by S. P. Perone
“Bear? What’s wrong? Are you there?” he heard coming through the headphones. The heavy Russian accent was unmistakable.
“There’s nothing wrong, Captain. My mistress wandered into the office, and I kicked her out,” Carothers did his best impression of Sharif’s voice, chuckling at the end to assure the Captain that this had not been a serious interruption.
“Everything is set, Bear. I await your signal to go ahead.”
“Circumstances have changed, Captain. You mustabort the mission,” Carothers stated.
The moments of silence that followed caused beads of sweat to break out on Carothers’ brow. He was working in the dark…bluffing, hoping, praying.
“Excuse me, Bear,” the Captain said finally. “Let me confirm. You want me toabort ?”
“Yes, Captain. That is correct. Abort the mission.”
Carothers prayed that would be the end of it…that the Captain would not ask any questions. But it was not going to be that simple.
Following a brief pause, the Captain inquired, “Is there a problem?”
Without hesitation, Carothers barked back, “There damn well is a problem, Captain! Nothing you can do anything about. So, please follow my orders. We will try again another time.”
The subsequent silence seemed to last an eternity. Carothers could feel the sweat trickling down his back.Damn , he thought,I’ve said too much. What’s this bastard going to do?
Finally, Carothers could wait no longer. “Captain?”
Mercifully, the Captain responded. “Can you confirm that I should follow through with the rescue plan, sir?”
Although Carothers had no idea what he was being asked to confirm, he thought the best path was to agree.
“Yes, Captain. Thatis confirmed,” he stated tersely.
A few more moments of silence left Carothers worrying what he would do if the Captain asked any more questions.
As Carothers began to despair, the Captain spoke again. “Is that all, sir?” he asked, prepared, apparently, to accept the new orders. Tentatively, Carothers let out the breath he had been holding.
“That is all, Captain. Good luck.” Carothers didn’t dare add anything more. He was treading on thin ice, not knowing what, if any, protocol had been agreed to by these parties. He reached over and switched off the communications device…praying silently that no missile would ever be launched.
Sharif had chosen carefully the spot to which he had retreated. A bookcase filled with his collection of medieval artifacts was right behind him. While Carothers had been concentrating on communications with Kirschnikov, his gaze had drifted away momentarily from Sharif. Noticing this, Sharif quickly reached behind him for a vase; next to it was an antique dagger, which he placed in his other hand. Not hesitating, he flung the vase at Carothers’ gun hand, just as he leaned forward and switched off the power switch on the transceiver. Without waiting to see how successful his throw had been, Sharif leaped across the room, the dagger held in his outstretched hand. The vase had hit its mark, and the gun went flying behind the table, out of reach. As Carothers whirled to meet his attacker, Sharif plunged the dagger down into the center of his chest, feeling Carothers’ strength fail immediately.
As Carothers collapsed, unconscious, on the floor, Sharif quickly switched the transceiver back on, re-set the coordinates, and attempted…repeatedly, but vainly…to re-establish contact with Kirschnikov. Suddenly, with disgust, he smashed the microphone on the desk. Struggling to control his rage, Sharif turned, and rushed out of the office, back to his bedroom. Noting that Ellen’s dress was missing, and she was not in the bedroom, he assumed she had been scared off. Thinking rapidly, he put on his clothes, grabbed his passport, and worked open the combination lock on the sealed compartment at the back of his closet. From inside, he grabbed two leather travel bags. These were always packed for an emergency departure. One contained nearly one million dollars in American and Swiss currency, as well as a fake Swiss passport, credit cards, and an international driver’s license. The other contained a selection of weapons…a Glock 33 compact .357 caliber handgun; a high-powered hunting rifle, broken down, with telescopic sight; two balanced throwing knives; and several boxes of ammunition. Within minutes he was ready to go. He hoped the black agent on the floor of his office had been working alone. Just in case, he opened one of the bags and retrieved the Glock before heading back down the hallway.
Exiting Sharif’s suite, Ellen and the Senator had left the door unlocked, and then had run quickly down the hall towards the elevator. After reaching the elevator door, and depressing the call button, the Senator had turned to Ellen, wrapped his arms around her, and drawn her tightly to him.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered hoarsely. “It must have been horrible for you. Thank God, you’re OK. I was half crazy worrying about you.”
Holding him tightly, tears streaming down her cheeks, Ellen could say nothing. She did not want to let him go; did not want to look at him; look into his eyes. She was afraid for what he might see in her face.
Despite her clinging, the Senator was able to grasp her arms and push her away so that he could look at her. She saw the fleeting motion of his eyes as they scanned her from head to toe, and then found his gaze locking onto hers. No words were necessary. His eyes betrayed the recognition and sadness more completely and more devastatingly than anything he might have said.
Haltingly, she started to speak. “Gerry, I…I…”
“Don’t,” he said, placing his fingers gently over her mouth. Don’t say anything, sweetheart. We’ll talk later.”
Embracing her once again, he said simply, “I love you, Ellen…more than you’ll ever know.”
Then, as the elevator arrived, he shoved her in, and pushed the lobby button. “Get out of here and take a cab back to our hotel. I’ve got to go back. I can’t leave Nathan there by himself.”
As she started to protest and reach out for him, he moved quickly out of her grasp and began running back down the corridor to Sharif’s suite. From his coat pocket he withdrew the 38-caliber revolver Carothers had given him. The Senator was not accustomed to carrying or using a gun. But, Carothers had shown him the basics, and that would have to do.
In seconds he had reached the suite. Slowly, he opened the door and peeked inside. Seeing and hearing nothing, he carefully slipped inside, gun in hand, scanning left and right with his eyes. Moving towards the hallway, he stayed close to the wall, his eyes glued to the entrance to the hallway, looking for any shadow, any sign of movement.
Reaching the end of the wall, bordering the entrance to the hallway, he held the revolver up to his chest with both hands. Still not hearing any sounds, he took a deep breath, and moved suddenly across the hallway opening to the wall on the other side, glancing quickly down the hallway as he shot across. Seeing nothing, he quickly peeked around the corner, and took a longer look. He saw lights coming from the office on the left and light coming from the master bedroom down at the end of the hall. The lack of activity was a bad sign. He needed to get a closer look.
Moving quickly, but silently, down the hall, he came rapidly to the office doorway. Slowly, with gun close to his chest, he repeated the same maneuver he had used to scan the hallway before entering. Stepping quickly across the doorway, he glanced inside, but gained cover on the other side. What he had seen was disturbing. He thought it was Carothers, lying motionless on the floor. He didn’t see anyone else in the office.
Quickly, he peeked around the corner, and confirmed that it was Carothers lying on the floor, the handle of a knife apparently sticking out from his chest. Without hesitation, the Senator burst into the room, went to Carothers’ side, and knelt down.
Placing his fingers on Carothers’ throat, the Senator thanked God as he detected a pulse. Quickly examining the wound, he noted there had not been much bleeding. That was a good sign. Carothers was apparently unconscious, but he was alive. And the pulse was not weak.
“Nathan,” the Senator whispere
d, his mouth close to the big man’s ear. “Nathan, can you hear me?” Was there a flicker of response? Did the eyelashes flutter? He couldn’t be sure. Gently, he tapped him on the cheek. This time he was sure that he had gotten a response.
The big man’s eyes fluttered for a second, and then opened. Recognition was instantaneous. He tried to speak. Failed. Then tried again, and a hoarse whisper emerged. “Gerry, leave me alone. He’s dangerous. Get out of here.”
A big smile of relief creasing his face, the Senator responded, “I’m not leaving you, old friend. Not ‘til we can go out of here together. And, nobody’s coming in here without coming through me.” He showed Carothers the 38, a proud look on his face.
Sadly, Carothers regretted giving the Senator a gun. He was too inexperienced. He was supposed to be back at the hotel safely with Ellen.
Moving softly down the hallway, Sharif had one bag over his left shoulder, and the other in his left hand. In his right hand was the Glock 33 handgun. Approaching the office doorway, he thought he heard some sounds emerging. Stopping, he listened. Now, he was certain. Gliding silently up to the edge of the doorway, he quietly placed the two travel bags down on the floor. Peeking around the corner, he was shocked to see Senator Moorhouse, kneeling over the big black man who was lying motionless on the floor. In an instant, many things became clear to him, and the blood began to boil in his veins. The betrayal by his long-time friend…and, the duplicity of the first woman in decades with whom he had dared to become intimate…were simultaneous crushing blows. Without hesitation, he made a decision. He lifted the Glock, and carefully aimed it at the Senator, whose back remained turned. Two quick shots, both in the back, brought him down in a heap. He had no doubt that the Senator and the big black man were both dead.
Before leaving the suite, Sharif made one last decision. Reaching into the utility closet, he found a large can of paint thinner. Spreading the contents over the flammable materials in the front room of the suite, he set them on fire, grabbed his coat and travel cases, and fled.
Captain Yuri Kirschnikov disconnected the satellite transceiver, and placed it back in the carrying case. From his coat pocket he retrieved the small portable transceiver that he was to use for contact with the rescue helicopter. He was prepared to order his crew to dive as soon as the helicopter approached. But his mind was unsettled…troubled by the brief, disappointing conversation with the Bear. Although his strict military training hampered him, he considered ignoring the Bear’s orders. The momentary confusion he had detected during the call was disturbing. No explanation for aborting had been given. He wondered…
Suddenly, off the port bow, about two hundred yards away, he caught a glimpse of moonlight reflected from froth appearing on the water’s surface. As he stared, he could make out the outline of a long, dark cylindrical shape emerging from the blackness of the sea.
“Captain!” From the speaker came the voice of his second-in-command, Captain Second Rank Vladimirov, who was in the command-and-control center below deck.
“Yes, this is the Captain,” Kirschnikov replied through the communicator.
“Captain, we have been contacted by thePavlovsk, surfaced off our port bow. They have an order from Admiral Popov of the Northern Fleet, relieving you of command. I have been placed in command of theSkibirsk . You are requested to return below deck immediately.”
Pausing for a moment, Vladimirov continued, “I’m sorry Captain. I’m sure there must be some mistake. But, the verification codes are correct. I must act. Lieutenant Grutin is now topside, and will escort you below deck. Please come down from the tower with your hands raised.”
“Of course, Anatoly,” the Captain replied, “I will return immediately.”
Switching off the communicator, Kirschnikov heard a squawk from the small transceiver in his hand.
“This isRescue One ,” it blurted. “Please respond.”
Slowly, Kirschnikov lifted the transceiver to his lips and depressed the “talk” button. “Rescue One, this is Kirschnikov,” he said flatly.
“Captain, we are holding, about two miles north of your position. Please advise when we can proceed to our rendezvous.”
Taking a deep breath, and looking off at the shadowy figure of thePavlovsk , Kirschnikov made a quick decision. “Rescue One. Please return to your home base. The mission has been aborted.”
“Please, say again, Captain. You do not request a rendezvous?”
“Yes…That is correct.”
After a few seconds pause, the response came. “Very well, Captain. We are turning back.” Then, he added, knowingly, “Good luck, Captain.”
Kirschnikov turned off the transceiver, and with a wide side-arm toss, sent it flying into the ocean. Next, he picked up the satellite transceiver case. With both hands he flung the case as far as he could, his eyes tracking the projectile as it bounced off the slick outer edge of the submarine and fell into the dark sea.
Deliberately, the Captain unsnapped the strap holding his service handgun and removed it from its holster. Removing the safety, he raised the weapon to his face, inserting the barrel into his mouth. Without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger. As the blast of the powerful discharge echoed off the tower walls, Captain Yuri Kirschnikov departed this world…preserving, in the only way he could, one last bit of honor.
Chapter 22
Payoffs
Shaken, and sobbing, Ellen struggled to compose herself as she descended to the hotel lobby. As she exited the elevator, she was thankful that it was the middle of the night, and the lobby was nearly empty. She rushed through the large high-ceilinged room, her high heels echoing as she headed directly for the large revolving door that would bring her outside. She headed for a taxi waiting at the curb, while the doorman hustled to open the door for her. Once inside, she directed the driver to the Hotel St. Gotthard.
Moving silently through the quiet streets of downtown Zurich, Ellen stared absently at the light snow that had been falling off and on for the past twenty-four hours. She wished Gerry had come with her. She feared for his safety. Ahmed was a dangerous man, and Gerry had no experience in these matters. Carothers had instructed him to leave. Why didn’t he do as he was told?
Remembering the look on his face as he left her at the elevator, she again felt the devastating guilt and remorse for what she had had to do. Her heart was heavy with compassion for her dear husband, whose own heart appeared to be broken. She wished she could have said more before they parted. She wanted to hold him, love him, and reassure him.
Suddenly, she knew she couldn’t return to their hotel. Shouting at the driver, she ordered him to return to where he had picked her up.
Whipping the taxi around, the driver quickly returned her to the Hotel Schweizerhof. As they pulled up, she was alarmed to see Sharif striding towards a taxi just in front of hers. When the doorman opened the taxi door, she saw Sharif toss two leather bags into the back seat, and get in. As the taxi sped away, she was sure he hadn’t seen her arrival.
Throwing a 50 franc note at her driver, she burst out of the taxi just as it pulled up to the hotel. Frantic, she knew that Sharif’s flight from the hotel could mean only one thing. Carothers and her husband were either dead or seriously injured. She sped through the revolving door into the lobby, just as the fire alarms sounded.
She ran to the front desk, and screamed that her husband was in trouble on the top floor…pleading for help. The din of the fire alarms added to the confusion raised by her screams. The night manager came to her, while an assistant looked at the control panel that indicated where the heat or smoke sensors had been set off. When he relayed the information that the trouble was in the “large suite on the top floor,” Ellen excitedly told the manager that that was where her husband was, and that she believed he was injured.
Immediately, the manager headed for the elevator, Ellen’s words having assured him that this was not a false alarm. It became clear that using the elevator would be out of the question. All the cars had been
summoned. Thankfully, the hotel was only six stories, so he headed for the stairway, Ellen following right behind. The city firefighters were on their way.
Streaking up the stairway with a stamina she had never before experienced, she reached the sixth floor only seconds after the manager. Bursting through the door onto the sixth floor corridor, she stopped and dropped to her knees, trying to catch her breath. Looking up, she observed the manager running down the hall towards the smoke-filled end where Sharif’s suite was located. Carefully, he opened the door, and then disappeared inside. Pulling herself up, she staggered down the hall after him.
Reaching the suite, she found the door open, with billows of smoke pouring out into the hall. Strangely, there didn’t appear to be many flames. There were isolated patches of fire around the front room, but they had not yet congealed into one large inferno. Grabbing a handkerchief from her purse, and placing it over her nose and mouth, she began tentatively to cross the threshold into the suite. As she did, she heard the sounds of breaking glass. She looked back to see the firefighters breaking through a window at the end of the corridor.
Without any further hesitation, she ran into the suite, stooping over to keep her head low, where the smoke was least dense. She heard shouts of help from the manager, coming from the hallway. Quickly, she moved down to where the shouts were coming, thankful that the smoke was less dense in that direction.
Turning into the office, she ran into the manager struggling to pull one body from the room. With a cry she realized it was Gerry, his eyes closed; his shirt soaked in blood.
“Please, help me get him out of here,” the manager shouted. “If you can move him, I’ll try to move the other one.”
Only then did she notice Carothers lying on the floor, apparently trying to turn over and get up. A knife handle protruded from his chest.