"I see him," Parker said. "White Ford Explorer. He's holding in the tree line."
Dublowski kept them heading across the DZ toward the far tree line. "Let me know when he follows."
"He's coming," Parker said as the Explorer left the cover of the trees.
Dublowski spun the wheel hard and they skidded around to face back the way they had come. He gunned the engine and they were headed straight for the Explorer.
"You're under control, right?" Parker tightened her seat belt.
"Oh, yeah, I'm under control," Dublowski assured her. The driver of the Explorer slowed, uncertain. Dublowski accelerated further.
"Jesus, Dan!" Parker exclaimed as the gap between the two vehicles narrowed, dropping under a hundred meters.
The Explorer stopped, then began going in reverse. The driver spun his wheel, turning, trying to point in the opposite direction, but the sand slowed him down.
"Dan!" Parker screamed as they closed within twenty meters of the Explorer. At the last moment, less than ten meters from the other truck, Dublowski slammed on the brakes. The pickup slid through the sand, the front bumper slamming into the side of the Explorer. Dublowski threw his door open and leapt out, pistol in hand.
He used the Explorer's bumper as a step and jumped up onto the hood of the truck, weapon pointed at the windshield.
"Get out!" he yelled.
When the driver hesitated, Dublowski fired a shot into the windshield, cracking it.
"Get out!"
The passenger door swung open and a man scooted out, hands held over his head. "Take it easy!"
"Fuck you, take it easy." Dublowski had the muzzle trained right between the man's eyes. "I know you. You're the Clowns in Action rep here. Ferguson. Why are you following us?"
"Lower the gun."
"Fuck you," Dublowski repeated. He jumped off the hood of the Explorer, landing five feet in front of Ferguson.
"Your vocabulary needs—" Ferguson's retort ended abruptly as Dublowski stepped forward and smacked him a sharp blow in the nose with the barrel of the pistol.
"Jesus!" Ferguson's hands dropped to try to stem the flow of blood that gushed forth. "You broke it!"
"That ain't all I'm gonna break." Dublowski shoved Ferguson, tumbling him to the ground. The sergeant major put his foot in the CIA man's chest. "Why are you following us?"
"Why the hell do you think? Orders."
"From who?"
"My boss."
"A name."
"The D/BO, director of Operations."
"Kim Gereg?" Parker asked.
Ferguson nodded, immediately wincing in pain as blood sprayed the ground around him.
"Why would she want us followed?" Parker asked.
"Shit, I don't know." Ferguson tried to sit and Dublowski shoved him back down.
"What do you know about Takamura getting killed?" Dublowski demanded.
"Who?"
Dublowski leaned over. He pressed the tip of the muzzle against Ferugson's nose, bringing a yelp of pain.
"Don't play stupid. You know everything that goes down in this part of the country. That's your job."
"I know that some GI named Takamura was killed. I requested a copy of the state police report. Other than that, I don't know anything."
Dublowski shook his head. "You're lying."
"What are you going to do?" Ferguson sat up. "Shoot me?"
"Yes." Dublowski leveled the 9mm pistol at Ferguson's head and his finger wrapped around the trigger.
"Dan!" Parker yelled.
Dublowski pulled the trigger. The round cracked past Ferguson's head into the sandy ground.
"I find out you're holding out on me, I swear, I won't miss next time." Dublowski put the pistol back in the holster hidden under his BDU shirt. "Let's go," he said to Parker.
Getting to the Ukraine had turned out to be not as hard as Thorpe had thought it would be. He'd hopped an IFOR flight from Stuttgart to Croatia, where — as a result of a phone call Master Sergeant King had made — a member of the First Battalion, Tenth Special Forces Group had been waiting with a HUMMV. They drove to the northeast corner of Serbia, where Thorpe crossed the border into Romania, paying off the border police not to inspect his bags or check his passport. He then took several trains across Romania to the border with the Ukraine, where it was once again a case of bribing corrupt border guards.
Ten years ago the journey would have practically been impossible under the various countries' communist regimes, but under the present economic situation, border guards lived more off their bribes than off their intermittent salary. The infrastructure of these countries had broken down so severely, Thorpe was surprised there even were any border guards.
Chernovsty was only thirty kilometers from the Romanian border and Thorpe arrived less than ten hours after leaving Germany. Studying the map of the town on the train had shown him that the hotel the Mossad said Jawhar was staying in to be within walking distance of the train station.
Without hesitating, he left the station and strode through the streets of Chernovsty. It was a dark and dreary town, a film of black from the nearby coal plant covering even the brightest of colors. There were few cars in the streets and the market stalls held scant goods.
Thorpe paused as he turned a corner. The hotel was down the block and across the street. He stared at it for a minute, then walked directly toward the front door. He put his hand into the pocket of the raincoat he was wearing, wrapping his fingers around the pistol grip of the 9mm automatic. There was a round in the chamber and it was double-action, so he was as prepared as he could be. He pulled open the front door and walked into the dim lobby.
He noted the man behind the front desk eyeing him. The hair on the back of his neck tingled as he noted the man's attitude — he was very nervous about something.
As he walked toward the desk, Thorpe caught movement out of the corner of his eye. His finger slipped through the trigger guard and curled around the thin sliver of metal. A tough-looking man with a scar running down the left side of his face was approaching Thorpe. Behind that man, two others were spreading out on his flanks.
"Easy, my friend." The man's voice was a harsh whisper. "Esdras told me to greet you," he added as he got closer.
Thorpe kept his finger on the trigger. "You have surveillance on Jawhar?"
"We've been waiting for you." The man lightly touched Thorpe's right arm at the elbow. "Relax. We do not need an incident here in the lobby."
Thorpe allowed himself to be led toward the staircase to the left of the gated elevator. As they took the first couple of stairs, the man began speaking.
"My name is Mikael. We have been waiting for you."
"Is Jawhar up here?"
"There is something you must see," Mikael said.
Thorpe didn't appreciate his questions being ignored, but with Mikael next to him and the two other men right behind them on the stairs, he wasn't in the best position to complain.
"This way." Mikael pushed open the door to the second-floor hallway. One of the Mossad agents waited at the door as they walked down the corridor. Thorpe began to pull the pistol out of his pocket, but Mikael squeezed his elbow. "You will not need that."
They halted in front of a door. The second Mossad man faced down the corridor toward the fire exit while Mikael slid a pass key into the lock. He swung the door open. "This was Jawhar's room."
"Was?" Thorpe repeated. Mikael stepped into the room, Thorpe followed and he immediately grimaced as he smelled a foul odor.
"Jesus!" Thorpe exclaimed, seeing the body on the bed. For a second he thought it might be Terri, but then he noted that the hair was blond. The bed underneath the body was crimson from blood. Thorpe had never seen that much from one person.
As if knowing what he was thinking, Mikael pointed a long finger at an IV tube hung on the headboard. "As he cut her, he replaced more of the blood to keep her alive." The finger shifted. "He cut out her tongue to keep her from screaming."