Waiting for the cursed telephone to ring.
He wasn’t drunk, couldn’t allow himself that luxury as long as loose ends in Yakutsk were threatening to weave a noose around his neck. Marshak’s superiors were watching him—perhaps a few of them were losing sleep, as well—and if he didn’t solve the problem soon, that task would pass to other, more capable hands.
Which meant the end of him, for all practical purposes. He likely wouldn’t be imprisoned, as was common in the bad old days, but being stripped of rank and influence was tantamount to social death. He would be unemployable, beyond some menial position. He would lose the Moscow flat, his summer dacha on the coast.
Mariska would most certainly abandon him, which might turn out to be the only bright spot in the whole disaster. She could leave with nothing, since there would be nothing left to steal, and Marshak could descend into an alcoholic haze without her shrill, incessant carping to disturb him.
Or he could assert himself, demand more of his soldiers in the field and solve the problem now, before it spun further beyond control.
The phone rang once, and Marshak scooped it up. “Yes!”
“I’m afraid there’s been another problem, sir,” Stephan Levshin told him.
“Why am I not surprised?” Marshak replied with acid in his voice. “Explain yourself.”
“I sent five men to watch the airport,” Levshin said. “The targets came, but managed to evade them.”
“Five against how many?” Marshak asked.
“Two, sir. The woman and a man.”
“Were shots fired?”
“I’ve contained it, sir,” Levshin said.
“Contained it how?”
“A silencer was used. The only damage was to the escaping vehicle.”
“So, then, at least this was a quiet failure, eh? Unlike the last one,” Marshak said.
Levshin had no response to that. The empty phone line hummed and crackled until Marshak spoke again.
“Do you at least have some idea of where they’re going? What they hope to do?”
“They must get out of Yakutsk to survive, sir,” Levshin said. “They cannot fly, which only leaves the road.”
“Which road?” Marshak demanded.
“Sir, there’s only one from here.”
Marshak considered that and understood. “To Magadan, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A cold and lonely road, as I recall,” Marshak said.
“No escape, sir. That’s a promise.”
“Which you should be careful not to break,” Marshak advised.
There was more silence on the far end of the line. This time, it brought a smile to Marshak’s face. It felt good to intimidate subordinates, remind them of their proper place.
To stress his point, he declared, “I will be following your progress, Stephan. If it seems to me that you require further assistance, it will be provided.”
Levshin sounded nervous as he answered, “Sir, I’m confident that I can solve this problem with the staff on hand.”
“A staff reduced by careless losses, as it is,” Marshak replied. “If I decide to send you help, you’ll be advised.”
“Yes, sir.” A nice hint of dejection was audible in his voice.
“And, Stephan?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You realize that both of us are under scrutiny. If you fail, I am judged a failure.”
“Sir—”
“And I will not go down alone.”
Marshak replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle, poured himself another shot of bacon and began rehearsing his report to his superiors.
* * *
THEIR VESSEL WAS the Zarya, which Bolan knew meant “sunrise.” It was forty-odd-feet long and might have been a trawler once, before it was converted to river commerce. Several years had passed since it was painted, and the metal fittings didn’t gleam, but it felt solid underfoot and there was power in the engine room, once Glushko got it rumbling.
They’d been doubly cautious on the waterfront, leaving the car a long block from the Zarya’s berth and walking in with weapons close at hand. If they were spotted, no one tried to make a move. Bolan allowed himself to hope the hostile forces might be spread too thin to cover every point of exit from Yakutsk, but he and Anuchin were agreed to be prepared for trouble on the other side, when they arrived.
As for the possibility of being hit before they got across…well, they would have to wait and see.
When they had cleared the dock, he found some privacy and dialed Brognola’s number on his satellite phone. It was fourteen hours earlier in Washington—say, 6:40 p.m.—so he tried the home number and heard it ring twice before the big Fed picked up.
“Are we scrambled?” Bolan asked.
“Wait one.” A click on the line told him his old friend had engaged the scrambler, turning their words to gibberish for any eavesdroppers between D.C. and the Sakha Republic. “Okay. Are you clear?”
“Change of plans,” Bolan said. “We got blocked at the airport.”
“So, now what?” Brognola asked.
“Now we improvise,” Bolan replied. “We’ll be traveling overland.”
The big Fed processed that, maybe called up a map in his mind. “That’s a long way to run,” he observed, “if they’re dogging you.”
“Without wings,” Bolan told him, “it’s all that we’ve got.”
“Roger that. And you’re coming out…where?”
“Magadan,” Bolan said.
“Okay. Hang on a second.” He came back seconds later: “They have an airport, Sokol. You can catch Alaska Airlines there.”
“Unless it’s covered,” Bolan said.
“You’re right. They wouldn’t be that careless,” Brognola agreed. “It’s also on the Sea of Okhotsk, so you’ve got a clear shot out to the Pacific, once you’re past the Kuril Islands.”
“Quite a swim,” Bolan said. “What is that, about five thousand miles to San Francisco?”
“Smart-ass. I was thinking
