"I've got it. At the end of these huts, we’ll find the sickbay. That’s where they took her."

  "He said she was ill. Does he know how bad she is?"

  Yuri shook his head. "I asked him, but he said he had no idea, and I believe him. He was pleading for his life. He said he just does his job, and follows orders, and he doesn't deserve to die."

  "Tell him I'm not going to kill him."

  The guard breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't see Cris reversing the AK and bringing down the hardwood butt on his skull. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, and he listened to his breathing. It was shallow and uneven. He was unconscious. The heavy blow may have fractured his skull, but at least he was alive. Which was more than many of the prisoners would be, once they'd been there for more than a few days. They climbed back into the truck, and Yuri drove toward the end of the huts. He stopped outside what appeared to be a large garden shed in a state of semi-dereliction. The kind of shed you could see in the backyard of an abandoned house. The sign painted on the woodwork was in Cyrillic lettering, and Yuri translated.

  "It says Gulag Sakha 1 Medical Center."

  "It’s a shithouse," he breathed.

  "They don’t put a great deal of value on prisoners’ lives. Curing them when they’re sick just delays their death."

  They exited the truck and approached the door. Cris tried the handle, and it was locked. He handed the AK-47 to Yuri and stepped back a couple of meters. Then he charged forward and shouldered the door. The lock burst open, and he was inside. He skidded on the icy floor, and a shadowy figure jumped him. It came out of the shadows, holding a gleaming blade that looked like surgeon’s scalpel. He felt it held to his throat, and a voice said something in Russian; a female voice, no surprise as this was a female camp. The big surprise was he recognized the voice.

  "Maria," he said softly, "It's me, Cris."

  "Cris!" The knife was withdrawn, "They told me they were going to kill you."

  "I guess they didn't succeed.”

  She grabbed him and hugged him to her. “Thank God. Who's that?" She was looking at the man standing in the doorway.

  "It's Yuri. We broke out of Gulag Sakha 2 together.”

  “And Sebastian Kennedy?”

  “I'm afraid Sebastian is still there. He refused to come out with us."

  She frowned. "He never was a man of action, I'm afraid. A brilliant administrator and political agent, but he’s no soldier."

  “He’ll be a dead political agent before long."

  "Yes. Can we do anything for him?"

  “Negative. We'll be lucky to get out of here as it is. Getting in was hard enough, but getting out…"

  He stopped and felt her shiver as a wailing siren echoed around the camp. He shouted it Yuri, "Get back to the truck. Maria, come with me. We're leaving, and getting out just got a whole lot harder."

  The first burst of machine gun bullets whistled past them, and a second later several assault rifles joined in. The guards had recovered fast, and they raced for the truck inches ahead of the hurricane of gunfire. They sheltered behind the vehicle, but the machine gun shooting at them was well positioned, raking the cab with gunfire to make driving away impossible.

  "We have to deal with machine gun, otherwise we’ll never get out of here,” he shouted, “Cover me."

  He raced away, ignoring Maria’s shouts of protest. Dodging around the back of the huts, he came out within thirty meters of the gun. The weapon was an old First World War design Maxim machine gun; outdated for modern warfare, but in the forgotten wastes of the gulags, more than enough to control an outbreak of violence from the prisoners. The gunners hadn't noticed him yet. They were tucked behind the steel shield, one firing, and the other loading. The constant chatter as bullets spewed from the barrel was machine-like, the effect devastating. The truck had been reduced to a bullet-riddled wreck. There was no way they'd ever drive anywhere again in that vehicle.

  A louder sound intruded on the cacophony of gunfire, and he looked up to the sky. An aircraft was approaching, and it had to be bringing something bad. Their situation was about to alter for the worse, and he steeled himself for a fast sprint. He leapt forward from behind cover and ran for the gun.

  At first the machine gunners didn't see him, but three guards lying on the snow nearby spotted him straight away and swung their rifles around. He was hurtling toward the Maxim, thirty meters, twenty meters, ten meters, and the first bullets chewed up the snow around his feet. He didn't slacken his pace until something slammed into his head, and he spun head over heels into the snow.

  Dimly, he realized he'd been hit in the head, and he put a hand up to his skull and felt blood dripping down. He'd no idea how serious it was, but he was alive, still conscious, and with a rifle in his hands. He aimed at the machine gun crew from behind, and the shield offered them no protection. He squeezed the trigger and fired two short bursts to tear into the gun crews. Next, he fired two more bursts into the breech to disable the gun. The gun crew was dead, but more bullets spat around him.

  He returned fire and had the satisfaction of seeing one man cry out as two of his rounds slammed into him. One down, but the other two were still firing, and now they were attracting the attention of more guards who were rushing to help. He crawled back the way he'd come and reached the protection of a hut without taking another hit. He leapt to his feet and almost fell over again. Wherever the bullet had hit his head, he felt dizzy, and everything spun for several seconds, like he'd had too much to drink. He knelt on the ground for almost a minute to recover his balance.

  He felt better. In a single bound he jumped to his feet and ran back around the huts. There he rejoined Maria and Yuri, who were still sheltering behind the truck. When she saw him, her eyes flared in shock.

  "Cris, what happened to you? They shot you in the head."

  "It's nothing, just a crease. Did you see that plane land?"

  She nodded. "Yes, I did. What do you think it is?"

  "It has to be trouble, although it could give us a way out of here. This truck is never going to move, not without major repairs. But if we can make it to that plane and steal it, I can fly it out. What we need to do is…"

  He didn't finish speaking. The blackness came over him, and his last thought was the bullet that clipped his head had done more damage than he’d realized.

  Without me to fly it, there'll be no plane. No flight out of here, and we’ll all die.

  Chapter Four

  He was unconscious, and this was just a dream, until realization struck him like a heavy blow. Mikhail was standing over him, and Mikhail was dead. He'd seen the woman kill him and Nikolai on the roof of the building back at the border, so it wasn't a dream; he was dead.

  There'll be no one to protect Maria. How long will she last, and how much will they make her suffer?

  The voice came from somewhere he couldn’t fathom. “Cris, can you hear me?"

  He didn't understand how Mikhail could be talking to him. He opened his eyes and looked around, and it was all too familiar. This wasn't the afterlife. They were inside Gulag Sakha 1, and bullets were still spitting around them. Another man was standing with Mikhail, a civilian. Maria was there, too.

  Is he FSB? Have they got us?

  He tried to speak, and at first it was a croak, "What's happening, who is that guy?”

  Mikhail looked relieved. "Cris, you’re alive, thank God. This is Peter Schiller, the pilot of the plane we flew here to get you out."

  "Plane? I don't understand.”

  “You don't need to understand. All you need to do is to walk. Try to stand. We’ll help you.” He looked at Yuri. “I don’t know who you are, except you appear to be on our side. Do you have bullets in that rifle?”

  “A few.”

  “Cover us.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Cris started to rise, and his legs crumpled. The man who was the pilot grabbed one arm, and Mikhail the other. They rushed him away from the wrecked truck and threaded their way behind the huts. There were just six hundred meters of open ground between them and the old aircraft. There was also the matter of the rolls of razor wire they’d have to cross, when he saw the hole they'd cut in the wire to gain entry to the gulag.

  They raced toward the gap and flattened to the ground when a storm of bullets tore overhead. The gunfire was close, and it was a miracle the bullets didn't hit them. Mikhail, Yuri, and the pilot took aim and fired back. The gunfire ceased, and they leapt to their feet again and resumed their run. For the first three hundred meters, there was no more gunfire. Then Mikhail shouted, "They’re coming."

  The guards had stopped shooting because of the two SUVs racing out to intercept them. A few more seconds and they'd be on them.

  "We're not going to make it," Yuri shouted. He dropped to one knee and fired two short bursts at the vehicles, but they kept coming.

  "Yes, we will." This time it was Maria who shouted. She fired a long burst, and both SUVs swerved away. They started to run again.

  "We'll need to cover our retreat,” she snapped out, “I'll cover you first with Mikhail. You," she addressed the pilot, “You and Yuri help Cris. When you've gone fifty meters, drop flat, cover us, and we’ll come past you."

  "But we…"

  "Do it." Her voice was commanding, peremptory, "I appreciate you coming to get me out, but if someone doesn't take charge of this fiasco, we’re all dead. Move it."

  They almost carried Cris, and someone started shooting at them again from behind. The roar of the engines added to the noise as the vehicles closed in, and they flattened on the ground to avoid the gunfire. Schiller and Yuri opened fire, and then Maria and Mikhail were running back. As they raced past them, she yelled, "Watch your ammunition. We don't want to run out of bullets before we get there."

  Then gave them covering fire as Maria and Mikhail raced over the next fifty meters and dropped flat in the snow. Cris still had his AK, and although he felt groggy, he aimed at the nearest SUV and pulled the trigger, attempting to rake it with bullets. But the vehicles were going too fast, and the drivers deliberately swerved from side to side to put them off their aim. His rifle clicked on empty, and he shouted, "I'm out," just as Yuri said, "My magazine is empty."

  "I'm out, too. It’s just the pistol," the pilot added.

  Maria was shouting at them to keep running, but the pilot shook his head. He looked at Cris and said, "How do you feel? Can you run without help?”

  "I'll let you know when I try."

  He nodded. "Remember my name in case I don’t make it out. I’m Peter Schiller. I understand you know how to fly an aircraft. If anything happens to me, take care of our baby."

  "What do you mean, your ‘baby’?"

  “I mean the plane of course, the Dragon Rapide. She’s all I have. If I lose her, I’ve lost everything. I have some grenades, and I’ll try to destroy those vehicles. If I get hit, my friend Manfred knows how to fly. But if he gets hit, it's all down to you." He shook hands with Cris, "I think it’s time for me to show them we Germans don’t give up the fight that easily.”

  “German? I assumed you were Russian.”

  He grinned. “It’s a long story. Good to meet you, and a pity it was so short." Then he ran, pounding across the snow, heading toward the nearest SUV in a suicidal charge.

  They saw him coming and switched their fire to target the running man. Peter Schiller showed scant regard for the withering fire he was against. Running like crazy, he pulled the pin from the first grenade and lobbed it twenty meters from the SUV. He dove flat to the ground, and seconds later, the missile exploded. The detonation gave him cover, a shower of snow that was like a dense fog. He pulled the pin from the second grenade and threw. The detonation damaged the vehicle, but the men were struggling to get out before it caught fire.

  He lobbed another grenade, dove flat again, and this time the blast scattered bodies and chunks of bodywork over the ground. Still under cover of the fog, he catapulted to his feet and tossed a grenade toward the second vehicle. He was too far to take out the second SUV, but the screen of fog created by the exploding grenade enabled him to get closer to throw his final missile. He hurled it in a long, arcing throw, and he was running again. Hurtling through the snowy fog, but this time his luck ran out. When he’d tossed the last grenade, the guards had realized the danger and opened fire. A long burst tore into him, and he doubled up and fell to the ground, with blood staining the snow bright red.

  But he'd achieved his objective, and now the second SUV was a charred and smoking heap of wreckage, the bodies inside torn apart by metal fragments. Cris was recovering, and he grabbed Maria. He turned and shouted at Yuri to start running, and they resumed the race for the plane. They made it halfway when the shooting started again, but the Russians didn't have it all their own way. There were two men in the plane, and one he recognized to his astonishment as Nikolai. The other he assumed was Schiller’s co-pilot. They blazed away with automatic rifles, and the enemy fire slackened. As they ran, Maria gasped a question about Schiller.

  "He flew that plane across Russia to save us. Is there anything we can do for him?"

  He'd already been thinking about Schiller. The man may be dead, or if he was extraordinarily lucky, he could be alive. However, if they tried to go back for him, they’d join him in death, unless they had an edge. He was still working that one out.

  "There’s nothing we can do. Run!"

  She mumbled something that he missed, but he knew she didn't like it. He didn't like it either, but they had to reach the plane. They were thousands of miles from any kind of help, and all that stood between them and safety was the plane. They reached it, just as a renewed burst of firing came from behind them, and he almost threw Maria into the cabin, followed her inside, and collapsed. He recovered as Mikhail arrived, and then a single bullet tore into the man who had to be the co-pilot. He cried out in agony and fell back into the cabin, with blood pouring from a hole in his skull. Nikolai and Mikhail kept firing, and one of the guards who'd been shooting at them fell back in the snow. But there were plenty more.

  Cris knelt to look at the man he’d seen shot and confirmed he was dead. The bullet had drilled him through his brain, and he’d have been dead before he hit the floor. They’d lost the sole remaining pilot, except for him. He went forward to the cockpit and sat in the left-hand seat. A quick scan of the instrument panel showed him the archaic and unfamiliar layout. Yet it was all they had, and after a few false starts, flicking switches and pushing buttons that did nothing, he managed to start cranking the starboard engine. Both motors were hot after the long journey, and the engine coughed into life. A second later he pressed the start button for the port engine, and ran them both up. He shouted to Maria over the deafening crescendo of the engines, "Tell them to close the cabin door. We're leaving."

  "But…"

  "Do it," he shouted. At the same time, he rammed the throttle levers forward and released the brakes. The old Rapide picked up speed. He’d have to turn into wind to get off the ground, and he measured distances. He also checked out the angles and counted the number of guards still firing at them. Then he glanced at the body of Peter Schiller lying in the snow.

  It could be done, but it'll be a tight squeeze. Dammit, we owe it to him.

  "Mikhail, we’ll pass close to Schiller’s body. Get ready to lift him into the cabin. We're taking him back."

  "It's one hell of a risk."

  “He took one hell of a risk for us. Get Yuri to help you. This’ll have to be real fast. Maria, Nikolai, grab every magazine you can find and cover them. You can burn up ammunition like there's no tomorrow, because once we get off the ground, we won't be needing it any more. Ten seconds, stand by."

  The plane rolled nearer, and he called out the time. "Five, four, three, two," he jammed on the aircraft brakes, "Get out now! Move."

  They were already leaping out the door. Maria and Nikolai stood inside the cabin and sprayed bullets out the door on full automatic, chewing through magazine after magazine, and the enemy had no choice but to cower behind cover. They brought Schiller inside the cabin, and Rhodes accelerated away. With the throttles pushed forward to the stops, they picked up speed across the snow-covered runway.

  Bullets smashed through the fuselage, and Maria and Nikolai continued shooting back through the open door. The gunfire slackened again, and they picked up even more speed, until he felt the rear wheel unstick. Another ten miles an hour, and all he could do was guess at the takeoff speed. When he felt the aircraft had enough lift, he eased back on the column.

  At first the Rapide refused to unstick and continued the takeoff roll for another two hundred meters. More bullets smashed through the fuselage, and a long burst ripped through the cockpit. He felt the jarring thuds as several rounds embedded into the rear of his seat, but none hit him. When he eased back on the column again, the old Dragon Rapide took to the air. But he felt faint again, and he struggled to hold the control column steady. He was about to shout for someone to help him, when the strange aircraft loomed overhead.

  It came up behind them out of nowhere, a modern, twin-engine, high-wing turboprop plane, an Antonov AN-38. The undercarriage wheels skimmed the roof of the cockpit of the old Rapide, missing it by no more than a meter. The tailplane went past the nose inches away, and whoever was piloting it banked hard to port, to lift the underside of the fuselage away from the almost inevitable collision. Some miracle of lift and drag coefficient, or maybe it was a stray wind or a benign god, raised the incoming aircraft a fraction. Enough to separate it from the Rapide, and then it hit the runway to touch down ahead and below them. He gave the column a gentle nudge and lifted the old aircraft to clear the Antonov’s fuselage. His hands were shaking as they climbed away, gaining height, preparing for the ninety-degree turn, and the start of a journey of thousands of miles to the west and to freedom.