Fallen Angel (17 page)

Jiang bowed deeply and held the position.

Then he stepped to the side, making a grand motion to the void.

Peng pressed the accelerator to the floor and drove into the nothing.

CHAPTER 20

THE THIN MAN IN
the white doctor's smock, who Scott Masters saw when he first opened his eyes in the rundown room of the aged, uncared-for building, entered and moved to the bedside. The man eyed the restraints keeping Masters strapped to the bed. He was afraid.

Masters licked his lips and swallowed, hoping to free his voice enough to speak with conviction. "Hey, Igor."

"My name is not Igor." Whiny voice. No conviction.

"No? Then what does your master call you?"

The words struck a nerve. "He's not my master. We are comrades."

"Ah. Silly me. I have a question, Comrade Igor. Egonov called you a doctor. Are you really a doctor?"

"Does it matter?" He leaned over Masters and examined his facial wounds. Igor shook his head. He then moved down to the bullet wound in Masters's side and removed the dressing. A foul odor rose from the wound. The doctor put it back.

"You talked like a doctor when you were describing my wounds."

"Yes, I'm a doctor. I studied in Moscow."

"It takes a lot of work to become a doctor."

The man nodded and shone a light in Masters's eyes. "Pupils still equal and responsive. The sclera is slightly swollen and discolored."

"So, when you were spending all those hours studying to become a physician, is this what you imagined? Is torture part of the curriculum in Moscow Medical or wherever you went?"

"You are a very sick man. I suggest cooperation. It is the only way to save your life."

Masters ignored the comment. "Why medicine, Igor? There are easier degrees to get."

"I told you, my name is not Igor."

Masters forced a grin. It made the side of his head ache. "Will you tell me your real name?"

"No."

"Then Igor it is. Answer the question, Igor. Why medicine?"

"My father was a physician. He groomed me for the profession."

"So you live your life for him. I can understand that. My dad wanted me to sell paint. You know, in a paint store." It was a lie, but it made him think of the man in whom he could find no fault. To Masters, he was more than a father; he was a hero.
How I've let him down
.

Igor shook his head. "He's dead."

Masters forced the image of his famous father from his mind. "How long?"

"How long what?"

Masters frowned. "Don't play games, Igor. You're too smart for that. How long has your father been dead?"

"Five years."

"And yet you're still living out his dream for you. No wonder Egonov has you in his pocket."

Igor stiffened. "I am in no man's pocket."

"Yeah, right. You are a free man, free to do whatever you like. Is that it?"

"Exactly."

Masters laughed. "Sorry, Igor, I know a lapdog when I see one."

"Careful, Captain Masters. I am the man who can save your life."

"And yet,
Doctor Igor
, you do what no reputable doctor would do: torture people."

"I have tortured no one."

"You're torturing me. You tortured my man."

"I had nothing to do with that."

Masters shifted in the bed. "Are you familiar with the concept of tacit consent, Doctor?"

Igor turned away.

"Maybe not. Tacit consent means that if you don't stop an evil, then you, by your inaction, agree with the evil."

"So."

"So, Doctor, if you did nothing to stop what they did to my man, then you agreed with what they did."

"It's not my place—"

"YOU'RE A DOCTOR!" Masters was surprised by the volume of his own voice. "Of course it is your place."

"You don't understand."

"Yes, I do. You're afraid, terrified of Egonov and whatever thugs he surrounds himself with. You are a coward."

"And you, sir, are a man with deep infections that will soon attack the vital organs."

"I'm prepared to die."

Igor tipped his head. "We'll see." He started for the door.

"Doc?"

He stopped. "Yes?"

"How is Sergeant Chaddick?"

"He's alive for now. Burns are difficult to treat and require medications and tools we do not have here." He paused and seemed embarrassed. "Just so you know, he told Egonov what he wanted to know. The sergeant slipped into unconsciousness shortly after. That is probably a good thing."

The doctor turned to the door, placed his hand on the knob, then stopped. "I'm going to ask that you be allowed to have the antibiotics."

"Do me a favor, Doc: Give them to Chaddick. He needs them more than I do."

"Perhaps, but your man is going to die from his injures."

Masters turned his gaze away, choosing to look at the ceiling instead of the man by the door. "I've got a feeling I won't be far behind him."

"I will see if Egonov will allow it."

Masters heard the doorknob turn and the door squeak on its hinges.

"Before you go, Doctor, one more question."

"What is it?"

"If your father were alive today, would he be proud of you?"

Igor said nothing.

Masters heard the door shut.

COLONEL MAC DIDN'T WANT
this meeting. Most Spec Ops happened without reading the president in. He needed the deniability and no president could keep track of the details of every mission. That's why there were generals, admirals, and—in his case—colonels. This, however, was no ordinary mission. The vice president's son was involved and that fact alone kicked it up the pucker chart.

Mac left Fort Jackson at o-dark-thirty. In the few hours he had between Chaplain Bartley's call and the time he boarded the Army's VC-20 Gulf Stream IV, he called his assistant Master Sergeant Alan Kinkaid, dragging him out of the sack. They met in the Concrete Palace, in Mac's Spartan office.

For seventy minutes, they discussed the pros and cons of the decision before them, then at five that morning, Mac called General Ian "the Borg" Bourg, head of Special Operations. General Bourg was scheduled to fly to Europe and wouldn't be able to attend the meeting. "It's all on you, Mac. Don't screw up."

The president's personal secretary ushered Mac and Kinkaid into the Oval Office, the president, former Vice President Andrew Bacliff, and Chief of Staff—soon to be VP—Helen Brown were already waiting, coffee cups on the table between the facing sofas. In full uniform, Admiral Gary Gaughan, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, sat in one of the wingback chairs in the seating area. President Ted Huffington sat in a matching chair.

As the president and Admiral Gaughan stood, Mac and Kinkaid stood at attention. "As you were, gentlemen." The president shook their hands. "You already know everyone in the room . . . or have you met Gary?" He motioned to Admiral Gaughan.

"I've not had the pleasure, sir." Mac shook the chairman's hand.

"I've heard a great deal about you and your men, Colonel. General Bourg brags on your team all the time."

"Thank you, sir."

"Have a seat, gentlemen." The president motioned to the empty sofa. "Coffee?"

"Always, sir."

The president poured two cups from a silver pot, then set it back on the table. "Good flight?"

"Yes, sir," Mac said. It was the idle talk men engaged in before getting down to business.

The president let the men have a sip, then, "Okay Mac, let's have it. Bullet points, if you don't mind."

Mac set his cup down. "At about 2300 last night, Eric Moyer's daughter went missing. Abduction is suspected. The local cops are on the case. An Army chaplain is present with the family. I've also received word a representative from Army CID is present. There has been no contact from the kidnappers."

"CID is already in place?" the admiral said.

Mac hesitated. "As I understand it, one special agent is there. Jerry Zinsser—"

"Sergeant Zinsser? The man on your team?"

"Formally on the team. You're aware of his unique situation, sir."

"I'm the one who made CID break the rules to bring him on board."

"I don't know the details," Admiral Gaughan said.

"Jerry Zinsser is an Army hero. He's been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for valor in Somalia. Unfortunately, he suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. He received treatment and is back on the level, but he's not field eligible anymore."

"So he's doing police work now?" The admiral narrowed his gaze.

"Yes, sir. I hear he's doing a great job."

"But he's not leading the investigation, right?"

"CID is not officially on the case yet. He's there because it's Eric Moyer's family that's involved."

"Still—"

"The man saved my life, Gary. Let it go." The president thought for a moment. "Okay, let's talk about the gorilla in the room. You think this has to do with the mission? Someone trying to get to Moyer through his daughter?"

Helen Brown spoke up. "I think we have to assume that's the case."

Andrew Bacliff groaned and brought his hands to his face.

"You okay, Andy?" Concern covered the president's face.

"Let me see if I have this right." Bacliff lowered his hands. "Moyer is risking his life, partly to save my son, if my son can be saved, and it may cost him his daughter?"

"We can't assume that, sir. It might not be related to the mission at all. It could be a simple abduction for—"

"We get the idea, Brownie." The president's gaze bored into Mac. "What do you suggest, Colonel?"

"We are in the bind that every commanding officer dreads. Moyer has a right to know. His family needs him, but he's on the other side of the world, deep in the mountains and valleys of Magadan region of Russia."

"Can you make contact with him?" President Huffington reached for his coffee cup.

"Yes, sir. Contact is no problem. We can use satellite phones or a new device we're using in the field. It delivers messages in short bursts."

"Like submarine flash messages," the admiral said.

"Exactly, sir. We've been following them in real time by satellite, so contact is the easy part."

"Then what's the hard part?" Helen Brown asked.

"The most difficult part is whether or not we should tell him. Knowing might change his focus. It sure would change mine. If we do tell him, then how do we extract him? It's not like he can take a bus out of the region. We're not supposed to be there."

"That's an understatement," Huffington said. "What are our options?"

Mac didn't hesitate. "Option one: We recall the whole team."

"That's not much of an option," Brown said. "There's too much at stake."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm just giving a range of options. I'm not saying that's the way to go."

"Carry on, Mac." Mac sensed impatience in his commander in chief.

"Option two: We keep the info to ourselves, telling him when the team is on the way home. Option three: we tell him the truth and let him carry on with his mission."

"Which he will do?" Bacliff whispered.

"I've known Moyer for a very long time. He'll finish his mission. I'd stake my career on it."

The admiral pressed his fingertips together. "That's what you'd be doing, Colonel."

"Tell him," Bacliff said. "We ask the man to risk his life time and time again. We owe him honesty."

"With all due respect," Brown said, "I think that's a bad idea. He and his team can do a better job if they don't know."

President Huffington stared at Mac. Mac returned the honor. "He's your man, Colonel, what should we do?"

"Tell him."

"You don't want to think about that?"

"I've been thinking about it since two this morning, sir."

The president rose and paced his office. No one interrupted him. A full minute later he said, "Do it."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, what can we do to help find Moyer's daughter?"