"Must be ways of stealing food around a ville like this," J.B. said.
"Patrols everywhere. Gangs of murderous kids. Hard, J.B., very hard."
"You got food and drink?" Jak asked. "Need for gettin' out."
"Try this evening. There's a market spread out around the top of a big flight of steps. Must date way back before sky-dark. Hundreds of stairs. Market closes at dusk. Reckon I could get in there and try and buy us something when they're all ready to close up. Any sec men around could be relaxing then."
"Buy?" J.B. asked.
"Yeah. Got us some local jack. Whole area's on triple-alert. Could be easier to buy than steal. We'll know in a fistful of hours."
"And on the road in a few hours more," J.B. added.
As Ryan had good knowledge of the maze of side streets and alleys around the building, it was agreed that he should go out alone to buy the provisions they'd need.
The day wore on with a slug-footed weariness. At Ryan's suggestion they posted a watch in case the two dead thieves had friends. While not keeping guard, the others slept most of the day. J.B. spoke to Ryan about the risks of staying in the dacha and the problems they'd been having in stealing food. He also mentioned the sec patrols that they'd seen as they made their way through the outskirts of the ville.
"Someone's pushing in some plugs around the place," J.B. concluded.
"Remember that Russkie in the snow?"
J.B. nodded. "Sure. Pocked face, mustache, a stocky guy, well-muscled. Carried a Makarov PM blaster. His name was?.."
"Zimyanin."
"Yeah. Captain in their sec regs. Looked a good man to have on your side from what I recall."
"I got a feeling he's not on our side this time around."
"You've seen him?" the Armorer asked, surprised. "Here? In the ville?"
It was Ryan's turn to nod. "Yeah. Long way from home, isn't he?"
"Thousands of miles. You sure it was him you saw? I mean he..."
"Sure enough. And if it was him, it could be he remembers us. They must have dozens of eye-calls on us. Me and Krysty... You see us and you remember us. Know what I mean?"
Zimyanin opened the window of his office, leaned out into the late-afternoon sunshine and drew several deep breaths. Having Tracker Aliev in the same room was a test for anyone's stomach. Though the officer had known the diminutive Mongolian for several years, he had never managed to get used to the stench of rotting flesh that seemed to cling to him.
At least he could now look him in what remained of his face without wincing and turning away. Aliev was very sensitive about his looks and was easily offended by any insult.
There was obviously a strong mutie strain somewhere in the background of his breeding stock. That accounted for the fact that he'd been born with no lower jaw and no nose. He habitually had a scarf wrapped around what was left of his mouth, though the material was always ragged and sodden with stinking threads of green mucus. Aliev couldn't speak, but Zimyanin had learned how to communicate with him, managing to interpret his snuffles and grunts.
"So! There was nothing left for you to track? The fools had run around and trampled any sign of the Americans?"
Aliev nodded vigorously, his slant eyes fixed on Zimyanin's face.
"Don't worry, my old friend," he said, steeling himself to move close enough to pat the man on the shoulder. "They must eat. Our young wolf packs are all on double-red watch."
The tracker clapped his gloved hands together and made a hideous gurgling sound deep in his throat, which Zimyanin knew indicated enthusiasm.
"We'll be there fast, Tracker Aliev, you and me. And then we'll see. Yes, they have to eat. Someplace, sometime."
The day was nearly done.
Despite the intensive blanket nuking of the center of Moscow, a few cherished remains of the old Kremlin still stood. The smaller dome of the Archangel Cathedral glittered in the distance, its silver roof tinted crimson by the sinking sun.
Ryan had slipped out the door of the abandoned workshop, pulling the fur hood up over his tangled mane of curling black hair, trying to keep his face concealed. As he'd hoped, everyone was preoccupied with getting home before darkness closed in. They bustled along the muddied sidewalks — women dragging bawling children, old men and women, clinging arm in arm, weighted down with loaded shopping baskets of provisions.
Ryan checked his pocket, making sure he still had the handful of silver and copper coins. It had crossed his mind to leave the SIG-Sauer with J.B. and risk being able to bluff his way through a stop-search. If they found a blaster like that, then his meager cover was instantly blown. But, on balance, he figured that his chances of passing a checkpoint were minimal. Without a handgun, they were a big zero.
The streets buzzed with sec patrols, but they were obviously bored and tired, waiting for the end of their shift. The day was over and the stalls of the raggle-taggle market were closing down. Ryan had timed it right.
To his left he saw the long descending flight of wide steps that he'd noticed on a previous recce. A few feet away, near the top of the steps was an elderly woman pushing a rickety baby carriage, with a red-faced baby nearly buried under a heap of dried, crusted turnips. The woman was deep in conversation with another old woman wearing round-rimmed glasses. A group of sec men were lounging on the steps, near the bottom, their blasters resting against their knees. It was precisely the scene that Ryan had hoped to find.
He went straight to the nearest stall, which sold smoked and preserved meats of all kinds, piled in a variety of plastic tubs that looked as if they'd been around since sky-dark. The man in charge was a cripple who hopped around on a pair of crutches, already beginning to scoop up the contents of the tubs and pour them into larger bins. He looked up as Ryan approached him, not even bothering with a smile or a word of greeting.
Ryan pointed at his own mouth and then to his ears, hoping this simple mime would indicate he was a deaf-mute. He pointed to what he thought looked like strips of jerky, cupping his hands together to try to show the sort of quantity he wanted.
The Russian looked at him suspiciously, and Ryan felt his own fingers itching for the butt of his P-226. To his dismay, his ruse had worked too well. Believing him hard of hearing, the stall-holder raised his voice in a bull-like bellow. Ryan shrugged his shoulders, aware that he was already becoming the subject of some interest. The Russkie tried again, this time rubbing thumb and forefinger together. It was a gesture that Ryan recognized, and he hastily held out his hand with the money. This time he received a grudging nod from the man.
One thing Ryan hadn't thought about was bringing something to carry the food. He took the handful of dried meat and shoved it into one of the coat pockets. Ignoring the stall-holder's attempt to convey how much he owed, he simply held out the money and allowed the man to pick what he wanted, knowing from the foxy grin that he was being robbed blind. As long as a few coins were left, he didn't mind. There wasn't much that he could do about it.
He turned on his heel and moved away, walking toward the top of the steps, eager to finish his shopping and get away from the watching eyes. Behind him he heard a shout from the man in the meat stall, and a ripple of laughter from the people around him. He guessed that the joke was aimed at him.
Ryan quickened his pace. When a hand tugged at his sleeve he glanced down, expecting to see a beggar. Instead, he was confronted by a skinny girl of about thirteen, backed by a dozen more children of similar age. All wore red berets with a single silver circle.
Ryan's stomach tightened with an unfamiliar feeling. Of fear.