The Survivor

CHAPTER 51

Irena Shulyov seemed to be piloting the vehicle entirely by memory. The powerful headlights illuminated nothing but a disorienting tunnel of snowflakes that looked like they were being shot from a cannon. Powerful windshield wipers swept manically across the glass, but appeared to have no purpose other than to create an electric whine that competed with the howl of the wind.

According to the Agency’s weather forecasters, the storm would continue through the night with temperatures dipping into the single digits. Windchill would be in the negative-twenty range. Not exactly Rapp’s favorite operating conditions.

A few years back he’d acknowledged this gap in his skill set and joined a couple of SAS friends on a two-month-long training session in Antarctica. To this day, he remembered it as sixty of the most miserable days of his life — a blur of frozen appendages, unruly sled dogs, and hypothermia.

Rapp had managed to be the first to drag himself across the finish line of a hundred-mile self-supported race across the tundra. He could still hear the instructor’s comment: “Well, you can’t ski for shit, but you’ve sure got a big motor.” Even fresher in his mind was the frost-bitten chunk of his right thumb that turned black and fell off. It eventually grew back, but he still didn’t have full sensation.

“I don’t want you and your friends to worry!” Irena Shulyov shouted over the ambient noise. “We have a high-pressure system coming in tomorrow. Blue skies and no wind. It will be a perfect day for touring and taking photos.”

That jibed with what he’d been told but unless things went very wrong, he and his team would be long gone before visibility got much over a mile.

“Sounds great.”

“How is your friend doing?”

Rapp glanced back at Dumond, sandwiched between Coleman and Wicker. It was a bit hard to tell in the dim light but he seemed a little less green than he had back at the plane.

“Fine. He’s really looking forward to taking in the sights.”

Rapp couldn’t see her face, but the giant hood she was still wearing moved forward and back in what he assumed was a nod.

“Is there anything in particular you and your friends would like to do? I see you brought skis. Avalanche danger will likely be considerable but there are some lower-angle slopes that will remain stable. We’re expecting at least two meters out of this storm.”

She spoke a little too fast, jumbling her passable English. It was possible that the nervousness was just a holdover from having her clients coming in on such a dangerous flight, but he suspected it was more than that. It would be pretty clear to anyone with even a room-temperature IQ that they weren’t middle managers from Procter & Gamble. So now Irena Shulyov found herself alone in the wilderness with a group of men who would probably be familiar to her from her father’s time in the Russian military.

“What kind of work do you do?” she asked, the silence obviously magnifying her discomfort.

“Product development.”

“What kind of products?”

“How long have you lived here?” Rapp said, changing the subject.

“All my life. I went to college in St. Petersburg but hated the city. The people, the cars. The buildings blocking the sky. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

Rapp was about to ask another question to keep the conversation focused on her, but she pointed through the windshield.

“We’re here. That’s the main building. My guides have prepared food and we have drinks available there if you like. If you’re tired, though, I can take you directly to your cabins.”

“Are all of your guides in the main building?”

“Yes.”

“How many do you have working for you?”

Rapp knew he was being less than subtle, but there wasn’t time to screw around.

“Only two,” she said. “My permanent men. In the high season I have as many as six.”

“Why don’t we swing in for a drink, then,” Rapp said. “I’d like to meet them.”

“Of course.”

Irena relaxed a bit and it was no mystery why. According to Nash’s intel, her two guides were brothers, both in their mid-thirties and both born and bred in the area. One was former army and the other had spent eight years roughnecking on oil rigs. They weren’t to be underestimated.

She pulled up in front of a log building and Rapp twisted around to face the rear seats before getting out. “Irena’s going to introduce us to our guides.”

Coleman gave a barely perceptible nod. The hope was that this would go smoothly, but the only thing that really mattered was that it went fast. The clock was ticking.

Snow blasted the exposed skin on Rapp’s face, turning to ice on his beard as they passed through a rough-hewn door. Inside, it was probably only about forty degrees, but that temperature felt like the tropics by comparison.

“The main building is a bit rustic,” Irena apologized. “But don’t worry. The cabins were completely updated only a year ago.”

The modest heat was generated by a single greasy woodstove in the corner. The room was approximately thirty feet square with a rest-room at the back. The door to it was open and Rapp confirmed that it was unoccupied. Both guides were standing next to a low table arranged with liquor and food. They looked as formidable as expected.

Dumond went straight toward them, giving each a polite smile before going for the vodka. His actions were more the product of his near-death experience on the plane than a preconceived plan, but they worked nicely to divert the men’s attention. Coleman used the opportunity to check out a shortwave radio near the building’s only window. Wicker and McGraw took up positions on either side of the door.

“Alexi, Stepan,” Irena said. “I’d like to introduce you to Mitch Kramer.”

Rapp shook their hands and exchanged a few pleasantries before pointing to a map on the wall. The CIA had some broad-stroked stuff and a few high-resolution photos, but this looked quite a bit more detailed.

“So where are we?”

Irena tapped her finger near the center while her men took drink orders from the rest of his team. “Right here. Tomorrow we’ll go out through this shallow canyon to the north. The plateau it leads to is where the wolf pack has been seen. With the weather clearing, I think we have a good chance of getting close enough for photos.”

Rapp ignored the tourist route and followed the elevation markings toward a dotted line that dead-ended about thirty miles to the east. “What’s that? A road?”

“Of sorts,” Irena said. “It leads to a small commune. It’s kept relatively clear in order to get supplies in and out.”

“What kind of commune? Are they artists? My wife loves pottery.”

“No. They keep to themselves. We won’t be going anywhere near there.”

A cold blast of air hit them and she turned to wave a cautionary hand at Wicker and McGraw as they pulled the door open. “It’s dangerous outside in this kind of weather. If you’d like to go to your cabin, I can send one of my people with you.”

“No worries,” Wicker said. “We’re just going to stand under the light and have a smoke.”

“This isn’t America. You can smoke in here.”

Wicker smiled and they disappeared outside.

Irena motioned for one of her men to follow but Rapp moved to intercept. “They’ll be fine. How about you make me a drink? Vodka.”

He looked at Irena and she shook her head, motioning again toward the door. Based on her expression, she wasn’t sure what was happening and this was her way of finding out. Probably inevitable, but not the way Rapp had wanted it to go down.

He blocked Stepan’s path again, this time shoving him backward. Surprise flashed across the Russian’s face and then he reached out to grab the front of Rapp’s jacket. He was a bear of a man typical in this part of the world — six one, 240, with thick forearms covered in dark hair and tattoos. Someone best dealt with quickly.

Rapp grabbed Stepan’s thumb and bent it back before sweeping the man’s right leg just below the knee. He executed the maneuver about half speed — enough to put the Russian on the ground, but not enough to do any permanent damage.

The air rushed out of Stepan’s lungs, but he looked more surprised than injured. More problematic was the fact that his equally burly brother had come around the makeshift bar and was in full charge. He made it only a few steps before noticing Coleman tracking him with a silenced Glock. That was enough to bring him to a halt, but it was an open question whether he was smart enough to stay that way.

“Irena,” Rapp said. “You own this company, right?”

She was completely frozen, eyes locked on the gun. Finally, she managed to answer. “Yes.”

“Then you’re in command and these men are your responsibility. You understand you can’t win, right? All that can happen is that you and your people get hurt.”

She said something in Russian and Alexi helped his brother to his feet. Then both retreated to the bar.

“We… We don’t have anything worth stealing,” she said, trying to decipher what was happening. “What do you want from us?”

“I want you to go to bed,” Rapp said. “Tomorrow morning I want you to sleep in. Your fees have been paid and we’ll be wiring another fifty thousand U.S. dollars to cover damages.”

“Damages?”

Right on cue, McGraw came back through the door. “They use walkie-talkies for local communication and the shortwave is connected to an antenna out back. We’ve cut the wires and Wick’s on the roof dismantling their satellite dish.”

“What about the snowmobiles?”

“All well maintained and gassed up. We’ve loaded the gear on the five newest ones and disabled the others. Keys are in ’em.” He glanced at his watch. “Wick said he’d be ready to go in four and a half minutes.”

Rapp loved working with Coleman’s team. No complaints, no hesitation, no detail too small or timeline too tight. He turned back to Irena. “Do we have a deal?”