Eves of Destruction

by Roy Berelowitz

  “He’s not here. He must have gone to the bathroom. Stay here while I go find him. He’s not supposed to be walking around unaided.”

  The nurse walked off shaking his head, muttering something about patients who don’t listen as Al Rahman stood in the doorway watching him go. He stayed there until the nurse disappeared from view and then stepped into the corridor. Up ahead, he could see a large double door. He was not sure where the doorway led, but he knew he had to get out of the emergency ward. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he walked as quickly as he could on his still painful leg and pushed his way through the double door.

  * * *

  “I want everyone to stop what they’re doing for just one moment, please,” Dr. Powell said to the small surgical team working feverishly to get ready. From behind masks and protective eye shields, the anesthesiologist and surgical nurses turned to look at him.

  He paused for a moment to make sure he had everybody’s attention. “I want to reiterate that your assistance in this procedure is voluntary,” he said, his bright eyes accentuated by the mask covering his mouth and nose, his voice carrying over the low hum of a machine in the background.

  “Just to repeat and update you on what I think you have already been told. The FBI has informed us that the woman upon whom we are about to operate has a small explosive device inside the titanium hip joint in her left hip. I have just completed an examination of this woman and have discovered she appears to have had both hip joints replaced. It is therefore possible she has two explosive devices in her. These devices can be activated remotely. Apparently as you all probably heard already, that happened to a woman right here, today, in San Francisco.” He paused and glanced around at the faces surrounding him. “The person or persons who are able to remotely activate the bomb are still at large. The FBI and police are doing their best to secure the hospital, but they cannot guarantee our safety. I had estimated we could be done with the extraction of the old hip joint in about ninety minutes, limiting our exposure as much as possible, but now with this new information, this will probably take about three hours.” Powell paused for a moment, letting the information sink in. “If you feel uncomfortable or unwilling to participate, please step outside now. You are absolutely under no obligation to assist if you do not want to.”

  Powell stood quietly for a moment and then looked around the room making eye contact with everyone. Nobody moved.

  “All right team,” he said. “Let’s get to work. Our patient will be arriving at any moment.”

  * * *

  The darkness gave Vladimir some comfort. The only light coming in to the storeroom was through the bottom of the door. He lay back on the small bed of towels he had thrown together, eyes closed, breathing shallow, but steady. The throbbing in his head seemed to be ebbing and he was beginning to feel a little better. Not strong, but less weak and vulnerable than before.

  It was an old agent’s trick he had used: if disabled or incapacitated, find a hole or some place to hide to reduce your exposure. And with Al Rahman in the hospital, Vladimir knew that in his debilitated state, he was very exposed. Al Rahman regarded him as a threat, justifiably so, and would kill him in an instant if he had the opportunity. It was probably only the presence of all the medical personal that had kept him at bay so far.

  Slipping out of the emergency ward had been quite simple. Even with the bandage wrapped around his head no one had noticed or challenged him. There were so many people coming and going, he had simply put on his clothes and walked into the main part of the hospital through a set of double doors. It had been an effort to maintain a normal gait, the pain in his head still making him disoriented. He looked for a safe spot in which to hide and was lucky to find a large linen storage room. The light was off as he walked in, but he could tell that the room was filled with large metal-framed shelves, each stacked with sheets and towels and other supplies. He had quickly made a bed for himself in a corner furthest from the door. He guessed that as night fell, the hospital staff would be reduced to a skeleton crew; the storage area might not be used until morning. He just needed a couple of hours to rest and clear his head.

  * * *

  As soon as Al Rahman walked out of the emergency ward into the hospital, he realized he needed to find some cover. There was a lot of police activity; uniformed officers, and men and women with green jackets with the acronym FBI emblazoned on the back milling about. Despite the threat of their presence, it reassured him to see them because he assumed that the FBI and police would not be around unless they had something to protect. He was increasingly confident Myda was in the building, perhaps undergoing surgery right now. All he had to do was walk through the hospital activating the remote. If she was in the building, eventually he would get close enough to her that the activator would work.

  Up ahead of him in the corridor, a group of policemen were talking to two FBI agents. They had not seen him yet, but he did not want to walk past them. As nonchalantly as possible, he turned down a side corridor and began to look for cover.

  As he walked through the wide hospital corridors, he saw an old man shuffling towards him dressed in a long bathrobe tied loosely around his waist. Under the robe, Al Rahman could see a well-washed hospital gown. With his left hand, the old man was pushing a tall metal pole supported by a four-way frame of small black wheels. Hanging from a small hook on top of the pole was an intravenous drip bag, with a thin pipe running from the bag until it disappeared into the left sleeve of the old man’s gown. Al Rahman stopped and turned as the old man slowly passed him. He waited until the old man was about ten feet away, then he turned around to follow him.

  * * *

  Casey found Gordon Lewis in a room next to the hospital receptionist’s desk. He had set up his command post there, and was standing over a map of the hospital when Casey walked in. He looked up at her and gave her a perfunctory smile.

  “I take it the young lady is now in surgery.” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Yes,” said Casey, “although we have a new complication.”

  “What now?”

  “It appears she has had both hip joints replaced.”

  “What?” said Gordon, a look of astonishment on his face. “Is this what the doctor told you?”

  “I saw it myself. The doctor had me watch the examination. She has two sets of scars on both hips. It looks like both were replaced in 1981 and both were updated at a later date.”

  “Oh, hell,” said Gordon. “What does this mean? Are they going to remove them both?”

  “Dr. Powell asked me to tell you that the window of vulnerability has gone from about ninety minutes to three hours.”

  Gordon glanced down at his wristwatch. “OK,” he said, “this changes nothing. It’s almost eight o’clock right now. That means we will be clear by about eleven, baring any new complications. We’ve already decided we can’t evacuate the hospital, so we’ll just have to maintain our security curtain a bit longer. Does Dr. Franks know about this?”

  Casey shook her head. “I was going to tell her after I had updated you.”

  “I’ll update her right now,” said Gordon as he reached for the phone. “Then you and I can go round and review the security arrangements.”

  “OK,” said Casey, “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

  Casey stepped out into the lobby as Gordon Lewis asked the hospital receptionist to page Dr. Franks. She was desperate for a cup of coffee. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten anything, and the idea of coffee seemed enticing. She wandered over to the receptionist’s counter and casually leaned up against it. There were two women behind the desk, one of whom had her back to Casey and appeared to be organizing some files. The second was in a conversation with an agitated male nurse also standing at the counter.

  “What do you mean, you can’t find him? He can’t just have walked out,” said the receptionist.

  “Well, I’m telling you I can’t find him anywhere. I’ve looked in every r
oom in the emergency ward and he just isn’t there. He’s gone, skedaddled, checked out, left.”

  “He was a head case, wasn’t he?” said the receptionist looking down at a file. “Hit by a car. Wasn’t he brought here with somebody?”

  “Yes,” said the male nurse. “That’s what I’m telling you. They’re both gone. I took his buddy in to see him and found the empty bed. Then I went to look for him. When I came back the buddy was gone. Couple of foreigners,” said the nurse, shaking his head. “Don’t know how to follow the rules, always screwing things up.”

  “Excuse me.”

  The receptionist and the nurse both turned to look at Casey.

  “Did you say there were a couple of foreigners in the emergency room? Do you know where they were from?”

  “Who are you?” said the nurse looking over at Casey.

  “Casey Jennings, FBI,” said Casey, flashing her badge.

  “Russians,” the nurse said, quickly becoming accommodating. “They were both Russians.”

  “Are you sure?” said Casey. “How do know they were Russians?”

  “They said so. Actually, the guy who was injured didn’t say anything. His buddy told us they were visiting Russian businessmen.”

  Casey put her right hand on the nurse’s arm, just above the elbow. “The injured man, what happened to him? Was he badly hurt?”

  Before the nurse could answer, Casey heard Gordon Lewis’ voice behind her. She turned to look at him and noticed he was talking to a couple of FBI agents just outside his office.

  “Gordon,” she said loudly. “Gordon,” she repeated her voice insistent.

  Gordon Lewis quickly broke off his conversation and strode over to her.

  “What’s up?”

  “I think they are both here, in the building.”

  “Who?” said Gordon, narrowing his eyes.

  “Kosnar and Al Rahman. I’m pretty sure they are both in the hospital somewhere.”

  CHAPTER 39

  MICHAEL FREED WAS laughing at his younger colleague. “It’s not fucking funny,” said the younger man. “You don’t understand, this chick is a babe, a fucking babe. Tonight was our third date, you know, the big one. We were finally going to do it.” He made a phallic gesture.

  At four o’clock that afternoon after the explosion outside the Embarcadero Station the Mayor had declared a citywide tactical alert. The partial shutdown of the BART system, the presence of thousands of convention delegates and arrival of the presidential candidate had made rush hour in San Francisco unbearable. The city was in gridlock. Even with additional resources sent in by the Governor to help the city prevent a terrorist attack and maintain order, there were simply not enough officers on duty to manage traffic and the extra security required by the convention. With the tactical alert authorization in hand, the Chief of Police directed all officers to remain on duty after their shifts ended. He further ordered all off-duty officers to report in immediately. He put out the word that only a doctor’s note stating they were near death would excuse any officer. He needed every available resource if public order and safety were to be maintained.

  Michael Freed and his younger colleague, Peter Chin, had been about to go off duty at four that afternoon when they were ordered to stand by. After sitting around for a while with nothing to do, they had been dispatched to the San Francisco General Hospital and temporarily assigned to the FBI to assist with search and security. Soon after their arrival and a quick briefing, they were directed to the hospital’s third floor.

  “What about you, man? Didn’t you have any plans this evening?” Chin asked.

  “Nothing special,” his partner replied. “With a kid in college and one graduating from high school, I’ll take all the overtime I can get. Anyway, my wife is working tonight too, so I’m not being missed at home or anything.”

  “Shit, well I’m being missed, or I hope I am. She was pretty pissed off when I cancelled.”

  “Man, you’re so damn horny, I better tell all the nurses to watch out. In fact, I don’t plan to turn my back on you myself the rest of this evening.” Chin gave Freed a good-natured punch on the shoulder and said, “Come on. Let’s check all the rooms on this corridor and then go and get some coffee.”

  The two policemen walked down the long passageway, methodically checking each room as they went.

  * * *

  Vladimir rolled slowly onto his back and opened his eyes. He felt a lot better but his head still hurt, but not nearly as badly. He lay still for a moment, and then tried to stand, but he moved too quickly. A wave of nausea swept over him. He sat back down and rested his head between his knees, waiting for the nausea to dissipate. Grabbing hold of a metal shelf he pulled himself up, slower this time, much more deliberately. He reached up and gingerly touched the bandage wrapped around his head, testing to see if blood was seeping from the sutured cut. He felt nothing on his fingers. He could not walk out with the bandage on so he carefully unwrapped it, again gently touching the stitches in his forehead to make sure there was no blood. He wished he could put a small bandage over the cut making it less conspicuous but the storeroom only seemed to contain linen.

  Feeling much steadier on his feet he made his way through the storeroom and stood behind the door. He looked down at his watch. The glass face was cracked, but the watch appeared to be working. Almost nine o’clock. He closed his eyes, tried to work out how long it had been since he had seen Abd Al Rahman, since the accident.

  Five hours, it must be at least five hours. If Casey had brought Myda here, then he was probably already too late. Al Rahman would have had ample time to activate the bomb. Vladimir pursed his lips and closed his eyes briefly, then reached down for the door handle. It was stuck. He pushed, but it remained closed. Then he put his shoulder against the door. It gave way and he stumbled out into the passageway, directly in front of officers Peter Chin and Michael Freed.

  * * *

  “He’s right here, Sir. Third floor, on the West Side of the building. We found him just as he stepped out of a linen storeroom,” Peter Chin said into his portable radio.

  “You sure it’s Kosnar?” Gordon Lewis asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” Peter Chin responded. “He confirmed his identity to us. He also matches the description.”

  “Anyone with him?” Gordon asked. “Any sign of Abd Al Rahman?”

  “No, Sir. He’s all alone. We checked the storeroom. It’s clean.”

  “OK,” said Gordon. “I’ll send people up to get him. Walk him over to the elevators on the third floor and meet them there.”

  “FBI is on the way,” Peter Chin said to his partner. “We’ll meet them at the elevators.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Freed responded. “Come on, Mr. Kosnar. This way please.”

  Peter Chin took up a position on Vladimir’s right side, holding him firmly with one hand just above Vladimir’s right elbow. Michael Freed placed both his hands on Vladimir’s left arm, his right hand just above Vladimir’s elbow, his left hand on Vladimir’s wrist. Walking slowly, the three men proceeded down the corridor.

  The route to the elevators was down one short corridor and then down a second long corridor to the right. The corridors were mostly empty. A couple of nurses passed as they walked, giving them quizzical looks but saying nothing. The three men turned the corner and continued towards the elevators, now about forty yards away at the far end of the corridor. A doctor in a white coat was walking towards them, but he stopped before he reached them and went into a room, closing the door behind him.

  Vladimir’s eyes were hooded, half closed as he walked with his escorts. His head still hurt, although being up and walking made him feel better physically, but emotionally he was drained. He had failed. He had come so close, actually making brief contact with his sister, but now he was sure she was dead. Too much time had passed since he and Al Rahman had arrived at the hospital. He felt almost relieved to be in the FBI’s custody, tired of the chase, but mostly just sad. To have come so far and go
tten so close, only to lose her at the end was cruel irony.

  * * *

  The hospital layout was a bit confusing. Al Rahman was trying to be methodical, slowly walking the same route on each floor, pressing the remote every few seconds, but the floors were not all the same. He had gotten lost on the second floor and had to retrace his steps to make sure he covered it completely. Once a nurse asked him what he was doing wandering around, but he just mumbled something unintelligible to her as he shuffled away. She stared after him for a few seconds, and then shrugged and walked off in the other direction.

  He was sure it was just a matter of time. If she was here, he’d get her. He just had to get close enough. He shuffled over to the elevator, hesitated briefly at the sight of a policeman inside, and then continued forward as the officer held the door open for him. He pushed the button for the third floor and again the policemen held the door for him when the elevator stopped. He grunted a thank you as he awkwardly pushed the ungainly intravenous holder in front of him with the palm of his mutilated hand, breathing a small sigh of relief when the policeman did not follow him. Then, looking up, his heart jumped when he saw Kosnar and two policemen turn into the corridor walking towards him. He briefly considered getting back on the elevator, but decided to keep going. Tucking his chin as far into his chest as he could, he slowly shuffled forward.

  * * *

  Vladimir looked up and glanced at the old man coming towards them. Something about the old man made him look more closely. He was dressed in a long bathrobe that ran down to his ankles and was tied tightly around his waist. He was pushing a wheeled intravenous stand with his right hand. A plastic tube from the IV bag looped down below his arm and disappeared back into his right sleeve. His left hand was tucked firmly inside his pocket. A large woolen cap covered his head and he was walking with his eyes downcast, in a slow and what looked like a painful shuffle. But there was something oddly familiar about him.