The Backup Asset (30 page)

Evgheni Smolin woke up a little disoriented and started looking around his hospital room. The smells of disinfectant and medication were his first sensory input, followed by the whiteness of everything in that room.

He was by himself; always a good thing. His healthy left arm was handcuffed to the bed rail, and an IV line was stuck in it. His right shoulder hurt quite badly, but it was bearable. His right arm was bandaged and immobilized. His mouth felt dry, probably from the anesthetics they had given him for surgery.

There was a chip in one of his molars. He felt around with the tip of his tongue, then grunted angrily. His cyanide capsule was gone, probably removed during surgery. Bastards . . .

He was hooked up to several sensors. A clasp sensor on one of his fingers measured his blood oxygenation. Several adhesive sensors planted on his chest conveyed electrical signals to the monitors next to his bed. The upper monitor beeped and displayed a healthy, steady heart rate of fifty-eight beats per minute, and a blood pressure of 112 over 74. The lower monitor showed his breathing rate at fourteen per minute, with 98 percent O
2
sat.

The wall at his right was made entirely of glass and had a French door, which was wide open. He took a few minutes to observe the traffic in the hallway, and listen to the sounds—how distant they were and what kind. All was peaceful on that hospital floor, except the MP who guarded his room closely, leaning against the glass. However, that MP was bound to leave his post at some point.

Waiting for that to happen, he started checking out his own body. He lifted his head from the pillow and noted no dizziness. Great. He tensed the muscles in one leg, then the other, restoring a vigorous blood flow and waking those muscles up. He was ready, as ready as he was ever going to be.

The MP looked in his direction briefly, then walked slowly away. Smolin gave him a minute to disappear, then moved into action.

First, he leaned on his left side, reached out, and with a great deal of effort, grabbed the IV needle with his teeth, and pulled it out of his arm. Then he held his breath for as long as he could, sending one of the monitors into a beeping frenzy. After that, he started hyperventilating, and then held his breath again. This type of respiratory distress finally raised his heart rate above 120 beats per minute and spiked his blood pressure, causing the second monitor to join in the concert of beeps.

A nurse burst in his room and started checking his vitals on the monitors, as Smolin heaved, hyperventilated, and writhed on the bed, making it hard for the nurse to assess his condition. Vaguely, he heard a code call, and then the nurse’s voice, yelling from right next to him.

“Hey, you, come on in here and remove his handcuff, stat!”

The MP came in and did as instructed. The moment Smolin felt his hand go free, he grabbed the MP’s hand and jumped, headbutting him hard. The MP fell backward against the rack of monitors. The same second Smolin was on his feet, tearing his sensor wires away from his body, and kicking the fallen MP in the neck, sending him out cold.

He turned to deal with the nurse, who was leaping toward the exit. He grabbed her from behind and slammed her against the wall. She fell and lay senseless.

He leaned down, grabbed her ICU access card, and disappeared.

Alex bypassed the line for the public TSA screening and went toward the gate reserved for flight crews and traveling law enforcement. That was her only option, if she wanted to travel anywhere with her weapon.

She presented her FBI credentials to the TSA officer, then she proceeded through the gate, and walked right out of there staring intently at the TSA officer who had just waved her through.

“Is there something wrong, miss?” the man asked, surprised by her intent gaze.

“N–no, nothing,” she said. She pulled her cell phone and dialed Weber’s number, walking away from the checkpoint.

“Miss? You forgot your bag.”

“Shit,” she mumbled, then grabbed it and walked away just as Weber picked up the call.

“Hey, Jeremy, it’s me.”

“Hey, you,” he replied. “Ready to go home?”

“Yeah. Just cleared TSA, which made me think we should ask them if they see sandwiches or any other food go by.”

“Right,” he said, “good point. I’ll get right on that. Safe travels, Ms. Hoffmann.”

“Thanks. Oh, and by the way, I hated working with you. So you know, Agent Weber,” she said, smiling widely. “You’re good people, Weber.”

“You, too. Hey, could you just hold on for a sec, I have another call coming in.”

He put her on hold before she could answer. There wasn’t really anything much left to be said, anyway.

“Hey, you still there?” Weber’s voice sounded grave and urgent as he picked up the call again.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Smolin’s gone. Escaped, vanished.”

“Oh, crap, how the hell did that happen? When?”

“He left the Naval Medical Center in an ambulance, headed who knows where. Left two people down in this wake. “

She suddenly halted her brisk walk toward the gate and did a 180, running in the opposite direction.

“Weber, listen, I think I know exactly where he’s going.”

“Another hunch?”

“He’s going to church.”

“To pray?” Weber sounded incredulous.

“Nope . . . to seek assistance,” she said, panting a little from her jog. “I’ve been wondering how they communicate, how they organize without ever being seen or noticed. Ethnic churches are the best way possible. Even judges resent issuing surveillance warrants for churches. It’s the perfect hiding place. There’s a Russian Orthodox Church nearby; I’m going there right now. I’m only minutes away.”

“Don’t engage him until we get there. You hear me?”

“Yeah, sure,” she replied, almost chuckling, then hung up and hailed a cab.

Moscow’s Ritz Carlton spa knew how to treat its VIP guests. Dimitrov and Myatlev found there exquisite spa treatments in the safety and privacy of dedicated rooms well-guarded by Myatlev’s ex-Spetsnaz bodyguards. Rose essential oils and a carefully balanced breeze of fresh air completed a quiet, relaxing atmosphere that both of them enjoyed deeply.

Two masseuses, wearing barely there bikinis, had just completed full body massages for the two guests, then disappeared without a word, leaving their clients happy and content. The men rested naked on warm marble slabs, their skin completely covered in massage oils. They chatted quietly, subdued by deep relaxation, almost dozing off at times.

“You need a lot more massage to deal away with that flab, Vitya,” Dimitrov laughed, pointing at Myatlev’s potbelly.

“This?” Myatlev asked, pinching his overflowing belly. “This is beyond redemption, my dear friend.” They both broke down with laughter.

Myatlev signaled his adjutant, Ivan, for some Perrier water with lime. He drank a full glass, then said, “The goodies are starting to come in, just as planned.”

“What do you have?” Dimitrov asked, his interest dissipating his relaxation.

“We have the technical notes for the laser cannon installation on mobile platforms. We have enough to know what we’re missing to be able to deploy such weapon systems ourselves.”

“What do we need?”

“Power. Our power source for our laser weapon is huge, and our engineers haven’t figured out how to miniaturize it, even with the information that’s been trickling in.”

“So what do you want to do, Vitya?”

“We need to get our hands on the power source schematics, as soon as possible, what else?” Myatlev smiled and winked, making Dimitrov laugh.

“Of course,” he replied laughing. “Research takes too fucking long.”

“I’ll send Karp to the field. He’s ready.”

They remained silent for a while, as their laughter died down and they both became engulfed in their own thoughts.

“You know what else I’d like to do?” Myatlev asked after a while.

“Mmm . . . What?” Dimitrov replied.

“I’d like to pay a little attention to the American ICBM sites. Rumors have it they’re a little rusty, old, and falling apart. I think it’s doable and worth checking out.”

“We’ve cleaned ours up,” Dimitrov said. “Most of them were bad, inoperable. I wonder if theirs are just as bad.”

“Twenty-five years is twenty-five years in both countries, Mishka. That’s a lot of neglect. But I’m thinking more than just seeing which ones are operable and which ones are not.”

“What?” Dimitrov asked, intrigued, and turned on his side to face Myatlev.

“I’m thinking by now they must know you’ve cleaned and prepared ours for action, right?”

Dimitrov nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Then they must be getting ready to clean theirs.”

“And?”

“And that means nuclear missiles moving from location to location, temporary nuclear test codes available for the right people, and so on. Tons of opportunity for us, Mishka.”

“You’re a twisted motherfucker! Genius! Let’s do that!” Dimitrov said, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “Glad you’re on our side!”

“Lady, I’ve never seen anyone in such a hurry to get to church,” the cabbie said, grabbing the fifty-dollar bill offered to him. “Here we are,” he said, bringing the cab to an abrupt halt with a prolonged tire squeal.

“Wait here,” Alex said, pulling her weapon and heading for the church.

She entered the church quietly, her senses in full alert, taking in the stillness of the place, the dimmed light coning through the stained-glass windows and the strong smell of burned incense. She looked ahead and saw a man walking toward the iconostasis. The man had a slight asymmetry; he walked with his right shoulder a tad lower than the left.

“Smolin, stop right there!” she yelled, pointing her gun at the man’s back.

Out of nowhere, a priest approached and smacked her in the head with a prayer book, sending her to her knees and her gun sliding under the nearest pew. She shook her head a little, trying to dissipate the sharp pain, and rubbed her hand against her temple, where the pain was worse. Her hand touched something warm and moist, with a strong metallic smell. Blood. Her own.

She turned while still on her knees and grabbed the priest’s legs, throwing him to the floor. Then she sprung on top of him, hitting him hard in the chest with her knee, and in the side of his neck with her fisted right hand.

She reached under the pew and grabbed her weapon. Smolin was nowhere in sight. She ran toward the iconostasis, hesitated a little, then entered the sanctuary just in time to catch a glimpse of Smolin making a clumsy run for the back door.

She holstered her gun then sprinted ahead, jumped, and clasped her hands around Smolin’s neck, coming from behind. Then she let all her weight on him, kicking the back of his knees. They fell to the floor, Alex on top of Smolin, and Smolin grunting and swearing, feeling the pain in his shoulder. Her hands still held tight around his neck, squeezing as hard as she could.

“Shoot me,” Smolin managed to articulate, in a strangled voice, probably trying to get her to release her grip.

“No,” she panted, “first you talk. Then, maybe I will.”

He suddenly rolled over on his left shoulder, catching her under his weight, crushing her. She gasped for air. He was massive, and still strong, despite his shoulder wound. She started kicking blindly from underneath him, and finally hit his crotch, while her fingernails dug deep into the skin of his neck, gripping and tugging at his Adam’s apple. He yelped and curled on his side, then threw himself against her as she was trying to get up, and slammed her into the wall.

A couple of icons fell off the wall and shattered, and she fell alongside the wall, landing hard. Smolin punched her with his left hand, almost missing, yet hitting her hard.

Her vision darkened, and she felt she was about to lose consciousness. She managed to pull her gun and shoot, getting Smolin in his left shoulder. He yelled in pain and fell to the floor, crouched and writhing.

She stood with difficulty, still pointing her Walther PPK at Smolin, and wiped the blood off her face, grimacing in pain. Her entire body hurt, and a sharp pain pierced her under her ribs every time she breathed. Her head was throbbing, and she was angry as hell.

“Now let’s see who’s gonna wipe your sorry ass, motherfucker,” she said, just as she heard in the distance someone yell, “Clear!”

“Ah . . . she’s got vocabulary too,” Weber said, as he entered the sanctuary with his weapon drawn and a couple of agents in tow. “Remove this piece of trash from here,” he said to the other agents, then turned to Alex.

“Are you OK?” he asked, then he replied to his own question. “No, you’re not. We need to get you to a hospital. Let’s go,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder and helping her walk.

“Hey, Jer?”

“Yeah?”

“Did I just break the law of sanctuary?” she asked, feeling a little ridiculous for asking that question. “I chased a man and shot him in a church. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“And you cussed in a church too! Forgot that already?” Weber laughed. “You’ll have plenty of stories to tell your grandkids.”

His voice turned a little more serious, as he added, “The law of sanctuary was abolished centuries ago, and all it really stated was that the fugitive seeking sanctuary in a church couldn’t be killed, but would still have to be held accountable for his criminal acts.”

“Oh . . .” she said, suddenly feeling drained, as the adrenaline washed away.

“The churches weren’t meant to be havens for killers and rapists, you know,” he continued, speaking as if he spoke to a wounded, vulnerable child. “They were protecting people from political prosecution mainly, like running from an irate king, jealous of one’s land, or choice of fiancée. Plus, you didn’t even kill him, so you’re good.”

She looked at him with thankful eyes.

“How come you know so much about this?”

He cleared his throat before speaking and smiled briefly.

“Oh well . . . I chased and arrested someone in a church one time, and my mom gave me grief about it for weeks.”

“No Thanksgiving dinner for you that year, huh?”

“Something like that, yeah . . .” he laughed.

“OK, I feel a little better, thanks. I still feel weird about it, that’s all. You know, being in there with my gun drawn and all that.”

He helped her sit down on the rear bumper of the ambulance, as an EMT worked on her head wound.

“You wanna know what the punishment was for whoever broke the law of sanctuary in the 1500s?”

“What?” She smiled, wincing from the disinfectant applied to her cut temple.

“They had to pay 120 shillings. That’s about fifteen pound sterling, or twenty-three dollars. With inflation and all, maybe a couple hundred bucks would take care of it?”

“That much I can manage,” she replied, and they laughed together.