And there were two explosions under the Suburban in quick succession—
Boom! Boom!
The Suburban lifted off the ground—
BOOM!
A larger explosion followed as the SUV’s gas tank blew—
Thick black smoke filled the air—
Wells kept shooting, aiming now at the second man on the Ducati, who was reaching under his jacket. But the bike was skidding down, giving Wells a clean look. Wells took his time and caught the guy with a shot to the side of the head. His helmet twitched. He fell off the back of the bike and hit the asphalt with a heavy dead thump.
Wells was already shifting his focus. Two grenades. Two motorcycles. He braced himself against the side of the minivan and spun. On the far side of the Caravan, by its left rear wheel, another rider stood, his bike between his legs, a pistol in his gloved right hand.
The pistol jerked twice in succession, crack-crack—
“John!” Exley screamed, a high hopeless sound—
Wells fired through the minivan, his only choice, knowing that if he missed, he risked killing an innocent driver in the cars behind the shooter—
And missed.
The rider turned toward Wells and fired. The round smashed through the van’s window—
And missed.
Wells sprang left, looking for a cleaner shot, a shot that wouldn’t be blocked by the van’s second row of seats. The rider reached under his jacket with his left hand. Wells fired, separated from the guy only by the width of the van—
The 9-millimeter slug from Wells’s Glock caught the guy full in the chest, tore open his leather jacket. Its force jerked him back, standing him upright. But he didn’t go down. Bulletproof vest, Wells thought. He ducked as the guy lifted his pistol and fired two shots, wild and high, then threw down the pistol and again reached into his jacket.
Wells slowed himself. Last chance. If he missed this time, the guy would toss a grenade under the van and cook Exley.
He aimed carefully through the van and squeezed the trigger.
Crack. Through the van, Wells saw the rider’s face-plate shatter. The guy fell backward, his helmet cracking against the roof of the BMW behind him, dead already.
WELLS RAN AROUND THE VAN to the driver’s side. Exley lay in the front seat, moaning, slumped forward.
“John.”
“Just stay still.”
Already he could hear sirens. Behind them, the Suburban crackled and burned, throwing off gobs of smoke that stank of gasoline and charred flesh. The agents inside were surely dead. Five dead here this morning. As long as it wasn’t six.
He didn’t see the wound. He pulled up her sweater. There it was, blooming red on her white shirt, the right side, just above the waist. Maybe the liver, Wells thought. If it was the liver, they’d better get her to a hospital quick before she bled out. He pressed down on it and she moaned again. Her warm blood seeped between his fingers. A bad one.
He put his hand to her cheek and listened to the sirens draw close. And he wondered who’d done this to them. He wondered who would pay.
6
BLACK SEA
In the dark, Grigory Farzadov couldn’t see the waves. But he could hear them, banging against the hull like living beasts. Thump. Thump. Thump-thoomp. In the last hour, their intensity had steadily increased. And yet Grigory didn’t mind. He’d grown up thousands of kilometers from the ocean. He’d never seen the Pacific or the Atlantic. He didn’t even know how to swim. But all his life he’d envied those lucky souls who lived on the water. Now he was one of them. Sort of.
His cousin wasn’t so sanguine. As the Tambulz Dream—the little fishing trawler that had been their home for a day—rocked sideways, Tajid laid a hand on his stomach and gripped the dirty steel rail that ran around the cabin. He’d already vomited once. Meanwhile Yusuf sat in a corner, cursing under his breath, his eyes dead and flat as ever. Grigory was sure that if he looked hard enough he would see smoke coming off Yusuf ’s head, and smell the faint stink of sulfur.
Though maybe the smell was just the Black Sea, a famously dank waterway. The sea lay between six countries—Russia, Georgia, Turkey, Romania, Bulgaria, and Ukraine—and had possessed a bad reputation for at least three thousand years. Technically, the Black Sea and the Mediterranean formed a single body of water, linked through the Bosphorus, the narrow strait that divided Istanbul. But the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean had little in common with the Black Sea. The complex currents that connected the two left the Black Sea’s depths a toxic stew, thick with salt and hydrogen sulfide, poisonous to fish.
The sea’s surface was hardly more pleasant, regularly racked by storms powerful enough to split oil tankers in half. Even so, anchovy and sturgeon lived in the sea’s upper layer, and fishing trawlers set out each day to catch what they could. This ship was one of them, a simple vessel, about a hundred feet long, its hull a faded blue, its one-story cabin white. Grigory knew nothing about boats, but even he could see that this one had seen better days. One of its cabin windows was missing, replaced with wooden planks. The engines growled madly when the captain pushed the throttle forward. Besides Grigory, Yusuf, and Tajid, the trawler carried a crew of three, the captain and two younger men who seemed to be his sons.
More than that, Grigory didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure where they were headed, though he assumed somewhere on the Turkish coast. Yusuf wasn’t saying, and Grigory had learned the hard way not to ask.
STILL, their escape had gone smoothly so far, Grigory had to admit. When he arrived at his apartment building at 5 a.m. on the night of the theft, the sun still hours from rising, there was Yusuf, sitting in an old Nissan sedan. As soon as Grigory parked, Yusuf was at his window.
“You have them.”
“A pleasure to see you, too.”
“You have them.”
“It was more trouble than I expected.” Grigory was enjoying himself now.
“If you don’t have them, you’d better tell me now.”
“Of course.”
“Of course, you have them? Or of course you don’t? Grigory, I swear—”
“They’re in the trunk.”
To Grigory’s surprise, Yusuf clapped his hands. “Congratulations, Grigory.” Yusuf pulled the Volga’s door open and tugged Grigory out. Grigory wondered whether the little Arab planned to cut his throat. Instead, Yusuf hugged him, wrapping his arms around Grigory’s bulk like a circus clown trying to saddle an elephant.
“Ready to go?”
“My bag is upstairs.”
“Then get it.”
Grigory hadn’t found much in his apartment worth taking. In a cheap nylon bag, he’d packed a half-dozen books, two pornographic DVDs starring the American Jenna Jamison, a few shirts and sweaters and long underwear, and both of his chess sets, his good wooden one and a little magnetic travel set. He’d taken his passport, though he couldn’t see what use it would be. Soon enough he’d have a new name and nationality. Or be dead.
Grigory rode the creaking elevator downstairs for the final time and tossed the bag into the backseat of the Volga. Yusuf grabbed his arm. “Show me, Grigory.”
Grigory popped the trunk of the Volga and moved aside the junk to reveal the toolboxes. Yusuf flipped open the boxes and stood in silence over the trunk. “They don’t look like much,” he said at last.
“What did you expect? A ticking clock? Something glowing?”
“They’re real?”
Grigory laughed, a crazy giggle that set his flabby stomach bouncing. All he’d gone through, and now this.
“They don’t impress you, Yusuf? They’re real. More real than anything else in this stupid world, I’d say.”
“All right.” Yusuf snapped the boxes closed. “We’ll put them in my car, leave this heap.”
“Whatever you like.”
They shifted the bombs to the Nissan, and Grigory threw his bag in as well. “Shall I drive?” Grigory said. “Since we’re partners now?”
&nbs
p; “You’ll drive if I’m dead. Maybe not even then.”
“I was joking, Yusuf. You’ve heard of jokes?”
“Quiet.”
Grigory slid into the Nissan, which stank of cheap air freshener. They drove to Tajid’s apartment and waited for him to arrive. Then the three of them drove out of Ozersk. Grigory craned his neck left and right as they left the city, feeling like a kid taking his first big trip. He didn’t expect to be back.
JUST OUTSIDE SAMARA, southwest of Chelyabinsk, they were filling up at a dingy petrol station when a Toyota sedan stopped in front of them. Yusuf trotted to it and slipped into the passenger seat. Grigory had always known that Yusuf couldn’t be acting alone, but this was the first proof he’d seen. He poked at his cousin, who was dozing in the backseat.
“Tajid, who’s that?” Grigory pointed to the Toyota. “Have you seen Yusuf with anyone before?”
“No questions, cousin. Don’t you understand that by now?”
When Yusuf returned, Grigory couldn’t help himself. “A new friend, Yusuf?”
Yusuf said nothing.
“Who was that, anyway?”
Yusuf backhanded Grigory across the face, hard, then tugged his ear until he thought it might tear off.
“Come on, Yusuf,” he said. “Please. Please.”
Yusuf looked back at Tajid. “Control this overripe turd,” he said. “Or I will.” He put the car in gear as Grigory sniffed at his armpits. He didn’t smell great, it was true. Too bad the whores had taken his cologne.
West of Samara they turned south and followed the Volga River. Near Saratov, with the sun already down again, Yusuf’s cell phone rang. He listened for a moment. “Nam,” he said, Arabic for “yes.” “Nam.” Without another word, he hung up. They drove into Saratov—a million-person city on the Volga—and Yusuf threaded his way through the streets unerringly, despite the dim streetlights and honking traffic. Suddenly, Grigory understood that Yusuf had taken this trip before.
These men, whoever they are, they’ve practiced, he thought. This theft had been planned for months. Maybe years. Such preparation seemed beyond Yusuf. He was dangerous, but no great thinker. For the hundredth time, Grigory wondered who was running this operation, and what the ultimate plans were. Blackmail? Or did they intend to use the bombs?
Yusuf turned left onto a narrow street fronted by an eight-story apartment building as ugly as Grigory’s own. He drove past it and parked in the courtyard of a two-story brick building covered in peeling yellow paint. “Come.” Yusuf stepped out of the car and opened the door of the apartment nearest the Nissan. He popped the Nissan’s trunk, and he and Grigory grabbed the toolboxes and hefted them into the apartment.
Inside, the apartment was filled with lime-green furniture. The television, a boxy wooden monstrosity, played silently, a game show, the Russian version of Deal or No Deal. The place was tidy but not really clean. The floral-patterned wallpaper peeled at the corners. A cheap chandelier hung crookedly from the ceiling, half its bulbs burned out. Grigory sensed that an old man lived here, hanging on but too tired or weak to clean the place. There were no pictures, no books or newspapers, no hints of the owner’s personality at all, aside from a prayer rug in the corner.
No one was home, but the owner, whoever he was, had left them supper, mounds of black bread, and jam and butter, and slices of grayish boiled beef. Aside from the bread and jam, it wasn’t much of a meal. Grigory didn’t care. He was famished. He hadn’t eaten since the night before. He couldn’t remember going so long without a meal. Fortunately, there was plenty of bread, and Grigory slapped jam on it until he was full, ignoring Yusuf’s dark looks. In this, at least, he would indulge himself.
AFTER DINNER, Yusuf pulled a digital video camera and tripod from his bag. He set them up in the living room, facing the chair in the corner. Grigory’s anxiety rose. He didn’t know what this nonsense was about, but it couldn’t be good.
When he was done, Yusuf tapped the chair. “Grigory,” he said. “Sit. We’re making a film.”
Grigory’s mind turned to the death videos he’d seen from Russian soldiers in Chechnya, where the hapless victims gave their names and ranks before being gutted. Yusuf clapped his hands peremptorily. “Come on. I promise it’s nothing.”
So Grigory arranged his bulk in the chair and looked at the unblinking camera eye. Yusuf handed Grigory a sheet of paper. “Memorize this and say it. And make sure your ID from the plant is visible so everyone will know it’s you.”
Grigory read the sheet. “But this isn’t true. And they’ll know it. They know they didn’t give me the codes. Why do you want me to say it if it isn’t true? I’ll be a fool.”
“When we make our demands, we’re going to include this. To increase the pressure.”
“Demands?”
“Of course we wouldn’t use the bombs. We’re selling them back. One billion euros each, two billion for both”—more than three billion dollars.
“You’re not going to blow them up?”
“How could we? We don’t have the codes. But this way they’ll be under extra pressure to make a deal.” Yusuf laid a hand on Grigory’s shoulder, and despite himself Grigory flinched. “Come on, Grigory. Don’t make me frighten you. Don’t think too much about it. Just say what’s on the sheet.”
“If you say so.” Grigory tried to ignore the tightness in his belly that told him he was a greater fool than ever. He memorized the words and spoke to the camera. He needed a few takes, but finally Yusuf pronounced himself satisfied.
“We’ll make a star of you yet, Grigory.”
BEFORE BED, Yusuf and Tajid prayed. They hadn’t kept to the usual schedule, five times daily. Grigory supposed they were allowed to break the rules on this mission so as not to attract attention. Grigory kneeled with them, listening to the words but not reciting them.
Then they sacked out on the floor of the living room. Grigory didn’t think he would sleep, but he did. He dreamed he was swimming in a pool filled with cologne and slept straight through until 5 a.m., when Yusuf kicked him awake. “Let’s go.”
“Can’t we hang around, watch TV?”
Yusuf squeezed his hands together. “A joke, right?”
“Very good.” Grigory knew he was making a mistake inciting the devil this way, but he didn’t much care. Yusuf would kill him or not, and a joke or two wouldn’t much matter either way.
“You’re lucky for my orders,” Yusuf said.
THEY HEADED SOUTH toward Volgograd, the former Stalingrad, site of some of the fiercest fighting in all of World War II. The Nazis and Soviets had battled for eleven long months for the city that bore Stalin’s name, both sides ordered never to surrender. By the time the fighting was done, almost a million men on each side were dead and the city was ash. And yet the cargo in their trunk could do just as much damage as all those men, Grigory thought. Secret armies, these bombs were.
By late afternoon the land turned hilly, and to the southeast Grigory could see the mountains of the Caucasus, big gray slabs of rock that disappeared in the haze. It was night when they reached Novorossiysk, on the coast. A day and a half had passed since Grigory drove out of Mayak with the bombs in his trunk. Grigory hoped they would leave Russia tonight. They didn’t have much time left. In another day or two, someone would be assigned to make sure that the weapons were present. Of course no one would think that a bomb was really missing, but with him and Tajid gone, they’d check anyway, just to be sure. And what a surprise they’d have.
Novorossiysk was a gray industrial city, the biggest Russian port on the Black Sea. Apartment buildings crawled up the hills that rose from the coast. The air stank of oil from the storage tanks on the harbor, round white behemoths a hundred feet high. They passed along its edge and turned southeast along the narrow coast road. The hills jutted up to their east and the sea lay to their west. The road was dark and slick and Yusuf drove carefully, both hands on the wheel.
“You know, even if we get in an accident, they won’t go o
ff,” Grigory said.
“Are you ever quiet? You’re worse than a woman.”
Half an hour later, outside Gelendzhik, Yusuf pulled onto the grounds of a deserted hotel closed for the winter. A rutted road rose up a hill toward the hotel, a concrete building with a few ugly frills. Behind the hotel, a dozen cottages sat among leafless trees. Beside the cottage farthest from the hotel, Yusuf cut the engine and they sat in the dark. The rain had stopped, but the air was cold and damp. They waited in silence, listening to the cars on the coast road, and to their breathing.
They passed an hour that way. The car grew cold, but Yusuf didn’t seem to mind. He closed his eyes and dozed lightly. Grigory tried to do the same, but he couldn’t. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw everything that had happened since Friday, the convoy arriving, the masterful way he’d played Major Akilev, the way Boris had checked the trunk . . . It was as if he’d been born two days ago, and everything before that hardly existed.
“Tajid,” he said. “When Boris checked the car, were you nervous? Was your heart pounding?”
“I suppose.”
“That’s all you can say? You suppose. These bombs in our trunk, our lives facing us, and what did you think? Wasn’t your heart pounding?”
“You know what,” Yusuf said abruptly. “I never knew before. But two days with you have shown me. There’re only two kinds of people in the world.”
Grigory waited for Yusuf to explain, but he said nothing. “Shall I guess? The fat and the thin?” Silence. “Men and women?” Silence. “The strong and the weak?” Silence. “The tall and the short.” Silence. “Come, Yusuf, give us your wisdom.”
“Those who can keep their thoughts to themselves,” Yusuf said. “And those who can’t. Sometimes I could cut your throat for a few minutes of peace.”
“Only sometimes?”
Grigory never got to hear Yusuf’s reply, because at that moment a car scraped up the hotel driveway. It was the same Toyota that had stopped beside them at the petrol station the day before. The Toyota parked next to them and a man stepped out, an Arab by the look of him, darker than Yusuf. He wore a cap and a heavy jacket. The man was in charge, Grigory saw immediately. Yusuf treated him with a deference he wouldn’t have given Grigory even if Grigory had put a gun to his head.
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