Gary and Bukowsky snapped a few power cords from some lab equipment, and used it to tie the Russians’ hands. They took their weapons and shared them among themselves. Bukowsky, Gary, and Jane each took a Kalashnikov and a pistol, leaving the rest of the weapons in Fortuin’s charge. Jane fumbled a little with the Kalashnikov, but soon figured out how to replace the clip, set the gun on semi-auto, and remove its safety.
“Watch them carefully,” Gary said to Fortuin and Adenauer, pointing at the unconscious men lying on the floor. “The slightest move, and you give them more chloroform. Don’t hesitate… better safe than sorry, all right? No one’s gonna miss them if they never wake up again.”
“Yes, yes, understood,” Adenauer replied. “Good luck!”
He offered his hand and Gary took it, giving it a firm shake and looking the German in the eye.
“Thank you,” Gary said warmly, surprised at the emotion he suddenly felt for the self-sacrificing man he’d always thought too arrogant to tolerate. “For everything.”
Then he turned to Bukowsky and Jane.
“OK, let’s go kill us some Russians now, so we can all go home.”
…58
Myatlev took small pieces of toast covered with pâté de foie gras and chewed them slowly. His mouth felt dry, like sand, and he couldn’t even feel the taste of the exquisite delicacy. His thoughts revolved around the same bothersome, life-or-death questions. Why? Who was that woman? Why was she after him? How much did she know? Why was he still alive?
He pushed away his plate, an expression of disgust contorting his lips. Ivan jumped to his feet.
“Was there something wrong with it, boss? I’ll have them—”
“Nah…” He dismissed Ivan’s concern with a wave of his hand, then stood with a groan, holding his stomach, and released one notch in his belt. Then he started pacing the office slowly. His brows, creased firmly, were ridging his forehead, and somehow made the dark circles underneath his eyes seem more prominent.
He stopped his slow pacing and turned to face Ivan, who waited patiently near the coffee table, ready to pour him another shot.
“What’s going on at the lab? Did you call him?”
“Bogdanov? Yes. I told him to pull in some reinforcements, and be ready for an attack.”
“Everything all right there?”
“I heard nothing more. But clouds are thick over there; we lost satellite feed.”
“Argh… fuck!” Myatlev snapped. Even motherfucking nature was against him on this one.
He took a mouthful of cold chamomile tea and winced at the stale, unpalatable taste, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Goddamn shit… Send in reinforcements. Send the troops we have stationed on Sakhalin.”
“But… I thought—”
“Yes, Ivan?” he snapped impatiently.
“You said the lab was above top secret, that no one can know about it. If we bring the troops from Sakhalin, how are we going to keep everyone quiet about the lab?”
Myatlev gave Ivan a long stare, making him lower his eyes and shift his weight from one foot to the other. Sometimes he just couldn’t believe how naïve Ivan could be. He knew better than to ask that stupid question. But Ivan was just hired muscle, after all. What did he expect?
“The usual way, Ivan, what the fuck? Let them do their job and keep the lab safe. Then, they’ll disappear.”
Ivan remained quiet, a hint of surprise showing on his face. He’d been loyal, docile, and dedicated all those years, taking out everyone who had the misfortune to stand in Myatlev’s path, and had never hesitated in getting his job done. This time though, Myatlev was asking a bit much; the Sakhalin contingent was one hundred and fifty strong, all Russians, all soldiers who deserved better. He understood Ivan’s hesitation. He was asking for a massacre… For the higher purpose, Myatlev reminded himself, it’s all for the higher purpose.
“Understood?” Myatlev reinforced his point with Ivan.
“Yes, sir,” he replied deferentially.
“And blow up that Phenom. They won’t be going anywhere, those fucks.”
…59
They walked in single file, in a start-and-stop dynamic dictated by Martin, the contractor team lead who led the way. Two of his men were the advanced recon team, marching ahead of everyone else by a couple hundred yards, making sure they didn’t walk into an ambush. Alex had learned how to walk in the green-hued darkness of the forest without stumbling at every step. She lifted her feet higher, then set them down almost vertically, carefully, stepping on branches rather than tripping on them.
Behind her, Lou supported Sam, whose pallor had accentuated in the past hour. He leaned more and more on Lou, and groaned quietly every few steps. Every time she searched his face with worried eyes, Sam smiled weakly, trying to reassure her. It wasn’t working. The blast must have caused him an internal hemorrhage or more severe damage than she had estimated. He needed a hospital, as soon as possible. But what was really possible where they were? Nothing much. Where would they go? Please hold on, Sam, she thought, we’ll find a way, we always do.
Stepping carefully not to make noise, and almost mechanically putting one foot in front of the other, she let her mind wander. What would they find at the abandoned silo? Would they find the four hundred people they were looking for? Would they find bodies? Would they find V? If he were indeed the architect of this bold plane hijacking, would he be there, taking care of business? Or would he be hiding someplace distant and safe, letting others get their hands dirty, like the master puppeteer that he was? Would she finally get the chance to find out who he was?
She’d stopped talking to her team about her scenarios. She could see it in their eyes that they didn’t believe her anymore. Not even Sam. They must have all thought she’d become irrationally obsessed with her elusive terrorist. Yet she was sure; she knew, deep in her gut, that it was V, the mysterious Russian mastermind, who had the vision and the global strategic brilliance to orchestrate such a bold plan. Terrorists like that weren’t born every day. And when they were, they made history in a significant way.
A drop of water hit her cheek, bringing her focus back to reality. Light rain had started to fall, further reducing the visibility, but there was a distant trace of light coming from somewhere. She took off her night-vision goggles.
At the front of their line, Martin suddenly froze, raising his left fist in the air, in a silent command to stop. Then he silently gestured that he saw the enemy, and they should remain behind, under the cover of the dark forest.
They had arrived.
Alex took cover behind a tree trunk and carefully peeked to see. The silo was right there, eighty yards or so from the tree line. It was a massive cupola-covered circular structure, not taller than twenty feet. Probably the rest of the structure continued underground.
The structure seemed to have a single point of entry, a large metallic door. It had been originally painted in military green, but that had faded under the sustained attack of the elements, and was stained by rust.
Two armed Russians stood watch in front of it. They carried their Kalashnikovs loosely; they were not expecting trouble. They wore a strange mix of mismatching old military uniform parts, as if they were outfitted by a World War II Russian Army surplus store. They were not the official Russian Army. Interesting, and it’s yet another argument in favor of my theory. Alex felt a wave of excitement at the thought. She was getting close to catching the bastard after all.