It was Father Ramsan who answered. “They were specially developed for shepherds in the Pyrenees in the Spanish high country. You can ride them at five miles or more if you want, negotiating very rough country, or much faster. They are perfect for the plateau country here. General Basayev obtained it for me.”
“That would seem very generous of him,” Kurbsky said.
“Of course, but then, I’m on his payroll and he trusts me.”
“And so does General Chelek,” Bounine pointed out.
“We live in a complicated world, my friend.” Ramsan turned to Kurbsky. “Bring your men in the house. I have food waiting.”
THEY AT E WELL of the stew, and he provided jugs of rough red wine. “So no one lives here with you?” Kurbsky asked.
“A peasant family farmed the land, but they’ve been driven off. Basayev doesn’t like people around when he’s in residence at the monastery. He chased the monks away, but only tolerates the peasants when he’s off to the war. Since he’s back, they have to clear out to a village about five miles on the other side of Kuba.”
“So no staff in the monastery?”
“He’s a soldier’s soldier and expects his men to be able to look after themselves. Sometimes they go and procure women for obvious purposes.”
“Are there any women at the moment?”
“Definitely not. When he comes on these occasions, his time seems to be spent on planning strategy. He has a sophisticated radio room and keeps in touch daily with his forces in the fields. I have heard them on occasion when I’ve been there.”
“So why does he keep you around?” Bounine asked.
“As some sort of link with the locals. I am, after all, their priest. I am also a visible presence at the monastery when he’s not here to remind people who the boss is.”
“Where have you just been?” Kurbsky asked.
“The monastery. He likes the chapel keeping up to scratch. He’s a religious man who likes everything to be just so. Candles, incense, the holy water, flowers.”
“Well, he sounds like a raving lunatic to me,” Bounine put in. “So what do we do about him?”
“You may be right,” Father Ramsan said. “But as to a plan of action…” He looked at his watch. “It’s nine-thirty. They’re military, they follow a fixed routine. Two of the men are appointed cooks. I keep them supplied with plenty of fresh food, driving to the village in the truck every two or three days. Their midday break is in the old monastery dining room next to the kitchens, starting at noon. They drink quite heavily. The monastery was known for its wine. Basayev joins them only sometimes. I couldn’t guarantee he would be in the dining room. Often he prefers to eat in his own quarters.”
“You’re sure of all this information?” Kurbsky asked.
“Based on what I have seen when I’m there.”
“And his men,” Bounine put in. “What do they do all day? What are their duties?”
“To guard the monastery and protect him, it’s that simple.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“To surprise them during their midday meal. As I’ve said, they drink heavily and you would have total surprise on your side.”
Kurbsky nodded. “What’s this secret way inside that Chelek mentioned?”
“Outside the walls is a decaying vineyard, decaying because with the monks not there, nobody has the expertise to look after it. It’s overgrown badly, and in the thickets there is the entrance to what was an escape tunnel during the bad times three centuries ago.”
There was a groan from the men, and Bounine said, “Not the damned sewers again. We’ve had enough of those in Grozny.”
“No, there are steps down and headroom to six feet. I have been through it many times over the years. You emerge through a false wall on a pivot into a series of cellars leading to an underground hall, used for storage years ago during sieges, but quite empty when I last looked in, and that was a year ago. From there, wide stone steps lead where you want to go.”
“Fascinating,” Kurbsky said. “You could always show us the way.”
“That wasn’t in the bargain, I think,” Ramsan said calmly.
“I appreciate your survival instincts,” Kurbsky told him. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Simple enough. I’ll drive you down in the supply truck and deliver you to the vineyard. The rest would be up to you. I would suggest leaving here at eleven-thirty. They should be all full swing in the dining room by the time you get there.”
Kurbsky turned to his men. “Go over your weapons, pistol, AK, check your grenades, then do it again. After that, rest. It’s been quite a day already, and a lot more to it before it’s over.”
IT WAS JUST after noon when the truck turned in the gate of the old vineyard, moved along the track under a spread of tree branches, and came to a halt. They all dismounted and followed Ramsan as he led the way through decaying vines, a battery lantern in his left hand, and came to an old stone outhouse. He opened the door and stood on the step. It was very black wood.
He leaned down and felt on the inside of the step. “There’s an iron ring. That’s it.” He pulled and raised a section of the floor that folded back to disclose stone steps about six feet wide dropping into darkness. He turned and offered the lantern to Kurbsky, who took it but shook his head.
“You take it. After all, you know the way. I’d feel safer.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“Well, it is now.” Kurbsky passed him the lantern, and Ramsan looked as if he was about to speak, then he took a deep breath, switched on the lantern, and went down.
IT WAS PERFECTLY dry, very airy, and as Ramsan had said, a good six feet in diameter. He played the light out well in front of them so they could see the false wall up ahead. He paused on getting to it, reached into a corner and pulled some sort of lever, and the wall pivoted. There was a cellar on the other side with an archway.
Ramsan turned and said, “The door can only be locked from the other side. Leave it ajar.” He carried on, leading the way through one archway after another, walked through the last one, and suddenly switched off the lantern and ran.
Panic ensued. “Where the hell is he?” Kirov cried, just as floodlights were turned on to reveal the underground hall Ramsan had mentioned. On a stone shelf about four feet high, two light machine guns on tripods were mounted, with two men behind each one. Other men were ranged at the sides, AK-47s at the ready.
Ramsan, still on the run, was making for the broad steps he had mentioned, soldiers waiting there, and Shadid Basayev walked through.
One of the Tigers called, “You lying bastard,” raised his AK to fire at Ramsan, and was cut down by a burst from one of the machine guns.
“Is this what the rest of you want?” the General asked. “I am Shadid Basayev. If I say slaughter the lot of you now, my men will be happy to oblige. It’s all one to me. Who is Kurbsky?”
“That would be me.” Kurbsky stepped forward.
“And these are the Black Tigers?” Basayev nodded. “A sad-looking bunch, if you don’t mind me saying so, and only eleven?”
“We used to be fifty.”
“That’s good, we must be winning the war.” He stood there, hands on hips. “Come on, Lieutenant, what’s it to be?” He stepped very close. “Of course, you could shoot me now in a mad moment, but my men wouldn’t like that.” Kurbsky stared into his eyes, trying to work him out, and Basayev smiled. “One soldier to another. Articles of war strictly observed at all times.”
It wasn’t that Kurbsky believed him. It was just that if there was even the smallest of chances that he was telling the truth, it was better than all of them being reduced to bloody pulp on the spot here.
“All right, lads, stand down.”
He started to remove his packs and placed his weapons on the ground, and, reluctantly, his men followed his
