Nearly three hours later Juan clasped his hand on Ignacio's shoulder as the edge of a road came into view. "State Route 195," he said, pointing. Soon he'd be rid of these awful men.
The road before them turned sharply north and waiting in the bend was a battered passenger van, its paint scratched and chipped away. Juan and Ignacio kept a careful eye on their surroundings as they approached. When they were within fifty yards of the van they stopped.
"Here is where we leave you, señores," Juan said. "Your ride is waiting."
Eleven of the men brushed past him without a word, but the tall man with the scar stopped. Juan held his breath as the man stared. Two men emerged from the van and opened the side doors as the party approached. Within seconds the eleven men were inside and hidden by deeply tinted windows.
"What are you waiting for?" one of the men next to the van yelled. He spoke the same language as the scarred man and though Juan could not understand what was being said, the message was obvious: "We need to leave now!"
The scarred man continued to stare without a word. Juan crossed himself and the man scoffed. "You would be dead in the Caucasus," he spat as he walked away, turning briefly to kick sand at them.
Juan watched intently as the man arrived at the van, slapped shoulders with the two drivers and disappeared into the vehicle. Moments later the van pulled onto the highway, its rear wheels churning sand and dust as it crossed from the coarse earth to the smoothly paved road. As it drove north and faded into the distance, Juan turned and looked at his son, whose face was ashen.
Speaking their native Spanish and crossing himself again, he said, "Let us pray for the souls of the Americans those men have come to kill."
"Yes," Ignacio responded. "Let us also ask God to forgive us for showing them the way."
Prologue II
Deputy Director Antonin Turov waited impatiently as the small motorboat edged ashore, its outboard motor tilted up due to the shallow water at the edge of the island. The two Federal Penitentiary Service sergeants in the boat with him pushed hard against the stony lake floor with wooden oars, trying their best to ensure their superior would not get wet as he exited. The craft grounded and Turov stepped off without a word, leaving the two subordinates with the boat as he strutted up a gravel pathway with his hands behind his back. His breath evaporated in frozen puffs as a light snow fell, dusting the top of his fur hat.
Stopping in front of a twelve foot high chain-link gate topped with spiraled razor wire, he looked up at a thick waterproof canvas covering that concealed the clustered buildings beyond. Only a few tall spires could be seen above the fencing that surrounded the compound. A uniformed guard stood at either side of the gate, Kalashnikov rifles held at the ready across their chests.
Fire Island, Turov thought with an amused smile as he waited for the guards to approach. The name was due to some religious fanatic who claimed to have seen a pillar of fire strike the island over five hundred years ago. At the hands of the sheep, who flocked anytime someone claimed to see an apparition or some other supposed sign from God, the island had quickly become home to a monastery. Monks had existed there for centuries until 1917 when the Bolsheviks had captured it and converted it to a prison to hold their enemies. It had remained a prison ever since and, in Turov's opinion, a prison was a much more fitting use of its nearly impenetrable medieval architecture.
"Kto tam?" one of the guards barked in Russian as the two approached. Who's there?
"Zam nachalnika Antonin Turov," the director responded sharply, "pozvol'te mne proiti!" Deputy Director Antonin Turov, let me through!
The guards took in the uniformed man in front of them and snapped to attention before responding, "Yes, sir!"
"Open the gate," one of the guards yelled up to the watchtowers positioned on either side of the entrance.
A buzzing alarm filled the air as pneumatic gears ground and the gate began to separate in the middle. Turov stepped inside the compound and was met by two more guards who had been sitting inside a tiny shack beside one of the watchtowers. A thick plume of white smoke poured from the shack's tin chimney and the air smelled of burning wood.
"I am Lieutenant Rostislav Kutzow. How may we help you, comrade deputy director?" the commanding guard announced as he approached and stood at attention. Behind Turov, the gate screeched closed.
Turov drew his thick frame up and squared his shoulders. "Take me to the warden."
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, saluting before he turned and marched toward the grouping of non-descript two story buildings, painted white to camouflage them against the surrounding area. All evidence of the facility's former pious use had been erased by nearly one hundred years spent housing the motherland's worst criminals. Traitors, defectors, spies and Nazis had all been imprisoned here and most had died within these walls, their remains buried in shallow graves on neighboring islands. Since the last years of the twentieth century the facility, referred to in Russian as pyatak, had housed only those prisoners whose crimes had earned them a death sentence.
Once someone was committed to Fire Island they did not leave, not even after their sentence had been carried out. Instead of their remains being returned to relatives, their bodies were burned in an incinerator along with the facility's trash. But that would change tonight. For the price of one million euros, Antonin Turov, one of six Deputy Directors of Russia's Federal Penitentiary Service, had arranged for a prisoner to exit the facility and disappear into the wilderness beyond.
As the lieutenant ahead of him unhooked a set of keys from his belt and approached a heavy metal door, the sound of it being unlocked from within surprised him. Moments later a stern looking man in a neatly pressed uniform emerged. The lieutenant snapped to attention and saluted without a word, staying completely still as the man looked him up and down before moving his gaze to Turov. A knowing look crossed his face and he gave the director a curt nod. He was the prison's warden and his assistance had only cost twenty five thousand euros.
"Colonel Vitaly Kupchenko, I presume?" Turov asked.
"Get lost," the warden barked at the lieutenant, who was on the move before his superior's breath had evaporated in the frigid air. "Yes. I am he," he said to Turov, before he turned back towards the metal door and disappeared inside.
Turov decided to let the warden's lack of proper recognition of his superior slide for the moment and followed him into the prison.
Once he was inside the warden slammed the door shut and locked it. Water ran from Turov's eyes immediately as the smell overwhelmed him. A mixture of what he could only imagine was feces, urine and human decay assaulted his nostrils. He removed his fur hat and held it to his face to avoid being sick, the smell of his sweaty head preferable to the stench of the prison. The warden seemed unfazed. He walked ahead of Turov and led him deeper into the prison.
The floor was unfinished wood and creaked bitterly as the two heavy-set men passed over it. The walls were constructed of a rough plaster, painted green on the bottom half and white on the top, although it had obviously been many years since it had been properly maintained. In many places bare wood was visible, the plaster chipped away. Turov imagined the bare spots could easily have been caused by the heads of inmates being struck against the wall; brutality was commonplace throughout the Russian prison system, especially this far from Moscow's oversight.