Authors: Russell Blake
Hannah’s eyes followed his and she shrugged. “Okay.”
Matt waited for her to make the suggested change, and when she’d slipped her sandals on over her now matching footwear, he held out his hand to her. “I’m starving.”
They descended the wooden stairs to the lobby area and the innkeeper looked up at them, her face as sour as though she’d been drinking vinegar. She rummaged around on the counter and called out to Matt. “You’re in four, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Someone called in the dead of night for you. Woke me up,” she said disapprovingly.
“They did?” he asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
“I don’t appreciate that sort of behavior.”
“I’m sorry. But I didn’t call.”
“Yes, well, anyway, I took a message. Here,” she said, holding out a yellow slip.
Matt approached and took it from her and, after staring at it, handed it back to her. “I’m sorry. I can’t read Romanian. What does it say?”
“Ah. Right. I forgot – it was so early in the morning.” The woman perched a pair of reading glasses on the end of her bulbous nose and translated it for Matt. “Mama is fine. Research Leo Philip. Russian attorney.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Are you sure? Nothing about calling again or meeting us?” Matt asked.
“I…she might have said something about trying to call again.”
“Might?” Matt echoed, trying to remain calm.
“I…if it hadn’t been so early…I was fast asleep. You’re lucky I answered at all.”
“What time was it, exactly?”
“Oh, three forty. I remember that. I even wrote it on the slip.” She tapped the message slip and then caught herself, her frown deepening at the memory of the indignity.
“What was the attorney’s name again?” Matt asked.
“Leo Philip.”
Matt nodded. The woman was a dolt. He remembered the attorney in Moscow Jet had terminated had been named Filipov – they’d discussed the sanction at length. “Do you have a computer guests can use?”
“No. I’m sorry. Just the Wi-Fi connection. No computers.”
“Where could I find one I could borrow?”
“There are Internet cafés in town.”
“Thanks.”
For nothing
, he resisted adding as he looked down at Hannah. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get something to eat.”
“Mama call?”
“Yes. She’s fine.” He looked into the dining area, where a few tables of guests were masticating with the enthusiasm of the condemned. “I could eat a horse.”
“Two horsies!” Hannah said with a giggle.
An hour later they were walking in the cool morning air on the outskirts of the picturesque hamlet, all red tile roofs and folksy, hand-built dwellings. Time had stalled several centuries earlier, and if it hadn’t been for the rev of the occasional car engine floating from the main arteries, Matt wouldn’t have been surprised to have been following a horse-drawn cart into town down the cobblestone street, laden with live poultry for the market in the church square.
Matt spotted a blue sign with a stylized outline of a computer monitor over a storefront and pushed through the door. A thin young man with a hipster neck beard looked up from a glass display case filled with phones, modems, and miscellaneous peripherals. Matt pantomimed typing on a computer. The clerk pointed to three stations in the rear of the store and held up one finger. Matt nodded and led Hannah to the system while the clerk logged him on at the master computer, and then a colorful browser popped up on the screen.
Matt Googled Filipov’s name and scanned the results. Most were entries around the time of his death – his obituary, a few articles reporting on his suicide. Nothing new. Matt methodically read each to the best of his ability, grateful for the translation option onscreen, and then stopped when he finished the obituary.
The innkeeper had said Leo Filipov. According to the obituary, one Leonid Filipov was Anatoly Filipov’s brother.
Matt refined the search to limit it to Leo, and a whole new set of hits appeared – articles about the brother’s deal making, his representation of several prominent oligarchs and petroleum interests, his philanthropic activities.
Forty minutes later, Matt was finished, the scratch pad he’d been scribbling on filled with notes and a summary, with links sent to his blind email account for easy reference, as well as to Jet’s, in case she was able to access the Internet wherever she was.
Hannah had been more than patient while he’d been online, but she was growing antsy and bored, her interest in the various devices scattered around the shop too limited to hold her attention for long. Matt paid and they stepped outside, narrowly avoiding being knocked over by two old women astride bicycles who’d appeared out of nowhere, preferring the sidewalk to the street for their outing. He looked both ways and they crossed to a café, Hannah’s promised reward of orange juice and a pastry having been earned with her good behavior.
When he returned to the inn, the woman’s husband was manning the reception desk, and Matt gave him his cell phone number should anyone call for him and he be unavailable. Matt reiterated that he’d prefer to be disturbed no matter what the hour, but figured that if the proprietors were too lazy or resentful to mount the stairs, at least that way Jet would have a way of getting in touch.
Novaya Tavolzhanka, Russia
The train slowed even further from the lethargic pace it had dropped to as it rolled through the Belgorod station, and began the final leg to the Ukrainian border. The countryside was flat as a lake, farms dominating the landscape with occasional extended stretches of forested area.
Yulia whispered to Jet, “We should get off around here. We’re only a few kilometers from the border, and the Ukrainian army’s likely to stop the train and inspect it at the crossing.”
“What about the Russians?”
“Oh, they’ll inspect anything going north, but they generally couldn’t care less about goods being shipped out of Russia.”
“Then why not just ride into Ukraine and then get off?”
Yulia sighed. “It’s complicated. Even though I work with the government forces, in this area there are no clear loyalties, even with the administration’s troops. And there are fighters sneaking in from Russia on a regular basis, so the government soldiers are trigger happy. We might be mistaken for mercenaries, and by the time they figured out we aren’t, it would be too late.”
Jet studied her face. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
Yulia nodded. “Yes, but now isn’t the time to go into it. I’ll explain once we’re on safe ground.”
“Doesn’t sound like there is such a thing there.”
“It’s not as bad as you’ve seen on the news. At least not where we’re going.”
Jet pushed herself up. “You know where we are?”
“Yes. That charming bit of architecture we just passed was Novaya Tavolzhanka. At this pace we’ll be at the border in five or six more minutes.”
Yulia descended the metal ladder mounted to the side of the car and Jet followed. “How’s your ankle?” Jet asked as they stood on the narrow platform between the two rail cars, trying to judge the speed.
“I’ll manage. Ready?”
“Lead the way.”
Yulia nodded and jumped from the train, throwing herself far enough so she wouldn’t get dismembered from landing on the tracks. She hit the ground in a roll, and Jet did the same, her parkour practice making the disembarkation uneventful. Jet was up and moving in moments, but Yulia was having a harder time, pain etched across her face.
“You okay?” Jet asked as she neared Yulia.
“Give me a minute.”
The train continued past and then the caboose was receding in the distance, leaving them alone beside the gleaming rails, surrounded by scrub. Yulia drew a deep breath and stood with effort, and Jet eyed her with concern. “Can you make it?”
“I just landed wrong. Nothing’s broken. I just need to be careful.”
“Where to from here?”
“We move away from the tracks. That will be a natural focus for checkpoints.”
“Do you know anything about the Russian side of the border?”
“It changes day to day, depending on what’s happening. Lately there’s been an increase in patrols. The Russians are intent on discouraging refugees from entering their country.” Yulia spat and winced. “It’s funny in a sick way. They want to maintain control over Ukraine, but they don’t want to get their hands dirty with the human misery the fighting’s causing.”
“It’s hard to believe there’s a war going on just over the rise.”
“Well, again, it’s not as bad as CNN makes it out to be, not here along the border. Sure, there are bombing runs and fighting down by Donetsk and occasional skirmishes in the contested zone along the frontier, but it’s largely empty space, as you can see.” She mis-stepped and winced again. “There’s regular smuggling throughout this area, so the border’s porous. That’s why the Ukrainian government wants to build a wall along it.”
“A wall? Like East Germany had? Is that practical?”
“Not really. We can’t even begin to afford it, and even a child could figure out ways around it, over it, or under it. But you know politicians. They like easy solutions, and whenever the population feels endangered, walls are a favorite. They’ve already got a section under construction, but it’s a boondoggle. The guy who proposed it is involved in the construction company. You can guess how that will go.”
“So there’s no real barrier?”
“There’s barbed wire and fencing in places, and rumors of minefields being created by the Russians, but like I said, there are plenty of ways through. If we could wait until dark, it would probably be easier.”
“Not if the border guards have night vision gear. Which I’d imagine at least the Russian side would.”
“True. I didn’t think of that.”
Jet froze, listening, as a sound carried over the field. She looked around and indicated a thick area of vegetation fifty meters away. “Let’s hunker down there. Move as fast as you can.”
“Why? What is it?”
“I heard something. Voices.”
“Where?”
“Come on. Move. We can talk about it later.”
Yulia limped behind Jet to where she’d indicated and they crawled into the brush. Yulia peered from her position and appeared to be about to say something when Jet reached over and squeezed her arm in warning.
Six Russian soldiers carrying assault rifles materialized from the tree line at the far end of the field and crossed it, weapons at the ready, obviously alert and prepared to engage. Jet lay still as the soldiers neared; they passed close enough so that she could smell cloying aftershave on the light breeze. She and Yulia remained motionless until they disappeared by the tracks, and only after they were well out of sight did Jet shift closer to the Ukrainian.
“We need to get out of here,” Jet whispered. “Which way from here?”
Yulia angled her head south. “The border should be that way. Close as we are, it shouldn’t take too long.”
“You think if they stop us, we’ll get a break because we’re unarmed women?”
“We can always claim we’re refugees, but they’ll take us in and run our prints, and then we’re off to prison after being charged with the murder of the cops.”
“So that’s not an option.”
“No.”
They rose and picked their way through the bushes until they came to a faint track. Yulia murmured to Jet as her eyes followed it through the brush. “Probably a smuggling trail. There are many.”
Jet allowed her to lead, setting the pace based on how well she was managing with her ankle. They pushed through the vegetation for the better part of an hour without seeing anyone else, and were preparing to make a run across a clearing to where a snarl of barbed wire stretched east to west when Jet called to Yulia with an urgent hiss.
“We need to take cover.”
“We’re almost across. That fence is the border.”
“Don’t you hear that?”
“What?”
Jet glanced off to her right and looked skyward. “Helicopter.”
The helo came in low over the trees, its oversized blades beating at the air, the downdraft tearing at the scrub. Jet and Yulia could plainly make out the rotary cannon turrets and rocket launcher tube arrays as they retreated from the barrier, searching for cover. Branches tore at their clothes as they retreated deeper into the heavy underbrush, but the thumping of the aircraft’s blades neared with the inevitability of a landslide. Jet’s eyes tracked the aircraft like she could bring it down with the force of her will; the awe-inspiring vision of a heavily armed combat helicopter only scant meters from their position chilled her blood.
“What are they looking for?” Yulia asked, barely audible over the blast from the helicopter’s wake.
“Might be a manhunt from the shootout with the police. Also could be your men were captured and told the Russians where we were headed.”
Jet let the implication sink in as the aircraft hovered nearby. She could see the helmets of soldiers in the helicopter’s main cabin and watched the gunner manning the side door mounted machine gun to see if he swung the large-caliber weapon in their direction.
After another long pause, the helo resumed its forward motion along the barbed wire fence, leaving Jet and Yulia to their destiny. When the aircraft was out of sight, Yulia exhaled loudly, and Jet realized that her companion had been holding her breath.
“They didn’t see us,” Yulia said. “Thank God.”
“I’ll be more grateful when we’re on the other side of the border.” Jet paused. “Have the Russians been known to cross it if they’re in pursuit?”
“I…I suppose they must. I haven’t heard of any specific incidences, but that could be because there are never any witnesses.”
“Then we can’t depend on an artificial line stopping them, which means that we need to get across clean or that gunship will be back, and this time determined to cut us to pieces.”
Yulia nodded at the forested area on the other side of the no-man’s land. “Once we get into the woods, we’ll be out of sight. Foot patrols wouldn’t follow us in. It would be too dangerous, and the helicopter will be useless because of the trees.”