A Bloody Storm: A Derrick Storm Short (4 page)

Or so they both thought.

Showers was not going to London. The Bureau had instructed Cumerford to drive her to the Royal Air Force base in Lakenheath, where the U.S.’s Forty-eighth Medical Squadron was
based. It had flights with medical personnel on board in case she suffered a relapse. The base was seventy miles north of London, which was another plus. By the time reporters realized that they’d been fooled and started the drive to Lakenheath, Showers would be gone.

The bullet had broken Showers’s right collarbone. But it had been shock that had almost done her in. Had she not gotten to the hospital in what doctors called “the golden hour,” she would have died. Her right arm was now in a sling and she was taking pain pills, but she had not suffered any permanent damage, although there would be a nasty scar to remind her of how close she’d come to death.

“I don’t need to fly back on a medical transport,” she complained.

“Washington insisted,” Cumerford said. “You don’t have a choice.”

“Just like I didn’t have a choice about my statement,” she replied.

“Did you know the Good Samaritan called the hospital to check on you?” Cumerford asked.

“What?”

“Steve Mason, or whatever the hell his real name is. He’d been specifically ordered not to risk calling. But apparently he’s not someone who colors inside the lines.”

“No, he doesn’t think much of rules,” she said. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“You were sleeping. Apparently, when they didn’t put his call through to you, he said a few things to the hospital staff that upset their English sensibilities.”

Showers fought the urge to smile.

As they neared the intersection of the A14 and M11 roadways, Cumerford noticed a road sign that had two yellow, bending palm trees emblazoned on it, with a bright red background.

“There’s what the Brits call an extra service area ahead,” he explained. “We can pull in there and get something. Most of these service areas have a food court. That would be a smarter place for us to stop than getting off the main motorway and going into a pub, where you might be recognized.”

“I come to England and end up eating at McDonald’s.”

“The BBC has been showing photos of you almost every hour for the past two days,” he said. “They’re calling it the Oxford Massacre. The Brits aren’t used to gunfights, especially at peaceful college demonstrations.”

To Showers, Cumerford seemed like an okay guy. He’d been a special agent about five years longer than she had and had done a stint in Washington, D.C., before being sent to London. It was a cushy assignment reserved for FBI agents who were rising stars.

“I’d kill for a good cup of coffee” he said. “The Brits may know how to make tea, but they’re lousy at brewing a simple cup of coffee. It’s one thing I miss.”

“My stomach is a bit upset. I’ll just use the bathroom.”

They pulled off the A14, and Cumerford parked near the front of the main service building. It was a modern, one-floor structure with large glass windows. Inside were five fast-food eateries, including a McDonald’s and a Kentucky Fried Chicken, located in a half-circle food court mobbed with customers.

“I’m going to use the head, too, before I get my coffee,” Cumerford said. “I’ll meet you in the food court when you are done. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

He shot her a smile.

The restrooms were to the immediate left of the entrance, about twenty feet from the food court. When Showers walked into the women’s side, there were two girls washing their hands at
a row of sinks. She slipped by them into an empty stall and struggled to unbutton her pants with her left hand. She struggled with the button and zipper and silently chuckled. She’d had an easier time fatally shooting a man with her left hand than she had dropping her jeans. As she sat down, she heard the girls at the sink depart. In the quiet, she let out a loud sigh. She was exhausted, but mostly frustrated, because she knew her shoulder injury was going to take her out of the action. She’d accomplished what she’d been sent to England for. She’d solved the double murders in Washington, D.C., that she’d been sent to England to investigate. She would explain to her superiors that Lebedev and Nad had orchestrated the kidnapping of Matthew Dull and the assassination of his stepfather, Senator Thurston Windslow. She didn’t know why Storm and the CIA hadn’t told her about the gold. She wasn’t supposed to know about it. But she’d been drawn into that aspect of the case when Lebedev started torturing Petrov in the back of the Mercedes. She suspected that “Steve Mason” already was scheming with Jedidiah Jones about ways to recover the gold. But she wouldn’t be part of that now. She’d be stuck at a desk tending her wound. She wondered if she would ever see Steve Mason again or if he would simply disappear just as suddenly as he had appeared in her life. Regardless, she was determined to investigate him as soon as she got back in Washington. If his father was a retired FBI agent, there had to be some thread she could follow.

Buttoning her pants proved as difficult left-handed as loosening them. When she finally managed to complete the task, she opened the stall door, pulling it toward her.

From nowhere, a huge figure appeared in front of her. Showers stepped back and reached for her right hip with her left hand. It was where she normally kept her Glock holstered. When her fingers felt nothing but fabric, she realized that Cumerford had not returned her Glock when she was discharged that morning. She had only one useful arm and no weapons.

For a large man, he moved quickly. Showers saw the flash of his hand, felt a jab into her neck, and then a strange warmth just before she passed out. He caught her limp body as she started to collapse.

“You got her?” a nervous woman watching from the doorway to the women’s room asked. She was dressed as a nurse, with a stethoscope dangling from her neck. She had been stopping women from entering the restroom, explaining that a medical emergency was being addressed inside.

“Yes,” the hulking figure replied.

Speaking into a tiny microphone tucked under the sleeve of her blouse, the nurse said, “We’re ready here. Where’s the other American?”

“He just walked out of the men’s room and now is standing in line at McDonald’s,” a male voice replied in her tiny earpiece. “He’s got two customers ahead of him.”

From the interior of the food court, it was impossible for Agent Cumerford to see the entrance to the women’s restroom or a side exit near it that opened into the parking lot.

But Cumerford was not alarmed. Women generally took longer in restrooms than men.

“Let’s go now!” the woman ordered.

The man she’d been speaking to immediately left his post in the food court and walked briskly toward her.

“Medical emergency,” the nurse said, taking the lead. “Stand aside please.”

The gaggle of women patiently waiting at the restroom doorway cleared an opening for the foursome. Within seconds, Showers had been hustled outside and tucked into the rear seat of a sedan with tinted windows.

By the time Cumerford paid for his coffee and collected his change, he was beginning to become suspicious. He scanned the food court, but there was no sight of Showers. He hurried over to the women’s restroom but didn’t want to yell inside for Showers, and he couldn’t walk inside without creating a scene. Cumerford noticed a rest area security guard coming through the front entrance, reporting to work, so he hurried up to him.

“I’m traveling with a female friend who was discharged this morning from a hospital,” he said. “She’s been in the women’s restroom for a long time and I’m worried she might have fainted or is having trouble.”

The male guard used his portable radio to call a matron, who approached them about a minute later.

“This man’s lost his woman friend in the loo,” the guard explained. “Says she’s just been discharged from the hospital and is wearing a sling.”

“Broken arm?” the woman asked.

“Broken collarbone, an accident,” he replied, catching himself before he said “gunshot.”

“I’ll check,” the matron said cheerfully, only to return moments later.

“Sorry, mate,” she said. “But there’s no women in the loo wearing a sling. No Yanks at all. Maybe she’s gone into the food court.”

Grabbing his cell phone, Cumerford stepped away from them and called his supervising agent at the embassy in London.

“Showers has disappeared!”

“What? How? Weren’t you with her?”

“Not in the bathroom. We stopped at a service area.”

Cumerford felt a tug on his arm. It was the matron.

“A couple said they saw your lady friend being carried out of the loo a few minutes ago. There was a nurse with her. She was unconscious.”

“A nurse?”

“A nurse and two gentlemen. One was carrying her. He was a big fellow.”

Speaking into his cell phone, Cumerford said, “Oh my God! Someone’s abducted her! We’ve lost Agent Showers!”

President’s Office

Senate Office Building inside the Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

Hanging on the wall directly behind President Barkovsky’s desk inside his Kremlin office was the Russia Republic’s coat of arms. The red seal had a double-headed, golden eagle in its center. In one sinister talon, the bird was clutching a scepter. An imperial crown was in the other talon. There was an overlay of Saint George on a horse about to slay a dragon in the center of the crest.

Barkovsky hated both his antique presidential desk and the seal, but especially the seal. It had been adopted in 1993 by his predecessors, after the collapse of the Soviet Empire. The reformers had stripped away the more familiar hammer and sickle and its motto:
“
Workers of the World, Unite.”

“What does Saint George slaying a dragon have to do with modern Russia?” Barkovsky frequently complained to visitors. The legend had been brought back from the crusades in Libya. Why had the country’s leaders put a crusader on a national emblem when there were so many better choices? Barkvosky felt he might as well be on that seal, but certainly before St. George. He had done more for Russia.

Barkovsky had just returned to his office after having a light lunch, when there was a rap on his door and his chief of staff, Mikhail Sokolov, entered, saying: “I have news.”

“First answer me this,” Barkovsky replied. “I wanted Ivan Petrov interrogated and killed. I wanted the Americans blamed for his murder. What do our people in London do? They sent three assassins to shoot him at a public rally! How is that blaming the FBI? And then they failed to kill him! And now Petrov and Lebedev are dead, and only the two Americans survived.”

“Petrov was not supposed to be killed at the rally,” Sokolov explained. “The plan was for our men to ambush Petrov and the Americans after the rally when they were returning in a convoy to Petrov’s English estate. Petrov’s security chief was helping us. She was supposed to make it look like the two Americans killed Petrov and two of his security guards before they were fatally wounded. Only the security chief and Lebedev were supposed to survive the attack. They would be the only witnesses and would interrogate Petrov about the gold before killing him.”

“If that was the plan, then why did our men begin shooting at the rally?”

“Because they were recognized by the Americans in the crowd before Petrov began his speech. This Good Samaritan—this unidentified CIA man—was about to confront one of them. Our man panicked and began shooting.”

“It’s a total disaster. Now the entire world is blaming me, and why not? The men who London hired for this job were all ex-KGB, and all were total idiots. This has become an international incident. And we still have no idea where my gold is located.”

“Ah, but we do. That is the good news that I have come to report.”

“You know where my gold is? Where is it? How do you know?”

“We do not know the exact spot yet, but we will. Our people in England have abducted the woman FBI agent,” Sokolov said.

“How does that help me find my gold? What use is she to me now that Petrov is dead?”

“She knows where your gold is hidden.”

“That’s impossible,” Barkovsky replied. “The BBC is reporting that she was unconscious in the car after the shootings at the rally. She has no idea what happened between Petrov and Lebedev or how they ended up dead.”

“The BBC is lying. Petrov told her where the gold is located before he died.”

“How can you possibly know this?”

“Because we have confirmation. We have a friend helping us—someone who our intelligence service hasn’t heard from for many years.”

“We have a spy in the FBI?”

“No, in Langley. One of our best recruits has resurfaced after four years. We’d thought we’d lost him because he stopped all communication with us and disappeared. But now he is back and is helping us again. He sent word early this morning that the CIA is forming a team to go after the gold. The CIA is forming this team because the female FBI agent—April Showers—told them where the gold is located. She must have been conscious in the car when Lebedev interrogated Petrov. That is why we have kidnapped her.”

Barkovsky let loose a stream of expletives. “We warned the Americans to stay away from my gold, but Mr. Jedidiah Jones thinks he can defy me and get away with it.”