The Swords of Babylon

CHAPTER TWELVE

Several hours later, Drake came to. A heavy stench hung in the air and it took him a moment to realize it was Zanko’s stink, plastered across his own face. With that knowledge, Drake gagged, jumped down from his bunk and ran over to the sink. SAS training had never included being smothered into unconsciousness beneath a crazy Russian’s armpit. Though it had included similar, he mused, splashing his face and scrubbing it with a bar of old soap. Luckily, his breakfast stayed down. He began to wonder what time it was. The bastards had taken his watch when they first threw him in here. That was twenty quid’s worth of Casio he’d probably never see again.

He walked to the front of the cell, grabbing the bars. If he leaned far enough to the left he could see the door that led to the yard. It was closed. He glanced up then, toward one of the guard perches. Above that was a grimy window. Drake saw daylight, but of the waning variety. It was near sundown.

Good. Wouldn’t be long now.

He needed another chat with Yorgi. There were still unasked questions and, since he couldn’t absolutely guarantee taking the inmate with him if he managed to escape, he wanted every ounce of information he could glean. Drake stepped back and stretched warily. His stomach felt like it had been hit by a pile driver, his limbs throbbed in time to the flow of his blood. He had been taught to compartmentalize pain, but this was a whole new level.

Nevertheless, he stepped out of his open cell door and moved to the railing, peering down at the level below. He was wondering how he might find Yorgi, when the man drifted into view, catching his eye. All the other prisoners were occupied, playing cards, or wrestling, pumping iron or maybe discussing who might be worth shanking that day. The gangs all had their heads together. Drake tried to peer into every corner, but saw no sign of Razin or Zanko.

Ignoring the pain, he darted for the steps and walked fast across the dining hall, entering the meeting room and the corridor beyond a few seconds after Yorgi. Even though there were no sounds of pursuit, the two didn’t slow down or talk until they were hidden again inside the roof space.

“A good fight,” Yorgi said first. “Earlier. You put up a good fight against Zanko. I’ve never seen him even bleed before, let alone be knocked down.”

“Fat lot of good that did me.”

“Eh?” Yorgi didn’t understand the saying.

Drake rubbed his ribs. “I still lost.”

“Ah, but now the gangs respect you. They won’t harm you again, not unless Razin orders them to.”

“Small mercy.”

“The American professor,” Yorgi said. “I have not yet found him. But I know another way.”

Drake half smiled. “Let me guess. It involves you being on the outside?”

Yorgi shifted. “You see how the world works quite well, my new friend.”

Drake said nothing. Chances were, Yorgi already knew where this professor was being kept, or at least the street name. Razin’s men weren’t being exactly secretive with their information.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said at last. “But come tomorrow — any time — keep a very close watch on me.”

Yorgi nodded in the dark and offered a bottle of water. Drake drank thirstily. “Damn, that’s good. Have you heard anything new about Razin’s project?”

“The Babylon thing? The swords? No. But if he hasn’t found them yet, he will soon. The man is obsessed and he can throw all his resources at this.”

“That’s what I feared.”

Yorgi went quiet. Drake sipped half the bottle and handed it back. The two of them sat there for a while in silence. With time on his hands, Drake found his thoughts wandering. A question popped into his head — one that burned away at his heart and mind like the searing face of an iron, one that he wished he had the time to fully address.

“Yorgi,” he said, hesitant. “In your travels, during your life, have you ever heard of an agent… or an assassin… called Coyote?”

The Russian thief almost choked on his water, spitting some of it on to the Styrofoam roof tiles. Then he went very still.

Drake waited.

Yorgi cleared his throat. “What kind of name is that?” He laughed nervously.

Drake shrugged. “A memorable one.”

“Well, I don’t know that person. No.”

“Are you sure, Yorgi?”

“Why should I?”

“People in your line of work. They… know many things. They hear everything. It’s part of your job.”

“Why do you say that?”

Drake sighed. “I knew a very good thief once. He… died recently.”

“And did he not know this Coyote?”

“I never got the chance to ask him.”

“I am sorry. The name means nothing to me.” Yorgi’s voice was firm now, resolute. Drake let it drop.

“Fair enough.”

Yorgi held out a bar of chocolate. “Let us hope for a good tomorrow, my friend.”

Drake unwrapped the thick block. “I’m counting on it.”