by J. R. Wolfe
The aide flashed a pleasant smile and left the room.
Before Portia could decide what to do next, her cell phone rang. She reached into her purse and took out the small device. The screen showed that Altan Boyer was calling. “Where are you?” she asked hurriedly.
“Home,” he said. “I was calling to make sure you had made it to your apartment all right.”
“Afraid not. Something weird happened.”
“Tell me.”
“As I was walking home, a man approached me and said that Imma was alive. He believed she would try to contact me. He thought she was in Chicago with someone named Chessa Marsik.”
“Marsik?”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
Altan didn’t immediately respond. “No,” he finally said. “This guy sounds crazy. Riley oversaw the mission to rescue Imma, so he was well aware of the evidence and intelligence concerning her fate. He had no doubt she’d been killed after her attempt to escape from prison failed.”
Portia wished Altan’s assessment was wrong. Riley was an associate deputy director for the counterterrorism division of the CIA, and, like Altan, he was a trusted friend who had served with her in the army during the Iraq War. Riley was a self-charged, ethical, and skilled soldier who’d risk his life for a mission or fellow soldier without needing an official order or push. Still, Stanislaw Jager took an enormous risk to tell her that Imma had survived.
“It gets crazier,” she said. “This guy said that he’d made a mistake and that the People’s Revolution was after Imma and this other woman, Marsik.”
“The PR?” Altan’s voice had a sharp pitch. “You can’t be serious. Why would one of the worst terrorist groups in the world be after Imma?”
“I don’t know, but I believe that Jager did talk with her after she was imprisoned.”
“Why?”
“He knew something about me that only Imma could’ve told him.”
“What?”
“I love chocolate chip cookies with white wine. That was the dessert we had—” Her hands began to quiver. She looked at her engagement ring and realized she couldn’t say it.
“Are you okay?”
She took a few deep breaths. “I don’t know why the PR would be after Imma. Their targets are high end. On one of my last protective service missions, the chairman was very concerned about the PR attempting to assassinate a dignitary he was meeting.”
A blaring silence was Altan’s only response.
Portia wasn’t disturbed. She knew her dear friend to be exceptionally smart, sometimes quiet, and definitely a deep thinker. No doubt, he was absorbing this puzzling news and trying to make sense of it.
“Where’s this guy now?” Altan finally asked with urgency.
“He’s at MetroSouth,” she said.
“Why? What happened to him?”
“As we were standing on the sidewalk, another man attacked him and manhandled him into the street. An SUV hit him.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes, at least for the time being.” She sat down. “I’m here in the waiting room of the hospital. I lied to the nursing staff and said I was his sister-in-law.”
“What about the assailant?”
“He ran away and disappeared.” She paused. “Look, I need someone to play my husband, Jager’s brother, and—”
“Is that his last name? Jager?”
“Yes. The nurse’s aide said his full name is Stanislaw Jager. If he gains consciousness, we might be able to speak to him and figure out if he’s a lunatic or if Imma really is—” An unexpected wave of optimism swept over her followed by a depressing anchor of reality. How could they get to Jager? Wasn’t it impossible? Altan could play the role of Jager’s brother and her husband, but the hospital staff might pepper him with medical questions about Jager that he couldn’t answer either. Or, if he lied, might place Jager in greater danger. She let her thoughts idle for a long moment. Talking to Jager about Imma was too important. “We need to be careful—”
“Of course,” Altan said. “Do you have a plan?”
“No…yes…I’m working on it.”
“Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, Mrs. Jager.”
* * *
True to form, Altan entered the hospital waiting room nineteen minutes later. Portia was immediately by his side.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Let’s find out if we can see Stanislaw Jager before his surgery.”
“Did you learn anything about his background?”
“He has a Polish passport, so I assume that’s where he’s from. You’ll be his brother, and your name is Paul.”
“Pawel,” he said with a perfect Polish accent.
She flashed a pleased smile. Altan’s talent for languages and detail had been crucial during their tour of duty in Iraq. Now, that talent seemed indispensable. “Jager will probably be sedated,” she said, “so he may not be responsive to our questions, but I’d like to try anyway.” She looked around the room at the long, sleepless faces waiting to hear about the fate of their loved ones. The day Altan told her that Imma had been killed flashed through her mind. Her chest suddenly squeezed tight, as if a heavy board were pressing against it. She looked back at Altan. “Is this crazy?”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s go.”
They dashed to the nurses’ station, where a blonde nurse with tired, red eyes sat busily typing on a computer.
“Hello,” Portia said. “We’d like to see Stanislaw Jager before his surgery. We want him to know we’re here and…praying for him.”
The nurse never looked up from the monitor.
“I’m his brother,” Altan said with force.
The nurse still didn’t respond.
A surge of frustration electrified Portia. She tapped her fingers on the counter in a jittery rhythm. Why wouldn’t this stupid woman look their way? “Excuse me,” she said loudly. “This really is important. We want Stan to know we’re here.”
“I understand, but you’ll need to wait.” The nurse’s response was curt. A few more seconds passed, and she stopped typing. Looking at Altan, she said, “Your brother is down the hall being prepped for surgery.”
“Stan’s my only brother.” Altan’s normally baritone voice was frail, as though he were physically sick. “I’d like to see him beforehand in case he…well, doesn’t make it.”
The nurse curled her unpainted lips inward. “You can’t see him right now, I’m afraid.” She pointed to a room at the far end of the hallway. “Visitors aren’t allowed. The surgeon will talk to you, but only in the waiting room. I’ll let him know you’re there.”
He nodded. “You’ve been very helpful.” He gripped Portia’s upper arm. “Mary, let’s go to the waiting room, so this angel can return to her work.”
Portia stared at him. What was he up to? Why give up so quickly? His hold on her arm was so firm that she had little choice but to walk beside him. They made it a quarter way down the hallway when he suddenly stopped in front of the men’s restroom.
Now what?
“I’m going to dash into the restroom,” he said, “and wait a few minutes before I try to find Jager. You go to the waiting room and stay there. Otherwise, we might raise suspicion.”
Portia didn’t want to go to the waiting room—she wanted to talk to Jager. “Let’s find him together,” she said.
“Don’t you think I should go alone?” Altan asked. “The two of us might draw more attention.”
“No. I want to know what he knows about Imma. I need to hear this for myself. Do you understand?”
“I think I do.” Compassion softened the intense glow of Altan’s amber eyes. “Let’s find him.”
They hurried down the hall and soon reached a large room. Portia peered inside. Eight patients, all attired in white hospital garb, lay on gurneys. Some were awake, while others slept peacefully. She carefully scanned each one. To her delight, she spotted the weird guy who just h
ours before had creeped her out.
Stanislaw Jager was nearest to the door, an oxygen mask covering his face. Electrodes were taped to his upper body with connecting lead wires attached to a portable ECG. Thankfully, he was alone. The medical staff had their attention on two patients at the far end of the room.
“I see him.” She spoke in a whisper and then darted to Jager’s bedside.
Altan was soon standing on the other side of the bed. She whisked a blue cubicle curtain around them and peered through the curtain’s gap, hoping no one had seen them.
The hubbub on the other side of the room continued unabated.
That’s a relief. She pivoted and held her attention on Jager.
A deep sleep had embraced him. His eyes were closed, and his chest moved up and down in a distressingly slow rhythm.
Without hesitation, she reached down and firmly rocked Jager’s shoulders. She had to rouse him and quickly. Who knew when they’d be discovered? “Stanislaw Jager.” Her voice was low. “Can you hear me? Stanislaw, we’re your friends. Please. Wake up.”
Disappointingly, her desperate plea was met with silence.
Altan leaned over Jager. “Stanislaw,” he said in a Polish accent, “Budzic. Budzic!”
Jager’s eyes remained shut. His slumber appeared sound except for the regrettable fact that he was fighting for his life. Only his chest moved up and down in a rhythmic dance that was partnered with deep, peaceful breathing.
“Damn it,” Portia said. The muscles in her neck tightened as if strangled by a hangman’s noose. “What if he doesn’t wake up?”
Altan ignored her question and instead began whispering in Jager’s ear. She listened intently but heard only a few foreign-sounding words. She had no idea what he was saying, but she’d heard enough Polish spoken in Chicago to know that he wasn’t speaking Polish.
“I’m afraid it’s no good, Portia.” Altan straightened. “This man is—”
Jager’s eyes sprang open. His brownish-yellow eyes stared at Altan in awe.
“Thank God.” A sudden surge of relief washed over Portia. “Jager, what do you know about Dr. Thoms? You told me she was alive. Is that true?”
He looked at her briefly but didn’t answer. Instead, he returned his gaze to Altan.
Altan leaned forward and removed the oxygen mask from Jager’s face. Like before, he began speaking to Jager in a foreign language of harsh, brittle-sounding sentences. Jager began to respond in the same language, albeit in a weak, almost inaudible voice.
Their conversation was a frustrating whirl of gobbledygook, wholly lost on Portia. Still, she strained to understand anything that she could. Finally, she recognized two words Jager said—“da” and “nyet.” Those were Russian for yes and no.
Why were they speaking Russian? Jager was Polish, wasn’t he?
After a few moments, Jager stopped talking and struggled to breathe.
“What did he say?” Portia asked.
Before Altan could answer, the loud drone of the ECG alarm shocked the room. Portia immediately placed her hand over her bad ear on reflex, but then lowered her hand as she gaped at the ECG monitor.
What had once been a green electric wave of peaks and valleys was now a flat line.
She turned her stare onto Jager. His eyes were closed, and his face was strained like an animal caught in a trap. The downward arch of his mouth jabbed her heart with sadness.
The poor man, she thought. He’s not ready to die.
“Jager is in God’s hands now.” Altan’s amber eyes burned with urgency. “We need to get out of here and quickly.” He opened the curtain and pushed her out.
They hurried to the exit door, Altan not bothering to stop. He darted into the hallway and disappeared. Portia, however, stood her ground and watched as a group of medical staff frantically worked to revive Jager. Finally, without ceremony, they stood still, their uniforms forming a white wall around him. They remained staring at their lost patient for what seemed like hours but was probably no more than several seconds. All but one member of the staff walked away. As if she were a hotel housekeeper making an empty bed, she brusquely pulled the bed sheet over Jager’s head.
Portia’s only link to the woman she loved was gone.
“No,” was all she could mutter.
CHAPTER 3
With eyes as wide and intense as an owl, Altan sat in his Ford Mustang and watched as Portia unlocked the door to a multistory apartment building and stepped inside, an invisible weight slumping her shoulders. When the door slammed shut behind her, he scanned the quaint residential street for any signs of trouble.
Fortunately, there were only empty parked cars and a deserted sidewalk.
He relaxed his fingers on the steering wheel. His friend was safe for the moment. He turned on the car’s engine and drove through the streets of Chicago toward his home. He reached down and touched the screen of his cell phone. After two quick taps on the automatic dial app, a shrill ring resounded through the earpiece.
“Why the hell are you calling me at three thirty in the morning?” Riley asked. “This better be urgent. I’ve been up most of the night with the baby. He’s got a cold.”
“It’s urgent,” Altan replied, sucking down air. “I’m sorry your little one is sick, but I’m calling because Imma may have survived.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s not a joke. Something happened tonight.”
“You’ve been assigned to the special ops antiterrorist team for eighteen months, and now you think you’re a superstar.”
“That’s not it.”
“Okay, genius. I thought you were at the fundraiser.”
“I was there with Portia. It’s what happened afterward that I need to report.”
“All right. Tell me.”
“After the event, Portia decided to walk home by herself, and a man she didn’t know approached her. He identified himself as Stanislaw Jager. He told her that Dr. Thoms had survived.”
“Impossible. She was executed after her escape from the women’s prison failed. We had solid intelligence. I made sure of it.”
“Intelligence can be wrong. Jager said that she broke out with another prisoner named Chessa Marsik.”
A blast of uneasy silence blew through the Bluetooth earbud.
“Riley,” Altan said, unable to calm the urgency in his voice. He pressed his foot harder on the accelerator. “Did you hear me? Jager said the other prisoner’s name is Chessa Marsik.”
“Marsik?” Riley repeated.
“Yes. She’s the daughter of Bovra Marsik, the Czech investigative journalist who writes investigative pieces about various terrorist groups, including the People’s Revolution. He had apparently uncovered information that the PR didn’t want him to publicize, so they kidnapped his daughter for ransom and extortion.”
“I’m not deaf,” Riley said dryly. “Both Marsiks are well known to us.”
An image of his boss, with his almond-shaped dark eyes and stern, angular face that bore a slim scar etched on his right cheek, flashed through Altan’s mind, but was quickly replaced by the very real sight of a red stoplight. He slammed on the brakes, and the Mustang fishtailed before coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the crosswalk.
“What’s that sound?” Riley’s voice had the snap of an angry father expecting the worst of his son. “Did you hit another car? You better be driving your personal vehicle.”
Altan’s muscular shoulders tensed. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m fine. I didn’t hit another car, and yes, I’m driving my own car.” He looked around and saw no other traffic or pedestrians at the intersection. He closed his eyes. Damn, that was close. “The leads ran dry on what happened to Chessa Marsik after her kidnapping. Could she have been imprisoned in Zimbabwe?”
“Where’s Jager now?” Riley asked, sidestepping the question.
“In the morgue at MetroSouth.”
“How’d he die?”
“A man tackled him and tossed him into the str
eet. Then he was run over by an SUV. He survived for a short period of time, just long enough to be taken to the emergency room.”
“Did Portia see the incident?”
“She saw the whole thing.”
“Is she all right?”
“Yes and no. She’s physically fine, but she’s confused and upset. Before the attack, Jager told her that Thoms and Marsik had survived. He thought they were in Chicago and had contacted her. He also said that the People’s Revolution was after them. For some reason, he blamed himself for their predicament.”
“How did you get involved?”
“Portia called me from the hospital and asked me to come over. She convinced the medical staff that I was Jager’s brother and she was my wife.”
“Our Portia is a clever girl. You didn’t blow your cover to her, did you?”
Irritation pinched Altan’s stomach. Why couldn’t Riley forget the past and pay him respect? He wasn’t stupid. “Of course not,” he said. “She thinks I’m a low-level interpreter for the Agency.”
“Good. Were you able to speak personally with Jager before he died?”
“Yes. He had a Polish passport, so I first tried speaking with him in Polish, but he wasn’t responsive. Then I spoke Russian—”
“Why Russian?”
“Just a hunch.”
“He responded.”
“Yes. He was obviously medicated, but he was fluent and clearly a native speaker.”
Riley said nothing.
The blast of a car horn quaked Altan’s bones. He focused on the traffic light. It was green. He punched the gas and sped forward.
“Damn it,” he said. “Are you there?”
“Did you recognize Jager?” Riley finally asked.
“No. He’s no one I’ve worked with.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He told me essentially the same story he had told Portia. He said that Thoms and Marsik had escaped from the women’s prison in Harare. He hoped they were still alive, but if so, they were on the run from the People’s Revolution. He said it was his fault the escape didn’t go as planned.”