by James Bruno
The children’s screams coursed through the hospital’s hallways like an electric current.
As he was about to enter an elevator with Lisa, Gallatin stopped dead in his tracks. “Lauren,” he said. “Come.”
They ran back in the direction of the children’s ward.
The rattled nurse pointed at the stairway. “A tall, dark man. That way,” she said.
Gallatin turned around and followed in Mlavic’s wake. Lisa was right behind him.
As Mlavic approached the seventh floor exit, a uniformed security guard was bounding up from the sixth floor, night stick in hand. They caught sight of each other. The guard raised his club. Mlavic flew out the exit door. Gallatin was right behind him, followed by the guard and Lisa.
Mlavic crashed into an empty gurney in the hallway, spilling assorted metal and plastic medical equipment onto the floor. As he got up, his Glock nine millimeter fell onto the floor and in the direction of his pursuers. He continued his run. Astonished hospital staff ducked out of his way as he plunged forward.
Mlavic barged into an intensive care unit, shoving equipment out of his way and into that of his pursuers. Monitors beeped and flashed as ICU patients were startled out of their rest. A male orderly stood menacingly in Mlavic’s path. He turned left, broke through a metal and glass door with his shoulder and found himself in a room with elderly patients. There was no egress. He turned around, but his way was blocked by Gallatin, the orderly, the security guard and Lisa.
Mlavic, pouring with sweat, looked around frantically. He brandished the stiletto back and forth.
“Give yourself up man,” the guard said calmly, his black skin also glistening with perspiration. He held one hand up to urge calm; the other gripped the nightstick tightly.
“Rrraahh!” Mlavic roared, threatening them with the knife.
Gallatin stepped forward, his eyes locked onto Mlavic’s face. “Put it down. There’s no escape.”
More people came into the ward and formed a semicircle to shield the elderly patients. One by one, they were evacuated.
Gallatin faced off with Mlavic. He squinted. Gallatin knew the face. “The bedroom. That night. It was you. You shot the intruder. Took the disks.”
“I should have shot you both. In the back of the head,” Mlavic snarled back.
“It wouldn’t have been the first time, would it? You’re from over there, aren’t you?” Gallatin asked. “Which? Serbia? Croatia?”
Like a cornered beast, Mlavic bounced from side to side, seeking even a tiny weakness in the wall of hunters crowding around him. Gallatin met his every move.
“CHASM. You’re one of those,” Gallatin said evenly.
“I am Colonel Dragan Mlavic. Special Forces commander,” Mlavic huffed proudly. “I am not criminal. I am soldier.”
“What was your mission here, Mlavic? Kill my daughter?”
Mlavic grinned without letting down his guard. He pointed the knife at Gallatin. “You.”
“Me?” Gallatin said.
“You and her,” he tilted his head at Lisa. “You brought it all down. You brought me down. You must pay. I should have killed you then!”
“You’re a kid-killer, Mlavic” Gallatin taunted.
Police sirens approached the hospital.
“You were going to kill my child first, weren’t you? That’s what you did over there. Killed children.”
A wave of children’s plaintive screams filled Mlavic’s head, those of the youngsters in ward 9012 supplemented by scores of Muslim children, now long dead. The growing police sirens intensified the cacophony to an unbearable level. Mlavic hit his own head with an open hand as if to try to knock the deafening sound from his brain. He shook his head vigorously, but the hellish noise only grew in intensity.
“Drop the knife now,” the guard commanded. He and Gallatin closed in on Mlavic.
Mlavic looked left, then right. No escape. Within seconds, the police would arrive. The screams of children enveloped his brain like a rogue tumor. Mlavic lunged at Gallatin, his knife ripping Gallatin’s shirt, but only grazing the latter’s abdomen. Gallatin threw himself on the Serb’s back. He tried to put an arm-choke on Mlavic, but was thrown off like a bronco-buster. Again, Mlavic made a swipe with his blade, this time wildly. The tip of the silvery weapon sliced open the shoulder of the guard, who crashed to the floor in pain. Gallatin prepared to drop himself to the floor and throw himself across Mlavic’s feet to knock him over.
Mlavic sidestepped, then grabbed a metal swivel chair from against the wall. He heaved it above his head. His pursuers instinctively backed away. Under the exertion, Mlavic’s face was a contorted, ugly grimace.
Mlavic spun around and hurled the chair against the room window, smashing it into countless shards. A stiff, cold wind blew into the ward. Papers, plastic utensils, pieces of linen and clothing flew in all directions.
Gallatin stopped in his tracks as the Serb climbed onto the window ledge and braced himself uncertainly.
“Get down from there. Get down. Give yourself up—” Gallatin began.
Mlavic gave a stiff military salute, then leaped into the air as he would off a diving board over an outdoor pool. Gallatin and the others ran to the window to see the Serb crash head-first onto the parking lot seven floors below.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Empire Builder raced across the final mile of the northern plains, just west of Browning, Montana. Before the speeding Amtrak train loomed the Continental Divide like America’s own Great Wall. In the distance, against a brilliant sky soared the snow-capped peaks of Glacier Park.
Lisa Valko sat staring out at the changing landscape, grateful that the monotonous flatness of the Great Plains was finally giving way. She was glad. The billiard table land had deepened her gloom.
“Why so glum?” Gallatin asked. He rubbed her shoulder soothingly. “Look. Mountains Majesty. We’re finally leaving fields of waving grain. Cheer up.”
“I don’t know, Mike. It’s this whole CHASM business. I just can’t get it off my mind.”
“That’s precisely why we’re on a house-hunt out West. Make a clean break. Start new lives and all that.” Gallatin studied Lisa’s worried face. “Lisa. We’ve got to start looking ahead.”
“It’s just that…if only I were convinced that things will turn out right. That the truly guilty will get theirs. I’ll never feel vindicated until that happens. Especially Tulliver.” Lisa shivered.
“The guy’s been forced to resign in disgrace. The Attorney General has convened a grand jury. His fingerprints, so to speak, are everywhere. I’d guess they’ll throw the book at him. Five-to-ten in the slammer at the very least.”
Lisa looked warmly at Gallatin and tucked a hand inside his arm. “Mike, before I called you naive. It’s not that. But Washington is hall of mirrors. And you have to have been inside it to understand it. First, look at Merriman. He not only knew everything concerning CHASM, but approved it. I know. It slipped out during a cabinet meeting I attended. That means that the CIA Director, Defense Secretary, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs at the very least were also involved, not to mention God knows how many bureaucrats working for them. It’s major cover-your-ass time in the nation’s capital. It all rolls downhill. To those who can’t defend themselves. The dead. Thompson. Glassman. Haley. Driven over the edge — Goldman. The so-called ‘Rogues.’”
Lauren walked down the aisle, precariously balancing several burgers, fries, soft drinks and cookies. A broad smile beamed on Gallatin’s face.
“I got everybody the same thing. It’s easier that way,” Lauren said. She distributed the goodies and sat down opposite her father.
Gallatin leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks sweetheart,” he said.
“Real food! After all that time being fed by tubes. Ugghh! Time for me to pig out,” Lauren said with a big smile. She plunged into her quarter pounder.
Lisa leaned forward. “Lauren, do you remember anything from that time?”
Lauren took a
half minute to gulp down her first bite. “I think I dreamed of Dad, and of Nura.”
“Did you call her yesterday?” Gallatin asked.
“Yep. She’s doing great. Plastic surgery is no fun, but she says she’s feeling better about herself. She also loves her foster parents in Minneapolis. They’re Bosnian Muslims too.”
“We’ll swing by there on the way back and you two can catch up on things,” Gallatin said.
Lauren fell instantly sullen and gazed forlornly out at the increasingly hilly terrain flitting by.
Gallatin took her hand and rubbed it. “What is it, honey? You’re with us now. Open up.”
Lauren looked at her father with tear-filled eyes. “I also dreamed about Mom. Do you think that she…she woke me up?”
“Oh, baby. Your mother will always be there. In your thoughts. And that’s good.”
“So, why did I wake up at that moment? Just when that evil man was about to hurt me?”
Gallatin looked reflective, gathered his thoughts. “Early on, after we had you in the hospital, all the specialists could tell me was that you were in shock and that it was anybody’s guess when you would come out of it. But one doctor, Dr. Benjamin, had a more concrete answer. He said that only by confronting the demons that sent you into shock would you be able to recover. Mlavic was one of those demons.”
Lauren was silent as she pondered this. She stared out the window, a hand caressed the silver crucifix her father had placed around her neck on the last night of her long slumber. The chain was whole now.
Lisa whispered sweetly into Gallatin’s ear, “I love you. And I love your daughter.”
Gallatin returned her affection. His brow then furrowed and his eyes squinted.
“What’s bothering you, Mike?” Lisa asked.
“One missing piece in the puzzle.”
Lisa looked at him inquisitively.
“Ferret.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dozens of svelte sail boats whisked across the Riddarfjarden as gracefully as Olympic skaters on ice. Stockholm was in the full bloom of summer. The northern sun basked the city’s deep green parks, red-hued ancient buildings and chrome and glass skyscrapers in a rich, natural glow. Those Swedes not out of the country on vacation moved about leisurely at a pace more akin to Latins than to Nordics.
The panorama from the Mosebacke Cafe, perched high up on the southward island of Sodermalm overlooking the Swedish capital, was magnificent. Most of the Floating City’s fourteen islands were within view. Clients nursed drinks and munched on grillad oering as if they had all summer to do so. Such is the brevity of the northern warm season that natives seek to relish every precious minute of it.
William Winford Ferret III enjoyed the view and the warm breezes as if he had been born and raised a Swede himself — rather than an American fugitive on the FBI’s ten most wanted list. His face was the picture of contentment as he slumped down into his chair and stretched his long legs. He raised his glass to a waiter for a refill of Aquavit.
“I will give you a krona for your thoughts,” the pretty young blonde woman said to Ferret in her liltingly accented English.
Ferret placed both hands behind his neck and looked out over sprawling metropolis. He focused on a point due north. “That’s the Gamla Stan, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is the Old City. And may I compliment you on your learning Swedish?” she said. “You have a knack for languages.” She leaned over and kissed him.
“Oh, sure. I’ve traveled a bit. But, to collect on that krona, I’m thinking that I’ll never return to the United States.”
“Never?”
“Yes. Never. I’m fed up, Sonja.”
“Fed up?” she asked with an uncomprehending shake of her head.
Ferret took a deep breath. “America isn’t what it was when I was growing up. People trusted and helped each other. Citizens had faith in their government. Neighborhoods were safe. Now…now, it’s too…too violent. One cannot raise a family safely in America.” He knocked back his Aquavit.
“So, we raise a family here. In Sweden. Ja?” Sonja said.
Ferret reached over and held her hand. His eyes fixed on hers, yet betrayed neither warmth nor reassurance nor hope. “One day at a time, dear. One day at a time.”
At 35, Kevin Hanlon was an up-and-coming Department of Homeland Security lawyer. He’d raced up the promotion ladder to attain senior rank at a young age. His forte was program management and his talents were sorely needed at chronically dysfunctional Immigration and Custom Enforcement. Constantly saddled with new programs, the overburdened agency could barely cope.
Hanlon burst into his new office in an annex on the Federal Triangle, just two blocks from the White House. With styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and a rain coat in the other, he quickly greeted his hand-picked staff, plunked himself down behind his desk and paused one moment before digging into the stack occupying a heretofore virgin in-box.
Deputy Attorney General. Before forty. Do all that it takes, Kevin. Make this program work. The President is watching.
He pulled from the top of the stack a red-covered folder marked TOP SECRET - ROVER CHANNEL - NO DISTRIBUTION. Finally, his marching orders.
FROM: OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER
SUBJECT: TERMS OF REFERENCE: OPERATION MARIPOSA
Reorganization of refugee operations entails new responsibilities for the Departments of Justice and Homeland Security.
Operation MARIPOSA directly addresses the need to accommodate resettlement of selected individuals with close association with the USG whose continued presence in their home countries has been deemed counterproductive at the present time. The parties to the civil conflict in the Congo have reached a peace agreement…
Kevin Hanlon had his hands full. No time to read that day’s paper. The Washington Post sat untouched on his coffee table, its page three story on CIA involvement with Congolese military officers who allegedly raised millions of dollars selling illegal drugs channelled into America’s inner cities, remaining unread.