Don Pendleton - Road Of Bones

“I’ll call immediately,” Delorme said.

“I’d appreciated it,” the big Fed replied, and rattled off his numbers—office, home and cell. “Time doesn’t matter.”

“As I see, from looking at my clock,” Delorme said. “I wish your agent luck.”

He’ll need it, Brognola thought as he cut the link.

Yakutsk: 9:58 a.m.

STEPHAN LEVSHIN CHECKED the LED screen on his cell phone, failed to recognize the caller’s number, but decided to answer.

“Yes?”

On the other end, an unfamiliar voice said, “I am told you are the man to call about a certain woman and her friend?”

“Who told you that?” Levshin said, not denying it.

“I don’t remember,” the caller said. “It is either true, or not.”

“In that case, it depends upon which woman we’re discussing, and which friend.”

“I don’t have names,” the caller said, “but someone had a photograph. The woman hasn’t changed since it was taken. And a man was with her. If the person who advised me was mistaken, and there’s no reward…”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Levshin said. “A stranger calls, anonymous, and asks for money? You must understand my skepticism, eh?”

“I understand you only pay for goods collected, yes?” the stranger said. “If I direct you to the ones you seek, it cannot be an act of charity.”

“Say this, then,” Levshin countered. “If I follow your directions and collect the proper goods, you will be compensated. If you are deceiving me, it would be most unwise.”

“No threats, or it is goodbye, eh? We understand each other, without that.”

“I hope so,” Levshin said.

“All right. You need to look in Nizhny Bestyakh, at a motorcycle shop. The owner’s name is Ilya Vitruk. You’ve already missed them there, but he can tell you where they’re going.”

“What’s the address?”

Levshin’s caller rattled off a number and a street name, which he dutifully repeated.

“If your information is correct—”

“I’ll call you back,” the stranger said. “We can arrange the payment when you’re satisfied.”

The line went dead, leaving a void of doubt in Levshin’s mind. He knew his people had been circulating photographs of Tatyana Anuchin throughout Yakutsk and, more recently, in Nizhny Bestyakh. The photos had his temporary cell phone number printed on the back, for easy contact. Since he had no fear of the police, and would discard the phone as soon as he had found the runners, Levshin saw no risk to the procedure.

And, perhaps, it had paid off.

A motorcycle shop meant they were running. Eastward, since it was the only compass point available. The Lena River blocked them westward, and striking off to north or south meant running overland to nowhere, without highways. Northward lay the Arctic Circle, with perhaps a scattering of villages where they could never hope to hide. Southward lay Mongolia, but only if they crossed the Stanovoy and Yablonovy mountain ranges, with peaks above eight thousand feet and no passable roads.

So, it was Magadan or nothing for the fugitives.

Over the Road of Bones.

Levshin had calls to make, and quickly—to his people on the Lena River, and to others already scouring the streets of Nizhny Bestyakh, in case his targets had managed to cross the river unseen.

Which it seemed that they had.

The call might be a ruse, of course, even someone’s idea of a joke. If it was, the prankster would live to regret it, but not very long. Meanwhile, Levshin would treat it as a serious lead and hope for the best.

He’d scramble troops to the target and see what they found. If it paid off, then another call was necessary, to Moscow next time, for a status report to Colonel Marshak. He’d be relieved to know the net was tightening around the peasants who presumed to threaten him and those above him.

Levshin’s task was to eliminate that threat, to see that order was preserved. Success was paramount.

And the alternative, he knew, was death.

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