The next few passengers were pointed toward other trucks, which were filling fast. Used to counting passengers, Lila fell into her work habit and determined that a truck could take roughly fifty passengers. They were the types of trucks most commonly seen in World War II for supply transport, a cargo hold was covered with a soft top made of military drab fabric on a wire frame. Fifty people would fit in there, standing room only, packed closely together like sardines. Even so, the Russians needed nine or ten trucks to haul all of them out of there.
“Alastair Faulkner,” said a proud man with a British accent.
“Dr. Faulkner?” the Russian confirmed.
“Yes,” the man replied, raising his eyebrows.
The Russian showed him the truck parked closest to the hangar door.
“Did you notice that?” Lila whispered, wondering what the hell that was all about.
“Uh-huh,” Adeline whispered back, “they’re sorting passengers; they’re putting all the doctors in that one truck.” She squeezed Lila’s hand.
An Asian family was next in line, a man carrying his toddler and holding on to the hand of his wife.
“Wu Shen Teng, Lin Teng, and Yun Tsai Teng,” the man said quietly, not daring to look the Russian in the eye.
“Dr. Teng from Taiwan?” the Russian asked, after flipping through his papers.
“Y — yes,” the man replied.
“You, go there,” the Russian said, pointing at the nearest truck. “The woman and child will go there,” he added, pointing at one of the other trucks.
“No,” Dr. Teng said, “I’m going with them, they are my family.”
The Russian remained quiet as he handed his clipboard to another man, then took his Kalashnikov off his shoulder. Lightning fast, he hit the Taiwanese man in the groin with the weapon’s butt stock. Dr. Teng, still holding his daughter, shrieked and fell to the ground, managing to turn and land on his side, his daughter on top of him, unharmed. His wife cried and grabbed the baby, then kneeled next to her husband, saying something fast in Chinese in a pleading tone of voice.
“You, go to that truck, they go in the other one,” the Russian repeated. “OK?”
Another Russian grabbed Mrs. Teng and her baby and pushed them toward a truck, while Dr. Teng managed to stand up and walk on his own, bent forward, crouched in pain.
The next few passengers boarded their trucks in silence, and none of them was selected for the closest truck.
Lila and Adeline were next.
“Lila Wallace,” she said, anticipating she’d be sent to the trucks to their right.
“You go there,” the Russian said after checking his papers, pointing at the doctors’ truck. “Someone needs to feed them and wipe their asses, and it will not be me.”
Adeline was sent to the other trucks, with the rest of the passengers. They parted ways reluctantly, with a final hand squeeze and quiet, whispered words of encouragement.
Then an American accent was heard, coming from a middle-aged woman who held her head up high. “Jane Crawford.”
Same routine… the Russian checked his papers and confirmed. “Dr. Crawford?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I know, that truck,” she said. “But tell me, please, what’s the deal with the separate trucks? Where are you taking us?”
“To the lab, where you have work to do,” the Russian replied.
“And them?” Dr. Crawford asked, pointing at the rest of the trucks.
“Them? They are your lab rats. We will cage and feed them until you are ready to run your tests.”
…12
Alex took her seat on the restaurant’s patio, enjoying the warm April sun, the happy chirping of the birds, and the fresh green of the palm trees. Although almost irrelevant to talk about spring in southern California, Alex still enjoyed the tiny differences between seasons, bringing new flavors and new sounds to the landscape with each season.
She’d arrived a little early for her lunch with Claire Isaac, Tom’s wife and her best friend. She and Claire had become close after Alex had joined The Agency. She found in Tom and his wife a new family, support, encouragement, and warm friendship.
There she was, walking with a spring and looking happy and full of life. Alex admired Claire’s looks, from her fit body, to her hairstyle, her choice of elegant yet casual clothing, and her overall demeanor. She hoped she’d look that good at Claire’s age.
“Hello, darling,” Claire greeted her, and then gave her a warm hug and a kiss on her cheek.
“Good to see you,” Alex replied cheerfully. “I’ve got some stories to tell.”
They both chuckled as they took their seats at the table. A waiter appeared and took their drink orders.
“So, how did it go?” Claire asked. “Your team self-defense training.”
“It was hilarious. You should have seen them all protesting. It was fun to watch. Steve and Brian said they never get in fights, which, for the most part, is actually true. But Tom was the best. He didn’t want to be there at all, but he had no way out. Lou wouldn’t let him off the hook!”
They both laughed, then Claire said, “It was about time you all did this, you know. As Tom’s wife and den mother for this crew, I have spent many hours worrying for your safety. Things could go wrong in so many ways, I can’t even—”
“Excuse me just a second, Claire, look!” Alex pointed in the direction of the restaurant’s TV, displaying Stephanie Wainwright’s familiar face under the headline, “Disappeared over the Pacific,” while the “Breaking News Alert” sign was rolling at the bottom of the screen. “Let me see what that’s about.”
She waved at a waiter and asked him to turn up the volume on the TV.
Stephanie’s voice came to life. “Disappeared while in flight above the Pacific. The aircraft, a Boeing 747–400 operated by Universal Air, presumably crashed into the ocean with 423 passengers and 18 crew onboard. Search teams have been dispatched from Tokyo and Sapporo, Japan, to search for the missing aircraft. The flight’s transponder was last recorded at these coordinates, putting XA233 at least four hundred miles out to sea.”
Alex turned her attention back to Claire.
“I’m sorry, Claire, I interrupted you,” she said, a little absentminded, a deep frown lingering on her forehead.
“It’s all right, my dear,” Claire replied. “Such a tragedy… Did you know anyone aboard that flight?”
“No, I didn’t. I don’t think so.”
“Then what’s on your mind?” Claire probed.
Alex frowned and fidgeted a little before answering.
“Umm… I was just thinking. How is it possible that these aircraft don’t even have the GPS and remote-tracking system that an OnStar has, for example? If we can have it in our cars, how come we don’t have it on our planes? They should be able to know precisely where it crashed, and what went wrong.” She stopped talking for a few seconds, deep in thought, then added quietly, “Probably no one will find that wreckage for years to come, no matter how hard they’ll look. What a waste, in the age of technology.”
…13
Alex loaded her Walther PPK and put her earmuffs on. Then she took a big gulp of coffee and rubbed her eyes. Shooting exercise at night… only Lou could come up with shit like that. Yeah, yeah, she understood that bad guys don’t make appointments during business hours, but this was hard. Her eyes were screaming to stay shut, and the targets danced in front of her. She was doing little else than wasting bullets and making noise.