Here she was, reporting to the Deputy Chief of Homeland Security, omitting great chunks of her story, emphasizing Sergei’s risk of death on her behalf, his conviction he could control what happened when the bombs surfaced. The necessity of once again cutting him loose to fulfill his destiny.
When she finished, Jack Frost leaned back in his chair, his face reflecting a remarkable mix of doubt and admiration. “My God, girl, but you’re a chip off the old block. Both blocks,” he amended. “Wouldn’t want your mother to feel left out. Has to lie like a bitch to keep her criminal bastards out of jail. Some of that seems to have rubbed off on you.”
“Sir?” Vee got out around the lump in her throat. “Every word was true.”
“What there was of them,” the Deputy Chief grumbled. He tapped a thumbnail against his upper lip. “So you want to keep Tokarev in play, going it alone like some knight hellbent on slaying a dragon?”
“You don’t have a choice. Nothing’s changed. He’s still the best chance you’ve got.”
“We’ve launched some highly sophisticated new security equipment, at sea and at our ports.”
“We have a hell of a lot of ports.”
“Ah, but I’m trusting your intuition, Valentina. We’re concentrating our efforts on the East Coast, primarily Baltimore, Tampa, and Miami.”
Vee shut her eyes, a shiver shook her. “My info’s thin, sir. So very thin.”
“You said Tokarev thinks you’re on the right track.”
“Zhukov,” Vee corrected. “And, yes, he agrees with me, but it’s still pretty thin. The only sure thing—exactly as we’ve said since the beginning—is using Sergei as bait.”
“And his talk of isotopes and an old man? Does your Russian actually have any idea where either of them are? Or is he planning to bluff his way out of Armageddon?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he knows,” Vee asserted. And maybe she wasn’t lying. Maybe Sergei had remembered what he did with the U-236.
“Ah, by the way . . . congratulate Major Zhukov on his marksmanship. I’m told not all the bullets in Leonov came from a sniper rifle.”
Vee’s chin firmed. “We’re keeping him,” she announced. “And Cade.”
“No problem,” Frost drawled. “The demands of National Security sometimes create strange bedfellows.”
Not caring to examine that remark too closely, Vee reached for her scotch.
“Look at me, Valentina.”
She raised her chin, swallowed, her gaze steady on her father’s stern face.
“You’ve had the upper hand since you talked your way out of Wyoming. So far, your instincts have paid off. Toka–Zhukov has led us a merry chase, but he’s produced results. I’d be a fool to change the rules now. So he’s free to go whenever he can stand on his feet. And you with him. So go save the world. And, Valentina,” he added softly, “I would be extremely unhappy if you got yourself vaporized in the process.”
Chapter 25
Silence enveloped the multi-million dollar condo overlooking Central Park. Sergei was stretched out on the couch, head resting on a mound of pillows, eyes closed. Across the room, Misha, having consigned Kiril Mikoyan to the care of others, paced in front of the broad panel of windows like an agitated tiger. Cade sprawled in an armchair next to the couch, supposedly absorbed in New York Times. He hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes, Vee noted.
As for herself . . . Vee made a wry face as she looked down at the stack of neatly folded laundry she was carrying. After two weeks of non-stop chaos, she had been downgraded by aggravating male assumptions to cooking, cleaning and doing laundry. Well, hell, someone had to do it, and the concept of mundane necessities hadn’t so much as crossed the male horizon. Vee let them get away with it. Chores kept her busy while they waited for Sergei’s phone to ring.
For the call to the final act. Or an “all clear” from DHS.
Fat chance.
Maybe Sergei had it wrong. He was out of the deal. Heydar and Moussad had found another bomb tech, another source for the isotope. Manhattan, Washington, Chicago, Las Vegas, San Francisco or Hometown, USA, could go up in a mushroom cloud at any moment. End of story.
Vee laid the folded laundry on the coffee table in front of the couch. “You’ll have to claim your own,” she announced to the room in general.
Cade lowered the newspaper. “What, chère,” he purred, “you don’t recognize my briefs?”
Sergei’s eyes snapped open. Misha stopped pacing.
A flush stained Vee’s cheeks, hotter and redder than any she’d experienced, even as a teen. She gulped, opened her mouth . . .
“Mon Dieu, I’m sorry!” Cade erupted from his chair, hands stretched out to his sides. His amber eyes locked onto Vee’s blue, pleading for forgiveness. “It’s this waiting, I swear. It’s driving me crazy.”
“You may return to New Orleans, Florida, or whatever realm of hell you sprang from,” Sergei pronounced grandly, as he levered himself up to a sitting position. “We will manage. Go now, before I kill you.”
With slow, deliberate care, Cade stepped away from Vee. A glance at Misha, poised for action, his fingers ready to go for his gun. Back to Sergei, who had produced his Sig-Sauer from under the mound of pillows.
“I’ll go down on my knees, if that’s what it takes,” Cade replied steadily, not moving so much as a muscle. “I let the strain get to me. I was way out of line. Trying for a bit of humor to lighten the gloom and jumping straight into the fire instead.” Sergei’s glower stayed stubbornly in place.
“I know I sometimes don’t sound like it,” Cade continued doggedly, “but I’m a professional. This is the biggest case of my career, probably the biggest case I’ll ever work. I want to stay on it. I apologize, profusely, to both—”
Vee’s phone rang. As she listened, the flush drained from her cheeks. Staggering slightly, she dropped down on the couch next to Sergei, knocking over the stack of laundry as she passed the coffee table. “Thank you,” she breathed, and ended the call. She sat very still, eyes closed.
“Speak!” Sergei barked. “What’s happened?”
A broad grin suffused Vee’s face. Her sky blue eyes took on the sheen of sunlight. “They’ve got one!” she cried. “Caught by the container scanner at the port of Baltimore. Twenty minutes ago.” She enveloped Seryozha in a bear hug. “We’ve done it. We’re half-way home.”
“Washington will survive. This time,” Misha pronounced. His words might be cryptic, but Vee noticed he was tilted back against the window panel, as if his legs, too, needed support.
“Le bon Dieu was kind,” Cade declared without a hint of sarcasm. He turned to Sergei. “So, boss man, may I stay?”
“If you watch your mouth.” Grudgingly.
“What now?” Misha asked. “Do we wait, or go to Florida?”
“That’s putting too much faith in children’s games,” Vee protested.
“I think not,” Sergei countered. “When you told me about the children, it felt right. New York has already suffered. Thanks to some courageous passengers, Washington was spared worst case on 9/11 and remains an obvious target. But if you’ve got two nukes, maybe one should be more personal, striking at the heart of America. Families just out to have a good time.”
Vee nodded. “American frivolity. Our choice of entertainment over substance.”
“Could be. The major theme parks are clustered together along I-4, nicely grouped for the convenience of the tourist masses.”
“And mass terror,” Cade added.
“Even if you’re right, it doesn’t have to be Florida,” Vee pointed out. “There’s Disneyland in California, the one in France—”
“They don’t hate the French as much as you,” Misha interjected.
“They’ll find a way around the port scans now,” Sergei said. “Or the other bomb’s already made it through.”
Cade groaned. “So we’re back to waiting?”
“Not long, I think. It’s coming together. I feel it.”
>
Vee frowned as a new thought intruded. “Are you really going to use the old man?”
Sergei tucked his gun back under his pillow. “Until we have Massoud, Navid, and all their men, we have to play the game. The old man takes the same risks as the rest of us.”
“But he doesn’t know,” Vee protested.
“Exactly. He’s not faking it. He’s willing to arm a weapon of mass destruction. No Brownie points. No room for bleeding hearts.”
“But—”
“You ever recall where you put the 236?” Cade inquired in an obvious attempt to divert the incipient quarrel.
“Yes.”
“Vee sucked in a sharp breath. “You might have told me!”
“Nichevo.” He shrugged. “Until Doucette asked, I didn’t realize the information was there. I suspect we can thank our little shoot-out yesterday.”
“I think I must tell mama to re-think her attitude about miracles,” Misha murmured .
“Just how far does this sting go?” Cade asked. “You get all the pieces in one place—terrorists, bomb, 236, us. That’s a lethal mix. You can’t count on the bad guys leaving time to save themselves. The forty virgins are waiting. So how do we save ourselves and keep the fucking bomb from going boom?”
“That’s when we call in the cavalry.”
“That’s cutting it pretty fine.”
“Granted,” Sergei replied smoothly, “but I intend to be the only one of us present.”
“No way.” “Nyet!” Cade and Misha spoke in chorus.
Vee, silent, felt the cold wash through her. Of course Sergei planned to go down alone, guns blazing. A twenty-first century Viking funeral.
But only if the pieces of his carefully orchestrated charade slipped out of place. Seryozha wasn’t suicidal, just determined. Willing to stop the bomb with his life if that’s what it took. At the moment he was the master juggler with all his balls in the air. One moment of weakness, an ill wind, the vagaries of an antique nuke, and his long sting was gone. And Orlando with it.
“Doucette is right,” Misha said. “If Mikoyan is allowed to arm the bomb, it does not matter if we are with you, with the Feds, or standing in line at DisneyWorld. We all die.”
“We take the charade only far enough to make sure we catch all the terrorists,” Sergei ground out, his patience clearly fraying. “I produce the isotope, Mikoyan begins his job, Homeland Security sweeps in, and bye-bye terrorists, bye-bye bomb. Seven down, and three to go.”
“A mere nothing,” Misha intoned, each word dripping with sarcasm. “After this, little brother, it is time to quit. Someone else can worry about the last three.”
Sergei ignored him.
A muffled noise. A moment’s pause before they realized the sound was coming from under the fallen laundry. Cade got there first, pawing through shirts, jeans, boxers, and briefs until he came up with the Russian satellite phone. For a moment he stared at it as if it was the bomb itself, counting down. Then, still expressionless, he handed it to Sergei.
Sergei looked out the window of the commercial jet at the eastern coastline unfolding below. No navigation needed. Follow the coast to Jacksonville, then angle a slight right to Orlando. Doucette and Misha could go south, courtesy of Homeland Security. Sergei Tokarev, his Russian bride, and their alleged Uncle Kiril could not. They had to keep up the façade.
The first call from Massoud had been nothing more than a fire alarm about the bomb intended for Washington. They continued to wait. Another twelve hours. Had Massoud found a way to proceed without him? Sergei wondered.
Eighteen hours. The whole operation was collapsing, he was certain, leaving Sergei Tokarev the laughing stock of three continents.
At twenty-two hours came a six-second phone call followed by a fleeting meeting in Central Park, a whispered cell phone number, a destination . . . and relief so intense Sergei nearly choked on it. They were almost home, the goal in sight. Orlando—the beginning of the end. One way or another.
Jack Frost and his minions might be freaking over one of the bombs making it onto American soil. Sergei wasn’t. This was his reason for existence. The challenge he had initiated the day he graduated from college. But the bomb was no longer his only problem. There was the matter of Valentina Frost who could not be allowed to follow him into what could easily become his last moments on earth.
She was sitting next to him—he didn’t even have to look to feel her presence. She warmed him in a way no one else ever had. Even in the dark days when he’d been a man in limbo, her essence enveloped him, giving him strength, offering a glimpse of a better world. For some reason she had accepted him as one of the good guys, placing him firmly on the side of the angels, instead of seeing him as a madman on a quixotic quest for shadows.
On the word of Valentina Frost, he’d become a good guy. And almost believed it. However this ended, he wasn’t taking Vee with him. She could hate him after he was dead, as long as she was alive to look back and remember.
Sergei continued to look out the window where the easily identifiable expanse of Chesapeake Bay stretched out below. Love had always been an abstract, something suspect, a figment of creative imaginations, perpetuated by self-hallucination. Now, at last, he understood his mother abandoning her dedication to Mother Russia for . . . for the thrice-damned bastard who had him trapped in this endless cycle of weapons of mass destruction that should have been officially disarmed a quarter century ago.
He lied. He’d loved his father. Worshipped the ground the general walked on. He still did, though the memory was tarnished by bitter disappointment. And shame.
So his adored father wasn’t perfect. He should have learned to live with that.
Cape Hatteras, Savannah, Jacksonville. A gradual descent over the lake-dotted green of central Florida. This was it, the final cast of the dice. His swan song? So be it. But he had to find a way to keep from taking Valentina and Central Florida with him.
Strangely enough, woods were easy to find in Orlando. Some rose from the fringes of unbuildable swampland, some lined the banks of rivers and lakes. Larger areas of trees covered land set aside for conservation. Three weeks ago, Sergei had sneaked into one of Orlando’s larger city parks in the middle of the night, crossed a dam over a river with an unpronounceable name, and buried a lead-lined box in the woods on the far side, covering the disturbed soil with a thick layer of pine needles. The question was, could he find the place again? One pine tree dripping Spanish moss was pretty much like the one next to it. And the one after that.
He’d marked it, of course he’d marked it. He wasn’t stupid. And he’d counted his paces along the meandering track through the woods that might have been no more than an animal trail, except he’d been told there were numerous homeless encampments in the woods around Orlando. So maybe that would explain a trail just wide enough to put one foot before the other. Govnó! What if someone had dug up his package? No time to wait for nightfall. They would have to go the minute they landed.
A car was waiting at their hotel. After dropping off their minimal luggage, they headed for the park, keeping their most valued asset, Kiril Mikoyan, with them. The park was surprisingly full of people on a weekday afternoon. Mothers and children, joggers, families sitting around picnic tables, people simply strolling on the cement walkway along the bank of a small lake created by a modest-sized dam.
“Do you need the real thing?” Vee whispered to Sergei as they walked toward the dam. “Isn’t it dangerous putting the bomb and the trigger in the same place?”
Sergei scowled. “They will check the containers, make sure it is right.”
“They’re terrorists, not scientists. They’re only going to know if their Geiger counters go click. Surely we don’t need to risk using the real isotope.”
“Do you have any idea of the number of colleges in the area? You think there isn’t one person with the right knowledge and willingness to use it? Their expert doesn’t have to know how to arm the bomb. He just has to be able to tell i
f the isotope is live or fake.”
“Playing with fire,” Vee muttered as they reached the dam.
“Come.” Sergei held out an imperative hand. Silently, she followed him across the cement walkway over the top of the dam. Kiril Mikoyan trailed behind, obviously fascinated by his first view of the green side of America.
On the far side of the dam, Sergei plunged into the woods. One, two . . . He counted to thirty, hung a right, holding small branches out of the way to keep them from smacking Vee in the face. He stopped, looked around. Nothing but bark, pine needles, and nameless underbrush. Walking slowly, he pushed farther into the woods.
“Florida has a lot of rattlesnakes,” Vee announced, although they hadn’t seen a sign of life, human or otherwise, since they crossed the dam.
Great. That’s all they needed. Central Florida could be immolated, all because a rattlesnake wanted vengeance for the intrusion on its habitat.
Sergei scowled at the rough brown bark of the slash pines’ towering trunks. Maybe he’d taken larger steps last time. Or smaller. It had been inky dark. In strange territory he would have been cautious. Slowly, he moved back towards the dam, pushing his way through the scrub, eyes darting from tree to tree. Vee muttered a few choice words as she followed him, with Mikoyan on his heels, eyes darting from trees to bushes in a world where only the pine trees were familiar.
There! Two slanted lines slashed into the bark so recently they had barely begun to weather. Ten minutes later, they strolled back across the dam. Sergei made no attempt to conceal the box with two round containers inside. He’d checked the contents, as had the old man. They had what they came for. Sergei repressed a shiver at the gleam in Mikoyan’s eyes, his anticipatory smile. Seemingly, he could hardly wait to do his job.
So, what the hell. The old man was never going to get his chance to blow Orlando to radioactive dust. If he could hardly wait, well too bad. It wasn’t going to happen. The bad guys could indulge their nightmare dreams of Armageddon all they wanted. Let them fill their heads with flaming fantasies of nuclear holocaust. Let them choke on it. Sergei Tokarev now held all the pieces to the resurrection of the outdated nuke—a Russian bomb-maker and the isotope needed to arm the weapons. He’d fulfilled his side of the devil’s bargain. Now it was up to Heydar, Lion of Iran, and his minion, Massoud. All Sergei had to do was make sure they stepped into trap.
Limbo Man Page 25
