CHAPTER 35. WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 7, 00:30.
The flat Bessarabian country was dark under the night sky. Large fields stretched away as far as the eye could see on either side of the Freeway. The ventilators brought the smell of manure into the car. He did not mind the stench. Had other things to think about. There was no break to the sameness apart from the rare farmhouse or wood. He turned down the radio when he saw Ekaterina nodding beside him.
Almost an hour later, he could feel the tension drain out of his muscles and was just beginning to relax as they neared the small town of Bashtanivka. His good mood vanished immediately when he saw a car rocketing up fast behind them.
He put his foot down and the lights dwindled behind the little Polo. But not for long. He overtook a tanker and pulled back in again. A black Mercedes E320-class saloon passed the tanker. Caramarin looked left. He recognised that car. Maiorescu's. With the tinted windows, he had no idea how many were in the car. It drew up alongside the Polo.
The front passenger window lowered. Litovchenko leaned out and fired at their tyre. Caramarin was glad to see that Placid looked even worse than he did. He looked pulped. Caramarin stamped on the brake and the Merc shot ahead. The air horn of the following tanker blared behind them.
Accelerated again and moved into the passing lane, about fifty metres behind the Mercedes. Caramarin leaned out and fired his piece at the saloon to let them know he was not defenceless. Not expecting to, purely by luck, he hit the rear window, shattering it into a net of opaque lines.
The big Merc swung over; he threw the Polo back into the inside lane. Caramarin tried to keep directly to the rear of the Merc. Thought directly behind Maiorescu's car was the safest.
The two cars sped down the Freeway, leaving the tanker behind. Tyres squealing, engine racing, the Polo's agility helped it swerve from one lane to another always keeping more or less behind the Mercedes.
A boot from the inside of the Mercedes kicked out the shattered rear window. It fell to the road. Caramarin swerved round it. He saw one of the men inside lean out over the trunk and fired off a burst from a Kalash. In the night, the bullets ripped past like tracer rounds.
He shouted for Ekaterina to get down. She cowered down in the foot well, making as small a target as possible, covering her head in her hands. Caramarin knew the second rear passenger was just an amateur. He fired one long burst at the Polo, probably the entire magazine; the Kalash's recoil jerking the weapon upwards, the bullets wasted in the air.
Caramarin saw stars from the flashes, blinked to try and get his night vision back. Still too much. One CZ-75 pistol against at least two gangsters with Kalashnikovs? Only one way this could turn out. With him and Ekaterina dead. He decelerated, still swerving across the road, trying to throw off their aim.
Behind him, the tanker was getting closer again. Another burst of fire from the Mercedes. A bullet hit the hood, another ripped off a side mirror, tearing it from the car. Caramarin veered in again and let the tanker overtake. He followed immediately behind it.
A couple of seconds later, the Mercedes was beside him. Litovchenko's window already down and a Kalash resting on the sill. The idiot smiled and said something but Caramarin was too fast. He stretched across Ekaterina and snapped off a shot into the Mercedes's interior. No idea what happened next.
Again, he stamped on the brake, the Mercedes speeding past. Unable to believe his luck, he threw the wheel over. They hurtled down a side road as the tanker and Mercedes sped down the Freeway. He snapped off the lights. The road was too uneven with too many pot holes for Caramarin to continue at such high speed. He had to slow down. Behind him, he could see the lights from the Freeway receding in the distance.
The road was better than a farm track, but not by much. Had to slow further and he strained to see even a few metres ahead of him in the country dark. Hedges hemmed them in on both sides. Ekaterina pulled herself up into her seat. He looked at her. She wasn't crying or screaming as he'd expected. She gave him a small smile.
"How far have we got to go?"
"About thirty kilometres, more or less."
Behind him, a kilometre away, he saw the Mercedes turn onto their road, its headlights searching the night for them.
"We've got no chance when they catch us. Get out when I say, OK."
She nodded.
A hundred metres further on, in the shadow of a clump of trees, Caramarin saw a gate into a field.
He stopped the Polo and pointed. "Open that."
Ekaterina jumped out and wrestled the gate open. He turned into the ploughed field and parked the car behind the hedge. A water logged ditch ran along the field side of the hedge. He caught Ekaterina's hand and, stumbling, ran further along the hedge. He threw her down and pressed her to the ground as the Mercedes drove past on the other side of the hedge.
They carried on for a while, crossing into another field. The muddy, furrowed land was hard going but he forced the pace, looking for a farm or village. Anywhere he could steal another car.
Later than he expected, he saw headlights ahead. As they drew closer, Caramarin saw it was the Mercedes on their back trail. He dragged Ekaterina down into the ditch and covered them with dead leaves and litter. They lay still as the cold mud and slime oozing like slugs penetrated their clothes and he heard the Mercedes drive slowly back down the road. If Maiorescu's men were careful, they would eventually spot the Polo.
"C'mon."
He helped Ekaterina up and they jogged further. Into a third field.
"Over there." He pointed at the skyline where a roof looked over the next hedgerow. He pulled her arm, trying to see what the Mercedes was doing behind them.
Panting, Ekaterina was out of breath when they got to the smallholding. A run down cottage, an open barn and a few sheds stood around a filthy yard littered with worn tyres and bits of abandoned machinery. A dog barked furiously at them. Caramarin tripped over an empty vodka bottle, dragging the girl down with him sending other bottles spinning and clinking. On his hands and knees in the mire he saw plenty of empties. He felt just a little safer then.
They made their way over to the barn. In the near pitch black inside, he made out a vehicle. An ancient ZAZ pick-up. Hadn't seen one that shape for ages. Caramarin hefted a piece of iron and smashed the driver's window. He felt under the dash and fumbled with the wires. The old engine spluttered and coughed and eventually chugged into life. He swept out the worst of the glass.
"Get in."
He backed into the yard, sending more bottles over the cobbles. With the dog barking fit to burst, there couldn't be any more noise if he tried. So much for stealth. An old man appeared at the farmhouse door. Caramarin waved at him as he drove off.
The old pick-up was a wreck. Probably hadn't seen a mechanic since the Orange revolution. The inside was littered with old bottles, sweet wrappers, newspapers and it stunk of wet dog and manure. A little icon dangled from the mirror. But it went. Maybe it was held together with string and chewing gum but it still moved.
"Look," said Ekaterina. "A shotgun."
She pulled it from its resting place by the passenger door.
"Some old blunderbuss, probably. See if you can find any shells in this mess."
He drove out of the farm and back onto the narrow country road. The immensity of the flat Bessarabian landscape swallowed them up. They could have been the only people for kilometres in any direction. Except he knew that somewhere, out there, was a Mercedes filled with gangsters armed with Kalashnikovs whose only interest that night was their deaths.
Ekaterina turned in her seat.
"How much further d'you reckon now?"
"Not too sure, I've never been down this far before. We must be getting close to the Danube now."
They drove several more kilometres. He was relieved that he could not see any headlights in the distance.
"Keep your eyes open to your right. If we start sinking, we've gone too far."
She smiled at his attempt to cheer her up.
Could have done with a Sat-Nav as Caramarin was starting to think he'd taken a wrong turning somewhere in the tangle of country roads and farm tracks. Until Ekaterina clutched his arm and pointed.
"Over there!"
He looked. Must have been driving over a slight ridge because he saw the broad, dark gleam of the Danube. The border between Ukraine and Romania. He'd crossed the border dozens of times but never had the river been as welcome as now. Everywhere was dark, like time had not moved on here. The only modern distraction was a set of headlights patrolling the river bank in the distance.
"Yes." He punched the air and turned towards the river.
Then Ekaterina screamed. Hurtling down the road was the Mercedes. Its beams slashed the air, twin searchlights bringing death.
"Shit."
A long salvo from a Kalash caused him to swerve sharply down a cart track, bouncing over a ploughed field. He switched off the lights but this time there was no escaping from the Merc. Looking back he saw Placid lean out and fire a burst. The bullets drilled into the back of the old ZAZ pick-up. The rear tyres blew and he couldn't control the pick-up. He aimed it towards the nearest hedgerow and stamped the pedal to the metal.
The beat up old vehicle crashed into a tree and stopped. He flung open the door. Ekaterina followed, bringing the shotgun.
"Out!" he shouted and pulled Ekaterina into and through the hedge. A branch cut his face and he fell over a root. Regaining his feet, he forced her along in the direction of the river. Looking back as they ran, he saw three men jump out of the Mercedes. The driver backed the car around and headed out onto the road.
One of the men fired a ragged volley at them. Wasting ammo at this range at a moving target with an obstruction between them.
He thought quickly as they ran. He had one advantage, one card to play. He was combat trained and they weren't. However, they held all the other cards including three aces. They had three Kalashs.
Beside him, he heard Ekaterina gasping for breath. She was running with one hand pressed to her side. Knew she wasn't hit. If she had been hit by a bullet fired from a Kalash, she wouldn't be moving now. She'd be on the floor with her guts spread over several metres of field.
It was plain she couldn't go much further at the moment. Came to the edge of the field and another ditch. He saw a concrete culvert or storm drain. He stopped.
"Get down," Caramarin hissed. He pushed her head down. She looked up. Trusting him, she passed him the shotgun, lay on her belly and wriggled into the wet drain.
"Stay there. I'll be back soon," he promised.