Arcadian Genesis by Greig Beck Read Free Book Online Page B

what he was doing – giving him a few extra moments. He slid out the back of the old flatbed and crabbed his way into the bushes beside the rutted road. Slipping over a small barrier of built-up branches and dirty snow, he rolled down the small embankment on the other side. He guessed he was still a few miles out from Katyr-Yurt, but as long as heavy snow didn’t start to fall, or a pack of wolves didn’t take an interest in him, or if he didn’t get hopelessly lost, he might just survive.
    He hadn’t thought through a long-term plan, but knew that as long as he had the disk, the Americans would come for him. He just needed to make sure he stayed alive long enough to make contact. They will come, they will come – his repeated thought was becoming more like a prayer.
    He got to his feet beside the trunk of a tree frosted with snow, and paused to get his bearings. He looked up: no stars or moon – good for hiding, but he would have liked just a few stars to guide him.
    ‘And now we walk,’ he whispered to himself, confident if he kept in line with the old road, he should make it to the village by morning.
    Khamid stepped out from behind the tree, and only took a single step before a blow to the back of his head made him finally see the stars he had missed. Everything went black.
    ***
     
    Khamid was tied to a chair. The Russian captain stared into his face as he went through his pockets.
    ‘Did you know you speak when you sleep?’ He grinned and tilted his head as though expecting an answer. He went back to his search. ‘Your language is good, but your accent . . . I think you are not really from here . . . Perhaps not even from Grozny.’
    He tugged free wrapped packets of dried biscuits, and a small flask of water. He dumped them onto a table and pulled Khamid’s jacket open and twisted the label around to read: ‘Gieves & Hawkes? Hmm, very fancy . . . And a long way from London. Imported perhaps . . . Or maybe you are imported, my friend? People who wear expensive foreign clothes and creep around in the dark are usually rich men hiding from someone . . . Or maybe spying on someone, hmm?’
    Khamid stayed silent, staring at the ground, wondering when the light would go on in the captain’s head, and his identity would be revealed. While the soldiers guessed at who he was, he would be granted another few minutes. Must get away , his mind raced.
    ‘Looks like a teacher, or maybe a dentist.’ The thin lieutenant opened a packet of Khamid’s biscuits and started eating them. His face lit up. ‘Are you a dentist?’ The man smiled weakly, showing a row of gray teeth, edged with black. After a few seconds his smile faded and he continued his slow chewing.
    He grabbed one of Khamid’s hands and turned it over. ‘Soft; not a fighter. Perhaps you are a scientist bomb maker.’ He lifted the hand and sniffed the fingers. He shrugged and turned away. ‘No smell or staining from nitrates or sulfates, so perhaps not a bomb maker . . . or he was smart enough to wear gloves. He looks smart enough to me.’
    The captain rounded on Khamid and planted one large hand on each of the arms of the chair.
    ‘WHAT IS YOUR NAME? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?’
    Khamid shrunk and refused to meet the man’s gaze. He hoped for the most part the aggression was a bluff, as the average Russian military person wanted to be in Chechnya as much as the Chechens wanted them there.  
    This squad was probably just performing a sweep as part of their peacekeeping duties – trying to root out rebels and extremists, and, most importantly, trying hard not to get shot in the back when they took a leak in the dark.
    ‘Ach, why do I bother? You are not my problem. We’ll let Moscow work you out.’ The captain pushed up off Khamid’s chair. His explosive theatrics of a few seconds ago had totally dissipated now he deemed the show was over. He picked up a towel and wiped his hands, perhaps wiping his hands of their captive at the same