Lying prone on his sleep sack, fully dressed with his boots on, Kozachenko listened to an owl hooting in the distance. Animals rustled the underbrush. The murmur of the men talking around the campfire lulled him toward sleep.
He startled when his phone rang. It was Stas calling from Hoholeve. Kozachenko sat up. “Da.”
“I have bad news. An envelope was found, but I could not get my hands on it.” Stas relayed what had happened. “It will now go with the bodies by ambulance to the nearest police morgue, the one in Reshetylivka.”
“When?”
“As soon as the DSS agent is finished relieving herself.”
“Can you find a way to destroy it?”
“Nyet. There are too many soldiers around.”
Kozachenko jumped to his feet, sprinted for the truck, and pulled a map out of the glove compartment. “What is the route the ambulance will take?”
“They’ll drive through Myrhorod and south from there.”
“And the DSS agent?” Kozachenko asked.
“The captain is escorting her to the morgue. Once the American embassy file the correct paperwork, the bodies and documents will be transferred to her. I’ve been ordered to follow behind them with her car.”
“Did you find out who she is?” Not that it really mattered, but Kozachenko had a feeling about her.
“According to the rental agreement in the glovebox, her name is Raisa Jordan.”
Apprehension stirred in Kozachenko’s gut. He’d been right to worry.
“That’s the name of the agent Ilya ran up against in Israel six months ago,” he said. “Not only did she thwart his plans, but they pinned the bitch with a medal for her efforts. What the fuck is she doing here?”
“Are you sure it’s the same person?”
Kozachenko found the man’s ineptitude hard to stomach. At some point, Stas needed to step up and do something more than deliver bad news. “I doubt there are two DSS agents with her same name. The woman is dangerous. Don’t underestimate her. Find out everything you can about her. If she knows what Zhen told McClasky, she’s a liability.”
“Do you want me to eliminate the problem?”
Kozachenko scoffed. “Are you telling me you can dispense with a U.S. government agent when you can’t lay your hands on a simple envelope?”
Silence.
“It’s as I thought.” An Old Russian saying popped into Kozachenko’s head: God save us from our friends; from our enemies, we shall save ourselves. “Not too worry, Stas. If the DSS agent proves herself an enemy, we will dispose of her. At the moment, we need to focus on stopping the transfer. Call me the minute the ambulance leaves.”
They discussed the details of his plan, then Kozachenko pocketed his phone and rousted the brigade. The convoy consisted of ten men, two GAZ Tigr armored fighting vehicles, and a URAL-5323 with the mounted gun. While the men stowed the last of their gear, Kozachenko loaded two RPG-7s and grenades into the lead Tigr. Once that was done, he gathered them around the hood of the truck.
“Here’s the situation.” He filled them in on the details and then pointed to the map. “Our new mission is to take out the ambulance before it reaches the main highway. According to Stas, they will be driving this route.” He traced his finger along the map. “We are going to intercept them seven kilometers short of Podil.”
Barkov frowned. “Just how are we going to do this?”
“We have the same ground to cover as the ambulance. If we leave now, we’ll have a head start. I’ll take three men with me.” Kozachenko pointed at Barkov. “You’ll take one man and drive the truck. The remaining four men will bring up the rear. The truck and the tail vehicle will break off here at Shyshaky—”
“And go where?”
“Here.” Kozachenko tapped a forested area on the map. “It’s about thirty-nine kilometers west of here. There’s a small road that crosses the Psel River. Once on the other side, I want you to pull off and disappear into the woods.”
“That almost puts us in Hoholeve.”
“What better place, Anatoliy?” Couldn’t his second-in-command see the irony? “Once we take out the ambulance, they will be looking everywhere for us. They will throw up roadblocks, expecting us to flee. But they’ll never suspect the enemy camps in their own backyard.”
“It’s too risky,” Anatoliy said, shaking his head. Kozachenko’s anger piqued. This was the second time Barkov had challenged him. Maybe it wasn’t a perfect plan, but once they struck, there would be too many people looking for them to stay where they were or to push farther west, and a retreat was out of the question. Sychats’kyi Forest seemed like the safest place to be, and Kozachenko needed the entire brigade to be on board. He would not tolerate split loyalties.
“This is not a discussion, Anatoliy. The clock is ticking.” Kozachenko waited to see what his second would do. Barkov hesitated momentarily and then assented with a slight dip of his head. “What will you do?”
“My men and I will intercept and neutralize the transport. Once we’re clear, we’ll double back and join up with the rest of you.” Kozachenko looked around. “Now who wants to fight?”
All the men were eager, but in the end he selected the three who would go: Dudyk, Yolkin, and Vitaly. Dudyk was Ukrainian, and Yolkin spoke the language. If they were stopped for some reason, it would make it easier to talk their way out of trouble. He selected Vitaly because he was their best man on a rocket launcher.
No one argued with his logic. It took ten more minutes for the brigade to get on the road. Then at the intersection of H12 and Lenin Street, Kozachenko halted the convoy. From this vantage point, the two roadways stretched in four directions, shimmering like black silk ribbons in the wan moonlight. While the faint light made it easier for them to see, it also increased the chances of someone tracking their movement. But what choice did they have?
Straight ahead of them lay the small settlement of Dykanka, best known from stories of Ukrainian folklore written by the famous Russian writer Nikolai Gogol. Kozachenko had read his book about the area in secondary school. Creeping forward, he noted that there was less farmland now and more village. Thankfully, all the windows were dark, and there were no streetlamps or outside lights. The only sounds came from the occasional bark of a dog and the rumble of the convoy engines accompanied by a faint buzz from the power lines that snaked overhead.
Kozachenko kept his guard up as they rolled into the heart of Dykanka, but it appeared most of the residents were sleeping. He could only hope they’d drunk enough vodka to stay asleep while the brigade passed. They needed to get through the village without being detected.
The roads grew worse as they neared the center square. With the collapse of the Ukrainian economy had come the collapse of the infrastructure. Roadways and buildings crumbled. The GAZ’s tires chattered against the cracked asphalt, and Kozachenko was forced to swerve around deep potholes pitting the road. Upon reaching the western outskirts, the sky darkened, and it started to drizzle.
Barkov grumbled over the radio. “This is all we need.”
“Relax, Anatoliy. The clouds are a good thing. They block the spy satellites that the Ukrainians and Americans will eventually try to use to track us.” Kozachenko reached out and flipped on the windshield wipers. “Be thankful for the small things working in our favor.”
They were twelve kilometers beyond town when Stas called from Hoholeve. “The transport is leaving now.”
“Good,” Kozachenko said. “We’ll be in position.” Then he handed the phone to Yolkin. “Remove the SIM card, make sure the tracking device is disabled, and toss the phone.”
He knew Stas was doing the same. Eventually someone was going to put two and two together, and there must be no way to make a connection between him and the convoy.
It took the convoy thirty minutes to reach the outskirts of Shyshaky. The town was double the size of Dykanka, and it also lay in darkness and quiet. On the far side of town, they parted company—Barkov and his men turning right onto Partyzanska Street and heading for the bridge that crossed the Psel River, Kozachenko and his men turning left and heading south. Thirty minutes later, Kozachenko reached the intersection of T1719, the road the military transport was traveling. Turning east, he drove approximately nine hundred meters before pulling off onto a small gravel road.
“Dudyk and Vitaly, get out here.” Kozachenko tossed Dudyk a handheld radio while Vitaly unloaded one of the rocket launchers. “There are three vehicles coming: the ambulance, a UAZ escort, and a rental car driven by our man, Stas. He has instructions to hang back, but in case he can’t, don’t shoot him. Use the radio to signal when you see the ambulance, then punch out the UAZ behind it.”
“And you?” Dudyk asked.
“Yolkin and I will take care of the ambulance. Once our mission is complete, either Stas will pick you up or Yolkin and I will double back.”
“What if something goes wrong?”
“Nothing will.”
“But if something does?” Dudyk said.
Kozachenko stared at the soldier. Was Barkov’s pessimism rubbing off on him? “Then there’s a wildlife refuge eight kilometers due west of here. Find the main entrance and stay out of sight. We’ll come for you as soon as it’s safe.”
“And if we’re spotted?”
“You speak the language, Dudyk. Use it.”