Ten yards away, Kanatova stopped suddenly, patted the top of her bare head and turned, smiling.
“I am a fool,” said. “My ushanka, I have forgotten it in the car.”
Eager to see her on her way, Rostov turned and bent into the back door to retrieve the blue fox hat. He’d just leaned across the seat when he felt the cold steel of Kanatova’s pistol at the base of his skull.
Rostov pitched forward at the shot, knees slamming against the pavement, arms trailing at his sides. The young conscript behind the wheel came around and helped Kanatova lift the body, shoving the lifeless lump into the back seat, head down on the floorboard.
“Your ushanka,” the soldier said, nodding toward the blue fox hat, still on the seat. Wisely, he did not offer to bend forward and retrieve it.
“I have others,” Kanatova said waving her hand at the ZiL. “I will leave the disposal of the body to you then.”
The young soldier gave a curt salute and hurried around to the driver’s seat. A moment later, the black sedan crunched away over the broken pavement, its grim interior heavier now with the stain of another dark story.
Chapter 57
It took two hours, a cup of spare gasoline, and three tries to get the oil cleaned off the broken hose well enough so that Gorilla tape could hold both ends over the makeshift .338 Lapua cartridge splice. Thankfully, Zolner’s bullet had destroyed nothing but a piece of plastic fender and the rubber oil line.
The clouds gave way to a bluebird-clear sky, but with the cloud cover went the insulation that held any semblance of warmth close to the earth. The snow began to crust under foot. Water and mud froze into solid ice. Though the sun offered little in the way of warmth, it seemed to be everywhere at once. The glare bouncing off the crystalline landscape was like a dazzling field of diamonds.
The after-effects of the adrenaline dump from the sniper versus sniper battle with Zolner began to take its toll both on Quinn and on Beaudine by the time they got the ATV started an hour later. Wet clothes and plummeting temperatures made it impossible to get warm, but Lovita’s akutaq helped stave off hypothermia. Even Beaudine bowed to the reality that the sweet fatty confection was necessary to stay alive.
Quinn drove, grateful for the relative warmth of Beaudine’s body clamped around his back as they bounced over the frozen tundra. As uncomfortable as it was, the freezing ground made for much easier going and cut the chances of getting bogged down. He intersected the trail to Ambler less than ten minutes from the time they fixed their oil line. It was easy to follow since both Volodin and Zolner’s machines had passed over the mushy ground before it began to freeze. They left behind great tracks of now crystalizing mud, like a dotted line through the snow.
“You think he’s still out there?” Beaudine said, arms tight around his waist.
“Zolner?” Quinn said. “I’m sure of it.”
He took the Arctic Cat northeast on a meandering route over hummocks of willow and berry bush, bitten red by frost and bent with snow. The Kobuk River was somewhere to their south, blocked from view by thick pockets of spruce- and scrub-covered hills.
“He ran off and left his gun though,” she said. “That’s a good sign.”
“Maybe,” Quinn said, eyeing the wide-open tundra around them. Zolner had a duffle on the back of his ATV, and he didn’t seem like the kind of man to carry a single weapon. He was still a threat that would eventually need to be dealt with.
They crossed a myriad of braided streams that tumbled down from the Kobuk Mountains to the north. Most were shallow with water gurgling under silver edges of ice that crept out from the banks. Two of the streams proved deep enough to splash over their ankles, soaking their socks and driving the aching cold deeper into their bones. With no time to stop and build a fire — and nothing to burn anyway — they pushed on, hoping Ambler, and the case of poison gas, lay within their reach.
After an hour of bone-jarring riding, the trail turned abruptly east. The willow bushes became thicker and spruce trees began to appear with more regularity. Open tundra finally gave up to thick forest as they arced gradually southward toward the river. The ruts grew deeper and side trails from other ATVs began to crisscross the main route, disappearing into the trees. The dense forest made for chilly shadows but provided welcome relief from the glare of sun on snow. Quinn rode past four deserted cabins. His body craved the warmth of shelter, dry clothes, and a fire, but he kept his thumb on the throttle. Volodin was close — and if he was close, so was the gas. The thought of Zolner waiting somewhere in the shadows was a constant worry and kept Quinn’s mind off the cold.
It was late afternoon when they rode past a pair of ravens pecking at an old diaper in the Ambler landfill.
“This is where it gets dicey,” Quinn said, his head on a swivel.
“Is that what I think it is?” Beaudine said, through chattering teeth, her cheek pressed against his neck for warmth.
“The town dump,” Quinn said. “Keep your eyes open. Zolner has to know we’re following him.”
“Gotcha,” Beaudine said. She pointed through the trees toward a low hill to the east. “Looks like the top of a cell tower.”
A rush of hope surged through Quinn’s body, like a glimpse of the finish at the end of a grueling race. Reality tamped back the elation. Survival was now slightly more probable, but they were a long way from the tape.
“Palmer,” the President’s national security advisor said when he picked up.
“It’s me, sir,” Quinn said, giving the specific and pertinent details first. In written briefs and oral situation reports, Winfield Palmer was not a man for small talk. He preferred a BLUF — Bottom Line Up Front type of report. The niceties could come later if there was time. There never was. Quinn spoke as he rode, coming into town from the northwest. He stayed right at the angled T intersection to head into the village of Ambler. A left would have taken him to the gravel airstrip.
Spattered with mud from head to foot and shivering to the point of convulsions, they drew stares and giggles from a gang of runny-nosed school children riding their bikes over a homemade jump in the snow. Quinn smiled and waved as he began to brief Palmer.
“We need fast air transport out of Ambler ASAP. Volodin and his daughter are ahead of us but we’re not sure—”
“But you’re okay?” Palmer interrupted him, giving an audible sigh of relief. The display of uncharacteristic emotion made Quinn grin despite the cold.
“We are both in working order, sir,” Quinn said, leaving out information about Lovita’s death until his final report.
“What the hell happened out there?” Palmer said. “You’ve been out of commo for a day and a half. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re in the middle of a shit-nado. I am in dire need of decent intel if you have any to spare.”
And, he’s back, Quinn thought, recognizing the brash Winfield Palmer he knew and loved.
Quinn brought the national security advisor up to speed as fast as he could, using a considerable amount of energy to keep his cold-soaked brain in focus. For all he knew, it was all babble and Palmer was preparing to have him committed for mental observation.
He kept an eye out for any sign of Zolner or Volodin as he rode. He’d not gotten a good look at either, but suspected they would stand out as much as he and Beaudine did in a village of just over two hundred Inupiaq natives.
“I’ll call you back as soon as I know more, sir,” Quinn said. “I need to hunt up the local tribal or village police officer first.”