Kozachenko eased his finger off the trigger of his Tokarev TT-33 and lowered his weapon. “We weren’t expecting you.”
Stas lowered his hands, wiping the sweat off his palms. “I can see that. You nearly blew my fucking head off.”
“Next time instead of walking in unannounced, you really should call ahead.”
“I thought the pakhan had done that.”
Kozachenko grunted. “He told me you would contact us. He didn’t say you’d be foolish enough to come here. How do you know you weren’t followed?” Kozachenko stepped to the side and looked past the soldier, peering into the dark. The risk of a face-to-face seemed unwarranted.
“No one is there,” Stas said, pushing past Kozachenko. “I came because we must move the gun tonight.”
“To where? Why haven’t I been told of the plan?”
“It has only just been arranged. We’re taking it to Nyzhni Yares’ky.” Pulling a map from his pocket, Stas walked over, spread it open on the hood of the GAZ, and pointed to a small town south of their location. He detailed the plan, then refolded the map. “We need to get this right, Vasyl. Timing will be everything, and there won’t be a second opportunity.”
* * *
Several hours later, with Yolkin riding shotgun where he could keep an eye on him, Kozachenko pulled the truck from the cover of the trees onto the unnamed road. It was 1:50 AM, three minutes after the moonset, and dark clouds muddled the sky. Stas had gone ahead to make sure the road was clear to the turnoff. Barkov and three men had gone ahead to ready the gate. Dudyk was behind with the others.
Once he’d turned the truck onto Partyzanska Street, they were committed. The only thing Kozachenko could do now was to keep the engine noise steady as he lumbered the truck through the sleeping town.
Turning onto Lenin Street, a lone car approached from the south, and Kozachenko’s heart accelerated. He watched as the car passed and disappeared from the sideview mirror. The driver never even tapped his brakes. Still, with all the televised accounts of the ambush, he radioed Dudyk to keep an eye out for the vehicle.
“I see it. Do you want me to follow?”
“He’s still moving?” Kozachenko asked.
“Yes.”
“Does he seem curious?”
“Nyet. If you ask me, by the way he’s driving, I’d say he’s drunk.”
“Then keep moving. The sooner we get off the road the better.”
To Kozachenko’s relief, at the outskirts of town, the landscape opened up, alleviating the claustrophobia created by the towering trees on either side of the road. Here there was farmland to the east and forest and river to the west, and the few houses lay dark and far back from the road. They were only nine minutes out from their destination. What could possibly go wrong?
At Yares’ky they faced one last section of road bordered by houses. Kozachenko downshifted and was halfway through a turn when Stas broke radio silence.
“We have a problem. There are cop cars coming up the road from the highway.”
Then Dudyk jumped in. “That’s not all. There are cops on the Shyshaky bypass road. I can see their lights in my rearview mirror.”
They were close enough to their endpoint that Kozachenko could smell the winter wheat. Two more kilometers and they would be at the turnoff. He hit the accelerator. “The driver of the car we passed must have called it in. Dudyk, go straight. Draw them away, and then lose them.”
He downshifted when he saw the road and cranked the wheel hard to the right. The truck was moving fast and tipped up on two wheels. Kozachenko held the turn until the truck righted. Tires slamming back to the ground, he braked.
“I can see you, Vasyl,” Barkov said. “Turn right in two hundred meters. If you pass the road, you’ll be trapped with no way to turn around before being seen.”
Kozachenko braked harder but still was forced to reverse.
“Good,” said Barkov once the truck was off the road. “In another hundred meters, turn left. You should be able to see us.”
Kozachenko followed the directions and spotted the GAZ parked near the back entrance gate to the Yares’ky silo and processing plant. It was here that the farmers of the Poltava region brought their harvest and where they processed the grain and packed it into railroad cars for transport.
Barkov doused his lights. Kozachenko followed suit.
“Stas said to drive past the silo to the end of the track,” Barkov said. “There should be seven railroad cars. The middle one will have a ramp for loading the truck.”
Kozachenko could hear the sirens drawing closer. “We aren’t going to make it.”
In the distance, he could see the turnoff from the main road. He watched Dudyk go straight, two police cars in hot pursuit. A third police car turned left.
“They’ve separated. One came this way.”
“And two just passed me headed north,” Stas said through the radio. “You have maybe three minutes to get out of sight.”
“Quickly, follow me.” Barkov gunned the motor and sped down the dirt road. Kozachenko followed him through the gate, careening along in the dark, pitching back and forth on the rutted gravel. On the right, he could see the large warehouse and on the left, a small mechanic’s shed.
Barkov pulled up short, and Kozachenko nearly ran into him. “What the fuck?”
“We’re out of time,” Barkov said. “We need to put the truck in here.” The doors of the shed were padlocked shut, and one of the men pulled out his gun.
“Are you crazy?” Kozachenko said, knocking the barrel toward the ground. “Someone will hear the shot.”
The police car had reached the first turn off the road.
“You want to just wait for them to catch up to us?” Barkov asked. “We’ll be forced to kill them all, and then what? We’d have the entire force upon us.”
“First, we need to be smart.” Kozachenko pointed to the mechanic’s shed. “We’ll park the vehicles next to the building where it’s blocked by the trees. Everyone, get out and help. Quickly,” he ordered. “Barkov, run back on foot, lock the gate, and then get out of sight.”
Without turning on the lights, they maneuvered the trucks into position with only seconds to spare. From the shelter of the trees, Kozachenko heard the shouts of the policemen as the cars pulled up near the gate. Suddenly a bright spotlight flared, sweeping the side of the silo.
“They didn’t come past us,” one officer said, climbing out of his cruiser and walking over to rattle the gate. Another officer joined him. Together they circled their flashlights along the trees, the side of the large warehouse, down toward the train cars. The beams crisscrossed as they neared the small mechanic’s shed, and Kozachenko sucked in a breath, fearful even a whisper of sound might give them away.
“I say we check the warehouse,” said one of the officers.
“There wasn’t enough time for them to hide in there. I say we check the forests along the river.”
“We can do both. We’ll check the forests and rivers first and come back once someone comes out and opens these gates.”
Making a final sweep with their spotlights, the officers got back in their cars, turned around, and drove away. Once they were out of range, Kozachenko keyed his radio. “Barkov, get back here now. Dudyk, come in?”
No response.
“Dudyk?”
This time there was a crackle on the radio, but his words were garbled. Either he was out of range or there was a problem. Regardless, they needed to load the vehicles here onto the train and out of sight.
A few minutes later, Stas showed up along with two other men.
“This is how things will go from here, Vasyl.” Stas spelled it out for Kozachenko, who decided the plan was simple, if crazy. Tomorrow morning, a train would pass through and pick up the seven cars on the track before proceeding on to Hoholeve. There the task of loading the crash debris into the cars would commence. Once the train cars were loaded, the rubble would be freighted to Krakow.
“And we’re supposed to just get on the train?” asked Kozachenko.
“Nyet, the trucks will be hidden in here.” He pointed to a car that looked longer than the others. “This one is designed for the vehicles to be parked snug to the walls on either end. Once they’re correctly positioned, my men and I will fit false walls into place, sealing you in. To anyone loading the cars, it will appear to be the same amount of space.”
“Someone is bound to notice the difference in length and question why the car holds less than it should.”
“Yes, but I’m the one in charge of loading them. I’ll make sure no questions are asked.”
Watching the men as they maneuvered the truck and SUV into position, Kozachenko felt a wave of fear. He hated tight spaces. Even as a child, he’d hated playing hide-and-seek and tucking himself away in dark, cramped places. “How long will we be inside?”
“Three days, provided the train runs on schedule.”
“That doesn’t leave us much time at the other end. You’re sure this is the fastest route?”
“It’s the best that could be arranged on short notice.”
Kozachenko had the feeling Stas enjoyed being in charge, but his plan was far from foolproof. If they managed to avoid detection in Hoholeve, there was still the Polish border crossing and the need to keep the bodies fresh.
“How cold will these cars get?”
“They will be set between two and four degrees, just cold enough to keep the bodies from decomposing anymore, not cold enough to cause them to freeze.”
That meant, even bundled up inside their sleep sacks, it would barely be tolerable. Kozachenko also hated the cold. If ever there was a time to become a believer in God, it would be now.
“You’re sure there is no other way.”
“Don’t worry, Vasyl. Take heart. I’ve made arrangements for extra blankets and vodka. Lots of vodka.”