by Saul Herzog
Sofia looked at her. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You’re looking out that window like a sailor’s wife staring out to sea.”
“No I am not.”
“Look at yourself,” Olga said.
Sofia pulled herself away from the window and sat on the bed.
“I’m just worried,” she said.
“I’m worried too,” Olga said. “How are we going to get ourselves out of this mess? We only have money to pay for one more night at this hotel. Then what do we do? They’re looking for us everywhere.”
There’d been pictures of them on the news. Two women on the run, supposedly for murdering their husbands. It was preposterous, neither of them was even married, but it was only a matter of time before someone recognized them.
“That’s why I know he’ll come back,” Sofia said. “Because he has to.”
They were scared of leaving the room and had been waiting impatiently for night to fall. The room had a microwave and they’d been living off ramen and canned soup, but their little stash was almost empty.
“Someone needs to go to the store,” Olga said. “Do you want to, or should I?”
Sofia shook her head. She didn’t know what she wanted. She turned on the television and flicked to the local news station. Everything was about the shooting at the Kremlin. According to the latest update, a soldier with psychiatric issues had gone off the deep end and tried to steal a helicopter. There’d been shots fired but no one was hurt other than the soldier himself, who’d crashed the chopper in Gorky Park and died in the process.
Olga looked at her.
“What?” Sofia said.
“That was him.”
“They’re lying, Olga.”
“Then who died in that crash? You tell me.”
Olga was putting on her coat. “I’m going to the store. Do you want anything?”
Sofia shook her head and Olga was about to open the door when there was a knock on it.
The two women looked at each other.
“What do we do?” Olga whispered.
“Dr. Sofia Ivanovna,” a voice said from outside the door. “Dr. Olga Abramova.”
“We’re screwed,” Olga whispered.
The voice was female, Russian.
“Who is it?” Sofia said.
“Can you let me in? I’m a friend of Roth’s.”
“Who’s Roth?”
“I’m with the Americans. They sent me to help. There’s an extraction point. They’re going to get you out of here.”
“How did you know where to find us?”
“Spector called it in.”
“Where is he?”
“Can you let me in?”
Sofia looked at Olga, who was shaking her head, then opened the door.
80
Laurel let the current of the Moskva take her about half a kilometer downriver before she couldn’t take the cold any longer. The water was close to freezing and it took all her strength to pull herself onto the paved walkway along the river’s edge.
She lay there, shivering uncontrollably in the darkness. When she shut her eyes, all she heard was Timokhin’s voice, taunting her in the darkness of that cell.
She needed to get her body temperature up. She was going to die if she stayed there. She struggled to get to her feet but her body was too weak.
“Hey,” someone called out.
She reached to her waist for her gun but it was gone.
“You all right?”
She squinted in the darkness. The voice was coming from a man in his twenties wearing jogging clothes.
“I was in the water,” she said.
The street was above them and they heard a flood of police cars and other emergency vehicles speed by, sirens blaring.
The man looked at her more closely.
“Please,” Laurel said.
“There’s been an accident,” the man said. “Police are everywhere.”
“You have to help me,” Laurel said. “If you don’t, I’m going to die.”
The man looked around. No one was watching. “I’m going to regret this,” he said.
He helped her to her feet. With her weight on him, she was just about able to walk.
“You’re cold as ice,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Your lips are blue.”
She nodded.
“I have a car, not far,” he said.
Holding her up, he helped her to a parking lot further downriver. She climbed into the back seat and collapsed. The man turned on the engine and put the heat on full. He had a coat and lay it on top of her.
“It will take some time for the heat to get going.”
“Drive,” Laurel said.
“What?”
“We can’t stay here. We’re too close to the park. You need to drive.”
He pulled out of the parking lot and began driving down the street, away from all the emergency vehicles. Laurel pulled his coat up over her body and began taking off some of her wet clothes.
“Where do you live?” she said.
“Not far from here. I have an apartment.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Will you take me to your apartment?”
The man looked back at her, then turned and crossed the river. They entered a residential neighborhood lined with three-story apartment blocks. They were Scandinavian in style, with wooden balconies overlooking the road. They parked and she wrapped the coat around herself before leaving the car.
He helped her to the entrance of the building and unlocked the front door. When he turned on the lights in the entryway, they saw each other properly for the first time. They hurried up the steps, into his apartment, and he locked the door behind him.
“I need you to run me a bath,” Laurel said.
He brought her to the bathroom. There was only a shower.
“Will this be okay?”
She nodded.
“Are you able to get undressed. I can help you.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said.
He left and she stripped. She got into the shower and let the hot water bring her flesh back to life. At first her skin was numb, but very quickly it started to feel like the water was scalding her. She knew it was just a reaction from being so cold and forced herself to stay in the shower. Then she began to swell up, starting with her feet and hands. It was so bad she couldn’t close her fingers.
She got out of the shower and held herself up by leaning on the sink. As she reached for the towel her arm gave way and she fell. She hit the tiled ground hard and knocked over a mirror, sending shards of glass everywhere.
The man came back and saw her lying on the ground. He pulled a towel over her and began rubbing her muscles vigorously.
“I do a lot of winter running,” he said.
She nodded. He continued rubbing her through the towel and she felt the life coming back to her muscles. Within a few minutes she felt strong enough to stand. He swept the floor and helped her to her feet.
“Did you make any phone calls while I was in the shower?” she said.
He looked at her. “Of course not.”
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t. I’d be in as much trouble as you are.”
“I doubt you’d be in that much trouble,” she said, “but thank you.”
He nodded.
“Do you have any clothes you could give me?” she said.
I brought your clothes from the car. They’re in the dryer now.
She looked at him. “What’s your name?”
“Pyotr.”
“Pyotr, is there a pay phone nearby?”
He nodded.
“If I asked you to do me one more favor, would you?”
“What is it?”
“I need you to drive me somewhere.”
He looked at her and she smiled faintly. He nodded and they got back in the car. She told him to stop at a str
ip mall and she got out of the car.
“Don’t drive away,” she said.
“I won’t.”
“Can you give me some money?”
“What do you need it for?”
“To make a phone call.”
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and gave her his card.
“It’s got to be cash,” she said.
He gave her what he had and she crossed the lot to the pay phone. She dialed and then watched Piotr in the car. It would be so easy for him to drive off and leave her. And so much safer for him.
But he didn’t.
“Everlane,” she said into the phone when it answered. “I need the location of the extraction point.”
81
Lance lay in the brush, blood pumping from his leg in spurts, and wondered whether he was dead or alive. He decided that if he were dead, there was no way he could be in so much pain. Beyond the brush, a hundred yards off, he could see the flames of the chopper. He’d managed to bail at the last second, but that still meant a drop of over forty feet into a clump of trees that seemed custom-designed to shred him to pieces on the way down.
He didn’t have time to think about that now. Nor did he have time to check the damage to his leg. He could tell without looking that it wasn’t good. He tore the sleeve off his shirt and tied it tightly around his upper thigh as a makeshift tourniquet. Then, gritting his teeth through the flood of pain, forced himself to his feet and began hobbling toward the nearest fence.
As he crossed the grass, he came across an old man walking his dog. He stopped and looked at the man. The man had a stout Rottweiler on a leash and Lance wondered for a second if he was going to release him. The man did nothing, just stood there, frozen. The dog didn’t move either.
Lance looked over his shoulder at the smoldering helicopter, still burning in front of the small pond, then down at his tattered clothes.
“Give me your coat,” he said.
The old man thought for a second, then took off his long overcoat. Lance reached into his vest and pulled out a wad of cash. He placed it on the ground in front of him.
“Throw the coat,” he said.
The man threw the coat and Lance caught it and put it on. He kept his eye on the dog the entire time.
“I’m sorry,” he said before leaving them.
He hurried toward the fence without looking back. It was about ten feet high and with his injured leg, climbing wasn’t easy. He managed to get over it with great pain, and fell to the pavement on the other side with a thud.
When he looked around, he saw that he was on Leninskiy Prospekt. To his left it led back toward the Kremlin, and to his right it went south toward the ring road. He got up, and turned away from the street in time for two police cars to speed by, sirens blazing.
He waited for them to round a corner then looked up and down the street cautiously. He crossed toward an apartment building on the other side and passed a bank and a drug store. There was construction site and he climbed over the fence into it.
The construction site was dark and he waited a few minutes to get his bearings and an idea of where the police were congregating. His leg was so badly hurt he was scared to even look at it. He knew he was losing too much blood. But he had no choice but to keep going. He crossed the construction site and climbed the fence on the far side, passed the Metromarket Mall on Shabolovska Street, and got onto a street car heading north.
The street car was brightly lit and his face and hands were covered in blood and soot. Every person on board stared at him, including the driver.
“Drive,” Lance said, without bothering to draw his gun.
The driver obeyed and Lance let him go as far as the Lenin Monument before telling him to stop. There was at least some semblance of crowd by the monument that he thought he might be able to get lost in.
He got off the car and did his best to walk normally, careful not to go too fast, hiding his limp as much as possible.
He walked away from the monument, passed the Aeroflot building, and continued along a side street, looking back over his shoulder constantly. He was losing so much blood that it was leaving a trail on the sidewalk. It wasn’t easy to see in the darkness but he wondered how long before the police brought out hounds.
He turned south at the end of the block and crossed a parking lot.
The sound of the sirens was distant now and he could barely make them out. He sat down on a park bench under a tree. The park was poorly lit and he didn’t think anyone could see him.
Only then did he rip open his pants and examine the bloody wound that stretched across his left thigh.
The sight of it confirmed his worst fears. The gash cut from knee to hip, and was so deep it tore through muscle almost to the bone. He’d lost so much blood he was beginning to feel faint and had to do something fast or he’d lose consciousness.
There was a twenty-four-hour drugstore across the park and he sat on the bench staring at it. A few customers went in. There was an armed guard standing close to the entrance. He didn’t look like the type to risk his life for his employer. There were also multiple security cameras.
If he went in there, the police wouldn’t be long in following. He’d have to get in and out quickly. He’d need a car as soon as he left. There was a reasonable amount of traffic on the street outside, but he wasn’t at all confident of his ability to drive.
It was a bad plan. Messy. Someone might get hurt.
But as he looked down at his leg again he knew he had no choice.
He got up from the bench and dragged himself across the park. The initial burst of adrenaline from the accident was wearing off. He stumbled into the drug store, pistol drawn, and had to use one of the plastic shopping carts to support himself. Blood dripped in a pool around him and he clearly made a frightful sight. As soon as the customers saw him, they stopped what they were doing and backed away.
The security guard reached for his gun but Lance shook his head.
“Don’t,” he said. “No one’s getting hurt. I’ll be gone in a minute.”
The guard was conflicted and Lance limped toward him and took his gun from its holster.
“What’s your police response time?” he said.
“Five minutes,” the guard said.
Lance nodded. He knew it would be slower than that, but he was in no state for a shootout. He needed to get what he needed as quickly as possible, and he needed to leave. He looked around the store.
Everyone stared at him, cashiers, customers, the pharmacist, their eyes wide with shock.
“All right,” he said. “Everyone remain calm. I need some help and then I’m going to leave.”
He pointed to one of the cashiers. “You,” he said.
She looked at him like he’d just handed her a death sentence.
“I need medical supplies. Bandages, alcohol, painkillers, whatever you have. And a needle and thread.”
She stared back at him blankly.
“Go,” he said. “Now.”
She ran to the aisle and began filling the basket haphazardly. He hoped she’d manage to get him something that might be useful. He pointed at the next cashier. “You. Give me cash. Big bills. Whatever’s in the till.”
She passed him the cash and he took it from her, keeping an eye on the guard the entire time.
Next, he turned to the pharmacist at the dispensing counter, a woman in her twenties with a white coat and glasses, and said “Come here.”
She didn’t move.
Lance pulled open his shredded pants, showing her the mess of blood and mangled flesh that was his thigh. “I need you to give me something fast. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Whatever you have.”
He looked at his watch and the first cashier came back to him with a shopping basket full of supplies.
“Toothpaste?” he said to her.
She was too terrified to function. There was a sewing kit among the items she’d gathered and he put it in his pocket. Then he put the basket on th
e ground and limped toward the dispensing counter. The pharmacist was no longer standing there. He leaned over the counter and didn’t see her, but then she came out of the secure room at the back holding a bunch of medications.
She gave him a handful of pills and a plastic cup of water and he took them. Then she jabbed a syringe into a brown bottle and sucked up the contents.
“What’s that?” he said.
“It will help.”
He didn’t know what it was but had no choice but to trust her. If he didn’t, he was screwed anyway.
She handed him the needle and said, “It needs to go in the leg.”
He jammed it in his calf and instantly felt its effect. His body became very heavy, and he slumped slowly to the ground. It had gone straight to his muscles, and it wouldn’t be long before the fog closed in on his mind too.
In the distance, he heard police sirens getting closer.
“Alcohol,” he said to the pharmacist.
“To drink?”
“No. Not to drink.”
She grabbed a bottle of surgical alcohol and poured it liberally on his leg, sending a fresh inferno of pain through his body. He gripped her arm in reflex. Her eyes locked on him. He was holding her so tight he was hurting her.
He let go.
“I need you to wrap it,” he said.
She nodded and pulled away his torn pants. She wrapped his leg tightly in fresh gauze. Instantly it began to turn red with blood.
The sirens were getting louder by the second and he pulled himself back to his feet.
“Thank you,” he said as he dragged himself out of the store.
He staggered into the middle of the street and pointed his pistol at the first car coming his way. It came to a sudden halt right in front of him and the driver put his hands in the air.
Lance motioned for him to get out of the car.
“Go on,” he said. “Leave the keys.”
The man backed away from the car as the police sirens grew louder and louder. As Lance got into the driver’s seat, he saw the lights from the police in his rearview mirror. He put his foot down and the car lurched forward. He turned at the first side street, smashing the side of the car against a dumpster, and turned again at the next, losing a wing mirror to a stop sign.
