For the next two hours, they widened the duct and removed crumbled plaster and concrete torn loose by the tool. Soon the man on the ladder had half disappeared into the enlarged duct and was still going at it with the tool. He came down twice for a bottle of water and Christine watched him closely. He was wearing goggles and ear protection and his wavy black hair was a matted white color from the materials he had shattered loose inside the duct.
She had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn't hallucinating again.
"What doing?" she managed to say.
The trio ignored her.
She asked again. "What doing?"
The youngest man made a circle of his arms and then enlarged the circle. He looked at her questioningly: did she understand?
"You're making the hole bigger. Okay. Thank you. Please leave now."
Ignoring her, they finished their water and the work restarted.
A word was swimming through her mind, a word she could claim. Then it surfaced.
Jackhammer.
The thing was a jackhammer and they were enlarging the hole in her cell.
When they were finished, they cleaned up the mess and handed her a large metal spoon, the type used to ladle gravy.
She accepted the spoon and watched as they closed the door behind.
They had taken maybe half of the debris from the ceiling and stuffed it inside her toilet. She lifted the lid and looked in. Her heart fell: someone was going to be very angry with her for the mess.
What else was there to see?
She found that by standing on her bench bed, she could see inside the ceiling hole. In fact, she was able to introduce the upper half of her body into the hole, as low as the ceiling was. She looked up and saw light at the far end, maybe five feet away. She reached, grabbed a warm pipe that passed through the hole, and tried pulling herself up into the hole. But it was no use. She was much too weak to pull her body into the cramped space. So she released her arms and found the bench with her feet and came back out and down onto the bench.
What in the world? She wondered. What in the world?
Somewhere between three hours and six hours crept by. She lay on her side the whole time, peering at the hole in her ceiling. She tried, but couldn't make sense of it.
More food appeared through the slot. Pie and coffee. It tasted like her grandmother's rhubarb pie, sweet and tangy. The coffee was hot and tasted like the greatest delicacy she'd ever known. She had forgotten how much she loved a hot cup of coffee. For weeks, all she had known was cold; and now she clung to the warmth of the carafe and the luscious, warm liquid inside.
It startled her to realize she was actually having sequential thoughts again. She was stringing together several thoughts in her mind and weighing evidences of her existence and her situation. She didn't understand what was happening, but it was something. And so far it was all good.
Two guards came for her in the middle of the night.
They stood her up and held her so she didn't collapse on her weak legs.
They had left the door open—something the guards never did. Now they spun her around and helped her through the door, out into the hall. She realized she'd never seen the hall before, at least not that she would have remembered. Each time she had come and gone in her cell she had either just been beaten or water boarded and was out of her mind.
But this time she was alert and fully conscious.
They began walking her down the hall to a double door. It buzzed and they pushed through, helping her as well.
Another hall, this one off to the right, probably thirty meters long. It was much brighter than the first hall, and she realized the hall outside her cell had been darkened to allow sleeping inside the row of cells it fronted.
Another door, another buzz, followed by two more buzzes and an elevator ride that descended.
The doors opened on a very dark cell and the two guards helped her out and steered her to the left. Several meters down, they came to an open door and paused. Christine's eyes adjusted to the dark. She realized that what she was smelling was the smell of death. She had smelled it before in Iraq. Once learned, the smell was never forgotten. Geometric shapes—long supine boxes—began to emerge out of the black, and then it occurred to her as clear as any thought she'd had that day: morgue. They were in the prison morgue, and it was death she smelled.
A third man came into the room. He wore the white lab coat of a medical worker and carried a small plastic bag and a small bottle, which he set on a shelf she was being pinned against. He tore open the plastic bag, removed a syringe, and inserted its tip into the bottle. He withdrew maybe 15 cc's and then turned to her. A Russian word was spoken and the sleeve of her jail coveralls was pulled up to reveal her bicep. The lab coat man inserted the needle into her arm and worked the plunger down into the syringe tube, expelling the clear liquid into her arm. He abruptly left without another word.
As she faded out of consciousness, she became aware that she was being lowered on her back into a long box that was padded with soft foam.
When the lid began closing on her, she realized.
Casket. She had been shot up and put into a casket.
A deep breath, and she felt a warm comfort flowing through her body.
Sleep, she thought, and dream no more.
Then she was out.
46
Eyes, open.
The eyes obeyed.
She surveyed the immediate area. She found herself lying on a very soft bed. Except it wasn't a bed, it was something slightly less comfortable than a bed, but padded, still.
Eyes wide open. She was covered with a wool blanket and there was a pillow beneath her head. Fair enough, she thought. I'm alive.
She sat up and saw that she had been lying across two seats. Seats like they use inside buses or trains or—
Airplanes. She was sitting aboard an airplane.
Her eyes pierced the window and she saw dark outside. Dark and the blinking light of an aircraft wedging its way through the gloom.
Then a man stood beside her. He leaned down and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
"Welcome back, Christine. You'll be home in about eight hours."
"Who?"
"Thaddeus. Your friend, Thaddeus."
Tears came into her eyes. At first she didn't dare believe it. But she realized. It was actually his voice. Thaddeus had her.
Which meant she was safe.
"Where we going?"
"Home. Here, let's recline your seat back and you can close your eyes."
"No. Coffee."
"Miss," Thaddeus called out, "coffee here, please. Bring two cups."
He stepped across Christine's legs and took the seat beside her.
"Where was I?"
"You were smuggled out of the prison."
"How?"
He smiled. "Friends in high places. Very high places."
"Okay. This plane can just leave Russia when it wants?"
"Whenever it wants. No questions asked."
"Why not?"
"No one would dare."
Coffee was served on a silver tray with a silver service. Nothing too rarified for the Gulfstream line of aircraft and their dining ware. Thaddeus nodded to himself. Tony had brought nothing but his best game. He owed Tony big time.
No, they were actually even now. At least they would be once it was wheels-down on O'Hare runway. They would probably never speak again.
An hour later, she leaned forward and stretched her back.
"They hurt me, Thaddeus."
"I know they did. Bastards."
"Bastards."
"What do you think we should do about that?" Thaddeus asked.
"We should sue them."
"Yes, there's always that."
"We don't have anything else."
He nodded. "You're probably right. Fine, we'll sue them."
"Sue that bastard president."
"President Irunyaev? Why not," he said, not as a question.
"Why not."
"Get them for me, Thaddeus. Please get them."
He reached down and patted her knee.
"I will. Consider it done."
At refuel in Zurich, an America trauma doctor, flown in by Thaddeus, joined them. He took Christine to the rear compartment of the aircraft and examined her. He gave her two Vicodin and returned her to her seat.
"Well?" said Thaddeus.
"Broken fingers, knitted without being reset. They'll need to be broken again and allowed to mend correctly."
"You could tell all that without X-ray?"
“Did you see them?”
"All right. What else?"
"Probably dehydrated. Keep the fluids coming until we can get her to a hospital and do a workup. I've also started a line. Ringer's."
"Thank you."
"Yes. I left her on the bed in the sleeping compartment. Five minutes later the Vicodin had done its work and she was out again. It's best, for now."
"All right."
Hours later they touched down in Chicago.
An ambulance was waiting. Christine was rushed off to the O'Hare Clinic, operated by the University of Illinois in Des Plaines.
Thaddeus stayed with her. While he waited bedside in her room, she was undergoing a full examination, including scans and X-rays and blood and urine panels. Three hours later, they returned her to the room. She immediately fell asleep.
Thaddeus pulled out his cell phone. He one-dialed a number.
"Albert. Thad. We're going to sue the president of Russia. Put Eleanor and Kit on it. Research jurisdictional issues. Put Paul on asset location—I want to know about anything owned or controlled by the Russian president inside the United States."
"She's out?"
"Sound asleep. They loaded her up."
"So we're suing the president of Russia? Can we even do that?"
"We can now."
47
At the entrance to the great man's office stood two soldiers selected from the Russian army of 1,600,000 men. They were selected for their looks, their dedication, and for their ability with small arms. Each wore a shiny black holster containing a Grach semi-auto, and each held at parade rest a Kalashnikov automatic rifle. Karli brushed by and knocked twice on the door.
"Enter!" came the booming voice inside.
Karli found the Russian president at his desk, which was covered in files and maps. Behind him were two twelve-foot oil paintings, one of Lenin and one of Piotor Irunyaev himself. Lenin had a serious, educated look on his face. The president looked as though he had just won World War III and was about to enter New York as a conqueror. He stood erect, a sword grasped in his right hand and stuck into the ground, his left hand raised above his head as if to summon applause. His portrait had been rendered and placed on the wall almost the same week of his election in 2001 and had gotten raves from all visitors.
Greetings and salutations were traded and then Karli launched into the update on the prisoner Christine Susmann.
Piotor Irunyaev couldn't believe the wild story being relayed to him. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk—reputedly used by Czar Nicholas I—and slammed his hand down with such force it caused nearby papers to elevate. He slammed it down a second time. "How can this be!" he said, incredulous. "I gave no such order!"
Karli studied the president deferentially, only occasionally meeting his gaze. He tried explaining again.
"She enlarged a heating duct with a spoon. Just like Oleg Topalov."
"Where did the spoon come from?" the President Irunyaev asked Karli.
"Stolen from the kitchen. We don't know who helped her, but we're working on it."
"I thought she was with your group all day! Wasn't that my order?"
"She was, then your orders changed. They said to stand down."
The Russian president's jaw tightened.
"I gave no such order."
Karli spread his hands. "We were told you had ordered full meals and two days of rest."
Piotor Irunyaev shook his head violently. "No such order came from me."
"Let me talk to the guards. I'll get to the bottom of it."
"Do that. Bring me names of those who gave her assistance. All of them!"
"Yes, Mr. President. Consider it done."
"Now, then. Where has she gone?"
"That's just it. We have checked all hotels, trains, and airlines. There has been no evidence of her use of a room or seat on a train or airplane. No bus has sold her a ticket and no taxicabs have any record of an American woman unable to speak Russian. We know she doesn't know our language, so she couldn't have gotten far without being noticed and remembered."
"What about private aircraft? What has happened there?"
"A plane registered to your loyal supporter Antonin Folachnaya. It came and went."
"Surely he wouldn't have anything to do with this woman. By all reason, it wouldn't have happened, because she was working for the CIA! What would a Mafioso have to do with the CIA?"
"Understood. There could be no connection."
"All right. So she's still hiding in Russia. Your orders: find her and return her to me. We have unfinished business with her."
"I will find her."
"You go and do that. Now."
Karli turned on his heel and left the president sitting at his priceless desk, a dark scowl on his face. The president was breathing heavily, trying to suppress his rage before it erupted against one of the underlings in his office. He trusted his GRU. He knew they would find her and end this nonsense, so he eventually relaxed and his breathing returned to normal.
He spoke directly into his intercom, which was always engaged and broadcasting all conversations to his staff. At the other end was Prime Minister Nuramov.
"Give it three days," he told the second-in-command. "Then send Karli to America. That is where she'll try to go. If she makes it to America, she will be shot and killed. We will have the original video to prove the Americans tried to assassinate me."
"Indeed, Mr. President," said Nuramov. "We will send the entire GRU if that's what it takes. She will be found."
48
FROM: Thaddeus Murfee: A New York Times Bestseller
Blackjack McDonough, the King of Torts
by Angelina Sosa
Blackjack McDonough taught torts to freshman law students. There was a balance to his professional life, his teaching: he held the study of tort law in the highest esteem, he held freshman law students in lowest esteem.
Had he been in charge of the world, torts would be studied only in the third year of law school, "When the legal mind has overcome adolescence," he told his colleagues. Most of whom gave Blackjack a wide berth, both academically and socially—especially at the Friday afternoon keggers at Pius XII Memorial Law Library. For as the beer flowed, the more vocal and obstreperous the law professor was known to become. He had even invited Father Milligan to an alley brawl late one Friday after the beer—along with Blackjack McDonough's sobriety—was exhausted. Father Milligan clutched the rough Jesuit cross he wore and thrust it in the putative tortfeasor's face. "Get thee behind me, Satan!" he cried. The words brought Blackjack to full consciousness of who-where-what and he immediately backed off and settled down. Later he returned to the party clutching a venti Starbucks, abashed and embarrassed, where he muttered apologies to the diminutive priest. But the damage to his own reputation was done. He was an intellectual profligate among the Jesuit community of the law school, a blowhard; and colleagues avoided him.
Blackjack's interface with his freshman students was anything but apologetic. In fact, he was obtuse, and omniscient in the hide-the-ball dialog that inhabited 1L lecture halls. The final word on the subject came from 1L Manny Magence. As he put it for his classmates when they were all but huddled in the corner with Blackjack towering over them, "The guy's a dick."
Pure and simple. A dick.
It was the first day of class when Blackjack's Socratic method battered 1L Angelina Sosa. It was done
to frighten her off to the registrar's, where Blackjack imagined her withdrawing from law school in favor of the master's program in primary education. While the law school might have viewed the loss of a freshman in the first week as calamitous, Blackjack would have counted it another notch in his gun.
"So, Miss—Miss—" he turned the seating diagram of the class roster north-to-south and east-to-west, but still couldn't come up with her name.
"Sosa?" she volunteered. "You seem to be looking at me, sir?"
"Angelina Sosa? What the hell kind of name is that?"
"It's a name on a birth certificate, no more, no less," she said and gave him her best black-haired-dark-eyed beach-maid smile.
Which he found off-putting. There was no room in law school for great beauty and charm. Law school was a place of inquiry, a place of important Socratic discourse. Blond hair and blue eyes and sparkling smiles held no sway here, not to the dick.
"I get that. I get it's a name on a birth certificate. It just threw me. Now, let's get our little show on the road, Ms. Sosa."
"I'm ready."
"You're riding an elevator and the man behind you accidentally brushes your posterior with his hand. Can you sue him?"
"I can sue him," said Angelina Sosa. "Will I prevail? That's what I'm here to learn, isn't it? I didn't come here today for our first class already knowing the answer to that question, did I? If I were supposed to already know what you're looking for, someone should have directed me to sufficient reading material to allow me to prepare an answer grounded in the common law. As well as the statutory law of the state where the elevator operated."
"Good, good," said Blackjack. He plucked the Montblanc pen from his shirt pocket and made a chopping motion with it as he spoke, as if words alone weren't enough. His slicing jabs with the writing tool were reminiscent to the law student sitting to the right of Angelina Sosa. Reminiscent of Anthony Perkins playing Norman Bates in Psycho as he assaulted Janet Leigh in the shower. At least that's how 1L Thaddeus Murfee viewed the matchup. The psychotic law professor versus the unsuspecting, vulnerable law student who had just pulled in for a three-year stay at a deranged motel called law school. Thaddeus Murfee, with his classmates, waited while the bespectacled, slack-jawed Blackjack continued his verbal foray. It ended with the educator saying, "—and so, if the stranger standing behind you on the elevator purposely brushes your posterior—is that actionable? Can a lawsuit be brought and won?"
The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8) Page 19