He coughed blood and sneered, the crimson staining his teeth, giving him the appearance of a demon. “It is you who has failed. They will all be dead in ten minutes, and my name will be legend long after I’ve gone to my reward.”
“You have it on a timer?”
He coughed more blood, and his eyes narrowed with foxlike cunning. “So many dead. Failure, indeed.”
She stepped back as the fuel reached her shoes and then ran for the motorcycle, the biker’s phone in her hand. The Mossad number was ringing as she pulled away on the Harley. She didn’t cringe when the truck exploded in a fireball behind her as she held the phone to her ear with her shoulder. After describing a lazy arc from the wreck, a metal headlight enclosure crashed to the pavement beside her as she turned the bike toward the fair.
“Yes?”
“He’s dead. We have ten minutes, maybe less, until the bomb detonates. I’m headed back to the fairgrounds.”
“What? How?”
“There’s no time. Is the team there yet?”
“No. But the British are on the ground.”
“They need to evacuate.”
“That’s already underway.”
“Is there anyone here I can talk to? I know where the bomb is. I spotted it. It’s in a beverage booth.”
“The tactical team is somewhere nearby. I don’t know if they’ve arrived yet.”
“They had a bomb expert,” she said, and then the phone flew away when she hit a bump. She swore and gave the throttle a vicious wrench, and the bike leapt forward with a bellow of barely muffled exhaust.
When she arrived at the field, she had to fight a steady stream of vehicles leaving the grounds, the cars gridlocked as they jockeyed for position. Maya swung off the road onto the grass shoulder and made for the area where all the emergency vehicles were gathered.
She tossed the gun aside as she rolled toward the police, and moments later was facing a line of hard-faced uniformed officers. Maya shut off the engine and rested the bike against the kickstand before approaching the senior cop.
“There’s a bomb.”
“We’re evacuating everyone. You can’t go in there.”
“I know where it is. We only have a few minutes.”
The officer started to speak, and then his radio crackled and shrieked a terse order. He lowered the volume and glared at Maya. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”
“Your radio. Is Sergeant Crosby here? Can you reach him?”
“Crosby, you say?”
She nodded. “Tactical squad. Sergeant Crosby. It’s imperative I speak to him.”
He eyed her as he raised the radio to his lips and spoke into it. Moments later Crosby’s distinctive voice sounded from the speaker. The officer lowered the radio. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Tell him Jill. From the MSA.”
“The MSA?”
“Just do it,” she snapped, and one of the junior cops moved toward her defensively.
The older officer repeated her code name, listened as Crosby said something, and then handed her the radio. She took it and pressed the transmit button. “Where are you?”
“By the stage.”
“The bomb is disguised as a keg of beer. It’s midway down the left row of food vendors. I’ll meet you there. Do you have your bomb expert with you?”
“Yes.”
She checked the time. “We have about four minutes. It’s on a timer.”
“That won’t be enough.”
“It has to be. It’s a dirty bomb. Meet you there.”
She tossed the radio to the officer and took off at a run. Two of the cops took off after her, but she had too much of a lead and easily pulled away from them. When she arrived at the booth, Crosby was approaching from the opposite direction at a jog, trailed by three men.
“That’s it,” she said, pointing at the keg.
“Crimey. All right. Jenkins, you know what to do,” Crosby barked, and then turned to Maya. “Get out of here. Now.”
“No.”
Crosby looked over her shoulder. “Officer? Cuff her and get her off the grounds.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t do that.”
“It’s for your own good. If this thing goes, you don’t want to be near it.”
She felt the cuffs on her wrists as one of the two pursuing cops pulled her arms behind her, but didn’t struggle. He was right. Her part was over.
Crosby turned to the keg as the uniform dragged the girl away. His man was working the plug in the top with a wrench. He had it off within a few moments and peered inside, aided by the light of a penlight. When he looked up, the color had drained from his face.
“She was right.”
Crosby nodded. “Can you disarm it?”
“I think so. Doesn’t look booby-trapped.”
“They didn’t expect it to be found.”
The bomb technician extracted a pair of long-handled wire cutters from his belt kit and eyed the device suspended in the amber liquid. Crosby nodded again and he slowly slipped them into the neck, his hands trembling almost imperceptibly.
The officer led Maya to a cruiser and put her into the backseat, and then jumped behind the wheel and started the engine, lights flashing, siren screaming.
They’d only made it two hundred meters, as she watched the dashboard clock, calculating how much time they had left, when the dash-mounted radio crackled to life.
Crosby’s voice emanated from the speaker, slightly distorted but understandable.
“It’s over. The device is disarmed.”
Chapter 49
Blackpool, England
Max stirred and reached out a hand to pat the tan thigh beside him in the antique king-size bed of his beach getaway. The woman made a purring sound and pulled the cover over her body, still tired after a long night of celebration. A professional who billed herself as an aspiring actress, Chelsea, no doubt not her real name, was a singular talent with a body that was without equal and the stamina of a marathon runner.
“Come on, baby. Sun’s over the yardarm,” he said, his voice thick, and swung his legs to the edge of the bed before standing unsteadily. He looked at the clock. Eleven a.m. A good thing he was convalescing; otherwise he would have gotten a dozen calls by now, which wouldn’t have done his hangover any good.
He stepped into a pair of silk-topped slippers and blinked the sleep away, his thin hair standing in tufts as he made his way to the bathroom in a thick terry-cloth robe with his initials embossed on the breast. Max stood relieving himself, sighing in satisfaction, and cocked his head when he heard movement in the living room.
“So you’re up after all, my girl? Let’s have a highball and see if we can–” He stopped as he rounded the corner, pulling the robe closed. Two tough-looking men with the angular faces of wolves sat on his antique sofa, staring at him with dead eyes. “Who are you?”
“We’re friends of your partner,” the older of the pair said, his voice as cold as the grave.
Max shivered involuntarily. “Sergey? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“He’s flying in from Moscow. Wants to have a word with you.”
“I don’t understand. What are you doing in my house? What gives you the right to barge in here…”
“Max?” Chelsea called from the bedroom, her voice groggy.
“Get rid of her,” the older man ordered.
Max nodded. Sergey was coming. Max needed to sober up. He didn’t know what had happened, but for him to fly into England wasn’t good. And the two toughs glaring at him in his own house also wasn’t an auspicious omen.
“Love, time to go. I’ve got some business to attend to,” he said, heading back to the bedroom.
“I thought we were spending the day together.”
“Put your clothes on. Hurry up, darling. Clock’s ticking,” Max said, and went to his trousers and fished out a wad of bills. He tossed several o
nto the bed and watched as she stepped, naked, onto the hardwood floor and stretched, her thick mane of honey blonde hair cascading down the flawless skin of her lean back. He couldn’t help but smile at the imprint of his hand on one buttock, the artifact of an overzealous evening’s fun, and then his mind returned to the present.
He pulled on his slacks and went to the closet. After a moment’s consideration, he selected a red silk shirt, the heavy gold chain around his neck contrasting nicely with the color, he thought as he admired himself in the mirror. By the time he’d slipped on his black suede Gucci loafers Chelsea had her Chanel suit back on – Max favored the business look in his companions, replete with nerdy glasses.
She slipped the cash into her clutch purse and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Lovely time. Call soon. Girl gets bored in these parts.”
“Will do, love. Now come on, out you go. Duty calls.” He opened the rear French door and escorted her through the modest garden and around the side of the house, where her low-slung coupe sat at the curb.
The engine revved like a thoroughbred and she raced off. Max smiled at the memory of her calisthenics from only a few hours before and then his face grew serious.
Sergey was coming.
And he had no idea why. Perhaps to visit his sister?
He turned back to the French doors and closed them against the morning chill. Time to deal with the two intruders. He’d have to use a delicate touch – Sergey’s men weren’t given to civility, and this pair looked like his typical thugs, ex-military, without question quite dangerous.
Max was passing through his bedroom door when a blow to his temple knocked him sprawling, and he tasted blood in his mouth as he struggled against the hood that was wrenched over his head. His cries were muffled by the heavy fabric, and then he quieted as the contents of a syringe emptied into his arm and reality faded into a warm, blurry haze.
When he regained consciousness, the bed he was on was vibrating and the drone of motors filled the air. He turned his head and winced at the pain, but recognized where he was – on his boat, a twin-engine Sunseeker pleasure yacht he kept in the nearby marina.
He looked up and saw Sergey sitting in the salon, sipping a drink, staring at him impassively.
“Sergey,” Max said, his voice a croak.
Sergey nodded and held up his glass. Vodka, by the looks of it. Straight. “Won’t be long now.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Max tried, and then struggled to sit up, but couldn’t – his ankles and wrists were bound. “Sergey. No. Don’t do this.”
“The bomb plot was discovered. It’s off. There will be no insurance money.”
“I…we’ll figure something else out.”
“No, sometimes you have to recognize when you’ve embarked on a fruitless journey. The money is gone. Poof. Just like that.”
“Sergey, listen. I’ll find a way to get it. Just give me some time. There has to be a way.”
Sergey finished his two remaining fingers of vodka and shook his head. “No. You have no more time. You have sucked the resources of the planet long enough. My resources.”
“But…your sister. Think of Svetlana. The kids.”
“They will adjust to life without you. I trust you have a large life insurance policy. If not, no matter. They will be taken care of.”
“I swear I’ll get you the money!”
“It is too late. Don’t waste your remaining time protesting. Make peace with your maker, because soon you’ll be going for your last swim.”
Max’s throat felt like he was choking. A tight band of fear closed around his chest and he struggled against his bindings. Sergey watched him like he was a specimen on a slide, and then called out through the companionway door. “Yevgeny, let’s get this over with.”
The engines slowed to idle, and the boat began rocking lazily in the moderate swell. The pair of toughs entered the salon and moved to the open forward stateroom door. Max squirmed and tried to slip out of their grasp when one lifted his feet and the other his shoulders and carried him out into the gray afternoon, the water stretching to the horizon nearly black, small wind waves lapping at the blue hull of the sleek yacht.
“Nooo,” Max screamed as Yevgeny latched a chain around his chest and padlocked it in place. Max caught a glimpse of a four-cylinder engine block near the transom and began kicking and struggling anew. The pair ignored him and moved to the engine block as Sergey looked skyward at where a pair of gulls was wheeling around the rear of the boat in lazy circles. He sighed heavily and turned to Max lying on the deck, a dark stain spreading on his expensive trousers, and shook his head.
“Can’t even die like a man, can you?” he spat, and then inclined his head to Yevgeny. The men hoisted the engine block, which required the strength of both of them to lift, and tossed it over the transom into the sea. Twenty meters of anchor chain fed out quickly, and they had Max by the feet and shoulders when it went taut and pulled him overboard with a splash.
Sergey eyed the surface of the Irish Sea for several long moments and then tossed his empty glass into the waves.
“Let’s get back to land. We’re done here.”
Chapter 50
Folkestone, England
A heart monitor beeped quietly in the corner of the room, a digital readout at the bottom displaying blood pressure and other vital signs. A fatigued-looking white-haired man sat on a wooden chair in a corner of the room, watching the nearby bed. A plasma bag hung on an IV stand beside it, and a stack of full sacks waited on an adjacent stainless steel table.
The heart rate spiked and the older man sat up and stared at the patient, who was as pale as if carved from alabaster. The wounded man opened one eye and looked at his savior and then closed it again, the gesture sapping all his energy.
“You’re lucky to be alive. It took me six hours of surgery to patch you up. You have the constitution of an ox – I don’t think you had two pints of blood left in you,” the doctor said.
Vladimir didn’t reply.
The old physician continued. “One of your lungs is collapsed and pretty badly torn up. Remains to be seen if it can be salvaged. But that wasn’t the point of the exercise. It was to keep you alive, that’s all.”
The doctor had seen more than his share of wounds as a medic in the army over a decade of misspent youth, and had used every bit of his skill and knowledge to save the dying man. The stakes were high, the highest – a man’s life hung in the balance, and the only thing between him and the cold grip of death was the doctor’s hands and tenacity.
The patient had been brought in with twenty minutes’ notice, and the doctor had notified his nursing assistant when he’d received the frantic call. He’d attended to his fair share of gunshots in his exclusive private practice to a specialized clientele – since losing his license, he’d been an unofficial physician to the underworld – but this case had tested his expertise to the limits. He’d told his benefactor that the odds of the man surviving through the night were less than ten percent. Privately, he gave the patient’s survival chances more like single digits. But to his surprise, the wounded man had hung on, his pulse as faint as the flutter of a moth’s wings, and as the hours had passed he’d grown stronger.
“You’re by no means out of the woods yet. You’ll be here for a week, at least. I’ve got you on a morphine drip for the pain. Your job now is to sleep and give your body a chance to repair itself. We’ll worry about the rest of you once you’re strong enough for another surgery.”
He’d been forced to leave a bullet fragment near the man’s heart. Although his surgical suite was as well equipped as any private facility in the area, removing the chunk of lead would require a steadier touch than his, and specialized equipment. As long as the Russian didn’t push himself, it would wait. The paying party had verified that he could be flown to Moscow for that surgery, as well as for more comprehensive care.
The doctor glanced at the lab coat hanging on a
coat rack by the door, his name embroidered on it, a memento of better days. Dr. Stoddard, surgeon of renown, brought low by his taste for the opiates he used for his patients’ pain. His private practice afforded him the means to indulge his habit, and his contacts enabled him to secure the purest heroin money could buy at giveaway prices. Unlike the stereotypical junkie, Stoddard was highly functioning and had reconciled his addiction with a responsible lifestyle, the cannula in his arm a concession to the method of administration but the only outward indication that he had a little substance issue.
When the call had come in, he’d scrambled, giving himself a small maintenance dose to get him through the surgery. The dose when he was done had been larger, and he’d nodded off for a half hour while his assistant had monitored Vladimir. Now he was alert, although his body was already signaling that it would soon need another bump, and the drug was not to be denied.
If the Russian lived through the next twenty-four hours, his survival chances increased from the soft fifteen percent Stoddard now gave him to a more solid twenty-five. Assuming no complications, those would increase to fifty by day two, and then strengthen each day thereafter until he could be safely transported to a private jet for transport to a real hospital with a team of waiting specialists.
For now, though, it was in fate’s hands. The IV bag was filled with antibiotics to stave off infection, they’d managed to secure six pints of type A positive blood for the surgery, and the damage had been stitched, cauterized, and otherwise mended.
Stoddard studied the man’s face, and a part of him wondered at the tenacity of the human spirit. Another part of him wanted nothing more than to sleep in a narcotic trance.
Eventually the drug won out.
Vladimir lay without moving, unaware of the battle raging in the little man’s body only footsteps away, the ventilator taped to his face hissing with metronomic regularity, his slumber dreamless as the organism fought to save itself and live to see another day.
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