by Leslie Wolfe
...Undisclosed Location
...Russia
...Eight Days Missing
Dr. Adenauer’s mind wandered back to the place of his birth, and the disappeared loved ones in his family. He was born in 1963 in rural West Germany, in a small town called Marl, close enough to Dusseldorf to be modern, remote enough to be picturesque and serene. The youngest in a family still recovering from the wounds of war, and still mourning its dead and missing, Theo had very little to be joyful about in his early years. But the most poignant of memories, the one still haunting his thoughts and nightmares, was the memory of his sister, Helga.
Ten years his senior, Helga entered the whirlwind of bipolar affective disorder with the onset of puberty, just when Theo was starting to be old enough to understand and remember. Of course, there was little to understand at first, when he was just a pre-teen, and Helga’s mood swings left him crying and confused, unable to comprehend why his big sister, playful and fun just the day before, could turn into an angry monster, lashing out with words that hurt worse than fist blows.
With time, his parents explained what was going on. They told him that her mean words, crying spells, and bad behavior were not her fault; she was sick. Theo understood, and became committed to helping her. He suddenly realized, about the time that he entered puberty, what he was meant to do with his life. He would become a doctor, a great one, who could cure his sister and end the constant suffering of his family.
He studied hard, and worked desperately to understand everything that he could about the human brain. Since high school, he’d started devouring any book or medical publication he could get his hands on, absorbing, learning, analyzing.
He was admitted to the Universität Düsseldorf in 1981, and his grades gave him recognition from the dean and from his professors. Some took an interest in the highly motivated young man who had the most interesting questions about brain chemistry, about chemical imbalances in the brain, and about understanding the deep synergies among complex psychotropic drugs used in controlled combinations.
He still had a few weeks left before graduation when Helga jumped in front of a train, ending her desperation-filled days just before Theo could return home and help her.
He went home to Marl and mourned with his grief-stricken parents, not in the least concerned about the classes he was missing, or about the risk of being expelled. His guilt was tormenting him, eating at him from within. It was his fault that Helga died. He didn’t find the cure fast enough, didn’t graduate quickly enough.
The dean called one morning, when Theo was still spending his time staring into emptiness, at the home of his and Helga’s childhood, and somehow talked him into returning to school. He graduated a couple of months later, and immediately began the research work that had been his mission ever since he could remember.
His academic record brought him a choice of research engagements, and he chose the path that led him closest to what he wanted to do: heal the invisible wounds of the suffering brain. It was too late for Helga, but there were others just like her, others he could still save.
Achievement after achievement, conference after conference, and award after award, his career soared. But he never stopped, and never slowed down. The most remarkable of his achievements, a drug that reduced the risk of suicide by 90 percent in clinically depressed and bipolar patients, had brought him a nomination for the Nobel Prize. He almost missed the news; that was the year his parents died, within a few months of each other.
Sometimes he wondered if he was indeed arrogant, as many had said about him. He didn’t think so. He’d taken hard looks at himself many times, probing for signs of narcissism or other personality disorders, but, in his case, there was no foundation for such concern. It was just value, pure value. His record of achievement supported that, and he was well aware of his own worth. If that happened to come across as arrogance, well, that was unfortunate, but it wasn’t something he was willing to change. His career was nothing to be humble about.
It had been years since he’d wandered down memory lane, remembering Helga, and the things he held most dear in his heart. His commitment to help people. His entire life dedicated to ease the suffering of the chemically imbalanced brain. And now? What was he going to do? Let some terrorists, because that’s what they were, use him to gain access to a weapon meant to bring chemical imbalance to the brain? Then how could he live with himself?
Yet there was no easy choice. He could pretend to comply, and deliver weak formulations, as harmless as possible, stalling for as long as he could in the hope that something would eventually happen to free them from their hell. Or he could resist, refuse to deliver, and endanger the lives of hundreds of people.
This wasn’t really a choice.
May God have mercy on my soul…
He stood from his lab chair and rubbed his creased forehead for a little while.
“We’re ready,” he said, showing the other doctors two small containers with capsules.
They gathered around him quickly. Drs. Davis, Fortuin, and Chevalier, who had worked side by side with him, pulled their chairs closer.
“The red ones are a modified, diluted selective serotonin reuptake enhancer. We will tell them they need time to absorb and become effective, to preemptively account for the ineffectiveness of the compound. The green ones are equally diluted SSRIs. They’re just modified, low-dose Prozac essentially.”
He stopped talking and searched their eyes. Many reflected the same anguish he was feeling. Others, only deep sadness for what they were about to do.
“All right,” he said, taking a deep breath, “let’s call them.”
A few minutes after they had informed their omnipresent guard, Dr. Bogdanov entered the lab and took the two containers. Then he switched on a couple of monitors, image feeds from an empty room.
The doctors stood there, watching in silence the screens showing the empty room from different angles. Then the Russians started bringing in the test subjects, ten of them. One by one, they were dragged in there, screaming, pleading, sobbing, manhandled brutally by the guards. One by one, they had their mouths forced open and the capsules shoved down their throats. One by one, they chocked, fought, scratched at the strong arms holding them down, and had no option but to swallow the drugs. Then one by one, they settled down, sobbing quietly, fear and desperation engraved deeply on their weary faces.
...27
...Thursday, May 5, 12:19PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...Russian Ministry of Defense
...Moscow, Russia
...Eight Days Missing
Vitaliy Myatlev finished his vodka-enhanced coffee and flicked the butt of his cigar out the window. It had rained that morning, bringing a luscious tint to all spring greenery, and cleaning the air of the constant stink of Moscow’s pollution. But rain also brought joint pain to his left shoulder and also to his lower back, making him irritable. He wanted to go home and get in bed, but he still had to be there, in his goddamned office at the Ministry of Defense. There were days when he just hated his life, but, for as long as Abramovich held the supreme position in the Kremlin, he had to walk the line.
“Anything else?” Myatlev asked Ivan, seeing how his aide and bodyguard shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hesitant to leave.
“Umm…if I may, I was thinking that now everything is in place at the lab and everyone’s working nicely, we should tie up all loose ends. Leave no trace.”
Myatlev rubbed his shoulder furiously, trying to make the pain go away.
“What the hell do you mean, Ivan? Stop fucking around and get to the point.”
“The plane, boss. We should destroy it. It’s evidence we don’t want to leave behind.”
Myatlev rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of frustration. People can be so stupid, even the smart ones.
“Where’s the plane now?”
“In a hangar, buried in the side of a hill. It’s an old, abandoned facility near a decommissioned airbase
and ICBM site. Middle of nowhere, really.”
Then why destroy it? No one would ever find it hidden in there.
Myatlev resisted the urge to yell at his aide. Ivan had been his most trusted, loyal employee, and he valued that. He also knew he couldn’t afford to risk losing the loyalty of the man who knew so much about him. He tempered himself, bringing his anger down to a quiet simmer.
“Don't destroy a fucking 747, for God’s sake. We might need that sometime. Just strip it of all markings and recognizable features, and have it sealed and guarded around the clock. And get me a masseuse.”
Ivan frowned and hesitated a little before acknowledging. “Yes, sir.”
...28
...Thursday, May 5, 10:42AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...Tom Isaac’s Residence
...Laguna Beach, California
...Eight Days Missing
Alex stood in the doorway, watching Blake from a distance. He’d been up since before dawn, skipping breakfast and avoiding company. He sat on the edge of a lounge chair, hunched forward, clasping his hands absently. He rocked back and forth, almost imperceptibly, and probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it. He must have been sick with worry, and she couldn’t make it better, not yet anyway.
She approached him quietly, and gently touched his shoulder.
“Blake?”
He turned toward her, watching her intently with sunken, bloodshot eyes surrounded by black circles.
“I need your help,” she continued. “We tried…we tried anything we could think of, to gain access to newer satellite imagery. We reached out to several satellite operators. We even tried hacking into one. Then we tried leasing a damn satellite. Nothing worked, so we need you to step in.”
“Me? What can I do?” He stood with difficulty, strained to straighten his back, and then rubbed his eyes furiously.
“Bring in the big bucks and that influence of yours. Can you get us satellite time? Do you know anyone who has a few? And, if not, can you buy us a couple?” Alex spilled her questions in rapid fire, not giving him the chance to answer.
He stood quietly for a couple of seconds, his eyes drilling into hers with increasing force, radiating strength, determination, and confidence. Then he spoke, “Consider it done.”
“Blake, it’s 55 million dollars apiece, these things,” she added hesitantly.
“Then let’s see how soon we can get a couple up there.”
He took out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number from the phone’s memory.
“Yeah, get me the earliest appointment with SatX’s CEO. We’ve met. Yeah, today, now, ASAP. Then set up, right after that, a conference call with DigiWorld.” He listened for a moment to what his personal assistant had to say, then continued, “No, I don’t care about their calendars. It has to be today.”
She smiled. That was the Blake Bernard she remembered: powerful, decisive, aggressive, going through walls when he had to. Together, they’d find that plane, no matter where on Earth it was hidden, and they’d find the 441 souls onboard. Together, they’d find Adeline.
...29
...Friday, May 6, 5:31PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Undisclosed Location
...Russia
...Nine Days Missing
Dr. Wu Shen Teng watched the screens with deep concern ridging his forehead. The source of his worries was different from what the other doctors shared. The others obsessed about the ethics of their actions. They debated, under the dire circumstances they were facing, whether they should take actions that led to drug experimentation on human subjects, or risk everyone’s lives by saying no. However, Dr. Teng was concerned with the ineffectiveness of the compound they were testing.
The others didn’t have their families with them; they could afford to be concerned with ethics, the Hippocratic Oath, and the core issues of preserving their humanity in the face of hardship. They could do that all they wanted, while their families were safe, somewhere in the United States, Germany, France, or wherever. His wife and child were locked in a dungeon, hopefully still breathing, and most likely scared out of their minds.
So far, they’d managed to persuade the Russians that the first test subjects were supposed to be men, for the drug tests to be relevant. Women would be useful later, Dr. Davis had said, when they were going to add a hormonal component to the drug mix. Some scientific mumbo-jumbo had made the case sound plausible, when in fact the doctors were trying to protect the women and children. That Dr. Davis could lie like a son of a bitch, not a blink in his eye.
Wu Shen Teng stared at the screens, troubled by what he was seeing. Mostly nothing was going on with the test subjects. Some of the men had gotten into an argument; some were shoving, and cursing took place, but no real violence. The two men who had taken the antidote sat quietly on the floor, leaning against the wall, a little spaced out. The rest paced the room impatiently, or mumbled oaths under their breaths.
How long would it take the Russians to figure out they were being played? How long before they started shooting people? How long before they’d kill his family, just to teach the doctors a lesson?
The doctors were pushing it too far. There should have been some significant effects. This lame result was ridiculous. This was dangerous. Stupid bleeding hearts were endangering everyone.
The lab door unlatched noisily, giving Wu Shen a start. Dr. Bogdanov walked in, followed by one of the fiercest looking Russian goons, a monster they had dubbed Death. Just like King Cobra, his nickname had originated from one of the man’s ink jobs. His entire back was tattooed with a twisted image depicting death holding a child in the same manner that Mary held baby Jesus in the well-known depictions of Madonna and child seen on church walls.
Death closed the lab door and remained watch in front of it, holding his machine gun with both his hands, ready to engage.
“This,” Dr. Bogdanov yelled without any preamble, pointing at the monitors, “this is ridiculous. This is der’mo, this is crap! This is not the drug you have promised me. This is not what I expected after a week of work!” Bogdanov spat on the floor angrily. “This is shit! Lame shit!”
The doctors stood flocked together, watching Bogdanov grow angrier with every word he spoke.
Wu Shen felt the grip of fear taking a fistful of his guts and twisting it. He could barely breathe. What was going to happen to them?
“Make no mistake,” Bogdanov continued. “If you don’t give me what I want, I will start again. With others, who can give me what I want. The way I brought you here, I will bring others, as soon as I’m done waiting for you to deliver and I kill you all. That’s an easy job.”
Bogdanov looked at them with a threatening glare, then said, “Be ready for another test batch tomorrow. And make sure it works next time.”
Then he turned and headed for the exit, as Death opened the massive door.
Wu Shen didn’t think much. He just reacted, his intestines still knotted with fear. He jumped ahead and caught up with Bogdanov, and grabbed his sleeve, just as Death shoved the barrel of a Kalashnikov in his chest.
“Can I please speak with you, sir?” Wu Shen asked humbly, keeping his head down and his spine bowed, in typical Chinese mannerism to show utmost respect and deference in front of a superior. “In private?”
...30
...Friday, May 5, 6:25PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Undisclosed Location
...Russia
...Ten Days Missing
Wu Shen Teng followed Bogdanov quietly, not daring to look at more than the man’s feet, waiting for the opportunity to speak. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt sweat drops forming at the roots of his hair. What am I going to say?
He heard the lab door latch close behind him, and then Bogdanov stopped abruptly.
“What do you want?” he asked harshly.
“Doctor, please,” Wu Shen Teng pleaded, clasping his palms together. “I–I have my family here. Please promise me they’ll be safe…Please.”<
br />
“Humph,” Bodganov scoffed. “Take him back,” he told Death.
“No!” Wu Shen Teng said in a high-pitched, piercing tone. “No, please! Promise me they’ll be safe and I’ll—I’ll tell you things.”
“What things?”
He’d caught Bogdanov’s attention.
“Things…things you need to know.”
“Like what?” Bogdanov was starting to lose his patience, and sounded threatening.
“They’re stalling. They’re keeping drug concentrations low on purpose. That kind of thing I can tell you, if you promise me they’ll be safe. Please!”
Bogdanov reached out and grabbed Wu Shen Teng by the lapels of his lab coat, easily lifting the thin man a few inches off the ground.
“You have your family here, you say?” he growled. “How interesting! Keep me informed, or your family dies. Is that understood, you little piece of shit?”
Wu Shen Teng nodded his compliance vigorously, and Bogdanov shoved him toward the lab door. As Death opened the massive door, Bogdanov shoved Wu Shen Teng violently into the lab, and cursed behind him.
“Tvoyu mat!”
Wu Shen Teng fell hard from the shove and rolled on the concrete floor, then curled up on his side, sobbing hard.
Dr. Davis rushed to his side, and kneeled right next to him.
“What happened? What did you tell him?”
“I begged him to let me see my family,” Wu Shen Teng managed to articulate between uncontrollable sobs. “He won’t let me see them.”
“This must be hard for you,” Davis tried to comfort him. “Hang in there, I’m sure they’ll be all right.”
“You don’t understand,” Wu Shen Teng said, trying to stifle his sobs. “Until now, he didn’t know they existed. He didn’t know I had a family in there. Now he does.”
Oh, God, what have I done?
