The water was bitterly cold and he rolled into it, immediately becoming soaked to the skin once more. There was a great splash as the Armorer also slid into the freezing water. He heard the delighted roar of laughter from the other workers, and most of the sec men.
Half turned from the group on the road and avoiding the glaring arc lights, Ryan struggled to pull himself out, succeeding only in toppling facedown into the clinging, stinking ooze.
The waves of laughter were overwhelming, almost deafening.
Gregori Zimyanin didn't laugh as he watched the two clumsy men staggering about, both eventually falling face first into the mud, though he permitted himself a momentary thin smile.
As they emerged, the roars of amusement from the other workers and the sec guards were redoubled. They were like the clowns who occasionally appeared with their crude street theater around the streets of the ville — until Internal Security had them removed for labor training and education.
The taller of the two had thick curly hair, but it was matted to his skull with the mud, his face totally vanished behind a slimy mask. Only the whiteness of his teeth as he grinned sheepishly at his own discomfiture broke the dark image. And his companion, the shorter man with cropped hair, was no better.
"Comrade Corporal," Zimyanin said quietly, finding to his mounting irritation that he needed to repeat himself, this time with a snap of anger in his voice. "Comrade Corporal!"
The man saluted, merriment vanishing from his face like butter off a hot knife. "Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar?"
"The joke is over, Corporal. Get them back to work immediately. This road must be opened again so that we can pursue the American terrorists and saboteurs. Immediately!"
"Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar. Immediately, Comrade Major-Commissar. Whatever you say, Comrade Major-Commissar."
The note of panic was clearly audible to Ryan and J.B., who stood only a few yards away from the sec men and Zimyanin.
"Sounds like a brown pants job there," whispered the mud-caked J.B.
"Sure does. Guess we best start doing us some digging."
"Yeah."
The main object of the exercise was to avoid any attention. Don't dig too slowly and don't dig too fast. Don't do anything else to attract Zimyanin's eyes.
Ryan worked away, putting his back into the labor, shoveling up loads of the thick, wet earth. He threw it up the bank where other men moved it higher, filling the gap in the road — a gap that had already been narrowed nearly enough for the leading wag to squeeze on by. He noticed that the first vehicle was a passenger wag that looked like the front half of an old Mercedes with creative welding adding some unrecognizable parts onto the rear.
He paused for a moment to wipe sweat off his face, careful not to disturb too much the coating of mud that hid his empty eye socket.
The back nearside door of the wag opened and a bizarre figure came scuttling out, shambling along the trail to stand near the pacing Zimyanin.
The mutie was very short and had a filthy length of cloth wound around his lower face. Ryan was sure he recognized the man from Alaska.
He glanced at J.B. and saw that the Armorer had also noticed the small man, nodding at Ryan's unspoken query.
Zimyanin had eyes as sharp as a hunting falcon's. He spotted the exchange of glances between the two mud-caked men and wondered what it was that they'd seen. It also crossed his mind that they seemed unusually well muscled and healthy specimens of the local peasants. And they dug in a measured, professional way. It was odd to see them so nimble on their feet when they'd been falling over each other a few minutes ago. It was almost as if they'd...
Aliev came slinking in from the drizzling rain and plucked at his sleeve, making him lose his train of thought.
"What? Soon. I knowthe rain will make it difficult to follow them." He edged a few steps away from the tracker. It was appalling enough having to share the warm, damp wag with him.
Dawn wasn't too far off and already the weather had hamstrung his plans. They would have been right on the trail of the Americans, but the stolen wag had broken through the barricade and was gone. One thing still plucked at his mind. The statements of the patrol had all insisted that the wag had kept moving, not stopping while still in sight. Which meant that the gunman, or men, might have remained behind, planning to follow on foot and join the wag later.
"Another few minutes at the most, Comrade Major-Commissar," the young noncom said, thinking what a relief it would be to see the taillights of the sec wag vanishing over the horizon.
"Done, Comrade Major-Commissar. It's wide enough for your wag if you drive ahead with care. Good luck in the chase." He snapped a smart salute to Zimyanin.
"Thank you, Comrade Corporal. The Party thanks you and your men for their efforts. Give those diggers a five-ruble food voucher each."
"Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar." Another crisp salute. "And good riddance, you pox-faced murderous-eyed bastard," he muttered.
Aliev hopped into the back of the wag and Zimyanin climbed into the driver's seat, shouting orders to the redheaded officer in charge of the other military wags in the convoy. The exhaust spouted plumes of blue-grey smoke as the engine revved up.
"Going," J.B. whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Ryan watched the vehicle, hearing the gears crashing. It jumped and jerked its way along the repaired embankment for nearly a hundred yards before it stopped in a squeal of brakes.
"Sit still, may your eyes rot! Don't keep touching me like!.. What?"
Zimyanin stamped so hard on the brakes that the old autowag slewed viciously sideways and nearly slipped into the muddy river.
The tracker was out of the vehicle before it had skidded to a halt. He paused at the top of the embankment, level with Ryan and J.B., and pointed down at them with a clawed finger.
Zimyanin joined the tracker and drew his Makarov pistol, holding it negligently in his right hand. He called down to the Americans in his best English. "I should have been able to guess the truth. Too nimble to be so clumsy. That is the word? 'Clumsy'? Yes. Come and join me, gentlemen, or I shall perforce pepper you with lead."
Ryan threw down the shovel. "No need. You got us cold. Pleasure to meet you again, Zimyanin. Real pleasure."
Chapter Thirty-Two
As they picked their way up the slippery slope of the embankment, Ryan whispered a single word to his friend, which was barely audible.
"Soonest."
That was all.
But it was enough for J.B. to understand Ryan's appraisal of the situation. They were about to be locked tight in the sec cage, and once inside, it would be close to impossible to get out.
It was soonest or it was never.
Zimyanin clenched his fists in delight, so hard that the crescent nails drew tiny semicircles of blood from his palms. The squall of driving rain didn't bother him, and everything around him seemed to have receded into a gray blur. Aliev, the sec men, his wag with its engine still running, the watching workers... everything had faded away at his moment of supreme triumph.
American spies. Comrade General Josef Siraksi would come fawning around, begging for the chance to press his tongue against Zimyanin's ass. The Party would rise as one and applaud his brilliance. No decoration would be refused him, no medal with oak leaves or platinum circle would be withheld from Hero Gregori Zimyanin.
Supreme Marshal Zimyanin.
The small matter of his wife's unexplained disappearance would not be discussed. It would be something to be swept smilingly beneath the bureaucratic carpet.
First Secretary Zimyanin.
The two Americans were nearly on the road. The teeming rain washed the mud from their faces, revealing the dark pit of shadow where the taller man had lost an eye.