Death Wave (10 page)

Damn, she was right—and he should have thought about that. He wasn’t thinking clearly, and that could spell disaster for operators in the field, especially when the carefully crafted script had just been thrown out and they were ad-libbing it.

“I know. Masha, look. I’ll see what I can do about getting you out of the building and on your way. Then I have to take care of my friend. But I
will
come back for you. You … you’re just going to have to trust me.”

“I … I do. It’s just …”

“Just what?”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me this way?”

“Let’s just say I really liked the way you stood up to Vasilyev a little while ago. And you were willing to help me. Besides … what are the chances of two kids from Brighton Beach meeting up
here
, of all places, eh?”

“Thank you, Ilya.” She stepped forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him. After an awkward moment, he put his arms around her and hugged her close.

“Well, well,” he said as they stepped apart. “What was that for?”

“For helping me get these cadavers into the refrigerator,” she said, all business again.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I don’t want to just leave them here in the open to start decomposing! Dr. Shmatko thinks better of me than that.” She began opening refrigerator doors, pulling out a morgue slab from each opening.

With a rueful shrug, Akulinin began helping her move the bodies.

ALLEY OFF RUDAKI AVENUE
DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN
WEDNESDAY, 1935 HOURS LOCAL TIME

They’d taken Dean out the back door to one of the cars parked beneath a pool of illumination from a security light in the alley behind the hospital. Vasilyev had told a soldier to put him in the rear seat and keep him there, then got into another vehicle just ahead, where he appeared to be making a phone call.

His guard was outside the car, leaning against the wall. The window was rolled down, but the man was far enough away that Dean could say, “I’m back. Did you miss me?”

He spoke quietly, barely vocalizing at all, but he knew the sensitive microphone would pick up the words and transmit them to a communications satellite and back to the Art Room.

“We hear you, Charlie.” It was Marie Telach. “What the hell happened?”

“No reception in the basement,” Dean said. He kept his replies terse. “I’m being held by Vympel personnel … decoy.”

“We still don’t have a signal on Ilya. Is he with you?”

“Negative. Ilya’s in the morgue. Still free, far as I know. I’ll keep you informed.”

“We copy, Charlie. Uh-oh. Hang on.”

“What’s going on?”

There was a long pause. “Your friend Vasilyev just put a call through to Subarao’s office. We had a ‘secretary’ talking to him. Now … okay. Sudhi is talking with him.”

Dr. Sudhi V. Anand was the Desk Three linguist for Hindi and several other Indian dialects.

“Have him give the SOB a good reaming for me,” Dean said.

“Copy that.”

“Listen, I used the story of possible Pakistani agents loose in Dushanbe and other bases, maybe spying, maybe working to screw the Indian-Tajik treaty. I used the name of another IAF officer—Group Captain Narayanan, at Ayni. I told him Narayanan had sent me to warn him about the threat personally.”

“Thanks, Charlie. I’ll pass that on to Dr. Anand’s monitor.”

“Hey … Hindu!” the guard outside asked in Russian, leaning closer. “What’s that you’re mumbling? Who are you talking to?”

“I’m praying,” Dean replied in the same language. “I’m calling upon my ancient and powerful gods to make sure that your commanding officer sees the error of his ways.”

From the rear seat of the vehicle, Dean could see the back of Vasilyev’s head as he spoke on the phone. The way the man’s head was jerking back and forth, it looked as though angry words were being exchanged.

Still, Subarao was the equivalent of an army major general, and Vasilyev was a mere
podpolkovnik
, a lieutenant colonel. The Russian might not like Indian nationals, but he wouldn’t risk insulting a high-ranking foreign general in Tajikistan’s capital and creating a
truly
international incident.

At long last, Vasilyev got out of the vehicle, slammed the door hard, and walked back toward Dean’s car. He looked … subdued. Angry, too.

“Okay, Charlie,” Telach told him. “Dr. Anand says he read Vasilyev the riot act. He backed your story about rumors of Pakistani saboteurs. Vasilyev doesn’t like it, but he should let you go now.”

“Copy.”

Vasilyev reached the car and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Out of the vehicle.”

“Did you call Air Vice Marshal—”

“I don’t need a
foreigner
to tell me my business,” Vasilyev snapped. “I have other sources.” The way he spat the word
inostranyets
, foreigner, made it sound like an obscenity.

“Sir! I was simply following orders.”

“Next time you decide to follow orders, stay out of restricted military areas! It would be … unfortunate if you were shot. Your death might create an incident.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Get out of here, and don’t let me see you around my city again!”

“Yes, Lieutenant Colonel. Thank you, sir.”

Dean hurried down the alley, as if he half expected to be shot in the back. He knew Vasilyev’s type well enough—a bully who enjoyed abusing his power over others, whether under his command or in the civilian population. He was just glad the Vympels hadn’t decided to search him. The radiation counter on his ankle would have been difficult to explain, as would the folding camera-binoculars in his pocket.

He crossed Rudaki and headed for Tolstoy Street. Ilya would meet him at the car when he was finished getting the pictures.

“C’mon, Ilya, c’mon!” he muttered. “What’s taking you so long?”

LOBBY, RUSSIAN MILITARY HOSPITAL
DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN
WEDNESDAY, 1954 HOURS LOCAL TIME

Akulinin reached the top of the basement-level steps and peered through the glass in the doors opening into the hospital lobby. Through the small window, he saw a bored-looking attendant at the information desk, but there was no one else in sight. “Come on, Masha,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s clear.”

Maria came up the stairs behind him. She’d shed her white lab coat and rubber gloves and was now wearing blue jeans, a green shirt, and flat-heeled shoes.

A burst of static sounded in Akulinin’s ear. “Ilya!” Jeff Rockman’s voice called. “Ilya, do you copy?”

“Right here, Jeff. I hear you.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Cut off down in the basement,” Akulinin replied. “I’m back on the street level now. Still in the hospital, about to enter the front lobby.”

“Who are you talking to, Ilya?” Maria asked.

“Remember those friends I mentioned?”

“Who’s that with you, Ilya?” That was Telach’s voice.

“Long story, guys,” he said. “I’m going to need your help here. First of all, I have some data to upload.”

He pulled out his camera and touched a control on the side. Next he reached down, touching another button on the radiation counter strapped to his leg. The devices began uploading their recordings to a communications satellite.

“We’re receiving,” Rockman said after a moment. “Nice shots … if a bit morbid.”

“The bodies are the ones Podpolkovnik Vasilyev brought back on the helicopter,” he told the Art Room. “I’m thinking the clean-shaven Caucasian looks a lot like our contact, Zhernov, though his face is cut up and bruised so badly, I’m not sure. The rad counts are being transmitted in the same order as the pictures. I’d be
very
interested in knowing who the Asian guy is.”

“We’re running the photos through the ID database now,” Telach said. “Now … who’s that with you, and why? We can hear her over the open channel.”

“First things first, Marie. Do you have a fix on Charlie?”

“They let him go about ten minutes ago. He’s on his way back to your car.”

“Excellent.” That gave them some additional options. He wasn’t happy about turning Masha loose on the streets of Dushanbe if the FSB might be looking for her.

“And who is your little friend?”

“Maria Alekseyevna. Distressed foreign national, Russian citizenship. But she’s an American.”

“O-kay. How can she be a foreign national
and
an American?”

“Look, we can go into the history later. What’s important is she helped me on the mission just now, and there’s a good chance that the opposition is going to be interested in her, understand? I need to get her to the safe house—then get her out of the country.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” Telach said. She did not sound like she approved. There was a certain air of “wait until your father gets home” about the way she said it.

“Is the boss there?” he asked. Might as well face the music right away.

“No, he’s not. But I imagine he’ll want to talk with you when he gets in.”

“I’m sure. I … wait a second.”

“What do you have, Ilya?”

Two Vympel soldiers had just entered the hospital’s front door and taken up sentry positions on either side of it.

“Possible trouble.”

He turned, about to lead Masha back down the stairs, but he stopped when he heard a hollow thump—a door banging open—echoing up the bare stairwell. Far below, he could hear voices, someone shouting, demanding information.
“G’deh devochka?”
he heard. “Where is the girl?” It sounded like Vasilyev’s voice.

He heard another voice—the junior sergeant with the copy of
Playboy
stationed outside the morgue doors—but couldn’t make out the words. The man would be pointing to the stairs, however. He’d seen them go that way just moments before.

“Tell Charlie to bring the car south on Rudaki,” Akulinin told the Art Room. “Tell him there are two of us, we’re on the run, and the black hats are in pursuit! We’ll be going south, on the east side of the street, and we’ll meet him there!”

“Roger that. We’re patching through to Charlie now.”

Another boom from downstairs, closer now. Vasilyev and his troops were entering the stairwell, starting up the steps toward the first landing.

“Ilya!” Masha cried.

He gathered her close with his arm. “Trust me!” he said fiercely. “Just play along, okay? And whatever happens,
smile
!”

She nodded as he punched through the double doors in front of them and swept her with him into the lobby. The two soldiers looked up at the noise and began unslinging their rifles.

Akulinin laughed out loud, grinning broadly as he jogged directly toward the soldiers, his arm still tight around Masha’s waist. “This is going to be great!” he called out in Russian. “A night on the town you will
not
forget!”

The soldiers brought their rifles to an uncertain port arms. They would have been expecting to see the woman alone, would not be expecting to see a Russian Army major accompanying her.

“Stoy, sudar’!”
the one on the left called.

“Stand aside, soldier,” Akulinin said, still laughing as they got closer. “I’m taking the most beautiful girl in the world out to dinner … then dancing and drinks at the Pamir Club … and after that …” And he kissed her.

He
kept
kissing her as he strode between the two soldiers, pushing through the hospital’s front doors. He was counting on his psychological advantage, on surprise and embarrassment to get them through the doors.

“Meior!”
one of the soldiers said. “Please halt—”

“Go to hell!” Akulinin said, laughing again.

“Stop that girl!” Vasilyev shouted from the stairway door. “Stop
them
!”

Then they were through the doors and running down the concrete steps in front of the red-painted hospital. It was dark outside now, with only a little glow from the fading twilight, and pools of light beneath the streetlamps. Taking Masha’s hand, Akulinin swung left and started racing down the sidewalk.

“Stoy! Stoy! Slushaisya eelee ya budoo strelyat!”

Obey or I’ll fire
.

Traffic was fairly heavy on Rudaki Avenue, a four-lane city street. They needed to get across to the other side—and civilian traffic would make the bad guys cautious about opening fire. Swerving suddenly right, he dragged Masha into the street, thankful that she was wearing sensible shoes. Headlights flared to their left, dazzlingly bright, and a horn sounded, a long, piercing blare. A northbound car slammed on its brakes and screeched to a halt, stopping close enough that Akulinin’s free hand slammed down on its hood.