by Aiden James
It certainly changed my game plan, though, since as long as there was a chance they survived this attack there was also a shot for me to rescue them. But I’d have to be extremely careful in my approach. If these were the same Soviets I had crossed paths with in the past, they were a ruthless bunch. I sent a silent, fervent prayer heavenward that my boy would pull off his ruse as an archaeologist well, and buy me enough time to find him and Amy. As for Ms. Golden Eagle, I knew her thirst for answers and a deep desire for revenge would sustain her far longer than Alistair.
It became more difficult to avoid detection as I moved past the Soviet engineering team currently boring holes into the earth’s crust with their fusion devices. I tried to keep hidden from anyone’s direct view, but it was damned near impossible once the evergreen trees disappeared. At least it afforded me a better view of Stanislav’s operation.
After climbing up a hillside, I crouched behind a pair of large boulders. Forcing myself to use every precaution and keep my slight movements deliberate, I finally gained the vantage point I desired.
Gigantic trucks, with wheels significantly taller than any man in the area were parked in front of the mountainside. Equally enormous guns set atop each truck—at least that’s what they initially looked like. Yet, when a thick stream of intense blue light emanated from the truck closest to me, I immediately recognized that thing on top of it was the so called ‘fusion generator/reconfiguration beam’. But these FGRs were several hundred times bigger than the test versions I envisioned from Cedric’s description.
The mountainside shook furiously, knocking me to the ground. But not before I witnessed part of the rock surface closest to me suddenly disappear into a massive indentation forming within the mountain. Incredible enough, what happened next was even more so.
Suddenly, the mountain opened up. The earth’s crust melted away as if sucked into some invisible vacuum, leaving deep passageways exposed. Like the broken geodes Alistair collected as a kid in Scotland, the crystallized veins of gem material ranging from amethyst to lighter versions of quartz and perhaps much more valuable minerals glistened in the afternoon sunlight.
The loosened ground under my feet began to give way, forcing me to cling to the base of the boulder I had hid behind. I pulled myself back up, praying that my presence remained undetected. Meanwhile, a team of men and women dressed in khaki jumpsuits and hardhats approached the wound in the earth, carrying rifle-sized electronic sensors directed toward the chasm just created. I wasn’t close enough to fully perceive the design of these sensors, but the group—whom I determined must all be employed by Petr Stanislav—shook their heads wearily. Despite being an enormous windfall for the unscrupulous Russians, it wasn’t what they sought. They were looking for something else of value that wasn’t there.
Were they, in fact, searching for the Garden of Eden?
“No frigging way,” I whispered to myself, shaking my head at the idea’s absurdity.
It seemed even more ludicrous than it had before. I’m not sure why this would be any harder for me to accept than my own fate of walking the earth forever. One reality is hardly sillier than the other. Right? Besides, if a nut like Petr Stanislav believed the place existed, then everyone working for him should be on the same page. It certainly made me consider how many others shared the bottom of the Baltic Sea with Amy Golden Eagle’s parents.
With the clock ticking on my kid’s survival chances, I moved to my hideout’s other side. The ground was more stable, and the view conducive to what I needed. I could see the Russian’s camp, less than half a mile away. Tall, slender junipers grew along a shallow stream, with rows of white tents lined along either side of the stream. Just beyond the tents sat a cluster of trailers arranged in a circle—the likely home base for this operation.
What I wouldn’t have given right then for a pair of binoculars. Sunglasses too. I didn’t recall seeing either important item listed with our itinerary the night before. With all of the excitement going on, I completely forgot about what was missing from the list. I should’ve stopped and purchased both items on my way out of Tehran that morning. At the time, I was in a frantic rush to catch my two problem children before something terrible happened—like their automobile being destroyed by a launched rocket.
While thinking about this, I noticed a number of mercenary soldiers crawling around the perimeter below my observation point. Suddenly several of them pointed to my hideout, though I was careful to remain out of their line of sight. Something else had tipped them to my presence.
I needed to find a new hideout, and quickly. But before I could even start looking for a new location, a sharp shooting pain erupted from the base of my neck. It was too late to run...too late to do anything.
By the time I turned around to see what had hit me, I had already begun to black out. Black military boots and the butt from an AN-94 rifle were the last things I saw.
Chapter 13
When I regained consciousness I couldn’t move. Rope-bound to a wooden chair, my arms and hands were pulled tightly behind me. Only my head, lower legs, and my feet were free. Obviously, someone intended for me to stay put when I came to. Feeling disoriented, my head throbbed like a mother. I tried to recall the unclear events that had brought me to this point.
Something about a dangerous secret mission, a burned-out car, and the Garden of Eden. That last part seemed to energize my recovery, and as the fog cleared from my mind I steadily remembered everything.
“So, William Barrow, we meet again,” said a middle-aged man from behind me.
The voice was mellow and yet at the same time ice cold. Like fine German ale kept in a freezer...undrinkable. Likewise, I pictured the owner of the voice to be just as disagreeable. But the man wasn’t German, the accent was too thick....Russian. And the familiarity was profound...both with this asshole knowing my name and my own recognizance of his unsavory persona.
“Viktor?” I said, weakly. My mouth and throat felt as dry as sandpaper, like I hadn’t drunk anything for several days. “Where in the hell am I?”
“How easily you remember me, William.” The man’s mellowness gave way to a frigid influx of disdain. He stepped around me and moved over to where a group of five other men and a woman stood near the door, his boot heels clicking softly upon the linoleum covered floor. “It appears I might not have wasted my time waiting for you to wake up these past two days.”
Huh?
Once he moved past me, I fully confirmed it was Viktor. Viktor Kaslow, ex Lieutenant Colonel in the Soviet Union’s army from twenty-five years ago, and captain for one of Moscow’s most feared KGB death squads even after the Cold War ended. This man was among the Soviet’s most feared assassins, garnering that reputation based upon his supreme passion for his vocation.
“You are in some trouble, my friend. We caught you and your father, Alistair, trespassing. As well as the archaeologist’s daughter. But have no worries, William. After you and my subordinates get acquainted, all three of you shall exit this world promptly and join your less fortunate CIA predecessors in the afterlife.”
They—the Russians—had awaited my arrival. Viktor’s words alone confirmed that, but also a quick glance around the room affirmed the same conclusion. This had to be one of the trailers I spotted from my higher vantage point earlier. A double-wide large enough to fit several oversized pieces of furniture, including a large mahogany desk that sat close to the only door in the room. Both windows—each on opposite walls—were covered with thick draperies, making it impossible to tell whether it was morning or night.
Other furniture included a long table that sat next to a suspended fireplace. Despite the oppressive heat outside and an inefficient air conditioner wall unit, small flames danced within the hearth. A row of shiny sharp cutlery, specially designed for either surgery or torture, was laid out upon a blood-spotted white sheet that haphazardly covered the table.
Oh joy! ...Such fun and games to look forward to!
“I take it that a p
lea of neutrality—that neither you nor we own the land we’re squatting upon will make a difference?” I countered, my tone upbeat despite my growing unease.
For the other men and the woman eyeing me coldly, I’m sure they found the smirk on my face especially annoying. But then, none of them had ever witnessed the Amazing Willie Boy Barrow regenerating lost digits from fingers, toes, and genitalia. Such antics have brought several prominent members of the Spanish Inquisition to their knees in past centuries. It could very well be where the whole ‘Father of Vampires’ legend originated from. Either that, or maybe witnessing a lopped off arm or hand reappear after the initial blood geyser was what gave birth to the happy horseshit about being the very first ‘real’ blood drinker.
Viktor had never witnessed that side of me, though. Not even when he gashed me pretty good back in 1993, when we squared off in Algeria.
Thinking about this infused my smirk, until I noticed my son and Amy Golden Eagle bound similar to me. Secured to wooden chairs pushed against the wall to my right, both looked haggard and sported red welts upon their faces and arms. Their clothes were soiled from dirt and sweat, and Amy’s blouse had been torn open. I couldn’t tell if that was a sign of sexual assault, or if it was an initial threat to slice open a sensitive region of her body to gain proprietary info concerning her CIA contacts and such. The lack of blood on her blouse negated the latter notion, at least for now, though I did see a few red lines just below her chin that indicated knife cuts. From the array of deadly toys laid out on the nearby table, I could tell it wouldn’t be long before a full menu of entrées like that were served up for me.
It added credibility to the premise I’d actually been out of commission the past three days. I noticed then that Alistair bore more bruises than Amy, and I was greatly alarmed by the angry red ring around his neck. Obvious ligature marks, he looked at me with pleading eyes. It broke my heart to see him like this, and I silently lamented that I allowed us to get suckered into this assignment. Despite the terrible torture and discomfort he had already endured, I could tell he was fighting to hold his even-keeled disposition together. Probably the same thing was true for Amy, whose shivering body revealed the dire distress she hid admirably beneath her defiant countenance.
Yet, I doubt she even understood how little the Russian agents in the room cared about hers or Alistair’s courage one way or another.
“No, you only are the squatters, as we have already made legitimate claims with the Iranian government,” said Viktor, stepping back toward me from the others.
Time had been kind to the former chief adversary for the KGB. Although more than a dozen years had passed since we last faced off, he still carried the same virile air. His slicked back blonde hair bore just a slight hint of gray along the temples, and his steel blue eyes gleamed with the same malice I remembered. If not for the chiseled bone structure in his face that had held up remarkably well since our last encounter, there would be no hiding the monster that lurked within.
“If the Iranian people knew what you guys were up to, I doubt your claims would remain legitimate for long.” I hoped my bravado and intense dislike of this man didn’t translate to a quick demise for the two kids under my care and supervision. “That’s the problem with you and any other Soviet—once an arrogant jackass, then always an arrogant jackass.”
Yes, I was definitely stoking the fire here—which might seem in direct contradiction to what I just advised about my concern about our future. Yet, two members of this group—the youngest male and the lone female—had just moved over to the table and picked up a pair of branding irons and placed them into the burning hearth. I didn’t have to look over at Alistair and Amy to know they were terrified.... I felt their rising panic as it radiated toward me. Being ‘contraire’ was the only thing I could think of to buy us more time...more time to think up a better plan.
“You are quite incorrect!” said a booming voice from behind me. “I would say that being an ‘arrogant jackass’ is an American trait—an exclusive American quality!”
I couldn’t turn my head far enough to see who it was, but a moment later an immense human being appeared beside my chair. Petr Stanislav’s hulking frame loomed above me. Even uglier than the photograph Michael Lavoie had shown to me, his image must have been retouched. Or, more than likely, there was a much greater distance between his hideous mug and the camera lens when the picture was taken as compared to my unfortunate eyes right then. Not even the Amosu beige casual suit he wore could save him.
He bent down toward me, his big bushy head of reddish blonde hair encroaching into my personal space. His breath smelled like a sour outhouse, and the joyless mirth in his eyes told me that he greatly relished my discomfort by his presence. The antitheses to Viktor’s deadly charms, though both were venomous vipers at heart.
“Why else would you so foolishly come here?” he continued. “You, who are supposed to be such a great American spy, and yet failed miserably in carrying out a simple surveillance... Not to mention your CIA’s inept plan for your father, Alistair, and Stephen Golden Eagle’s daughter to infiltrate our operation. You are all arrogant jackasses!”
His deep voice rumbled with delight. I guess it didn’t take much to amuse this abhorrent giant. At least that was my initial impression, until he grew serious, eyeing me with ever-deepening contempt.
“Well, then, humor me big guy.” I leaned away from him to avoid the halitosis fumes. “What else could we have done, since you’ve done a poor job of keeping things secret? Very soon, the entire free world will know what you and your buddies have been up to around here!”
Not a guarantee, but chances of our Russian captors keeping satellite images secret were becoming increasingly difficult. One good network hacker is all it would take, and then the outer space images of a mountainside disappearing on earth could go viral on the internet in under a day.
The surprised look I received from Petr Stanislav confirmed my assertion’s accuracy.
“You could have simply cancelled, and not come out here!” Sneering, he turned away and moved over to the table, where he picked up a long serrated knife. “I would gladly tell you more about what all of this means for our future—the improved lot of my Soviet brethren as well as the overdue demise for your American government—but I have already grown weary of your presence!”
He chuckled as he returned his gaze to me, and this time the heavy soulless timber from his throat sent an icy chill up and down my spine.
At first I had nothing more to say...no more clever replies. But then I thought about the brethren he referred to—the peaceful Russian populace who are as kind and noble as any other people I’ve ever encountered. Except for their KGB faction.
“Okay, lay it on me, then,” I said brazenly. “I’d love to hear the tale of how what you’re doing here in Iran will actually benefit your Russian brothers and sisters.”
He glared in response, but that was it. Stanislav had already made up his mind. With no appeals left, it was time for a miracle. Viktor’s added snicker further heightened my dread.
“I have run out of patience with you. So, we shall leave your fate to Vera and Nicholas.” Stanislav moved past me and motioned for the rest of his team to follow him out of the building. The two assistants he referred to grabbed a fiery branding iron apiece and approached me from either side. “Have fun Mr. Barrow. The rest of your life is now in the hands of my most ruthless subordinates. That should give you something to think about while they sear the very flesh from your bones!”
“Bye-bye, William!” crooned Viktor, his tone rapturous. Honestly, I expected a little more respect from him, but I guess some wounds from long ago were still fresh. “Maybe we’ll meet again, eh? Perhaps eventually in the afterlife?”
Not if I can help it, you sorry sack of shit!
It was the last calm thought I had before Vera and Nicolas reached my chair.
Chapter 14
I tried to think of someplace happy...someplace heavenl
y. Or, at least a place I was familiar with...a place where unspoiled innocence ruled my days and nights. That usually did the trick for me. It had ever since I was a young boy, growing up in Judea.
Sometimes, the image of my mother’s face would come to me, so warm and so sweet. A natural beauty that was taken from this life when I was still a boy. My father’s bitterness, from losing the only thing he ever loved, was often felt in the blows he’d deliver to my brother and me. I believe that’s where my skepticism about the innate goodness of God Almighty was born. Even now—despite living the miracle that is my existence—I have my moments when I can’t see His providence...His eternal goodness.
“This is going to hurt—I won’t lie about that,” said Nicholas, his English nearly buried in his Ukrainian accent as he brought the heated brand up to my face. I could feel the fiery heat as the inflamed tip hovered just below my right eye. “I want to hear you scream!”
‘Hear you squeam?’ I mused silently. But it was hard to ignore the sharp malice in the tone. These assholes were all the same. Even the girl named Vera wore a sadistic sneer that made her otherwise comely features look especially ugly. Truth be told, these two dark haired miscreants with pale gray eyes reminded me of a recent cartoon version of Hansel and Gretel, hunched over with their red-hot prods held out in front of them like defensive weapons. It was as if they fully expected their dangerous captive to escape his bonds and tear their frigging crazy expressions clean off their faces.
Not quite the way it went down, but I did have a few tricks up my sleeve. Why they left my feet unfettered remains a mystery to me. Maybe because, in most cases, a captive wouldn’t be thinking of ways to use their lower extremities to compensate for the lack of use of one’s upper body.