Close Quarters

THIRTY-NINE

I stopped in a small town fifty miles west of Pavlohrad to get some supplies. It had been slow going, with several brief diversions off the road when I spotted military trucks or potential roadblocks. Travis wasn’t looking great and I figured he was dehydrated and in need of something to eat. I also needed to call Callahan.

I’d seen signs of more military activity building behind us, to the east, with helicopters skidding about on the horizon and fighter jets trailing smoke across the skies. Trucks, too, had whipped past us the other way, carrying troops and supplies. Whatever was happening over towards Donetsk wasn’t good and getting worse.

As we entered the suburbs I saw a roadside café with a couple of trucks and a handful of cars and, further along, a used-car lot. Mostly four-wheel drives, they ran the range of rough-country farming work-horses, with heavy-duty tyres and the kind of battered appearance that made them blend into the background.

I pulled up outside the café and told Travis to stay where he was and keep his head down. I could pass as a worker ant, but Travis looked too smart and groomed, as unwell as he was, to be anything other than someone with connections and money. He was also talking louder than he needed, even in the car, which I figured was a sign of fever from his injuries and the stress of the situation. An American voice out here would immediately stand out and be remembered.

The interior of the café was rough and ready, but busy enough so that nobody looked up when I walked in. Most of the customers and staff had one eye on the rolling news on a large screen behind the counter. It showed the countryside outside Donetsk, the sky blackened by palls of smoke rising from burned-out vehicles and makeshift barricades, and groups of soldiers and militia with a rag-tag of weapons standing around watching the skies for signs of incoming helicopters or fighters. The atmosphere in the room was subdued, and I guessed for most of them it was tough watching their country being slowly torn apart and not being able to do a thing about it.

I bought some bread, meat and fruit and three litre bottles of water, and took them back to the car. Travis barely noticed, so I left him to it and took a walk along the road to the used car lot.

The owner was sitting alone in a small hut, eyes fixed morosely on a tiny television screen. He had a bald head, bushy eyebrows and few teeth, and barely nodded when I signalled that I wanted to check out the models on display. Most were beyond their prime, and looked ready for the scrap yard. But a dark green Land Cruiser looked as if it had some mileage left in it and I asked the owner if he wanted to do a deal.

He shrugged; the sign of a man who’d thought he was going to make a sale too many times before now only to be disappointed when it didn’t happen.

I told him to wait and went and got the Isuzu. When he saw it, he looked a little more interested and tore himself away from his television and came outside for a look. When I popped the hood and revealed the gleaming engine underneath, he looked suspicious.

‘Why?’ he said. ‘It’s a good car. Is it stolen?’

‘Too noisy,’ I replied, as if I didn’t know you could repair broken mufflers. ‘And my wife says it’s too fast, that I’ll upset the neighbours and kill myself and our unborn children.’

He shrugged, plainly not caring if the story was true or not. I stepped back while he did a tour of the car, kicking the tyres and checking the underneath, and hoped he didn’t want to check the inside before agreeing a deal. I’d need to get the guns out unseen first otherwise he’d go back in his hut and slam the door.

He scrambled out from under the car with a toothy grin and nodding slowly. But the deal wasn’t made yet.

‘I have to call someone,’ he said, and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket.

‘A customer already?’ I said.

‘Of course a customer.’ He sneaked a look at me from under his eyebrows. ‘You think I’m calling the authorities to ask their permission?’ He made a foul spitting sound and laughed. No doubt he’d already got a buyer lined up for such a vehicle and the authorities weren’t going to know a thing about it. In the present climate of unrest I wasn’t surprised. Under-the-counter sales were probably the best he was going to get and he wouldn’t have to worry about paperwork on a rogue four-wheel drive that was going to disappear as soon as it left his yard.

He spoke rapidly for about two minutes, alternating between cajoling and forceful and ending on a don’t-care note. I didn’t get anything from the one-sided conversation, save that the person on the other end was driving a hard bargain. In the end he nodded, said yes and snapped the phone shut.

When he turned back to me he was grinning widely, displaying a large amount of empty gums.

We agreed a straight swap, no questions asked, and shook on it. It was a great deal for him but I didn’t have the leverage or interest to try holding out for more. If he was suspicious about why I was selling and who Travis and I might be, he didn’t seem to care much.

I shook Travis awake and told him to keep his mouth shut while I transferred everything from the Isuzu, making sure the car lot owner wasn’t looking when I moved the weapons. Travis looked shocked when he saw the OSV-96 with the sniper scope, but I ignored the questioning look and checked that there were no traces of us left behind.

I handed the keys to the owner and he gave me a spare set of keys to the Land Cruiser in return, which he’d left running to warm up.

‘Where are you going?’ he said, one hand on the door. ‘Not east, I bet.’

‘No. Not east. Why?’

He lifted his chin in the direction of the town centre. ‘Don’t go that way. Police and soldiers asking questions.’ He pointed across the road to a narrow street. ‘Go that way for a kilometre and you will see the road heading west out of here. Turn left and keep going.’ He winked and disappeared inside his hut, and I wondered if the advice had been to keep us out of trouble or to stop any awkward questions from police coming back to this car lot.

It didn’t matter; the advice was well-meant and I figured it was worth taking.

We snaked through the outer suburbs, following a series of quiet back streets, until I saw a line of lights heading west. I turned left and we soon left the town behind. After a few miles I saw a track running down beside a small lake and decided we’d come far enough. It was time to eat and rest up.

I made Travis drink at least half a bottle of water. Rehydration would clear his head a little and keep him going. We had a long way to go yet and I needed him as lively as possible.

Then I rang Langley.