flaw in our plan. No matter. This is a bridge we will cross later.”

“Let's cross it now,” Tucker said. “Fedor can't be your only pilot.”

“
Nyet,
but he is the most experienced. And he is a first-­rate smuggler. Nerchinsk does not live on bread alone, you see. For the right amount of money, he will get you out, right under the noses of these government men, and never tell a soul. And, as it happens, he loves dogs very much.”

Tucker wasn't reassured one bit.

Dimitry downed his drink and stood up. “Come, let us collect him!”

10

March 10, 6:45
A.M.

Nerchinsk, Siberia

Tucker woke just before dawn—­a soldier's habit. With a groan from his back and a twinge of pain from his grazed neck, he pushed up from the church's attic cot and swung his bare feet to the floor.

The prior night, he and Dimitry had hauled the drunken postman across town to the church. On the way here, they had run into a trio of Spetsnaz soldiers, but none of them paid any heed, save for a few laughing gibes at the inebriated state of their companion. At the church, Dimitry offered Tucker and Kane his cot and rolled out a pair of hay-­filled bedrolls for him and Fedor.

Tucker searched the attic space now, realizing he was alone.

Fedor and Dimitry were gone, along with Kane.

Quashing his panic, he went downstairs to find a naked Fedor sitting before the blazing woodstove, seated in a puddle of his own sweat. Beside him stood a plastic milk jug half filled with a clear liquid. Sober now, the man looked younger, more midthirties than forties, with dark lanky hair and a wrestler's build, most of it covered in a mat of fur, a true Russian bear.

A few feet away, Kane sat on his haunches, watching curiously. He acknowledged Tucker's arrival with a wag of his tail.

Fedor lifted the jug, tipped it to his mouth, and took a long gulp.

Bleary eyed, Fedor sloshed the container in Tucker's direction and croaked, “
Vaduh. Naturalnaya vaduh.
”

Tucker pieced together the words.

Natural water.

This must be part of Fedor's sobering ritual: extreme heat and copious amounts of water.

“Priest tells me fly,” Fedor added in badly broken English. “Fly you tonight.”

Tucker nodded. “
Spasiba.
”

“
Da
. Your Russian bad.” He held his head between his palms. “Make my head hurt.”

I don't think it's from my bad accent.

“Your dog beautiful. I love. May buy him, yes, please?”

“No, please.”

Fedor shrugged and guzzled more water. “Trade fly for dog,
da
?”

“
Nyet
. Money.”

Dimitry arrived, carrying in some firewood. “You see, he is already much better. Let us discuss arrangements. I will translate. It will go much faster.” Dimitry spoke to his friend in rapid-­fire Russian, then said to Tucker, “He will fly you tonight, but there will be surcharges.”

“Go ahead.”

“It does not translate well, but first you must pay him extra for missing his drinking tonight. Next, you must pay him extra because you are foreign. Finally, you must pay him extra because the Moscow men are looking for you.”

“Did you tell him they were looking for me?”

“Of course not. Fedor is a drunk, not an idiot.”

“Next?”

“He likes your dog—­”

“Forget it. Next.”

Dimitry said something to Fedor, listened, then replied to Tucker, “Where do you wish to go?”

He had already considered this. They'd likely never reach Perm in Fedor's plane. It was too far. Besides, he wasn't inclined to give away his final destination. The best hope was to reach a closer major city, one that offered plenty of options for his final leg to Perm.

“I need to reach Novosibirsk,” he said.

“Very far,” Dimitry translated. “It will take a lot of fuel.”

Tucker waited while Fedor continued to mutter, making a big show of counting on his fingers and screwing up his face. Finally he said, in English, “Nine thousand ruble.”

Tucker did the rough conversion in his head: 275 U.S. dollars. A bargain. Struggling to keep the smile off his face, he considered this for a bit, then shrugged. “Deal.”

Fedor spit into his hand and held it out.

Reluctantly, Tucker shook it.

1:15
P.M.

After the fierce negotiation, Tucker and Kane spent the remainder of the morning in the church, while Dimitry and Fedor ran various errands, gathering supplies and readying the plane.

Early in the afternoon, Dimitry returned with provisions and news. “I learned there are
two
other GRU units in the region.”

Tucker stood up from the woodstove. “What? Where?”

“They are positioned
west
of here, around the town of Chita. But like here, they are lazy, just smoking and lounging in hotels,
da
?”

Chita?

That was the next major stopover along the Trans-­Siberian Railway. But what did that mean? He gave it some thought and came to only one conclusion. The fact that the search teams weren't actively patrolling for him, only lounging about, suggested Felice might not have had time to get out word that he had escaped the train. She must have hoped a sniper's bullet could correct her failure before her superiors learned the truth.

That was good—­at least for the moment.

But as soon as the train reached Chita, and it was discovered he wasn't aboard, the search units would shift into high gear, including the unit here.

Tucker pulled out his train schedule and checked his watch. The train would reach Chita in three hours, about four hours before sunset. That meant he and Fedor couldn't wait for nightfall before departing.

“We need to take off early,” he told Dimitry. “Now, if we can.”

“Not possible, my friend. The fuel bowser is broken down. Fedor is working on it.”

“How long?”

“I don't know, but I will go find out.”

As Dimitry left, Kane walked over, sat down, and leaned against Tucker's leg, sensing the tension.

Tucker patted Kane's neck, reassuring his partner. “We've been in worse spots than this.”

Not much worse
,
but worse.

He set his watch's countdown timer.

Three hours from now, when it was discovered he was no longer aboard the train, Nerchinsk would be swarming with Spetsnaz soldiers, all hunting for him.

2:36
P.M.

An hour later, Dimitry burst through the church's doors. The panic in his face drew both Tucker and Kane to their feet.

“They are coming!” Dimitry called out, quickly shutting the doors behind him. “The Spetsnaz.”

Tucker checked his watch. It was too early. The train hadn't reached Chita yet. “Slow down. Tell me.”

Dimitry crossed to them. “The soldiers are out patrolling the rest of the town. They do not seem to be in a hurry, but one is coming here nevertheless.”

What did this sudden change mean? If the GRU unit had been activated, the Spetsnaz would be breaking down doors and moving Nerchinsk's inhabitants into the open. Maybe the local commander was only trying to break up the monotony.

Bored soldiers are ineffective soldiers,
he thought.

Still, as Dimitry had said, it didn't matter. One of them was coming.

Tucker donned his pack and tightened the straps on Kane's vest.

“This way,” Dimitry said.

He led them toward a side corner of the sanctuary and knelt before a tapestry-­draped table. He scooted the table aside, lifted the rug beneath, then used the hunting knife in his belt to pry up a section of planking. It lifted free to reveal a vertical tunnel.

“What—­?”

“Cossacks, Nazis, Napoleon . . . who can say? It was here long before I arrived. Get in!”

“Jump down, Kane,” Tucker ordered.

Without hesitation, the shepherd dove into the opening. He landed in the dirt, then disappeared to the left.

Tucker followed, discovering the shaft was only a meter tall.

Dimitry hovered over the opening. “Follow the tunnel. It exits about two hundred meters north of here. Make your way to the east side of the air base and wait for me there. There is a shack near a crushed section of fence. Easy to find.”

With that, Dimitry shut the hatch. A moment later, what little light filtered through the slats was blotted out as the rug and table were slid back into place.

A stiff pounding on the church's door echoed down to him.

Dimitry's footsteps clopped across the wooden floor, followed by the creak of hinges. “
Dobriy den
!
” the bishop called out.

A sullen voice replied in kind, but Tucker didn't wait to hear what followed.

He headed off in a low crouch with Kane. After ten paces, he felt it safe enough to pull out his LED penlight and pan the cone of light down the tunnel. The dirt walls bristled with tree roots, while the roof was shored up with planks, some rotten, others new. Clearly someone had been maintaining the tunnel.

They continued on. For Kane, the going was easy as he trotted forward, scouting. Tucker had to move in a low waddle that had his thighs burning after only a few minutes. He ignored the pain and kept going. After another ten minutes, the tunnel ended at a short ladder entangled with tree roots.

A few inches above his head was a hatch. He craned his neck and pressed his ear against the wood and listened for a full minute. He heard nothing. He crouched back down beside Kane and checked his watch.

In a little over an hour, the train would reach Chita.

He had to be airborne by then.

Tucker recalled his mental map of the area. If Dimitry was correct, the hatch above his head should exit somewhere in the patch of forest that bordered the church grounds. From there, the air base lay more than a mile away, through scrub forest and open fields. Normally an easy hike, but he would have to contend with deep snowdrifts, while keeping out of sight of the newly patrolling soldiers.

He was not normally a pessimist, but he could not dismiss the pure logistics of the situation.

We'll never make it.