“I’ve got the feeling back in my legs and shoulders,” Alex said.
“That’s a start.”
Alex opened a packet of alcohol wipes. “If you need a break, just tell me, and I’ll drive.”
“Are you saying that because it’s your job, or are you saying that because you care about me?”
Alex used a wipe to take the camouflage paint off her face. “Both. Jabberwocky told me that if you take care of your SEALs, they’ll take care of you.”
“Who’s Jabberwocky?”
“He was my sea-daddy. At SEAL Team Two.” Sea-daddy meant mentor.
A rusty truck drove slowly in front of them, and Cat passed it. “I’ve heard of him. Didn’t he die in Iraq?”
“Major Khan killed him.”
Cat became quiet.
Alex wiped the camouflage off her neck. Then he cleaned her hands. “You’re quiet all of a sudden.”
More vehicles drove on the highway, and Cat passed another. “Does that bother you?”
“I’m just wondering,” he said.
“I just don’t want to tell you.”
“Now I’m really wondering.”
“You said you’d be finished after this mission.”
“It’s true.”
“After you kill General Tehrani, you’re going after Major Khan.”
Alex took off his cammie top, revealing his civilian shirt underneath. “Yes.”
“That’s not part of the mission.”
“It’s part of my mission.”
“Why?”
“For Jabberwocky.”
“Just Jabberwocky?”
Now Alex knew where this was heading, and Cat was no fool. “Leila, too,” he said.
“Jabberwocky and Leila are dead. They don’t need you to kill Major Khan.”
Alex didn’t say anything.
“They kill one of yours, then you kill one of theirs, then they kill one of yours,” Cat said. “The cycle never ends.”
“You’re still mad about Leila. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
Cat passed a car—then another. “Yes, I’m still mad. I don’t want to lose you—not to Leila, not to Major Khan—not to anybody. I’ve loved you since Indonesia, and I’ve tried to fight it, but I still love you.” A tear ran down her cheek. “I still love you.”
34
* * *
Alex put his cheek next to John’s mouth—he was breathing. Then Alex felt the artery in John’s neck—his pulse raced. The racing heart was a sign that John was running out of time.
Cat finished driving north, 487 kilometers in under seven hours, arriving at Puerto La Cruz. Sailors wearing civilian clothes and piloting an unmarked RHIB picked up her, Alex, John, and Miguel at the pier and motored away. Fortunately, the winds were calm and the ocean smooth as glass, shining under the afternoon sun—peaceful. Lying on his back, John looked peaceful, too—for all the wrong reasons. Alex had cleaned the camouflage paint off John’s skin, and John’s face looked gray. Alex put his cheek down to John’s lips—he wasn’t breathing. Alex checked John’s pulse—it galloped like the lead horse in a Kentucky Derby. Alex used his left hand under John’s chin to tilt his head back until John’s chin pointed up, making John’s air passageway straight. Alex placed his cheek to John’s mouth—still no breathing. Alex put his ear to John’s mouth—no sound. With Alex’s right hand, he pinched John’s nostrils closed. Then he sealed his lips over John’s and blew air until John’s chest rose. After John’s chest contracted, Alex blew again—long and slow.
“John stopped breathing,” Cat told the RHIB pilot. “We have to hurry!”
“We’re going full out, ma’am,” the pilot said. “This is as fast as she’ll go.”
Every five seconds, Alex breathed into John. After three minutes, Alex stopped to see if John would breathe on his own. “Breathe, John. Come on, John. Breathe, damnit!” John still wasn’t breathing. Alex resumed giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
The USS Jason Dunham had moved closer to shore while remaining in international waters—every little bit helped. A chief hospital corpsman met the Outcasts when they arrived, quickly ushering John to sick bay, where he gave him an IV and blood.
Alex and Cat waited outside sick bay to find out John’s condition. When the doorknob to sick bay turned, Alex’s anxiety level rose.
The chief hospital corpsman smiled.
Alex’s anxiety level suddenly dropped. He felt like he was on a roller coaster.
“How is John?” Cat asked.
“Better,” the chief hospital corpsman said. “He had injuries caused by the shock effect of the bullets, and he lost well over forty percent of his blood. If he wasn’t in such excellent physical and cardiovascular shape, even if he could have survived the trauma, his cardiovascular would have collapsed. John is lucky to be alive.”
“Can we see him?” Alex asked.
“I guess,” the chief hospital corpsman said.
Alex and Cat thanked him and walked inside. John lay hooked up to an IV. His eyes were open.
“John,” Alex greeted him.
“Hi, John,” Cat said.
John turned and looked at them and didn’t say anything—he was quiet that way. Alex’s sister was quiet, too, and Alex was comfortable with that.
“Anything we can do for you, buddy?” Alex asked.
“Take me with you,” John pleaded.
“You know I can’t do that. Not while you’re in this condition.”
“I know,” John said sadly.
They were silent for more than a minute. “Anything else?” Alex asked.
Alex had never seen John cry, but now moisture glistened in the corners of his eyes. “You know what I want,” John said.
Alex knew. “With extreme prejudice.”
Cat lowered her head.
Alex and Cat left the operating room.
“The captain would like a word with you in his stateroom,” the chief hospital corpsman said.
Alex and Cat walked to the nearest ladder and climbed to the third floor (0-3 level) amidships, then found the captain’s door and knocked.
“Enter,” a voice said.
They walked in to find the ship’s captain, seated with two naval officers Alex didn’t recognize and the Evaluator officer who spoke with a lisp. In the center of the navy blue carpet was the U.S. Navy’s blue and gold seal—an eagle gripping an anchor and a ship sailing in the background.
“Please, sit down,” the captain said.
Alex and Cat sat.
“We just finished talking with JSOC, and they said they’ll give you the divining rod at your final destination. JSOC traced General Tehrani’s location to an Iranian Aframax-category oil tanker.”
“Where is the tanker now, sir?” Cat asked.
“After the tanker left Venezuela, JSOC lost it, but the tanker’s manifest reads that it’s sailing for St. Petersburg, Russia, to deliver crude oil. The tanker should arrive in St. Petersburg in about thirteen days. Right now we’re returning to Virginia. When we’re within helicopter range, our Seahawk will fly both of you to NAS Oceana, and you’ll be shuttled to the Dam Neck annex, where you’ll debrief from this mission and brief for the General Tehrani mission. After taking a couple of days to prepare, you’ll fly a civilian flight the rest of the way: Norfolk to Washington, Washington to Frankfurt, and Frankfurt to St. Petersburg. You both should arrive a week before the oil tanker.”
35
* * *
Killing General Tehrani would be the easy part. Throughout history, prominent people have been killed by focused madmen: John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald numbering among them. The hard part would be escaping—requiring a rational mind and sense of calm that men like Booth and Oswald didn’t possess.
It was Thursday morning when Alex and Cat’s Lufthansa plane landed on a black runway surrounded by snow on the tarmac at Pulkovo Airport in St. Petersburg, Russia. It was Alex’s first visit to Russia, and as the passengers dise
mbarked the plane, his nerves kicked in. If he didn’t control his feelings, he’d become his own worst enemy. Both he and Cat could end up in a Russian jail or dead. Alex thought to himself: You’ve done this in countries around the world—Russia is just another country.
The interior of the Pulkovo-2 terminal appeared more modern than Alex expected. Skylights brightened the terminal with natural sunshine, and artistic geometric shapes and lines adorned the ceiling. Alex and Cat stood in line for fifteen minutes before their turn came to pass through immigration and customs.
The immigration officer greeted them and asked for their passports.
Alex and Cat handed him their passports. Alex’s was German, and Cat’s was Lebanese.
The officer’s lips pressed tightly together. He slowly eyed the passports before checking the pictures with Alex’s and Cat’s faces. “What is the purpose of your visit?” he asked in unaccented English.
It bothered Alex that this officer might be a cut above the rest, but Alex didn’t show his concern. “Travel.”
“You two are married?”
“Yes,” they said emphatically.
The officer’s gaze focused on Cat. “But you’re from Lebanon?”
“Yes, we met while skiing in Germany.”
“Where in Germany?”
“The Black Forest,” she said.
“How’s the skiing there?”
Cat grinned mischievously. “I’m a better skier than he is.”
“How long have you been married?” the officer asked.
“Just a little over a year,” Cat said.
“Why did you come to St. Petersburg for travel? Most people choose Moscow.”
“We didn’t want to go where most people go,” Cat explained. “We wanted someplace unique—for us.”
The officer smiled. “Welcome to St. Petersburg, Mr. and Mrs. Lehmann. Enjoy your visit.”
Alex felt relief, but he tried not to show it. They proceeded to the baggage carousels and retrieved their luggage. Then they entered another line to pass through customs. Alex and Cat carried separate bags. Together they approached the customs officer. He pointed to Alex’s bag and gestured for him to put it on the metal counter and open it. Alex did.
“Do you have anything to declare?” the customs officer asked with a thick Russian accent.
“No,” Alex and Cat replied.
The customs officer rifled through Alex’s clothing, leaving a wrinkled heap. Then the officer dumped the toiletries out of Alex’s toiletry bag on top of the heap of clothing. He flipped the pages of Alex’s German paperback novel then tossed it on the heap. Next, he opened Alex’s notebook computer and turned it on. He opened the DVD drive and saw it was empty. After tapping his finger on the keyboard, he closed the cover, returned it to Alex, and waved him through. Cat volunteered to show the customs officer the contents of her luggage, but the officer waved her through, too. Alex wasn’t pleased about the mess the customs officer left him with.
Cat snickered.
Alex glared sideways at her. People passed through customs around him as he repacked his suitcase.
Cat laughed. It was contagious because Alex laughed, too. His anxieties about passing through Russian customs and immigration and his irritation about repacking flowed out with his laughter. Nothing else seemed to matter more than her. Rather than fold the rest of his clothes, he just stuffed them in the suitcase and closed it. Alex lowered his suitcase to the floor and rolled it over to where Cat was standing.
“You think that was funny?” Alex asked, pretending to be angry.
“Sidesplitting.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“Your smile is irresistible.” He kissed her in front of customs and all the people passing by. Instead of keeping a low profile and moving on, he’d just committed one of the dumbest moves of his tactical career, but Alex didn’t care. They continued to kiss as arriving passengers bumped into them on their way out of the customs area. Finally, the Russian officer who’d rifled through Alex’s suitcase yelled at them in Russian, gesturing for them to get out. Alex and Cat stopped kissing.
“You smell funky,” Cat said.
Alex aimed his nose at his right armpit and took a whiff. “I need a shower.”
“I do, too,” Cat admitted.
They grabbed their suitcases and walked through the sliding glass door. Alex and Cat navigated their way through the airport until they found the exit. Outside the wind blew and the weather was below freezing, so they put on their jackets, gloves, and knit caps. Alex and Cat located the Avis rental car agency and rented a Mercedes-Benz E-class—capitalism.
Alex drove them out of the airport area and on a road that cut through white-powdered evergreens and leafless trees before turning left. Snow blanketed the countryside. Because most everything was written in Russian, Alex couldn’t read it, but he could read “Coca-Cola” written on the factory they passed on the right side of the road. Then Alex drove under two levels of highway before reaching an oval-shaped intersection in St. Petersburg.
Formerly known as Leningrad, St. Petersburg was originally founded by Tsar Peter the Great at the beginning of the eighteenth century and had served as the capital of Russia until 1918, when the capital shifted to Moscow. On the western edge of Russia, St. Petersburg also had the distinction of being the northernmost city in the world with a population of more than a million.
In spite of being in the city, trees seemed to grow everywhere. Deeper in the city, bus stops appeared more frequently, and there was what looked like the entrance to a subway. Soon they crossed a hundred yards over a canal. Above the city rose two skyscrapers: a broadcasting tower and the golden dome of St. Isaac’s Cathedral.
Although the main streets were clear of snow, side streets were untouched by snowplows or crews with snow shovels. A prosperous city like St. Petersburg with more than five million inhabitants should have generated enough money to clean snow off the streets—instead, the money probably went to corrupt officials or organized crime.
Finally, Alex stopped in front of the Grand Hotel Europe. The five-story building covered half the block and was more than a hundred years old, but its baroque façade retained its elegance. Alex and Cat removed their bags, and Alex handed the valet the car keys. The valet parked the car, returned, and gave Alex a laminated ticket to use later when he needed to pick up his car. “You will love hotel,” the valet said. “Tchaikovsky, Pavarotti, and Elton John stay here. Many famous people stay here.”
A porter greeted them and carried their luggage as they checked in. Marble and gilt decorated the interior, friezes were carved in the ceilings, and antique furniture added class to the five-star hotel.
After they checked in, the porter pushed their baggage on a cart to room 112, the Fabergé Suite, inspired by the Russian jeweler, Carl Fabergé. Alex tipped the porter, and he departed. Standing inside the suite’s vestibule, Alex surveyed the living room. Nineteenth-century gold-colored patterns covered the walls like the designs on Fabergé Easter eggs. Also, the bases of the dark-colored table lamps were patterned like Fabergé eggs. A picture of the jeweler hung on the wall next to the window. Aged copper and precious stones encrusted the antique-style furniture. A painting of a young nineteenth-century woman hung over the couch. There was a closed wooden cabinet for the TV, and the ceiling was more than twelve feet high. Walking farther into the room, Alex saw a king-sized bed in the bedroom. The bed looked soft and luxurious.
“Do you want to shower first, or shall I?” Cat asked.
“Go ahead.” Alex walked over to the window and looked out. It was snowing, but he could see the Russian Museum, Arts Square, and the statue of poet Alexander Pushkin—Alex read Pushkin’s “The Gypsies” while studying at Harvard: “In the deserts you were not saved from misfortune, / And fateful passions are found everywhere. / And there is no defense against fate.” Alex sat and checked his computer for a secure email from JSOC, hoping for an update on General Tehra
ni’s location, but there was no message.
When Cat finished showering, Alex took his turn in the spacious bathroom made of Italian marble. After they both had cleaned up, Alex and Cat ate lunch in the hotel restaurant. Then they went for a ride to do a reconnaissance of the pier where General Tehrani’s oil tanker was scheduled to arrive. Although it was bitterly cold outside, Alex and Cat stayed warm inside the Mercedes. She snuggled up against him as he drove.
After their reconnaissance, they returned to the hotel and stopped at the Caviar Bar and Restaurant. Even though the restaurant wasn’t open on Mondays or Tuesdays, Alex and Cat were in luck because the restaurant opened on the other days. They were also fortunate because the menus were in English. In the center of the white tablecloth at their table was a lit white candle sitting in a silver candleholder.
The waiter pushed a cart over to their table. Cat hungrily eyed the wide selection of caviar on display.
“Would you like some, Mrs. Lehmann?” Alex asked.
“Yes, I’d love that, Mr. Lehmann.”
Alex ordered the caviar bar cocktail: beluga, osetra, and salmon roe.
Using a small spoon, Cat put chilled caviar on small blini and added a touch of sour cream, chopped egg, and a sprinkle of chives.
“The way you eat caviar makes it look so delicious,” Alex said.
“You want to try one?”
“No, thanks. My parents tried to initiate me, but it didn’t stick. Sarah and Grandpa didn’t care for caviar, either.”
Alex put his hand on hers. She looked in his eyes as she pulled her hand away. His eyes locked on hers. She put her hand on his.
“I’m thirsty,” Cat said.
“Russian Standard Premium Vodka?”
They continued gazing into each other’s eyes until their drinks arrived. Alex and Cat took a sip. “I didn’t know you liked vodka,” she said.
“You know what I like?”
“What’s that?”
“Your eyes. The way the candlelight flickers in them.”
The waiter arrived and served their soup. Alex ate meat solyanka. It was thick and tasted spicy and sour. Cat had clear Russian mushroom soup made with barley and vegetables. They shared a taste of their soups with each other.
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