Snow Wolf (73 page)

They heard the door creak faintly and
Stanski was gone.

The kitchen was in darkness and freezing
cold.

As Stanski stepped inside he saw that the
door that led out side was ajar. He crossed the room silently and peered out
into the courtyard, the Tokarev at the ready.

The snowed-under garden was pale gray in
the watery moon light. He trained his eyes for a long time on the woodshed and
the car, trying to discern movement, but saw only shadows and darkness.

He didn't know whether Massey was telling
the truth. There could be more than two men out there and they could be
anywhere, but there was only one way to find out.

He cocked the Tokarev, lay flat on his
stomach and crawled out of the door. Moments later he was slithering across the
freezing stone-flagged courtyard until he reached the woodshed.

He waited for any movement or sound and
when none came he stood and unlocked the driver's door and inserted the key in
the ignition, then left the door ajar.

He was about to move forward when he
heard a faint click from behind him and a voice said in Russian, "Drop the
weapon and keep your hands in the air. Then turn around slowly."

He dropped the Tokarev and it clattered
to the ground. He turned and saw a young man standing in the shadows ten feet
away.

The man stepped out. He was heavily built
and held a pistol in his hand. He grinned. "I'll say this for you, you
move pretty silently, but not silently enough. Where's my American
friend?"

"Back in the house."

"Dead?"

"Very much alive, I'm afraid."
Stanski nodded back toward the garden. "There were supposed to be two of
you. Where's your comrade?"

"You'll soon find out. Turn around
and move toward the house. I warn you not to try anything, I'm an excellent
shot.' "Whatever you say. Except there's something you forgot."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"This."

The silenced Na gant came up and spat
once. The man had no chance. The single shot hit him square in the bridge of
the nose and he fell back against the car and slid to the ground.

Stanski crouched and waited at the ready
for a reaction to the silenced gunshot, and when none came he retrieved the
Tokarev, then dragged the body to the back of the woodshed.

The second Ukrainian crouched in the
bushes in the front garden and cocked his ears. He had definitely heard
something. What, he wasn't sure.

Voices? Or the wind in the trees? He
shifted his bulk and raised himself slightly. He laid the Kalashnikov beside
him on the ground and rubbed his legs to get the circulation going.

What the fuck was going on? The American
should have come out by now.

He checked his watch.

The luminous hands read a quarter to
midnight. He'd give it another couple of minutes, then he'd move toward the
house.

In the meantime, anyone who came out of the
door was dead, no question.

Odd, but the situation gave him a strange
sense of exhilaration. It was just like the old days, stalking Red partisans in
the Caucasus. All that was missing was his SS uniform and a decent German MP40
machine-pistol.

He smiled, picked up his weapon, squatted
again, and waited.

"Turn on the flashlight."

Irena flicked it on - and Stanski stood
there looking down at Massey. "Looks like maybe you were right about the
numbers, Jake. But now you're one down. Tell me about the man out front.

When Massey didn't reply, Stanski put the
Tokarev to his head. "Tell me, or I might be tempted,"

"His name's Boris Koval. A former
Ukrainian SS captain."

"is he good?"

Massey nodded.

"How good?"

"One of the best we trained. Not
that he needed much training. He was good before we started."

"Weapons?" Massey fell silent.
Stanski said, "Either you can tell me, or I shove You out the front door
and we learn the hard way."

"A Kalashnikov."

Stanski gave a low whistle. "Then I
guess we're in trouble."

He turned to Irena and Anna. "We're
going out the back way.

Massey too. When I give the word you pile
into the back of the car and keep your heads down. Leave the rest to me."

As Anna stood, Massey looked up at her.
Their eyes met for a moment and he saw the look on her- face, all trust between
them destroyed.

He went to speak, to explain, but already
she was gone, moving toward the door, lrena walking shakily behind her-.

Then Stanski dragged Massey to his feet
and pushed him after them.

Pasha checked the street map as Lukin
drove.

Lukin said, "How much farther?"

"Take the next left and we're
there."

"You said that a minute ago."

"These streets all look the fucking
same in the snow."

Lukin swung right and they entered a
long, wide, tree-lined road with dachas on either side. He halted at the
junction where the two roads met. The homes looked dark and deserted.

Pasha grabbed a machine-pistol from the
back seat and laid it ready on his lap.

"So what's the drill?"

Lukin doused the lights. Only the moon on
the snow ahead provided light, and the road looked eerily quiet.

"I wish I knew."

"Damn it, Yuri ... Romulka will be
here in no time!"

"I need to talk to Stanski."

"Then I hope he listens, because if
not you're dead."

"I'm going in alone. I want you to
wait outside."

"What are you going to do? Knock on
the door and say you've come by for a visit'? Stanski's going to blow your head
off as quick as look at you. There has to be another way."

"There isn't time to think of
one."

Suddenly in the rearview mirror Lukin saw
a blaze of headlights sweep into view behind them at the far end of the road.

Pasha looked back and said, "The
bastards are here already looks like we've got the right place."

Lukin watched the headlights moving
toward them and said, "You think you could hold them off a little
longer?" :"You mean fire on Romulka?"

"In the darkness they're not going
to know what the hell's going on or who's shooting. Just blow the tires,
that'll slow them, then meet me at the dacha."

:"Presuming you're still alive. OK,
let's do it."

"Be careful," Lukin said.

Pasha slipped from the car and
disappeared around the corner clutching the machine-pistol.

The Frenchman, Lebel, still lay slumped
on the back seat.

Lukin slipped into gear and swung the BMW
into the street. He counted off the numbers as he drove, and then he saw the
dacha.

The lights were out. He drove on another
fifty meters to the next dacha on the same side of the street. The place looked
deserted, the driveway empty, all the lights out and the windows shuttered for
the winter. He slowed, then backed up quickly into the driveway. As he went to
step out of the car Lebel moaned and seemed to come to drowsily, then his head
listed to one side and he was gone again.

Lukin unlocked the Frenchman's handcuffs
and shackled one to the grip on the back door and stepped out of the car.

What exactly he was going to do he still
didn't know. But whatever it was he had to do it fast. Any second now Romulka
would come tearing around the corner and Pasha would start firing. If Stanski
was inside he'd hear the shooting and that wasn't going to help.

The file Pasha had stolen was tucked into
Lukin's tunic.

He lifted the flap on his holster,
released the safety on his Pistol, but left the weapon in the holster. He
didn't intend to use it but he wasn't taking a chance.

He went around quickly to the back of the
car and unlocked the trunk. He fumbled among the tools and the spare wheel
until he found an oily rag. The remnant of a white shirt, it was covered in
grease and oil stains. He found the jack and tied the white rag on the end.

It was a crude flag of peace but it would
have to do for what he had in mind. It was ridiculous when he thought of it. He
was going to knock on the front door, call out to Stanski and hope he got a
cooperative response. It was risky, inviting almost certain death, but he could
think of nothing else to do.

He moved quickly, closing the trunk
again.

Suddenly he heard a blaze of gunfire
followed by a screech Of tires from the far end of the street.

The noise seemed to fill the air and a
split second later came another volley of shots, and then the night seemed to
explode with chattering weapons.

Pasha had opened up on Romulka's convoy
and by the sound of it Romulka and his men were firing back.

Sweat Pumping from every pore, Lukin
swore and ran toward the dacha.

The Ukrainian smelled trouble. He didn't
like it. Didn't like it one little bit.

It had been half an hour since the
American had left and there was still no sign of him.

What was going on? Was he dead? Or still
stalking his quarry inside the house?

The Ukrainian was a man of infinite
patience and could have waited in the freezing garden all night, but this time
he was reacting to instinct.

And instinct told him there was trouble.

Moments ago a car had driven up on the
street outside. He had tensed, every muscle in his body suddenly alert and
ready for action. He peered into the street through the bushes and saw a German
BMW drive slowly past, snow-chains crunching over the packed surface.

Odd that, a BMW. Its dark paintwork
gleamed in the watery moonlight. A beautiful car. He couldn't make out the
driver's face but the figure was definitely looking toward the dacha, and there
looked to be another figure in the back.

What the fuck was going on?

He had readied himself to fire but the
car had driven on past. He heard the vehicle turn into a driveway farther on
and the engine die. He waited, heard a car door opening, then another, the
sounds loud in the darkness, but heard nothing more.

The dachas were all deserted and he
guessed only used on weekends. Perhaps one of the owners had decided to drive
out of Moscow and spend the night? Maybe the man had a woman with him in the
back of the car? He had barely glimpsed the figure in the back and he wasn't
sure if it was a woman.

Fuck.

He listened further for any sound, heard
nothing, then got to his feet silently.

Perhaps he ought to check it out'? But
whatever way you looked at it, he shouldn't stick around waiting. He cocked the
Kalashnikov and started to move out of the shadows.

As he did so he heard a crackle of
gunfire explode down the street. He froze.

At the kitchen door, Stanski peered out
into the moonlit back garden.

Behind him Anna and Irena waited
expectantly. Massey was out in front, his hands still tied, and Stanski had the
gun pressed into the base of his skull.

"You first, Massey," he
whispered, and turned to the others. "We're going to move to the car. Keep
it quiet and remember what I told you."

He pushed Massey out into the flagstoned
courtyard. He crouched, half expecting gunfire, but when none came they moved
hurriedly across to the woodshed and the Skoda.

He opened the rear door and pushed Massey
quickly inside, then Anna slid in beside him.

. lrena was already in the passenger
seat, and as Stanski jumped into the driver's seat beside her he said, "So
far so good."

He rolled down the driver's window
quietly and then his fingers found the ignition key and he tensed. He shifted
into first gear, but kept his foot firmly down on the clutch. He hesitated, and
stared out toward the driveway and the snowcovered street beyond it.

It looked empty, no traffic in sight.

The distance was about thirty meters and
he could clear it in seconds if he could get quickly up to speed.

He turned the ignition key.

The engine spluttered and died and
Stanski's heart sank.

But at that exact moment all hell seemed
to break loose.

A crackle of gunfire erupted like
fireworks from somewhere off in the darkness, followed by the screech of tires
and brakes.

Everyone in the Skoda tensed and Stanski
went deathly still. "What the hell ... ?"

There was another burst of gunfire from
far away. Stanski turned the ignition key again and this time the engine
exploded into life.

He flicked a switch and the headlights
flooded the driveway. At the Same time he eased off the clutch, hit the
accelerator, and the Skoda shot forward and tore down the path.