The tall one nodded.
And at once, Fisher, Briggs, and all four miners surrounded and pounced on the Snow Maiden.
It took two miners to hold down each of her wrists, with Briggs fighting to maintain his grip on her ankles while Fisher produced several sets of zipper cuffs from his parka’s inner pocket and quickly bound her wrists and ankles. She fought against them as if they were priests trying to perform an exorcism, screaming and cursing in Russian.
“Charlie says the chopper’s five minutes out,” said Briggs. “Gotta be for Kasperov.”
“I need a car,” Fisher told the tallest miner in Spanish.
“I have one,” the man said in English.
“And our gear? Pistols, a crossbow? Some night-vision goggles and big watches?”
“She put them in a bag over there.”
“I need them back.”
“Okay. You’re Americans, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“CIA?”
Fisher shook his head. “Your English is good. Can we get moving?”
“Sorry. Come with me.”
Fisher turned back and hollered, “Briggs, search her! See if she’s got our phones.”
“Already did, here!” He tossed Fisher his smartphone. “Weird thing is, she only had our phones. Nothing else. No way to contact her people.”
Fisher shrugged. “Okay, get her down to the helipad. I’ll meet you there.”
He took off running after the miner.
24
After collecting their gear, Fisher followed the man down along a steep dirt path to a narrow service road lacing its way up the mountain. A broken string of cars was parked along the embankment, some owned by the workers, others by the supervisors and machine operators, the miner explained. He was lucky enough to afford a small four-cylinder sedan because before coming up to La Rinconada he’d been an attorney in Arequipa, but his practice had suffered greatly after a corruption scandal involving one of his partners. Fisher couldn’t believe that a man with his education would resort to the crapshoot of the mines, but he assured Fisher that many of the workers had once been professionals in the cities before they’d fallen on hard times. The temptation of quick money was too great to resist.
He said his name was Hector and admitted that he’d heard a rumor about the rich Russian who’d returned to the city. They said he was beginning work on his humanitarian project. They hadn’t seen him yet, but they had followed his bodyguards, wondering if any of them would be robbed. Hector did not know where Kasperov was, but he did know the swiftest route to the helipad located just outside the city, lying on a small plateau.
Fisher paid him a hundred dollars for his help — a meager amount that would go a long way in Peru — and the man surprised him by saying that he would’ve helped without the money but that yes, he would accept it. His two sons had moved to the Salinas Valley in California, and he had a place in his heart for all Americans, whom he had said had shown his sons the love and support they needed. In barely five minutes Fisher knew this miner’s life story, and he couldn’t help but be moved.
Now, as they neared the helipad, a speck appeared in the sky, and as they slowed, Fisher thrust his head out the window and shielded his face from the glare.
The chopper was a twin-engine AgustaWestland AW139 with four windows on each side of the fuselage and seating for a dozen or more, Fisher estimated. This helo wasn’t the over-the-top rich man’s transport and was painted in a rather subdued white and gray, but neither was it a flying rust bucket.
A dust cloud appeared in the car’s side-view mirror, where Fisher watched the approach of two mining company SUVs, which turned to reveal company logos on the doors. It seemed Kasperov was receiving a well-protected send-off from the mining bosses who’d scored some easy money from the oligarch.
Fisher told Hector to pull off the road about thirty meters from the helipad. He thought a moment, then cursed and removed his pistols, leaving them and the crossbow on the floor before he got out.
“No matter what happens, you just sit here, okay?” he asked Hector.
“Okay.”
Fisher stepped away from the car and faced the oncoming vehicles. He waved with both hands as the rotor wash whipped over him and tugged at his parka.
At least six men burst out of the SUVs with pistols drawn. They screamed in Russian and Spanish for him to get down on his knees and place his hands behind his head.
He took a deep breath and complied.
As big Anatoly approached, Fisher shouted in Russian, “I’m an American. I have an offer from President Caldwell. Tell Kasperov we’ve rescued his daughter from the GRU!”
“Oh, really, you’re an American?” Anatoly asked. “Then to hell with you, American! I saw you back in the mine!” He kicked Fisher in the stomach, knocking him onto his side.
Boots were everywhere now as Kasperov’s men surrounded him, one cuffing his right wrist and fighting to cuff the left as he fought to pull away.
More shouting erupted from the lead SUV.
Fisher glanced up—
And there he was, the man himself, Igor Kasperov, removing the black fur ushanka from his head and allowing his long, sandy hair to flutter free in the wind. His expensive black parka was fitted with military-style Velcro and zippered pockets, suggesting he was some general come down from the mountain to inspect his troops. He scratched at the pearl-colored stubble on his cheeks and squinted toward the helipad.
Watching him emerge from the SUV was, for a moment, like seeing the bronze statue of some legend come to life. For a moment, even Fisher felt a little starstruck, since he had reviewed hours of interviews and had scrolled through hundreds of photos that suggested the software genius was some media-created persona and not a real human being.
“I want to talk to him!” Kasperov cried. “Bring him here! Now!”
Anatoly hauled Fisher to his feet. They searched him, and Anatoly confiscated his phone before ushering Fisher back toward the SUV. The handcuffs were on tight now, the blood cut off to Fisher’s hands, which were already growing numb.
Two of the other guards were hauling Hector the miner out of car, and Fisher yelled, “Don’t hurt him! He’s just my ride!”
Kasperov had climbed back into the SUV, out of the wind and cold. One of the other guards held open a back door, and Fisher was shoved inside, falling into a seat beside Kasperov and his supermodel girlfriend, her perfect face encircled by her parka’s white fur trim.
“Who are you?” demanded Kasperov.
Fisher took a few seconds to compose himself, then spoke rapidly in Russian. “Sir, I’m here with an offer from President Caldwell. She’ll offer you political asylum, but more than that she’ll help rebuild your company.”
“Everyone wants a piece of me now.”
“We’re just here to help.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You gave your daughter a pendant with some gold inside, some gold from the mines here.”
Kasperov looked startled. “How do you know that?”
“Because she told us. She helped us find you.”
The man grabbed Fisher by his parka’s collar and spoke through his teeth: “Where is she?”
“The GRU was holding her in Sochi. My team got her out. We flew her back to the U.S. She’s in a safe house near Langley. If you want, you can talk to her right now.”
“Bullshit! You’re holding her prisoner!”
“Anatoly took my phone. Let me have it. We’ll call Nadia. I’ll prove it to you.”
“You’re stalling for some reason. You’re a Russian agent, aren’t you?”
“We just captured the agent who’s been after you. They call her Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden. I think she’s working alone, but we can’t be sure.”