Spring 2015
the car was buried, and only the top halves of the windows were visible. Doesn’t matter if it’s covered.
They’ll run straight into it. He lay still for a moment, gathering his strength. And if I don’t move my ass,
they’ll find me waiting right here. He rolled over and fought his way through the low branches towards
the top.
The wind seemed to lessen in the shelter of the trees, and looking up, he saw the edge of the
glacier. Between rasping breaths, he managed a short, sour laugh. If they don’t kill me, the glacier will.
Make some distance. Wait it out. This blizzard won’t last for ever. He hauled himself forward to where the
trees stopped. Yeah, but long enough to kill me. Before him was a smooth line of snow that led to the
top, protected by an overhanging rock. As he left the tree line, the wind caught him, knocking him
sideways. Keeping his body low, he crabbed towards a gap, punching his fists through the crust to give
him purchase as he climbed. At the top, he dragged himself over, and rolled onto the glacier. A blast
blew the hood clear of his head, and he shuffled backwards to the rocks, the bitter wind blinding
him. He jammed himself tight into a crevice and looked out over the blackness. The wind was deafening.
All I need is fifty, sixty feet. Get a snow hole going. They’ll never find me. Head straight down the glacier and
make the village in the morning. He tried to look at his gloves, but could see nothing. Then the howling
stopped, and the wind dropped. The moon emerged from behind low, scudding clouds, casting a pale,
amber light across the glacier. Holy shit. This may last seconds. Move! The blood thumped in his ears,
and he could feel his back and legs stiffen as he launched himself forward.
“STOP!”
Twisting his head, he saw a gloved hand, jutting out over the edge of the rocks and holding a gun.
A man dragged himself onto the glacier, keeping the gun trained in front of him. He stood up
on snowshoes, then pulled back the fur-lined hood from his smock. “It is over, Pilgrim.”
The wind dropped to a whisper. Pilgrim got to his feet. The black barrel of the Makarov pistol
pointed straight at his chest. “So, you worked out who I am.”
The big man shrugged. “We know who you are, Mister Pilgrim.” His guttural Chechen accent
was punctuated by wheezing breaths. “And I know what you’ve done.”
Pilgrim looked past the man’s legs, to the lip of the glacier a mile in the distance, and down to
the village, where the lights glowed. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.” Above him, thin tendrils of cloud flashed
across the sky. The stars shone bright, and he searched through the constellations for one pinprick
of light.
The Soviet glanced up, following Pilgrim’s gaze. “You have stolen from us.”
Pilgrim’s eyes fixed on the pulsing, rhythmic light.
The Soviet pointed the gun at the sky. “And you have stolen from me.” He brought the gun down
towards Pilgrim. “I want it back. I have given too much to let it slip away.” He used his gloved left
hand to flick off the saf