Snow Wolf (49 page)

The noise in the cockpit was almost
overwhelming as the MIL suddenly halted in midair, shuddering as it hovered
above the Emka, tossing the trees furiously and kicking up flurries of snow.

Lukin saw the couple's surprised faces
through the windshield, frozen in the searchlight for an instant, the same
couple from the checkpoint.

There was a moment of frantic indecision,
then he tore open the small window at the side of the helicopter, aimed his
pistol at the car and fired.

He saw glass shatter on the passenger
side and then suddenly the car lurched forward and sped through the forest.

"After them!" Lukin roared.

The pilot turned the MIL in an arc and
began to clatter over the trees after the car.

Stanski sweated as he gripped the
steering wheel hard, the car bumping down the narrow road. Freezing air blasted
into the cab from the shattered window but he was hardly aware of the icy chill
as he drove, all his senses concentrating on the way ahead. Every now and then the
car bumped violently as it hit a rut and Anna held onto the door for her life.

Seconds later the noise of the helicopter
roared above as it suddenly overtook them, spun around and hovered in midair,
the searchlight cutting into their eyes. Stanski swore as the light blinded him
and for an instant he lost control of the car as it lurched and he fought for
control.

The Ernka skidded. He put on a burst of
speed and then they were ahead of the beam again. There was a narrow track off
to the right and he yanked the wheel around and turned into it, the helicopter
following until it was ahead of them once more. Then they heard a metallic
thump as a bullet flipped through the roof of the car and Anna screamed as the
lead embedded itself in the rear seat.

"Hold on tight!"

Stanski gripped the steering wheel with
one hand, rolled down the side window and wrenched out his Tokarev. He eased on
the brakes and slowed. Seconds later the helicopter came tearing over the trees
and floated directly ahead of them, the machine swinging left and right as it
tried to settle itself. Slan ski suddenly saw the major's face in the cockpit.

He aimed, fired three quick shots, and
saw holes blossom on the glass dome as the pistol cracked.

The helicopter lurched but continued to
hover and then Stanski saw the major aim out through the side window. Puffs of
white exploded in the snow to the left of the Emka.

Seconds later Stanski saw the main road
fifty meters in front. Off to the left, ahead of them, was a towering electric
pylon, thick metal cables running high on either side. He yelled at Anna,
"Keep your head down!"

He gave a sudden burst of speed and the
Emka roared toward The throaty clatter of the blades was deafening as the MIL
tore through the air. There was an atmosphere of desperation in the cockpit as
the pilot fought to control the machine, turning in sharp banks, following the
Emka as it twisted and turned and snaked through the woods.

Lukin's eyes were on the car. He had the
Tokarev stuck out through the side window, trying to get a clear shot at the
driver, but it was almost impossible. Every time the MIL got ahead of the car
it veered off onto another track and the helicopter yawed violently to keep up.

He roared at the pilot, "Try to keep
this damned thing steady, can't you!"

"I'm doing my fucking best!"

The Emka suddenly slowed and they
overtook it again. As the MILITARY CHOPPER swung around and the pilot tried to
settle the searchlight on the car there was the sound of rapid gunfire and
three holes cracked in the glass above their heads. The MIL lifted as Lukin
ducked his head instinctively, aimed through the window and got off two quick
shots, but both went wide. The Emka started to move again, turning right, then
back onto the forest road that led down to the highway.

"Keep after them! Don't lose
them!"

They were fifty meters from the highway
when Lukin suddenly felt a frightening shuddering.

The pilot screamed, "Oh my God ...
In horror Lukin saw the towering electricity pylon almost dead ahead. The pilot
tried frantically to veer away at the last moment, but a second later the
blades clipped the electric cables and there was a powerful blinding flash of
blue corona, sparks bursting like fireworks in front of their faces.

There was an almighty harsh metallic
crash as the MIL yawed into the massive pylon and then the noise of the blades
died abruptly and the helicopter sank in a burst of flame.

Leningrad. February 27th The tram halted
on the Nevsky Prospect and Anna and Stanski climbed down.

It was early afternoon and traffic
clogged Leningrad's broad main street. He took Anna's hand as they walked along
the lengthy crowded avenue. It had started to snow and the entire stretch was a
chaos of noise and pedestrians.

The Alexander column in the Winter Palace
and the magnificent dome of St. Isaac's Cathedral rose behind them in the
distance. The lime-colored Tsarist buildings lining the canals that ran either
side of the Nevsky Prospect looked dazzling in the snow, easing the general
impression of grayness. But on almost every side street there were still ruins
standing from the war, blackened shells of buildings half demolished or
supported precariously with struts of heavy timber, testament to a siege that
had lasted almost a year, destroyed nearly half the city, and cost the lives of
over half a million of its inhabitants.

Strung across Nevsky Prospect was a giant
banner of a beaming Joseph Stalin, smiling down at the traffic trundling past:
trucks and cars, buses and trolley cars and trams; German BMWS and Volkswagens
and Opels, surrendered or abandoned by a defeated Nazi enemy and gratefully
confiscated by the city's wrathful population.

Stanski stared up at the banner of
Stalin, then turned to Anna as they walked through the crowd. She was tired and
pale and there was a look of tension in her eyes.

They had abandoned the Emka on a side
street in the suburb of Udeinay, ten kilometers away, taken a bus to the edge
of the city and then one of the yellow city trams the rest of the way. Within
half an hour they were in the center of Leningrad.

When they reached the corner opposite the
main railway station for Moscow, Stanski found a telephone coin box and dialed
the number.

The thin-faced man placed three tumblers
of vodka on the shabby table, He drank one quickly and looked at the man and
woman before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve and smiling over.

"Drink up. You're going to need
it."

The man was middle-aged, and his dark,
lean face showed no sign of nervousness.

He was a Ukrainian nationalist, and after
the war he had lived in Paris as a refugee, working as a photographer, until
the Americans had helped send him into Russia with the identity of a Soviet
prisoner-of-war caught up in the advancing Allied lines at G6ttingen. Once he
had been handed over with hundreds of other Russian soldiers there had been
weeks of brutal interrogation at the hands of the KGB, and even then he had to
endure two years in the Gulag for his supposed mistake of being caught by the
Germans.

After that it was easy.

He got a job in the photography studio
near the Petrograd Embankment and took flattering photographs of senior
officers from the Leningrad Naval Academy. They were so pleased they came back
to him with their friends and families and now and then he took shots of them
and their comrades at naval functions.

Every month he delivered copies and
biographies of interest to an immigrant agent in Leningrad, to be passed on
down the line to the immigrant office in Paris, and eventually to the
Americans.

A dangerous job. But he was getting his
own back at the Reds for what they had inflicted on his country.

He had met the couple in the park near
the Winter Palace an hour after the phone call to his studio. He took them on
several roundabout tram rides back to his home, not testing until they sat in
the filthy two-roomed tenement off an alleyway along the Moika Canal near
Nevsky Prospect.

"What's the problem?" asked
Stanski.

"Everything you've told me suggests
a problem. You're both fucked, or my name isn't Vladimir Rykov." He looked
,it Anna and shrugged as he blew out smoke and offered the pack to his guests.
"There's really no other way of putting it, I'm afraid, my dear."

As Stanski accepted a cigarette, suddenly
across the landing a couple could be heard arguing at the tops of their voices,
swearing at each other, doors banging and voices raised. A scream curdled the
air; there was the sound of someone being slapped and a voice boomed, "Get
your hands off me, you filthy pig!"

Vladimir raised his eyes toward the door
and half smiled. "Love. Where would we be without it? Russians like to
argue and throw things. What they can't do to authority they do at home."
He nodded toward the door. "Don't worry about those two, they're at it
night and day. Any moment you'll hear the door banging, the husband will call
his wife a bitch, and then he'll be off to get drunk."

At that moment a door slammed, an angry
voice shouted, "Bitch!" and footsteps clattered down the stairs.

Vladimir laughed. "See? If only
everything in life was as reliable as my neighbors." Stanski said,
"You were about to tell us why we're in trouble."

The man looked back and sucked on his
cigarette. "For two reasons. Number one, from what you told me the KGB and
militia are doubtless going to be looking for you. Number two, whatever route
you take is going to be difficult."

"We could leave if you're
worried," Stanski offered. "But we've nowhere else to go."

Vladimir shook his head resignedly.
"Don't worry about me.

My worry went out the door with the war.
I lost my wife and family. There's only me left. What is there to worry
about?"

He stood and reached for the vodka.
"Let the bastards shoot me if they want."

He refilled his glass as Stanski stood
and crossed to the window and looked down. There was a small courtyard below
that led in from an archway on the street. At one end of the courtyard wall was
a line of padlocked wooden doors belonging to what looked like outside storage
rooms for the tiny flats. The yard was littered with refuse and patrolled by
scrawny, scavenging cats.

Stanski had explained about the incident
with Lukin, the KGB major. Not because he wanted to but because whatever
happened from now on would affect their journey and perhaps put Vladimir in
danger. But he had been surprisingly unruffled by the information.

Stanski looked back at him. "We have
to get to Moscow somehow."

Vladimir stubbed out his cigarette, tore
a hunk of bread off the loaf and chewed. Then he washed it down with a mouthful
of vodka and wiped his mouth.

"Easier said than done. By rail,
there's the Red Star express. It runs overnight between Leningrad and Moscow
and takes twelve hours. But given what you've told me the railway station will
probably be watched. Flying's the quickest way. Aeroflot flies to Moscow every
two hours. But tickets are hard to come by and you'd,probably have to wait a
couple of days to get them, and that's if you're lucky. And no doubt the KGB
and militia will be watching the airport too, just like the railway stations.
Of course, you could always steal a car and drive, but that takes a day and a
half allowing for rest stops and you'd be only asking for trouble if you were
stopped at a checkpoint in a stolen car."

"What about traveling by bus?"

Vladimir shook his head. "There's
bus service, of course, but no direct one to Moscow. You'd have to change every
so often and the journey could take days. It's damned awkward if you don't know
your way."

Stanski looked over at Anna and sighed in
exasperation. She stared back at him, then she said to Vladimir, "There
must be some other way?"

Vladimir grinned and spat a fleck of
tobacco on the floor. "Maybe." He thought a moment, then looked at
them. "I've got an idea, It may work. Come, I'll show you."

He headed toward the door and Stanski and
Anna followed.

Estonia.

It was a nightmare.

Lukin woke, shivering, in freezing
darkness. His limbs were painfully stiff and it felt as if ice flowed through
his veins.

He was numb, soaked in sweat, feverish.

There was frost on his clothes and face
and he felt like someone had scaled him in a block of ice. Cold bit into his
flesh and bones like fire.

As he lay there in the snow, half in,
half out of consciousness, he became aware of a strong smell of kerosene fuel,
niiyp-d with an acrid, sugary stench.

He remembered the stench. Anyone who had
been near battle never forgot it. Like an animal carcass, but sweeter. Burning
human flesh.

He craned his neck to look around and
felt a pain shoot down his left arm which made him scream in agony.

He closed his eyes slowly, then opened
them again, and looked down at his body, as much as he could in the poor light.