Eagle Station

Playing it safe, Jones braked smoothly and rolled to a complete stop only a few feet away from the waiting police officers. Raising his voice slightly, so that only his concealed passengers could hear him, he said, “We’re at a checkpoint. Stay cool. I’ve got this.”

He unrolled his window as the officers approached, splitting up to cover both sides of the UAZ van. The policeman coming around the passenger side kept his hand on the butt of his holstered 9mm pistol. The other had an open notebook and a pencil. He was already jotting down the vehicle’s license number and appearance.

“Hey there,” Jones called out, in flawless Russian. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Just a routine matter,” the officer with the notebook said calmingly. He held out a hand. “May I see your license?”

Routine, my ass, Jones thought cynically, fishing out his driver’s license. This cop wasn’t a very good liar.

He kept quiet while the policeman recorded his information. Talking too much was the fastest way to trip yourself up when dealing with the Russian authorities.

With a nod of thanks, the officer handed his license back. “So, where are you headed?”

Jones shrugged. “Lesosibirsk. I’ve got a bunch of deliveries to make.”

The Russian policeman frowned. “A little late, isn’t it? Most places will be closed by now.”

“Yeah,” Jones agreed, smiling ruefully. “I got fucked by heavy traffic coming into Krasnoyarsk. I’ll have to lay over tonight and drop the packages off tomorrow morning.”

“Are you staying in a hotel? Or a guesthouse?”

Jones laughed sourly. “Does this piece-of-shit van look like my boss would spring for a hotel room?” He sighed. “Nah, I’ll probably just park off the road somewhere in town and try to catch some sleep on the seat here.” He donned a worried look. “I mean, if that’s not going to be a problem for you guys?”

The policeman shook his head. “Not as long as you don’t block traffic.” He flipped to a new page of his notebook. “Now, just for our records, where exactly are you making those deliveries tomorrow?”

Thankful for the internet and Sam’s insistence that he build a halfway decent cover story, Jones handed over a clipboard with several local businesses listed — a restaurant, a couple of retail shops, and one of the big wood-processing plants that were the town’s economic mainstay. But it was still disturbing to see the police officer writing them down in his notebook. On the other hand, Russia’s bureaucrats, like those of every country, thrived on compiling useless statistics… so with luck, those names would end up moldering away in some dusty file folder in the local government archives.

With a disinterested nod, the officer gave the clipboard back.

“Is that it?” Jones asked.

“Just one more thing,” the policeman said, with obviously feigned nonchalance. He pulled a sheaf of glossy color printer pages out of the back of his notebook and handed them over. “Have you seen either of those two people recently? In Krasnoyarsk? Or on the way here?”

Jones stared down at the color photographs of both Sam Kerr and Marcus Cartwright for a moment, fighting to keep his first startled reaction from showing. Jesus, he thought, the Russians had a whole bloody fashion portfolio on the two Scion agents. No wonder Tekhwerk’s cover was blown to smithereens. But then he shook his head as he gave them back. “No, I haven’t.” He donned a small leer. “And I’d definitely have noticed a sexy-looking woman like that blonde. Is she some kind of high-class hooker?”

“No, a suspected drug smuggler,” the policeman said tersely. He stuck the photos back in his notebook. “How about a black Mercedes four-door sedan? Registration plate K 387OC 124?”

“Back in Krasnoyarsk? Maybe, but I wouldn’t swear to it,” Jones said slowly, as if thinking deeply. “But heading this way?” He shrugged. “It seems like all I’ve seen for the last hundred kilometers are logging trucks.”

The officer nodded. The timber industry was this isolated region’s lifeblood. He scribbled a mobile phone number on a torn sheet from his pad. “If you do see either of those people… or their Mercedes… call that number immediately. Got it?” He smiled. “There’s a big fat reward involved.”

With a grateful smile, Jones tucked the phone number in his shirt pocket. “Will do.”

“All right, then,” the officer said, stepping back and waving him on. “You can go. Drive safe now.”

Nodding cheerfully, Jones put his van in gear and drove on through the checkpoint. But his smile vanished as soon as he drove around a bend. Discovering that the Russians were already searching for Sam and Marcus this far north of Krasnoyarsk — nearly two hundred miles — was seriously alarming. Any search spread that widely had to involve hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of police and internal security troops. Which meant the men in Moscow wanted them very badly indeed.