Road Of Bones. Don Pendleton

results!” the deputy minister commanded. “We’re all depending on it.”

       “As you say, sir.”

       Marshak’s hand was steady as the other lines went dead, but there was no mistaking Gabritschevsky’s meaning.

       He was running out of time.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Bolan and Anuchin took turns watching the docks through Captain Glushko’s old Zeiss binoculars as the Zarya completed its river crossing. There were no uniformed police officers in view, nor any gunmen obviously waiting for a chance to shoot them down before they landed on the river’s eastern shore.

       Could slipping out of Yakutsk be that easy?

       Bolan guessed that it couldn’t.

       “They may be watching us from hiding,” Anuchin said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

       He nodded. “It’s definitely possible.”

       Bolan knew next to nothing about law enforcement in the Sakha Republic or Russia’s Far Eastern Federal District, but he assumed there had to be some cops assigned to Nizhny Bestyakh. Even if they were bought and paid for by the Mafiya, the FSB, whoever, they would still be placed in an embarrassing position by an open firefight on the waterfront. His enemies, if they were halfway smart, might choose to spot Bolan and Anuchin, trail them into town and choose a spot where they could close the trap without dozens of witnesses.

       Or maybe they had dropped the ball again.

       In which case, Bolan and the woman had an edge. They couldn’t count on any great head start, but if they had even a little time to spare, using it wisely was a must.

       “Be ready when we disembark,” Bolan advised her. “If someone makes a move—”

       “Hit back,” she finished for him.

       “Right. And otherwise—”

       “Head for the motorcycle shop.”

       Their skipper had informed them of the shop’s location, with a hand-drawn map to clarify, noting that cycles could be bought or rented from the owner, who—no great surprise—was one of Glushko’s oldest friends.

       “Be sure you talk to Ilya,” he insisted. “Tell him that I send you. He give you good price.”

       Bolan had thanked him for the tip and watched the skipper closely to make sure he didn’t phone ahead. Their pose as lovers on a hasty getaway was thin, at best, and if the Zarya’s captain caught a whiff of bounty money he might sell them out.

       Why not? A pair of strangers—one of them a foreigner, at that—meant nothing to him when his bills came due. Glushko was local, had to live in Yakutsk after they were gone. Why borrow trouble from the Mob or the authorities if he could bag a double payday from a single river crossing?

       But the skipper didn’t make a call.

       Which, naturally, didn’t mean he wouldn’t, once they cleared his deck. A quick heads-up to someone, maybe old friend Ilya at the motorcycle shop, and any soldiers waiting for them in the general vicinity could gather for the kill.

       And it would have to be a kill. That much had been agreed. Anuchin was dead set against enduring more interrogation, and surrender ran against the grain for Bolan, going back to schoolyard brawls in childhood. Anyone who tried to stop them now would pay a price in blood.

       Bolan could feel the Zarya slowing, hear its engines winding down as Glushko began his docking maneuvers. Nothing fancy for the old tub, just a gentle sidling in against a pier with old tires hanging off the side to serve as bumpers. When the hull and rubber kissed, a teenage boy came running up to help Glushko secure the mooring lines.

       The soldier checked out the wharf rats who surrounded them. A motley gang of fishermen, dock hands and sailors, people looking for a bargain at the nearby fish stalls. Any one of them could have a weapon tucked away beneath a coat, a shawl or sweater. Any pair of eyes that swept the Zarya’s deck could be comparing Anuchin’s face to photographs they’d seen.

       Bolan shook hands with Captain Glushko on the pier, knowing they’d never meet again, then followed Anuchin into town.

      Aboard the Lena Ferry: 9:19 a.m.

      “THIS JOB IS SHIT,” Viktor Gramotkin muttered.

       “Just be thankful that you have a job,” Nikolay Milescu said. “That your tiny brain is still inside your head.”

       “It’s not my fault Stolypin missed his damned shot at the airport,” Gramotkin said. “If I’d had the rifle—”

       “Yes. You talk a good fight,” Milescu said. “Tell Levshin about it, why don’t you?”

       “That bastard? I’m not scared of him.”

       “Of course not,” Milescu said. “We all saw the way you put him in his place.”

       “You wait. The next time he—”

       “Yes, yes. Shut up and take another turn around the deck downstairs.”

       “You think we missed them?” Gramotkin asked him. “Nikolay, they missed the goddamn boat!”

       “Check, anyway, and stop your bitching.”

       Gramotkin left him, grumbling as he moved off toward the nearest stairwell.

       Thankful for the respite from complaints, Milescu scanned the upper deck once more, confirming what he knew without a second look.

       A wasted effort.

       They’d been first aboard the ferry when it left Yakutsk, and studied every face that boarded after them. The female sergeant from the FSB wasn’t among them, and it therefore made no sense to think her bodyguard was on the boat, either.

       But they had orders. They would ride the ferry, watch and wait, until a message came from Yakutsk or from Nizhny Bestyakh to tell them the targets were spotted. Then, depending on the ferry’s position, they would either proceed at a snail’s pace to join in the hunt, or waste more time while the boat unloaded, then reloaded and retraced its path.

       Milescu recognized the need for consequences when they had bungled the job at the airport in Yakutsk. Another boss might have killed them on the spot—or at least killed Stolypin, for missing his shots—but Levshin had given them a second chance of sorts. Milescu only hoped they wouldn’t be stuck midriver on the ferry when the targets showed themselves again.

       There was, of course, no question that the runners would be caught. Even if they somehow evaded capture in Nizhny Bestyakh, where could they go? One miserable road was their only escape route, and how would they travel? In some junker bought or stolen off the streets? Where did they hope to go, with soldiers behind them and more waiting ahead in Magadan?

       Milescu almost felt sorry for the stupid traitor and the stranger who had volunteered to help her. What a lousy bargain he had made, at any price.

       Like Grigory Rybakov, Milescu thought, loaning out his soldiers to the FSB. What did the godfather hope to gain by meddling in the cloak-and-dagger world of secret agents? Wasn’t running Moscow’s underground economy sufficient challenge?

       Still, it was not Milescu’s place to question orders. He had come this far from Kapotnya’s filthy streets, in the southeastern quarter of Moscow, by following directives from older, vastly richer men. Why would he break the pattern now, when it would only leave him destitute at best—or, far more likely, get him killed?

       If he was told to ride the ferry day and night until the river froze, then he would ride the ferry, waiting for the targets to reveal themselves. And he would keep any objections to himself. Let Viktor Gramotkin be the lightning rod, if any word of disaffection found its way to Stephan Levshin or the boss of the Izmaylovskaya clan.

       Let the blow fall on him, while Milescu smiled all the way to the bank.