Eidolon Express

By Ja Tindra

This is the story of The Eidolon Express mysteriously vanishes in the Qurama Mountains of Uzbekistan and the astounding revelations thereafter.

A ruthless killer is on a rampage!

What is the connection of the strange event with a magician who is called the Sirhilli Sorcerer?

Here unfolds an extraordinary saga of crime, action and relentless suspense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ja Tindra
• Release date: Jun 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201806910

Book preview

Inspiration

Itake this opportunity to thank my Dad, Krishna Bhuyan who was a noted writer and critique of the Avahon Age of Assamese literature. I also thank my Mom Ashalata Bhuyan who dedicated all her life to teaching students in Hindi which is the National language of our country, India.

Without their inspiration it would not have been possible for me to write this novel on a global scale.

I thank both of them for helping me to give some small moments of pleasure and entertainment to all people who will read this book. I hope that all will appreciate my new styles of thought and narration.

Rest in Peace, Dad and Mom. Love you both.

Antecedent.

The Night of the rains.

Qurama Mountains, Uzbekistan 01:44

The rain was pouring harshly on the Mountains that night. Something strange had unleashed its fury. The black clouds had enveloped the heavens like an evil pall. There were the sounds of the croaking Bull frogs that seemed to chill the silence. They were the harbingers who seemed to sound the clarion calls for ceaseless downpours.

Rain down the night.

Rain through the night.

Life was not easy for the six men who were digging the jungle floor. They had to dig a big grave. The ground was hard and rocky and even in the rain they were sweating like hogs of Hell. The orders had been stern. Orders of the devil incarnate.

The Umbulali.

Twenty two corpses. The work was tough. The dead bodies were about a kilometer away and they had to be brought here for the final cremation.

‘You guys forget the rain and concentrate’ yelled a man called Jackson. ‘The quicker you do the quicker we finish.’

‘I never dreamt of burying so many bodies in the dead of the night in the middle of the jungle’ a man called Shorty hissed through clenched teeth.

‘God give peace to these guys. And to us’ muttered another.

‘Getting the bodies here will be a hell of a job’ protested one of the men.

‘Tie them in lots with ropes and pull them here’ suggested one.

‘I can’t see what I am digging’ complained one. ‘I dig a foot and it gets covered with muddy water.’

‘You are not building a monument, dope!’ yelled the guy called Jackson. He was the leader. ‘Come on. Buck up!’

They worked hard in the cold damp night battling the mud and the water that fell from the skies.

‘Dig about four feet at least’ Jackson remarked. ‘We don’t want the wildies take out the bones and strew them around. Chief wants everything to be secret. There has to be no trace.’

‘We will put rocks on top after the burial’ suggested William ‘that will stop the wild animals from getting to the bodies. There are plenty of rocks around here.’

‘That’s a good idea buddy’ agreed Jackson who was trying to light a cigarette under the tree.

‘Bloody rain! He cursed, unable to light the match in the wetness.

They had finished making the semblance of a large pit and William cried ‘bring the bodies, the grave is ready.’

Some were trudging away to the darkness for the ominous work.

‘What about the weapons’ asked someone.

‘Burry all the weapons with the bodies’ Jackson snapped. ‘Don’t leave clues.’

It was not an easy task to bring the bodies from a distance towing them over the rocks and uneven ground. They worked like maniacs.

‘What a fu***** job! I hate this’ someone was cursing

‘You are going to get rich’ muttered his partner.

‘You won’t lick shit for money, will you? he steamed as he pulled the dead men towards the watery grave.

They worked slowly. There were heavy sighs and cursing all around and sudden weird exclamations as the dead bodies got stuck in bushes of obstacles. They dumped the bodies and the weapons in the pit, one on top of the other. After an hour of painstaking work they had managed to bring all the bodies from the sight of the accident and had put them in the muddy grave.

‘Fill it up’ roared Jackson.

They did so but it was not a small task because the rain would carry off the soil from the spades within minutes.

‘This rain is a curse’ said one.

‘The soil won’t go..’

‘Use your hands, Morons!’ was the sharp order.

They worked like dogs, that night.

There was only one driving force.

The fear of the Umbulali.

After all the bodies and the weapons had been cremated they took the rocks and stones and piled them over the grave.

‘It’s done’ someone shouted.

‘Now get the hell out of here’ Jackson roared. ‘No one will go near the tunnel, understood’ he bellowed.

‘We will meet up in Tashkent and I will pay you all there tomorrow’ he announced.

‘I hope the rewards are going to be worth the toil’ muttered Shorty.

After their work had been completed the group of men trudged through the beaten trail towards the railway track. No words were spoken. There were those strange dark feelings creeping into their conscience. The spot was now silent as ever as the rain splattered on the rocks which were the markers of the dead men now. Puddles were forming on the ground and rivulets of mud had started to flow down the mountainside. The marks where the men had been dragged were slowly disappearing in the beating rain.

More than twenty men had died that night. They had been poisoned. Some toxic gas had shown no mercy.

The day before.

Qamchiq, East Uzbekistan 20:15

It was a still and chilly night of the golden Tawny Owl. Perched on the leafless branch of the tall populous tree situated in the Tugai forest. The two big eyes were peering out of the mummified face scanning the jungle floor with a high degree of surveillance. Dark black clouds were billowing out of the south heralding the torrential rains that were to come. The rains would come. Relentlessly.

It was the land of the Qurama Mountains. These were the mountains that separated the Angren River in the North and the Syr Darya in the South. This was an area coved with grassy dunes the stretched for unending miles. The horizon was laid out with the Willows, Elm and the Oak trees that rose to dizzy heights in the temperate climate.

For the millions of people who lived in Urbekistan there was the problem of travel either to the Siberias or the European Continent. They now had to resort to long. Curvaceous routes which passed through the boundaries of many countries and travel was next to impossible without good amount of finances, not to mention the arduous paper formalities that one had to resort to. It was for this reason that The World Bank sponsored the project for the Angren-Pep Railway line. The task itself was herculean considering the mountainous terrain and the undulating landscape and the unpredictable rivers which swelled into gigantic proportions of water during the monsoons. The project however was put through with the help of the Chinese Railway and a design was created which consisted of more than fifty bridges and the longest tunnel in Asia called the Kamchiq tunnel which would be around nineteen kilometres in length through the heart of the Qurama Mountains. The construction started in the early part of 2013 and after a duelling spell, spanning over four years the Angren-Pep was finally completed in the year 2017. The Kamchiq tunnel itself took three years to complete and it was declared open in 2016. The formidable project had run into various natural difficulties like avalanches, snowfall and hard rocky terrain but eventually the objective had been achieved. It was one of the most beautiful and mesmerizing railway routes in Asia that had 12 tunnels and 15 spectacular bridges and it had all the mysteries of the mountains and the romance of the terrain.

The advent of the Angren-Pep paved the way for the vital link of the country both westward and eastward. In the west it had now connected to Europe as far as Belgium and on the east to Siberia, Kazakhstan and Russia. The primary link was between the cities of Tashkent and Namangan. There were four prominent stations in the route Orzu, Kul, Temiryulobod and Kushminor. The railway carried over six million commuters and over four million tonnes of freight in a single year.

This line was connected to the Trans-Siberian Railway, the Trans Caspian Railway and the Aral Railway which linked Moscow in the east, and cities like Berlin, Vienna and Cologne in the west. The Karshi-Termez line linked Afghanistan, converting the whole into a vast network.

Now the Tawny Owl, was watching the special train was passing through the Tugai forests. The train had only four bogeys. The front bogey had the guards, 18 of them who were entrusted to protect the valuable consignment that was being carried in the two middle trailers loaded with the huge containers. The last was a guard compartment where there were four specialist commandos who were fully armed and ready for combat. The blue and white, two stroke, 10 cylinder diesel engine marked EL 10-2011 was rumbling ahead with the grace of a slithering serpent winding its way through the heavy jungles. It was called The Blue Spectre. Within a quarter of an hour it would be at the entrance of the Kamchiq tunnel. The train had originated in Andijan. Although the Angren-Pep had the facility for electric engines this train had been allotted a diesel and electric combo engine so that it could easily navigate the terrain. There was a hurry to deliver the cargo in time so they had flagged it off as soon as possible. It was slated to reach Tashkent within six hours. That was highly important. A special commando unit had been stationed there to receive the consignment and shift it to the pre fixed destination in the city.

The two containers were made of steel and were now sealed. They had been sealed, so that they could not be opened without melting away the joints. Inside the containers were iron safes five in each container. The total of ten safes were made of heavy metal to safeguard the contents.

The train had been specially assembled to carry the secret contents so it was called the Eidolon Express. The name was a disguise. Eidolon was another name for the spectre.

Three miles away in the midst of the Tugai a man in a white shirt and black trousers was busy making the last checks on the mobile antenna he had set up in a small clearing in the jungle. The antenna was connected to a satellite that was hovering above the region. He was wearing the earphones and he was being constantly directed on the movement of the train. His task was simple. All he had to do was to activate the red button on the small digital control of his remote in exactly twenty two minutes. He was ready and he was waiting. He kept his eyes rigid on the electronic timer that was indicating the passing seconds.

He was restless because the wait was stifling.

Beads of perspiration ran down the face of the man.

Twenty two minutes later.

The time had come.

He pressed the button.

The Eidolon Express vanished. And that was the mystery!

Bulala

Three years before the Eidolon.

A breezy day in the Siberian Plains. The early March wind was blowing over the land with the gentle grace of an ocean wave. The wind had come from the Irkutsk Oblast Mountains bringing the fragrance of the distant greens. The Angara River lay on the west. The iridescent blue waters lapped away to the distance, as if it was unwilling to leave the ravines covered with the wild spring flowers.

Ivan Ezikiel was on the train. It rumbled along the banks of the Angara vibrating rhythmically upon the hard rails, to the station at Irkutsk. He was rolling a cigarette with the shag tobacco called Zware which was a hard tobacco with a flavor of burnt chilli. It was his passion.

He had his plans made already. He would get down in the station and take a cab to Khuzhir which lay on the west of the Olkhon Island at Baikal Lake. Then he would take a mule to the nearby foothills of the Baikal range overlooking the island. His work would start there. The main problem was his baggage because it was a huge bag filled with electronic appliances which he would have to assemble at the end of his journey.

Until now his journey had been eventless and he hoped that there would be no problems in his route. The problem started just before reaching Irkutsk. A fat guard had accosted him and had checked on his papers and tickets.

‘Your baggage is too large’ he said ‘that’s not allowable.’

‘No one had objected earlier’ replied Ezikiel.

‘These type of luggage have to be booked in the luggage cars’ opined the guard officiously.

‘I am getting off at Irkutsk’ said the visitor.

‘What have you got inside?’ asked the Guard.

‘Electronic stuff’ replied Ezikiel ‘basically camera equipment. I’m an ornithologist and I aim to study the birds in the Baikal and photograph them’ he explained. I propose to make a documentary.’

‘Camera equipment?’ asked the Guard suspiciously ‘such a big bag? Are you planning to place cameras all over the place?’ he retorted curiously.

‘It’s required’ defended the visitor.

‘We got to check the bag’ the Guard said.

‘I am in a hurry’ Ezikiel objected ‘if you allow I can pay for the baggage.’

‘The quantity is questionable, Mr. Ezikiel’ said the Guard, ‘I will have to inform my senior at Irkutsk.’

‘I got the permits for the baggage’ Ezikiel argued.

‘I got my duties. Sorry, we have to check’ answered the Guard.

It was foolish to talk with the Guard because he was not in the mood to listen. Ezikiel watched as the Guard took out his phone and call the Railway Police at Irkutsk.

‘We will have a routine check in Irkutsk’ he said ‘please cooperate, besides it won’t take much time.’ Then he was gone. Ezikiel followed him. There was still about half an hour to go before they reached the station. The Guard was going to the guard room at the end of the train. He did not notice the man called Ezikiel follow him. Just as the Guard entered the compartment Ezikiel cried ‘Sir, I want to tell you something.’

The Guard spun around. He was not expecting anyone to follow him.

‘I told you we will talk at Irkutsk’ he grumbled.

‘I don’t like your look’ Ezikiel said ominously.

Suddenly the Guard’s eyes widened as he saw the ugly gun in the hand of the man called Ezikiel. It was a point 44 Remington Magnum fitted with a silencer. There were two close spaced shots which sounded no more than two dull spits and the bullets ripped through the heart of the Guard. He was dead even before he fell to the ground. The man called Ezikiel caught the dead body of the Guard by the lapels and dragged him to the door. When they passed over a bridge he threw the corpse into the river below.

He had got rid of the immediate burden. The next part would have to be considered in Irkutsk. He walked back through the compartments to his seat, rolling a Zware, like a casual bored commuter wandering around aimlessly.

The police were waiting at the station. Ezikiel had got down and had his large bag down from the compartment. No one had such voluminous luggage so he could be easily identified. Several policemen were approaching him. Ezikiel waited silently pretending to look through some papers.

‘Hey you?’ asked a Guard ‘What is your name?’

‘Ezikiel Aysky’ he replied.

‘Yes, that’s the name we got a call from Solaski. We have to check your bag, Mister.’

Meanwhile three more guards had arrived there. Another was walking up, he seemed to be the officer in charge.

‘Where is Solaski?’ he asked sharply.

‘Haven’t seen him’ replied a guard.

The main officer was trying to reach the train guard Solaski but his call went unanswered.

‘Have you seen the guard on the train?’ the officer asked Ezikiel.

‘He was on the train’ Ezikiel said. He was composed.

‘I’m afraid you have to come with us’ said the officer. He ordered the guards in Russian and they lifted the bag and moved. Ezikiel followed. Soon they were in a small room with a desk. There was a bench against the wall.

‘You sit there’ the officer told Ezikiel. He ordered the guard to check the bag. The main officer was sitting on the chair behind the desk. One guard was opening the bag. One was at the door and one was outside. Ezikiel noted their positions. The guard who was opening the bag took out a white cylinder which had a conical head on one end and there were bold letters written on the sides. It said Raytheon.

‘What the hell is this ...’ the officer could not finish the sentence. Ezikiel now had two guns, both silenced. The first shot hit the officer between the eyes. He slumped backwards in the chair. Then two more shots. One hit the guard on the floor with the bag. His brains had been blown out from the close range. He fell backwards and the blood splashed on the wall. The guard at the door was already falling. He had been shot through the neck. The last guard had just come in hearing the thuds and his last vision was of the man with the gun. The bullet had gone through his head. Ezikiel pulled the guard into the room. He put the white cylinder back in the bag. He attached the black box on the inside of the door which had a timer devise. He set it to sixty seconds. He locked the room and threw away the key. He pulled the bag along as he made his way to the exit.

As soon as he was out of the Station complex he stood for a moment, watching the scene around him. That was when the time bomb exploded inside the station. There was a huge bang and the shouts and screams of people could be heard. The sound of running feet. Maybe the bomb had killed some innocent people on the platform. The vehicles were plying. People were everywhere. Just then he saw a delivery truck which was parked along the side of the road. He dragged his bag to the vehicle. The driver was inside.

‘Help me with this bag’ Ezikiel said.

The driver was shocked by the unexpected demand.

‘What the hell...’

‘Just help me get this bag on the truck’ interrupted Ezikiel.

‘Who are you?’ the driver asked. He was flabbergasted.

‘Police’ rapped Ezikiel in a crisp tone.

The word was enough. The driver disembarked from the seat and came around to help the man. ‘Police without uniform?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I’m on a secret mission. Come on. Get inside. Fast!’ Ezikiel bellowed.

The driver as amazed by the sudden turn of events. He did not know what was happening. He saw the man slide over to the driver's seat. The man had already started the truck. Hastily he climbed in.

‘We are on duty’ he started to protest. Ezikiel shot him.

‘You are on a long leave Mr. Driver.’

The truck lurched forward in the traffic as the dead body was sliding sideways which made the corpse fall forward. The dead driver was hunched, motionless on the side seat. Blood was oozing from the hole in his chest and trickling to the floor of the truck. Ezikiel pushed the body downwards away from the windows so that no one could see him. It took him a minute to roll out a Zware for a smoke. Then he drove rapidly. He had to reach the mountains in Khuzhir.

After a few miles the truck had reached the countryside. The city was receding. The houses and buildings were thinning. He was about three miles from Khuzhir. Night was falling and the late birds were flying in the sky. He saw a dense bushy area around a bend. He stopped the car there. He got down and came over to the other side. He opened the door and took hold of the corpse. He threw the body into the bushes. Now he was on the move again. He was hungry and he had to eat.

He stopped the truck in a wayside food shop. It was a countryside open air restaurant with the basic amenities and he sat on a table in a darkened portion of the compound. He didn’t like attention, especially when he was eating. He ordered two plates of food. The Shi and the Borsh. He would have the combination of bacon, vegetables and marinated Sturgeon fish, fresh from the Baikal. He also ordered for a bottle of Stolichnaya Russian Vodka. He finished his meal slowly. His mind was laying out the plans of action. After he had finished the food he rolled a Zware and sipped on the strong Vodka. It gave him a feel of warmth and strength. The next thing he had to do was find a resting place for the night. It had to be a safe place because he had the stolen truck with him and the big bag.

He found an Inn near Khuzhir. Night had come and the coldness of Siberia was creeping in. the winds had died down and that was a solace.

‘I need a room for the night’ he told the man in the counter.

‘It will cost you 150 rubles, that too in advance’ said the innkeeper.

‘Can I keep the truck outside?’ he asked.

‘Of course. That’s not going to be a problem’ replied the innkeeper. ‘But I will charge you 50 rubles for that.’

‘No problem’ replied the visitor. He gave 250 rubles to the man. ‘The extra fifty is a tip, for you’ he said ‘just help me get my bag from the truck.’

The innkeeper was overjoyed, finding a generous customer.

‘Sure friend’ he announced ‘I will fetch it.’

He went to the truck and brought the bag. He showed the visitor the room. It was sparsely furnished with a single bed and a table. It was dusty and anyone could make out that visitors were infrequent out here.

‘You don’t have many customers?’ Ezikiel asked.

‘This is not the season’ the innkeeper replied. ‘In a month or so people will be flocking here to see the Baikal’ he explained. ‘It’s a famous tourist place, you know?’

‘I want to ask you something’ Ezikiel said. ‘How do I get to the mountains overlooking the lake?’ he asked.

‘You have to trek’ said the innkeeper ‘there are no roads.’

‘How do I take my bag?’ he asked.

‘By donkey’ replied the innkeeper. ‘People who come for mountain treks usually carry their stuff on donkeys.’

‘Where do I get a donkey?’

‘There is a guy, I think his name is Rancho, about a mile from here. He can provide you one’ informed the innkeeper.

Ezikiel got the information and it was enough.

‘Thank you so much’ he said and bid good night. He had to sleep well because next night was going to be hectic in the