by Tim Downs
“Is that them?” Donovan asked.
Nick nodded. “They’ve been at a veterinary clinic in Clinton all night. Kathryn’s the redhead—that’s her daughter, Callie. You remember Alena.”
“Sure—the witch.”
“Callie’s the one we were searching for in the field last night. Kathryn threw herself on top of her to protect her, but the combine would have killed them both. She must have known that, but she did it anyway. What kind of a woman does that?”
“A mom,” Donovan said. “They’ve been known to do things like that.”
“It was Alena’s dog who stopped the combine. He charged right into the thing—he didn’t even hesitate. You know, she’s got thirtyseven dogs, and every one of them would gladly die for her. How does she do that? If I was on fire, my students wouldn’t even put me out.”
“Maybe if you offered extra credit,” Donovan suggested.
“Thanks.” Nick started toward the truck.
“Where are you going? We’ve got work to do.”
“I’ll be right back,” Nick said.
Kathryn called out as he approached. “Have they caught him yet?”
“Not yet,” Nick called back. “He had a big head start. They think he might be headed for the coast. Don’t worry; they’ve got a lot of people looking for him.”
Nick walked over to Alena. “Well?”
“Trygg’s okay,” she said. “They got the bullet out of her—it didn’t hit anything important. She should be up and around in no time.”
She lowered the tailgate on the truck.
Nick looked. The truck bed was covered with thick blankets. Three-legged Trygg was lying on her side with white bandages wrapped like a sash around her chest and shoulders. Beside her, Phlegethon lay on his left side with his left foreleg heavily bandaged and immobilized by a cast. His right foreleg had been amputated at the shoulder.
“What do you know,” Nick said. “A matched set.”
“His left leg was chewed up pretty bad, but they set the bone and stitched him up. They couldn’t save the right one—they had to take it off. He’ll be okay.”
“The vet wanted to put him down,” Kathryn said. “You should have heard Alena—such language.”
“Can a big dog like that get around on three legs?” Nick asked.
“You’re big—you’ve only got two.”
Nick looked at her. “You know, for a witch you have a very positive outlook.”
“He’ll do fine,” Alena said. “I’ll teach him.”
“If anybody can, you can.” Nick put a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for what you did. I know how much he means to you. When I saw him charging into that combine I knew you must have sent him. I thought he was dead.”
“I thought you were dead,” Alena said. “What in the world were you thinking?”
Nick shrugged. “I guess I ran out of ideas.”
“So you just stand there like an idiot and let a combine run into you?”
“It does sound pretty stupid when you say it like that.”
“It is stupid. If a dog loses a leg he’s a tripod; if you lose a leg you’re a flagpole. Try to remember that next time.”
“I’ll make a note.”
Nick walked over to Kathryn. “Tully Truett stopped by a few minutes ago—I thought you might like to know.”
Kathryn rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me he still wants to buy this place.”
“With what? He doesn’t have a dime.”
“What?”
“The wasps tested positive for Diplodia. The wind blew them everywhere last night—all over his corn. The feds have quarantined his place. He says he’ll go bankrupt. I get the feeling he’s seriously underinsured.”
Kathryn looked at her fields. “Then I guess they’ll quarantine my place too.”
“I’m afraid they’ll have to. They’ll plow everything under and watch for a year or two; once they know the toxin is gone you’ll be able to plant again. You haven’t lost everything, Kathryn—the property’s still yours.”
Kathryn smiled at her daughter. “Did you hear that, Callie? We’re still in business! All we have to do is start all over again—but we’re getting pretty good at that, aren’t we?”
Nick heard a voice call his name; he turned and saw Donovan waving him over. “I have to get back to work,” he said, starting back. “You three get some sleep if you can—I’ll check in with you later.”
“Good news,” Donovan called out.
“Did they find him?”
“No, but we located his insectary. It’s in the Research Triangle in Raleigh.”
“How did you find it?”
“We just checked with the city. He applied for a business license—can you believe it? He was running it like a legitimate business. He must have been pretty confident that no one would ever figure out what he was up to.”
“We almost didn’t,” Nick said. “Did the insectary make any shipments?”
“Hundreds,” Donovan said. “But we found shipping records, and the shipments all went out in the last day or two—we should be able to track them all down before they’re delivered.”
“That’s a lucky break,” Nick said. “Now if we can just contain the toxin here.”
Donovan looked across the yard at the two women. “How are your girlfriends doing?”
“Good—just a little tired.”
“So, have you picked one yet?”
“Since when are you interested in my love life?”
“I’m not, but Macy’s bound to ask. Have you decided?”
Nick looked over at the two women. “You know, I think maybe I have.”
51
Podlesny, Russia
The bodyguard led Macy down a cathedral-like hallway lined with gilded paintings by eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Russian masters. The house was palatial—a two-thousand-square-meter French baronial mansion surrounded by elegant birch trees and chamomile flowers. Through the windows she could see an artificial lake behind the house with a private beach of imported white sand. Beyond the lake she could just catch a glimpse of the dilapidated dachas of Podlesny.
They stopped in front of an arched double door with heavy wrought-iron hinges that looked as if it had been borrowed from the entrance of an old Lutheran church. A second bodyguard stood in front of the door and held up one hand as Macy approached. He took the purse from her hand without a word and brusquely searched through its contents. Macy pulled open her sweater and exposed her very pregnant abdomen, as if to say, “Would you like to frisk me?” To her surprise the man placed one hand on her abdomen and waited for the baby to move.
He handed back the purse and gave her a wink. “A boy,” he said.
“Nyet,” she replied. “A girl.”
The bodyguard knocked twice on the double doors and then pushed them open. It was a trophy room. The walls displayed the heads of moose and snow sheep and wild Russian boar, and the floor was crowded with full mounted specimens of Asiatic black bear, musk deer, and Caucasian wolf. Macy’s eye was immediately drawn to the center of the room, where a perfectly preserved skeleton of a woolly mammoth stood with long ivory tusks that curled around until they pointed back at the mammoth’s own skull.
“Siberia,” a deep voice said. “The Krasnoyarsk region.”
Macy lowered her eyes. Sitting on a leather sofa in front of the mammoth was an old man with thick white hair. “Yuri Semchenko? I’m Macy Donovan—U.S. Department of State.”
Semchenko nodded and motioned her in. “You were wondering where it is from.”
Macy stepped into the room and the doors closed behind her. “It’s a magnificent specimen—better than the one in the Smithsonian, I think.”
“Much better.” He gestured to a sofa opposite his.
She took a seat. “Your English is very good. I’m so glad—my Russian is very limited.”
“English is the language of business,” he said. “I am a businessman.”
She glanced
around the room. “Yes—a very successful one.”
Semchenko looked down at her protruding abdomen. “A woman in your condition rarely travels,” he said. “Washington is very far.”
“I have a very serious matter to discuss with you.”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid I bring very sad news. A few days ago your godson, Pasha Semenov, was involved in an act of terrorism against the United States.”
Semchenko frowned. “That is a very serious accusation. Are you certain of this?”
“Yes. While pursuing an advanced degree at one of our universities he was involved in a deliberate attempt to sabotage our agricultural industry.”
“Sabotage? In what way?”
“He attempted to destroy our corn crop with a genetically altered fungus.”
Semchenko said nothing.
“The attempt was discovered and prevented. Had he succeeded, the results would have been catastrophic. As a farmer yourself, you can imagine the disastrous economic consequences of such a loss. The World Trade Organization would have shut down our exports; the cost of meat and dairy products would have skyrocketed; the decline in ethanol production would have driven up the price of gasoline. Our experts estimate the economic loss could have been in the trillions.”
“Where is Pasha now?” Semchenko asked.
“We don’t know. We were hoping you could tell us.”
“I am sorry—I have no contact with my godson.”
Macy paused. “That comes as a surprise, Mr. Semchenko. According to North Carolina State University’s financial office, you’ve been funding Pasha’s education.”
“I took Pasha from the streets many years ago. I do not know his people. He was always a rebellious boy. I raised him as my own, but he was finally sent to prison.”
“Yes, I know—for assaulting a woman.”
Semchenko shook his head sadly. “I used my influence to set him free. A Russian prison is a terrible place—I feared that it would change Pasha forever. I sent him away—back to America to complete his education. I pay for his education, yes, but we do not speak.”
“Then your godson was acting independently?”
“Many young men in Russia have lost their way,” he said. “It is a very sad thing. Our prison population is the largest in the world—except for your country. I weep for the things Pasha has done, but I cannot take responsibility.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear you say that,” Macy said. “Since your godson was acting independently while living as a resident of the United States, his actions can be considered an act of domestic terrorism and he will face ordinary criminal charges. But if he had been acting under the authority of or with the knowledge and consent of a foreign power, that would have been considered an act of international terrorism.” She paused here to give her next words maximum effect. “And that would be considered an act of war.”
Semchenko listened without expression.
“Young people sometimes act rashly,” Macy said. “They don’t always think about the consequences of their actions. Take Pasha, for example: He thought he could destroy a single type of grain—corn. He didn’t understand the impact that would have on the U.S. economy as a whole. He didn’t understand that the collapse of the U.S. economy would bring about a global economic disaster that no country would escape. That’s why your generation is so important, Mr. Semchenko. You’ve lived a long time—you understand consequences. The young have knowledge, but the old have wisdom. The people behind this were very smart—but not very wise.”
Macy got up from the sofa. “I’ve taken enough of your time,” she said. “I know you’re a busy man. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. If your godson should happen to contact you, please let me know—here’s my card. It’s imperative that we find him. Pasha will be able to give us the name of everyone who was involved in this—and we want to make very sure that everyone responsible is punished.”
She walked to the door, then turned and looked back.
“I had a little boy once and I lost him,” she said. “I know the grief you must feel. I’m sorry about the path your godson has taken, Mr. Semchenko, but sometimes a parent has no choice—sometimes you have to let them go.”
She knocked on the massive door and waited for it to open.
Semchenko pointed to her abdomen. “It is a girl,” he said.
“That’s right. How did you know?”
He shrugged. “I know about growing things.”
The door opened and Macy left.
52
Pasha Semenov hid in the deep brush in a remote corner of the Wilmington Airport. He licked his lips; his tongue felt thick and dry. He was hungry and he was dehydrated, but it wouldn’t be long before he had food and water and a warm place to sleep again. It had taken him almost a week to work his way the forty miles from Sampson County to Wilmington on the Atlantic coast, sleeping in fields by day and traveling only at night—and only on foot. When he left the farm he had driven in the opposite direction, hoping to disguise his intended route—then he left the car in a crowded Big Lots parking lot and backtracked on foot. The ruse added miles to his journey, but it would be worth it if the authorities were thrown off for even a day or two.
He had eaten only what he could pick from trees and drank only from streams and scum-free ponds. He didn’t dare stop at a fast-food restaurant or convenience store. He knew that video cameras were omnipresent and that by now his face was probably familiar to everyone in North Carolina—and if his face wasn’t a dead giveaway, his accent would be.
He rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky. It was a moonless night—there would be no light to reveal his presence when he crept from the brush onto the runway to meet the waiting plane. He rolled onto his side and looked across the tarmac; he could see the international terminal where the Gulfstream G150 had been parked for the last few hours while U.S. Customs and Border Protection checked the single passenger’s passport and the plane’s air cargo manifest. The customs officials would suspect nothing; the flight was just a routine corporate air charter from the Virgin Islands—but the pilot and passenger worked for Dedushka.
Pasha checked his watch again. By now the Gulfstream had pulled away from the international terminal and had begun the long taxi to the end of the runway. In just a minute or two he would see the plane approaching; as it reached the end of the taxiway the pilot would flash his landing lights once. When Pasha saw that signal he was to emerge from his hiding place and sprint the twenty yards to the waiting plane. Just before the Gulfstream turned the corner onto the runway, the door to the darkened cabin would open and the ladder would quickly drop—and in a matter of seconds Pasha would be airborne and away from this accursed place.
He still wasn’t certain exactly when things had begun to go wrong. Maybe it was Jengo’s cowardly defection—his death drew the attention of the wrong people. Maybe it was earlier than that—maybe it was Michael Severenson’s mental instability. If the man hadn’t thrown the insects into his own field, they never would have been discovered. Maybe the whole effort was doomed from the very beginning—maybe it was the fault of Dedushka’s ill-conceived plan. One thing was clear to Pasha: If it wasn’t for Dr. Polchak, no one would have ever understood. He should have killed the man long ago.
He thought about Kathryn Guilford again. Now that was a beautiful woman—too bad. But it didn’t really matter—there were thousands of beautiful women in Russia, and he would soon be able to afford as many as he wanted. Pasha had done what Dedushka had asked of him; he had demonstrated his loyalty and it was time to claim his reward. It was time to go home and become a prince.
He heard the rising whine of engines and rolled onto his stomach to look. He saw the Gulfstream slowly rolling toward him—a sleek white two-engine jet with a mosquito-like nose and upturned winglets at the tips of the wings. The jet was nearing the end of the taxiway. He crept on all fours to the edge of the brush and tensed like a lion waiting f
or a gazelle . . .
The landing lights flashed off and on.
Pasha took off, bent low but running as fast as his exhausted legs would carry him. The distance was so short but seemed so long. He feared that at any moment sirens would sound or searchlights would flood the runway with light—but nothing happened. Everything went exactly as he had been told.
He reached the jet just as it rolled to a complete stop. Exactly as planned, the door in the starboard fuselage swung open. A three-step ladder with a chrome handrail dropped down and locked in place. Pasha planted one foot on the middle step and grasped the handrail.
A man he had never seen before stepped into the doorway and planted his left hand in the middle of Pasha’s chest.
“Pasha Semenov,” he said.
“Move aside! Let me in before—”
“I have a message from your grandfather. He said to tell you, ‘With trust comes responsibility’—and he said to tell you he loves you.”
The man raised his right hand and pointed a pistol at Pasha’s forehead.
There was a deafening blast and Pasha’s head recoiled violently. His hand slipped away from the handrail and his body fell backward onto the tarmac.
The Gulfstream completed its turn, accelerated down the runway, and took off.
53
Kathryn picked up the photo from the coffee table and looked at it. The glossy black-and-white showed Pasha Semenov sprawled on his back on a concrete surface with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. “That’s really creepy,” she said with a shiver. “I was out on a date with that guy just over a week ago. Can I pick ’em or what?”
Alena took the photo and studied it. “Looks like his little peashooter didn’t help him this time. Good—the jerk had it coming.” She handed the photo to Nick.
Nick rotated the photo and looked at it from different angles. “You say this happened at the Wilmington Airport?”