She thought if she could get the hell off this beach, away from the damned sunshine, her system might start to calm down, but there was another problem: she didn’t think she could move. Her right ankle was killing her and pretty much all of her joints hurt damned near as much as her head. It was as though a nuclear bomb had gone off inside her body, and—
Wait a minute.
That one thought jump-started her brain and the memories came rushing back in an instant:
Dimitri Kozlov and Sovetskiy Soyuz Navsegda.
The stolen tactical nuke sitting on pallets inside the abandoned service station in Yaroslavl.
Her mad dash to get back to the CIA safe house and contact Aaron Stallings.
And the impossibly large headlights on the Russian truck as it slid straight at her stolen VAZ.
She didn’t know where she was or how long she’d been here, but one thing she did know was that she was most certainly not lying on some beach, hung over from too much partying.
Another thing she knew was that she had to get out of here, regardless of where “here” was. Her mission hadn’t changed because of any car wreck, assuming of course she hadn’t been lying comatose for a week or more and the nuke had already been detonated, and World War Three had already begun.
That thought sent a ripple of dread fluttering through her belly and suddenly she felt sick for an entirely different reason.
She forced her eyes open and immediately the lightning bolts bouncing around inside her skull ratcheted up in intensity. The pinballs became bowling balls. The nausea increased and she swallowed heavily, focusing hard on keeping the contents of her stomach where it belonged.
What she’d thought was the sun’s glare was actually the harsh radiance of high-wattage fluorescent lighting, a triple strip of which was located in the ceiling directly above her bed. Her eyes wanted to close, to tamp down on the relentless pounding in her skull and yawing of her stomach, but she fought against the urge. Instead she looked around and tried concentrating on her surroundings.
She was in a hospital. A Russian hospital, from the looks of things, which would make sense given what she could remember. Her bed looked as though it had been lifted straight out of a 1950s American hospital, complete with wafer-thin mattress and headboard made of metal bars painted a dingy white.
She’d been placed inside a room with green concrete-block walls and gray linoleum flooring. There were three other beds in the room, all empty. The metal hallway door had been left open, and from a distance Tracie could hear the unmistakable sounds of hospitals everywhere: muted medical gibberish being broadcast on an intercom, nurses walking past in squeaky rubber-soled shoes, and the constant low buzz of humming machinery and beeping monitors.
A plastic cup filled with water and a straw sat on a small table next to her bed, and the sight of it made her realize just how thirsty she was. Her lips were parched and her throat scratchy, and despite the fact her nausea hadn’t lessened, suddenly all she could think about was how good that cool liquid would feel rolling down her throat.
She reached down to the mattress to push herself upright and winced as pain flared in her wrist and a loud clank caused the lightning bolts in her skull to flash. Tracie knew what she was going to see, but forced herself to look to the right anyway, where her wrist dangled inches above the mattress, held in place by one-half of a set of handcuffs.
The other half had been fastened to the metal bed rail.
She grimaced, partly from pain and partly from frustration. Time was ticking. Time she didn’t have.
She couldn’t find any call button. No way to get the attention of a nurse or a doctor. Or anyone. Hell, Tracie would be just fine with a janitor.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the agony she knew she would experience when she started screaming for assistance. Then she opened her eyes and was surprised to see a young woman in a nurse’s uniform rounding the corner from the hallway and entering the room.
“Oh, good,” Tracie said in Russian. “I need to get out of here immediately. Where are my clo—” She stopped speaking abruptly as the nurse spun on her heel and marched back out the door without a word, and without acknowledging Tracie in any way.
What the hell?
She was pondering the significance of this strange development—it didn’t seem like it could possibly represent good news—when a second person entered. It was a man. The man wasn’t a doctor or a nurse, or even a janitor for that matter. He wore the uniform of a senior sergeant in the Militsiya, the Russia’s national police force.
Tracie’s adrenaline spiked, causing her head to explode in pain once more. There was no scenario in which this could be considered a positive development. It was better than a KGB agent entering the room, but only marginally so. If a Soviet cop had been cooling his heels in the hospital, waiting for her to wake up, clearly the authorities knew something was not right with her situation.
And that didn’t bode well for her.
She forced back her rising panic and tried to arrange a look of nonchalance on her face. She questioned how successful she’d been but decided it didn’t much matter. She had a feeling things were about to get dicey either way.
Sitting back and playing defense had never been her style, and she wasn’t about to get passive now. So as the cop approached her bed she met his eyes with a steady gaze and said, “Where is the doctor? I want to see my doctor right now.”
A trace of a smile flitted across the man’s face and vanished. He was probably mid-fifties, around the age her father had been when he died, and under certain circumstances Tracie might have found him handsome. This was not one of those circumstances.
He broke her gaze and made a point of nodding at her right wrist, still suspended above the bed in the silver bracelet. “You see those handcuffs?” he said.
“Of course I see them,” Tracie snapped. “I want my doctor to come in here right now and remove them.”
“Those handcuffs,” he replied, completely unperturbed, “mean I get to make demands and ask questions, while you do not.
“In fact,” he continued as Tracie opened her mouth to speak, “the only things you may do are answer my questions and do as you are told. Are we on the same page?”
She glared at him without speaking and he raised his eyebrows mildly. “Nothing to say, all of a sudden?”
She chuckled bitterly and shook her head. “So you’re not going to explain why a car accident victim lies cuffed to her hospital bed?”
“If you will allow me to ask my questions, I believe my reasoning will become clear quite quickly.”
“Could you at least tell me where I am? I don’t have the first clue what city I’m in, much less what hospital. I lost consciousness as a truck was attempting to flatten my car, and me along with it. When I woke up I was here.”
The cop hesitated for a moment. Tracie could see him trying to determine whether offering a bit of innocuous information might help open up a channel of communication. Then he made his decision. “You are inside Semashko City Hospital in Rostov. It was the closest hospital equipped to treat an unconscious automobile accident victim.”
“And the date and time?”
“It is a little after one-thirty on the morning of June fourteenth.”
“Thank you,” Tracie said. “Now, what do you want to know?”
“My name is Detective Sergeant Sasha Kuznetsov,” he said. “Let us start with the most obvious question. Why were you traveling without any form of identification anywhere on your body or in your vehicle?”
A feeling of impending doom began blossoming inside her skull, competing with the pain from the lightning bolts for space and attention. She did her best to maintain a non-committal expression and said, “Are you serious? That’s the cause of all this? I forget my identification so you handcuff me to a bed? A little extreme, don’t you think?”
“I am completely serious. And no, forgetting your identification is not the r
eason you are restrained. You are chained to your hospital bed because when you were provided medical attention at the accident scene, the emergency personnel found a 9mm semi-automatic pistol holstered under your left arm and a military-grade combat knife strapped to your right leg.”
Tracie started to speak and but clamped her mouth shut as Kuznetsov raised his right pointer finger.
“I am not finished yet,” he said. “In a holster strapped to your left ankle, the medics found a second 9mm weapon, and inside the wreckage of your vehicle, my officers discovered a canvas equipment bag containing numerous items of a…questionable nature.”
Tracie was finding it harder and harder to keep the look of studied boredom on her face. After a moment’s hesitation she said, “It’s a dangerous world out there, particularly for a young woman traveling alone at night.”
“It seems to me,” Kuznetsov countered, “the world has become a little less dangerous with you chained to this bed, wouldn’t you agree?”
Tracie swallowed heavily and sighed. She hoped things weren’t going to go downhill from here, but doubted very much that would be the case.
24
June 14, 1988
Approximately 1:30 a.m.
Semashko City Hospital
Rostov, Russia, USSR
“Now that we understand each other a little better,” Kuznetsov said, “Let us get down to the nuts and bolts of my visit. What is your name?”
Tracie gnawed on her lip and looked away, staring over the Russian police detective’s shoulder at nothing in particular. Damn, her head hurt. Everything hurt, but her head the most.
“Your name,” Kuznetsov repeated, more firmly this time. “I am doing you a favor by starting off with something easy. Your situation will become much more unpleasant if you will not even tell me your name.”
“I suffered a blow to the head,” Tracie ventured. “I do not remember my name.”
“Dur’ nesusvetnaya,” Kuznetsov spat. “Bullshit. I do not believe you. Now tell me your name, young lady, or I guarantee you will regret not doing so.”
“Fine. My name is Anna Karenina,” Tracie said, meeting the detective’s gaze unflinchingly.
The detective pursed his lips in anger. He began pacing back and forth at the foot of Tracie’s bed, his face reddening. Its steady progression toward the purple of a recent bruise reminded her a little of Aaron Stallings’ face during some of their more intense conversations.
After a moment he spoke. “Do you think being injured will help you? Do you believe that your admittance to Semashko Hospital will prevent me from doing my job? Because if that is the case, you are very much mistaken. This is your last chance. I suggest you make the most of it. Tell me your name.”
Tracie sighed deeply. “I understand. You win. I’ll give you my real name.”
“Good. You are making the right decision. Go ahead.” Kuznetsov had produced a pen from his breast pocket at the beginning of the interview, and it hung over an open page in a small notebook as he waited for Tracie to speak.
“Anastasia Romanov.”
His face reddened further but he otherwise showed no reaction. He sucked in a deep breath and then blew it out slowly. Clicked his pen closed and slipped it back into his pocket. Cleared his throat.
Then he walked briskly to the doorway and stepped into the corridor. Tracie lost sight of him but there was no mistaking his voice as he screamed down the corridor. “I need the nurse’s supervisor in Room 712 immediately!”
He returned to the foot of Tracie’s bed. A rickety wooden chair had been placed in the middle of the room, and Kuznetsov spun it around and settled into it, completely ignoring Tracie. He was lighting a cigarette as a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform stalked into the room, murder in her eyes.
She marched up to Kuznetsov and stuck a finger in his face. “I do not appreciate you raising your voice in my ward and disturbing every patient on this floor.”
“I do not care,” the cop replied.
“And put that cigarette out,” she continued, her voice shaking with anger. “You are in a hospital.”
“Still do not care.”
“You listen to me,” the nurse’s supervisor said. “Here is what I do not care about. I do not care if you are with the militsiya, you cannot just come waltzing into this hospital and—”
“I can and I will,” Kuznetsov said, cutting her off, as imperturbable as ever.
“You should know I will be filing a complaint with your supervisor first thing in the morning, officer.”
“I am not an officer,” he replied. “My rank is detective sergeant. And please do file a complaint. My name is Kuznetsov. Would you like me to spell that for you?”
“That will not be necessary,” she answered, her voice frosty. “Now what is so important you had to disturb my patients in the middle of the night by screaming for me at the top of your lungs?”
“I need you to do a couple of things for me.”
“Is that so? And what ‘things’ might those be?” She emphasized “things” by making air quotes with her fingers. Cold tendrils of fear were coating Tracie’s insides, but she admired the anonymous nurse for standing up to Kuznetsov.
Not that she thought it would make a damned bit of difference.
“First, you will get this woman her clothing.” The cop nodded in Tracie’s direction, still not looking directly at her. “Then you will discharge her into my care.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I will do no such thing. This young woman was brought here unconscious, after suffering head trauma from a major automobile accident. We had to shave the right side of her head and it took over twenty sutures to close a gash above her ear. At the very least she has suffered a serious concussion. We have not even finished fully assessing her other injuries. Moving her is out of the question.”
“And yet it is what I am going to do.” Kuznetsov rose to his feet. He was a tall man and the nurse was short, and he towered over her.
To her credit, the nurse refused to back down. “I do not know who you think you are,” she said angrily. “But you can just turn around and walk out that door, and do not even think about—”
“That is enough!” Kuznetsov barked, startling the woman and causing her to snap her jaws closed with a click that was audible even to Tracie, at least eight feet away.
Kuznetsov bent at the waist and made a show of examining the supervisor’s nametag, which was pinned to her blouse. “Now, Nurse Goncharov, you will do exactly as I say, and in the next five minutes. If you do not, I promise you I will dig into your history, and I will continue digging until I find something serious with which to charge you. If I do not find anything on you, I will look into your husband and then your children. You will release this young woman into my custody or I will make it my mission in life to destroy you and your family. Do you understand, or must I repeat myself?”
Tracie had known from the beginning how this confrontation was going to end. She’d spent the better part of the last decade working in and around the Soviet Union and she knew full well how life worked in an authoritarian state like Russia. If Kuznetsov wanted to remove Tracie from the hospital—and he quite clearly did—he would damned well remove her, with or without Nurse Goncharov’s approval. The same thing went for any doctor and any hospital administrator who might attempt to intervene.
Goncharov backed away from the detective. It was obvious she knew this battle was over, but losing it didn’t seem to have lessened her hostility toward Kuznetsov.
“All right,” she said, her voice soft but furious. “You win. But I was not kidding about speaking to your supervisor. You have not heard the last of this, I assure you.”
“Consider me assured,” Kuznetsov said, waving the nurse away with one hand. “I expect you back here in five minutes with this woman’s clothing and discharge papers. If you do not return, or return without either of those items, we will leave anyway.”
&n
bsp; “Her clothing,” Goncharov said, “is soaked in blood from the accident. You cannot expect her to—”
“I do not care about that. Her comfort is of no interest to me. Produce the clothing. Now.”
The nurse made a point of turning to Tracie and mouthing, “I am so sorry.” Then she stood on her tiptoes and thrust her finger into Kuznetsov’s face. The move caught him by surprise and he blinked and took half a step back. It was the first time he’d lost even a little of his composure and Tracie cheered the woman’s courage, even in the midst of her own mounting fear and worry.
“This is not over,” the nurse insisted. “You have not heard the last of me.”
By now Kuznetsov had recovered from his momentary surprise, and he glared back at Goncharov, his mouth twisted into a scowl. He refused to respond and after another long moment, the nurse stomped out of the room and down the hallway.
Kuznetsov sank back into his chair, still ignoring Tracie.
She did her best to appear unconcerned. It wasn’t easy.
Exactly five minutes later, Goncharov returned. She tossed Tracie’s clothing onto the foot of her bed and then moved to Tracie’s side, unhooking monitors and removing an IV that had been dripping a clear liquid into Tracie’s arm.
When she’d removed the medical equipment she bent and whispered into Tracie’s ear, “Good luck, dear.” Then she strode out of the room and disappeared.
Kuznestov stood one more time. He moved next to Tracie and unlocked the handcuff that had been secured to the bed rail. He said, “Once I step out of this room, you have exactly three minutes to get dressed. After those three minutes I will return, so do not delay unless you want me to see you naked. Upon my return we will be taking a little ride.”
25
June 14, 1988
Approximately 2:00 a.m.
Semashko City Hospital
Rostov, Russia, USSR
A wave of nausea washed over Tracie as she slipped out of her hospital bed. Her head pounded and her stomach rolled, and for a moment she thought passing out and crumpling to the floor was a real possibility.
The Nuclear Option Page 13