Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Parviz’s van looked like a badly frosted cupcake. Driven by a crosswind, snow spackled the passenger side, while only a thin layer of ice glazed the driver’s side door and window. He’d left the van unlocked and the key in the ignition. As with the cargo containers, icy winters in Wisconsin had driven home that unless you had thought ahead to spritzing lubricant into the keyhole, you locked that sucker at your peril. Even so, he had to use both hands and his weight to haul the driver’s side door open. The door finally gave with a glassy crackle and scream of balky hinges. Running his flashlight beam over the door’s rubber stripping, he spotted a telltale glimmer where moisture had solidified to ice. Tugging off a glove, he leaned inside and dragged a finger over the windshield. There was ice, but it was patchy. He wondered if the van’s engine would even turn over if he tried the ignition and then decided not to try. Clambering inside, he pulled the door shut behind, shucked his crampons then stepped over the center console and into the cargo bay.

He’d done a cursory search of Parviz’s van once before. The extra cans of gasoline would come in handy. If he decided to load Davila into the van, backtrack to Dushanbe, and get them on the next plane out of the country, he’d swipe a couple more jerry cans from that shipping container.

Emptied of their duffels and weapons, the van’s cargo bay looked a little barren. There was a cardboard box holding a half dozen bottles of vodka. A couple of toolchests, the tarps, an air pump that ran off the van’s battery. Four sets of chains for the tires, as well; John remembered what Ustinov had said about the bukhana making like a mountain goat. Based on his experience, he thought this particular goat was both arthritic and asthmatic. Still, better than nothing, and they had made it up to the springs without a problem. The van might have four-wheel drive, but its blocky, loaf-like shape was less than aerodynamic. Those chains would come in handy.

Nested in with the four fuel cans were several quarts of engine oil and something he’d missed: two very large plastic bags. One held spools of wire, both insulated and not. The other was stuffed with rolls of duct tape, which was good. You could never have too much duct tape .

No spare tire, though . He turned his flashlight to either side of the van and found nothing. Where would that be stored? Maybe tucked under the chassis or in an under-the-floor storage bin as with some American SUVs? He’d check once he was outside again.

Popping open a large gray toolbox, he let go of a soft whistle. The thing was packed with tools. The removable tray held screwdrivers of various flavors and sizes; hex keys; a metric tape measure; a level; a Leatherman similar to his own. A flexible plastic storage roll that contained a socket wrench and various-sized metric sockets.

Pulling out the tray, he found larger tools: hammers, a large Swiss Army knife and an assortment of pliers, only some of which he knew by name. But, man, if he ever wanted to go into home repair, he was set.

After stuffing a few rolls of duct tape and two more bottles of vodka into his pack, he was backing out with the toolchest when he felt something shift under his right knee. He would’ve ignored it if the movement hadn’t also been accompanied by a soft creee.

Frowning, he stopped, fanned his light over the metal floor.

He would’ve missed it if he hadn’t taken the toolchest and moved that cardboard box with the vodka. If he hadn’t, earlier, taken up all their gear and the tarps. Now, with the bay floor largely exposed, he saw what he had missed—or rather, what had been concealed.

Seams.

What the…? He ran the light over joins that, together, formed the outline of a very large rectangle. Odd. Something holding a spare tire wouldn’t be this big. Unless this was another way of hauling supplies? Luggage? Parviz said he catered to tourists. Now that John thought more about this, though, he realized tourists would have a very hard time in this van for one very simple reason that had escaped both him and Davila.

The van had no back seat.

If the original purpose of the bukhana was to haul personnel, there should be seats. Yet there wasn’t even a hinge in the van’s cargo bay where a seat could either be laid flat or unlocked and pulled up to form a bench. Unless this had been the seat but been modified?

Why didn’t I think of this before?

He’d been preoccupied, he supposed. Tense. Worried. So many things to mull over. He also knew from experience that burying memories in the dark graveyard at the back of one’s mind tired a person out pretty fast. Trying to forget was very hard work.

Now that he was looking more closely, he spotted what looked like a long metal carry handle, similar to that screwed into the lid of Parviz’s toolbox. But there were no hinges he could see, anywhere, along the seams of this…well, whatever it was. Maybe internal? Or perhaps double-action hinges, like the kind on a saloon door or a restaurant’s back kitchen: hinges designed to allow a door to swing both ways.

Odd. The only reason someone would have designed the lid like this would be to allow two-way access: someone outside to get in and inside to get out. But why?

Setting the flashlight in a corner, he crouched, grabbed the metal carry handle in both hands, and heaved. The panel slid up and open on silent, well-oiled hinges and so easily, he almost fell on his tail. Scooching around on his knees, he shone his light into the space.

“Wow.” His light picked out a blanket, a pillow. A flashlight. Two half-filled plastic liter bottles, bulging with frozen water. A small box of energy bars. Crumpled wrappers. A few brassy metallic winks that he realized, belatedly, were 39mm bullets and?—

“Oh, my God.” Reaching in, he swept up a large plastic bag. Inside were two sets of phones: his and Davila’s cells and sats.

For a second, he only stared. How did they get there? If Matvey had picked their pockets, how the hell ...?

“Wait a second, wait just a minute.” Tugging off a glove with his teeth, he dipped a hand into his jacket and came out with the big guy’s keyring. Crabbing to the center console, he leaned over the driver’s seat, pulled Parviz’s ignition key, then made a sandwich of that and the big guy’s key.

The keys were a march.

Seriously? Slotting in the big guy’s key, he gave the ignition a half turn—and let out small hah of surprise as the dash lit up.

Well, I’ll be damned. Now he understood the con. Matvey picked their pockets, gave the booty to the big guy. They leave first and, while we’re busy with Parviz and the counter guy, they stash the cells in this locker. The locker would be easy to access. But then how had Matvey and the big guy gotten to the mountain? A vehicle? No, wait. Probing with the flashlight, he fingered up one of the 39mms. The big guy had these in his pocket, too. Sweeping up a crumped wrapper, he sniffed, caught a whiff of chocolate and something nutty—and fresh .

Could Matvey and the big guy have been in this compartment the whole time? Possibly, given that the big guy had a dupe key. He and Matvey could have settled themselves into this compartment. Parviz had been the first one to access the van, too, and shifted things around a bit. Piled the duffels a little closer to the center console.

And he filled one gas tank but not the other. He remembered, too, how Parviz hadn’t answered his question about why he hadn’t simply switched to the second tank. Maybe because he couldn’t. He thought about the size of the hidden compartment. Bet there is no second gas tank. Parviz probably took it out to make room for this storage locker.

Still…a compartment for smuggling people? Tough to pull off. There was carbon monoxide to worry about unless the thing was also rigged to provide oxygen or really well-ventilated. He supposed that was possible. Much more likely, though: the big guy had dumped the phones into this secret compartment before hoofing it out of Khorog with Matvey. Once they’d hooked up with the younger guy, the one whose face he’d caved in, the three had made a beeline for the ambush point via a different, back route.

Yes, but did they do anything to the phones? They might have stripped batteries. Lithium was worth more than a pretty penny as Ustinov had implied. Only one way to find out. Fishing a sat phone from the plastic sack, he checked for a battery. Still there. Next, he flicked open a thin rectangle of flexible weather strip just below the power button. Beneath the weather strip was a rectangular button with SOS done in red letters.

In theory, all he had to do was press the button. Except the phone had been in sub-freezing temperatures for almost thirty-six hours. Would the electronics even hold up?

A trenchant line from a film: There is only do or do not. There is no try.

“Thank you, Yoda,” he said, and pressed the button .

For a split second, the screen remained black. Then, a gray pop of light flashed. An instant later, words appeared: SOS Initiated .

Oh, thank you, God. He felt his taut muscles loosen with relief. The signal would transmit until the battery died, which shouldn’t be for quite a while. If the unit needed recharging, he’d just plug it into the same adaptor Parviz used for his phone. The thing drew so little power, the van’s battery should handle the drain with no problem.

Help us. Backing out of the van, he held the phone aloft and raised his face to the night sky. Snow spattered his cheeks and melted to something like tears. Someone, please help ?—

A sudden, short bap ruptured the darkness.

Gunshot. Flinching, he turned so quickly he nearly slipped and had to clutch the side of the van to keep from falling. Shoving the active sat phone into a pocket, John dropped to a crouch alongside the van and reached for a weapon when he remembered.

No weapon. He’d left his Glock behind. Teeth clenched in frustration, he replayed the last few moments: where he’d been standing, what direction he’d faced, how the sound of that gunshot had echoed. If he could just nail down a source! Where the hell was that com ? —

Another flat crack .

Shot came from the far side of the van. Still crouched, he eased up for a peek over the van’s hood. There was nothing and no one here he could see: no one on the trail, no vehicle. Just snow, ice, darkness. If there was someone taking potshots, he had lousy aim. The van was a much bigger target, and he’d not heard so much as a ping of metal smacking metal.

And now, a third crack —followed by the thin, stiletto note of a scream.

Matvey.