The client looked at his watch and then at Logan,
raising an eyebrow. Logan nodded and spread his hands palm-down in what
he hoped was a reassuring gesture. The client shook his head and went
back to staring at the clearing below. His face was not happy.
Rather than let his own expression show, Logan
turned his head and looked toward the other end of the blind, where
Yura, the mixed-blood tracker, sat cross-legged with his old
bolt-action Mosin rifle across his lap. Yura gave Logan a ragged
steel-capped grin and after a moment Logan grinned back.
When he could trust his face again he turned back to
look out the blind window. The sun was high now; yellow light angled
down through the trees and dappled the ground. The early morning wind
had died down and there was no sound except for the snuffling and
shuffling of the half-grown pig tethered on the far side of the
clearing.
The client was doing something with his camera. It
was quite an expensive-looking camera; Logan didn't recognize the make.
Now he was checking his damned watch again. Expensive watch, too.
Definitely an upscale client. His name was Steen and he was an asshole.
Actually, Logan told himself without much
conviction, Steen wasn't too bad, certainly not as bad as some of the
other clients they'd had. He had a superior attitude, but then most of
them did. But he was impatient, and that made him a real pain in the
ass to have around, especially on a blind sit. All right, it was a
little cramped inside the camouflaged tree blind, and you had to keep
as still as possible; but all that had been explained to him in advance
and if he had a problem with any of it he should have stayed back in
Novosibirsk watching wildlife documentaries on television.
They'd been sitting there all morning, now, and
maybe Steen thought that was too long. But hell, that was no time at
all when you were waiting for a tiger, even on a baited site within the
regular territory of a known individual.
Steen's shoulders lifted and fell in what was
probably a silent sigh. At least he knew how to be quiet, you had to
give him that much. Not like that silly son of a bitch last year, down
in the Bikin valley, who made enough noise to scare off everything
between Khabarovsk and Vladivostok and then demanded a refund because
he hadn't gotten to—
Logan felt a sudden touch on his shoulder. He looked
around and saw Yura crouching beside him, holding up a hand. The lips
moved beneath the gray-streaked mustache, forming a silent word: “Amba."
Logan looked out the blind window, following Yura's
pointing finger, but he saw nothing. Heard nothing, either, nothing at
all now; the pig had stopped rooting around and was standing absolutely
still, facing in the same direction Yura was pointing.
Steen was peering out the window too, wide-eyed and
clutching his camera. He glanced at Logan, who nodded.
And then there it was, padding out into the sunlit
clearing in all its great burnt-orange magnificence.
Out of the corner of his eye, Logan saw Steen clap a
hand over his mouth, no doubt to stifle a gasp. He didn't blame him; a
male Amur tiger, walking free and untamed on his home turf, was a sight
to take the breath of any man. As many times as he'd been through this,
his own throat still went thick with awe for the first seconds.
The pig took an altogether different view. It began
squealing and lunging desperately against its tether, its little
terrified eyes fixed on the tiger, which had stopped now to look it
over.
The client had his camera up to his face now,
pressing the button repeatedly, his face flushed with excitement. Logan
wondered if he realized just how lucky he was. This was one hell of a
big tiger, the biggest in fact that Logan had ever seen outside a zoo.
He guessed it would go as much as seven or eight hundred pounds and
pretty close to a dozen feet from nose to tip of tail, though it was
hard to be sure about the last now that the tail was rhythmically
slashing from side to side as the tiger studied the pig.
If Steen was any good at all with that camera he
ought to be getting some fine pictures. A bar of sunlight was falling
on the tiger's back, raising glowing highlights on the heavy fur that
was browner and more subdued than the flame-orange of a Bengal, the
stripes less prominent, somehow making the beast look even bigger.
The tiger took a couple of hesitant, almost mincing
steps, the enormous paws making no sound on the leaf mold. It might be
the biggest cat in the world, but it was still a cat and it knew
something wasn't quite right about this. It couldn't smell the three
men hidden nearby, thanks to the mysterious herbal mixture with which
Yura had dusted the blind, but it knew that pigs didn't normally show
up out in the middle of the woods, tethered to trees.
On the other hand, it was hungry.
It paused, the tail moving faster, and crouched
slightly. The massive shoulder muscles bunched and bulged as it readied
itself to jump—
Steen sneezed.
It wasn't all that much of a sneeze, really not much
more than a snort, and Steen managed to muffle most of it with his
hand. But it was more than enough. The tiger spun around, ears coming
up, and looked toward the direction of the sound—for an instant Logan
had the feeling that the great terrible eyes were looking straight into
his—and then it was streaking across the clearing like a brush fire,
heading back the way it had come. A moment later it was gone.
Behind him Logan heard Yura mutter, “Govno."
"I'm sorry,” Steen said stupidly. “I don't know why—"
"Sure.” Logan shrugged. He heaved himself up off the
little bench and half-stood, half-crouched in the low-roofed space.
“Well, at least you got some pictures, didn't you?"
"I think so.” Steen did something to his camera and
a little square lit up on the back, showing a tiny colored picture.
“Yes.” He looked up at Logan, who was moving toward the curtained
doorway at the rear of the blind. “Are we leaving now? Can't we wait,
see if it comes back?"
"He won't,” Logan said. “His kind got hunted almost
to extinction, not all that long ago. He knows there are humans around.
He's not going to risk it just for a pork dinner. Hell, you saw him. He
hasn't been starving."
"Another one, perhaps—"
"No. Tigers are loners and they demand a hell of a
lot of territory. A big male like that, he'll have easily fifty, a
hundred square miles staked out. Maybe more."
They were speaking English; for some reason it was
what Steen seemed to prefer, though his Russian was as good as Logan's.
"Now understand,” Logan went on, “you've paid for a
day's trip. If you want to stay and watch, you might get to see
something else. Wolves for sure, soon as they hear that pig squealing.
Maybe even a bear, though that's not likely. But you already saw a
couple of bears, day before yesterday, and you said you'd seen wolves
before."
"Yes. They are very common around Novosibirsk.”
Steen sighed. “I suppose you're right. May as well go back."
"All right, then.” Logan started down the ladder and
paused. The pig was still screaming. “Yura,” he said tiredly in
Russian, “for God's sake, shoot the damned pig."
* * * *
A little while later they were walking down a narrow
trail through the woods, back the way they had come early that morning.
Logan brought up the rear, with Steen in front of him and Yura leading
the way, the old Mosin cradled in his arms. Steen said, “I suppose he's
got the safety on?"
Yura grunted. “Is not safe,” he said in thickly
accented but clear English, not looking around. “Is gun."
The back of Steen's neck flushed slightly. “Sorry,”
he said, “Really, I'm glad one of us is armed. With that animal out
there somewhere."
Logan suppressed a snort. In fact he was far from
sure that Yura would shoot a tiger, even an attacking one. To the Udege
and the other Tungus tribes, Amba was a powerful and sacred
spirit, almost a god, to be revered and under no circumstances to be
harmed.
On the other hand, Yura was half Russian—unless you
believed his story about his grandfather having been a Krim Tatar
political prisoner who escaped from a gulag and took refuge in a remote
Nanai village—and there was never any telling which side would prove
dominant. Logan had always suspected it would come down to whether the
tiger was attacking Yura or someone else.
The gun was mainly for another sort of protection.
This was a region where people got up to things: dealers in drugs and
stolen goods, animal poachers, army deserters, Chinese and Korean
illegals and the people who transported them. You never knew what you
might run into out in the back country; tigers were the least of the
dangers.
The trail climbed up the side of a low but steep
ridge covered with dense second-growth forest. The day was chilly, even
with the sun up, and there were still a few small remnant patches of
snow here and there under the trees, but even so Logan had to unzip his
jacket halfway up the climb and he could feel the sweat starting under
his shirt. At the top he called a rest break and he and Steen sat down
on a log. Yura went over and leaned against a tree and took out his
belt knife and began cleaning the blade on some leaves; despite Logan's
order he'd cut the pig's throat rather than waste a valuable cartridge.
Steen looked at Logan. “You're American,” he said,
not making it a question. “If I may ask, how is it you come to be in
this country?"
"I used to be in charge of security for a joint
Russian-American pipeline company, up in Siberia."
"This was back before the warmup began?"
No, just before it got bad enough for people to
finally admit it was happening. “Yes,” Logan said.
"And you haven't been home since?"
"Home,” Logan said, his voice coming out a little
harsher than he intended, “for me, is a place called Galveston, Texas.
It's been underwater for a couple of years now."
"Ah.” Steen nodded. “I know how it is. Like you, I
have nothing to go back to."
No shit, Logan thought, with a name like Steen.
Dutch, or maybe Belgian; and what with the flooding, and the cold that
had turned all of northwest Europe into an icebox after the melting
polar ice deflected the Gulf Stream, the Low Countries weren't doing so
well these days.
Steen would be one of the ones who'd gotten out in
time, and who'd had the smarts and the resources and the luck—it would
have taken all three—to get in on the Siberian boom as it was starting,
before the stream of Western refugees became a flood and the Russians
started slamming doors. And he must have been very successful at
whatever he did; look at him now, already able to take himself a rich
man's holiday in the Far East. Not to mention having the connections to
get the required permits for this little adventure.
Logan stood up. “Come on,” he said. “We need to get
going."
* * * *
The trail dropped down the other side of the ridge,
wound along beside a little stream, and came out on an old and disused
logging road, its rutted surface already overgrown with weeds and
brush. A relic from the bad old days, when outlaw logging outfits ran
wild in the country south of the Amur and east of the Ussuri,
clearcutting vast areas of supposedly protected forest with no more
than token interference from the paid-off authorities, shipping the
lumber out to the ever-hungry Chinese and Japanese markets.
It had been a hell of a thing; and yet, in the end,
it hadn't made any real difference. The old taiga forest, that had
survived so much for so many thousands of years, hadn't been able to
handle the rising temperatures; the warmup had killed it off even
faster and more comprehensively than the clearcutters had done.
But by then the markets had collapsed, along with
the economies of the market countries; and the loggers had moved north
to Siberia with its vast forests and its ravenous demand for lumber for
the mushrooming new towns. Left alone, the clearcut areas had begun to
cover themselves again, beginning with dense ground-hugging brush and
then ambitious young saplings.
Which, to the deer population, had meant a jackpot
of fresh, easily accessible browse; and pretty soon the deer were
multiplying all over the place, to the delight of the tigers and bears
and wolves that had been having a pretty thin time of it over the last
couple of decades.
On the road there was enough room for Logan and
Steen to walk side by side, though Yura continued to stride on ahead.
Steen was quiet for a long time, and Logan had begun to hope he was
going to stay that way; but then finally he spoke again:
"It was not much."
Startled, Logan said, “What?"
"It was not much,” Steen repeated. “You must admit
it was not much. A minute only. Not even a minute."
Logan got it then. Christ, he thought, he's been
working himself up to this for better than three miles.
He said carefully, “Mr. Steen, you contracted with
us to take you around this area and give you a chance to see and
photograph wildlife. You'll recall the contract doesn't guarantee that
you'll see a tiger. Only that we'll make our best effort to show you
one. Which we did, and this morning you did see one."
Steen's face had taken on a stubborn, sullen look.
“Legally you are correct,” he said. “But still it doesn't seem right.
For all I am paying you, it was not much."
"Mr. Steen,” Logan said patiently, “you don't seem
to know how lucky you've been. Some of our clients spend as much as a
week, sitting in a blind every day, before they see a tiger. Some never
do."
Steen was shaking his head. “Look,” Logan said, “if
you think you didn't see enough this morning, if you'd like to try
again, we can set you up for another try. Add it onto your original
package, shouldn't cost you too much more."
Steen stared at Logan. “I will think about it,” he
said finally. “Perhaps. Still I don't think I should have to pay more,
but perhaps. I will come to the office in the morning and let you know."
"Fine,” Logan said. “I'm sure we can work out
something reasonable."
Thinking: you son of a bitch. You smug rich son of a
bitch with your God-damned fancy camera that someone needs to shove up
your ass and your God-damned fancy watch after it. But he shoved his
hands into his jacket pockets and kept walking, holding it in. The
customer is always right.
* * * *
A couple of hours later they came out onto a broad
clear area at the top of a hill, where a short stocky man stood beside
a big Mi-2 helicopter. He had a Kalashnikov rifle slung over his back.
"Logan,” he called, and raised a hand. “Zdrast'ye."
"Misha,” Logan said. “Anything happening?"
"Nothing here. Just waiting for you, freezing my
ass. Where is all this great warming I hear about?"
"Bullshit. Ten years ago, this time of year, you
really would have been freezing your ass out here. You'd have been up
to it in snow."
"Don't mind me, I'm just bitching,” Misha said in
English, and then, switching back to Russian, “How did it go? Did he
get his tiger?"
Logan nodded, watching Steen climbing aboard the
helicopter. Yura was standing nearby, having a lengthy pee against a
tree. “So soon?” Misha said. “Bozhe moi, that was quick."
"Too quick.” Steen was inside now and Logan didn't
think he could hear them but he didn't really care anymore. He told
Misha what had happened. “Don't laugh,” he added quickly, seeing Steen
watching them out a cabin window. “He's not very happy just now.
Doesn't feel he got his money's worth."
"Shto za chort? What did he expect, tigers in
a chorus line singing show tunes?” He glanced around. “What happened to
the pig?"
"I had Yura kill it. Too much trouble dragging it
all the way back here, and I couldn't very well leave the poor bastard
tied there waiting for the wolves."
"Too bad. We could have taken it to Katya's, got her
to roast it for us."
He unslung the Kalashnikov and handed it to Logan.
“Take charge of this thing, please, and I'll see if I can get this old
Mil to carry us home one more time."
* * * *
"So,” Misha said, “you think it was the same one?
The big one, from last fall?"
"I think so,” Logan said, pouring himself another
drink. “Of course there's no way to know for sure, but the location's
right and I can't imagine two males that big working that near to each
other's territory."
It was late evening and they were sitting at a table
in Katya's place in Khabarovsk. The room was crowded and noisy and the
air was dense with tobacco smoke, but they had a place back in a corner
away from the worst of it. There was a liter of vodka on the table
between them. Or rather there was a bottle that had once contained a
liter of vodka, its contents now substantially reduced.
"In fact,” Logan went on, “it's hard for me to
imagine two males that big, period. If it's not the same one, if
they're all getting that big, then I'm going to start charging more for
screwing around with them."
Misha said, “This is good for us, you know. If we
know we can find a big fine-looking cat like that, we'll get some
business."
He scowled suddenly. “If some bastard doesn't shoot
him. A skin that big would bring real money."
"The market's just about dried up,” Logan said. “The
Chinese have too many problems of their own to have much interest in
pretty furs—drought and dust storms, half the country trying to turn
into Mongolia—and the rich old men who thought extract of tiger dick
would help them get it up again are too busy trying to hang onto what
they've got. Or get out."
"All this is true.” Misha nodded, his eyes slightly
owlish; he had had quite a few by now. “But you know there are still
those who have what it takes to get what they want. There always will
be, in China or Russia or anywhere else.” He grinned crookedly. “And a
good thing for us, da?"
Logan took a drink and made a grimace of agreement.
Misha was right; their most lucrative line of business depended on
certain people being able to get what they wanted. Between the
restrictions on aviation—Russia might be one of the few countries
actually benefiting from atmospheric warming, but enough was enough—and
those on travel within what was supposed to be a protected wilderness
area, it was theoretically all but impossible to charter a private
flight into the Sikhote-Alin country. There were, however, certain
obviously necessary exceptions.
Logan said, “Come now, Misha. You know perfectly
well all our clients are fully accredited scientific persons on
essential scientific missions. It says so in their papers."
"Konyechno. I had forgotten. Ah, Russia,
Russia.” Misha drained his own glass and poured himself another one.
“All those years we were poor, so we became corrupt. Now we are the
richest country in the world, but the corruption remains. What is that
English idiom? ‘Force of hobbit.’”
"Habit."
"Oh, yes. Why do I always—"
He stopped, looking up at the man who was walking
toward their table. “Govno. Look who comes."
Yevgeny Lavrushin, tall and skinny and beaky of
nose, worked his way through the crowd, the tails of his long leather
coat flapping about his denim-clad legs. He stopped beside their table
and stuck out a hand toward Logan. “Say hey,” he said. “Logan, my man.
What's happening?"
He spoke English with a curious mixed accent, more
Brooklyn than Russian. He had driven a cab in New York for a dozen
years before the United States, in its rising mood of xenophobia,
decided to terminate nearly all green cards. Now he lived here in
Khabarovsk and ran a small fleet of trucks, doing just enough
legitimate hauling to cover for his real enterprises. He was reputed to
have mafia connections, but probably nothing very heavy.
Logan ignored the hand. “Yevgeny,” he said in no
particular tone. “Something on your mind?"
"What the hell,” Yevgeny said. “You gonna ask me to
sit down?"
"No,” Logan said. “What did you want?"
Yevgeny glanced theatrically around and then leaned
forward and put his hands on the table. “Got a business proposition for
you,” he said in a lowered voice. “Serious money—"
"No,” Logan said again, and then, more sharply as
Yevgeny started to speak, “No, God damn it. Nyet. Whatever it
is, we're not interested."
"Besides,” Misha said in Russian, “since when do
your usual customers travel by air? Did they get tired of being crammed
like herring into the backs of your trucks?"
Yevgeny's coat collar jerked upward on his neck.
“Christ, don't talk that shit....” He glanced around again. “Look, it's
not Chinks, okay? Well, yeah, in a way it is, but—"
"Yevgeny,” Logan said, “it's been a hell of a long
day. Go away."
"Hey, I can dig it. I'm gone.” He started to move
away and then turned back, to lean over the table again. “One other
thing. You guys know where there's some big tigers, right? If you ever
need to make some quick money, I know where you can get a hell of a
good price for a clean skin—"
Logan started to stand up. “Okay, okay.” Yevgeny
held up both hands and began backing away. “Be cool, man. If you change
your mind, you know where to find me."
"Yeah,” Logan muttered as he disappeared into the
crowd. “Just start turning over rocks ... hand me the bottle, Misha, I
need another one now."
"Wonder what he wanted,” Misha mused. “As far as I
know, his main business is running Chinese illegals. You suppose he's
branched out into drugs or something?"
"Doesn't matter.” Logan finished pouring and looked
around for the cap to the vodka bottle. “I don't even want to know ...
well, this has to be my last one. Have to deal with Steen tomorrow,” he
said, screwing the cap down tightly, “and I definitely don't want to do
that with a hangover."
* * * *
But Steen didn't show up the following morning.
"He hasn't been here,” Lida Shaposhnikova told Logan
when he came in. “I came in early, about eight-thirty, so I could have
his account ready, and he never showed up."
Logan checked his watch. “It's not even ten yet. He
probably slept late or something. We'll wait."
The office occupied the front room of a run-down
little frame house on the outskirts of Khabarovsk, not far from the
airport. The office staff consisted entirely of Lida. The back rooms
were mostly full of outdoor gear and supplies—camping kit, camouflage
fabric for blinds, night-vision equipment, and so on—and various
mysterious components with which Misha somehow managed to keep the old
helicopter flying. The kitchen was still a kitchen. Logan went back and
poured himself a cup of coffee and took it to his desk and sat down to
wait, while Lida returned to whatever she was doing on her computer.
But a couple of hours later, with noon approaching
and still no sign of Steen, Logan said, “Maybe you should give him a
call. Ask him when he's planning to come."
He got up and walked out onto the front porch for a
bit of fresh air. When he went back inside, Lida said, “I phoned his
hotel. He checked out this morning at nine."
"Shit. You better call—"
"I already did.” Lida leaned back in her chair and
looked at him with dark oblong eyes, a legacy from her Korean
grandmother. “He left on the morning flight to Novosibirsk."
"Son of a bitch,” Logan said in English.
"So it would seem,” Lida said in the same language.
"Well.” Logan rubbed his chin. “Well, go ahead and
figure up his bill and charge him. You've already got his credit card
number, from when he paid his deposit."
Lida nodded and turned to the computer. A few
minutes later she muttered something under her breath and began tapping
keys rapidly, as the front door opened and Misha came in.
"Sukin syn," he said when Logan told him what
was going on. “He's run out on us?"
"It's all right,” Logan said. He nodded toward the
front desk, where Lida was now talking to someone on the phone. “We'll
just charge it to his credit—"
"No we won't.” Lida put down the phone and turned
around. “The credit card's no good. He's canceled it."
"He can do that?” Misha said. “Just like that?"
"He did it yesterday,” Lida said. “He paid his bill
at the hotel with a check."
Everyone said bad words in several languages. Misha
said, “He can't get away with that, can he?"
"Legally, no. In the real world—” Logan shrugged
heavily. “He's got to be connected. You know how hard it is to do
anything to someone who's connected. We can try, but I don't think much
of our chances."
"At the very best,” Lida said, “it's going to take a
long time. Which we don't have.” She waved a hand at the computer.
“I've been looking at the numbers. They're not good."
"Got some more costs coming up, too,” Misha put in.
“We're overdue on our fuel bill at the airport, and the inspector wants
to know why he hasn't gotten his annual present yet. I was just coming
to tell you."
"Hell.” Logan felt like kicking something. Or
someone. “I was counting on that money to get us off the hook. Well,
I'll just have to get busy and find us another job."
There was a short silence. Logan and Misha looked at
each other.
Misha said, “We could—"
"No we couldn't,” Logan said.
But of course they were going to.
* * * *
Yevgeny said, “Like I tried to tell you before, it's
not Chinks. I mean, it's Chinamen, but it's not your regular
coolies coming north looking for work and a square meal. These are
high-class Chinamen, you know? Some kind of suits. The kind you don't
just cram into the back of a truck behind a load of potatoes."
"Sounds political,” Logan said. “No way in hell, if
it is."
"No, no, nothing like that. This is—” Yevgeny
hunched his bony shoulders. “I'll be straight with you guys, I don't
really know what the fuck it's all about, but it can't be
political. The people who want it done, that's just not their thing."
Which meant mafia, which meant Yevgeny was blowing a
certain amount of smoke, because in Russia nowadays the concepts of
mafia and political were not separable. This was starting to feel even
worse.
Misha said, “I'll tell you right now, I'm not flying
into Chinese airspace. Money's no good to a man with a heat-seeking
missile up his ass."
"That's okay. See, there's this island in the river—"
"The Ussuri?” Logan said skeptically. The Ussuri
islands were military and heavily fortified; there had been some border
incidents with the Chinese.
"No, man, the Amur. Way to hell west of here, I'll
show you on the map, they gave me the coordinates and everything. It's
just a little island, not much more than a big sandbar. On the Russian
side of the channel, but nobody gives a shit either way, there's
nothing much around there, not even any real roads."
His fingers made diagrams on the tabletop. “You guys
set down there, there'll be a boat from the Chinese side. Five Chinamen
get out, you pick them up and you're outta there. You drop them off at
this point on the main highway, out in the middle of nowhere. There'll
be some people waiting."
"Sounds like they've got this all worked out,” Logan
said. “So why do they need us? I'd expect people like that to have
their own aircraft."
"They did. They had this chopper lined up for the
job, only the pilot made some kind of mistake on the way here and
spread himself all over this field near Blagoveshchensk. So they got
hold of me and asked could I line up somebody local."
"Yevgeny,” Logan said, “if this goes wrong you
better hope I don't make it back, because I'm going to be looking for
you."
"If this goes wrong, you won't be the only one.
These people,” Yevgeny said very seriously, “they're not people you
want to fuck with. Know what I'm saying?"
* * * *
Lida said, “I wish I knew what you're getting mixed
up in. Or perhaps I don't. It doesn't matter. You're not going to tell
me, are you?"
"Mhmph,” Logan replied, or sounds to that effect.
His face was partly buried in his pillow. He was about half asleep and
trying to do something about the other half if only Lida would quit
talking.
"I talk with Katya, you know,” she went on. “We've
known each other for years. She's seen you with Yevgeny Lavrushin."
Logan rolled onto his back, looking up into the
darkness of the bedroom. “It's nothing. Just a quick little flying job."
"Of course. A quick little flying job for which you
will be paid enough to get the company out of debt. You can't help
being a fool,” she said, “but I wish you wouldn't take me for one."
She moved closer and put out a hand to stroke his
chest. “Look at us. You need me more than you love me. I love you more
than I need you. Somehow it works out,” she said. “I'm not complaining.
Only don't lie to me."
There was nothing to say to that.
"So,” she said, “at least tell me when this is to
happen."
"Tomorrow night. Wha—” he said as her hand moved
lower.
"Then I'd better get some use out of you,” she said,
“before you get yourself killed or imprisoned."
"Lida,” he protested, “I'm really tired."
She slid a long smooth leg over him and moved it
slowly up and down his body. “No you're not. Maybe you think you are,
but you're not. Not yet. See there,” she said, rising up, straddling
him, fitting herself to him, “you're not tired at all."
Logan's watch said it was almost one in the morning.
He shivered slightly as a chilly breeze came in off the river.
Not too many years ago, at this time of year, the
river would have carried big floes of ice from the spring thaw; but now
there was only the smooth dark water sliding past in the dim light of a
low crescent moon, and, away beyond that, a dark smudge that was the
distant China shore.
The island was about half a mile long and maybe
fifty or sixty feet across. As Yevgeny had said, it wasn't much more
than a big sandbar. The upstream end was littered with brush and
washed-up dead trees, but the other end was clear and open and flat in
the middle, with plenty of room for the Mil.
He dropped his hand to the butt of the Kalashnikov
and hefted it slightly, easing the pressure of the sling against his
shoulder. Beside him, Misha squatted on the sand, his face grotesquely
masked by bulky night goggles. “Nothing yet,” Misha said.
"It's not quite time."
"I know. I just don't like this waiting."
Logan knew what was eating Misha. He hadn't wanted
to shut down the Mil's engines; he'd wanted to be ready to take off
fast if anything went wrong. But it wouldn't have done any good; as
Logan had already pointed out, with those twin Isotov turbines idling
they'd never hear a border patrol unit approaching until it was too
late to run for it, and, after all, where would they run to?
Somewhere on the Russian side of the river a wolf
howled, and was joined by others. Standing in the shadows nearby, Yura
said something in a language that wasn't Russian, and chuckled softly.
"Wolves all over the place these days,” Misha said.
“More than I've ever seen before. I wonder what they're eating. I know,
the deer population is up, but I wouldn't think that would be enough."
"It's been enough for the tigers,” Logan pointed out.
"True ... speaking of tigers,” Misha said, “I've
been thinking. Maybe we ought to start giving that big male some
special attention, you know? Take a pig or a sheep or something down
there every now and then, get him used to visiting that clearing. A
tiger that size, he's money in the bank for us if we can count on him
showing up for the clients."
"Hm. Not a bad idea."
"Have Yura put out some of his secret tiger bait
powder.” Misha dropped his voice. “You think that stuff really works?"
"Who knows?” Logan wished Misha would shut up but he
realized he was talking from nerves. “Could be."
"Those tribesmen know things,” Misha said. “Once I
saw—"
He stopped. “Something happening over there.” He
reached up and made a small adjustment to the night goggles. “Can't
really see anything,” Misha added. “Something that could be a vehicle,
with some people moving around. Can't even be sure how many."
A small red light flashed briefly on the far shore,
twice. Logan took the little flashlight from his jacket pocket and
pointed it and flicked the switch three times in quick succession.
Misha said, “Shto za chort? Oh, all right,
they're carrying something down to the river. Maybe a boat."
Logan wished he'd brought a pair of goggles for
himself. Or a night scope. He listened but there was no sound but the
night breeze and the barely audible susurrus of the current along the
sandy shore. Even the wolves had gone quiet.
"Right, it's a boat,” Misha said. “Coming this way."
Logan slipped the Kalashnikov's sling off his
shoulder, hearing a soft flunk as Yura slid a round into the
chamber of his rifle.
Misha stood up and slipped off the goggles. “I
better go get the Mil warmed up."
A few minutes later Logan saw it, a low black shape
moving toward the island. There was still no sound. Electric motor, he
guessed. As it neared the bank he saw that two men stood in the bow
holding some sort of guns. He reached for the Kalashnikov's safety
lever, but then they both slung their guns across their backs and
jumped out into the shallows and began pulling the big inflatable up
onto the sand.
Several dark figures stood up in the boat and began
moving rather awkwardly toward the bow, where the two men gave them a
hand climbing down. When the fifth one was ashore the two gunmen pushed
the boat back free of the shore and climbed back aboard while the
passengers walked slowly across the sand to where Logan stood.
The first one stopped in front of Logan. He was tall
and thin and bespectacled, wearing a light-colored topcoat hanging open
over a dark suit. In his left hand he carried a medium-sized travel bag.
"Good evening,” he said in accented Russian. “I am
Doctor Fong—"
"I don't want to know who you are,” Logan told him.
“I don't want to know anything I don't need to know. You're in charge
of this group?"
"I suppose. In a sense—"
"Good. Get your people on board.” Logan jerked the
Kalashnikov's muzzle in the direction of the helicopter, which was
already emitting a high, whistling whine, the long rotor blades
starting to swing.
The tall man nodded and turned and looked back at
the boat and said something in Chinese. The boat began to move
backward. The tall man spoke again and the others moved quickly to
follow him toward the Mil, lugging their bags and bundles.
"Let's go,” Logan told Yura. “Davai poshli."
Off down the river the wolves were howling again.
* * * *
The road was a dark streak in the moonlight, running
roughly east-west, across open plain and through dense patches of
forest. There was no traffic in sight, nor had Logan expected any. This
had been one of the last stretches of the Trans-Siberian Highway to be
completed, but the pavement was already deteriorating, having been
badly done to begin with and rarely maintained since; very few people
cared to drive its ruinously potholed surface at night.
"Should be right along here,” Logan said, studying
the map Yevgeny had given them. “That's the third bridge after the
village, isn't it?"
Beside him, Misha glanced out the side window at the
ground flickering past beneath. “I think so."
"Better get lower, then."
Misha nodded and eased down on the collective. As
the Mil settled gently toward the road Logan felt around the darkened
cockpit and found the bag with the night goggles. The next part should
be straightforward, but with people like this you couldn't assume
anything.
Misha leveled off a little above treetop level. “If
there's one thing I hate worse than flying at night,” he grumbled,
“it's flying low at night ... isn't that something up ahead?"
Logan started to put on the night goggles. As he was
slipping them over his head a set of headlights flashed twice down on
the highway, maybe a quarter of a mile away.
"That should be them,” he told Misha. “Make a low
pass, though, and let's have a look."
* * * *
Misha brought the helicopter down even closer to the
road, slowing to the speed of a cautiously driven car, while Logan
wrestled the window open and stuck his head out. The slipstream caught
the bulky goggles and tried to jerk his head around, but he fought the
pressure and a few seconds later he saw the car, parked in the middle
of the road, facing east. He caught a glimpse of dark upright shapes
standing nearby, and then it all disappeared from view as the Mil
fluttered on up the road.
"Well?” Misha said.
Logan started to tell him it was all right, to come
around and go back and land; but then something broke surface in his
mind and he said, “No, wait. Circle around and come back up the road
the same way. Take it slow so I can get a better look."
Misha kicked gently at the pedals and eased the
cyclic over, feeding in power and climbing slightly to clear a stand of
trees. “Shto eto?"
"I'm not sure yet.” Something hadn't looked right,
something about the scene down on the road that didn't add up, but
Logan couldn't get a handle on it yet. Maybe it was just his
imagination.
They swung around in a big circle and came
clattering back up the road. Again the double headlight flash, this
time slower and longer. “Slow, now,” Logan said, pulling the goggles
down again and leaning out the window. “All right ... that's it, go on."
He pulled off the goggles and closed his eyes,
trying to project the scene like a photograph inside his head: the dark
shape of a medium-sized car in the middle of the road, flanked by a
couple of human figures. Another man—or woman—standing over by the
right side of the road.
"Shit,” Logan said, and opened his eyes and turned
around and looked back between the seats. “Hey. You. Doctor Fong."
"Yes?” The tall Chinese leaned forward. “Something
is wrong?"
"These people you're meeting,” Logan said. “They
know how many of you there are?"
"Oh, yes.” Reddish light from the instrument panel
glinted off glasses lenses as Fong nodded vigorously. “They know our
names and ... everything, really. This is certain."
"What's happening?” Misha wanted to know.
"Three men in sight, back there,” Logan said,
turning back around. “At least one more in the car, operating the
headlights. Five men expected."
"So?"
"So that's not a very big car to hold nine men. You
could do it, but it would be a circus act. Which raises some questions."
"Huh.” Misha digested this. “What do you think?"
"I think we better find out more.” He thought for a
moment. “All right, here's how we'll do it. Set her down right up here,
past that rise, just long enough for me to get out. Then circle around
a little bit, like you're confused, you know? Make some noise to cover
me while I move in and have a look."
He tapped the comm unit in the pocket on his left
jacket sleeve. “I'll give you a call if it's all right to land. If I
send just a single long beep, come in as if you're going to land and
then hit the landing lights."
"Got it,” Misha said. “Taking Yura?"
"Of course. Right, then.” Logan undid the seat
harness and levered himself out of the right seat. As he clambered back
into the passenger compartment, Doctor Fong said, “Please, what is the
matter?"
"I don't know yet.” Logan worked his way between the
close-spaced seats to the rear of the cabin, where Yura sat next to the
door. “Don't worry,” he said over his shoulder, hoping Fong couldn't
see him getting out the Kalashnikov. “It's probably nothing."
Misha brought the Mil down and held it in a low
hover, its wheels a few feet above the pavement, long enough for Logan
and Yura to jump out. As Logan's boots hit the cracked asphalt he
flexed his knees to absorb the impact and almost immediately heard the
rotor pitch change as Misha pulled up on the collective to lift out of
there.
Yura came up beside him and Logan made a quick hand
signal. Yura nodded and ran soundlessly across the road and disappeared
into the shadows beneath the trees on the right side. Logan walked back
along the road until he reached the top of the little rise and then
moved off the pavement to the left.
The cover was poor on that side, the trees thin and
scattered, with patches of brush that made it hard to move quietly.
Logan guessed it was about a mile back to where the car was parked.
Moving slowly and carefully, holding the Kalashnikov high across his
chest, he worked his way along parallel to the road. The night goggles
were pushed up on his forehead; they were too clumsy for this sort of
thing, and anyway he could see all right now. The moon was higher and
the clouds had blown away, and his eyes had adjusted to the weak light.
The Mil came back overhead, turbines blaring and
rotor blades clop-clopping, heading back down the road. It swung
suddenly off to one side, turned back and crossed the road, did a brief
high hover above the trees, and then began zigzagging irregularly along
above the highway. Logan grinned to himself; whoever was waiting down
the road must be getting pretty baffled by now. Not to mention pissed
off.
He thought he must be getting close, and he was
about to move over by the road to check; but then here came the Mil
again, coming back up the road maybe twenty feet up, and suddenly there
was a bright light shining through the trees, closer than he'd
expected, as the car headlights flashed again.
He stopped and stood very still. As the sound of the
helicopter faded on up the road behind him, he heard a man's voice say
quite distinctly, “Ah, yob tvoiu mat'."
He waited until the Mil began to circle back, so its
noise would cover any sounds that he made. A few quick steps and he
stood beside the road, pressed up against an inadequate pine. He
slipped the night goggles down over his eyes and leaned cautiously out,
feeling his sphincter pucker.
There they were, just as he remembered: the two men
standing on either side of the car, and another one over by the far
side of the road. All three of them, he saw now, were holding weapons:
some sort of rifles or carbines, he couldn't make out any details.
He pushed the goggles back up, slung the Kalashnikov
over his shoulder, and took the comm unit from his pocket and switched
it on and pressed a single key. He held it down for a count of five,
switched the unit off, slipped it back into his pocket, and unslung the
Kalashnikov again.
The Mil came racketing up the road once more,
slowing down as the headlights flashed again. Logan stepped out from
behind the tree and began moving quickly along next to the road, not
trying to be stealthy; by now these bastards wouldn't be paying
attention to anything but the helicopter with the impossible pilot.
It was moving now at bicycle speed, and then even
slower. When it was no more than twenty feet in front of the parked car
it stopped in a low hover. Logan stopped too, and pushed the
Kalashnikov's fire selector to full automatic as Misha hit the landing
lights.
The sudden glare threw the scene into harsh
contrast, like a black-and-white photograph. One of the men beside the
car threw a forearm over his face. Someone cursed.
Logan raised the Kalashnikov and took a deep breath.
“Everyone stand still!” he shouted over the rotor noise. “Put down the
weapons!"
For a second he thought it was going to work. The
men on the road froze in place, like so many window dummies. Logan had
just enough time to wonder what the hell he was going to do with them,
and then it all came apart.
The man over on the far side of the road started to
turn, very fast, the gun in his hands coming up and around. There was a
deafening blang and he jerked slightly, dropped his rifle, and
fell to the pavement.
While the sound of Yura's rifle was still rattling
off through the trees the two men by the car made their play, moving
simultaneously and with purposeful speed. The nearer one took a long
step to one side and whirled around, dropping into a crouch, while the
other dived to the ground and started to roll toward the cover of the
car.
Logan got the farther one in mid-roll and then swung
the Kalashnikov toward the remaining one. A red eye winked at him and
something popped through the bushes, not very close; the gunman had to
be shooting blind, his eyes still trying to catch up to the sudden
changes in the light. Backlit by the landing lights, he was an
easy-meat target; Logan cut him down with a three-shot burst to the
chest.
The car door opened and someone stepped out. Yura's
old rifle boomed again from the trees across the road. Four down.
Logan walked slowly toward the car, the Kalashnikov
ready. A man lay beside the open door, a machine pistol in one hand.
Logan looked in and checked the interior of the car.
He took the comm unit out and flicked it on again.
“All right, Misha,” he said. “You can set her down now."
He walked over to the body of the last man he had
killed and studied the weapon that lay beside the body. A Dragunov
sniper rifle, fitted with what looked like a night scope. Definitely
some professional talent, whoever they were.
He went back and sat down on the hood of the car,
for want of any better place, while Misha set the helicopter down. He
noticed with disgust that his hands were starting to tremble slightly.
Yura came up, his rifle over his shoulder and what
looked like a Kalashnikov in one hand. “Sorry I was so slow on that
last one,” he said. He raised the Kalashnikov and gestured with his
free hand at the body on the far side of the road. “This is what he
had."
"Then for God's sake get rid of it.” Remembering,
Logan cleared the chamber of his own rifle and slung it over his back.
For the first time in a long time he wished he hadn't quit smoking.
The Mil's rotor blades were slowing, the turbine
whine dropping to idle. A couple of minutes later Misha came walking
toward the car. “Bozhe moi," he said, staring. “What—?"
"Reception committee,” Logan said. “Had a nice
little ambush set up. At least that's how it looks."
Misha was looking around dazedly. “You're sure?"
"About the ambush, not entirely. It's possible they
were going to let the passengers disembark and wait for us to leave
before killing them. Hell,” Logan said, “just look at the kind of
firepower they were carrying. I don't think it was because they were
afraid of wolves."
Yura was going over the car. “Couple of shovels in
the trunk,” he reported. “Some wire, some tape."
"See?” Logan turned his head and spat; his mouth
felt very dry. “They weren't planning on taking anyone anywhere. Not
any farther than a short walk in the woods."
The Chinese men were getting out of the helicopter
now, stopping in front of the nose and staring at the car and the
bodies. Misha cursed. “I told them to stay inside—"
"It's all right,” Logan said. “Doesn't matter now."
Doctor Fong appeared, walking toward them. He didn't
look happy, Logan thought, but he didn't look all that surprised either.
Logan said, “I don't suppose you have any idea what
this was all about?"
Fong stopped beside the car and looked around.
“Perhaps,” he said. “I—let me think."
"Don't think too long,” Logan said. “We've got to
get out of here."
"Yes.” He looked at Logan. “Do you speak English?"
"After a fashion."
"Aha.” Fong's mouth quirked in a brief half-smile.
“An American. Good. My English is much better than my Russian."
He pushed his glasses up on his nose with the tip of
a slender finger. They weren't slipping; Logan guessed it was a nervous
habit. He made a gesture that took in the car and the bodies. “Can we
perhaps move away from... ?"
"Sure.” Logan slid off the car and walked with Fong
over to the side of the road. “I just need to know,” he said, “what
kind of trouble this is about. If you guys are anything political—"
"Oh, no.” Fong stopped and turned to face him. “No,
we're not, as you put it, political at all. Merely a group of harmless
scientists."
"Some pretty heavy people trying to stop you,” Logan
said. “Someone must not think you're so harmless."
"Yes, well....” Fong looked off into the darkness
under the trees and then back at Logan. “You saved our lives just now,”
he said in a different tone. “This is a debt we can hardly repay, but
there's something I can give you in return. Some information."
"Scientific information?"
"Yes.” If Fong noticed the sarcasm he didn't show
it. He pushed his glasses up again. “It's the warming."
It took a moment for Logan to realize what he was
talking about. The adrenalin edge had worn off; he felt tired and old.
"It's still getting warmer,” Fong said. “I'm sure
you already knew that, it's hardly a secret. But—” He paused, his
forehead wrinkling. “The curve,” he said. “I couldn't remember the word
... the curve is different from what has been thought."
His forefinger drew an upward-sweeping curve in the
air. “The warming is about to accelerate. It's going to start getting
warmer at an increasing rate, and—I'm not sure how to say this—the rate
of increase will itself increase."
"It's going to get warmer faster?"
Fong nodded. “Oh, you won't notice any real change
for some time to come. Perhaps as much as two to five years, no one
really knows as yet ... but then,” the fingertip began to rise more
steeply, “the change will be very rapid indeed."
"You mean—"
"Wait, that's not all. The other part,” Fong said,
“is that it's likely to go on longer than anyone thought. The
assumption has been that the process has all but run its course, that a
ceiling will soon be reached. It's not clear, now, just where the
ceiling is. Or even if there is one, in any practical sense."
Logan's ears registered the words, but his
fatigue-dulled brain was having trouble keeping up. “It's going to keep
getting warmer,” he said, “it's going to do it faster and faster, and
it's going to get a hell of a lot warmer than it is now. That's what
you're saying?"
"Even so."
"But that's going to mean ... Christ.” Logan shook
his head, starting to see it. “Christ,” he said again helplessly,
stupidly. “Oh, Christ."
"You might well call on him, if you believe in him,”
Fong said. “If I believed in any gods I would call on them too. Things
are going to be very, very bad."
"As if they weren't bad enough already."
"Yes indeed. I don't know how long you've been in
this part of the world, but I'm sure you've heard at least some of the
news from other regions."
"Pretty bad in China, I hear."
"You have no idea. Believe me, it is much, much
worse than anything you can have heard. The government keeps very
strict control over the flow of information. Even inside China, it's
not always possible to know what's happening in the next province."
Fong put out a hand and touched the rough bark of
the nearest pine. “You live in one of the few remaining places that
have been relatively unharmed by the global catastrophe. A quiet,
pleasant backwater of a large country grown suddenly prosperous—but all
that is about to end."
He gave a soft short laugh with absolutely no
amusement in it. “You think the Russian Federation has a problem with
desperate Chinese coming across the border now? Just wait, my
friend. Already the level of desperation in my country is almost at the
critical point. When people realize that things are getting even worse,
they will begin to move and it will take more than border posts and
patrols, and even rivers, to stop them."
Logan started to speak, but his throat didn't seem
to be working so well.
"Your American journalists and historians,” Fong
added, “used to write about the Chinese military using ‘human wave’
attacks. This frontier is going to see a human tsunami."
Logan said, “You're talking war, aren't you?
"Of one kind or another.” Fong fingered his glasses.
“I really am not qualified to speculate in that area. All I'm telling
you is that this is about to become a very bad place to live."
"Thanks for the warning."
"As I say, you saved our lives. In my case, you
probably saved me from worse.” Fong turned and looked back at the scene
in the middle of the road, where the other Chinese were still milling
around the car and the bodies. “I suspect they meant to question me.
That would not have been pleasant."
Logan said, “So what was all this about? Since when
is the mafia interested in a bunch of physicists or climatologists or
whatever you are?"
"What?” Fong looked startled. He pushed his glasses
up again and then he smiled. “Oh, I see. You misunderstand. None of us
is that sort of scientist. No, our field is chemistry. Pharmaceutical
chemistry,” he said. “Which is of interest to ... certain
parties."
Logan nodded. It didn't take a genius to figure that
one out.
"The information I just gave you,” Fong went on,
“has nothing to do with my own work. I got it from my elder brother,
who was one of the team that made the breakthrough. He told me all
about it, showed me the figures—it's not really difficult, anyone with
a background in the physical sciences could understand it—just before
they took him away."
"Took him away? What for? Oh,” Logan said. “This is
something the Chinese government wants to keep the lid on."
"That is a way to put it."
"And that's why you decided to get the hell out?"
"Not really. We've been working on this for some
time. We had already made contact with the, ah, relevant persons. But I
admit the news acted as a powerful incentive."
"And this business here tonight?"
Fong shrugged. “The so-called Russian mafia is no
more than a loose confederacy of factions and local organizations. I
would assume someone got wind of the plan and, for whatever reason,
decided to stop us. Possibly rivals of the ones who were going to
employ us. But that's only a guess."
He made a face. “I am not happy about being involved
with people like this, but I would have done anything to get out of
China. And I can't imagine myself as an underpaid illegal laborer on
some construction project along the Lena or the Yenesei."
Logan nodded again. “Okay, well, we'd better get
moving. What do you guys want to do? We can't very well take you back
to Khabarovsk with us, but—"
"Oh, we'll be all right. The car appears to be
undamaged—that really was remarkable shooting—and one of my colleagues
is a very expert driver. We have contacts we can call on,” Fong said,
“telephone numbers, a safe address in Belogorsk."
Logan noticed that a couple of the Chinese men were
examining the dead men's weapons, handling them in quite a
knowledgeable way. Some scientists. He wondered what the rest of the
story was. Never know, of course. What the hell.
"So you may as well be going.” Fong put out a hand.
“Thank you again."
Logan took it. “Don't mention it,” he said. “A
satisfied customer is our best advertisement."
* * * *
"So,” Misha said, “you think it's true?"
"Right now,” Logan said, “I don't know what the hell
I think about anything."
By now they were about three quarters of the way
back to Khabarovsk. The moon was well up in the sky and the
Trans-Siberian Highway was clearly visible below the Mil's nose.
Perfect conditions for IFR navigation: I Follow Roads. Back in the
cabin, Yura was sound asleep.
"He could have been making the whole thing up,”
Misha said. “But why?"
"People don't necessarily need a reason to lie.
But,” Logan said, “considering the situation, I don't know why he'd
want to waste time standing around feeding me a line."
"Those people,” Misha said, centuries of prejudice
in his voice. “Who can tell?"
"Well, if Fong was right, there's going to be a hell
of a lot of ‘those people’ coming north in another couple of
years—maybe sooner—and then it's going to get nasty around here. Even
if Fong's story was 90 percent bullshit,” Logan said, “we're still
looking at big trouble. Those poor bastards have got to be pretty close
to the edge already, from all I've heard. If things get even a little
bit worse—” He turned and looked at Misha. “I think we don't want to be
here when it happens."
Misha sighed heavily. “All right. I see what you
mean."
In the distance the lights of Khabarovsk had begun
to appear. Logan looked at the fuel gauges. They'd cut it a little
close tonight; they wouldn't be running on fumes by the time they got
home, but they'd certainly be into the reserve.
Misha said, “Where are you going to go, then?"
"Hell, I don't know.” Logan rubbed his eyes, wishing
they'd brought along a Thermos of coffee. “Back up north, maybe."
"Ever think of going back to America?"
"Not really. Actually I'm not even sure they'd let
me back in. I've lived outside the country almost twenty years now, and
anything over five automatically gets you on the National Security Risk
list. Anyway,” Logan said, “things have gone to hell in the States, and
not just from the weather and the flooding. It's been crazy back there
for a long time. Even before I left."
Misha said, “Canada, then?"
"Canada's harder than this country to get into,
these days. Especially for people from the States. Alaska, now,” Logan
said thoughtfully, “that might be a possibility. They say the
secessionists are paying good money for mercenaries. But I'm getting a
little old for that."
"You weren't too old tonight.” He could just make
out the pale flash of Misha's grin in the darkness. “Man, I'd forgotten
how good you are."
"Bullshit. No, I think it's Siberia again, if I
decide to pull out. I know some people from the old days, we've kept in
touch. You want to come along? Always work for a good pilot."
"Maybe. I'll think about it. We had some pretty good
times in Siberia in the old days, didn't we? And now it wouldn't be so
damned cold."
Khabarovsk was coming into view now, a sprawl of
yellow lights stretching north from the river. Moonlight glinted softly
off the surface of the Amur, limning the cluster of islands at the
confluence with the Ussuri.
"Going to take Lida with you?” Misha asked.
"I don't know.” Logan hadn't thought about it.
“Maybe. If she wants to come. Why not?"
He sat upright in his seat and stretched as best he
could in the confined space. “You understand,” he said, “I haven't made
up my mind yet. I'm not going to do anything until I've had time to
think this over."
He stared ahead at the lights of Khabarovsk. “Right
now I've got more urgent matters to take care of. Starting with a long
private talk with Yevgeny."
* * * *
But next day everything got crazy and there was no
time to think about Yevgeny or the Chinese or anything else. A
perfectly legitimate scientific expedition, some sort of geological
survey team, called up from Komsomolsk in urgent need of transportation
services, their pilot having gotten drunk and disappeared for parts
unknown with their aircraft.
And so, for the next couple of weeks, life was
almost unbearably hectic, though profitable. Logan was too preoccupied
to pay much attention to anything but the most immediate concerns; he
barely listened when Yura came in to say that he was taking off for a
few days to check out something he'd heard about.
But at last the job was finished and life began to
return to a less lunatic pace; and it was then, just as Logan was
starting to think once again about old and new business, that Yura
showed up at the office saying he'd found something Logan ought to see.
"You come,” he said. “I have to show you."
There was something in his face that forestalled
arguments or objections. Logan said, “Will we need the Mil?"
Yura nodded. Logan said, “All right. Let's go find
Misha."
* * * *
"Well,” Misha said in a strangled voice, “now we
know what the wolves have been eating."
Logan didn't reply. He was having too much trouble
holding the contents of his stomach down.
"Bears too,” Yura said, and pointed at the nearest
body with the toe of his boot. “See? Teeth marks too big for wolves."
There were, Logan guessed, between fifteen and
twenty bodies lying about the clearing. It was difficult to be sure
because some had been dragged over into the edge of the forest and most
had been at least partly dismembered.
"Tigers, some places,” Yura added. “Not this one,
though."
"How many?” Logan managed to get out. “Places, I
mean."
"Don't know. Eleven so far, that I found. Probably
more. I quit looking.” Yura's face wrinkled into a grimace of disgust.
“Some places, lots worse than this. Been there too long, you know? Gone
rotten, bad smell—"
"Yes, yes,” Logan said hastily, feeling his insides
lurch again. “I'll take your word for it."
The smell was bad enough here, though the bodies
didn't appear to be badly decomposed yet. At least it was still too
early in the year for the insects to be out in strength. In a few more
weeks—he pushed the picture out of his mind. Or tried to.
"And these places,” Misha said, “they're just
scattered around the area?"
Yura nodded. “Mostly just off old logging roads,
like here. Always about the same number of Chinese."
Logan wondered how he could tell. The bodies he
could see were just barely recognizable as human.
"They came up the logging road,” Yura said,
pointing. “One truck, not very big, don't know what kind. Stopped by
those trees and everyone got out. They all walked down the trail to
right over there. Chinese all lined up, facing that way, and knelt
down. Four men stood a little way behind them and shot them in the
back. Kalashnikovs.” He held up a discolored cartridge case. “Probably
shooting full automatic. Some of the Chinese tried to run. One almost
made it to the woods before they got him."
Misha was looking skeptical; probably he wondered if
Yura could really tell all that just by looking at the signs on the
ground. Logan didn't. He'd seen Yura at work enough times in the past.
"Did it the same way every place,” Yura added.
"Same truck too?"
"Couldn't tell for sure. A couple of places, I think
so."
"Poor bastards,” Misha said. “Packed in the back of
a truck, getting slammed around on a dirt road, probably half
starved—they'd be dizzy and weak, confused, easy to push around. Tell
them to line up and kneel down, they wouldn't give you any trouble."
"One place,” Yura said, “looked like some of the
Chinese tried to fight back. Didn't do them any good."
"Your people,” Logan said, “they knew about this?"
"Someone knew something. Stories going around,
that's how I heard. Not many villages left around here,” Yura said.
“Most of the people moved out back when they started the logging. Or
the loggers drove them out."
"Any idea how long it's been going on?"
"From what I heard, from the way the bodies looked
at a couple of places,” Yura said, “maybe a year."
Logan and Misha looked at each other.
"I think,” Logan said, “there's someone we should go
see."
* * * *
"Chinks?” Yevgeny Lavrushin said incredulously.
“This is about fucking Chinks?"
He rubbed the back of his hand against the raw spot
on his face, where Yura had peeled the duct tape off his mouth. He did
it clumsily; his wrists were still taped together.
Beside him in the back seat of the car, Logan said,
“Not entirely. We were already planning to have a talk with you."
"Hey,” Yevgeny said, “I don't blame you guys for
being pissed off, I'd be pissed off too. I swear I didn't know it was
going to get fucked up like that."
His voice was higher than usual and his words came
out very fast. There was a rank smell of fear-sweat coming off him, so
strong Logan was tempted to open a window despite the chill of the
early-morning air.
"There's a lot of people pissed off about
what happened,” he said. “Some pretty heavy people. If they
thought I had anything to do with what went down that night, I wouldn't
be alive right now talking to you guys. Trust me."
"Trust you?” Misha said over his shoulder. “The way
those Chinese did?"
"Oh, shit. What's the big deal? Look,” Yevgeny said,
“you gotta understand how it works. Used to be you could bring in as
many Chinks as you could haul and nobody cared, it's a big country and
the big shots were glad of the cheap labor and the cops were cool as
long as they got their cut."
Misha swerved the old Toyota to miss a pothole.
Yevgeny lost his balance and toppled against Yura, who cursed and
shoved him away. “God damn," Yevgeny cried. “Come on, you guys,
can't you at least take this tape off ?
"No,” Logan said. “You were saying?"
"Huh? Oh, right. See, everything's tightened up now.
You can still bring in a few now and then, like those suits you guys
picked up. But if I started running Chinks in any kind of numbers,”
Yevgeny said, “enough to make a profit, man, the shit would come down
on me like you wouldn't believe. A bunch of them get caught, they talk,
it's my ass."
"So you take their money,” Logan said, “and you load
them into the truck and take them out into the woods and shoot them."
"For Chrissake,” Yevgeny said. His voice had taken
on an aggrieved, impatient note; his facial expression was that of a
man trying to explain something so obvious that it shouldn't need
explaining. “They're Chinks!"
"They're human beings,” Misha said.
"The fuck they are. A Chink ain't a man. Anyway,”
Yevgeny said, looking at Logan, “like you never killed anybody? I heard
what you did up in Yakutsk—"
His voice died away. “Sorry,” he said almost in a
whisper.
Logan looked out the windows. “Almost to the
airport,” he said. “Now you're not going to give us any trouble, are
you, Yevgeny? You're going to go along with us without any noise or
fuss, right? Yura, show him."
Yura reached out with one hand and turned Yevgeny's
head to face him. With the other hand he held up his big belt knife,
grinning.
"Okay, okay. Sure.” Yevgeny's face was paler than
ever. “No problem ... hey, where are we going?"
"You'll see,” Logan told him. “It's a surprise."
* * * *
Going up the logging road, watching Yevgeny lurching
along ahead of him, Logan considered that maybe they should have let
him put on a jacket or something. He'd come to the door of his
apartment, in answer to their knock, wearing only a grubby sweat suit
that he'd evidently been sleeping in; and they'd let him put on his
shoes, but by the time anyone thought about a coat they'd already taped
his wrists and it was too difficult to get one onto him.
Now he was shivering in the cold breeze that blew
across the ridge; and Logan didn't really care about that, but he was
getting tired of listening to Yevgeny complaining about it. Well, it
wouldn't be much longer.
Up ahead, Misha turned off the overgrown road and up
the trail toward the crest of the ridge. “That way,” Logan said to
Yevgeny.
"Shit,” Yevgeny whined. “What's all this about? I'm
telling you guys, if you found some stiffs or something out here, it's
got nothing to do with me. I never operated anywhere near here. I never
even been anywhere near here."
"Shut up,” Logan said, prodding him with the muzzle
of the Kalashnikov. “Just follow Misha and shut up."
It was a long slow climb up the ridge and then down
the other side. Yevgeny was incredibly clumsy on the trail; he stumbled
frequently and fell down several times. At least he had stopped
talking, except for occasional curses.
When they finally reached the little clearing he
leaned against a tree and groaned. “Jesus,” he said. “You guys do this
all the time? What are you, crazy?"
Logan looked at him and past him, studying the tree.
It wasn't the one he'd had in mind, but it would do just fine. He
turned and nodded to the others.
"So,” Yevgeny said, “are you gonna tell me now—hey,
what the fuuuu—"
His voice rose in a yelp as Logan and Yura moved up
alongside him and grabbed him from either side, slamming him back hard
against the trunk of the tree. Misha moved in quickly with the roll of
duct tape.
"Hey. Hey, what, why—” Yevgeny was fairly gobbling
with terror now. “Come on, now—"
"Harasho," Misha said, stepping back. “Look
at that. Neat, huh?"
Logan walked around the tree, examining the bonds.
“Outstanding,” he said. “Very professional job."
Misha held up the rest of the roll of tape. “Want me
to tape his mouth again?"
Yevgeny was now making a dolorous wordless sound, a
kind of drawn-out moan. Logan started to tell Misha to go ahead and gag
him, but then he changed his mind and shook his head.
Yura had already disappeared up the narrow game
trail on the far side of the clearing. Now he came back, carrying a
small cloth bag from which he sprinkled a thick greenish-brown powder
along the ground. When he reached the tree where Yevgeny hung in his
tape bonds he pulled the mouth of the bag wide open and threw the rest
of the contents over Yevgeny's face and body.
"Now you smell good,” he told Yevgeny.
Yevgeny had begun to blubber, “Oh God, oh Jesus,”
first in English and then in Russian, again and again. Logan didn't
think he was praying, but who knew?
"All right,” Logan said, “let's go."
They made better time going back over the ridge,
without Yevgeny to slow them down. They were halfway down the other
side when they heard it: a deep, coughing, basso roar, coming from
somewhere behind them.
They stopped and looked at each other. Yura said, “Amba
sounds hungry."
They moved on down the trail, hurrying a little now.
Just as they reached the logging road they heard the roar again, and
then a high piercing scream that went on and on.
Copyright (c) 2005 William Sanders