The greatest magicmaster.., p.9
Moscow Sky: A Dak Harper Thriller, page 9
He handed the phone back to the radio guy and muttered an order under his breath.
Morovski saw the flash of fear in the man’s eyes, and knew the game was up. He started to turn around and walk back to his truck, pretending as though nothing was wrong. He only made it one step before the captain’s tinny voice pierced the air.
“Colonel?”
He stopped, albeit after another dragging step, then looked over his shoulder. “I’m just going to need to see your papers.”
Morovski’s eyelids narrowed. “What did you just say, Captain?”
The man swallowed but stiffened his spine. “I’m going to need to verify your orders.”
The colonel spun on the man and took two steps toward him. “Are you stupid? Did you not hear me tell you we are on a covert operation? My unit isn’t the type to carry papers, boy, and you would do well to remember your rank.”
As he lashed into the man, Morovski noted the men gathering behind the barricade, their weapons hanging in their hands, ready to be raised at a moment’s notice.
The insult only emboldened the captain, who inclined his chin in an attempt to get the emotional higher ground. “I’m sorry, Colonel. But I’m going to have to ask you and your men to come with me. We have received information that it is you who are the rogue unit you described earlier. My men will search your trucks immediately. You and your men are to be taken into custody, and the treasure will be taken to Moscow.”
Morovski noticed the man’s right hand lingering over the pistol on his hip.
The colonel drew a deep breath through his nostrils, taking in the cold air laced with the scent of evergreens and dried wheat grass.
“I see,” Morovski said with a resigned nod. “I was hoping things didn’t have to happen this way, Captain. I really was.”
The captain raised his left hand and flicked four fingers to the men behind him, signaling them to move forward.
“Tell your men to stand down,” the captain ordered.
Morovski couldn’t deny the irony, a man of his rank being ordered by this lower officer.
With another nod, he reached up and pinched the bill of his hat, removed it, and stretched his arm out to the right. He held it there for a second in an awkward pose, then dropped the hat to the ground.
Gunfire erupted from behind him. A fury of bullets tore through the captain’s ranks, cutting some of his men down in seconds.
The men never had a chance to react. They were still operating under the assumption this would be a peaceful surrender. Not one of them got off a single shot.
As the captain twitched his head from right to left—watching his men die—he alone was shielded by the colonel, but that protection lasted only seconds.
Morovski drew his sidearm and aimed it at the captain’s forehead just as ten soldiers rushed to the barricade to aid in the fight.
The captain didn’t have a chance to draw his weapon. He’d been momentarily distracted—more than enough time for the colonel to get the drop on him.
“Tell your men to stand down,” Morovski said.
The captain shook his head in defiance. “Tell your men to drop their weapons, or you die right now. And so do they.”
The glimmering blue eyes staring back at Morovski betrayed the man’s fear, and he saw it was winning the fight in the captain’s mind.
He raised his left hand, again with his palm facing out. “Hold!” he barked. “Drop your weapons, men. Let these criminals pass. The Marshal will deal with him, personally.”
Morovski saw the conflict on some of the other faces behind the captain, but one by one, the men begrudgingly laid down their arms.
Within two seconds, the colonel’s men spewed out from their cover behind the trucks and rushed forward with rifles raised—each one with sights trained on targets.
The captain remained steadfast. He alone had kept his weapon.
Morovski sensed the man’s reluctance, and he saw the misguided courage boiling in the man’s eyes.
“What are you doing, Captain?”
The man said nothing. He didn’t have to. His right hand hovered over the holster on his hip, but subtly lowered closer and closer to the pistol’s grip.
The colonel had seen American western movies from the 1960s—illegal versions during the Soviet reign. He recalled the scenes where two gunfighters dueled to the death with small firearms.
He never imagined he’d find himself in such a position.
A cold breeze slithered across his skin as he stared at the captain. He absorbed every detail of the man’s features, entirely focused on his opponent. While Morovski’s men charged forward and began apprehending their former allies, he barely noticed.
An instinct deep inside him commanded his reflexes. It wasn’t anything he’d seen out of the captain. Rather, an ages-old gut feeling drove him to draw.
The captain never even got his sidearm out of the holster.
Morovski pulled his pistol and fired.
The report echoed across the hills and mountains, reaching in all directions before fading.
For a second that stretched like twenty, the captain remained upright despite the fact he was already dead.
The dark hole just above his nose began to ooze crimson. Then his legs buckled, and he fell backward, surrendering to gravity.
Several of Morovski’s men stole a quick look toward him at the sound, more out of concern for their leader than surprise.
The enemy forces stared in rapt horror at the execution of their commanding officer. Their eyes hung open with beleaguered, drawn disbelief as they looked across the scene of so many of their own—killed by their own.
The colonel stuffed his sidearm back in the holster and bent down to pick up his hat. Once it was firmly on his head again, he took a step toward the dead captain, who stared up at the sky he could not see.
“You could have just let us pass,” Morovski muttered. Then he stepped over the body as he might a dead rat and walked over to Kostya, who held a submachine gun braced against his shoulder.
“What do you want to do with these, Colonel?”
Morovski looked into the eyes of the terrified Russian soldiers. They were only following orders, as he’d done for most of his career. But this was war. And his war was no longer with Ukraine or anyone else. The Marshal was to blame for this. Not him. And the Russian president above all carried the heaviest portion of this burden.
For the colonel, the decision was easy.
“Kill them,” he ordered without a hint of remorse. “Kill them all, and move these vehicles out of the way. Then we head to the border.”
Morovski turned and started back toward the truck. The sounds of gunshots rang out across the grim setting, bouncing off the gray sky above.
12
The van sped along the road heading east out of Sighetu, leaving the Romanian border town in the rearview mirror.
Will gripped the steering wheel tightly as he felt the same sense of urgency he knew likewise gripped Dak and Lesma.
Ahead in the distance, the mountains on the Ukrainian side of the border climbed into the sky with white caps shielding the peaks from the sporadic sun that poked through the clouds.
To the right, the Romanian mountains reached upward with similar snowy dressings.
Dak stared at the map in his lap, while Lesma looked over his shoulder from the seat behind him.
Liz had arranged for the van that could hold eight or nine people when the third row was in place. For their purposes, she’d requested the third-row seat be removed to provide more cargo space.
Dak pointed at the map, pressing into the paper. “My best guess is they’ll come south through Rakhiv. If they haven’t passed through there already. Then there are a couple of towns with names I’m not even going to try to pronounce before they get to Dilove.”
He lifted his finger and smacked it down on the name. “That’s where they’ll cross. The last town before the Romanian border.”
“You sound really sure of yourself on this one,” Will commented. “What makes you so sure they’ll try to cross there? I mean, other than your previous hypothesis.”
“It’s still the same. The nearest border crossing is in Sighetu. But they’re not going to try that. It’s on a bridge over the Tiszu River. They’d have no way to escape if they took that route. They’d never make it through the Ukrainian checkpoint.”
“Right. I get that. But why not go farther west?”
“The farther they stretch out their journey, the more likely their chances of getting caught. Thanks to our friend’s little hot tip she passed along to the Russians, now the Russian army is chasing them. Without air transportation, it would only be a matter of time until their comrades caught up.”
“Do you think the leader of this rogue band knows they’re being chased?” Will asked.
“By now I would think so. Maybe they’ve already been caught and this whole trip was for nothing.”
The van fell silent, only offering the steady rumble of the road against the tires.
“You don’t believe that do you?” Lesma asked.
“It’s a game of uncertainty,” Dak answered. “If the Russian army caught them, then it’s out of our hands anyway. But if they didn’t, we still have a chance to save the curator, and the artifacts. We have to take the play whether we like it or not.”
“There is no bridge in that area?”
“Doesn’t look like it.” Dak ran his finger along the road heading south toward the river. “The Tiszu acts as the border between the two countries. South of Dilove is where it’s shallow and narrower than in Sighetu. My guess is they’ll try to either walk or ferry across. It’s freezing out there, so I can’t imagine them trying to do it on foot.”
“So, we just look for a ferry crossing?” Will wondered. “Like it’s 1872?”
Dak laughed. “Maybe. Or perhaps they already have something else in mind.”
He took out the phone and looked at the photos from near Dilove. “I’d be surprised if there were anything more than rafts used to get across this. It reminds me of the Nantahala back home along the Tennessee–North Carolina border. Maybe not as deep.”
“What if they had waders?”
“Like fly fishermen use?”
Will nodded.
“I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s possible. But there’s still the issue of their heavy cargo.”
“If there were enough of them,” Lesma argued, “they could split the load and make it across.”
“Also true,” Dak agreed. “Each man carrying a share for such a short distance isn’t out of the question.”
Will turned the wheel to the right and steered the van southward along the road. Signs along the shoulder told them the next village was a place called Lunca la Tisa.
Dak checked the map again after reading the sign and checked the distance to the mountain village of Valea Vișeului—due south of Dilove.
“You don’t think they came through Chernivtsi?” Lesma indicated the Ukrainian city on the map.
“Too many eyeballs watching for suspicious traffic,” Dak reasoned. “They probably want to stay as far away from midsize-to-large towns as possible. Coming down into this valley is what I would do if I was in their shoes. Sparsely populated. Lots of places to hide in the mountains. Dense forests. Easier to get lost here than anywhere else along the border.”
“I understand, but why wouldn’t they just cross the river while still in Ukraine, and then go over on the mountain passes to the east of the valley?”
Dak sighed through his nose and nodded, then rubbed his eyelids. “You’re right, Lesma. I’ve been so focused on them staying along the road until they could get as close as possible to the border before crossing. But that makes more sense. Then they wouldn’t need waders.”
“Or a raft,” Will said, clearing his throat.
“Right.” Dak traced the road with his right index finger. “There’s a bridge in Dilove. If they crossed there, they could take that road southeast for a mile, park their trucks, and make a break for the border.”
“How far would they have to go once they park?”
“A mile. Maybe a little more. But it wouldn’t take them long, even with their haul. It’s all mountains and hills there. Without air support, we’re going to have a tough time spotting them.”
“When we get to the valley,” Lesma said, “what is the plan?”
“We’ll have to try to get the high ground,” Dak replied. “From these mountains, we should be able to spot them more easily. But there’s no guarantee.”
“There never is with you,” Will quipped.
“Touché.”
“And you’re assuming we can beat them to the border. It’s possible they’ve already crossed and disappeared into the mountains.”
“I know,” Dak resigned. “But we have to take that chance. Besides, we didn’t come all this way just to turn around and head home.”
Will chuckled. “No, we did not.”
The road wound through the hills dotted by Romanian hamlets. The villages’ architecture represented a strange blend of the bland communist structures built during that time frame and the more aesthetic traditional Romanian homes from before.
Dak admired the latter as they passed by in the window.
Sharply sloping, high-rooftop barns, churches, and chalets reminded him somewhat of the old Norwegian style of buildings he’d seen in pictures—though he’d never visited that country.
The mountains and hills, thick with untouched forests, reminded him of his home back in East Tennessee. But there was something about this place that seemed even more natural.
He found himself hoping the war going on across the river to his left didn’t spill over into this country and spoil something so beautiful as it had done in many parts of Ukraine.
The irony wasn’t lost on Dak.
He was bringing the war here, though with only three guys on his side he hoped the collateral damage would be kept to a minimum.
Lesma’s pudgy thumbs tapped on his phone screen as he stared at the device in the backseat.
Dak noticed the Russian’s silence and intense concentration on whatever he was doing. “Keeping an eye on the family business?” Dak pried.
For a second, Lesma didn’t even realize the American was talking to him.
Then when it hit him, he lifted his eyes and looked at Dak, who stared back at him over his shoulder.
“What?” He shook his head. “No. The business is fine. The boys know how to run things while I’m gone.”
“Then what are you doing? Texting a girlfriend? You’re not married anymore.”
Lesma’s lips curled with mischief. “I’m pulling my weight, as you Americans like to say.”
“Yeah?”
Will flashed a glance in the rearview mirror at the big man.
“You said the convoy is probably going through Rakhiv, then Dilove.”
Dak nodded. “Seems to make the most sense. It’s what I would do.”
“Right. Well, I have a cousin who runs a hostel there. Since your friend Liz doesn’t have access to the satellite right now, perhaps some eyes on the ground can help us.”
A look of utter astonishment splashed over Dak’s face. Gravity dragged his jaw wide open. “What?”
Lesma chuckled in his usual, hefty way. “Yes. My cousin Vladimir lives there. He’s what you Americans might call a hippie. His hostel is on the main road that cuts through the town. If a convoy of delivery trucks passes by, he is in a prime location to see it.”
Will chortled at the revelation. “You didn’t think to tell us this before?”
The Russian lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “I didn’t know they were going through Rakhiv until Dak said it.”
“We still don’t know,” Dak interrupted. “But that’s awesome, Les. If your cousin could help us out, that would be great.”
“You sound like the guy from Office Space,” Will said.
Dak snickered and looked over at his friend. “Lumbergh. Classic.”
“Who is this Lumbergh?” Lesma wondered, confused. He searched both men for the answer.
“I guess we’ll have to watch that movie with you when all this is over,” Dak suggested. “Would be a good way to unwind after all this.”
“Yeah, for real,” Will agreed.
Lesma’s phone vibrated in his palm, and he checked the screen. “My cousin said six trucks just passed through twenty minutes ago. He said he wouldn’t have thought much of it, but they looked like they were in a hurry.”
Dak nodded. “Great work, Les,” he praised. “See? I told you you’d be a huge help.”
Lesma beamed with pride. “Glad to be of service, Dak.”
Dak turned around and peered through the windshield at the mountains around and in front of them. “Now we just have to get into position and hope they walk right into our trap.”
13
Morovski felt the truck slowing down, pulling him toward the cab wall. He leaned forward and looked through the window and windshield to see where his driver was stopping.
He’d already selected the spot based on maps he and Kostya analyzed. Through the glass he saw the surrounding Eastern Carpathian Mountains rising into the gray blanket above. The windshield wipers smeared wet snowflakes on the glass.
An old trail cut into tall grass led into the forest straight ahead before disappearing around a slight curve. It was the perfect place to hide the trucks, and for them to make their escape across the border.
The remote area wouldn’t likely offer much resistance in the way of border patrol, even with the heightened number of refugees fleeing the country. In fact, with so many Ukrainians desperately trying to get out, Morovski reasoned that more of the patrols’ focus would be at the legitimate crossings as opposed to random mountain passes.
The Eastern Carpathians also presented far more challenges and dangers to ill-equipped families attempting to make the crossing. The cold and occasionally treacherous terrain made fleeing via that route not only dangerous but irrational.
