The Lost Relic. Scott Mariani
close to her for over six decades. The leader of the men flipped hungrily through its pages, running his eye down the faded lines of the old woman’s elegant handwriting.
His long search was only just beginning.
Western Georgia
250 kilometres from the Russian border
The present day
A warm September breeze rippled softly through the conifers in the mountain ravine. The air was sweet with the scent of pine, and the late morning sunlight twinkled off the faraway snowy peaks. The mother lynx had come padding down from the forest to quench her thirst from a stream, keeping a watchful eye on her cubs as they played and wrestled in the long grass by the bank.
As she bent to lap at the cool water, her body went suddenly rigid, her acute senses alerting her to an alien presence. Her tufted ears pricked up at the unrecognisable sound that was coming out of nowhere and rising alarmingly fast. She quickly drew away from the water’s edge while her cubs, sensing their mother’s apprehension, grouped together and scampered behind her.
The terrifying noise was on them in moments, blasting, roaring, filling their ears. The cats bolted for the safety of the forest as two huge black shapes streaked violently overhead, shattering the tranquillity of the ravine. Then, as suddenly as they’d come hurtling over, the monsters were gone.
More dangerous predators than big cats were out hunting today.
Four kilometres across the forest, standing alone on a rocky knoll, was a craggy old stone shack. A century ago, maybe two, it might have been the humble home of a peasant farmer or shepherd. But those days were history, and nobody had lived there for a long time. It had been years since anyone had even set foot in there, until that morning.
It was cool and shady inside the windowless building. The only furnishings within its walls, spaced out in a row and crudely but securely nailed down to the floorboards, were three wooden chairs. The three occupants of the chairs sat quietly, breathing softly, tuned into their shared silence. They knew each other well, but it was some time since they’d all run out of things to say – and in any case there seemed little point in conversation. Even if they’d been able to free themselves from the ropes that bound each of them tightly to his seat, and remove the hoods that their captors had placed over their heads, they knew that the door was heavily chained. Nobody was going anywhere.
So they just waited, each of them alone with his thoughts, in the stillness that comes with true resignation to an irreversible fate. The same kinds of thoughts were running through each of their minds. Wistful thoughts of wives and girlfriends they wouldn’t be seeing again. Memories of good times. Each of them knew that he’d had a good run. It tasted bittersweet now, in retrospect, but they’d all known this time would come round eventually, one way or another. They’d all known who they were dealing with. In the world they’d long ago chosen for themselves, it was just the way things were.
As long as it was over quickly. That was all they could ask for now.
The pair of identical Kamov Ka-50 Black Shark combat helicopters were closing rapidly in on their target. Behind their mirrored visors, the pilots calmly checked their readouts and readied the weapons systems that bristled across the undersides of their aircraft. Two kilometres away, their automatic laser-guided target tracking systems locked in, and a sharp image of the shack appeared simultaneously on the monitors inside each cockpit, enlarged enough to count the links in the chain that was padlocked to the door. The pilots armed their missiles and prepared to fire.
There had been no word from base. That meant the operation was a go.
The pilots hit their triggers, and felt the recoil judder their aircraft as their weapons launched simultaneously. Just under three metres long and weighing forty-five kilos each, the Vikhr anti-tank missiles could travel at six hundred metres a second. The pilots watched them go, hunting down their target with deadly accuracy. Three long seconds as the four white vapour trails snaked and twisted through the blue sky, lancing down towards the trees. They hit in rapid succession, with blinding white flashes as the fragmentation warheads detonated on impact. The shack was instantly blown into pieces of whirling debris.
The pilots closed in on the smashed target and activated their side-mounted 30mm cannons. It was complete overkill, but this was a demonstration and the boss was watching. The boss wanted it to look good, and if the boss said he wanted a show of firepower, he’d get a show. The machine cannons raked and strafed the ground with hammering shellfire. Billowing clouds of dust were churned into whirling spirals by the downdraft of the rotors as the choppers roared over the devastated scene. As the clouds slowly settled, the plot that the shack had once stood on now looked like a ploughed field.
Whatever remained of the three men, come nightfall the wild animals would soon claim it.
The man watching from behind the black-tinted, bulletproof windows of his Humvee lowered his binoculars and smiled in satisfaction at the climbing wisp of smoke across the valley. His eyes narrowed against the sun, following the line of the choppers as they banked round to head back to their secret base. Back to where they’d be well hidden from their original owners.
The man’s name was Grigori Shikov. They called him ‘the Tsar’. He was seventy-four years old, grizzled and tough. For half a century his business ethos had been based on practicality. He liked things kept simple, and he liked loose ends to be tied up. Three of them had just been tied up permanently. That was what happened to men who tried to conflict with Grigori Shikov’s interests.
Shikov twisted his bulk around to stare at the camcorder operator in the back seat. ‘Did you get that?’
‘Got the whole thing, boss.’
Shikov nodded. His clients were people you didn’t want to disappoint – but not even they could fail to be impressed. He was sure they’d find their own uses for their new toys, once the deal was wrapped and the goods changed hands. The negotiations were in the closing stages. Everything was looking good.
‘OK, let’s go,’ Shikov muttered to his driver. At that moment his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he reached for it. He insisted on having a new phone every few days, but disliked this latest piece of tin. It was too small for his fist and his fingers were clumsy on the tiny keys. He answered the call with a grunt. He rarely spoke on phones: people told him what he needed to hear and he listened. His unnerving way of remaining silent was one of the things he was known for. Like never sleeping. Never blinking. Never hesitating. No regrets and no apologies, never once, in a lifetime spent climbing to the top of the hardest business on the planet, and staying there. Challenged, yes, many times. But never defeated and never caught.
Shikov had been expecting a different call and he was about to hang up impatiently, but he didn’t. The caller was a man named Yuri Maisky, and he was one of Shikov’s closest aides. He also happened to be his nephew, and Shikov kept his family close – or what remained of it since the death of his wife three years earlier.
So he listened to what Maisky had to say, and he felt his heartbeat lurch up a gear as the importance of what he was hearing sank in.
‘You’re sure?’ he rumbled.
It was not a casual question. Maisky knew all too well that the boss didn’t waste words on idle chat. There was a tinge of a quaver in his voice as he replied, ‘Quite sure. Our contact says it will be there, no question. It is definitely the one.’
The old man was silent for several seconds, holding the phone away from his ear as he digested this unexpected news.
It had turned up at last. After all these years waiting, just like that.
Then he spoke again, quietly