by Todd McAulty
Hayduk had Sergei arrested just as I was about to start the introductions.
I first realized something was wrong when I glimpsed Sergei, grim faced, making his way toward me in the crowd. He wasn’t supposed to be here—he was supposed to be in the command center, waiting for word from Thibault. I broke off my conversation immediately and began pushing through the crowd toward him.
I never reached him. I was maybe thirty feet away when his path was abruptly blocked by two Venezuelan soldiers. Both were dressed in the uniform of Venezuelan Military Intelligence, and both had holstered sidearms.
Hayduk’s men.
What the hell? I came to a stop in the small ring of onlookers that had formed around Sergei as my guests quietly distanced themselves from anything that looked like street violence. Behind Sergei, two other Venezuelans emerged from the crowd. I recognized them both.
Colonel Perez and Colonel Hayduk.
Hayduk put his arm on Sergei’s shoulder. Casually, like a brother. “Specialist Vulka,” he said. “I am happy we found you. Please. Would you accompany us?”
Sergei stood completely still. The crowd was watching, still uncertain how to interpret what was happening. A matter of military discipline? A suspected terrorist? The usual consequences of an unpaid gambling debt? No one looked too alarmed yet. Except possibly me.
For his part, Hayduk knew how to play the crowd. Keeping his hand firmly on Sergei, he turned in a wide circle, letting everyone see his clean, white teeth. “This is a most excellent party,” he said in a confident voice, one that carried over the din. “So many friendly Americans. But you and I, Specialist Vulka, I think we have no place here, hmm?”
Sergei didn’t look at Hayduk. Instead he fixed his gaze on his commanding officer, Colonel Perez. “What is this about?” he said evenly.
A pained look crossed Perez’s face. But his lips were thin, and he did not respond. Instead, he looked to Hayduk.
Hayduk withdrew a slim rectangle from his pocket: a GPU card, just like the one Sergei had loaned me to get access to the Field Museum a week ago Saturday.
“Do you have your access card, Specialist?” said Hayduk. This time he was speaking so quietly I had to strain to hear.
“Da,” said Sergei, patting his breast pocket.
“Excellent,” said Hayduk, looking very satisfied. He took a step back and nodded to the two soldiers. They came forward, and one of them gripped Sergei’s arm.
“Please—will you accompany us?” asked Hayduk, with exaggerated courtesy. “For an informal briefing. We have some simple questions.”
Some simple questions. The words sent a thrill of terror down my spine.
There was only one possible explanation. Hayduk must have managed to connect Sergei’s GPU card with the American terrorist. I had only used it once—to gain access to the medical offices in the Field Museum. Jacaranda had altered my appearance in the digital records, but she must not have disguised the ID number on Sergei’s card.
Hayduk was here to arrest Sergei. Not me and not Thibault. Sergei—the one man still vital to completing our entire operation.
Sergei had no immediate reaction to Hayduk’s question. I was trying to catch his gaze—as best I could without making a sound or drawing any attention whatsoever. Don’t do it, I thought fervently. Do not go with him. This man is death.
But Sergei didn’t meet my gaze. Didn’t even glance in my direction. Instead his shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. “Da,” he said.
Hayduk nodded again, a crisp signal to his goons. And just like that, they were all moving, pushing toward the door. Perez had his hand on Sergei’s shoulder now, almost paternally, but Sergei’s stance told an entirely different story.
No, I thought. Wherever they were going, it was not for an informal briefing. I knew with utter certainty that if Sergei left this room, I would never see him again. Quite likely, no one would ever see him again.
I looked around, as close to panic as I’d been in a very long time. I needed something to help Sergei, and I needed it now. An ally. A higher authority. A goddamn rocket launcher. Anything.
But there were only gossiping partygoers around us, of course. The crowd had stopped whispering, was already beginning to lose interest in that brief diversion, looking now for something less enigmatic to talk about. At the head of the pack, Hayduk had already pushed halfway through the crowd to the door. They would be gone in seconds.
And I had nothing. No weapons. No allies. No ideas. Trust to your courage, Sergei had told me. But it wasn’t courage I was lacking. It was a plan.
To my left a young woman pushed past me with a bright yellow drink. A server carried an empty tray under his arm, hurrying for the kitchen. An elderly woman rose from her chair with a delighted cry as she recognized a man at another table. It was all I could process in a panicked instant: a drink, a tray, an empty chair. These were the only tools I had to save Sergei.
Okay. If this was the hand I had been dealt, this is the hand I would play.
I stepped forward, grabbed the chair. I took a deep breath, and then I stood on it. At the last second I reached out and plucked the glass from the young woman, holding it over my head.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” I cried. “Your attention please!”
It wasn’t enough. A dozen people glanced my way, maybe two dozen. No one else could hear me over the din of conversation in the ballroom. Over by the entrance I saw Sergei, still flanked by soldiers. They were almost out of the room.
I took another step, climbed onto the table. The opposite side rocked up abruptly and I almost toppled to the floor, but I managed to keep moving forward, shifting my weight to the middle. The table settled back down, but not before a half-full wineglass rolled off and hit the floor with an explosive crash.
That did it. Now two hundred people were staring at me, a sea of confused looks, of curious expectation and surprise.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “I would like to offer . . . a toast!” I raised the glass a little too quickly, sloshing alcohol down my right arm.
Suddenly a painfully bright light was in my eyes. Martin, patiently waiting for his cue, had turned the spotlight on me. It blinded me, turning the sea of expectant faces into a featureless, murmuring mass. Worst of all, I could no longer see Sergei, or even the door. I cast about for a moment, trying to pick Martin out of the deep shadows over by the stage so I could signal him to kill the light, then gave up and soldiered on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Barry Simcoe. For those of you I haven’t had the privilege to welcome personally, my apologies—and welcome!”
A round of warm applause began. I talked over it, cutting it off quickly. “I’m not going to waste your time with a speech. Especially since we already have plenty of time-wasting speeches coming up in a moment.” There was some good-natured laughter. “There are too many people to thank for all their hard work tonight, far too many. But I can’t let this moment pass without saying a few words about an unsung hero, a man who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to make our little affair tonight possible. Martin . . . hey, Martin! Could you shine this light over by the main entrance, please?”
The light wobbled for a moment, then went out. A second later it flicked on again, this time in the door. And almost dead center in the bright circle was Sergei, still flanked by two soldiers. They came to an abrupt halt.
“There he is, ladies and gentlemen! I would like you to meet the soldier who originally proposed this ball and who worked so hard on behalf of the Venezuelan Civil Commission to make it happen. I don’t need to tell you that giving up nineteen floors in this hotel was a significant hardship, but the AGRT was willing to do it. And it’s all due to this man, my close friend—”
But something was happening. Even from here I could see the startled look on Sergei’s face. He looked positively appalled to be caught dead center in the spotlight. To his left, I saw Hayduk step to his side, staring into the spotlight, his features contorted with rage.
Sergei took a small step back, just enough to hide his face from Hayduk, and met my eyes for the first time that night. He shook his head twice.
The message was clear. Stop. This isn’t going to help.
But it was too late to stop now.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I continued, raising my glass an inch or two higher, “I’d like to introduce you to the hero behind the scenes tonight: Colonel Alberto Perez!”
Perez stood in the spotlight next to Sergei. All eyes suddenly turned to him, even the soldiers. He looked completely surprised—and so did Sergei.
A hush came on the crowd. Few—if any—of those here tonight had seen Perez in person, even from a distance. But everyone knew his name. He had been the enemy for many years, the man who had fought his way to the heart of their beloved city, helped drive out the American military, and made Chicago his own.
But the good citizens of Chicago were here tonight as diplomats, come to make peace with the occupiers and see what the future might hold.
“Let’s give the colonel a warm Chicago welcome,” I said. “I hope you’ll all take a moment to introduce yourselves.”
The crowd looked on Colonel Perez for long seconds, took in his crisp uniform and the polished insignia of his rank, his blue eyes and straight back.
And then some brave soul began to applaud.
That was all it took. The audience burst into polite applause, and the people near the door surged forward. This was what they were here for, to shake hands with the enemy, and now that he stood before them they seized the moment.
That was my cue. I leaped down from the table—which turned out to be a bad idea, as I landed badly and almost knocked over the woman whose chair I’d stolen—and then stumbled toward the door. When I got there people were still pushing bravely forward, eager to begin a new stage of American-Venezuelan relations by offering their hand to Colonel Perez.
I knew this situation wasn’t going to last long. Perez—ever the politician—was handling things gracefully. He’d stepped forward from the knot of soldiers and was meeting his public with a smile, whether because he enjoyed the attention or simply to allow his companions a clean getaway, I couldn’t tell. Nonetheless, he’d underestimated the tenacity and brute strength of a Chicago crowd, which surrounded him on all sides and continued to press in.
But it wasn’t Perez I was worried about. And sure enough, just after I reached the entranceway, Hayduk’s military instincts took over. He started barking at the throng, and at his soldiers, in an incoherent mix of English and Spanish. Holding Sergei firmly by the arm, he began to push aggressively toward the exit.
I had almost reached him and was desperately trying to figure out my next move when events took a turn for the worse. A young man by the doors, a little too taken in by the party atmosphere, said something to the Venezuelan soldier who had shoved him. The soldier responded by elbowing him in the face. The woman next to him screamed.
For a moment, it looked like the crowd would abruptly turn into a mob. The soldiers drew their weapons, and people began shouting and pushing in all directions. I had just reached Hayduk when I was shoved from behind. I stumbled into him. We both went down in a heap, with me on top.
Hayduk recovered first. With a snarl he jammed his palm in my face and pushed me off violently. I rolled away as quickly as I could, trying hard to appear nonthreatening. One of the soldiers grabbed me as I was struggling to my feet, and that certainly would have ended badly if Perez hadn’t intervened.
He had taken charge and was shouting orders, forming his men into a wedge to keep them pushing out of the crowd—and prevent them from throwing any more punches. He manhandled the soldier threatening me back into line. To the crowd he was simultaneously all smiles and charm, clapping shoulders and making apologies, and he even stopped to personally assist the young man who’d been elbowed in the face back to his feet, pounding him on the back.
He had the crowd quieted and the situation defused in moments, a masterful display of resolve and calm—and no small feat, considering an armed party of Venezuelans was still moving roughly through their midst.
He likely would have apologized to me as well, if I hadn’t slipped into the crowd first. As quickly as I could I made my way out of the ballroom and down the corridor, trying to stay ahead of the soldiers. I was pretty sure Perez hadn’t seen my face, and Hayduk had barely glanced at me.
I looked down at the thing in my hands, scarcely believing I had managed to palm it in my brief tussle with Hayduk: his GPU card. It looked slim and dangerous in my hands. It had been in Hayduk’s breast pocket, right where he’d put it after displaying it to Sergei like a triumphant detective.
There was so much I could do with this. Gain access to all of the newly restricted fifth floor, for one thing. Given time and a little luck, I might even be able to hack into the sectors of the stolen drive we’d been unable to access. If I could deliver it to the Americans in Atlanta, it would be an intelligence asset beyond price.
But I had a much more pressing need for it.
I found a stairwell and climbed to the third floor. There was a guard outside the command center where Sergei worked, but he’d seen me so often all he did was nod as I walked past him.
Sergei’s cabinet was locked, but I found the key where he usually kept it—under his medical computer. I unlocked the cabinet and slid out the top drawer.
Inside were four refrigerated containers. Each one contained twelve hundred vials of antivirus. Unless Sergei went free in the next few hours, all the effort that had gone into creating them would be for naught.
This must have been Hayduk’s plan all along, I realized. This was why he hadn’t moved against the reactor earlier. He’d been patiently biding his time, like a spider. Waiting until the moment of maximum vulnerability to strike. With Sergei under arrest, we’d never get Thibault’s message and never deliver the antivirus. The virus would rampage unchecked, and people were going to continue to die.
With Sergei and Thibault neutralized, Hayduk could return his focus to the last person standing in his way: Perez. He wouldn’t have to contend with Perez for long, of course—just long enough to make sure he mounted no more successful efforts against the virus. Three weeks, maybe four, would be all he needed.
After that, everyone would be dead or dying.
I lifted the first case out of the cabinet. Folded neatly underneath it, hidden under an opaque sample bag, was the American combat suit.
For a moment I wondered if what I was about to do would get both Sergei and me killed. If my time wouldn’t be better spent trying to find some way to get the antivirus to Thibault. And then I thought of Sergei in the hands of that murderous bastard. I took a deep breath, pulled the opaque sample bag out of the cabinet, and carefully slid the combat suit into it.
I returned the refrigerated container to the cabinet. Carrying the bag, I left the command center. I started for the lobby, then thought better of it. They wouldn’t parade Sergei out the front door of the hotel. This whole affair had been public enough already. If he was being formally charged, they would probably drag his ass to the Burroughs Detention Center on Lake Michigan. And if not, then straight to the Sturgeon Building. Either way, I needed to stop them before they left the hotel. My best bet was probably the parking garage where Perez kept a motor pool, watched over by a squad of trigger-happy Venezuelan teenagers in uniform.
I needed to find them—and quickly. If I guessed wrong, I’d lose my one chance to intercept them before they left the hotel. And I would never see Sergei again.
I made my decision and headed away from the command center. I strode down the hall about a hundred yards, scanning the ceiling until I found what I was looking for. A camera, fixed to the wall about ten feet above my head.
I approached. There were no soldiers nearby, and no one else in sight. When I was close enough I addressed the camera, speaking in a normal voice.
“Zircon Border. Are you there? Can you hear me? I need your help
. It’s urgent.”
Scarcely five seconds later, I heard a ringing. I looked around. About thirty feet to my left was a wall phone. It rang again.
I walked over and picked it up.
“How can I help you, Mr. Simcoe?” It was Zircon Border’s friendly voice.
“Thank you. Thank you for calling me.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Colonel Hayduk just arrested a friend of mine. Medical Specialist Sergei Vulka.”
“Yes. I saw it happen. Tragic business.”
“I need to know where they’re taking him. Can you send that information to a secure data location that Black Winter can access, as we discussed? Is Black Winter available?”
“Yes, I can. He’s available . . . It’s done.”
“Can you feed me Black Winter’s responses to my questions?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. I need to track Hayduk’s movements. How are they getting Sergei out of the building? The parking garage?”
“Black Winter says he can’t tell. They’re still on the second floor. They’re moving Specialist Vulka into an elevator.”
“Where it is headed?”
“Apologies, Mr. Simcoe. I don’t have cameras in the elevators. Just a second.”
“Hurry, please.” It had to be the parking garage, I thought. I was wasting time talking to Zircon Border. I’d have only moments to intercept them.
I was about to hang up when Zircon Border said, “Black Winter says to stay where you are. They’re taking him to the third floor.”
“Here?”
“Yes. The elevator doors will open in nine seconds.”
“Thank you both.” I hung up, and started toward the elevators. About eight seconds later I heard a chime, and without hesitating I turned and ducked into the bathroom.
Hayduk and his goons stepped out of the elevator. Holding the bathroom door open a crack, I watched them march Sergei toward the command center. Perez was not far behind.
Why the hell are they taking him there? I had no idea, but I doubted they would hold him there long.