Authors: Toni Anderson
Read the start of Chapter One of Toni Anderson’s Romantic
Spy Thriller...
©Toni Anderson
I
t looked and felt like
the dominion of Gods.
Special Air Service trooper Ty
Dempsey had been catapulted from a rural English market town into the heart of
a colossal mountain range full of pristine snow-capped peaks which glowed
against a glassy blue sky. Many of the summits in the Hindu Kush were over five
miles high. The utter peace and tranquility of this region was an illusion that
hid death, danger and uncertainty beneath every elegant precipice. No place on
earth was more treacherous or more beautiful than the high mountains.
He was an anomaly here.
Life was an anomaly here.
Thin sharp needles pierced his
lungs every time he took a breath. But his prey was as hampered by the
landscape as they were, and Ty Dempsey wasn’t going to let a former Russian
Special Forces operative-turned-terrorist get the better of an elite modern-day
military force. Especially a man who’d shockingly betrayed not only his
country, but humanity itself.
They needed to find him. They
needed to stop the bastard from killing again.
The only noise in this arena was
boots punching through the crust of frozen snow, and the harshness of puny
human lungs struggling to draw oxygen out of the fragile atmosphere. The shriek
of a golden eagle pierced the vastness overhead, warning the world that there
were strangers here and to beware. Dempsey raised his sunglasses to peer back
over his shoulder at the snaking trail he and his squad had laid down. Any fool
could follow that trail, but only a real fool would track them across the Roof
of the World to a place so remote not even war lingered.
But the world was full of fools.
As part of the British SAS’s Sabre
Squadron A’s Mountain Troop, Dempsey was familiar with the terrain. He knew the
perils of mountains and altitude, understood the raw omnipotent power of
nature. This was what he trained for. This was his job. This was his life. He’d
climbed Everest and K2, though the latter had nearly killed him. He understood
that there were places on earth that were blisteringly hostile, that could
obliterate you in a split second, but they held no malice, no evil. Unlike
people…
He relaxed his grip on his carbine
and adjusted the weight of his bergen. None of the men said a word as they
climbed ever higher, one by one disappearing over the crest of the ridge and
dropping down into the snowy wilderness beyond. With an icy breath Dempsey followed
his men on the next impossible mission. Hunting a ghost.
***
The small plane
taxied down the runway at Kurut in the Wakhan Corridor, a tiny panhandle of
land in the far northeast of Afghanistan. Thankfully the runway was clear of
snow—a miracle in itself.
Dr. Axelle Dehn stared out of the
plane window and tried to relax her grip on the seat in front of her. She’d
been traveling for thirty hours straight, leveraging every contact she’d ever
made to get flights and temporary visas for her and her graduate student.
Something was going on with her leopards and she was determined to find out
what.
Last fall, they’d attached
satellite radio collars to ten highly-endangered snow leopards here in the
Wakhan. This past week, in the space of a few days, they’d lost one signal
completely, and another signal was now coming from a talus-riddled slope where
no shelter existed. This latter signal was from a collar that had been attached
to a leopard called Sheba, one of only two female snow leopards they’d caught.
Just ten days ago, for the first time ever, they’d captured photos from one of
their remote camera traps of the same leopard moving two newborn cubs. If Sheba
had been killed, the cubs were out there, hungry and defenseless. Emotion tried
to crowd her mind but she thrust it aside.
The cats might be fine.
The collar might have malfunctioned
and dropped off before it was programmed to. Or maybe she hadn’t fastened it
tight enough when they’d trapped Sheba, and the leopard had somehow slipped it
off.
But two collars in two days…?
The plane came to a stop and the
pilot turned off the propellers. The glacier-fed river gushed silkily down the
wide, flat valley. Goats grazed beside a couple of rough adobe houses where
smoke drifted through the holes in the roof. Bactrian camels and small, sturdy
horses were corralled nearby. A line of yaks packed with supplies waited
patiently in a row. Yaks were the backbone of survival in this remote valley,
especially once you headed east beyond the so-called
road
. People used
them for everything from milk, food, transportation and even fuel in this
frigid treeless moonscape.
It was early spring—the fields were
being tilled in preparation to plant barley in the short but vital growing
season. A group of children ran toward the plane, the girls dressed in red
dresses with pink headscarves, the boys wearing jewel-bright green and blue
sweaters over dusty pants. Hospitality was legendary in this savagely poor
region, but with the possibility of only a few hundred snow leopards left in
Afghanistan’s wilderness, Axelle didn’t have time to squander.
Her assistant, a Dane called Josef
Vidler, gathered his things beside her. She adjusted her hat and scarf to cover
her hair. The type of Islam practiced here was moderate and respectful.
“Hello, Dr. Dehn,” the children
chimed as the pilot opened the door. A mix of different colored irises and
features reflected the diverse genetic makeup of this ancient spit of land.
“
As-Salaam Alaikum
.” She
gave them a tired smile. The children’s faces were gaunt but wreathed in
happiness. Malnourishment was common in the Wakhan, and after a brutal winter
most families were only a goat short of starvation.
Despite the worry for her cats, it
humbled her. These people, who struggled with survival every single day, were
doing their best to live in harmony with the snow leopard. And a large part of
this change in attitude toward one of the region’s top predators was due to the
work of the Conservation Trust. It was a privilege to work for them, a
privilege she didn’t intend to screw up. She dug into her day pack and pulled
out two canisters of children’s multi-vitamins she’d found in Frankfurt
Airport. She rattled one of the canisters and they all jumped back in surprise.
She pointed to Keeta, a teenage girl whose eyes were as blue as Josef’s and
whose English was excellent thanks to some recent schooling. “These are
not
candy so only eat one a day.” She held up a single finger. Then handed them
over and the children chorused a thank you before running back to their homes.
Anji Waheed, their local guide and
wildlife ranger-in-training, rattled toward them in their sturdy Russian van.
“
As-Salaam Alaikum
, Mr.
Josef, Doctor Axelle,” Anji called out as he pulled up beside them. The relief
in the Wakhi man’s deep brown eyes reinforced the seriousness of the situation.
“
Wa-Alaikum Salaam
.” They
could all do with a little peace. The men patted each other on the back, and
they began hauling their belongings out of the plane and into the van.
Axelle took a deep breath. “Did you
find any sign of the cubs?”
Anji shook his head. “No, but as
soon as I heard you were on your way, I took some men up to base camp to set up
the yurts, then came back to get you.” Although only a few miles up the side
valley, it was two bone-rattling hours of travel on a barely-there gravel road
to their encampment. During winter, they did their tracking online from back
home at Montana State University. In summer, they took a more hands-on approach.
“Thanks.” Axelle stowed her
frustration and smiled her gratitude. From their tracking data she had a good
idea where Sheba might have denned up. Barring accidents or breakdowns they
might get there before nightfall.
She was praying for a collar
malfunction even though that would put their million-dollar project way behind
schedule. The alternative meant the cubs and their mother were probably dead.
Her instinct told her losing two cats in a couple of days wasn’t coincidence,
nor was it a local herder protecting livestock. A professional poacher was
going after her animals for their fur and bones to feed China’s ravenous
appetite for traditional medicine. It was imperative to find out exactly what
was going on, and with the continuing conflict in Afghanistan it wasn’t going
to be easy.
“Do the elders know anything about
what might be happening?” she asked. Only twelve miles wide in places, the
Wakhan Valley was a tiny finger of flat fertile ground separating some of the
tallest mountains in the world—the magnificent and treacherous Hindu Kush to
the south and the impenetrable Pamir Range to the north. Harsh winters trapped
locals inside for seven months of the year. Wildlife was scarce and the region
mercilessly inaccessible, but these people knew the land better than a visitor
ever could.
“No.” His eyes shot between her and
Josef. “They are scared that if the snow leopards are dead, you will blame them
and they will lose their clinic.”
The Trust not only had an anti-poaching
scheme, they also vaccinated local livestock once a year against common
diseases,
gratis
. The program promoted healthier livestock and reduced
the losses herders suffered to sickness, which in turn compensated for the
occasional snow leopard kill. So far the scheme was working, except now they
had two missing, possibly dead leopards and two tiny cubs unaccounted for.
The weight of responsibility sat
like an elephant on her chest.
“Josef, run over and reassure them
while Anji and I finish loading.” She held his gaze when he looked like he’d
argue. The village elders sometimes struggled to deal with a woman. She didn’t
mind because she loathed politics. “Be quick. We don’t have time for tea—you’ll
have to make your excuses.”
It wasn’t how things were done here
and she didn’t want to offend these people, but the survival of a species
trumped social niceties today. Ten more minutes and they were finished packing.
Anji tied the spare gasoline canisters onto the roof and made sure both big gas
tanks were full. They honked and Josef jogged over and jumped into the van.
“Everything be okay.” Lines creased
Anji’s leathery skin. “
Inshallah
.”
God willing, indeed.
She and Josef exchanged a look as
Anji gunned the engine over the rough road marked only by a line of pale
stones. Dust flew, stirred up by the tires, the land still soft from the thaw.
They bounced over rivers, ruts and alluvial fans. Axelle craned her neck to
stare at the imposing mountains.
“If the collars
are
working”—Josef spoke from the backseat—“there could be some crackpot in these
hills picking off critically endangered animals for money. Anyone that
desperate isn’t going to care if a couple of foreigners end up as collateral
damage.”
They’d left some weapons with their
other belongings last fall. Her father had insisted she have some sort of
protection when he’d heard she was conducting her research in Afghanistan. Now
she was grateful.
She glanced at Josef sharply. “Do
you want to go home?”
“I’m just saying this could be
dangerous.” His hands gripped the back of the seat as they bounced over a
rickety bridge.
“If you want to go back you should
say so now. The pilot can fly you out in the morning.” She kept her voice soft.
They were almost the same age but he was her responsibility and she had no
right to place him in danger. “I don’t want you thinking you don’t have a
choice. I can handle this.” He had a life. He had a future. She only had her
passion for saving things that needed saving.
“Ya, I run away and leave you alone
in the wilderness.” Josef sat back and crossed his arms, muttering angrily.
She held back an instinctive
retort. She didn’t care about being alone in the wilderness, but with this
amount of ground to cover, she needed all the help she could get. “I have
Anji,” she said instead. “We can get more men from the village.”
The Wakhi man grinned a gap-toothed
smile, his eyes dancing. After generations of war and decades of being ignored
by the government in Kabul, a few missing teeth were the least of anyone’s
problems. A few dead leopards might not rank high in the concerns of government
either, not with the resurgence of the Taliban, not with the constant threat of
assassination, insurgents and death.
“If we find sign of a poacher we
will gather men from the village and hunt him down,” the smaller man said.
Axelle nodded, but she was worried.
This would be Anji’s responsibility when he finished training and was appointed
the wildlife officer for this region. He needed to be confident enough to take
charge of dangerous situations like this. She bit her lip. He was such a sweet
little guy she didn’t know how he’d confront armed poachers. The idea of him
hurt didn’t sit well. He had a family. People who cared.
Isolation pressed down on her
shoulders. All she had was an estranged father and a grandfather she hadn’t
visited in two long years.
Energetic clouds boiled over the
top of the mountains. A spring storm was building, but it was nothing to the
growing sense of unease that filled her when she thought of someone lining up
her cats in the crosshairs of a hunting scope.
AUTHOR’S NOTE & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wrote
Her Last Chance
(originally titled
Blade Hunter
) as a follow-up to
Her Sanctuary
,
but it languished on a virtual shelf for years because the publisher went bust
before it was released. In response to reader pressure I finally managed to
find the time this summer to edit the manuscript and get it ready for
publication. I hope you enjoy the conclusion to Marsh and Josie’s story. I feel
like I’ve come a long way as a writer since I started my publishing journey but
I hope you enjoy these two related stories. I want to thank my editor, Ally
Robertson, for doing such a wonderful job and helping me improve both
manuscripts.
Thanks always to my critique
partner, Kathy Altman, who is not just my sounding board—she’s my sanity. And
to Loreth Anne White for always being on-call for emergency tea breaks and
brainstorming sessions.
The biggest shout-out of
appreciation goes to my husband and children who put up with the day-to-day
minutiae of me being a writer. And to readers who have made my dreams come
true!