The bone road, p.25
The Bone Road, page 25
Whimpering, Heather tried to obey, but the boot was small and Marina occupied most of it and Heather had a fleeting thought that she didn’t want to hurt her, but then of course that wasn’t possible, not anymore. She was close to panic. Drakulić grew more and more infuriated.
‘I tell you to lie down.’
‘I can’t! It’s impossible to move with my feet tied.’
Fuming, he saw that she was telling the truth. Producing a knife, he sliced through her ties. That was better but even then one hip stuck out proud. Drakulić didn’t wait for her to adjust herself again and slammed the lid. She yelled in pain as it cracked off the bone.
‘You stopping it on purpose,’ he said accusingly.
Under different circumstances, Heather could see that the situation was macabrely amusing; the kidnapper blaming the hostage because his car boot was too small for his crime.
He slammed the lid on her hip again, but then gave up. Evidently accepting that no matter how many times he slammed the boot-lid, she wasn’t going to fit inside. He dragged her out and called over the fat guard. Heather recognised him as the particularly vicious one, who seemed to take visceral delight in hurting her. He had sweaty hands, and every time he hit her, her skin was sloppy with his perspiration. After Drakulić, she hated him most. The two men conducted a rapid conversation in Serbian, then the guard hit her again. This time she saw it coming and moved aside so that he only just caught the edge of her cheek, but she sprawled backwards in the snow and lay there, unmoving. She wanted them to believe he’d hurt her more than he actually had. She forced herself to be calm. Taking quiet, steady breaths, she methodically lowered her heart rate.
‘Get up,’ snapped the guard.
She whimpered as though dazed, until he hauled her by the arm and pulled her to the passenger compartment of the car, shoving her into the back seat before sliding in beside her. She slumped across him. Muttering, he propped her back up, strapping her in with the seatbelt to keep her from falling again, and then grabbed her neck to feel her pulse. Drakulić climbed into the driver’s seat. The guard swore and said something to Drakulić, who cursed. Heather was gratified. She knew her pulse would be very low, barely over fifty b.p.m. It would help persuade them that she was badly hurt. Her resting heart rate was always low. It had been even lower still when she was riding professionally, but even now she was extremely fit. It always confused the nurse’s blood pressure monitors when she went for routine check-ups.
Drakulić started to drive away from the mountain hut, following a set of vehicle tracks that were partly covered by the recent snowfall but still mostly visible in the glare of the headlights. He cranked the heat right up and the soon the rattling heater was pumping out hot air. Heather lolled in her seat, eyes half closed, trying to appear as if she was drifting in and out of consciousness, secretly enjoying the welcome relief of feeling warm for the first time in ages.
She’d avoided being locked in the boot, even if that was more by accident than design. Now if she could just capitalise on that. She assessed the situation, probing for any detail she could turn to her advantage. Drakulić and the guard were both armed, both wearing holsters at their hips. The guard’s was closer, but she’d never handled a gun in her life. The idea that she might succeed in taking it out of its holster, let alone manage to get off a shot, was pure fantasy. Physically, too, she was outmatched. The guard probably had a hundred pounds on her and, unlike her, neither he nor Drakulić was beaten and bruised. In fact, Drakulić looked pretty fit to her. She had no chance of taking on the two men.
She kept looking, hoping for some crack of daylight. What else? Come on, Heather. Two of Drakulić’s guards were headed down the mountain in the van, but that still left one unaccounted for. Where was he? She thought for a moment and concluded in dismay that it was his vehicle’s tracks they were following . . . Which meant he’d gone ahead – almost certainly to lie in wait for Simo. There was no way to warn the policeman.
The car rode over a bump and there was a hollow thud from the boot. Heather’s focus was interrupted by a vision of Marina, lips blue, mouth agape. Dead. A vision of Ryan’s decomposing body replaced Marina’s. No. She shook herself out of her reverie – this was no time for grief. She’d mourn later. If she gave into her feelings, she’d be joining them.
Her head ached and her jaw pulsed with a pain worse than any cavity drilled by the dentist. She let out a groan, playing it up as much as she dared. Drakulić snapped at her to shut up. Snow continued to fall slowly, like down from a slit pillow, settling on the road. The forested patches of mountainside she’d seen earlier had thinned out, though there were still clumps of trees scattered around, which meant they weren’t yet high enough to be above the treeline. The air felt thin; it was mountain air, but the snow would increase the oxygen content – helpful if she got the opportunity to make a run for it. She wished she knew how far they were driving and where they were headed. It was even harder to make a plan when travelling blind.
There was only one route, but it was uneven and cratered with potholes and large stones half hidden by the snow. That and the darkness made progress slow and treacherous. The snow chains rattled as Drakulić diligently traced the tyre tracks in front. After about twenty minutes they reached a crossroads. The driver of the earlier vehicle must have been confused about which route to take, as his tracks led both ways. Heather concluded that he must have chosen one, then changed his mind and turned around and headed in the opposite direction. The snow was churned up and it was impossible to see from inside the car in which direction the earlier vehicle had finally gone. Drakulić stopped dead and swore loudly, slapping his hand on the steering wheel. He picked up his phone, saw that there was no signal and tossed it down in disgust. There was no signpost, and low banks of stone covered in snow led in several directions. The only way to tell which way the first car had gone would be to climb out and follow one of the tracks and see if they continued. Drakulić had clearly come to the same conclusion. He turned around and issued an order to the fat guard. As cowed as Drakulić’s men were by him, the prospect of leaving the warmth of the car for the blizzard conditions outside provoked an objection from the guard. Grumbling, he obeyed, and a minute later his podgy figure had disappeared into the snow and darkness. Drakulić drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, impatient for the guard’s return, but when after five minutes he hadn’t come back, he made a decision. He killed the engine, removed the ignition key, and exited the car. He flung open the back door and levelled his gun at Heather.
‘You. Out.’
After the soporific warmth of the car interior, the blast of cold came as an unwelcome shock. Drakulić picked the same track that the guard had opted for and, with a wave of his gun, he forced Heather to march. There was no sign of the missing guard, but soon they could see from the tracks in the snow that the vehicle they were following had performed a U-turn and gone back in the other direction. Drakulić shoved her again with the gun and grunted at her to turn around.
The light was changing, the sky no longer black but bleeding to grey at the horizon. They half-slid across the snow as the track turned down, and suddenly Drakulić lost his footing. The end of the gun barrel slewed away from her as he fought to stay on his feet. With an electric-like jolt, Heather realised this was her chance. She turned and fled, her unsuitable shoes scrabbling for grip, her legs heavy and slow. Not caring where she was going; anything would be better than remaining in his hands. And, she reminded herself, somewhere out here Simo was waiting. Maybe just around the next bend. But even if not, a slow, cold death on the mountain was preferable to the alternative. She ventured a glance over her shoulder. Drakulić was fast, displaying a sure-footedness that belied his age. She remembered that he had fought in these conditions, knew this ground. Had killed here again and again. The pursuit was over before it had even begun. He caught up, grabbed her from behind and threw her to the ground. Panting over her, he extended his gun-arm, taking aim at her head.
‘Do not make me chase you again.’
He motioned with the weapon. Up. Her chance had gone. They trudged back to the car, to find the fat guard already in the back seat, puzzled at the absence of his boss and the hostage. Drakulić rounded on him, berating him loudly. It was clear to Heather what must have happened. After finding the end of the track, the guard had circled back but they’d missed him in the murk and ever-falling snow.
Drakulić shoved Heather back into the car and resumed his place in the driver’s seat. He stamped on the accelerator and they set off again with a jolt. Breathing deep and slow, Heather allowed the warmth of the car to seep into her limbs, oxygenating her muscles, while allowing the men to think she’d fallen asleep. She’d failed this time, but she swore to herself that the next time would be different.
26
Simo surveyed the helicopter in dismay; it looked even more dilapidated than he’d remembered. David was already in the pilot’s seat. He’d tossed a bag with his hunting rifle and ammunition into the cockpit and started the engines. The rotor blades spun up. He beckoned to Simo to get on board. With a grimace, Simo realised that David was enjoying this part. He’d been trying for years to get him up in this death-trap. Now was the time. The downdraught forcing him low, Simo clambered in beside David, sliding a headset over his ears so they could talk. David was dressed all in white, in the winter camouflage fatigues of a soldier, his insulated coat topped with a hood and a white fur collar.
‘You look like a fucking yeti,’ Simo remarked.
‘Laugh it up, asshole.’ David cast a judgmental glance up and down Simo’s civilian gear. ‘At least I won’t be freezing my balls off on the mountain.’
Simo settled into his seat, strapping himself securely into the harness. Beside him at knee level were several poorly patched bullet-holes in the door.
‘What do the tourists make of those?’ he asked.
‘Local colour.’ David flicked some switches and feathered the controls. ‘It’s going to be a bit bumpy. What about your Bosnian friends?’
He meant the police back-up. Earlier, Simo had spoken to them and filled them in on the exchange.
‘Are they coming?’ asked David.
‘Waiting for a break in the weather. Apparently, it’s too dangerous to fly.’
David grinned again, flicked a handful of overhead switches and eased the stick controls. They rose swiftly and Simo felt he’d left his stomach back on the rain-soaked field in Goražde. Airborne, the helicopter lurched from side to side; even a sizeable aircraft like this one was buffeted by the strong winds. David hummed loudly in his headset and Simo fumbled with the volume of his own, in an attempt to block him.
‘You can’t. It’s broken.’
Simo suspected that he was lying but was taking perverse pleasure in annoying him. It was how David operated. When they had achieved something approaching level flight, he reached down for a bag of potato crisps. He opened the bag and the powerful smell of onion filled the small cabin. The smell made Simo’s stomach roll.
‘I’m distracting you from the task ahead, and the significant risk of death.’ He crunched loudly in his ears. ‘Is it helping?’
It would take more than a foul smell to lift Simo’s anxiety about what they were flying into. David and he both knew that Drakulić would send at least one armed man ahead to intercept Simo. That’s why David was here. He would provide cover for Simo while he made the rendezvous with Drakulić and carried out the exchange picking up the two women. They flew on into the early morning gloom. After a while, Simo found to his surprise that the buffeting ride ceased to worry him. But only because much bigger things weighed on him. So much could go wrong. Not to mention that Simo had hid from his friend just how much pain he was in. He wasn’t sure how well he could handle a gun right now.
‘We’re approaching,’ said David.
A splinter of dawn fractured the darkness, giving Simo his best sight of their surroundings since they’d taken off. But if they were on final approach then where were the mountains? Where they should be was only a bank of fog. A second later, he could see absolutely nothing. It was like flying through a steam-filled sauna.
‘Can you see?’ he said into his headset, frantic.
‘Not a thing,’ said David.
Fuck, thought Simo. His friend clearly hadn’t read the chapter in the pilot’s manual about reassuring nervous passengers.
‘Freezing fog,’ David went on. ‘Hold on. This could get a bit dicey.’
Simo gripped the handle affixed to the bulkhead beside his head and clung on. If David was admitting to it being dicey, the reality was many times worse. Simo was not a religious man, but at that moment he prayed to the Father, Son, Holy Spirit and any other deity that might be listening – to please get them down safely. The helicopter bobbed in the turbulent air, tossed around like a cat toying with a mouse. Simo swore if he survived this, he was never, ever going up in this thing again.
‘Humid air is less dense,’ said David, delivering the least appropriately timed chemistry lesson Simo could imagine. ‘As long as we don’t have ice forming inside, we’ll be okay.’
‘Right,’ said Simo, dubious.
As David spoke, a plume of freezing crystals formed along the windscreen in front of them. ‘Grab the can at your feet and spray the windshield,’ he said, his voice calm. ‘Just try not to drip onto the controls. They don’t like it.’
Simo groped at his feet and found the can. It was regular antifreeze – he was sure he had the same one in his car. He sprayed liberally where David directed. It made no difference.
‘We’ll just have to hope the instruments work,’ said David, resolutely upbeat.
‘Do they usually?’ asked Simo.
‘More than half the time.’
That was too much for Simo. ‘Get this piece of junk on the ground or I’ll see you never get another fucking licence, so long as I live.’ Given the terminal consequences of David failing to land safely, Simo knew that this was an empty threat. The wind howled through the patched bullet-holes and the helicopter was abruptly swept across the sky. Just as Simo was sure he was going to throw up, the clouds parted and a narrow passage appeared, revealing the mountains and the smudged bronze circles of the linked Olympic rings.
‘There’s Bjelašnica,’ yelled David.
A jagged mountain reared up, smothered in snow, clouds eddying around its peak. Somehow, amongst the swirling chaos, David found a section clear from falling snow and pointed the nose of the craft towards it.
‘Here we go.’
To Simo the approach felt less like descending and more like plummeting.
‘When we come into land, we can’t hover,’ added David, as if things couldn’t get worse. ‘If we do, the downdraft will disturb the snow and it will blind us.’
‘Jebi se,’ Simo swore. He wondered how he’d let himself be persuaded that the helicopter was a good idea.
‘So, we have to land fast. Really fast.’
‘Or we crash.’
‘You got it.’
The engine note increased with their velocity, and the bulbous nose of the aircraft pitched down violently.
‘It would be better if we had a proper look at the touchdown area before we land. Have to cross our fingers that there aren’t too many rocks under the snow.’ David craned his neck to spy the precise landing point. ‘Snowfield there, beside the building. Should do the job. Hold on!’
Simo again clutched the handle above his head, which was still slick from where he’d been gripping it. The helicopter dropped, the winds catching the small craft again, tossing it from side to side. The wind shrieked past them but somehow the rotor-blades continued to turn. The needles on the instruments spun; Simo couldn’t tell if they were doing so because they weren’t working or, equally alarmingly, because they were. His ears rang and painful pressure was building between his eyes and in his sinuses.
The helicopter dived for the ground and the mountain rose up outside his window. Suddenly, Simo could see the concrete building of the abandoned cable car station. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, but that only made the nausea worse, so he opened them again, which was no improvement. The landing zone was coming at them rapidly and at an unnatural angle. How the hell was David going to steady the machine and slow it enough before they hit the ground? It seemed an impossibility. As if to underline his dire prediction, an alarm in the cabin sounded, high-pitched and insistent. Beads of sweat trickled down David’s usually calm brow. The ground was white, the sky was white and perspective impossible. Simo gave up on God and muttered various apologies to his ex-wife, his daughters and his mother. And then, with a wrenching thud, they hit the ground. But they weren’t down yet. The helicopter bounced and there was a grisly squeal of metal, a scrape and a violent crunch. Sparks flew, fiery orange against the white. Simo was hurled forward and then back, the harness at least keeping him in his seat. They juddered to a halt, the noise and fury of the landing drifting away on the winds, silence settling along with the snowfall. Cautiously, he opened one eye and then the other. He coughed. The cabin was filling with smoke and David was slumped forward, slack in his harness. Blood poured into his right eye from a nasty cut where he’d smacked his brow against the hard switch or button on one of the controls. Simo quickly unfastened both of them, but with his injuries he knew he was too weak to drag a fully grown man away from the burning helicopter.
‘David! David!’
David gave a snore and a gurgle, and then a mutter: ‘Fuel shut-off valve.’
Through the thickening smoke, Simo scoured the controls for the switch that would stop fuel pumping to the engine and turning them into an inferno. The dials and switches were a mystery to him, not helped by the fact that the labels in the Russian-build helicopter were all in Cyrillic. He swore loudly. David’s eyes flickered, and he extended a hand and swatted a red selector.
‘Fuel shut-off,’ he mumbled again.
