What they’re after, he thought again. He realized then the gear wasn’t for the assault. They protected themselves from something they feared here inside the villa. Something dangerous. He shined the light on the Russian’s mask again. No time to waste.
He stood in the window and signaled Wade, motioning for him to approach. Then he removed the dead man’s gear and waited for Wade to appear at the fence line.
◆◆◆
Ethan stumbled into the villa’s foyer. The Russian’s uniform and mask fit him well enough. The suit was his height, but the snug boots pinched his toes. In the agonizing minutes he took to stretch and pull the suit on, he listened to the creeping footfalls overhead, a slammed door, a shout, a last muffled burst of gunfire on the far side of the house. Soon those sounds would find him. The Russians were relentless, plodding. Movement above meant they still hunted the last of Scorpio’s holdouts. It bought him only a little time. Adrenaline flowed to his fingertips like electric current. He had to be ready.
From within the mask, he could barely see the hallway walls. If there was a deadly chemical here, the suit wouldn’t protect him. The bullets he’d fired into the Russian tore three holes in the suit. The mask stank of the Russian’s blood and sweat. He leveled the Kalashnikov and its halogen light toward the top of the stairs where quiet had settled in moments before.
He spied Wade hiding just outside the front door when a voice startled him from the top of the stairs. The rubbery hood that covered his ears garbled the Russian’s words. His mind panicked to translate. The voice repeated in anger.
“Lieutenant, first floor clear?”
The guise worked. He lowered his head, appearing to scan the hallways as he replied. “Exactly so, sir.”
From the sound of it, the man standing above him was the unit commander. He looked confused, then leveled his rifle at Ethan. The light scattered on droplets of grime and blood on Ethan’s visor.
“Are you injured?”
“It’s nothing,” Ethan replied. He covered his neck with his hands, then waved at the commander.
“No sign of him up here. Move to the cellar to assist team two.”
He released his neck and gave an exaggerated nod. The bright light moved away from him and his eyes adjusted slowly in the dark. The commander disappeared to another hall on the floor above. A second injured soldier slunk close behind him.
No sign of him. They were looking for someone, not something. He had minutes to find out who. Up close, they’d see past his mask immediately. One failed hand signal, one weak Russian accent in reply, and they would kill him without hesitation.
He waited, then signaled Wade inside. Together they moved to the back of the foyer to the cellar stairs. He listened for the other team the Russian mentioned below. No sound traveled up the stairs.
“More of them downstairs,” he whispered.
“You lead. I’ll cover from behind,” Wade said. He’d left the rifle in the field, and now carried his own Glock that looked too small in his strong hands.
Bright light illuminated the stairwell and hallway. This was the working floor of the vineyard with none of the elegance of the main floor. The walls were painted brick and covered in grime, the floor worn concrete that shined under the lights. He leaned out at the base of the stairs to see a hallway in either direction lined with half a dozen doors. The nearest door was across the hall. He darted across and entered the room.
White tile covered the near side of the floor. A solitary chair occupied the center of the room situated directly over a drain in the floor. The far wall featured a large overhead door to the outside. Lights dangled from wires overhead, and he switched them off. He looked around instead with his rifle’s light. There was a basin sink on the side wall and some cardboard boxes stuffed with refuse and plastic bags. Pushed up against the right wall was an empty cot. He inspected the chair. Restraints stained with blood dangled from the rear of the chair. Underneath it, he found tiny pieces of dried chicken bones. They interrogated someone here. He twisted the shriveled chicken bone in front of his mask. The man the Russians sought had left days ago.
The door slammed into the wall. He swung around to quiet Wade, but instead met a pair of bug-eyed masks like his own hovering over their rifles.
“Hold fire,” said one of the unmoving faces from behind a mask. “Lieutenant, is that you?”
“Who else?” he said, trying to seem annoyed. “Any sign of him?”
No response came from the Russians. They were examining him. Something had given him away, perhaps. Where was Wade? The barren room afforded him nothing. If discovered, he had nowhere to flee. Turning the lights off may have bought him a few seconds, but he had to maintain his disguise just a little longer.
“He was here,” he said, nudging the chair with his rifle.
They approached to examine the chair. He lifted the restraints with his rifle’s muzzle.
“See here?” he said.
One of the men kicked at the chair. The other soldier faced him at the center of the room. His head shifted as he examined him. Ethan’s hand tightened around the grip of his weapon.
“You are shot. Where are the others?”
Ethan shrugged. “Upstairs,” he said.
The soldier took another step closer, his gun angled down almost at Ethan’s feet.
He shouldered his rifle and pointed it at Ethan’s face.
“I’m thinking you’re not the lieutenant. What’s my name?” the Russian asked him.
“What the fuck are you doing? It’s me!” He raised his hand to shield against the bright light, though he did it more so to cover his face.
The Russian’s voice shouted shrilly through the mask. “What’s my name?”
The light from the hallway dimmed as a figure leaned into the doorway.
“Hey, asshole.” It was Wade.
The Russian jerked toward the door in surprise. Ethan felt a spasm of shock throughout his body as gunshots fired. He pulled the trigger on his own gun and tried to raise the barrel. The burst sent the rifle upward uncontrolled and the room exploded into a thunderous tempo. He struggled to lower the muzzle with another burst from his rifle and watched as the second Russian staggered, hit by his incautious fire. So much for hitting my target. The soldier nearer to him leapt away, still firing toward the door. From the narrow visor of his mask, Ethan lost sight of Wade.
Wade’s voice boomed above the fire.
“Dodger, move!”
The Russian had positioned himself between them. Wade had no shot with him in the line of fire. Ethan had to change position. He leaned forward to dive away. It would place him almost on top of the other downed soldier, but he didn’t care. The muscles in his legs felt cold and sluggish, like he lived an anxious dream unable to reach his destination.
As he fell, Wade fired a salvo of shots. The deafening thud of the Russian returning fire filled his ears. He heard the rattle of spent brass falling to the floor. The shots ceased. Ethan turned and trained his rifle on the Russian, who lay on the floor, his legs spread toward the doorway.
“You hit? You okay?” Wade said.
Ethan felt around his chest and legs. He pulled off the mask and dropped the helmet to the tile floor.
“I’m good.” He panted, breathless. “I’m all good.”
Wade entered the room and leaned against the door. His nostrils flared as he tried to calm his heaving body. Ethan trained the light on him to see if he was shot.
“Man, point that fucking thing somewhere else.” He shielded his eyes.
“Sorry.”
“Check on these guys here. Careful,” Wade said as he approached the Russian between them with his gun locked on the man’s chest.
Ethan looked at the other soldier on the floor. The man lay on his back, lifeless. His visor bore a single hole where Wade had placed a near perfect shot. He was dead before he hit the floor. Ethan’s wild shots didn’t matter after all. A sea of black blood sloshed within the sealed mask. The Russia
n’s black and gray fatigues matched his comrades—no insignias, no names or badges. A bag slung over his shoulder hung at his hip. Ethan nudged it open and poked his light inside.
Wade inspected the other Russian. “This guy’s still breathing. We got to get out of here.”
“Hold on. I think I’ve got something here.”
A mass of crumpled papers spilled out of the bag, uncovering another parcel wrapped tight in black plastic. He teased out the package and flipped it over to reveal a bright orange label decorated with a familiar symbol. Three crescent shapes arranged in a triangle around a ring. Biohazard. He noticed a long tear near the label. More of Wade’s marksman handiwork.
“Give me a knife,” he said as he raised up his open hand.
He knelt to inspect the contents. Fabric poked through the tear. Wade handed him the dying Russian’s knife, then moved to the back of the room toward the overhead door. Ethan sliced away the plastic cover with gentle cuts, unfolding the wrapping as a pair of trousers and a shirt bulged out of the wrapping.
“No time for this, man. They are headed our way. I don’t like the looks of that package you got there. Just leave it.”
Ethan held his breath and turned the plastic inside out. The clothes spilled out onto the tile. Stains covered the shirt. Pale yellow at the pits and sides, but ruddy stains of blood darkened the fine shirt along the collar and front. The dark brown pants were likewise soiled with dark stains. He poked them with the knife and felt a subtle resistance.
“Dodger, time to go. Now.”
Behind him, a gearbox whined as it lifted the overhead door. Ethan felt the rush of cooler air flow into the room. But the contents of the pants pocket captured his attention. He reached into the pocket with his gloved hand and pulled out a wrinkled piece of heavy paper, white with gold icons scattered across its face. It bore a scramble of blurred ink—a large barcode. Watery ink stains of type covered the thing, including one large word. ISTANBUL. It was a boarding pass. He struggled to read the name near the top. KHORASANI, KAMRAN REZA. The name meant nothing to him. He scanned for a date.
“Dodger!” Wade grabbed his collar and pulled him up. He held tight to the boarding pass, still trying to read as he stumbled backward to the open door. Far away he heard the compression of helicopter rotors chopping the air.
He looked closer at the pass and found a familiar date. PC463. 04 MAY 2014. 1930.
He stared at a boarding pass from the downed airliner. Someone had survived. He had a new target.
Chapter 12: Strictly Controlled
Brașov, Romania
7:28 a.m., Wednesday, May 28
Kamran’s hands trembled while he removed his clothes and gold watch. An armed guard looked on, uninterested in his naked body and his obvious shame. The square-jawed man faced him with stout arms crossed over his chest. The guard rarely spoke. He saved his outbursts for curt commands spat out with what Kamran knew was disgust.
This guard and two others had watched him every minute over the last two weeks, even standing outside a windowless bathroom when he used the toilet. They took shifts in the hallway outside the tiny lab room they had converted to his personal prison cell. He spent much of the time in isolation healing from the visible wounds his torturers had inflicted.
The virus was his only power over them. His torturers had learned that power, and word spread among the guards like the fat one staring at him now. They didn’t know or believe the power was gone, leeched from his blood by the remedy of his own making. The guards kept their distance, wary of what he carried within him. He found some satisfaction in this, but that was as fleeting as his fitful sleep.
They obeyed the white-haired man called Hector, who had visited him twice. On the return visit Hector provided the last of his antiviral pills. In returning the little white tablets, Hector had restored his life and stolen what little leverage Kamran had left. The remedy came at a heavy price, which Hector extolled from him through the glass panes of his prison. He explained it plainly enough. Hector oversaw his capture, and now he required the virus. He had lured Kamran here for that sole aim. He expected Kamran to grow cultures of the pathogen and verify their efficacy. Kamran had acquiesced. He didn’t even bother to inquire at Hector’s purpose.
So, it was at Hector’s direction that the overweight guard had escorted him this morning from his quarantined cell through a sealed door into this changing room that afforded no privacy. He retreated to a corner of the small room to place his only belongings into an open locker. He knew the process well. At Russia’s VECTOR he had prepared to enter a laboratory like this many times. Every painstaking step was a deliberate part of the process to enter a BSL-4 laboratory that sealed the deadliest pathogens known to humanity without releasing them into the world.
Back in the Koltsovo labs, the rooms were bigger, the staff more numerous. This place was different. The procedures were the same, the rooms nearly so, only smaller. But here a solitary stillness filled the vacant laboratory. This was not a research facility. As far as he could see, his captors had constructed this place for him alone and whatever purpose they had for his recklessness. He now knew they wanted him to manufacture more of the deadly virus. Doing so seemed impossible, as if someone had pulled from his mind a nightmare and built this place from it meant to torment him alone.
Across the room were two separate steel doors, each sealed with black gaskets. A shower awaited him in the room to the right. Beyond that, a fitting room for positive air pressure suits that allowed him to enter the secured laboratory within. He would return through the door to his left after chemical showers disinfected his suit and he could shed it like a second skin to re-enter the world, once again a prisoner.
He entered the shower and let the heat wash over him and drive away the ache in his back that had remained since his torturers left him tied to that metal chair for hours. The bruises had almost faded, but his back spasmed no matter how he lay on the cot they provided, looking at year-old Italian magazines for his only distraction.
He dressed in the jade green scrubs they provided. He tucked the pant legs into the bright white socks and realized neither had ever been worn. The green had not faded from repeated sterile washings like so many scrubs he had worn over the years. Wrinkled creases bunched at his thigh. He stood within the airlock passage and let out an anxious sigh.
Standing in the room beyond was a woman dressed like him. Her face was plain and pale, framed by brown rimmed glasses that complimented her brown eyes. She waited for him, and her mouth formed a flat and tacit line of contempt.
“Dr. Khorasani,” she said to him.
Only Hector had called him by name. He knew it had been just weeks, but the time weighed on him like years. Her welcome came to his ears unfamiliar, as though she spoke to his father or some other man with his name. He had forgotten himself. Her voice called him back from the shelter of his memories and the life he imagined for himself in the long stretches of boredom and despair.
“Hello,” he muttered. He nodded, unsure what to do next.
She dodged around coiled hoses that dangled from the room’s ceiling to a steel table that stood between them. She motioned to the rubbery suit laid out there like a deflated man.
“I’m told you are familiar with the suit?”
Again he nodded. He moved to the table and grabbed the blue suit.
“Are you forgetting something?” she said.
He frowned.
“Gloves, doctor.”
She held up a pair of thick Latex gloves and handed them across the table.
“Please understand I take this very seriously. I know what you have been through,” she said.
He touched his cheek where the trace of bruises was still visible.
“It must be very difficult for you. That is not my problem, however. You must take every precaution. We can continue when you’re feeling better, perhaps?” she said.
Is she mocking me? He felt ashamed.
“No, please. It is al
l right. I’m sorry to have forgotten the gloves. It’s just, I didn’t expect someone here like you.”
“You mean a woman?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Haven’t you worked with women before? Are you going to make this a problem?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I mean to say, I have worked with many women. It is not a problem for me. I apologize.”
“Then let’s continue.”
She plugged one of the pneumatic hoses into his suit to inflate it. The suit billowed. It quivered as she ran her hands across its limbs and torso. He had done the same many times checking for minuscule punctures or leaks. He stepped into the suit, stretching each of his limbs into the thing. He wiggled his gloved fingers through the thicker rubber gloves built into the suit. Then he pulled his head into the visor, his back straining as he stretched. He felt the rush of air from the hoses that wound through the suit near his head. They filled his ears with a constant swish that drowned out the squeaking of the suit and more instructions from the woman.
What is her name? He watched her lips move, unable to hear her talk. She leaned across the table and tapped his chest where the large zipper seal crossed. He pulled at it and sealed himself within the suit. A valve released the pressure and he was again able to move in an awkward gait.
“Can you hear me, doctor?” she shouted. “You are ready now. Let me prepare, and we’ll enter the lab.”
“What do I call you?”
“I’m sorry?”
He raised his voice above the stir of the pressurized air.
“What’s your name?”
Her lips turned downward, and she gave him a cold look over the top of her glasses.
“This will be easier if we don’t share that information. You may call me doctor. Let us leave it at that,” she said.
It would not be easier for him. She was as hard-edged and sharp as a broken shard of glass, and just as difficult to see. Even so, he realized he welcomed her presence. He could speak to someone, and she would speak to him. For the first time in days he experienced something real outside the echoes and fantasies in his brain. It gave him hope. If she was here, he could look forward to that above all the dark thoughts he had in his cell. They would kill him eventually. He knew that just as she must know, too. She revealed it in what she did not say. She would not be his executioner, but neither would she save him in the end. But her voice, her standing at his side while he did their bidding? That was enough for now.
The Hidden Vector: A Spy Thriller Page 15
