A Darker Place (21 page)

“Door open, Sergeant.” A red light blinked on and off. Bounine called, “Clip on and stand.” They all did as they were told. The Dakota was at five hundred and there was much more light now in the flat expanse of the Kuba Plateau. Bashir made his pass at three hundred fifty feet, the red light turning to green, and Bounine tapped Kirov, the first in line, on the shoulder and yelled “Go,” which the boy did, followed by the others, tumbling out one after the other, Kurbsky last. Bounine yelled on his radio, “All gone!” clipped onto the anchor cable, and dived out.

Bashir started to climb up to four thousand, leveled out and switched to automatic pilot, got up, went back, and closed the door. He returned, took control again to ten thousand, leveled out, and turned back to Grozny. “Well, I’ll never see any of that lot again,” he murmured. “Madness. Bloody crazy.”

 

 

KURBSKY, LOOKING DOWN, could see the rough moorland of the plateau below, outcrops of rock here and there, and it was all over in what seemed a flash, his supply bag thumping into the ground, followed by himself. He seemed to bounce and fell sideways, and a stiff wind billowed his canopy. He started to drag, grabbed at his quick-release buckle, and it opened and the wind in the parachute pulled it off him and blew it across the moor.

He unclipped his jump bag, got it open, and armed himself quickly—the Stechkin stuffed in his shirt, the bag slung from his back. With the AK still folded, he started searching for the others, which was easy enough, for he could see them dotted around, struggling with their canopies in the wind. He dumped his helmet and put on his beret.

Bounine was free and helping those who were having difficulties, working his way from chute to chute. He reached one on the far left and leaned down. He turned and beckoned. Kurbsky hurried toward him, others following, and found him standing over Petrovsky.

“Dead already. Broken neck.” Bounine shook his head. “Ridiculous. He jumped in Afghanistan a number of times with the Storm Guards. Now he has to get it in a shitty place like this.” He looked around the bleak moorland, the rain hammering down.

Kurbsky said, “Put him behind those rocks over there, collect those parachutes, and hide them as best you can behind the outcrop. Fifteen minutes and get your ponchos out.” He looked up at the turbulent sky as thunder rumbled. “It’s really going to storm, my friends.”

He got the radio from his pack, crouched down, and tried to contact Father Ramsan.

“Black Tiger calling, Black Tiger calling. Are you receiving me?”

It was rather dramatic, but that’s what Chelek had given as a code word to the enterprise, and it received an instant response. “Receiving you loud and clear.”

“Ramsan? This is Lieutenant Kurbsky. We’ve arrived in the jump zone safely, one man dead. Harsh weather up here, but we should see you in a couple of hours.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Over and out.” He turned to the men. “Let’s get on with it.”

 

 

AND RAIN IT DID, and he really pushed them, leading at the half-trot, the twelve of them in their ponchos with the hoods up over their berets. Five miles and two hours later they came to moorland farm territory, extensive rough granite walls, wild-looking sheep beyond that scattered before them. They reached a stone shepherd’s hut and crouched behind the wall beside it.

Bounine produced a bottle of vodka from his pack, unscrewed it and took a swallow, offered it to Kurbsky, who did the same, then passed it along so that everybody could have a pull. Perhaps a mile or more across the valley was the monastery, half concealed by the gloom and rain. At that distance, it was not possible to see any signs of activity. In any case, what concerned him was the farm below.

It was single-story but reasonably extensive, with what looked like a large barn at one end, and the only sign of life was chickens looking miserable in the rain, pecking their way in and out of the half-open barn door. There was a low wall around the property, a wisp of smoke coming out of the chimney. A track stretched down the valley, and no sign of life there either.

“We split, two groups of six. You go in from the left,” he said to Bounine. “I’ll take the right.”

They moved fast, Kurbsky leading his men crouching behind a granite wall and curving around to an orchard cramped in a small space at the side of the house. There was what looked like a back door. It opened on the turn of the handle and he led the way into an extensive, if primitive, kitchen, with stone floor, very basic wooden furniture, an old iron stove with a wood fire burning inside, a great pot on the stove.

Kirov took the lid off. “Smells good. Some sort of stew, and enough to feed an army. Maybe it’s meant for us?”

“That could well be.” Kurbsky turned to the others, who’d been searching elsewhere. “Anything?”

“A couple of bedrooms, a pantry with a lot of canned food and wine,” one of them said.

He went and opened the front door and saw the other group through the half-open door of the barn. Bounine appeared. “Come and have a look.”

There was an old battered truck with a canvas hood and a stack of military jerry cans. “A hell of a lot of petrol here,” Bounine said. “What about the house?”

The Tigers clustered around, passing cigarettes. “Food cooking, fire in the stove. No sign of Father Ramsan. I’ll try the radio again,” and at that moment there was the sound of an approaching engine.

They waited, weapons cocked, and a bearded priest in his black robes drove in from the track on a motorcycle, crossed the yard, and entered the barn. He showed no surprise at all and wore black trousers, his cassock hitched up as he sat astride the bike. He switched off the engine, dismounted, and pulled it up on its stand.

“So you are the Black Tigers?”

“Yes, Father, I’m Lieutenant Kurbsky in command.”

Kirov was examining the bike with admiration. “Where did you get this? My uncle has one back home on his sheep ranch near Kursk. A Montessa dirt bike.”

“What’s so special about them?” Bounine asked.

It was Father Ramsan who answered. “They were specially developed for shepherds in the Pyrenees in the Spanish high country. You can ride them at five miles or more if you want, negotiating very rough country, or much faster. They are perfect for the plateau country here. General Basayev obtained it for me.”

“That would seem very generous of him,” Kurbsky said.

“Of course, but then, I’m on his payroll and he trusts me.”

“And so does General Chelek,” Bounine pointed out.

“We live in a complicated world, my friend.” Ramsan turned to Kurbsky. “Bring your men in the house. I have food waiting.”

 

 

THEY AT E WELL of the stew, and he provided jugs of rough red wine. “So no one lives here with you?” Kurbsky asked.

“A peasant family farmed the land, but they’ve been driven off. Basayev doesn’t like people around when he’s in residence at the monastery. He chased the monks away, but only tolerates the peasants when he’s off to the war. Since he’s back, they have to clear out to a village about five miles on the other side of Kuba.”

“So no staff in the monastery?”

“He’s a soldier’s soldier and expects his men to be able to look after themselves. Sometimes they go and procure women for obvious purposes.”

“Are there any women at the moment?”

“Definitely not. When he comes on these occasions, his time seems to be spent on planning strategy. He has a sophisticated radio room and keeps in touch daily with his forces in the fields. I have heard them on occasion when I’ve been there.”

“So why does he keep you around?” Bounine asked.

“As some sort of link with the locals. I am, after all, their priest. I am also a visible presence at the monastery when he’s not here to remind people who the boss is.”

“Where have you just been?” Kurbsky asked.

“The monastery. He likes the chapel keeping up to scratch. He’s a religious man who likes everything to be just so. Candles, incense, the holy water, flowers.”

“Well, he sounds like a raving lunatic to me,” Bounine put in. “So what do we do about him?”

“You may be right,” Father Ramsan said. “But as to a plan of action . . .” He looked at his watch. “It’s nine-thirty. They’re military, they follow a fixed routine. Two of the men are appointed cooks. I keep them supplied with plenty of fresh food, driving to the village in the truck every two or three days. Their midday break is in the old monastery dining room next to the kitchens, starting at noon. They drink quite heavily. The monastery was known for its wine. Basayev joins them only sometimes. I couldn’t guarantee he would be in the dining room. Often he prefers to eat in his own quarters.”

“You’re sure of all this information?” Kurbsky asked.

“Based on what I have seen when I’m there.”

“And his men,” Bounine put in. “What do they do all day? What are their duties?”

“To guard the monastery and protect him, it’s that simple.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“To surprise them during their midday meal. As I’ve said, they drink heavily and you would have total surprise on your side.”

Kurbsky nodded. “What’s this secret way inside that Chelek mentioned?”

“Outside the walls is a decaying vineyard, decaying because with the monks not there, nobody has the expertise to look after it. It’s overgrown badly, and in the thickets there is the entrance to what was an escape tunnel during the bad times three centuries ago.”

There was a groan from the men, and Bounine said, “Not the damned sewers again. We’ve had enough of those in Grozny.”

“No, there are steps down and headroom to six feet. I have been through it many times over the years. You emerge through a false wall on a pivot into a series of cellars leading to an underground hall, used for storage years ago during sieges, but quite empty when I last looked in, and that was a year ago. From there, wide stone steps lead where you want to go.”

“Fascinating,” Kurbsky said. “You could always show us the way.”

“That wasn’t in the bargain, I think,” Ramsan said calmly.

“I appreciate your survival instincts,” Kurbsky told him. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Simple enough. I’ll drive you down in the supply truck and deliver you to the vineyard. The rest would be up to you. I would suggest leaving here at eleven-thirty. They should be all full swing in the dining room by the time you get there.”

Kurbsky turned to his men. “Go over your weapons, pistol, AK, check your grenades, then do it again. After that, rest. It’s been quite a day already, and a lot more to it before it’s over.”

 

 

IT WAS JUST after noon when the truck turned in the gate of the old vineyard, moved along the track under a spread of tree branches, and came to a halt. They all dismounted and followed Ramsan as he led the way through decaying vines, a battery lantern in his left hand, and came to an old stone outhouse. He opened the door and stood on the step. It was very black wood.

He leaned down and felt on the inside of the step. “There’s an iron ring. That’s it.” He pulled and raised a section of the floor that folded back to disclose stone steps about six feet wide dropping into darkness. He turned and offered the lantern to Kurbsky, who took it but shook his head.

“You take it. After all, you know the way. I’d feel safer.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“Well, it is now.” Kurbsky passed him the lantern, and Ramsan looked as if he was about to speak, then he took a deep breath, switched on the lantern, and went down.

 

 

IT WAS PERFECTLY dry, very airy, and as Ramsan had said, a good six feet in diameter. He played the light out well in front of them so they could see the false wall up ahead. He paused on getting to it, reached into a corner and pulled some sort of lever, and the wall pivoted. There was a cellar on the other side with an archway.

Ramsan turned and said, “The door can only be locked from the other side. Leave it ajar.” He carried on, leading the way through one archway after another, walked through the last one, and suddenly switched off the lantern and ran.

Panic ensued. “Where the hell is he?” Kirov cried, just as floodlights were turned on to reveal the underground hall Ramsan had mentioned. On a stone shelf about four feet high, two light machine guns on tripods were mounted, with two men behind each one. Other men were ranged at the sides, AK-47s at the ready.

Ramsan, still on the run, was making for the broad steps he had mentioned, soldiers waiting there, and Shadid Basayev walked through.

One of the Tigers called, “You lying bastard,” raised his AK to fire at Ramsan, and was cut down by a burst from one of the machine guns.

“Is this what the rest of you want?” the General asked. “I am Shadid Basayev. If I say slaughter the lot of you now, my men will be happy to oblige. It’s all one to me. Who is Kurbsky?”

“That would be me.” Kurbsky stepped forward.

“And these are the Black Tigers?” Basayev nodded. “A sad-looking bunch, if you don’t mind me saying so, and only eleven?”

“We used to be fifty.”

“That’s good, we must be winning the war.” He stood there, hands on hips. “Come on, Lieutenant, what’s it to be?” He stepped very close. “Of course, you could shoot me now in a mad moment, but my men wouldn’t like that.” Kurbsky stared into his eyes, trying to work him out, and Basayev smiled. “One soldier to another. Articles of war strictly observed at all times.”

It wasn’t that Kurbsky believed him. It was just that if there was even the smallest of chances that he was telling the truth, it was better than all of them being reduced to bloody pulp on the spot here.

“All right, lads, stand down.”

He started to remove his packs and placed his weapons on the ground, and, reluctantly, his men followed his example. Chechens moved in and started stripping the Tigers of anything worth having. Father Ramsan stood on the steps, watching impassively.