Sometimes he wondered if he was indeed arrogant, as many had said about him. He didn’t think so. He’d taken hard looks at himself many times, probing for signs of narcissism or other personality disorders, but, in his case, there was no foundation for such concern. It was just value, pure value. His record of achievement supported that, and he was well aware of his own worth. If that happened to come across as arrogance, well, that was unfortunate, but it wasn’t something he was willing to change. His career was nothing to be humble about.
It had been years since he’d wandered down memory lane, remembering Helga, and the things he held most dear in his heart. His commitment to help people. His entire life dedicated to ease the suffering of the chemically imbalanced brain. And now? What was he going to do? Let some terrorists, because that’s what they were, use him to gain access to a weapon meant to bring chemical imbalance to the brain? Then how could he live with himself?
Yet there was no easy choice. He could pretend to comply, and deliver weak formulations, as harmless as possible, stalling for as long as he could in the hope that something would eventually happen to free them from their hell. Or he could resist, refuse to deliver, and endanger the lives of hundreds of people.
This wasn’t really a choice.
May God have mercy on my soul…
He stood from his lab chair and rubbed his creased forehead for a little while.
“We’re ready,” he said, showing the other doctors two small containers with capsules.
They gathered around him quickly. Drs. Davis, Fortuin, and Chevalier, who had worked side by side with him, pulled their chairs closer.
“The red ones are a modified, diluted selective serotonin reuptake enhancer. We will tell them they need time to absorb and become effective, to preemptively account for the ineffectiveness of the compound. The green ones are equally diluted SSRIs. They’re just modified, low-dose Prozac essentially.”
He stopped talking and searched their eyes. Many reflected the same anguish he was feeling. Others, only deep sadness for what they were about to do.
“All right,” he said, taking a deep breath, “let’s call them.”
A few minutes after they had informed their omnipresent guard, Dr. Bogdanov entered the lab and took the two containers. Then he switched on a couple of monitors, image feeds from an empty room.
The doctors stood there, watching in silence the screens showing the empty room from different angles. Then the Russians started bringing in the test subjects, ten of them. One by one, they were dragged in there, screaming, pleading, sobbing, manhandled brutally by the guards. One by one, they had their mouths forced open and the capsules shoved down their throats. One by one, they chocked, fought, scratched at the strong arms holding them down, and had no option but to swallow the drugs. Then one by one, they settled down, sobbing quietly, fear and desperation engraved deeply on their weary faces.
…27
Vitaliy Myatlev finished his vodka-enhanced coffee and flicked the butt of his cigar out the window. It had rained that morning, bringing a luscious tint to all spring greenery, and cleaning the air of the constant stink of Moscow’s pollution. But rain also brought joint pain to his left shoulder and also to his lower back, making him irritable. He wanted to go home and get in bed, but he still had to be there, in his goddamned office at the Ministry of Defense. There were days when he just hated his life, but, for as long as Abramovich held the supreme position in the Kremlin, he had to walk the line.
“Anything else?” Myatlev asked Ivan, seeing how his aide and bodyguard shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hesitant to leave.
“Umm… if I may, I was thinking that now everything is in place at the lab and everyone’s working nicely, we should tie up all loose ends. Leave no trace.”
Myatlev rubbed his shoulder furiously, trying to make the pain go away.
“What the hell do you mean, Ivan? Stop fucking around and get to the point.”
“The plane, boss. We should destroy it. It’s evidence we don’t want to leave behind.”
Myatlev rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of frustration. People can be so stupid, even the smart ones.
“Where’s the plane now?”
“In a hangar, buried in the side of a hill. It’s an old, abandoned facility near a decommissioned airbase and ICBM site. Middle of nowhere, really.”
Then why destroy it? No one would ever find it hidden in there.
Myatlev resisted the urge to yell at his aide. Ivan had been his most trusted, loyal employee, and he valued that. He also knew he couldn’t afford to risk losing the loyalty of the man who knew so much about him. He tempered himself, bringing his anger down to a quiet simmer.
“Don't destroy a fucking 747, for God’s sake. We might need that sometime. Just strip it of all markings and recognizable features, and have it sealed and guarded around the clock. And get me a masseuse.”
Ivan frowned and hesitated a little before acknowledging. “Yes, sir.”
…28
Alex stood in the doorway, watching Blake from a distance. He’d been up since before dawn, skipping breakfast and avoiding company. He sat on the edge of a lounge chair, hunched forward, clasping his hands absently. He rocked back and forth, almost imperceptibly, and probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it. He must have been sick with worry, and she couldn’t make it better, not yet anyway.
She approached him quietly, and gently touched his shoulder.
“Blake?”
He turned toward her, watching her intently with sunken, bloodshot eyes surrounded by black circles.
“I need your help,” she continued. “We tried… we tried anything we could think of, to gain access to newer satellite imagery. We reached out to several satellite operators. We even tried hacking into one. Then we tried leasing a damn satellite. Nothing worked, so we need you to step in.”
“Me? What can I do?” He stood with difficulty, strained to straighten his back, and then rubbed his eyes furiously.
“Bring in the big bucks and that influence of yours. Can you get us satellite time? Do you know anyone who has a few? And, if not, can you buy us a couple?” Alex spilled her questions in rapid fire, not giving him the chance to answer.
He stood quietly for a couple of seconds, his eyes drilling into hers with increasing force, radiating strength, determination, and confidence. Then he spoke, “Consider it done.”
“Blake, it’s 55 million dollars apiece, these things,” she added hesitantly.
“Then let’s see how soon we can get a couple up there.”
He took out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number from the phone’s memory.
“Yeah, get me the earliest appointment with SatX’s CEO. We’ve met. Yeah, today, now, ASAP. Then set up, right after that, a conference call with DigiWorld.” He listened for a moment to what his personal assistant had to say, then continued, “No, I don’t care about their calendars. It has to be today.”
She smiled. That was the Blake Bernard she remembered: powerful, decisive, aggressive, going through walls when he had to. Together, they’d find that plane, no matter where on Earth it was hidden, and they’d find the 441 souls onboard. Together, they’d find Adeline.