The knife.Where was the knife Grim had given him? In its hip sheath,Hansen remembered. He tried to reach across with his left hand, but he couldn't get the angle, and Rugar was repeatedly hammering at his fingers to get him to release the gun.
Hansen grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it in the man's eyes, but Rugar didn't need to see a damned thing in order to keep holding down Hansen's wrist and pummeling the hell out of his hand. After three more blows, Rugar groaned and opened his mouth, a rabid dog ready to take his bite.
Suddenly Hansen's fingers gave out, and the weapon fell free. Rugar grabbed the pistol and fell back on his ass, the snow falling on him, the wind cutting across them as Hansen sat up to face him. His hands throbbed as he lifted them and, in a voice that cracked, said, "I do speak Russian. My name is Dmitry Anatolyevich Medvedev."
Rugar did not appreciate the quip. Hansen was certainly not the president of the Russian Federation. Rugar cursed at him and, still holding him at gunpoint, finally answered his ringing phone: "Yes, I have him. What? You did what? Oh, no. Okay? You want me to kill him?"
Rugar lowered his phone.
"You can't kill me," Hansen told the man in a jovial tone.
"Oh, really?"
Hansen began to laugh. "Yes. My gun is empty, you fool."
In the moment it took for Rugar to look down at the weapon, Hansen was rushing away, up toward the service road, where Rugar's weapon had landed.
Rugar screamed for Hansen to halt, and Hansen wasn't sure why he did, but he stole a look back just as Rugar fired.
The anesthetic dart struck on the neck, just below Hansen's left earlobe.
The fat Russian recoiled in surprise. "Tranquilizer?" "See you when I wake up." Hansen grinned and collapsed to the snow. A warm wave broke over his head and traveled down into his feet. The throbbing from Rugar's beating withered away, and every other ache and pain was replaced by the strange sensation of being weightless in a dark pool, in which he saw Grim shaking her head at him.
She opened her mouth, but when she spoke, a fat Russian man's voice came out: "He's unconscious but alive. I'm going to bring him back, and I will question him."
10
SERGEIhad remained behind the fuel truck and watched in shock as Bratus gunned down his colleagues, the two loading men from the chopper, and the pilots. The Russian operative was a one-man killing machine, his silenced weapon thumping, his shots expertly placed. He'd taken out Murdoch's driver, and then, almost matter-of-factly, he'd made a phone call.
Following that, he'd begun trying in vain to open the big Anvil case that now lay on the snow-swept tarmac. The locks must have had digital combinations, because he didn't bother to check the bodies for keys. At one point he rose, stepped back, and fired a round into one lock to no avail.
And then a most amazing sight: A lumberjack of a man came forward from the service road with a body slung over his shoulder. Not until he came much closer did Sergei realize that the giant was carrying Hansen.
With his pulse beginning to race, Sergei thought of heading back to the car, but he had to be sure that Hansen was dead. At least the job had been completed, if not by Sergei's hand. He wouldn't collect the money, but perhaps they'd leave Victoria alone. Who was he kidding? Nothing was certain now.
For just a moment Sergei allowed himself to feel the pain of his friend's loss. He heard Hansen assure him, "I'm your friend." He remembered their time together at the CIA, their training on "The Farm," the practical jokes and the camaraderie, the pain they'd shared in Somalia, and that time Hansen had taken him out for drinks on his birthday and treated him like a brother. . . .
With eyes beginning to burn, he shifted around the truck to get a better view. The giant in the funny little hat set Hansen's body down near one of the cars; then, as Bratus shouted, the gaint hurried over to the Anvil case. They carried the case to Bratus's car and were able to open the pass-through so they could load it between the trunk and backseat, along with Murdoch and Zhao. They transferred all the Chinese bodies from the helicopter into Murdoch's car, since Zhao had left his car at the pub and had ridden along with Bratus.
After that, the big guy picked up Hansen and headed toward one of the hangars. Meanwhile, Bratus stood by his car and made another phone call, waiting impatiently for an answer.
Sergei frowned. The fat man was taking Hansen inside the hangar. Why? To question him? That meant Hansen might still be alive. They'd knocked him out? How? And why would they remain here, at the scene of multiple murders, to question a spy they'd captured? Why not take him someplace else? Maybe they didn't feel rushed. Maybe this was all planned from the beginning.
Sergei waited a moment more; then he darted away from the fuel truck toward the back of the hangar. He found the rear service door locked, of course, but he always carried his picking tools, and within a few breaths the knob turned freely.
Wincing, he carefully opened the door and slipped, save for a slight gust of wind, soundlessly inside. He now crouched behind a pair of helicopters, small ones reserved mostly for business travel. Nearby was a wall of mechanics' stations with power and air tools cluttering the benches. A pair of rolling carts with stacks of drawers sat beside one bird, and Sergei took up a position behind the taller cart while the fat man switched on a light near another station on the opposite side of the hangar. Once more he set down Hansen's body. Then he went into a small adjoining office and returned with a wooden chair. He propped Hansen on the chair and proceeded to flex-cuff him to it. That the fat man walked around with flex-cuffs in his pocket said a lot about his line of work.
He grabbed Hansen by the hair, stared into his face, then grumbled something and let Hansen's head drop. He began searching Hansen's pockets and weapons belt, along with the pack, which he'd removed before setting him down. After the fat man moved the gear to a nearby table, he grabbed Hansen's wrist, studied the OPSAT, whose touch screen remained dark, then decided to remove the device and toss it down with the other stuff.
Just then Hansen began to stir, his head lolling from right to left, and suddenly the fat man smacked him across the face. "Wake up! Wake up!"
Slowly Hansen lifted his head, glancing vaguely, and that was when the fat man reared back and delivered a solid blow to the jaw. Sergei flinched and glanced away for a moment, even as the Russian let loose another fist.
Then the bastard went over to the table, took something, and returned.
A blade sprang to life in his hand.
Sergei wasn't sure he could watch any more of this. In his mind's eye, he saw Hansen's severed fingers dropping to the floor . . . then an ear . . . another ear . . . and shrieks of agony from his old friend.
"We know why you've come," growled the fat man. "Now, if you tell me what I need to know, you will live."
Like Sergei, Hansen had been trained on how to steel himself against torture, but you never really knew how you'd react until it was real. Would Hansen really hold it?