I roll her over to face me and I see that her eyes are open but staring blankly. She must have been stunned by the fall so I lightly pat her cheek. “Katia, it’s all right. They’ve gone.”
But she doesn’t move. I panic, roll her to her side, and then I see it. The bullet meant for me struck her between the shoulder blades.
From this point on, everything is a blur. I seem to remember crying out in anguish. A couple of pedestrians leaving the mall ask if they can help. I remember telling them to call an ambulance.
In a case like this, Third Echelon protocol calls for me to leave the scene as quickly as possible. I’m not supposed to get involved with local law enforcement, whether it’s in a foreign country or here at home. I’m trained to simply get up, walk away, and let others clean up after me. This time, however, I’m unable to do so. I continue to kneel beside Katia and cradle her in my arms. I gently close her eyes and then hold her head against my chest. I feel the new pearl necklace against my sternum so I press her even harder into me, perhaps so the necklace will make a permanent indentation in my skin.
“Sam?”
It’s Coen’s voice but I ignore it.
“Sam, you have to get out of there.”
I can’t leave Katia. She’s not dead. She’s going to make it. Where’s the fucking ambulance?
This time Lambert gets on the horn. “Sam! Get out of there! That’s an order!”
This gives me the presence of mind to grasp Katia’s wrist and feel for a pulse. There isn’t one.
“Sam, you’re to stand up, cross the street, and go inside the hotel,” Lambert says. “Go straight to your room and gather your things. Frances and I will be there in five minutes. Do it now, man!”
I brush the curly hair off of Katia’s face and kiss her lightly. I’m unable to say anything to her so I gently lay her body back on the street and stand. Paying no attention to whether or not the traffic light is against me, I walk across the boulevard. A small crowd has gathered around Katia and some of the people shout at me. I enter the hotel and go straight to the elevator. As soon as I’m in my room, I put my head in my hands and begin to curse. I damn them all to hell — the Shop, the Lucky Dragons, the NSA, Third Echelon, Colonel Lambert…
But I save the worst of the obscenities for myself.
29
I sit numbly in the passenger seat of Frances Coen’s Lexus. We’re on our way to LAX. Colonel Lambert is in the backseat.
The last couple of hours slipped by seemingly without my participating in them. I remember Coen and Lambert showing up at the hotel and picking me up. Lambert insisted I wear a bulletproof vest beneath my civilian clothes just in case the sniper was still around, so I took a moment to put it on. I also held on to my backpack. There was no way I was letting them have it. We left the Murano in the hotel’s garage for some other NSA flunky to take care of. Other government bureaucrats are dealing with the police and clearing me of any involvement with Katia’s murder. It’s the kind of cover-up the U.S. government is good at. All the alphabet organizations — the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, you name it — have damage control teams in place that immediately jump into sensitive situations like this one. From this point onward, as far as the Los Angeles Police Department is concerned, I was never at the Sofitel and didn’t know Katia Loenstern. The poor woman was the apparent victim of a random shooting.
After handing Coen my duffel bag and equipment, I was quickly ushered into her car and now here we are.
Coen and Lambert are unaware of how I felt about Katia but they suspect something. We drive in silence for a long while — traffic is typically heavy on the 405 heading south — until finally Lambert speaks up.
“Sam, this woman, was she your girlfriend?”
At first I don’t answer. I continue to stare out the window and play mindless games such as counting all the red cars.
“Sam?”
“Colonel?”
“This woman. Was she your girlfriend?”
“Not really,” I answer. “She was my Krav Maga instructor in Towson.”
“Why were you with her in L.A.?”
I shrug. “She happened to be at the same hotel as me.”
Lambert sighs and waits a moment before he continues. “Sam, we know you were seeing her. We know she was in your hotel room last night. It’s our job to know these things.”
“I know.”
“So you don’t have to hide anything from us.”
“Why would I want to hide anything?” I ask. “If you know everything already then there’s nothing to hide.”
“Sam, I’m sorry about Ms. Loenstern. Really. If she meant something to you then it’s all the more reason why we need to continue the job at hand. We’re close to ending it, Sam. We can put these people out of business for good.”
My heart is currently somewhere else and I just don’t feel like chasing Shop personnel. That said, I would like to find Yvan Putnik and shove his head down a toilet, flush it, and let him drown in his own filth.
“Sam, we’ll be at LAX in ten minutes. You’re the only man that can do this job at the moment. No other Splinter Cells are in the vicinity; they’re all overseas. You’re familiar with the case, you know the people involved. I understand how you feel but the best thing for you to do is to leap right back into the action. It’ll help get your mind off of—”
“What the hell do you know what the best thing for me is, Colonel?” I snap. “You don’t know a damn thing about how I feel!”
Lambert is used to occasional spats between us. He ignores what I realize is an overreaction and says, “That may be true but you have to snap out of it, Sam. Perhaps you need to go on psych leave as soon as we’re done, and then you can go on a long vacation. You’ll feel differently then.”
We begin to approach the LAX exits. Of course Lambert’s right. I just don’t feel like walking away from Katia and pretending that nothing happened. I’m going to blame myself, dammit, and I want to blame myself. I need to blame myself. I want the time to do that.
On the other hand, if avenging her death is a priority then I do have to keep going. I do want to catch Putnik and the other Shop vermin he works for. Meeting the plane from Hong Kong is the first step toward accomplishing that goal.
“All right, Colonel,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Forget it, Sam.”
“Just don’t say, ‘Forget it, Sam, it’s Chinatown.’ ”
Lambert doesn’t get it but Coen chuckles.
Lambert gets off his cell phone as we’re about to separate in front of Bradley International Terminal. There will be some undercover FBI agents working backup for us. I guess the Bureau figures I can’t do this alone. Coen and Lambert postpone their trip back to Washington for another day so they can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t have a nervous breakdown or something.
I must admit I feel a little better now that I’m “working.” In the car I was ready to murder anyone that so much as smelled like a government official, and that includes Lambert and Coen. It’s typical that I would beat myself up over Katia’s death. I certainly did the same thing over Regan, and she died of fucking cancer. The CIA shrinks at the time kept telling me it wasn’t my fault but for some reason I felt better if I could blame myself. I know it doesn’t make a bit of sense.
Anyway, now that I’m here at the airport and am in the thick of things, so to speak, my mind is clearing. I’m pretty sure I can focus on the task at hand and I told Lambert that when we got out of the car. He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. That gesture alone was worth more than any stupid words of sympathy he might have said.