For a split second, Charlie’s heart ached for the man. After all, he had lost everything—his wife, his son—while Charlie’s wife and son had been spared, had in fact been delivered.
It made Charlie think about the nature of pain and what people do with it. Some are able to rise above it, to survive and heal, while others slip deeper and deeper into anger. He wondered what it was that had sent Byko down this harrowing path.
In any event, there was no saving him now. Now, he and his rage simply needed to be extinguished.
Charlie stuck his hand in his pocket and felt for his trusty Sig Sauer. Could he get off a shot from here? He dropped to a knee as if he needed to tie his shoe and lined up a shot with his finger. Byko must have been sixty yards up. And the balcony wall, plus the railing, created a very difficult angle. This would require a sharpshooter of the highest order. Someone like Salim.
Charlie cursed himself. He should’ve brought the kid after all. Should he go back for him now? By the time he fetched Salim and brought him here, was there any chance that Byko would still be standing on the balcony in this private reverie?
Charlie seriously doubted it. He would have to find another way. A way into that presidential suite.
A light rain began to fall as Charlie approached the large green awning over the hotel’s main entrance. Immediately, Charlie noticed two men standing there. They both wore tiny earpieces and there were bulges under their leather jackets big enough to be submachine guns.
Byko’s men, for sure. No way he’d get past them.
Charlie pulled his baseball cap down over his face and circled around the block until he reached the rear of the hotel.
An alleyway led behind the Rossiya to a loading dock.
A door was propped open with a stainless steel trash can and Charlie could see cooks inside the kitchen, making food over large gas stoves.
This was his way in.
Charlie moved quickly, but surreptitiously. When he got twenty feet from the entrance, two men burst out of the door.
Leather jackets. Earpieces.
Charlie froze as Byko’s guards fixed directly on him. He knew that if he turned and ran, he’d give himself away. But he couldn’t just stand there frozen either. He had to do something. So he tripped intentionally. As he stood, he scooped up a champagne bottle from the ground next to the Dumpster and began singing loudly in Russian, weaving from side to side and waving the empty bottle in front of his face as though conducting an orchestra. Between the rain and the baseball cap and the bottle in front of his face, maybe the guards wouldn’t recognize him.
“Get out of here, you shit-eating drunk!” one of them yelled. Charlie “slipped” and fell, crawled a few steps and then stumbled away, Byko’s men laughing and hurling abuse at him until he reached the corner. Righting himself, Charlie cursed and hurled the bottle at the wall in frustration. He was running out of options.
He continued to circle the building—but every single entrance was guarded. Worst-case scenario, he would have to try shooting his way into the building, but he knew that would almost certainly be a losing proposition.
Maybe a distraction? A disguise?
No. There had to be another way into the hotel. He surveyed the area and spotted a recently built multistory parking garage behind one wing of the Rossiya. Next to it was a run-down old tenement. And the top floor of the garage was connected to the roof of the hotel.
What if . . .
He stared up for a few seconds, shading his eyes against the rain with a cupped hand. It was hard to tell from here.
He jogged around to the front of the tenement. The property was surrounded by a rusting chain-link fence. Charlie crawled over it, sprinted through the gaping front door and up the urine-smelling stairway. At the top was another door, this one secured with an old padlock. Charlie kicked the door twice and the rotten wood gave way, the door falling onto the roof of the tenement with a sodden thud.
The rain was coming down much harder as he walked out to the edge of the building and looked down. The top floor of the garage was about six feet from the roof of the tenement and about ten feet down. Surrounding the roof was a low brick wall, maybe three feet high—just high enough that it would be dangerous to jump over. He’d have to perch on the wall and leap with no running start. He felt the surface of the brick. Typical Soviet workmanship—the brick so spongy and friable that he was able to gouge it with his fingernails. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a stiff wind was driving the rain right into his face. He’d be jumping against the wind.
He climbed up onto the little wall, balancing on his tiptoes. When he was standing on the roof it had looked like quite a drop, but now, swaying in the windy rain on a four-inch-wide piece of slippery brick, it felt like it was a million miles down.
In the alley below, under an awning, one of the guards flicked his cigarette into the air, then stretched and surveyed the alley with a slow, professional sweep of his head.
Charlie tested his weight, swinging his arms and readying himself to jump. Something gave way under his foot and he fought to keep himself from falling. He managed to recover his balance, but as he straightened, moving his foot to a more secure part of the wall, a small hunk of brick broke free and fell, tumbling slowly through the air.
The brick hit not ten feet from Byko’s guards, letting out a sharp crack that echoed loudly through the alley. The two guards started, one of them frowning curiously, the other reaching under his coat and smoothly sweeping out an MP5 submachine gun.
It was now or never.
Charlie coiled, bent his knees and leaped.
Chapter Fifty-six
Julie sat on the piano bench in the palatial living room of the Rossiya Hotel’s presidential suite, playing “Chopsticks” on the astonishingly out-of-tune grand piano.
Byko continued to stand on the covered balcony in the rain, looking out at the Square. Quinn sat ten feet from Julie, his feet up, whistling what she thought might be a tune from West Side Story. Across the room, the young man with the Homer Simpson shirt was setting up a computer and a video camera.
There was really nothing she could do. Quinn carried a gun and had the reflexes of a cat. Unless there was some kind of distraction that would help her escape, she suspected she didn’t have more than an hour or two to live.
It was a very strange feeling. The drugs and the waterboarding had given her something to fight against, something to focus her. But this—sitting around letting the clock tick down on her life, here in what passed for luxury in Uzbekistan—seemed ridiculous and surreal.
The computer tech fussed with the camera, then the lights, then the camera, then pecked away on the computer again. When his work was complete, the technician moved to the balcony door and told Byko that everything was ready for him.
Byko came in and sat in front of the computer. From Julie’s perspective it appeared to be a fancy version of Skype: a camera and several bright lights were pointed at the chair in which Byko sat.
“Security protocols?” Byko asked.
“Totally untraceable, high-prime encryption, parallel packet redundancy, sir. Everything’s working perfectly and the recipients are standing by.”
Byko looked at his watch, then nodded at the technician.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . . ,” the technician said. Then he pointed his finger silently at Byko as he pressed a button on the computer.
On the side of the camera, a tiny red light blinked on. Simultaneously a rectangular window opened on the screen and Byko’s image appeared in hi-def, the lights perfectly picking up the lines of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes. He looked like the host of a news talk show on CNN.
Byko stared solemnly into the lens. “The time is near, my brothers, and all has been said that need be said. Thirty minutes after I conclude this transmission, you will be sent the targets and routing plans for your escape. I will go into hiding. You may not hear from me for six months or a year. But I will contact you again, and we will s
ee then what still remains to be accomplished. Until then, go with force toward what is right.”
Byko nodded at the technician. With that, the red light blinked out and the connection to his far-flung network disconnected. Byko must have felt her gaze on him because he turned suddenly to face her.
“There was so much you could have done in this world,” she said grimly.
He assessed her coolly. “To know that you’ll be watching me, this will be very satisfying. That it will be the last thing you do before you die—I’ll find a way to live with that.”
Then he turned and strode out.
As the door slammed shut behind him, she caught a glimpse of the two guards standing in the hallway. That certainly wouldn’t be the way out.
Again, she considered making a break for the balcony and jumping into the crowd. It was her only chance at this point. If she could get to the balcony door and throw it open, it would block Quinn for a moment. Once she got out the door and onto the balcony, she’d have a step, maybe a step and a half lead time ahead of him. Throw in the element of surprise and she might just make it to the ledge.
She clenched her fists, focusing, readying herself. Once she started to go, there would be no turning back. Three strides to the door, three strides to the—
Quinn’s walkie-talkie crackled loudly, interrupting her train of thought. A voice said, “There’s something happening on the roof.”
“Like what?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” the voice replied. “It’s raining like a bitch out here. But I think someone just jumped across it.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
Charlie’s feet slammed into concrete and for a moment he teetered on the edge, fighting the wind that threatened to blow him over. Just as he was about to fall, he spotted a short stub of rusting conduit sticking up from the concrete, grabbed it and hauled himself onto the roof.
Had the guards on the ground seen him? No way to know. Either way, he needed to move fast. He rolled, sprang to his feet, sprinted across the parking garage and climbed over a low concrete barrier that led to the adjoining roof of the hotel. A brief scan of the roof revealed a door. He tried the handle but it was locked. He kicked hard—several times—each kick sending a wave of shock through his back. Grimacing, he eyed the roof for something to pry open the door. A tool, a knife, a stray piece of metal. But there was nothing around but a broad expanse of wet gravel, a few rolls of tar paper and some conduit that appeared firmly affixed to the roof.
Charlie drew his Sig Sauer and fired into the lock. The noise of the gun, reflecting off the steel door, was terrible. Even with the clamor of the crowd in Babur Square and the din of the storm, there was no doubt that Byko’s people would hear it. He grabbed the handle and tried to turn it, but it still wouldn’t move. He fired a second time, aiming the 9-millimeter slug at the exact junction of the door and the frame. The second shot did the trick, cracking the bolt in half. He braced one foot on the frame and pulled on the handle. With a scream of metal on metal, the door slowly ripped open.
As he descended the stairs, he heard another door banging open somewhere down below. He knew it couldn’t be an accident. Somebody was coming for him.
He gripped the Sig Sauer in two hands as he crept down the stairwell. One step. Another. A third. There were no lights and with each step the space grew darker. Charlie paused. Listened. Below him he heard a soft scrape, a pause, then a creak.
He took another couple of steps. Standing on the wall two minutes ago, he had been terrified. But now, much to his surprise, there was no fear. Instead he felt an almost eager anticipation, as though he were engaged in an extremely high-stakes chess match. He took a few more steps, maintaining a sight picture on his weapon, planning how he would confront whoever was down there hunting him. As soon as his stalker appeared, Charlie would frame him in his front sight and squeeze the trigger.
Three quick shots, then duck back into cover.
Now he could hear breathing. Rapid breathing. Charlie smiled. Whoever was down there was more scared than he was. Or maybe he was just out of breath. Either way, the advantage went to Charlie.
Charlie forced himself to stay completely still, breathing silently through his nose. The man wasn’t more than ten or fifteen feet away.
Front sight. Wait for the target.
Scrape. Scrape. Creak.
A sudden burst of thunder rumbled through the stairwell and a shaft of lightning illuminated the space through a grimy window.
The light projected a shadow against the wall.
Gotcha.
Charlie knew exactly where he was now.
This was the moment.
He leaped around the steel banister, prepared to confront his target. A large man carrying a submachine gun stood poised, barely visible on the edge of the landing, eyes wide, jaw tight with tension.
Charlie fired—three quick bangs—then took cover.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the stairs. But he heard no thunder, only the deafening kickback of the Sig Sauer.
He strained, waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside, but he could tell it might take several minutes. And that was time he didn’t have.
He took a chance and peered around the banister, whipping his gun into firing position.
The man was gone.
Charlie took a few stealthy steps down the stairs. It was even darker here than at the landing above. Another step. His ears still ringing. Unable to hear even his own footsteps.
He jumped onto the landing, sweeping the area with his gun. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but then he saw him.
The man lay on the ground, his hand reaching feebly for his MP5. Charlie ran down the last few feet and kicked the submachine gun away.
“Where is she?” Charlie hissed.
The man made a wheezing noise, air bubbling from a wound in his chest.
“Where is she?”
The man rolled over and spit blood at Charlie’s shoe.
Charlie was in no mood to mess around. He fired into his leg. The man screamed in agony. Charlie pressed the heel of his boot into the wound and ground it with all his weight.
“Where is she?”
“Room 404,” the man wheezed. “The presidential suite.”
“Where exactly?”
“In the main living room.”
“How many guards?”
“One inside, two outside.”
“And Quinn?”
“He is the one inside.”
Charlie noticed a radio attached to the man’s belt. He grabbed it and commanded, “Tell them I’m on the third floor. Heading down the hallway from the stairwell. Tell them to cut me off by taking the elevator.”
The man stared defiantly into Charlie’s eyes. Charlie pushed the barrel of his gun into his crotch. “Do it or I shoot!”
“Okay, okay!”
Charlie put the radio to the man’s mouth.
“It’s Markov,” the man said. “I’m hit. The bastard’s on the third floor.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
As soon as Markov finished, Charlie grabbed the walkie-talkie and sprinted down the flight of stairs to a large metal door with the number 3 spray-painted on it. He pushed the door open and found himself in a long hallway. At the far end was a small elevator lobby. He shoved a fresh magazine into his pistol, then ran toward it.
There were two elevator doors with small brass dials mounted on the wall. The arrow on the dial of the closest elevator was halfway between the 3 and the 4—moving slowly down. The ringing in Charlie’s ears had died down and he could hear the elevator coming. He ducked behind a column just as the elevator dinged. The column was made of glass brick, allowing him a view—albeit a distorted one—of the elevators.
The doors shuddered, then slowly opened.
Charlie jumped out and settled his front sight on the figure emerging from the elevator.
To his horror, it wasn’t a big man in a leather coat, but a slim old lady wearing
a maid’s uniform and pushing a cart full of laundry. Was there anybody behind her? He didn’t want to catch her in the cross fire.
The housekeeper spotted him, quickly dropped her eyes to the floor and scurried away. Charlie moved slowly toward the elevator only to find it was empty.
Suddenly, he heard children’s voices.
He wheeled and saw a family coming toward him. Father, mother, three children. The father was showing his oldest son a banner. They were headed for the rally in the Square and so caught up in their excitement that they didn’t even notice the Sig Sauer in Charlie’s hand. The youngest boy ran toward the open door of the now-empty elevator, but reached it just too late. The doors closed.
Ding.
Charlie jumped, startled. The second elevator was coming and this one was surely carrying at least one of Byko’s bodyguards.
The family crowded toward the door. As it opened, they suddenly halted, the wife grabbing the arm of her three-year-old son and pulling him backward. From the look on her face, Charlie knew she must have been reacting to something frightening—most likely, a man or men with guns.
Charlie ducked back behind the pillar of glass bricks. All he could see was a mass of shifting colors, people moving in all directions.
He waited a beat, then stepped out from behind the column. The doors were closing on the family. A balding heavyset man in a leather coat was hustling down the hallway, pistol at his side.
Charlie carefully lined up his shot. Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, a door opened. A door almost precisely halfway between Charlie and his target.
It was a young woman, emerging from her room.
Charlie held his fire, but she saw his gun and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
The bald man wheeled and fired rapidly at Charlie, heedless of the innocent woman in his line of fire. Charlie ducked behind the column as she continued to scream. The bullets were smacking into the glass brick, throwing chunks onto the floor with each impact. Charlie considered shooting back but discarded the idea, afraid he would hit the innocent woman.
Out of Range: A Novel Page 28