Racked with pain, Carrie felt the burning heat of the explosion and Vitruk’s pistol pressed hard against her temple. His crushing weight trapped her.
‘Stay still,’ he ordered.
Spreading flames cupped around the aircraft. ‘The fuel tank,’ she gasped.
‘It’s safe.’ Against the roar of the fire, there was a calm in his tone. She turned enough to see that the wind was blowing the flames away from what used to be the cockpit. The tail which held the fuel tank was skewed but untouched by fire. Rake stood midway between the wreckage and the hangar, stock-still, frozen mid-stride, his face etched with dread and determination.
‘So, you’ve decided to kill us all, Ozenna,’ shouted Vitruk. ‘You’re murdering the woman you love.’
‘I can get us out of this.’ Rake took a step out of cover.
‘How? We’re now waiting for your cruise missiles,’ said Vitruk.
Rake raised his arms above his head, part peace-offering, part showing off his automatic weapon. ‘Hear me out, Admiral. Please.’
‘You didn’t let my men hear you out before you murdered them.’
‘I’m a soldier, I was doing my job. Dr Walker is a civilian—’
‘So now you listen, Ozenna. In a few minutes, your bombs will tear Dr Walker’s limbs from her beautiful body. They will rip through her organs and their fire will burn her alive. Or, on your word, I’ll be kind and shoot her now so she will die without pain.’ His finger crept inside the guard to the trigger.
Slowly, so Vitruk could see his every move, Rake squatted and put his gun on the ground. He stood up, eyes locked onto the Russian. He brought out a phone from his pocket, holding it up in full sight. ‘I’ll open a line to Washington.’
‘To do what!’ yelled Vitruk. ‘Russia will never surrender.’
‘To bring in a helicopter to get you out, and we’ll head back to Little Diomede.’
‘Then what?’ Vitruk’s face twisted; the hatred and blame fermenting inside him for years were finally finding a way out.
Carrie’s thoughts raced. Men like Vitruk were poisoned by anger, unable to feel anything outside of themselves. One wrong word, one wrong movement, and Vitruk would kill and feel nothing. She could never change his mind. She could not overpower him. The more Rake talked, the more Vitruk’s fury boiled.
‘Let me make the call.’ Rake edged forward half a step. ‘I can—’
Vitruk fired into the air. A flash of yellow and blue flame leapt out of the chamber, and the roar of an exploding pistol cartridge crashed through Carrie’s eardrum. Rake stopped, hands raised, finger curled around the phone. The warm pistol barrel rested back against Carrie’s temple.
‘What can you end, Ozenna?’ said Vitruk. ‘More American bombs on more villages. More sanctions. More killings. More bullying. More of your fucking democracy. Never again will you strip Russia of her dignity.’
‘I’m moving back, OK?’ Rake took a step. ‘Take the weapon away from Dr Walker. Let’s wind this down.’
‘If you make that call, she will die.’
Rake’s finger stayed away from the keypad, but unexpectedly the phone lit, casting sudden light on his face. Carrie felt Vitruk stiffen. She braced for the pain and shock of a bullet ripping through her skull.
‘That was not me,’ Rake said. ‘It’s a message to this number. It’s not me. OK?’
He was pleading, showing weakness, because he cared for her. She was dead anyway. Now. Five seconds later. Five minutes. What did it matter? She was getting in the way of what Rake had to do. She needed one try to get inside Vitruk’s damaged mind, something that would cut through to reach whatever it was that made anyone human, however poisoned that humanity might be. The cold would prevent any of them lasting too long. Or an air strike. Neither Rake nor Vitruk were patient men. It was now, or not at all. One go, she told herself. One chance to help Rake. To give him that second of opportunity.
Vitruk pulled her to her feet, wrenching her arm in its socket. She scrambled up with him.
Rake shouted, ‘The message is from Washington. You need to—’
‘I need to do nothing!’ screamed Vitruk. ‘Tell them they are dealing with Admiral Alexander Vitruk, the man who—’
Carrie yelled across him, ‘The man who killed Larisa, his own daughter!’
Vitruk’s pistol butt crashed against her head, spinning her toward the ground. The cuff bit deep into her wrist. Her vision spun. Gray-black shades of darkness turned into a sea of white. She hung off him, unable to stand, unable to fall. He raised his arm for another blow, but she had got to him. His face was creased with uncertainty. She shouted, ‘You are a man who can’t stop murdering children and mothers because he was so drunk his own little girl is dead!’
He hit her again, twisting her head against her neck. She had reached his blackened heart. The blow was fast and ferocious. It left her head enveloped in pain, fighting to stay conscious. Then numbness took over pain. Her vision was gray, no colors. The helicopter flames danced a dirty glaring white. Snow on the granite hills lay lifeless. The buildings were gray under a gray sky. Her hearing was gone. Or the wind was howling so loud she couldn’t hear. She lost feeling except for a draining, sapping cold. The next blow would kill her. She turned her head to look further, to find Rake. Where was he? She must speak to him, tell him not to blame himself. A new pain shot through her. Not a blow. A nerve in the neck. A muscle. Something torn. What was the name? Suboccipital? No. Trapezius? She should… Her numbness faded. Her wrist hurt. The hard cuff. Vitruk pulling against her. It had only been a second. Maybe two. So many thoughts. So much undone. No time to live. A cold wash of hopelessness coursed through her as she waited for the last lethal blow.
A flash. A single gunshot crack. The tug at the cuff, tearing into her skin, pulling her where she couldn’t go. Uncontrolled. Vitruk jerked like he was dancing. Carrie’s senses rushed back. Vitruk stumbled, his legs gone, pulling her with him. The icy concrete rushed up toward her as they went down together. He hit the ground hard, and Carrie fell on top of him, arterial blood jetting from his neck warm on her skin.
Vitruk was shot. He was dying. Muscles twitching. The gush of blood became a dribble. Body warmth chilled. The face contorted in the way that unexpected death rips away confidence.
Then Rake was there, just like when she first saw him, with no other purpose except to make her safe. He didn’t speak. No smile. No reunion. This was the soldier she knew from the car bomb in Kabul. Rake placed the back of his hand against her neck, feeling for a pulse. Then, focused and fast, he unpeeled the heart monitor from the Russian’s wrist and attached it to Carrie’s. A pulse was a pulse. Her raised heartbeat pumped a signal to the phone that would keep the missile in its silo. Her breathing slowed. She tasted cold smoke from the helicopter fire. Then Henry came into view, moving carefully, checking each step, each inch, for hidden danger.
Rake recovered Vitruk’s phone. ‘Hold this,’ he told Carrie. They were his first words to her, not a question, but an order.
He stepped back, leaving her with Vitruk’s blood-soaked body. ‘This is Captain Ozenna,’ Rake said into same phone that had nearly killed them both. ‘The base is clear. Admiral Vitruk is dead.’
FORTY
‘The base is clear. Admiral Vitruk is dead.’ Stephanie heard Ozenna’s clipped, exact words. Harry was listening, along with dozens of others between the embassy and the NSA technicians at Fort Meade. Ozenna left no room for doubt. No sub-clauses. The man who would trigger the missile was dead. Phones rang, screens flashed. In short bursts of words, Ozenna described how Vitruk had a smart phone that sent his arterial pulse in a digital signal to the launch site. ‘It’s over,’ said Stephanie, struggling to envisage it all.