Riders of the Pale Horse (26 page)

“From the sound of it,” Rogue agreed, “they need all the help they can get.”

Wade translated this conversation for the impatient old man. The Russian engineers listened with the intensity of those whose fate rested in the hands of others.

Mikhail nodded his agreement to Wade's explanation and added, “Thus the conflict of South Ossetia has neither front nor cohesion. The Russians have no way to plan an attack. The Ossetian militia fights roving battles. Newly returned transportees gather arms and attack whatever village had once been their own. There is no central command. We are a hundred different armies, unified only by our desire for an Ossetian homeland.”

“With a lot of old hatreds added in just to make things interesting,” Robards amended, watching a third tank roll by at the end of the convoy. “Okay, road's clear as it's going to get. Let's head out.”

At the village outskirts Rogue pulled over and waved Wade in behind him. Just ahead, a pair of battered jeeps had been parked to partially block the road. Heavily armed men clustered around them. Wade cut his motor and walked over to Rogue. They watched as Mikhail approached the men, calling out loud greetings and proffering all their papers in outstretched hands.

Wade asked, “Is everything all right?”

“We'll find out soon enough. Get a load of the man in charge.”

The soldier examining their papers had a distinctly raffish air. Instead of a helmet, he wore a black Stetson with its wide brim pulled down low over his eyes. His hollow cheeks bore the three-day growth cultivated by western male models. He wore a hand-stitched leather hunting vest over a dark green flannel shirt, with regulation camouflage trousers tucked into
lace-up doeskin boots. Over his back was slung a machine gun. Around front hung a machine pistol with polished burl handle.

Rogue snorted. “He looks like the Marlboro man, Russian style.”

“He's not Russian,” Wade corrected. “He's Ossetian.”

“Doesn't matter,” Robards said easily. “What you see there is just another trendy trekker. Anybody that concerned with looking the part isn't a problem. If he started shooting, his first concern would be how to keep his hair neat.”

The man was taking his time over their papers. Wade swallowed nervously. “Looks dangerous enough to me.”

“Aw, he's just another style bandit. Look over there—see the guy in the black leather gloves with the silver studs?”

“Yes.”

“Another wannabe warrior. These days, you find them around every little war. They're mostly guys bored with the normal life. Probably locals, Russians or Georgians or Ossetians, but you see the type everywhere. The former Yugoslavia is full of cowboys these days.” Rogue pointed with a jutting chin. “Look, see that one? Black outfit, matching boots and blackened bayonet, probably got some local woman who washes and presses his uniform at night. They get these Skorpion machine pistols and wear them down real low, like a Dodge City gunslinger. Problem is, every time they have to run anywhere the doggone thing gets caught between their legs.”

Robards waved cheerily as a cluster of guards walked toward them. “Gucci warriors, the lot of them. Look at the black bandanna. Means take no prisoners. Reason is, the first sign of trouble they'd be raising dust from here to Moscow. Take a look at those aviator shades—gold RayBans. Probably set him back a year's pay.”

Wade glanced at Robards. “What's the difference between them and you?”

“Ten years and a lotta miles,” Robards responded easily.
“I guess you could say I've been distilled. I'm the essence of what these guys wish they could be.”

“A mercenary.”

“I prefer realist. Besides, life on the edge has its advantages. Take an honest look at yourself. Tell me the last time you've ever felt so alive.”

The search was perfunctory, with Mikhail proclaiming friendship in the inspectors' own tongue and Rogue hovering around with smiling menace. The three Russian engineers were too cowed to appear a threat and received less notice than did the two Americans, which was not much at all. Clearly the Ossetians saw them as just another strange group attracted by the rough-and-tumble lawlessness of a world at war. Two bottles of vodka were passed over, apparently the customary bribe, judging from the way they were accepted, and the trucks were waved through.

They entered the village a few minutes shy of the next hour, in time to watch all life vanish. Rogue followed suit by pulling over to the curb and waving Wade in behind him. They hunkered down below the dashboards and waited for the Russian convoy to pass. When the grinding of the tanks died away, the streets returned to bustling activity.

Every so often they came upon the burned-out hulk of a truck or bus or car, pushed far enough to one side so as not to impede traffic. At least one building in each block had been bombed to smithereens. Children played in the ruins, while vendors filled the front spaces with their stalls.

Everywhere were signs of life without order. Cars raced down streets with total disregard to lanes or speed or traffic signs. Occasional bursts of machine-gun fire ripped through the air; pedestrians stopped in midbreath, searched their surroundings, then returned to matters at hand. Motorcycles zigzagged down sidewalks at thirty or forty miles per hour, the pedestrians simply stepping aside. Caf;aaes took advantage
of the fine autumn weather by moving tables out onto the sidewalks and into the streets; customers paid little heed to the cars and motorcycles and pedestrians who threaded their way among the tables.

Twice their own progress was halted by roving bands of armed men who threatened the lead truck. Mikhail's loud exhortations and Rogue's imposing presence eased them through.

The town's only hotel was situated on the central square. They rented the only room with a private bath—not because anyone would sleep there, but so they all could get clean. Rogue and Wade pulled the trucks into the neighboring alleyway, and Robards offered to take first watch. Mikhail and the three Russians headed upstairs to wash. Wade asked the desk clerk for directions to the city's clinic, then returned to the trucks.

Rogue demanded, “Why aren't you upstairs?”

“I'm going to see if the local doctor needs anything,” Wade replied. “If there is a doctor.”

Robards shook his head. “Not a wise move. All you'll be doing is telling every gunslinger within a hundred miles what we've got on these trucks.”

“People are fighting and dying all around here. They need this stuff. What if you were wounded and in danger of losing a limb because there weren't any antibiotics? What if you had to have surgery and there weren't any anesthetics?”

“I'm not,” Robards replied with his false ease. “I'm here and I'm fit and that's all there is to it. A man can't build a life on worrying about all the what-ifs.”

“And have you ever considered the possibility that there might be something more important than yourself?”

Rogue leaned his back against the near truck and sighed up at the heavens. “Don't I recall having pretty much this same conversation with you the other day?”

“You're doing great now,” Wade persisted. “But what happens when your own strength isn't enough?”

“Then I'm dead,” Rogue said flatly. “That's part of the price you pay for living a real life.”

“Carting people around so they can go build bombs for terrorists doesn't seem all that real to me.”

“Oh, it's real, all right,” Rogue drawled. “You know what your problem is, Sport? You never had enough confidence in yourself to make it on your own.” You went off and made up this God of yours so you would have somebody else to blame.”

“I don't blame him for anything,” Wade replied. “But I am learning to find strength in him.”

“Man's born alone, he lives alone, he dies alone,” Rogue stated flatly. “Anything else is just baloney dished out to people who don't want to face up to reality.”

“Reality is salvation through Jesus Christ,” Wade replied steadily. “Reality is recognizing that death is nothing but a passage into eternity. Reality is living each day with compassion for others.”

“Sick, sick, sick,” Robards responded. “Shame we don't carry any medicine for delusions.”

There came at that moment a sense of turning, of a new course being set in place. Wade said quietly, “I am going to go see if there is a clinic in need of supplies.”

Robards inspected him for a moment, then declared, “If you head out on this goodwill mission of yours, all bets are off.”

Wade did not understand what was meant, but nodded acceptance all the same. “I'll see you when I get back.”

Once again, the doctor's gratitude was almost pathetic. He was a slender man with the long graceful fingers of a classical pianist. His dark eyes opened wide as Wade led him to the back of the truck and pointed out the various things he was offering. His two aides rushed to unload the chosen boxes, moving as fast as they could, determined to take everything
possible before this crazy man returned to his senses and demanded a payment they did not have.

All I ask in return, Wade had said upon departure, is that you do not speak of this for several days. The doctor had nodded an abstract reply, unable to look beyond the largess that littered his waiting room. Yet when Wade turned to leave, he noticed that one of the aides was nowhere to be found. He returned to the hotel with a faint sense of disquiet.

When he pulled up alongside the hotel, Wade discovered that the other truck was not there. He was almost certain his comrades had gone in search of gasoline, but no amount of internal reassurance could still his jangling nerves. He bounded up the stairs, rushed down the dimly lit hall, pushed open the door, and felt his heart stop when all he found to greet him was a note propped on the crumpled bed.

With shaking hands, Wade lifted the paper and read, “I gave them a choice, Sport. Everybody decided to come along when I announced I was pulling out. Mikhail says Tbilisi is a hundred klicks or so straight down the south road. I've taken the truck and its load as payment in full. Rogue.”

Voices from outside drew him to the open window. He stuck his head out and felt his blood freeze at the sight of a dozen or so armed men crowding in and around his truck.

He shouted a protest and was answered by the clinic's aide, who turned and pointed and shouted back. Four armed men broke off and headed for the hotel's front door.

Wade fled out the door and down the hall, but stopped at the sound of heavy boots clumping up the stairs. He craned and searched and realized there was no other way out.

He turned to the nearest door, twisted the knob, and pushed. It was locked. The boots clumped ever closer. He tried the next door, and when he found it locked as well, gave a panicked shove with his shoulder. The flimsy lock gave with almost no noise. Wade entered and leaned against the door and listened as the men hastened up the final stairs, fearful that his breathing was loud enough to alert them.

When the footsteps had passed his door, Wade turned and flew to the window. Four meters below protruded the roof over the hotel's dining room. Wade slid himself out. He hung from his fingers, then released and dropped the final meter with a thud he was sure would be heard in the next village.

He stumbled over to the roof's edge, then shifted and slid and dropped to the street.

Feeling every instant that the cry of alarm would be raised, Wade fled as fast as his feet would take him.