Black Widow (26 page)

"Yes."

"We've identified them as mercenaries."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"One of them was in the building across the street this morning. He was the sniper who killed Pasternak and his two bodyguards."

The man who would have killed me, Sergei couldn't help thinking. Fear stabbed through him as he watched the men go into the hospital. The view changed and showed them entering the lobby.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"We hacked into that building's records and identified him with facial-recognition software. We've identified the two men with him, as well."

"What are they doing here?"

"I don't see any flowers or teddy bears, so I'm betting this isn't a get-well visit."

The woman's sarcasm cut through Sergei's fear and indecision. He went to the nurses' desk.

"Bring security up here," he ordered the nurse who had spoken to him earlier. "Get them here now."

"You don't have time to wait for security," the woman said over the phone. "Those men are there to tie up loose ends from this morning."

Sergei held the phone tightly to his head and repeated his orders to the nurse. He flashed his identification at her to get her moving, but he knew he looked like an insane person.

"You need to get moving," the woman said.

"I cannot leave Mikhalkov." Sergei refused to abandon his partner.

"If you stay there, those men will kill you both. And anyone else who gets in the way. Do you want to bring that kind of bloodshed into the hospital?"

Helplessly Sergei glanced at the nurses' station. All of them would be victims. The violence of the past few days weighed heavily on him. He didn't want to see it erupt inside the hospital.

"Move or die," the woman said.

Sergei fled, but his mind had focused on a dangerous course of action. He dreaded what he had to do, but he couldn't leave Mikhalkov for the wolves. Either way, he knew his life was going to change.

Moscow

Sergei bolted through one of the hospital's side exits. He listened for gunfire but there was none. He hoped he could pull off what he intended before anyone inside the hospital got injured.

Outside in the bright sunlight, he strode toward the car. His jacket whipped around him. His pistol felt heavy in his hand. His other hand held the phone to his ear. He kept his eyes focused on his target.

Ahead of him, the driver who'd brought the gunmen to the hospital waited and watched the building's entrance.

"What are you doing?" the woman on the phone demanded.

"Saving my partner if I am lucky," Sergei growled. He folded the phone and put it away. The woman had his number. She would call back when she was ready.

Without breaking stride, Sergei walked up to the driver's side of the car like he was back on patrol. He stayed just far enough away for the driver to not easily turn around and confront him.

Shaking slightly, Sergei tightened his grip on the gun. He'd shot men before. Had even killed them. But never in cold blood.

He thought about calling out to the man, giving him some warning, but then thought that might be even crueler. This way the man wouldn't even see it coming.

Holding his breath the way he'd been trained, Sergei steadied himself and fired. The pistol bucked against his palm, then bucked twice more as he fired again and again. The whole time, he prayed that he hadn't just killed an innocent man.

Head leaking blood, the driver slumped forward. The horn bleated and the sedan started to roll forward.

Sergei reached through the open window and shoved the automatic transmission into park. The car shuddered to a stop.

In the parking lot, a handful of new arrivals screamed and shouted in alarm. Sergei ignored them and caught the dead man's wrist, exposing a thumb microphone.

"This is Sergei Prokhorov," he said with as much control as he could muster. "I have killed your driver and am escaping."

Opening the car door while keeping his gun in hand was awkward, but Sergei managed it. He grabbed the dead man by the collar and shoved him over, then slid into the bloody driver's seat, put the transmission into drive and floored the accelerator. He narrowly missed an arriving ambulance as he shot out into the street.

New York

"Well," Jake said laconically, "I didn't see that coming. I liked it. I thought you said this guy was a plodder, not a take-charge kind of guy."

"Usually he is." Kate stared at the multiscreen view of the Russian hospital.

On one screen Sergei nearly sideswiped an ambulance but then vanished quickly into the heavy traffic.

"Gotta say," Jake told her, "I like the change. Probably saved his life. Maybe his partner's, too."

Inside the hospital the three gunmen turned away from the emergency room and headed outside.

"Don't know what Prokhorov said to them," Jake commented, "but he got their attention."

Kate surveyed the security-camera view that showed the entrance to the OR where Sergei ProkhoroVs partner fought for his life. None of the gunmen had reached that part of the hospital.

"Do you think Sergei's ready to listen now?" Jake asked.

"Would
you
be?"

"I wouldn't be happy right now, but without us, he's got nowhere to go. He's exposed and cut off from everything he knows."

"Think he's calm enough to figure that out?" Kate asked.

"Only one way to find out."

Moscow

Mired in traffic, Sergei felt foolish and afraid. Blood from the dead man had sprayed the windshield with a crimson fog. He used the cuff of his jacket sleeve to try to wipe the mess away but only made it worse.

Someone behind him honked and he realized space had opened up ahead. Before he could accelerate into it, a cab swooped in front of him and blocked him. Sergei cursed the man and resisted the impulse to bump the taxi out of frustration.

Movement in the rearview mirror, also muddied by the blood, caught his attention. Three men threaded through the stalled traffic. In disbelief, he turned and looked over his shoulder in time to see the three gunmen aim their weapons. They fired in concert, hammering the back of Sergei's stolen vehicle with bullets. The back windshield exploded in a torrent of broken glass.

Frantic, knowing he was exposed and was a threat to everyone around him, Sergei pulled the steering wheel hard to the right and hit the accelerator. He kept his left hand on the horn as he sped forward through the tables and chairs of a sidewalk cafe. Patrons jumped away for their lives.

Even then, he was afraid to go too fast. Still, the maneuver allowed him to pull away from the men following him on foot.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

When he spotted a side street, Sergei powered into it. His bumper briefly nudged that of a cargo van. The resulting shudder ran the length of the sedan and made the dead man slump lower in the seat.

The phone continued to vibrate.

Sergei checked the rearview mirror, peered through the shattered windshield and found he'd left the gunmen behind. He kept an eye on the streets around him and in the sky in case helicopters got involved.

You have been watching far too many American movies, he told himself.

The vibration continued.

Angrily Sergei pulled the phone out and shouted, "What?"

"That was good," the woman said. "You pulled them away from your partner."

"Mikhalkov is still alive?" Sergei almost whooped with joy.

"Yes. You ran and the men followed you. Predator's instinct."

The dead man's arm flopped across Sergei's knees, and the bitter guilt he'd been dreading hit him, in spite of the adrenaline flowing through his system. He'd shot a man in cold blood.

"Sergei," the woman said.

"What?"

"Are you still with me?"

"Where else would I be?" Sergei moved the dead man's arm and made another turn.

"I need to know what you learned from Pasternak."

Sergei concentrated on his driving and didn't say anything. Some of the glass from the shattered rear window lay scattered across the seat. Two bullets had ripped through the front windshield, as well.

"You learned something," the woman continued. "Otherwise those men wouldn't have killed Pasternak, and they wouldn't have come after you and your partner."

"This is police business."

"Is that where you're headed? To the police?"

"Yes."

"You'll be dead before night falls."

Sergei swerved to miss a car making a left turn. Horns blared behind him. Hang up the phone, he told himself. But he didn't. He gripped it more tightly than ever.

"You don't want to die, Sergei."

He didn't.

"And once they're through with you, they'll kill Mikhalkov."

Moscow

Sergei slapped the steering wheel in frustration. He was glancing into the rearview mirror so much that he almost collided with a truck in front of him. He slammed on the brakes and drew attention from the passersby on the sidewalk. Several of them pointed at the car — at the bloodstained windshield, bullet holes and the dead man — then quickly backed away.

"Whatever Pasternak told you," the woman went on, "it's worth your life. You see that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You could have told your superiors before now. You talked to someone at FSB when Mikhalkov was admitted to the hospital."

Sergei had, and he'd claimed that he hadn't known what had happened that morning because he'd expected Mikhalkov to wake up and tell him what to do. The old man wasn't supposed to be on an operating table. For the time being, Sergei had claimed that Pasternak must have been taken out by a rival. He'd mentioned nothing about the frail of weapons that had led them there.

"Think about it," the woman said. "You didn't tell your supervisor what you knew this morning. Now you're going to run to him and tell him everything? Won't he be suspicious? Won't he be irritated that you and Mikhalkov took it upon yourselves to pursue a cache of weapons that's somewhere in Moscow?"

It was true. It was all true and Sergei knew it. The FSB hated secrets, and the agency hated agents that withheld information. At the very least, he was going to lose his job. But they could lock him up, too.

"Not only that, but if you're taken into custody, how long do you think you'll live? These people chasing you seem very determined."

The wind whistled through the holes in the car's windshield and reminded Sergei just how determined those men were.

"I cannot go there," he said, and he didn't know if he said that more for himself or the woman.

"I know," she said calmly. "Let me help you."

"I do not even know who you are."

"Then think about that. I could just walk away from this. There's nothing to tie you to me. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have warned you about the men entering the hospital. I want you alive. I want to know what you learned from Pasternak and I need you to help me find those weapons."

Sergei had enjoyed the idea that he worked for some super-secret spy organization within the Kremlin. He had enjoyed spy novels as a boy, and the idea of working in clandestine affairs had excited him. He had only been called on a few other occasions, and he'd made his peace with being a small, anonymous cog in a big operation.

Now he wished that he had remained anonymous.

"Sergei?"

No matter what else happened, Sergei knew he couldn't let Pasternak's deathbed confession be erased. Someone had to know if Sergei and Mikhalkov fell. Whatever the conspiracy involving Kumarin was, it had to be revealed.

"Pasternak told me that he worked for Yuri Kumarin to broker the deal."

"Who is Kumarin?"

Sergei was surprised the woman didn't know. She seemed to know so many other things. "He is a Russian general known for his anti-Chechen political stand."

The woman was silent for a moment and Sergei was certain the news had surprised her. He expected her to break the connection, but she didn't.

"Thank you for trusting me, Sergei. We'll get this worked out. Once this is over, you'll get a chance to know more about who you're working for. For now, I want to get you out of harm's way."

Sergei took a deep breath and released it. "Can you ensure Mikhalkov's safety, too?"

"We're working on that. I'm calling in some favors."

"Can you fix this with my agency?" Sergei didn't want the FSB tracking him, as well. Russia was suddenly full of enemies and dangers as it was.

"Yes."

Sergei didn't know how the woman could sound so confident, but she did, and he felt immediate relief because of it. He just hoped that relief wouldn't be short-lived.

New York

Grimly Kate divided her attention between the Moscow map that showed GPS tracking of Sergei ProkhoroVs phone and the satellite imagery of the city streets. So far none of the tech team she'd made responsible for the Russian FSB agent's health and well-being had spotted any tails.

"Sergei needs to ditch that phone as soon as he can," Jake said.

Kate touched her headset to change phone lines. "How is my cut-out number doing?"

"Gimme twenty seconds," the tech said. "I'll lock the number in through the Rio exchanges. If anyone tries to piggyback the call, we can jettison the connection before they can reach us."

But Sergei Prokhorov would be left to fend for himself. Kate wasn't happy with that idea. Protecting Room 59 came first, and all the inner circle of agents knew that. Some of them had died inches from safety and she'd had to watch.

"Let me know. I'm working on borrowed time." Kate switched to another line. "Where are my work-ups on General Yuri Kumarin?"

"Coming. Asking for them isn't going to make it happen any sooner."

Kate took a deep breath and let it out. "I know, Geoff. Just let me know." She hated being behind the eight ball, and her position often put her there.

"You doing okay?" Jake asked.

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"I've got two agents out in the field who are both exposed. I don't know if we can keep Prokhorov hidden or salvage him after we do, and I told him that I could because I need him focused on getting out of this alive. And I can't get in touch with Ajza Manaev while she's in that camp."