Untraceable

CHAPTER 17

They started out later than planned. When the manager at the rental place typed in the information on Shershnev-Ivanov’s driver’s license, the computer crashed. He reloaded and tried again—another crash.

The manager apologized; Shershnev thought, is this a trap? The license had been issued properly and added to the database.

“Let’s use mine, what’s the difference,” Grebenyuk suggested. “Let’s try some magic,” he added, addressing Shershnev.

The computer worked. They were given a car. V6 turbo, but not flashy, the upgraded version of a popular family sedan. Local production, thousands like it on the road.

Grebenyuk got behind the wheel and when they had traveled a bit he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Shershnev replied.

“It’s a strange feeling,” Grebenyuk said. “As if someone is slowing us down. The border agents. The train. Now the computer.”

Shershnev looked at him with feigned surprise.

“What’s up? Didn’t get enough sleep?”

“I did. Sorry. Just this stupid idea.”

“Happens,” Shershnev replied.

He hadn’t expected such perception from the tech guy. It had suited him to know nothing much about his partner: what for, they weren’t going to be friends. He was told he was a pro, and that was enough. Now Shershnev regretted not feeling him out, learning his background. It was too late now, it would be clumsy. He’d have to wait for the right moment.

Shershnev was glad to get out of the city and roll toward Germany, head for the goal at last, and leave yesterday behind. To convince himself that the boy from the past was just a crazy accident, an unsummoned souvenir of his own history. And now Grebenyuk with his question!

The weather had turned bad, too. Clouds filled the sky, and it was drizzling. Grebenyuk switched on the wipers, pushed the washer button—two weak jets sprayed and fell. They parked, bought water, turned on the GPS. The system loaded and set the course—it seemed right in terms of mileage, a little over three hours, thought dubious Shershnev—and they set off. The female voice gave orders in English: left, right, traffic circle, second exit.

In the end, the disembodied lady led them into a traffic jam on a road under construction. The turn she wanted was blocked.

“They haven’t updated the app, I guess,” said Grebenyuk, and Shershnev waited to see if he would continue, bring up the strange, silly holdups. But the major said nothing more, and pulled back into traffic.

It was no longer drizzling but pouring. The wipers were on high, the right one squeaking. They got out on the highway, but the cars were barely moving there, either. Far on the hill they could see the rhythmic pulse of blue lights.

Minus ninety minutes.

At last they reached the scene of the accident. Police were letting cars drive against traffic. An overturned truck lay across the road. The asphalt was covered in scraps of wooden crates and shards of bottles. Dark wine puddles grew lighter in the rain, and a sour smell wafted in the opened window. On the side of the road, emergency workers huddled around a crushed car. The soggy air bags were covered in blood.

“Good thing they had some wine,” Grebenyuk joked. “There’s enough for the wake.”

He had changed gears once in the driver’s seat—a real technician. He drove wisely, efficiently, and Shershnev felt the superiority he acquired from the car, its 240 horsepower that recognized a steady hand.

Minus two and half hours.

“Stop looking at the time. We’ll get there,” Grebenyuk said confidently.

He shifted to sports mode, and then raced down the left lane. The road was clear after the traffic jam, the rain was coming down even harder, the wipers were barely adequate. Grebenyuk drove steadily, without slowing down for curves. Shershnev was filled with confidence, watching the wind-flattened fabric covers of trucks, trees, mileposts flash by.

A red car ahead, an undersized city vehicle. Grebenyuk flashed his lights. He wouldn’t let them pass, perhaps ready for a left exit. Grebenyuk began passing on the right, the road curved, when the red car also moved to the right without signaling.

They passed, just avoiding a skid, scraping the curb.

A dog in the backseat. A Giant Schnauzer. The windows were fogged inside, and the driver couldn’t see a thing.

Three and half hours.

They should have been approaching the site of the operation and checking it out. It would be dark soon, especially in this weather.

“In ten kilometers turn right,” the navigator announced.

Shershnev tensed. “That’s too soon.”

“We’ll see when we get there,” Grebenyuk replied. “But I think it is too soon.”

They reached the top of the hill and through the blurred corridor of slanting rain they saw the dark foothills enveloped in blue-gray fog.

The car pulled off the road.

It sounded like a shot with a silencer.

Grebenyuk held the wheel. The right front tire had blown out, the rubber flapped on the road. They stopped right at the barrier; below was a steep boulder-filled slope.

When they removed the tire, they found a shard of bottle glass.

“This is unbelievable,” Grebenyuk shook his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t have spent time with broads last night. You know, they can do anything they want if they don’t like you. We should have tipped them.”

Shershnev couldn’t tell if his partner was joking. He just couldn’t wait for it all to end. The target would die, the bad luck would end. They just had to get to him.

Good thing the spare tire was full-sized, even though the jack was kind of puny. They got dirty changing the tire, and they needed to get to a store and buy some jeans; his other pair, that is, Ivanov’s, were left behind in the suitcase lost at the airport.

“I had something like this happen once,” Grebenyuk continued. “Smile, you’re on candid camera. It was on an assignment. I realized the trick was not to worry, struggle, or panic. Like a swamp or quicksand if you’re drowning. It will let you go.”

“Got it,” said Shershnev. “Let’s go.”

They were approaching a fork in the road. The GPS was indicating for them to go right: a turn in three kilometers, one kilometer, five hundred meters. Shershnev used the touchscreen to zoom in on the map. The electronic assistant was sending them on a side road through the next valley for some reason.

“Well, are we turning?” Grebenyuk asked.

“Straight,” Shershnev ordered.

Up ahead, two highways merged. On the broad curving ramp, Shershnev noticed that they had caught up with the red car. It had its emergency blinkers on: the driver must have gotten lost and was looking for his exit. Grebenyuk slowed down and moved left. But the little red car suddenly jumped in reverse. Grebenyuk braked and went into reverse, but the red car still hit their fender.

They both jumped out. A dent, paint scraped off. Nothing terrible. But now their car was too noticeable.

The red car’s bumper and rear light were smashed.

Grebenyuk suddenly laughed and banged his fist on the hood. “Fuck. Were you waiting to ambush us, you asshole?”

Shershnev relaxed. This was a comedy. A joke. When I tell this story later, no one will believe me. This guy obviously had lunch while we were changing the tire. And pulled out just as we came by, a kamikaze asshole.

“Should we get out of here?” Grebenyuk offered.

“What if he calls the police? Says it’s our fault. Rear-ended him. And gives them a whole story, that we tried to make him swerve and caused the accident.”

The driver got out, a fat, gray-haired man in glasses. He had been calming the frightened, barking dog. He didn’t look bewildered, however; he bent over his trunk, looked under it, and said something in the local language. Shershnev indicated that he did not understand and replied in English—uselessly, since the man continued yapping in his own tongue. He took out a phone, called someone, gabbled, and then signaled with his palm to wait, and got back in his car.

The merriment faded. Shershnev and Grebenyuk looked at each other. The rain had stopped, the last drops banging on the windshield.

“We have to wait. We’ll bullshit our way out of it,” said Shershnev.

He was seething inside. The laughter was replaced almost instantly by fury, to which he could not succumb; but he couldn’t suppress it either, only postpone it, and Shershnev promised himself, soon, soon you will be able to feel it.

The police came about twenty minutes later; it felt like an hour. They exchanged a few words with the driver of the red car and came over to them.

“He was backing up on the highway. It’s not our fault,” Shershnev began in English.

“Yes, yes, we know,” the policeman responded with some surprise at his aggressiveness. “The driver at fault reported it. He called us to write up a report for the rental company.”

Grebenyuk winked.

The report was written quickly. They took a few photos of the damaged fender with their iPhones. The officer, a young provincial cop with good school English, asked as he returned their documents in a bored manner, looking for something to distract him from work, “Where are you headed?”

They had the rehearsed reply to fit their cover. There were no usual tourist sites near the subject’s residence, no castles, thermal springs, or canyons with observation platforms. There was only one spot. The embassy people went there every year to lay wreaths. So they proposed it.

“The museum,” said Shershnev. “You know, the memorial…”

“You’ve passed it,” said the cop with animation. “We can show you the road, we’re headed in that direction anyway.”

Shershnev didn’t risk telling him that they’ve already been there—what if the driver had told them they had already met on the road? The odometer would not match their mileage. He was at a loss for an answer, trapped by the excessive amiability, idiotic readiness to help. One cretin called the police to take care of them. Other cretins were now going to accompany them. Why didn’t they just leave them alone? And what made him say that? He could have avoided an answer. Everything seemed fine, but words are like instant glue, holding so that you can’t tear away.

“Thank you,” Shershnev said. “We’d be grateful.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Grebenyuk whispered in the car. “What the fuck do we need this for?”

“How could I refuse?” Shershnev answered in irritation, angered by his mistake. “Say, oh, we changed our mind? Let’s go back? We can’t be memorable. We have to behave the way they expect. I remember the map. It’s not far. We’ll zip over and back. Quick trip.”

“They’re hard to understand,” Grebenyuk insisted. “Can you imagine our cops behaving this way?”

“This is Europe,” Shershnev said. “Get used to it.”