“I am putting her on with you, Simon. Hold on.”
When Lori finally spoke I could barely hear her.
“Why are you asking about Dr. Richter?” she asked, frantic. “Has something happened? Is Lindsay injured?”
“No, Lori,” I said. “Nothing like that. I’m simply trying to get a bead on her, and her pediatrician may be the key.”
“Keith Richter?” she said. “How could he be the key?”
Gently I said, “Answer my question first, Lori. Do you know anyone in his family named Stephen?”
“Stephen,” she said, clearly considering it. “Keith’s wife’s name is Jenny—Vince and I spotted them at a restaurant a few months ago, and they asked us to join them.”
“How old is Keith?”
“In his early to midforties, I’d say.”
“Think, Lori. This may be important. Did he ever mention a brother? Or maybe a cousin who is also a doctor.”
“Yes, yes,” she said suddenly. “A brother, I think. But I don’t remember his name. I just remember him saying his brother doesn’t live in California.”
“Did he say where his brother lives? Which country or continent?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know, Simon. But I think he mentioned some organization he’s affiliated with—maybe Doctors Without Borders, or something?”
“But the brother definitely lives overseas?” I said.
“I think so. It was date night and I’d been drinking white wine, and—”
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “You’ve given me enough to go on. Please put Lieutenant Davignon back on the phone.”
While I waited I saw a sign for the National Library—we were close.
“What’s going on, Simon?” Davignon said, confused.
“Have you found Vince, Lieutenant?”
“My men are still looking. Evidently, he withdrew a large sum of cash. I thought perhaps he received a ransom demand, but I do not see how. His phones here and back home, his e-mail addresses, they are all being closely monitored.”
“All right,” I said. “If you locate him, get him to Lori’s hospital as soon as you can. It’s vital that I speak to him.”
“Yes, of course, Simon. But please, give me an idea—what is going on? Do you know where Lindsay is?”
“Are you out of Lori’s earshot?”
“I am, yes.”
I tore off my tie and stuffed it in my pocket.
“I think I know where Lindsay is, Lieutenant. I’m almost there now.”
Chapter 54
I had the taxi drive past the clinic so that I could quickly scan the exterior, then I had the driver drop me a block away. The building appeared windowless, and, just as I’d feared, it was guarded by a large man stationed at the front door.
I surveyed the structure for another entrance but found none. Like the clinic they’d taken Ana to, there was no opening to receive ambulances. No fire exits. Clearly, Minsk didn’t enforce the strict building codes of a U.S. city such as New York or D.C. If I was going to get in, it would have to be by powering past the big guy at the front door.
I watched him from behind a wide tree roughly ten yards away, as my eyes burned from the heavy winds. He was heavily inked. Had to be six foot four if he were an inch. He wasn’t dressed in a uniform, but he was clearly in place to ensure that the wrong persons didn’t enter the clinic. He smoked a cigarette as he paced, and I realized there was a good chance I was staring at Jov Sergeyev or Sacha Orlov. Dmitry Podrova had described the Russians as his best men—both former KGB.
I had to assume this man knew what I looked like and that he’d be waiting for either me or the Syrian. As far as tools went, all I had was my Glock, and I couldn’t risk making such a commotion. I needed to be clever but I didn’t have time to be clever. I’d have to rely on my instincts and improvise as I went along.
I began to move out in front of the tree, then I stopped and gazed up into its branches. My eyes followed the branches from the trunk all the way to the roof of the clinic.
There was my answer.
Damn, do I hate heights, I thought.
Still, I began the climb. It felt a lot like climbing the outer wall of the hostel in Odessa. My hands took the brunt of the cuts and scrapes, and my shoes didn’t want to cooperate. My left forearm was introduced to a whole new level of pain. But my adrenaline kept me moving skyward.
Finally, I reached a branch strong enough to hold my weight. The leaves shook and I worried that the sound would carry over the hard wind. I stopped and watched the man’s face; his eyes remained level, so I continued.
I found a branch that reached all the way to the roof of the clinic and tested it. The branch seemed sturdy enough. It thinned a bit just before the roof but it would be only a foot or two for me to leap. After Ostermann’s building in Berlin, I felt confident I could handle that.
As I navigated the branch I felt a lump form in my throat. I glanced down; it wouldn’t be a terrible fall, but if I dropped awkwardly I could do some serious damage. And if Lindsay was still alive in that clinic, I’d have failed her.
It wasn’t until I was just a few feet from the roof that I realized a jump of any kind would prove impossible; there was no way to gain the necessary leverage.
I looked down and saw that the large man was roughly twenty feet below me. If I could—
The branch snapped under my weight.
The sound was like the cock of a hammer in my ear.
I saw the large man look up.
Neither of us had much time to react. All I could do was attempt to control my fall and hope that his seeing me was enough of a shock to freeze him where he stood for a few moments.
With my right leg I pushed off just enough to reach him.
At the last moment he turned his body, but with my arms extended I was able to bring him down, his back cushioning my fall.
He grunted as his face hit the concrete. When he rolled over, I saw blood dripping from his forehead, and his eyes were wide with hell.
I remained on top of him, pinning his left arm. With his right he came up with a knife.
I moved to block the blow just in time and the blade drove deep into my left forearm, deeper than in Poland. The pain instantly seared all the way up to my shoulders.
With my right I punched the man flush in the face. Blood spewed from both sides of his nose. I pushed up hard under his chin so that the blood would stream into his eyes, blinding him.
He shouted something in Russian as he blindly reached for the knife still lodged in my left forearm.
I howled in pain as the blade began to come loose.
With my right I gripped his left ear and jammed my thumb into his eye as deep as it would go. His right hand released the knife and both hands went straight for his eye socket.
I dislodged the knife from my arm and made sure I had a secure grip.
I drew a deep breath, prepared to plunge the blade into his chest.
Only there had been enough killing.
Instead, I tossed the knife into the grass. With my right hand I grabbed the Russian’s right lapel, positioning my bare knuckles against the carotid artery on the right side of his neck. With my left, I reached under my right and grabbed the Russian’s left lapel, forming an X with my wrists. Then, with every bit of strength I had left in me, I applied pressure on the carotid. Took about twelve seconds, but by the time I finally released him, the Russian was out cold.
Breathing heavily, I glanced at the doorway. Apparently, no one had witnessed the fight.
I stood, looked down at the Russian.
His one good eye was half open, filled with blood yet staring absently at the sky.
I reached for his neck and felt for a pulse.
He was alive.
I grabbed his knife from where I’d thrown it in the grass, then quickly made my way to the entrance.
Chapter 55
I stood in front of the automatic doors and waited for them to open, but they did
n’t. My left forearm was useless. I gripped one side of the doors and tugged with all my might but it didn’t budge.
The place was locked down.
I pulled out my Glock and stood back.
So much for not making a racket.
The shot shattered the city’s disquieting silence, but also the glass on the right side of the door.
I stepped through, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my left arm. I’d used the tie in my pocket as a temporary tourniquet. But the wound was deep and I continued to lose blood.
In the distance, a gruff voice bellowed something in Russian, the sound echoing off the corridor walls. The only word I understood was Sacha, which meant that the Russian running to the entrance was most likely Jov.
I pressed against the wall, then turned my body into the hallway, ready to fire.
No one appeared.
Then a gun materialized from the doorway and immediately fired in my direction.
I dodged back behind the wall just in time.
The shot ripped into the wooden reception desk just across from me.
My mind was growing cloudy from blood loss. I willed myself to remain on my feet. I couldn’t faint. Not now, after I’d come so far.
I heard his footfalls in the hallway as he attempted to advance. I turned and fired just after he’d reached new cover.
I ducked back behind the wall and drew a deep breath.
There’s no time for this. Lindsay may be under the knife as I stand here waiting for an opening.
If the Russian cut me down, this was all over. But if his bullets struck me anywhere but the heart or head, I knew I’d still make it into the operating room to find Lindsay. It was a chance I had to take.
One last breath, then I stepped into the hallway, Glock raised, searching for my target.
The moment I saw movement I fired, struck the left knee. The leg went out from under him, but he remained able to aim his weapon.
I fired another shot, into his right shoulder, and his hand opened.
His gun hit the linoleum and I immediately kicked it hard down the hall.
Jov continued to struggle to get to his feet, so I removed Sacha’s knife from my belt.
He watched me as I maneuvered around his body. He opened his mouth to scream just I knelt behind him, lifted his right pant leg, and sliced through his Achilles tendon.
He howled in pain as his body dropped flat onto the dirty hallway floor, blood pooling all around his feet.
I strode down the hallway, leaving the fallen Jov behind with his screams. The floor was scuffed, the walls painted the same drab blue as in the sister clinic. The fluorescent lights flickered; exposed electrical wires hung loosely from the ceiling.
The operating room was positioned in the same location as at the other clinic, too—the room they’d wheeled Ana into.
Covered in blood—mine and others—I swallowed hard, steeled myself, and pushed open the operating-room doors.
Two surgical tables lay side by side. A young girl unconscious on each.
Two women and one man, all in green surgical gear, stepped away from the tables, unarmed, their hands slightly raised in the air in surrender.
Until that moment I hadn’t even realized I was holding the gun on them.
One man stood between the two tables, arms down at his sides. He pressed his glasses higher up his nose, lowered his surgical mask, and removed the green cap from his head, revealing a mess of curly salt-and-pepper hair.
“Hello, Simon,” he said in perfect English.
I stared down at the steel table holding Lindsay Sorkin. My eyes moved down her tiny body and settled on her chest.
“It’s over, Doctor,” I said.
“I don’t suppose we can negotiate,” he said sadly.
“Over a six-year-old’s life?” I said. “No, Dr. Richter, I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
I felt dizzy from the blood loss, my arms growing weaker every moment. The gun bobbed. I cleared my head and held it straight, aimed at Richter’s center.
“The thing is, Simon, there are two six-year-old girls in this operating room. Lindsay Sorkin. And Mila Richter.”
“I’ve heard about your daughter, Doctor. And I’m sorry. But you’ve no right—”
“And I’ve heard about yours, Simon,” he said calmly. “You know what it’s like to lose a child.”
“Thanks to you,” I said, “so do Vince and Lori Sorkin.”
Richter smiled mirthlessly. “You have no idea, do you? Vince Sorkin is a criminal, Simon. A fucking traitor to his country. Your country. Our country.”
I licked my lips. My mouth was going dry.
“Vince Sorkin is selling weapons technology to Iran,” Richter said. “And his wife, Lori, knows all about it. She’s known all along. Paris was just the beginning for them, Simon. They were about to cash in, change their names, and vanish.”
I swallowed hard, tried to subdue my sudden thirst.
“First of all, Doctor, I don’t believe a word you’re saying. And even if it’s true, it has nothing at all to do with the innocent girl lying on your slab.”
“Two innocent girls,” he shouted. “Don’t pretend that Mila isn’t here. Don’t pretend she doesn’t exist.” He reached out to his daughter and ran his gloved hand gently over her forehead. “And it is the truth, Simon. Every word I’ve told you is true. You’ll know it soon enough.”
My left arm felt terribly weak. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold the gun.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “This isn’t about the parents.”
Richter’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t it, though?” He took a small step to the left and started to round the table holding his daughter.
“Stand still,” I hollered.
The doctor stopped but otherwise ignored the interruption.
“Your wife killed herself when you lost Hailey, Simon. How can you stand there holding a gun on me and say this has nothing to do with the parents?”
“Tasha would have never traded another child’s life for Hailey’s,” I said.
“Wouldn’t she have, though? Wouldn’t you?”
“You’re mad, Doc—”
“If instead of my daughter,” he said, “it was your daughter on this slab, and I told you I could bring her back right now, wouldn’t you ask me to do it? Wouldn’t you beg me to?”
I looked down and for a moment I saw Hailey on that slab where Mila lay.
Richter said, “Aren’t you more deserving than Vince and Lori Sorkin, Simon?”
“This isn’t about them,” I shouted.
“It is,” he fired back. “Mila has no less potential than Lindsay does, Simon. Mila is no less deserving of life.”
“Neither is Mila more deserving than Lindsay,” I said.
“What life does Lindsay have to look forward to, Simon? A life on the run from the CIA? Or more likely, orphaned at the age of six? Mila has two parents who love her more deeply than anything on this earth, two parents who have devoted their own lives to the sick and dying children of Belarus. If all else is equal between these two girls, Simon, then shouldn’t the Sorkins and my wife, Tatsiana, and I be taken into account? Shouldn’t the way we’ve lived our lives matter?”
“You have no right to play—”
“God?” Richter laughed angrily. “Don’t be so fucking obtuse, Simon.”
Beneath me I felt my legs turning to rubber. The image of the operating room was suddenly surrounded by a bright white glow. I needed to end this before I passed out.
“It’s over, Doctor,” I said again. “Wake the girl. Lindsay Sorkin is leaving with me.”
Richter stood silent for a few moments. Only now there appeared to be two of him.
“The hell she is,” he said finally. “You’re going to have to kill me, Simon.”
He moved to the table of surgical tools and picked up a scalpel.
“Don’t make me do this, Doctor,” I begged.
He moved over t
he insensate form of Lindsay Sorkin.
My finger tensed over the trigger of my Glock.
Richter lifted the scalpel.
“Please,” I shouted.
Just as I was about to squeeze the trigger, the doctor looked me dead in the eyes.
Then pressed the blade of the scalpel deep into the flesh of his own throat and cut.
Chapter 56
The next morning, Ana and Lindsay and I were flown back to Paris on a private jet courtesy of the French government. Despite our best efforts, Lindsay barely said anything at all.
“It’ll take time,” I assured Ana. “She’s been through a hell of a lot.”
It was true. Even the children I’d retrieved from their estranged parents often needed years of therapy to help them deal with everything they’d been through.
Ana was still recovering from the gunshot wound. Doctors at the clinic had removed the bullet from the upper left side of her chest rather easily. The storefront window had slowed the bullet down significantly, or else it might have traveled right through her. Marek arranged for Ana to be flown via helicopter directly to a hospital in Warsaw, but Ana of course refused. She wasn’t going to Warsaw, she said. She was seeing this through to the end; she was accompanying me to Paris. I didn’t bother to argue. Even when she was doped heavily with painkillers, I knew that there was no hope of winning a verbal duel with Anastazja Staszak.
Davignon had Bertrand and another of his men pick us up from Charles de Gaulle and drive us to the cottage in Saint-Maur-des-Fossés, where Davignon was waiting with an ecstatic Lori Sorkin.
Upon seeing her mother, Lindsay sprinted and leaped into Lori’s arms. Lori covered her daughter in kisses, then lifted her toward the sky and spun her till they both fell into the tall blades of grass, crying and rolling around like a pair of jubilant toddlers.
After watching the reunion, I asked Ana to follow me upstairs to afford Lori and Lindsay some privacy.
“What happens now?” she said as we entered a large, well-appointed bedroom.
I stared at the king-size bed and wished I could sleep for a month.
Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels) Page 24
