by James Barney
“I . . . I don’t understand,” said Malachi. He was following close behind the woman in the white dress, Opal, as she carefully made her way through the darkened fallout shelter beneath Sixteenth Street. The darkness was nearly absolute, save for a scintilla of flickering light still bleeding through from the stairwell behind them.
“I know you’re confused,” said Opal over her shoulder. “You must have lost some part of your memory. We knew that would be a risk, and I’m so sorry about that.” She stopped at a closed steel door. “Do you have a light?”
“Uh, I’ve got this.” Malachi reached into his breast pocket and retrieved his lighter. He flicked it in one motion, and the metal door before them suddenly lit up in dancing hues of yellow and orange. The letters HA-1 were prominently stenciled in the middle of the door.
“The Hay-Adams,” said the woman quietly. She opened the door and quickly passed through.
Malachi followed the woman through the security door and used his lighter to navigate their way through a short tunnel that terminated at a small, square room. A dead end. Four cement walls towered high above them, with pinpricks of natural light filtering down through some sort of cover at the top. This gave Malachi the impression that they were standing at the bottom of a covered well. “What is this place?” he asked.
The woman pointed to a set of sturdy steel rungs that formed a ladder extending upward, embedded in one of the walls. “It’s an escape shaft,” she said.
Seconds later, they heard footsteps and shuffling noises in the fallout shelter behind them. And they saw the wash of flashlights flitting back and forth across the opening to the shaft. “Hurry,” said the woman, motioning for Malachi to scale the ladder.
Malachi had no sooner stepped onto the first rung than the metal hatch above them began rattling violently, as if someone was trying to pry it open.
“We’re trapped,” the woman whispered.
“What do we do?”
The woman closed her eyes for a moment, apparently deep in thought. Meanwhile, the footsteps behind them were getting louder, and the flashlight beams were growing brighter. Above them, the rattling noise was growing even more intense. “Give me the stone,” she said.
Malachi retrieved the lump from his pocket and gripped it firmly in one hand. “I still don’t understand. What is this for?”
The woman looked surprised. “Haven’t you noticed its unusual properties?”
“I have, but . . . I still don’t know what it does.”
The woman took the stone gently from Malachi’s grasp and held it out in front of her with both hands. “Let me show you.” She slowly drew the stone close to her chest and touched it to a black oval pendant dangling from a chain around her neck.
Immediately, something strange began to happen. Malachi could feel it. An aura of light began emanating from the woman’s chest. “No,” he said, slowly backing away.
“Daniel, stay close!” the woman yelled. “This is our only chance!”
No, Malachi thought. This feels wrong. He watched in bewilderment as the swirling light enveloped the woman completely and began spreading toward him. He continued backing away into the tunnel. Then, as the light began encroaching into the tunnel, he turned and bolted headlong into the darkness.
Straight toward his pursuers.
39
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Mike Califano could clearly hear voices beneath the steel hatch, which was located in the small service courtyard behind the Hay-Adams hotel. At first, they were muffled and indiscernible. But then he heard a woman scream, “Daniel, stay close! This is our only chance!” Seconds later, a bright flash of white light shot up through the cracks and holes around the edges of the hatch, dissipating a moment later. This was accompanied by a soft whooshing sound.
Califano shielded his eyes. What the hell was that? Moments later, he returned to his work with the crowbar. With one final heave, he managed to pop the steel hatch free from its internal locking mechanism. Then, with effort, he tilted the hatch open on its hinges and pushed it over, wincing a bit at the pain in his shoulder. As the hatch fell aside, Califano peered down into the square shaft that now lay uncovered behind the Dumpster. The gray morning light penetrated several feet into the shaft, but the bottom was still heavily obscured by shadows.
Should I climb down?
Califano was still contemplating this idea when he suddenly heard a commotion below. Multiple voices could be heard shouting in Ukrainian. A man yelled out in English: “Don’t shoot!” After that, there was relative silence for several seconds until the dead man’s walkie-talkie on the other side of the Dumpster suddenly came to life. “My zahopyly Malachi!” reported a nearly breathless man in Ukrainian.
They’d captured Malachi.
The next moment, Califano saw moving beams of light illuminating the bottom of the shaft below him. He stared down and was surprised to see that it was empty. Where did the woman go? he wondered.
The radio in the dead man’s shirt suddenly crackled again. “Nomeru try, chy htos vyjshov?”
Califano didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he had a hunch. “Nomeru try” meant “number three,” which was apparently the designation of the gunman who now lay dead against the Dumpster, with two bullet holes in his chest. Number three’s teammates apparently wanted to know if anyone had come up this way.
“Nomeru try?” said the man’s voice again over the radio.
Califano scurried around the Dumpster and quickly retrieved the radio from the dead man’s shirt. He pressed the transmit button and paused for a moment as he tried to recall a particular page from a Ukrainian phrase book he’d once perused in college. A moment later, an exact image of that page flashed into his mind. “Nemaye,” he answered in passable Ukrainian. Which meant: No.
Califano returned to the shaft and peered down into it. He observed that the flashlight beams were now getting dimmer. The men were retreating back toward the church. Califano’s next thought was: Where’s Ana?
Vladamir Krupnov stood alone, seething in the alleyway behind the Third Church of Christ, Scientist. Two of his men lay dead on the brick walkway nearby.
Imbeciles. How could they have let this happen? Two more of his men had gone down inside the church, shot by that blond bitch. She will pay for that.
Just then, Sashko Melnik—his trusted lieutenant—entered the alley through the fire exit. He was breathing hard and sweating. “Vlad, the men are on their way to the egress point.”
“And Malachi?”
“They’ve got him subdued. We’ll be ready to go momentarily.”
Krupnov did not move at first. He was still staring at the bodies on the ground, stroking the thick stubble on his chin. A heavy price to pay. But at least they’d achieved their objective.
“But, Vlad . . .”
From the tone of his lieutenant’s voice, Krupnov could tell bad news was coming.
Sashko cast his eyes downward and shook his head. “He doesn’t have the stone.”
Anger immediately flashed across Krupnov’s face as he struggled mightily to maintain his composure. “Impossible,” he growled. “What about the old woman?”
Sashko shook his head remorsefully. “We couldn’t find her.”
“How could you not find her? She’s a fucking old woman!”
Sashko was silent. He had no answer.
Krupnov was about to say something else when he suddenly heard sirens a few blocks away. They were getting louder by the second. Damn it. “We have to go.”
Ana Thorne was just approaching the still-open security door to the fallout shelter when she suddenly saw flashlight beams bouncing toward her from the other side. Oh, no. They’re coming back. She immediately sprinted away from the door and headed for cover at the far end of the parking deck. She had just turned a corner when three men in black ski masks came barreling through the doorway behind her.
Ana halted and carefully peeked back around the corner. At a distance of about thir
ty feet, she observed two goons frog-marching the man in the black leather coat through the security door. Malachi. The third goon was scanning the entire space with his machine gun at the ready. Ana immediately pulled back just as the third man looked in her direction. Did he see me?
A tense moment passed. Then she heard the men scuffling quickly toward the stairwell. Which meant there was still a chance. Ana immediately took off up the ramp toward the upper parking platforms, sprinting at full speed. If she hurried, she could still beat them to the top and surprise them. At least it was worth a shot.
A minute later, Ana arrived breathlessly on the first parking level and made a beeline for the two parked cars near the stairwell. She knew she would have only seconds to pull this off because the men would be coming up the stairwell at any moment. As she neared the stairwell, however, she realized that something was amiss. She stopped between the parked cars and strained between heavy breaths to hear any sounds at all coming from the stairwell. There were none. It was completely silent.
Where the hell did they go?
Ana quickly considered her options. She could climb the stairs back to the church, which, when last she checked, was crawling with goons with machine guns. Or . . . She looked across the parking platform at the large overhead door that provided vehicle access to the adjacent building. Plan B.
The car to Ana’s left was a late-model Toyota Prius, just the type of car she imagined the church lady in the blue dress would probably drive. She gently lifted the door handle and was not entirely surprised when the door popped open. Church lady is a trusting soul. Within seconds, she spotted the exact item she needed: an electronic pass that provided access to the adjacent parking garage.
Krupnov and his henchman Sashko stood anxiously beside a white Ecoline van at the egress point, ready to go. Approaching sirens could still be heard nearby, although they seemed a bit more muted now. Inside the van, a cacophony of thumping, scraping, and grunting could be heard as four of Krupnov’s goons worked hard to bind Malachi’s hands and feet with duct tape, tape his mouth shut, and pull an opaque hood over his head.
“Where’s number three?” Krupnov demanded.
Sashko shook his head. “He hasn’t responded to his radio for several minutes. I don’t know what happened to him.”
Krupnov shook his head. Unbelievable. He may have lost five men today. And he still didn’t have the Thurmond material. He suddenly pictured the grim faces of the posrednikov, the “facilitators” back in Russia. They were going to kill him if he failed to recover this material. Literally kill him. And not in a painless way.
“I should kill all of you,” Krupnov hissed. “Right here and now. Where the fuck is number three?”
“Maybe he found the stone,” said Sashko encouragingly. “Maybe that’s what’s taking him so long.”
Krupnov said nothing for several seconds as the sirens continued to grow louder. Finally, he spat angrily on the ground and turned to Sashko. “Let’s go.”
Sashko nodded and climbed into the driver’s seat. Krupnov was just making his way toward the passenger’s side when something very unexpected happened behind him.
His luck was about to change.
Ana pressed the church lady’s key pass against the electronic reader, and the overhead garage door began lifting slowly off the ground. She waited impatiently for the door to rise high enough that she could squeeze beneath it. Finally, when there was just enough room, she ducked low and scampered through.
“Don’t move!” said a man’s voice in a thick Russian accent.
Ana slowly rose to her feet and instantly realized her mistake. There were six of them in all, four thugs with black ski masks and two without. They were standing in front of a long white van with machine guns aimed directly at her. And there was nowhere to run. They had her. She could hear grunting and muffled screams emanating from the van, which she presumed was the man they called Malachi.
One of the two unmasked men slowly stepped forward until his face was very close to hers. Without saying a word, he gripped her face tightly with one hand and squeezed it until it hurt. He pulled her face toward his, forcing her to look directly into his icy blue eyes. Their lips were nearly touching. “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble today,” he said in a thick Russian accent.
“Who are you?” Ana asked through puckered lips.
“Someone you should not have fucked with,” said Vladamir Krupnov. He released her face with a cruel shove, causing her to stumble backward a few steps. Then, without warning, he smashed the butt of his gun viciously into the side of her head.
It was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.
40
BEHIND THE HAY-ADAMS HOTEL, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Mike Califano pressed the transmit button for his microphone. “Ana, you there?” It was the third time he’d tried to raise her on the radio. Once again, there was no response at all. Not good.
The voice of Bill McCreary suddenly came on the line. “Michael, is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong with your voice?” McCreary asked. “It sounds weird.”
“It sounds fine to me,” said Califano. “Has anyone heard from Ana?”
“No,” replied McCreary grimly. “Nothing from her in a while.”
“I hear police sirens everywhere,” said Califano. “Are they finding anything?”
There was a long pause before McCreary finally came back on the line. “Yes, Steve’s monitoring all the police radio runs. They’re apparently responding to gunshots fired at the Third Church of Christ, Scientist. They’ve found two bodies in the alley behind the church . . . and they just found another one in the sanctuary. All of them white males.”
“I suppose that’s good news,” Califano mumbled. As hard as he tried, he could not shake the disturbing image of Ana Thorne lying dead or dying in an underground bunker somewhere. And this was dredging up all sorts of raw emotions and memories that he desperately wished he could suppress right now.
“Michael?” said Bill McCreary.
But Califano was now lost in nightmarish thoughts about his murdered mother and sister.
“Michael?”
“Huh? Yeah?”
“What about the woman you saw? Do you know where she went?”
This snapped Califano out of his trance. The woman in the white dress. He stepped quickly to the edge of the shaft behind the Dumpster and peered down again into the darkness. The white flash. He’d seen that phenomenon before. In the satellite video this morning. “Hold on,” he said.
For the next thirty seconds, Califano searched all around the service courtyard until he returned with a flat brick that he’d found in a small pile of replacement pavers. He brought it to the edge of the shaft, held it high over the center of the opening, then let it drop. He watched with anticipation as the brick fell through the shaft and disappeared into the darkness. At the exact moment when he expected to hear it land at the bottom with a loud clank . . . he heard nothing.
He quickly tapped the button for his microphone. “Bill, I think I know where she is. And I think she has the stone.”
Back at CIA headquarters, Bill McCreary was intensely interested in Califano’s comment about the woman and the stone, and he was still puzzled by the odd tone of Califano’s voice, which seemed to have mysteriously dropped several octaves. But all of this was suddenly interrupted by a strange commotion coming over the radio. Someone had just activated their transmitter but wasn’t talking. Instead, thumping and scraping noises could be heard, along with sporadic, muffled voices in the background. And something else. McCreary strained to make it out. Eventually, he realized it was the sound of a revving engine and shifting gears. These noises went on for several seconds and then abruptly stopped as the transmitter apparently timed out.
“Mike, did you hear that?” McCreary asked over the radio.
“Sort of,” said Califano a couple of seconds later. His voice came ove
r the speakers in the DTAI workroom in a deep, unnatural baritone. “Was that Ana?”
Before McCreary could answer, Steve Goodwin shouted an urgent report from across the room. “Police just received a report of a suspicious white van that left the garage next door to the church about three minutes ago. Last seen heading north on Sixteenth.”
McCreary immediately relayed that information to Califano.
“I’m on it,” Califano said. He quickly began running in the direction of the black Chevy Tahoe that he and Ana had parked on Fifteenth Street earlier that morning. As he ran, he tapped the button for his transmitter. “Hey, Bill,” he said between breaths.
“Yeah?”
“You may want to have someone cover the access points to that fallout shelter. Especially behind the hotel. I think we have a little time situation going on down there.”
“Got it,” said McCreary. “And by the way, your voice seems back to normal.”
Ana Thorne was thinking about trains. The rhythmic bumping and jostling as the wheels rolled over uneven tracks. The noise of engines and horns and passengers shouting out the windows to friends and loved ones. She loved trains. They reminded her of holidays with her family as a little girl. The train ride from their home in Zagreb to Pula on the Mediterranean coast was always the most exciting. Watching the countryside whiz by as she anticipated the first magical feeling of sand between her toes and the cool blue waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Of course, that was before the war . . . before the explosion that killed her family and left her ear and neck badly scarred . . . before she was forced to start a new life with a new family in the United States.
Suddenly, very different noises were intruding into her thoughts. The constant shifting and downshifting of an automobile engine. Sporadic thumping and squealing brakes. And the ugly voices of angry men. These were not the joyous shouts of happy passengers on holiday. She opened her eyes, and the world was still black. It took her a moment to realize why. She had an opaque hood over her head.
Ana tried to move her arms and legs but couldn’t. Her wrists were secured tightly behind her back and her legs were bound together at the ankles. She tried screaming, but her mouth was apparently taped shut. She was lying on her side on the hard metal floor of a cargo van, feeling every bump and pothole in the road as the van sped north out of the city. Her head throbbed terribly because of the brutal blow by the man with the Russian accent.
