to the southeast.
“OK, partner. You wait for us here,” Ferg told the Chechen. “You’re going to wait in the back.”
“The Russians will kill me if they come,” said Daruyev.
“We all take chances,” said Ferg. He put the hood on, then led Daruyev into the rocks a short distance from the truck. Conners rigged a crude anchor from some rope, tying it to the leg irons. Then they took a GPS plot and logged it to make sure they could find the spot again.
“I suggest you sleep,” Ferg told him. “We’ll be back.”
“I trust you,” said Daruyev. He held his head erect as if he could stare through the hood. Ferg pushed him gently to the ground.
You think you’re going to be able to keep him in America after this?” said Conners, as they picked their way quietly up the ridge. They moved parallel to but not on the road, armed with AK-74s. They’d stashed the grenade launcher and the rest of the arms near the KAMAZ and brought along one of the ignition wires to make it more difficult to steal.
“Sure.”
“You can’t be serious, Ferg. The Russians will throw a fit.”
“Who’s going to tell them? Our lawyer boss?”
“She may.”
“Village is that way,” said Ferguson, cutting over the rocks.
According to Daruyev, an abandoned mine sat just below the village. It was in this complex that he thought a dirty-bomb factory might be housed. It was a logical guess; not only would the shafts create a decent hideout, but they would presumably make it difficult to detect radiation.
The southwestern slope they came around had little cover, and while they’d seen no obvious lookout posts in the satellite photo Ferguson downloaded, the Americans moved cautiously toward the village, practically crawling as they tried to make it more difficult for anyone lurking with a nightscope to pick them off.
A deep crevice ran in a jagged line from the top of the hill above the village, as if God had scraped his finger down the mound. The crevice was about fifty yards from the closest foundation; when they reached it, the two men paused to take stock.
“Quiet,” said Conners.
“Yeah. Probably a bust,” said Ferguson. “We’ll leave the village alone, check out the mines.”
“Yup.”
They followed the crevice, picking their way as carefully as possible. The moonlight gradually grew, as if forcing its way through the clouds. After about a half hour, they came to a shallow crater twenty yards or so from one of the mine entrances.
“Bomb hole,” said Conners.
“I guess,” said Ferguson.
“That’s what it is, Ferg.”
“I’m not arguing.” The CIA officer knelt at the edge of the crater, staring at the rectangular cut in the mountain nearby.
“All right,” he said, getting up and starting toward the hole.
Conners squatted at the edge of the crater, leveling his gun in the direction of the mine entrance. Ferguson stopped about halfway there, then began sidestepping to the right down the incline. A narrow path ran across the slope from the hole, switching back about ten yards on his right. Ferg flexed his fingers on his gun, trying to control his breath so he could hear better. Another shallow bomb crater sat to his right, the indentation so slight he could barely make it out. The mountain gaped at him through hewn-rock jaws, blackness far darker than the night in its throat. Ferg saw something move and jerked right, just barely stopping his finger from squeezing the trigger as he realized he’d seen his own dim shadow thrown by the moon.
Conners, waiting at the lip of the crater, saw Ferguson jerk toward the ground. He waited, knowing nothing was there and yet unsure of his knowledge at the same time. He watched Ferguson continue forward into the opening. Belatedly, he pushed himself out of the crater, trotting to keep his man covered. By the time he reached the mouth of the mine, Ferguson had disappeared.
Conners cursed and went to one knee by the entrance. When the CIA officer didn’t reappear after a minute or so, Conners rose and stepped gingerly to his left, then his right, trying to peer inside. He couldn’t see anything. Finally, Conners whistled, softly first, then louder.
“OK, Pops,” said Ferguson finally.
Conners swung around — the team leader was down the slope behind him.
“Place looks pretty empty.”
“What the hell?” said Conners walking in the direction of Ferguson’s voice.
“Train tracks down there. Mines are a maze. Looks empty though.”
“You walked through them?”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” said the CIA officer. “I’m a ghost. I just float right by.”
“Always bustin’, Ferg. One of these days it’s going to come back to haunt you.”
“Can’t if I’m already a ghost, right?”
They worked their way down the slope. Several other entrances to the mine had been wrecked by explosions. The ruins of a building sat near the largest entrance, which was at the foot of the hill.
“Think Daruyev sent us on a wild-goose chase?” asked Conners, as they climbed back up toward the village.
“I don’t know,” said Ferg.
“Hope that anchor I rigged up holds him.”
“He won’t run away,” said Ferguson.
The Russians had obliterated six of the seven buildings in the small village, but one house remained. It stood apart from the others, roof shorn off, holes where the windows once were. Wires lay in a tangle across the path leading to it; they looked like snakes in the moonlight.
Ferguson decided to check the house out; he approached quietly, though it was clear the village as well as the mines had been abandoned years before. The interior remained intact, a table and chairs in a room visible through one of the windows. The scene struck him as something out of a bizarre dream.
Conners waited impatiently for Ferguson, suspecting that the Chechen had lied to them to make his escape.
“Have a turnip,” said Ferguson, looming from the shadows. He tossed one to Conners.
“What the fuck?”
“Turnips.”
“Yeah, I see that,” said Conners, turning it over. It was shriveled.
“How long you figure it takes a vegetable to rot?” Ferg asked.
“Jesus, Ferg, how the hell do I know?”
“That’s how long ago the Russians burned the village,” said Ferguson. “Daruyev didn’t know.”
“Real test will be if he’s still there,” said Conners.
“That just means he couldn’t escape,” said Ferguson.
4
At one point in its venerable career, the Douglas DC-8 had served as an electronic warfare aircraft, mostly for training but in two instances supporting combat operations. Like many an old soldier, however, its days of glory were long gone, and the only hints of its past were a few scars on the gray-painted fuselage where sensors had once hung.
