The First Billion

56

The gloves were off, the last semblance of civility fading as quickly as the Moscow skyline behind them. They rode in separate cars, Gavallan in the lead vehicle with Boris and two guards, Cate bringing up the rear with Tatiana and another two guards of her own. A glance over his shoulder earned him a twisted smile and a view of an Uzi pointed directly at his back, a taut finger laid across the trigger.

They lumbered across the Moskva River, then joined the Outer Ring Road, leaving the city along the path they’d taken the night before. Instead of turning off at Sheremetyevo, they continued north toward St. Petersburg. After that he was lost. The road markers were in Cyrillic and he couldn’t decipher a word. The highway narrowed to two lanes and all signs of the city tapered off. Potato fields spread to their left and right, bordered by elevated dirt berms—half levee, half road. Occasionally, he caught sign of a town away in the distance and wondered how, without any marked exits, one was supposed to reach them. Birch forests came and went as if moved en bloc.

Gavallan shifted in his seat, laying an arm across the backrest. It was hard to sit still. Tucked into the waistband of his undershorts was the shank he’d fashioned the night before. He had no idea how he’d use it, or even if he’d be given a chance. Pitted against an Uzi with a full clip, a handmade dagger didn’t amount to much. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t go easy.

Her name was Katya, once again, and as she drove, a gothic fantasy played in her head. She was the Czarina en route to Ekaterinburg. Anastasia, of course, on her last journey. Her fate was sealed, but she was too proud to acknowledge it. How many nights until the brigade of toughs stormed the lodge and forced her to the cellar? How long until her father’s eager band of revolutionaries signed their name to her short history?

The first intimations of disaster came at 11:06 by the digital clock on the dashboard. The driver left the highway at an exit marked “Svertloe” and took up a new course on a single-lane macadam road leading intrepidly across a meadow-grass plain. Once the preserve of boyars, or nobles, and the wealthy bourgeoisie, dachas tended to be rustic cottages located in pine forests or near lakes or mountains. Most served as weekend retreats and could be found within thirty miles of the city. But one look at this stale landscape told her that no right-thinking man would build a dacha within a hundred miles of this place.

The road began a steady climb uphill toward a pine forest. The macadam quit, replaced by hard-packed dirt. She glimpsed silver. Straining her eyes, she made out a fence. She leaned forward, knowing it was her destination. One fence became two, each ten feet high and topped with curls of barbed wire. The gate, though, was in ruins, bent and mangled, lying to one side. They entered the compound, and she looked around. There were a few log cabins, nothing quaint or rustic about them. The dacha, indeed. One more of her father’s sick jokes. The car pulled up in front of the largest building. She saw the windows and gasped. They were decorated with stout iron bars placed three inches apart.

This was where all roads led.

To Russia.

To her father.

To her death.

Gavallan spotted the ruined fence and knew it was Graf. He was alive. He had escaped. He had crashed through the fence. Right now he was in Moscow alerting the embassy. It was a matter of time before they sent out their delegates in the company of the Russian militia. His blood stirred and he grew giddy with a desperate joy.

Then he saw the battered truck parked behind the main building, and his spirits crashed to earth. The pickup’s fender was dented, the windshield cracked. Whoever had driven through the fence hadn’t gotten far.

The SUV lumbered to a halt in front of a large cabin. Gavallan spotted the bars and knew he would have to act fast. Once inside, they’d be locked up and then he’d have no chance for surprise. He imagined that the day’s agenda called for interrogation and torture, followed sometime in the afternoon by death. Call it the Russian trinity. He’d have to hit someone before he got locked up. He swallowed hard, steeling himself to the task. He’d never killed anyone, not with his hands. He was a pilot. Tell him to drop a couple bombs from twenty thousand feet and he was your man. Ask him to shove a three-inch blade into a man’s belly and he’d say, “No thanks, that’s the next guy’s job.” Except today there wasn’t a next guy. Today there was him and Cate and five Russian thugs with at least two Uzis and a couple of handguns between them. He looked at the driver and at Boris. Who would be first? It didn’t matter so long as he had one of the machine guns. That’s what he needed. From then on out it would be a crapshoot.

“We are arrived,” said Boris.

Gavallan descended slowly, pushing his stomach out to keep pressure on the shank, make sure it remained inside his waistband. The air was dry and dusty, hinting of resin and mint. He looked around, his eyes making a desperate survey of the compound. Besides the main building, there were three smaller cabins, shacks, really. Two stood to his left, fifty yards away. A third was closer, more a shed, constructed from pale birch wood. Gavallan thought he saw something move inside it. He looked closer. He could see the fingers of two hands extended through gaps in the wall, grasping the wood.

Graf.

His heart beat with a violent resolve.

The second Suburban pulled into the clearing and stopped. Tatiana jumped from the car, and a moment later Cate appeared. Behind them, Boris’s cronies had formed a small welcoming committee. The Uzis were out, and not just for show.

Gavallan walked over to Cate. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said, taking her hand.

“No, Jett,” she said. “It’s not.”