by Tim Tigner
His moment of hesitation gave me all I needed, because I did know what to do.
For five long, hard, happy years, my government had sent me into kill-or-be-killed situations with enemies who did not hesitate. They didn’t flinch or pause or think twice. They gave homicide no more forethought than insecticide. I hadn’t become numb, but I had learned to postpone the self-recrimination until after the fact, after I’d done what needed doing to survive.
I reached down and grabbed the back of my third assailant’s shaved head with my left and then I drove my right thumb into his left eye socket as if I was trying to ram a cork into a bottle. No hesitation. No half-measure. Full-on engagement powered by fury and frustration.
He spasmed and went limp. He’d likely lose the eye, but that was preferable to what he’d planned for me.
Attacker two remained motionless where he dropped, but the eunuch was struggling to regain his footing. Extricating myself from the muddle, I leapt up, grabbed him with both hands, and whacked his head into the wall with enough force to knock him out for hours. He hit with a nasty crack and collapsed like a fat sack of flour.
I moved beneath one of the running showerheads to rinse the vomit and gore from my bare flesh while giving the scene a quick survey. One thing wasn’t quite right. I repositioned number two a bit, smearing his right thumb with the bloody goo oozing from number three’s left eye socket.
Satisfied that there was no physical evidence to contradict the story that a trio had gone at it and beat each other senseless, I went for the fourth guy.
There had to be a fourth guy. He’d be just around the corner of our shower bay, leaning one shoulder against the wall, trying to look casual to any passing guard while he kept everyone else out. He’d surely have heard the scuffle behind him despite the running showers, but he wouldn’t have been able to look without defeating the purpose of his mission. I’d probably find him snickering as he pictured the scene.
I moved quickly but quietly across the tile to the corner. Crept to within inches of where I was sure he’d be leaning. My plan was to step out, reach around, grab him by the throat and wrist, and pull him back around the corner where I could reason with him privately. Make him see the mutual advantage of not having seen or heard anything to contradict the three-way tussle story, lest it become a four-way.
I slipped around the corner, arms poised to pounce, and froze in place. The man before me wore a guard’s uniform. It was Grissel.
Chapter 14
The Visitor
I DUCKED BACK into the shower bay and pulled my clothes on without pausing to towel off. For six months I’d held in a torrent of grief and a swarm of frustrations, but my cork had popped along with number three’s eye. I wanted to grab Grissel by his big ears and head-butt him full on the nose. I wanted to feel his cartilage crushing and hear his nose cracking and see his blood spurting. Grissel’s sworn duty was to protect me, but he had tried to kill me instead.
I closed my eyes and counted to three before stepping out directly behind him. “There are two ways to deal with this.”
Grissel whipped around, his face showing surprise before flashing anger and then fear.
I kept my inner beast caged, but gave him a glimpse of the animal within. As he swallowed dry, I said, “Either both of us were here, or neither of us were here.”
I walked past him without another word. I could almost hear his mind whirring behind me. Pride fighting fear, curiosity battling with self-preservation. I did hear his decision. I heard him walk away.
With Grissel off guard duty, an inmate would discover the bodies momentarily. I didn’t want to be in the area when that happened. I hustled back to my cell and began flipping through my thick stack of playing cards.
“Why you spend so much time jus’ looking at those?” Marcus asked, leaning against his bars.
“Really want to know?”
“Yeah, man. Ain’t like I got no pressin’ engagement.”
“Pull out your deck. I’ll show you.”
Marcus did.
“Hold up the cards one at a time and show them to me, fast as you can. Just put them back down in the same order.”
“Fast as I can?”
“The faster the better.”
The toilet-sink combo unit was near the bars, so Marcus used it as a makeshift table. Holding the deck in his hand, he began flipping up cards one at a time, and discarding them in a pile on the sink’s rim.
“Faster.”
Marcus shook his head, but began flashing them at a rate of about one a second. Within a minute, he was done. “ ‘kay. Now what?”
“Four of clubs, six of spades, five of spades, nine of diamonds, jack of hearts … I was on the thirty-forth card, and Marcus’s eyes were big as boiled eggs, when my ears triggered a warning. A guard was walking my way with a purposeful stride. It didn’t sound like Grissel.
Hicks came into view. “You’ve got a visitor.”
“My attorney?”
“She doesn’t look like an attorney to me.” The guard spoke with the inflection men use among themselves when referencing attractive women. I didn’t know him well enough to tell if it was a ruse. Hicks was a new hire. He might be leading me to a closet where Grissel would be waiting with another crew.
I had no choice but to follow.
Hicks did usher me to the visitation room, where I spotted my visitor the moment he opened the door. About two-thirds of the way down the row of twenty stations, glowing like a lighthouse beacon on a stormy shore, was Katya.
She was wearing the same slim-cut toffee-colored suit she’d worn to the party and her preliminary hearing. In the courtroom I’d figured it was the only suit in her travel bag. Now I suspected it was the only one she owned. There was no need for it here, however. Most jailhouse visitors wore clothes anyone could buy at a truck stop or ball game. She must have associated jail with court and dressed accordingly. I guessed she was regretting the decision, given that she was also using three white tissues to shield her hand, chin, and ear from whatever might be growing on the handset’s speaker.
I picked up my handset without taking protective measures. Between growing up with a military physician, and countless missions in hazardous places, I’d developed an immune system tougher than a buzzard’s stomach. And I was eager to talk. Katya and I hadn’t spoken since the day of our preliminary hearings, when I was indicted and she was released. She’d flown straight back to Moscow and her doctoral defense. I’d moved into cell 412.
“Hello, Achilles.”
She wore a smile, but I could see worry in her amber eyes. “I heard you were back from Moscow. Congratulations. Do I call you Doctor now?”
“Maybe Professor someday. I see you’re still waiting for your trial. It’s been so long.”
“My attorney delayed it as long as possible to give us more time to investigate. But we’re only a couple of weeks out now.”
She paused there, not sure what to say. I thought I understood her predicament. Talking about my case could easily suck up the entire 45 minutes visitors were allotted, but I suspected she hadn’t driven five hours from Stanford for that. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s so incongruous, you and this place. Colin loved to talk about you as the guy who could do anything. But here, they let you do nothing. I feel like a fool now for coming. I had a very different image in my mind.” She shook her head, and looked down.
My mind stuck on her comment. I didn’t know my brother had talked like that about me. I didn’t know he’d talked about me at all.
Katya flicked something off the countertop with a long, elegant finger. “Clearly I didn’t think things through. Forget about me. What can I do for you? I guess I should have brought you some cookies. Or, I don’t know, a TV.”
“Tell me what’s worrying you. The best thing you could do for me is give me someone else’s problems to worry about.”
She looked back up and her eyes melted a bit. “I think someone’s trying to kill
me.”
Chapter 15
Terminate Her
SOMEONE WAS TRYING to kill me too, but I wasn’t about to tell Katya. I had a couple of competing theories playing out in my head. Her arrival fit both of them.
I met her eye, then made a point of glancing to the left and right. “Tell me about it, po Russkie.” In Russian.
Katya nodded her understanding. “Two days ago I was coming out of the math department when a big guy sitting in the courtyard made me nervous. It wasn’t how he was dressed that first drew my eye — Stanford attracts all types — but rather his disposition. Even sitting there drinking coffee he radiated a predatory, soldierly vibe. Seemed to be directing it at me, although with his wraparound sunglasses I couldn’t be sure.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was even bigger than you. Chiseled face with a military-style haircut. Dressed in a black suit. He’d have looked like a Secret Service agent except that he was wearing a black t-shirt rather than a white shirt and tie.”
Looking at Katya through the thick plexiglass, I couldn’t help but admire the way her mind worked, her mathematical precision. She’d thought about this. Reduced it down.
Katya was one of those people who surprised everyone she met, because she confounded expectations. When someone’s that beautiful, you expect her to play to it. Lots of mirror time, and selfie shots, and coquettish behavior. I was beginning to understand why she didn’t behave that way, why her behavior didn’t even acknowledge her physical status. Colin had pointed it out, but I hadn’t latched on. Her mind was her best feature. “Then what happened?”
“I crossed the courtyard, heading for the parking garage. He got up and followed me. Not right behind, but close enough that a three-second sprint would put him on top of me. I’ve been followed before, in Moscow. Stalked even. But those instances were always a lone guy half acting out some sexual fantasy. Sometimes not so subtly. Nothing serious ever happened, but those experiences prompted me to take some self-defense courses. I learned how to avoid and escape those situations, and how to make use of my fists, elbows, knees, and teeth.” She mimicked a few moves.
“I was preparing myself to jump into my car and lock the door and hit the horn when I saw a second guy. Same huge size. Same serious outfit. Same soldierly vibe.” She rattled off the facts like premises in a proof.
“He was sitting in a black Escalade, which he’d parked facing my car from across the aisle. The moment I saw him, I changed direction and walked over toward a group of guys who had piled out of a Honda. There were five of them, Ultimate Frisbee players in their late teens. I told them my concern and one of them launched a Frisbee right at the head of the suit who was following me. It was a great throw, fast and straight. The suit saw it, stopped and leaned his head just far enough to the right for it to sail past within an inch of his ear. He was almost robotic. Then the Escalade started up and pulled around and he got in and they drove off.”
Scary as that sounded, I was certain there was more to come. She’d used the word kill, and we weren’t there yet. “Did you get a license plate?”
“Only subconsciously. Enough to recognize it later when I saw a black Escalade parked near the entrance to my cul-de-sac. When the familiar letter pattern registered I felt my heart turn to ice. I kept driving, right past my apartment complex. I wanted to get lost in a crowd, so I drove to the mall, got a hot tea, and sat in the food court, thinking about my options.”
“What did you conclude?”
“I concluded that I wasn’t a random target, a young body picked from the crowd at Stanford to be raped, or sold into prostitution, or whatever. And they weren’t spying on me. These guys were definitely more Terminator than Bond. From there, I reduced my predicament down to two root conditions: either they were trying to harm me, or they weren’t. If they weren’t, then there were no mistakes to be made. If they were, and I made a mistake, then I’d either be hurting or dead. So the only logical move was to assume the worst, that a couple of professionals were trying to kill me, and act accordingly. Make sense?”
I couldn’t speak to her psychological health, but her logic was bulletproof. “You’ve got a remarkably cool head. What’d you do next?”
“The first thing I did was make sure I’d stay alive in the short-term. The second thing I did was try to figure out how to stay alive in the long-term.” She paused there to look me in the eye.
“And that plan involves me. Even though I’m locked up in jail 300 miles from Palo Alto.”
Katya shrugged and smiled meekly. “I’ve only been in the US for a week. The only other people I know are mathematicians. Hardly a rough-and-ready crowd. And I don’t know any of them well. You, on the other hand, are almost family. I also happen to know that you are very well-trained to deal with situations like these. I suspect that you can do more from behind bars than 99% of people could do on the outside.”
“What’s your backup plan?” My question was analytical — reflecting her preferred style — but I immediately regretted it.
Katya deflated. “No choice really. I can’t afford to hire bodyguards, and that’s not my style anyway. I’ll have to leave Stanford. Give up on my dream and go back to Russia.”
“Well, then you’re in luck.” I locked my eyes on hers, leaned in, and mouthed the next sentence. “I’m about to break out of jail.”
Chapter 16
Windbreakers
THEY CAME FOR ME at midnight. Grissel and a squirrelly guard with hairy ears named Willis.
Stopping before my cell, Grissel flicked open his baton and swished it through the air like a pirate testing a sword. “On your feet!”
The smell of his breath hit me with physical force. I’d almost have preferred the baton. I tried not to inhale while I slid on my sneakers and stood.
Willis dangled a set of handcuffs from his index finger like balls on a string, so I backed up to the door with my hands behind me as per prison protocol. He snapped them on with vigor and then unlocked my cell door while Grissel stood tapping the business end of his baton against the flat of his left palm. One way or the other, I knew I’d never see cell 412 again.
“Good luck, man,” Marcus called, from across the corridor.
Grissel stayed about five feet behind me while we walked, far enough to remain out of kicking range, yet close enough to keep my skull within the baton’s strike zone. I’d never traversed the jailhouse at night before. The darkness seemed to amplify the sounds and smells of bodily emissions, bringing the walls in even closer.
At the far end of my cellblock, we passed through a gate I’d never used to a hallway I’d never tread. The rhythmic smack of the guards’ boots became the dominant sound until a lock buzzed and a steel door swung — and I found myself in a room occupied by two navy blue windbreakers adorned with bright yellow lettering. FBI.
The shortest but broadest of the two special agents turned to study my face, comparing it to a photo he had clipped to a fresh brown folder. “Kyle Achilles?” His bright white teeth flashed in sharp contrast with his shiny ebony skin as he spoke, drawing my gaze.
“Yes.”
He pivoted left to face the window that partitioned our room from the control booth. This was one no-nonsense pro. High-speed, low-drag, and squared away, as my peers used to say. He signed a document that was waiting on the partition ledge, then pushed it through the receiving slot.
I stole a glimpse. It was a transfer of custody order, signed by a federal judge named Bartholomew Cooley.
“We’ve got him from here,” the lead special agent said. “You can take the cuffs off. We brought our own.”
Willis uncuffed me.
The guard behind the glass had me sign for my belongings.
The taller FBI agent then cuffed me again, hands in front this time so I could carry the paper grocery bag that held my watch, wallet, and clothes.
There was no more fanfare. A few buzzes and clicks later, we were outside in the crisp California air, walk
ing towards a black Suburban with government plates.
They put me in the back.
The lead agent slid in beside me.
The taller one sat behind the wheel. He keyed the ignition, snicked the selector into drive, and pressed the gas, making it real.
I was out.
We turned north on Calle Real and the driver pressed the accelerator with enthusiasm. In less than a minute, the perimeter lights of the Santa Barbara Community Jail were out of sight.
I held up my arms. “I think it’s safe to uncuff me now.”
Sergeant Dix turned and gave me a big grin. “I kinda like it this way.”
He unlocked me anyway.
“You do a pretty good special agent impersonation.”
“Not my first time wearing blue. Just my first time without sanction.” Dix’s bonhomie morphed to a more serious tone. “Your girl came through. She called not more than a minute after I hung up with you. Don’t know if that means you can trust her, but it’s a good sign.”
I agreed. “Did you come up with a passport for her?”
Special Forces units routinely generated false identities for their operatives. This was tightly controlled, of course, but Dix was a clever senior NCO, so he knew how to work the system and he had the connections to do it. Still, whereas he’d had months to prepare the other aspects of my backup plan, Katya was a late addition.
“Yep. Here you go.” He handed me a hefty manila envelope. “In case you do travel together, we made her Kate Yates to match your Kyle alias. Couples attract less attention, as you know. You’ve got matching Indiana driver’s licenses and credit cards too.”
“How about the Russian travel visas?”
“Yep. Belorussian too, so you’ll have a bolt hole.”
“I like your thinking.”
“Not my first rodeo. Is Russia your contingency plan?”
“More like a working theory. Why’s the envelope so heavy?”
“Used a little of your money to pick up a couple of clean iPhones.”