VERONVKA, CHECHNYA
Daruyev hadn’t escaped. Ferguson and Conners found him huddled over his chains, snoring loudly.
“Shame to wake him,” said Conners.
“Too heavy to carry,” said Ferg. He took out his pocketknife and hacked off the rope. “Let’s go,” Ferg told Daruyev. “Time for door number two.”
Daruyev blinked his eyes open. “Nothing?” he asked.
“Not today. Where we going next?”
“A place called Verko. The Russians abandoned it years ago. It’s safe.”
“Safe for who?” asked Ferguson.
The Chechen smiled, but said nothing, instead tracing out the general direction on the map Ferguson showed him. The base wasn’t marked there.
“What was the village like?” Daruyev asked, as they started down the mountain. “Did you talk to people?”
“Russians blew up whatever was there a while ago,” Ferguson told him.
“The village?”
“Yup.”
“My mother and sister were there two years ago. I got a letter.”
They drove down the mountain. The APC was gone. At this time of night, the real danger was from Chechen guerrillas. But they saw no one as they made their way northeastward. Daruyev slept; Conners, too, dozed off. Ferguson stopped before dawn and pumped diesel into the tank.
They’d have to take one of the main roads northward to get to Verko. It would be risky even without a prisoner, and as he stowed the empty jerry can, Ferguson considered whether just to evac him out now. But Ferg decided that for the moment he’d proceed as planned, using the Chechen’s help to scout the other two possible sites before taking him home. Assuming they drove during the day, they ought to be able to get to them both by nightfall anyway.
Conners cranked open an eye when he climbed into the truck.
“Long leak,” he said.
“I was peeing in the gas tank,” Ferguson told him.
“You want me to drive?”
“Nah, sleep a bit. I’m thinking we’ll drive into the day.”
“That safe?”
“Of course not.” He started the truck and put it in gear, winding down the dirt road. Conners rubbed his eyes and stretched as much as he could with Daruyev leaning against him.
“Where are we?”
“Near Noza-Jerk,” Ferg said, smiling at the name.
“Noza-Jerk. What a town,” said Conners.
“Then there’s Gora Krybl,” said Ferg.
“I been to Grznyj, Ordzon, Chrebet—I been everywhere, Jack. I been everywhere,” sang Conners.
“Sounds like a song,” said Ferg.
“It is.” He sang a few verses with the names of American cities in Texas. “Old hobo song.”
“Not Irish?”
“Came out of New Zealand or Australia or someplace,”
Conners said. “Changed around a lot. Geoff Mack wrote it, or at least a version of it, that a lot of people did.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Your loss,” said Conners.
“Why do you like those old songs?”
“Why do you?” said Conners. “Remind you of being a kid?”
“The childhood I never had.”
“Don’t get philosophical on me, Ferg.”
“I’m not philosophical.”
Bullshit, thought Conners, but he didn’t say anything.
“You think I’m philosophical?” asked Ferg.
“That and reckless,” said Conners.
“Reckless?”
“I’d call it a death wish.”
“That why I hang around with you, huh?” The CIA officer rolled down his window halfway. The blast of cold air stung his eyes, reminding him he was awake.
“You’re not an SF type,” said Conners. “Not a soldier.”
“Not enough discipline, huh?” said Ferg.
“Got that right. You don’t like following orders. And you take too many risks.”
“Got to.”
“You were lucky, Ferg, damn lucky.”
“Which time?”
Conners laughed.
“You’re telling me no SF soldier is reckless?” said Ferguson.
“Not the ones who are alive.”
“Bah.”
Conners didn’t bother arguing.
“Rankin’s not reckless?” suggested Ferg.
“Rankin? No.”
“Bull.”
“Taking risks and being reckless aren’t the same thing, Ferg.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Rankin’s a professional.”
“You Army guys like to stick together.”
“You don’t like him, that’s all. Not that I blame you—he hates your guts.”
“That doesn’t make him not reckless,” said Ferg. “Let’s try that turnoff over there,” added Ferguson, spotting the road.