by Glen Carter
“What do you expect me to do?” Jack whispered back.
Seth thought about it and then shrugged.
“Lower that thing,” Jack said, and waited. Knocking may not have been the best idea. No one answered.
There was no lock. Not even a doorknob. Slowly, Jack pushed the door open into a dark room. He tensed. Earlier, there’d been a light on. He was sure of it.
Seth stayed on the porch while Jack stepped inside. Too dark to see anything. Jack took another step. He was sure he heard breathing. Seth? Not Seth. He was still on the porch. Jack rubbed the front of his shirt and listened. There it was again. Someone behind the door. He was certain of it. He had two options. He could kick the door and take out whoever was hiding there, or…
Plan B.
Jack stepped back and swung the door closed. It slammed shut, revealing a figure crouched low in the darkness. It sprang forward, swinging something menacing in its speed and trajectory. It came at Jack in a wide arc and with a sickening thud smashed into his head just above the temple. Shards of pain buckled his legs and he collapsed to the floor. Feebly he reached up to protect himself against further blows, but none came. Just a scream which seemed distant as he slipped into unconsciousness.
SEVENTY-THREE
“Jack…Jack?”
Someone was slapping his face.
“I’m so sorry.”
The slapping was really irritating him.
“Jack?”
But the throbbing pain in his head was worse. Excruciating.
“Shit.” A woman’s curse. “He’s really out.”
Jack sought refuge behind clamped eyelids, though her voice plucked at him. A tone as tight as piano wire. There was Seth’s voice then. Further back. “Got a bucket?”
Jack spun away into the blackness, away from the pain, until a few seconds later when a splash of water, cold as ice, jolted him awake. “Jesus,” he coughed, driving a dagger into the rapidly expanding lump on the side of his head.
“Jack, I’m so sorry, but you’ve got to get up now. We’ve got to get out of here!”
Who the hell was talking? He heard the words but was having difficulty with their meaning. Everything was spinning and Jack was choking on the bile in his throat. A trickle of warmth ran down his cheek. God, the pain.
“We thought you were them,” she continued. “When you came to the door and then you kicked it in–”
“Didn’t kick,” he moaned, still unsure who was talking.
“Not kick, I know, but when you pulled the door shut, Alejandro saw the gun and that’s…”
A cane was broken into two pieces on the floor.
“Nice piece of wood,” Seth said as Alejandro maintained a vigil at the window, a look of worry on his face which matched Kaitlin’s. Something darker than worry. A countenance painted with the doom of Michelangelo’s Minos. Alejandro spoke in a rapid and guttural Spanish which Seth found difficult to follow. The old man swept his hand angrily towards a door across the room.
Seth walked over and pushed it open. A child-sized bundle lay on the bed, another white sheet stained with blood. He cursed quietly, cut the muttering old man as much sympathy as he could muster and then walked quickly back to where Jack was lying on the floor. “Jack, get the hell up, mate, we’ve got to go!”
Jack was seeing double, four faces silhouetted against the dim glow from a ceiling light. It took him another moment before he could raise himself onto his elbows. A large accomplishment given the extent of his misery. In the fog of his pain it didn’t make sense that Mercedes would have disregarded his instruction to remain in hiding out back and to race for help in the village at the first sign of trouble. Instead she’d beat him inside the house and then clobbered him. “Mercedes, why…” The words trailed off in surrender.
Kaitlin looked at Seth for explanation.
“I don’t think he gets it yet.”
“Get more water, quickly,” she said. “There’s no time.”
“Mercedes, no!” Jack shouted, rubbing the side of his head. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Look at me, Jack,” Kaitlin demanded, choking back a sob.
It took him another couple of minutes to pluck the cotton from his brain and for his eyes to begin to focus. Jack cocked his head to one side and fixed on her. “Kaitlin?” he moaned.
“Now he gets it,” Seth said.
Jack steadied himself against her as she helped him up. Sparkles floated like confetti in front of his eyes. “What are you…” Jack paused, tried to recalibrate his brain. “Here. I mean how…”
“It’s a very long story,” she replied shakily, wiping her eyes. Then she carefully embraced him. “And God, it’s good to see you.”
Her breath was warm against his skin, a soothing distraction from a current of pain in which confusion seemed an undertow. What she said next didn’t help.
“Eva,” Kaitlin sobbed. “She’s dead. They shot her.”
Jack stumbled back a step, shoulders against the door. He gingerly touched the large bump on the side of his skull and exhaled loudly. Then he stepped unsteadily towards her again. “I’m just a little fuzzy right now. Could you repeat that?”
Kaitlin didn’t have to.
Jack followed her eyes to the open bedroom door. A bloody sheet stretched out on the bed, a pitifully small bundle beneath it. His heart sank. He permitted a minute to pass, silently waiting for his senses to re-energize, for his mind to establish equilibrium. After a moment he took in his gloomy surroundings. Kaitlin’s shoulders quivered upon her grief, a red-eyed survivor of some cruel act – not of God or of nature – but of man. There were a million things he didn’t know. The body inside the bedroom screamed the one thing he was certain of. Jack took Kaitlin gently in his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “But you’re right. It’s time we got the hell out of here.”
“Jack,” Seth said, motioning towards the back door. “You’re forgetting someone.”
Jack’s eyes widened. Mercedes. She was still waiting behind the house for the all-clear. He nodded quickly and Seth disappeared down a hallway that led to the back door.
Jack grabbed Kaitlin by the hand and began to follow. Briefly he looked back at Alejandro. “Who’s Alejandro?”
“He’s a friend,” Kaitlin sniffled. “Where’s Seth gone?”
“You’ll know in a moment,” Jack replied. “Is he coming with us? He’s got a pretty good arm. We might need it.”
Kaitlin stopped dead in her tracks. She held a hand out towards him. “Alejandro?”
Alejandro walked instead to the open bedroom door, where he stood, motionless.
“Alejandro,” Kaitlin repeated, eyes swelling again with fresh tears, faintly pleading in her Spanish. “There’s nothing we can do for her now. She would want us to be safe.”
“From the curse,” Alejandro replied without taking his eyes off the bloody sheet.
“Not the curse, Alejandro,” Kaitlin replied. “There is no curse.”
Alejandro sneered. “Luis, Gabriella, Eva. No curse?”
Kaitlin thought a moment. Her family had suffered immeasurably. Staring at her mother’s dead body, she swallowed her grief, incredulous that after all these years the suffering continued. No curse, she repeated silently to herself. “The curse of cruel and foolish old men who had no right to believe in such things,” she finally replied.
Alejandro appeared to be thinking.
Jack was growing impatient. He had no time to fill Kaitlin in on everything that had happened so far even though it would have given her a better understanding of their perilous situation. There’d be time for that later. If there was to be a “later.” Right now, they needed to get moving. There was clearly a connection between the old man and Kaitlin that Jack didn’t understand yet. He hoped he was going to get that opportunity. In the meantime, Mercedes and Seth were waiting. And Jack was sure – when the two women came face to face – more valuable time would be consumed by their mutual surprise.
&n
bsp; Jack then turned towards the source of heavy footsteps. Seth and Mercedes entered the room.
Kaitlin went slack-jawed.
Jack stiffened when he saw the three hulking figures behind them.
“Nice to see you again, Jack,” Dmitri Raspov said, sounding as cold as the Siberian landscape. “Sorry about screwing up the reunion.”
Uri shoved Mercedes and Seth out of the way; Pavel placed his weapon against the side of Jack’s head.
“Time we all got better acquainted, don’t you think?” Raspov said with a sneer.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Did she tell you, Jack?”
“Go to hell.”
Raspov’s eyes swept the room, stopping briefly at the bedroom where Eva’s body lay. He jabbed the gun at Mercedes, laughing dryly. “Your little orphan didn’t tell you, did she?”
Jack had no idea what Raspov was talking about. He didn’t care. He was frantic about Kaitlin. Uri and Pavel had taken her, along with Seth and Alejandro, into the shed. There was no telling what kinds of horrors were underway. Jack’s eyes slid to Dmitri’s gun. The best he could hope for was an inattentive moment during which he could try and jump him. He’d grab the weapon and take his chances with Uri and Pavel next door. Then they’d make a run for it. It might have been a plan, except Jack was just about incapacitated by the horrible pain in his head. Alejandro had likely given him another concussion when he hit him with that fine wooden walking stick.
Raspov got up to pace. “I saved your life tonight, Jack.” Dmitri was full of surprises, Jack thought. Here comes another one. “Those little monkeys had you in their sights when you wandered in here.” Raspov moved to the window and stared into the darkness. Jack began to count. Another second and he’d take advantage of Raspov’s distraction to make his move. Shit. Raspov spun around. “Montello’s man Suarez. You wouldn’t know him, but he never misses, even though he was a hopeless drug addict. He smoked a rock while he waited for you. The moron. Still would have gotten his head shot.” Raspov smiled. “I got mine first. No need to thank me.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Jack said.
“You’re welcome anyway,” Dmitri replied jovially. He took a couple of steps, stood directly in front of Mercedes while keeping an eye on Jack. “This one has bigger balls than both of us, Jack. To do what she did. I am impressed with her courage, if not her judgment. She sits there a dead woman, though she may not completely understand that.”
Mercedes sat stone-faced.
Jack tried to conceal his confusion. He gave Mercedes a questioning look, unreturned.
Dmitri sat down again, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. “But poor me. I’ve been robbed. I’m a victim and I deserve to be treated as such. Compensated for my pain and inconvenience. That fits nicely your western sense of justice, doesn’t it?”
Jack suffered the dread of a man being ushered into traffic. He’d stall for time. “Robbed?”
Raspov stared at him, contemplating something. “It’s a long story, one you’ll not get a chance to hear.”
“Then what’s the harm?”
“You’re right. Just two guys talking. Like old times, eh?”
“If you say so,” Jack said.
Raspov checked to make sure the safety on his weapon was off, and then began to speak. “Montello and the others are worried. Very worried. They remember Noriega and Hussein, the poor soul, and they know they’re next.” Raspov leaned in closer. “Like rabid animals backed into a corner they will fight.”
“Animals is right,” Jack replied. “But not much of a fight for American special forces.”
“Perhaps. But what if you could even the odds?” Raspov expected no answer. He got up again, swung his gun before him and took imaginary aim. He looked back at Jack. “Montello and the others have unlimited financial resources,” he said. “Which appeals to my sense of greed. After all, Jack, it’s the new Russia. Big houses with plasma TVs, and SUVs. Consumerism. What a wonderful concept.” Raspov allowed a moment to pass, perhaps to daydream. “I’m going home, my friend,” he continued. “Going home with a piece of the American dream in my pocket. A big dacha, lots of cars and women. It’s all very expensive.”
“Learn to live with less,” Jack said. “You’ll be happier.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Raspov replied. “But why should I? I’ve met an opportunity for unbelievable wealth which is too difficult to resist.” The Russian studied Jack’s face. “You’re hungry for the details, I suspect.”
“You’re crazy, so spare me the details.”
“Crazy with wants and desires,” Raspov shot back.
“Just crazy,” Jack spat. “We found your handiwork at the orphanage. You’re a psychopath.”
“You mean Suarez,” he replied, feigning hurt. “My dead friend outside with his two dead accomplices. Don’t worry. They’ve paid for their crimes.” Raspov paused, jabbing a finger at Mercedes. “See what you’ve done, my child. You delivered a pox upon that house. All those righteous souls delivered to heaven. Suarez, on the other hand…perhaps not.”
Mercedes stared defiantly at thin air.
“No matter,” said Raspov. “Here’s a headline that may interest you, Jack.”
“I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”
“You’re a news junkie. You’ll love it. ‘Colombian Cartels Take Desperate Measures to Fight Extradition to the US.’”
“Too many words,” Jack said. “You may be right.”
The former KGB spymaster held up a finger. “Then how about this? ‘Nuclear Weapons for Sale.’ More to the point, don’t you agree?”
Jack’s ears buzzed. He struggled to conceal his alarm. “You are nuts.”
“Don’t condemn me so quickly, my friend.”
Jack shook his head painfully. “Come off it, Dmitri.”
Raspov grabbed Jack by the hair, jerked his head back. “Come on, Jack. You’re a reporter. Dig a little deeper for the juicy stuff. It’s worth it.”
Jack denied Raspov the satisfaction of his misery. He grabbed Raspov’s wrist and wrestled it free. “You’re a dinosaur, Raspov. Thank God, you’re extinct.”
“Extinct?” Raspov repeated, tapping the gun against Jack’s head. “I wouldn’t be so quick to judgment if I were you.”
“Get to the point,” Jack demanded.
“Deadlines, deadlines,” Raspov said. “Very well.” He circled them and sat once more.
Jack was glued to the gun, menacing in its deadly purpose. Time was like oxygen in the compressed blue wafer beneath space, thin and sadly gasping. Raspov couldn’t be stalled forever. He’d eventually become bored with the game.
“Hawks within the Politburo were extremely nervous,” the Russian said. “Because of all the American talk about Star Wars, remember?”
“It was Gorbi’s deal-breaker in Iceland,” replied Jack. “Old news.”
“That’s right. Old news. And also no secret that Star Wars would have changed everything. To his credit, Gorbachov resisted at Reykjavik and the summit collapsed. But we knew then something had to be done. There was no way we would have survived a first strike with the ability to retaliate.” Raspov fixed his eyes on Jack. “You remember how it was, Jack? The Cold War, tit-for-tat arms buildup. It got rather expensive and we couldn’t keep up. Besides that, our ICBMs were becoming unreliable, leaking radioactivity. There were navigational problems because of substandard components in the gyro and computer systems. We couldn’t even afford to keep them fueled. Inspectors found empty vodka bottles in one silo.” Raspov shook his head as he stood again. “We needed to protect ourselves, even if Gorbi didn’t understand that. A group of us did, so we came up with a solution to level the playing field.”
“Gorbi and Reagan wanted an end to nuclear weapons,” Jack said. “Why not just suck it up, get on with life?”
“It was bullshit,” Raspov shot back. “You know as well as I that the American people would not have accepted that. Nor would good patriotic Soviets.
The nuclear deterrent had functioned as it should for decades. Why fuck up a good thing with talk of full-scale arms reduction?”
“So?”
“So we decided to take proactive measures.” Raspov waited until he was sure he had Jack’s full attention. “Loosely translated, something we called Operation Seedling.”
“Planting saplings for the environment. Commendable.”
Raspov ignored the remark and leaned in until Jack could smell him. “Portable nuclear weapons, Jack. Tactical nukes were to be seeded in twelve cities within the continental United States. Twelve of the most populated.”
Mercedes shifted in her chair, drawing a sliver of their attention.
A gasp lodged in Jack’s throat. He wondered whether Raspov had heard the groan in his gut.
Raspov offered the hint of a smile, dreamy eyes held Jack in their gaze. “Smuggled aboard German freighters into Los Angeles, Seattle, New York. From there, overland destinations. Chicago, Boston, Detroit. Need I go on?”
The thumping in Jack’s head pounded his senses. It was difficult to speak, to find the right words. “Lay off the coke, Raspov,” he said. “You’re psychotic.”
“No. Listen, Jack. This is good,” Raspov continued. “The shipping company was a KGB front which was convenient when we needed to ship weapons and military supplies to our friends in Libya, etcetera, etcetera. How do you think we got those ICBMs into Cuba? Old story. Unfortunately a bit before my time.”
“Too bad you had to miss it.”
“Kruchev had the right idea. Just poorly executed,” Raspov observed. “Anyway, those German-flagged ships were loaded with shiny new BMWs, Audis. The American dream, remember? Let’s just say that a dozen of these luxury cars wouldn’t have met your country’s pollution emission standards. Not after what our weapons institute was able to conceal inside them.”
Stall, Jack thought. Keep him talking. Raspov cherished his ego. It must be fed. “Soviet tactical nukes smuggled aboard German ships and seeded throughout the country?” Jack said, barely able to believe what he was saying.
