The Lazarus Moment

by J. Robert Kennedy

  A little too awkwardly.

  She sighed.

  Oh well.

  She leaned back and placed a hand on his cheek, staring into his confused eyes. “You’re taken, aren’t you?”

  He nodded, looking away for a moment then back at her. “Ah, yeah.”

  “Married?”

  He shook his head.

  “Engaged?”

  Again he shook his head.

  “Something wrong with her?”

  He laughed. “No, she’s the greatest woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Then what the hell are you waiting for?”

  His smile spread wide.

  “I have no idea.”

  Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters

  Leroux smacked his hands together as they all watched the target area blasted repeatedly by the Navy jets. If the rebels had left the plane alone, it wouldn’t have been necessary, but the difficult decision had been made by the White House to flatten the area to prevent any classified materials or equipment from falling into the wrong hands.

  Unfortunately, it meant many of the bodies of the victims of Air Force One would never be recovered.

  A team was already on the way to secure the area, retrieve any bodies that they could and make sure everything was recovered. It would be a big operation, the intent apparently to try and pull everything out for military and environmental reasons.

  Nobody wanted the environazis raising a stink that a 747 had been left to spoil the pristine environment.

  He had to admit they would have a point if they were to complain, and apparently, someone higher than him on the totem pole had agreed. He wouldn’t be surprised if it turned into a civilian operation once the military aspect had been wrapped up.

  Though as he watched the last of the bombs rip through the dozens of boats gathered around the fuselage of the downed airliner, he took little satisfaction in this one aspect of this entire ordeal being wrapped up.

  For from his perspective, there was a loose end that still needed tying.

  He turned to Therrien. “When does Khomenko land?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “Is our asset in place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, boss, I found something you’re gonna wanna see.”

  Leroux walked over to Child’s workstation. “What is it?”

  Child pointed at the display. “Look who registered for refugee relief in Kiev.”

  Leroux’s eyes shot wide open, his jaw dropping.

  “You’re kidding me!”

  USS George H. W. Bush, Off the coast of South Africa

  Dawson stood with the other members of Bravo Team, the SEALs already having shipped off to another assignment, they not officially there either. The survivors were all gathered in the hangar bay, temporary quarters until they were evacuated, which would be shortly. Transport from the carrier was already being arranged to South Africa then a charter flight would take everyone home.

  A new Air Force One had already arrived, the title merely a designation for whatever plane was carrying the President. Technically a Cessna would be Air Force One if he were on it.

  “How were your steak and eggs?” asked Niner.

  Dawson patted his belly. “Damned fine. The galley did a good job.”

  “I think they enjoyed the special requests,” grinned Atlas. “My fried chicken was good. Not as good as my gramma’s, but she’s from Louisiana. Hers is worth going to war over.”

  “I thought you were born in the Bronx?” asked Niner.

  “I was, but my folks were from the South originally. Moved to New York when they were young.” Atlas looked at Dawson. “So, did they tell you who was responsible in your briefing?”

  Dawson nodded. “Yeah, some Ukrainian separatist with the help of a rogue FSB agent.”

  “Christ!” exclaimed Red. “Are they sure he was rogue?”

  Dawson chuckled. “If they aren’t, they’ll never admit to it. If he wasn’t, then we’ll be going to war, so something tells me they’ll accept the Soviet—sorry, Russian—explanation.”

  “Soviet Union Two point Oh, brought to you by madman Poutine, not just a French Canadian treat.”

  Dawson and the others laughed at Jimmy’s outburst. “Soviet Union Two point Oh. Wasn’t that what Professor Acton called it?”

  Niner nodded. “Yup. It fits.”

  “Sad but true,” agreed Spock. “I wonder what they’re going to do with Lennox.”

  Dawson shrugged. “Above my paygrade, but they just received a report that his wife and daughter walked into a police station in Annapolis about an hour ago, unharmed.”

  Niner picked at his nails, frowning at something. “So this Ukrainian guy, do they know where he is?”

  “CIA has a lead apparently.”

  “No!”

  They all turned to see Nancy Starling sprinting across the floor, her father looking helplessly on as tears rushed down the young girl’s cheeks. Niner stepped toward her, holding a hand out. She spotted him and made a beeline toward him, wrapping her arms around him as she sobbed.

  Dawson felt his chest tighten, a lump slowly rising in his throat, as there could be no doubt what news had just been delivered. President Starling walked over, Dawson and the others standing a little straighter.

  “The First Lady?” Dawson asked gently.

  Starling nodded. “I’m afraid she didn’t make it.”

  Another wail from Nancy as she tightened her grip on Niner.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. President. I wish there was something I could do.”

  Starling looked at him.

  “There is.”

  Dubai International Airport, Dubai

  Igor Khomenko stepped out of the jetway and quickly made his way toward the gate for his next flight. Plan B had him on a tight schedule and heading for Beijing next. If they had truly identified him, then Moscow would be the logical destination, or anywhere else in Eastern Europe, so his backup plan had him heading for Beijing then by the Trans-Siberian Railway to Moscow and eventually Donetsk. Once he was in China, he was pretty sure he’d be safe, and the fact he hadn’t been met at the gate suggested he had successfully given the authorities the slip.

  Which he had to admit surprised him.

  They had been betrayed, of that there was little doubt. The fact the South African police had hit the motel meant someone had talked. His men in America hadn’t been captured up to that point, and they only knew what they needed to know operationally.

  They had no clue the operation was even taking place in South Africa, let alone the name of the motel they were staying at.

  Which meant Moscow.

  Dudnik must have talked.

  And he was privy to the entire plan. He would have been able to tell the Americans who he was and where he was. What Dudnik didn’t know was that the accommodations had been changed, just in case. He had learned long ago to trust no one, especially spies.

  It must have been the cellphone.

  He felt it in his pocket, turned off since South Africa. It suddenly felt very heavy. He spotted a garbage can and headed for it, pulling the cellphone out of his pocket and palming it. He dropped it in the can then continued on.

  Somebody slammed into him, hot coffee splashing onto his chest.

  He cursed, pulling the scalding hot shirt off his skin as he stepped back from the asshole. “Look where you’re going!” he cried in English. The man looked at him, the half-empty cup held out to his side, his face aghast.

  “I’m so sorry!” He glanced at his watch. “I’m really sorry, I truly am, but I’ve got a flight to catch.” The man rushed off, pulling a carry-on behind him, continuing to apologize as he disappeared into the crowd.

  Khomenko futilely wiped at the coffee covering his shirt, the heat quickly dissipating, but the bastard was a coffee pussy, it loaded with sugar and cream, his chest quickly turning into a sticky mess. He searched for a bathroom and spotted the universal blue sign, heading qui
ckly for it, there not much time to waste.

  Entering the bathroom, he walked up to the sink, pulling his soiled shirt off and using it to wipe as much of the coffee as he could off his chest, then shoved it into a garbage can. Splashing copious amounts of water on his pale, hairless pecs, pecs that now sagged under the weight of his own skin, he used paper towel to dry himself off.

  He glanced in the mirror and noticed several people giving him odd looks, making him wonder if it was his actions or his appearance causing the rude behavior.

  You’d be staring too.

  He looked in the mirror, staring into his own eyes.

  He was tired.

  Tired of living.

  I just want this to be over with.

  Now.

  CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane shoved the rest of the sugar and cream laden coffee cup into a garbage can, circling back toward his target. He quickly reacquired him with some help from his eye in the sky back at Langley. His old high school buddy, and one of his only true friends in the world, Chris Leroux, was acting as Control on this op, his team expertly overriding the video cameras as he walked through the airport. By the time he left, there’d be no evidence he had ever been there.

  Not that he expected the authorities in Dubai to dig too deeply, especially when they found out who his target was.

  “He’s headed into the bathroom.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Do you see the janitor?”

  Kane spotted what looked like a foreign worker, possibly a Filipino, pushing a janitor’s cart toward the bathroom entrance. He was actually a CIA plant, a low level operative that worked Dubai, not cleared for assassination like he was, though definitely more than qualified to assist in one.

  “Affirmative.”

  The janitor put a sign in front of the bathroom door indicating in several languages that it was closed, several disappointed and uncomfortable men already being redirected farther into the terminal. Kane stepped past him, each ignoring the other, knowing glances not exchanged in real life. Instead, Tagalog curses were directed at his back as this tourist ignored the sign, the man following him in and handing him a rolled up newspaper.

  Kane took it, the heft of a gun obvious. As he rounded the corner, he found about half a dozen men, including Khomenko at the far sink, washing his chest clean. The bathroom quickly emptied as toilets flushed, taps turned off and hand dryers finished.

  They were alone, Khomenko reaching into his carry-on bag, pulling out a clean shirt.

  Kane pulled the gun and cleared his throat.

  Khomenko spun toward the sound, immediately recognizing the asshole that had spilled coffee all over him.

  Then he noticed the gun.

  He frowned, realizing it had all been planned, not an accident at all.

  And that he hadn’t escaped like he had thought.

  “You are American?”

  The man flicked the gun, indicating their conversation should be moved to the bathroom stall, then twisted a suppressor in place.

  Khomenko nodded, resigned to his fate. He raised his hands slightly, walking toward the large handicap stall, stepping inside. He could feel the cold sweat of fear begin to drench his body, a chill shivering over him as he turned to face his assassin, bare chested.

  He wasn’t going to die in his beloved Donetsk; he wouldn’t be buried beside his wife and child, overlooking the river for eternity. Instead, he was going to die in an unholy country, his body probably sent to America and cremated after an undignified autopsy, his ashes scattered in some grotesque manner.

  So be it. At least I’ll be with my family soon.

  He glared at the man who had yet to say a word.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  The man nodded, then aimed his weapon low, catching Khomenko by surprise.

  Why—?

  A shot popped, then another, it taking a moment before Khomenko realized what had just happened, the excruciating pain suddenly overwhelming him as he dropped to his knees, the impact sending another jolt of agony through his body, the shattered kneecaps now bloody pulps. He fell to his side, trying to relieve the pressure on the wounds, his body slamming against the cool metal of the bathroom stall, one hand gripping the toilet paper dispenser, the other reaching for his knees, too scared to touch them.

  He was about to scream out at the agony when the man leaned forward, gun pointed at Khomenko’s chest, the free hand clamping over his mouth.

  “Feel free to scream.”

  Khomenko did, his tearing eyes wide, staring into the cold, unfeeling orbs of his enemy. It was as if the man had no soul, didn’t care about the agony he was causing.

  He’s merciless.

  Khomenko’s scream subsided and the hand was removed, leaving him gasping for breath as his body adjusted to the new level of pain. He looked back up at the man. “Kill me.”

  “Oh, you’re going to die. But first I have a little secret to let you in on.”

  Khomenko said nothing. He was being toyed with to prolong his suffering, and he wasn’t about to give the man the satisfaction of playing along.

  The man smiled. “What, not interested?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone, swiping his thumb then tapping a few times. “I think you’ll want to see these photos. Do you know who they’re of?”

  Again, Khomenko said nothing, instead wincing as a jolt of pain surged up his leg.

  “You know these two ladies. Are you sure you don’t want to guess?”

  Two ladies. Who the hell is he talking about?

  All the women in his life were dead. His wife, his daughter, his mother. All dead. He knew a lot of women, though none was close enough for anyone to possibly think he would care about them.

  “Here, I’ll give you a hint. They died six months ago.”

  Khomenko glared at the man, his lip curling up slightly as he tried to grab him, the surge of pain at the movement completely incapacitating him as he fought to stay conscious.

  “Don’t pass out on me now. This should cheer you up so you’ll want to be awake.” He felt a slap on his cheek. “You still with me?”

  The world snapped back into focus and he glared at the man, finally breaking his silence. “If you have disturbed their graves, my men will seek you out and make certain you suffer a death far worse than the one you intend for me.”

  The man smiled, then flipped the phone around so Khomenko could see the photo.

  He gasped.

  It was his wife, sitting on a bench, their daughter curled up beside her. He didn’t recognize the photo or the location, but a Ukrainian flag was on the wall behind them. The last time a Ukrainian flag would have been anywhere near them was long ago, and their daughter much smaller.

  “Wh-what is the meaning of this?”

  The man swiped his finger, flipping through several photos of his wife and daughter, then stood back. “Your wife and daughter never died.”

  Khomenko felt his mouth fill with bile, then his stomach leaped in relief then his chest tightened in anger. He was being toyed with again. He knew they were dead, he had seen their bodies with the others, he had attended their funeral.

  They were dead.

  You picked out two bodies that looked like them. They were unrecognizable.

  He closed his eyes, trying to remember that day. There were so many bodies, so much confusion. He had walked up the line, picking them out where his lieutenant had stopped.

  “That’s them.”

  It was them.

  “That’s them,” the lieutenant had said.

  He gasped at the sudden realization, his memory of that day completely wrong. He hadn’t identified them at all; it had been the lieutenant. The lieutenant had pointed at the two mutilated bodies, covered in blankets. It was this young man who had never met his family that had identified them.

  He had never actually looked at them, had never actually seen their faces. The funeral had been closed casket, everything happening so fast due to
his wound, he had never stopped to question if it was them.

  But even if it wasn’t, they should be dead. The apartment building was flattened and they were inside it.

  Weren’t they?

  “Would you like to know the truth?”

  Khomenko looked up at the man, his eyes pleading for a little mercy, for proof that his beloved family was still alive.

  He nodded. “Y-yes.”

  “Very well. As soon as you left that morning, your wife packed a bag and left with your daughter for Kiev. She left you a note explaining all this, but it was lost in the explosion that flattened your apartment. According to Ukrainian authorities, she betrayed you because she didn’t believe in the war. It had turned you into a monster that she didn’t recognize or love anymore. So she decided to leave you and wait out the war in safety. She never knew you thought they were dead, and she has no clue that you are here now, about to die.”

  Khomenko’s heart was slamming in his chest, his eyes wide, his mouth agape, as he processed the words. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be true. There was no way his wife, his soulmate, could betray him like this, could take his daughter and deliver her into the hands of the enemy who would oppress them.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The man tapped at his phone then the unmistakable sound of his wife’s voice could be heard along with a man’s voice. She was being interviewed, her answers confirming the horrid truth just revealed him.

  He slumped against the bathroom stall, his eyes closing as he listened to each word, every syllable another dagger to his heart as he realized the woman he thought had loved him, hadn’t for some time, the woman he had shared everything with, had fought so hard for, thought of him as a horrible monster that might come home one day and take out his frustrations on her or their daughter.

  A woman who was pregnant with a second child, the discovery of that pregnancy spurring her into action.

  The recording ended and the man slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Everything you did, everything you did that you said was for them, was for nothing. All the innocent people you killed was to avenge a woman who hated you, who feared you, who had fallen out of love with you long ago.”