The little man began his whining again. Fisher cut him off, saying the best case was that Ames was working for Kovac simply to push Grim out. Worst case was that Kovac was, indeed, a traitor and was helping whoever was behind the auction. Either way, though, Ames had been a mole from the start.
And Hansen found it even more ironic that Ames had done nothing from the beginning to hide his disdain for the others. In fact, he’d actually made himself the most obvious person to be suspected as a mole. Maybe that was his plan? Be too obvious? No, Hansen figured that Ames just didn’t care, that he hated them so much he figured he’d play it that way and just enjoy the ride. There was no deep-seated rationale behind his thinking. He was just a little runt bastard who needed to be taught a lesson.
“Ames thought he was talking to Kovac on the OPSAT. He probably knew Kovac was going to pass on the information. When we reached the auction site, we would’ve been walking into an ambush.”
Gillespie made a face and said, “There are a lot of ifs in there, Sam.”
“True. We can settle this pretty easily. We know Ames is working for Kovac. We have the proof. What we need to know is whether Kovac’s just an ass, or a traitor, and whether Ames is in on it.”
Hansen got his signal from Fisher. He shoved the straw mattress under Ames’s bunk; then Fisher took up the bottle of gasoline and poured a little around the edge. The odor spread strong and fast, and Ames’s expression tightened in horror.
Katy stood at the window, coughing, staring at Ames, reaching out to him as the flames danced at her shoulders. Ames’s mother screamed something, her words turning into a shriek as his father cried out her name — suddenly an explosion rocked through the house.
And Ames stood there on the front lawn, immobile, knowing he should have run back inside but too scared to do anything, a coward in the face of the flames. A coward. A boy who didn’t save his family. A boy who’d watched them die. A boy who should be punished. A man who took every risk he could in his life because he knew he deserved to be punished.
Fisher was looking at Ames now, saying something, but Ames was just shaking his head, not against Fisher’s words but against the inevitable, the image of those three bodies being carried from the house, draped in white sheets.
Now Fisher was pouring gasoline all over Ames’s body: the cold, foul liquid seeping through his clothes.
They were going to kill him, and it’d be too easy, out in Siberia, in the middle of nowhere.
But he deserved it. He should take his punishment like a man. He needed to burn like them.
But an unconscious need for self-preservation kicked in, and Ames began bucking against the cord, the bunk rising and falling from the floor.
Fisher told the others that Ames would know the name of the man they were tracking. If he did, then it was clear Kovac gave it to him and that Kovac was in up to his eyebrows.
“Ames!” Fisher screamed.
And with a gasp, Ames fell still.
Fisher spoke slowly, the foreboding in his tone making Ames swallow in fear. “Tell me the name of the man we’re tracking, or I’m going to set you on fire.”
The name, Aariz Qaderi, came out with no hesitation. Ames wasn’t telling Fisher a name; he was telling his father that he was sorry for not saving him, for not saving the family.
“Ben’s going to ask you more questions. Answer him,” said Fisher; then he gestured to the door for the others to leave.
Once they were alone, Hansen glanced down at Ames, then reached into the man’s right front pocket, where Ames kept his Zippo lighter.
“Maybe Fisher wouldn’t roast you alive,” Hansen began. “But you can rest assured, I will. Let’s start at the beginning. How long have you been working for Kovac?”
“Grim found me, but he recruited me only a week after that.”
“How could you do this to us?”
“It’s only business. And, by the way, your buddy Sergei? He worked for us, too.”
Hansen’s eyes grew wider. He bared his teeth, then flipped open the lighter.
“Careful with that!” cried Ames. “I’m telling you this because I’m willing to talk. I’ve got enough stuff on Kovac to put him away forever, and you guys will need that, so you don’t want to hurt me. I’m your ticket to bringing him down. Do you understand me, cowboy?”
“I told you—”
“I can call you whatever I want — because I still hold all the cards here.”
“You could’ve fooled me, tied up to a bed, about to be burned alive. What else do you know about the auction?”
“As much as you. He keeps me on a strict diet. But you have to believe that I can help you.”
The front passed, and the team was able to get an early start, putting in about ninety minutes of road time before sunrise. Fisher drove the lead SUV while Hansen followed behind. Hansen and Fisher had cleaned up Ames, tied him once more, and stuffed him in the cargo area of Fisher’s SUV, where he remained, although Hansen was certain the guy still smelled like gasoline. Hansen hadn’t been able to get anything else out of him.
After another few miles of travel, Hansen’s OPSAT beeped with incoming intel from Grim. Qaderi was moving again. He was already outside Severobaikalsk and heading — and this was odd — heading
Fisher suddenly stopped his SUV, backed up, and followed a side road that splintered off the main one and wandered into walls of pine trees.
“Where’s he going?” asked Gillespie.
Hansen shrugged. “I don’t know.”
39
The mountains were haloed in pink and orange as the sun began to rise, and Hansen continued following Fisher up and into the woods and inland. It now seemed clear that Fisher was putting them on an intercept course with Qaderi, following the heavily rutted and snow-covered path through a series of tortuous runs. Fisher shut off his headlights, and Hansen did likewise. Visibility was limited but the sun was rising fast.
They swept around yet another curve, and then, off to their right, peeking out from below a carpet of trees that unfurled to the shoreline, lay the calm, cool waters of a small lake, perhaps a half mile wide.
“I know where we are,” said Gillespie. “Sludjanka Lake.”
“Maybe this is it. Maybe we’re here,” said Hansen.
“Ben, there’s another SUV on the other side of the lake,” said Valentina, staring through her binoculars. “That’s the target.”
Fisher pulled along the side of the road, their vehicles hidden behind the thick stands of pine trees. They met between the cars. Hansen asked Fisher if this was the auction site. Fisher wasn’t sure and lifted his own binoculars. “I’m not sure if that’s Qaderi.”
With everyone hidden behind the trucks, they watched as the SUV stopped at the top of a gradually sloping hill overlooking the lake. Hansen zoomed in and watched as the front passenger door opened and a man came out. He turned around, leaned back into the car, and took out a briefcase. When he turned back, his face was illuminated in the rising sun.
Hansen had reviewed the file photo of Aariz Qaderi. This was not him. “What the hell is this?” he asked Fisher.
“I think Qaderi just got uninvited to the auction.”
With his back to them, the man opened the briefcase, sifted through its contents, then rose and just stood there for about ten minutes.
