“Understood,” Quinn said. “Since she can’t get out of state, Merculief will want to do the most damage she can with the gas she has. That means she’ll look for population density. What day is it?”
“I gotta tell you, Quinn,” Pond said. “That doesn’t exactly engender confidence.”
“Ma’am,” Beaudine said, nearly coming out of her seat. “With all due respect, it’s easy to lose track of time when you’ve been through what we’ve been through.”
“You’re right,” Pond said, showing an incredible amount of humility for someone with the terrible cosmic power of a Special Agent in Charge. “It’s Friday.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Quinn said. “What do we have going on as far as events?”
There was a shuffle of paper on the line as Pond referred to a list.
“We’ve narrowed it down to four likely targets. There’s a production of The Little Mermaid at the Performing Arts Center, something called The American Forum for Citizenship at the Dena’ina, a punk rock concert at the Alaska Airlines Center, and an Aces hockey game at the Sullivan Arena.”
Quinn glanced up and saw Volodin was listening intently.
“Doctor,” Quinn said. “Did your daughter mention any of those places?”
A tear ran down the old man’s cheek. “I am sorry,” he said. “She did not.”
“Okay,” Quinn said, speaking back into the phone. “The last two attacks were televised. The hockey game will have news cameras.”
“It will,” Pond said. “My media liaison tells me local affiliates have news crews at both the Dena’ina event as well as the rock concert. That leaves The Little Mermaid as the only thing we can mark off in that regard.”
“A lot of kids there,” Quinn said. “Makes for an awfully appealing target even without the cameras.” He resolved to call Kim as soon as he hung up and make sure she stayed home with Mattie for the night.
“Each of the other attacks used only one canister,” Pond said. “We have to consider the possibility that Merculief got help. They could split up and hit multiple targets — or hit no targets at all and just wait and smuggle the gas out of state.”
“True,” Quinn said, knowing they weren’t going to get that lucky. Volodin had been clear that his daughter hated America and capitalism in general. She would want to use the gas at her earliest opportunity, one way or another.
Volodin cleared his throat. “If I may,” he said. “If my daughter does this horrible thing, it will be spontaneous, not well planned. My Kaija did not know we were leaving Russia until I destroyed some of the Novo Archangelsk.” He rubbed his face, his hands still cuffed, looking like he might break into tears. “She is so full of hate…”
“We really have no choice,” Quinn said, looking back at the phone. “We have to put people at all four events.” He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to seven. “What’s APD think about evacuation?”
“It’s a topic of discussion,” Pond said. “The fear is that once we play our hand, Merculief will deploy the gas before we can locate her. So far APD has blocked off access to each venue so no new people are getting in. Those already there are none the wiser… unless they snap to the fact that all the cops and federal agents at these venues have gas masks strapped to their legs.”
A sudden thought crossed Quinn’s mind, and he looked up at Volodin, snapping his fingers to get the dazed man’s attention. “What did Kaija and Polina talk about?”
“Polina…” Volodin smiled. “She is a nice young woman. Very close to having her baby, I think.” He gave Quinn a sly wink. “But I am not that kind of doctor.”
“What did she and Kaija talk about?” Quinn asked again.
“Oh…” Volodin shrugged. “This and that. She did not look very happy to see us.” He looked around the airplane then down at the handcuffs in his lap. “Have I done something wrong? Where is my daughter?”
Quinn turned back to Beaudine and the phone. “I’m not sure if Polina is involved in the gas attacks or if she’s just helping a friend.”
“I know Polina,” Trooper Evans said.
“Yeah, we’ve met her too,” Beaudine said, “and she’s a liar.”
Chapter 61
August Bowen had carried a fight strategy of one form or another in his head from the time he started Golden Gloves in junior high school. Fighting was about working the angles, especially against a stronger opponent, but it was mostly about heart — and Bowen knew he had plenty of that. Unfortunately, brute strength and meanness sometimes trumped even the strongest heart.
It had been difficult enough to find the location for the fight, an eight hundred square-foot storage area off a maze a level below the famed Doyers Street tunnel. A rusted sewer line over a foot in diameter ran along the outer cinderblock wall. One of Bowen’s high school coaches had warned him that he had a tendency to focus on the negative before a fight but the low ceilings and the lingering odor of rotten eggs made it impossible not to imagine a burst pipe. There was no way the two hundred plus fight fans who’d answered Maxim Ortega’s invitation would be able to scramble out of the tunnels before the underground cavern filled with sewage and they all drowned. He kept the little nightmare to himself and tried to focus on the match.
Volodin had arrived first and had stowed his yellow duffle before anyone had a chance to lay eyes on him. Agents from several alphabet soup agencies were already filtering in through the tunnels, placing bets to blend in, and looking for the duffle. No one knew exactly how much of this New Archangel gas Petyr had, but the powers that be weren’t taking any chances. As far as Bowen knew, half the people in the crowd were agents of the federal government — and that suited him right down to the bone. There was a chance that Volodin or his associates would deploy the gas at the fight but the general consensus was that the two hundred ne’er-do-wells clamoring for violence three stories under the belly of Chinatown didn’t make for a very appealing target. Still, terrorists who didn’t put much value on their own lives could easily deploy the gas out of desperation.
Surprisingly, the Ortegas had invested in an actual chain-link octagon and mat for their illicit operation. Twenty-five feet across, the padding on the support posts was more duct tape than foam, and the black vinyl chain-link was worn down to the steel in several places. The mat itself was far from level, with hills and valleys at each seam. Rust-colored bloodstains, from what looked like the remnants of a massacre, covered a five-foot section of the mat near the blue corner. It was a stark reminder of what was about to happen in the ring. Three portable halogen work lights illuminated the area, making it possible for the hungry crowd to see every drop of blood.
Flanked by Thibodaux and Garcia, Bowen bounced and shuffled on his feet to stay loose as Maxim Ortega introduced the fighters using a portable megaphone. Thibodaux had been right about the circus atmosphere of a mismatch. The faces in the crowd ran the gamut from Wall Street executives, Chinese business owners, and a sizable number of wise guys from Knickerbocker Village. Most of them had surely bet on Volodin, the odds on the Russian were so low that most in the crowd were just hungry for blood — and they didn’t particularly care whose it was.
Maxim Ortega stood in the center of the mat as he introduced the fighters in an over-enunciated voice like he was trying to imitate Howard Cosell.
“In the blue corner, wearing black trunks, weighing in at one hundred eight-two pounds, standing five feet ten inches tall, the challenger, August, Baby Bear, Bowwweeeennn.” Bowen had unwisely left his fight name up to Ortega.