The Balkan Escape Page 3
That they did.
“You take care, too,” she said to him.
He smiled. “Who knows? Maybe one day you return favor.”
Maybe so, she thought.
WRITER’S NOTE
Bulgaria has always interested me. It’s a fascinating country tucked against the Black Sea, deep in the Balkans. I visited in 2007 and decided that one day it would appear in a story. Though its debut has come in a piece of short fiction, the locale will definitely return in a future novel.
Thracians are intriguing. The culture existed, as depicted in the story. It rose, thrived, then was absorbed by conquerors. Unfortunately, Thracians developed no written language and left only their tombs as reminders of their existence. Several hundred of those tombs have been the located, many containing a vast array of gold and silver objects. The Valley of the Thracian Kings, in central Bulgaria, is real and worth a visit. This tomb, in the southern Rila mountains, was my concoction. But it is accurately depicted, as is the surrounding geography.
This story is a prequel.
When Lev Sokolov trots off after Cassiopeia Vitt thanks him for saving her life, his final comment to her is prophetic.
Five years later they will meet again.
That tale is told in The Emperor’s Tomb.
Read on for an excerpt from
THE EMPEROR’S TOMB,
by
STEVE BERRY
Published by Ballantine Books
NORTHERN AREAS, PAKISTAN
FRIDAY, MAY 18
8:10 AM
A BULLET ZIPPED PAST COTTON MALONE. HE DOVE to the rocky ground and sought what cover the sparse poplars offered. Cassiopeia Vitt did the same and they belly-crawled across sharp gravel, finding a boulder large enough to provide the two of them protection.
More shots came their way.
“This is getting serious,” Cassiopeia said.
“You think?”
Their trek had, so far, been uneventful. The greatest congregation of towering peaks on the planet surrounded them. The roof of the world, two thousand miles from Beijing, in the extreme southwestern corner of China’s Xinjiang Autonomous Region—or the Northern Areas of Pakistan, depending on whom you asked—smack up against a hotly disputed border.
Which explained the soldiers.
“They’re not Chinese,” she said. “I caught a glimpse. Definitely Pakistanis.”
Jagged, snowy summits as high as twenty thousand feet shielded glaciers, patches of green-black forest, and lush valleys. The Himalaya, Karakoum, Hindu Kush, and Pamir ranges all merged here. This was the land of black wolves and blue poppies, ibex and snow leopards. Where fairies congregated, Malone recalled one ancient observer noting. Possibly even the inspiration behind James Hilton’s Shangri-la. A paradise for trekkers, climbers, rafters, and skiers. Unfortunately, India and Pakistan both claimed sovereignty, China retained possession, and all three governments had fought over the desolate region for decades.
“They seem to know where we’re headed,” she said.
“That thought occurred to me, too.” So he had to add, “I told you he was trouble.”
They were dressed in leather jackets, jeans, and boots. Though they were more than eight thousand feet above sea level, the air was surprisingly mild. Maybe sixty degrees, he estimated. Luckily, both of them carried Chinese semi-automatic weapons and a few spare magazines.
“We have to go that way.” He pointed behind them. “And those soldiers are close enough to do some damage.”
He searched his eidetic brain for what they needed. Yesterday, he’d studied the local geography and noted that this slice of earth, which wasn’t much larger than New Jersey, was once called Hunza, a princely state for over nine hundred years, whose independence finally evaporated in the 1970s. The fair-skinned and light-eyed locals claimed to be descendants of soldiers in Alexander the Great’s army, from when Greeks invaded two millennia ago. Who knew? The land had remained isolated for centuries, until the 1980s, when the Karakoram Highway passed through and connected China to Pakistan.
“We have to trust that he’ll handle it,” she finally said.
“That was your call, not mine. You go first. I’ll cover.”
He gripped the Chinese double-action pistol. Not a bad weapon. Fifteen rounds, fairly accurate. Cassiopeia prepared herself, too. He liked that about her—ready for any situation. They made a good team, and this striking Spanish Arab definitely intrigued him.
She scampered off toward a stand of junipers.
He aimed the pistol across the boulder and readied himself to react at the slightest movement. To his right, in the tomb-like illumination that filtered through the spring foliage, he caught the glimmer of a rifle barrel being aimed around a tree trunk.
He fired.
The barrel disappeared.
He decided to use the moment and followed Cassiopeia, keeping the boulder between himself and their pursuers.
He reached her and they both raced forward, using more trees as cover.
Sharp bursts of rifle fire echoed. Bullets pinged around them.
The trail twisted out of the trees and rose in a steep but climbable slope, held to a rocky bluff by retaining walls of loose boulders. Not much cover here, but they had no choice. Beyond the trail, he spied canyons so deep and sheer that light could enter only at high noon. A gorge dropped away to their right, and they ran along its edge. Bright sun blazed on the far side, dulled by black mountain slate. A hundred feet below water rushed and tumbled, gray with sand, tossing foamy spray high into the air.
They clambered up the steep embankment.
He spotted the bridge.
Exactly where they’d been told.
Not much of a span, just shaky poles wedged upright between boulders on each end, horizontal timbers fastened on top, connected by thick hemp. A footwalk of boards dangled over the river.
Cassiopeia reached the top of the trail. “We have to cross.”
He didn’t like that prospect, but she was right. Their destination was on the far side.
Gunfire echoed in the distance and he glanced behind them.
No soldiers.
Which bothered him.
“Maybe he’s leading them away,” she said.
His distrust made him defensive, but there was no time to analyze the situation. He stuffed the gun into his pocket. Cassiopeia did the same, then stepped onto the bridge.
He followed.
The boards vibrated from the rush of water below. He estimated less than a hundred feet to the other side, but they’d be suspended in open air with zero cover, moving from shadows to sunlight. Another trail could be seen on the far side, leading across loose gravel into more trees. He spotted a figure, maybe fifteen feet high, carved in the rock face beyond the trail—a Buddhist image, just as they’d been told.
Cassiopeia turned back toward him, Eastern eyes peering from her Western face. “This bridge has seen better days.”
“I hope it has at least one more left.”
She gripped the twisted ropes that held the span aloft.
He tightened his fingers around the coarse strands, too, then decided, “I’ll go first.”
“And the reason for that?”
“I’m heavier. If they hold me, they’ll hold you.”
“Since I can’t argue with that logic”—she stepped aside—“be my guest.”
He assumed the lead, his feet attuned to the steady vibrations.
No sign of any pursuers.
He decided a brisk pace would be better, not giving the boards time to react. Cassiopeia followed.
A new sound rose over the rushing water.
Deep bass tones. Far off, but growing louder.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He whipped his head to the right and caught the first glimpse of a shadow on a rock wall, maybe a mile away, where the gorge they were negotiating met another running perpendicular.
At the halfway point it seemed the bridge was holding, thou
gh the moldy boards gave like a sponge. His palms loosely gripped the rough hemp, ready to apply a death lock if the bottom fell out beneath him.
The distant shadow grew in size, then was replaced with the distinct shape of an AH-l Cobra attack helicopter.
American-made, but this was no salvation.
Pakistan operated them, too, provided by Washington to help a supposed ally with the war on terrorism.
The Cobra powered straight toward them. Twin-bladed, dual-engined, it carried 20mm guns, antitank missiles, and aerial rockets. Fast as a bumblebee, and equally maneuverable.
“That’s not here to help,” he heard Cassiopeia say.
He agreed, but there was no need to voice that he’d been right all along. They’d been herded to this spot, for this precise purpose.
Damn that son of a bitch—
The Cobra started firing.
A steady procession of pops sent 20mm rounds their way.
He dove belly-first to the bridge boards and rolled, staring past his feet as Cassiopeia did the same. The Cobra roared toward them, its turboshafts sucking through the dry, limpid air. Rounds found the bridge, ripping wood and rope with a savage fury.
Another burst arrived.
Concentrated on the ten feet between him and Cassiopeia.
He spied fury in her eyes and watched as she found her gun, came to her knees and fired at the copter’s canopy. But he knew that armor plating and an aircraft moving at more than 170 miles an hour reduced the chances of causing damage to zero.
“Get the hell down,” he yelled.
Another burst of cannon fire annihilated the bridge between him and Cassiopeia. One moment the wood-and-rope construction existed, the next it was gone in a cloud of debris.
He sprang to his feet and realized the entire span was about to collapse. He could not go back, so he ran ahead, the final twenty feet, clinging to the ropes as the bridge dropped away.
The Cobra flew past, toward the opposite end of the gorge.
He held tight to the ropes and, as the bridge divided, each half swinging back toward opposite sides of the gorge, he flew through the air.
He slammed into rock, rebounded, then settled.
He did not give himself time to be terrified. Slowly, he pulled himself upward, scaling the remaining few feet to the top. Rushing water and the thump of chopper blades filled his ears. He focused across the gorge, searching for Cassiopeia, hoping she’d managed to make it up to the other side.
His heart sank when he saw her clinging with both hands to the other half of the bridge as it dangled against the sheer cliff face. He wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do. She was a hundred feet away. Only air between them.
The Cobra executed a tight turn within the gorge, arching upward, then began another run their way.
“Can you climb?” he screamed over the noise.
Her head shook.
“Do it,” he yelled.
She craned her neck his way. “Get out of here.”
“Not without you.”
The Cobra was less than a mile away. Its cannon would start firing any second.
“Climb,” he screamed.
One hand reached up.
Then she fell fifty feet into the rushing river.
How deep it flowed he did not know, but the boulders that protruded along its path did not offer him any solace.
She disappeared into the churning water, which had to be nearly freezing, considering its source was mountain snow.
He waited for her to surface. Somewhere.
But she never did.
He stared down at the roaring gray gush, which carried silt and rock along with a swish of foam in a formidable current. He wanted to leap after her, but realized that was impossible. He wouldn’t survive the fall, either.
He stood and watched, disbelieving.
After all they’d been through the past three days.
Cassiopeia Vitt was gone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEVE BERRY is the New York Times bestselling author of The Emperor’s Tomb, The Paris Vendetta, The Charlemagne Pursuit, The Venetian Betrayal, The Alexandria Link, The Templar Legacy, The Third Secret, The Romanov Prophecy, The Amber Room, and the short story “The Balkan Escape.” His books have been translated into thirty-seven languages and sold in fifty countries. He lives in the historic city of St. Augustine, Florida, and is at work on his next novel. He and his wife, Elizabeth, have founded History Matters, a nonprofit organization dedicated to preserving our heritage. To learn more about Steve Berry and the foundation, visit www.steveberry.org.
CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF COTTON MALONE?
Read all the Steve Berry novels in the Cotton Malone series:
THE TEMPLAR LEGACY
THE ALEXANDRIA LINK
THE VENETIAN BETRAYAL
THE CHARLEMAGNE PURSUIT
THE PARIS VENDETTA
THE EMPEROR’S TOMB
And don’t miss Steve Berry’s other novels of suspense:
THE AMBER ROOM
THE ROMANOV PROPHECY
THE THIRD SECRET
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