by Alan Orloff
He shifted into meditation mode, conjuring images of majestic Himalayan peaks. Towering redwoods. Pristine lakes. Slowed his breathing, willed his heart to calm. After a moment, the dizziness and interference had lessened. He pushed off the wall and continued through the house.
Dragunov swept past the kitchen and into the living room. A baby grand piano took up much of the room, adorned with a dozen photographs on its polished top. He kept walking, then stopped abruptly. Backtracked. Switched on a piano lamp.
Gooseneck piano lamp. Polished solid brass. Height adjusts from 4 inches to 12 inches. Shade swivels to aim light where needed. Accommodates (1) T10 incandescent 40-watt bulb. Cord is 112 inches long. Base is 5 inches wide. Shade is 10 inches wide. Weight: five pounds. Warning: Shade may become hot. Made proudly in the USA.
Dozens of people stared at him from the photographs, all smiling. Couples. Families. Friends. Dragunov appeared in a lot of them, hugging an attractive brunette. His cover wife? He had no recollection of any of the pictures. Not the people, not the places. Not the smiles.
Of course, since all of this—the house, the furnishings, the decorations—was part of his cover identity, most of it was probably superficial or even completely fake.
Even the photos.
Dragunov switched off the piano lamp and left the room, crossing the hall into the den. Dark paneling, two walls of bookshelves, a mahogany desk. He closed the door behind him and switched on the light.
As he glanced around, he was hit again by a wave of confusion.
It all seemed strange; it all seemed familiar. And there was something in his head, buried, but trying to emerge, that told him there was something he needed to retrieve. Something that was mission critical.
But he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
He shook off the confusion and removed a large calendar from the wall next to his desk to reveal a safe. Setting the calendar down, he returned his attention to the safe, fingers hovering above the keypad as he tried to recall the combination.
This was his house. His den. His safe. So what was the sequence?
He closed his eyes and tried to relax, tried to empty his mind to allow the needed information to find its way to the forefront. He’d known the burglar alarm codes, so why not the safe combo? The more he tried to relax, the tenser he became.
Just then, the door to the den cracked open, and a woman appeared, aiming a gun at his chest. “Cole!! My God. Cole. You’re alive!” The gun fell from her hand, landing on the thick carpet with a muffled thump. She rushed over and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Cole? Is something wrong? Cole? Speak to me.”
In his confused state, it took Dragunov a second to figure out what was happening, who this woman was. She was the brunette from the pictures, and from the way she was behaving, she knew him well, but as Cole Tanner, not Dragunov. Was she his “cover” wife? If so, why did she call him Cole and not his real name? Had they made a vow never to break cover, even in the privacy of their home?
“Cole? Are you okay?”
Dragunov sank into his desk chair, but the woman held him in her embrace and began sobbing.
“Peter said you were MIA on a secret mission. That you were presumed dead. All very hush-hush. Oh my God. It’s a miracle.” She swallowed and brought a hand to her mouth. “I thought you were a burglar. I could have killed you.” Her voice fell, but the sobbing continued.
He’d breathed in her smell before. Delicate. Intoxicating. Mitzi. Here girl! Those words echoed in his head, in this woman’s voice, as if he’d heard them long ago. Her voice merged with an image, a sunny autumn day in a verdant backyard—the one he’d just been in. Observations minutes old, from the dark backyard, overlaid the images from long ago.
Janie.
Dragunov shook his head again, trying to disperse the logjam. Was this woman an operative, too? Or part of some elaborate American scheme? Long-buried memories melded with more recent ones, swirling, disintegrating, and reforming. An ever-changing maelstrom of amoebic shapes and psychedelic colors and raucous sounds, an incoherent jumble of wild sensation and indelible memories. Impossible, yet as real as he was. He tried to speak. “I . . . uh . . . my head.”
“Are you injured? We should call 911.” She reached across the desk and picked up the phone.
Something didn’t add up. If she were an operative, she would never have suggested they call 911. They would have called their own doctors. He sprang from the chair and knocked the phone from her hand, sending it smashing into the wall.
“Cole, what are you—”
He grabbed her by the wrist and flung her across the room. For a second, he considered killing her, but the interference in his head made him question his logic. Was she the enemy, or had he misinterpreted things? His superiors wouldn’t be happy if he killed another operative.
He needed some time and space to think. Come up with a more concrete plan. His mission still remained before him, and he wouldn’t fail. Dragunov fled from the house, out the back door, and into the neighborhood, keeping to the shadows, running for his life.
It wasn’t until blocks later that he realized he’d failed to retrieve the crucial item. Hopefully, when he came back, he’d be able to remember the combination.
Chapter Ten
Gosberg poked the doorbell and braced himself. Twenty minutes ago he’d been driving home from his late meeting with Slattery and Locraft, and he’d gotten a call from his sister Jane, blabbering incoherently. Actually, she began as incoherent and quickly ratcheted up to hysterical. He’d tried to calm her down, get her to explain what the problem was over the phone, but she wouldn’t listen, just kept on yammering, not making any sense.
He’d changed course to Jane’s house, and ten minutes later, he’d gotten a call from Slattery to report the news in a more comprehensible fashion. The two men guarding Jane had been killed, and Dragunov had gone inside. There had been some sort of altercation, and Slattery thought Jane might be in shock.
Growing up, his sister had always been the solid one. The rock. And now . . .
He’d known the report of Cole’s presumed death would hit her hard—they’d been married for twenty-six years—so Gosberg had made sure she had some pharmaceuticals to help her through the tough times. If she hadn’t been taking her Xanax, she’d sure need some now.
He was about to press the doorbell again when the door swung open. A tight-lipped Slattery ushered him in. “She’s in shock, but you need to talk to her. Try to determine if she might know where Cole, uh Dragunov, is heading next.”
Gosberg bristled at Slattery’s order. Jane was his sister, and there was no way he was going to upset her, not after what she’d just been through. “Where are the police?”
“Police?”
“Yes, the police. Two men were killed here. Where are the police?” Aside from Slattery’s car and a white van parked in Jane’s driveway, the street was empty.
Slattery might have smiled. “We’re handling this. No need for police. They’d just confuse the issue.”
“Don’t you think the more help, the better?”
“Not in this case. Locraft wants to handle everything in house.”
Gosberg stared at him. “Seriously? Don’t you think some forensics guy, somewhere along the line, will figure out the fingerprints belong to Cole Tanner? What about the carjacking? The cops were called on that one, right?”
“They were, but don’t worry. No fingerprints will connect them with Tanner.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Gosberg said.
“I checked with a guy I know who worked with Tanner. Covert. According to him, Cole Tanner has no fingerprints. No official ones, anyway. Never did, in fact. Part of his job. Unless he’s captured, the police—and by police I’m including any law enforcement—won’t be able to identify Tanner. He’s a ghost.”
Gosberg chewed on that. Made sense that Tanner’s prints wouldn’t be on record anywhere. And then a more devious, more insidious thought hit him. Was C
ole Tanner even his real name? Had Tanner’s entire life, including his marriage, been a complete lie? Some sort of fable perpetrated in the name of national security? “Anything else?”
“We found the wall safe in the den exposed. We managed to get the combination from Jane and opened it. Nothing in there, just some cash, passports, stuff like that. If I had to guess, I’d say Jane surprised him and he ran off without opening it. Probably needed money. I mean, even fugitives would need some cash, right? And . . .”
“What?”
“We took a look around. No sign of any weapons. Or of any surplus Bivex-N14.”
“You searched the house?” None of this was sitting well with Gosberg. They were talking about his sister, for God’s sake.
“Thought it would be prudent, considering,” Slattery said. “He rattled her pretty bad, so she wasn’t able to tell me much. She did say he made some comments about his head.”
“What about his head?”
Gosberg shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he was in pain. After all, we messed with his optic nerve. One more thing. Locraft thought it would be best if we took Jane away for a while. I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“I do.” He still had a tough time picturing Cole Tanner as a terrorist. And it was especially difficult there, in the man’s own house, with reminders of his former life all around. “Where’s Jane?”
“In the kitchen. Come on, let’s go talk to her,” Slattery said.
“Thanks. I’ll handle it. Alone.” Gosberg glared at Slattery a beat, then walked down the hall into the kitchen.
Jane sat at a small round table, staring into space, hands in her lap.
“Hey there,” Gosberg said, slipping into the chair opposite, trying to get a sense of her state of mind. He softened his tone. “Are you okay?”
She simply stared his way with a vapid smile. A small gash on her forehead also stared at him.
“What happened?”
“I called you. My brother.”
An eerie monotone. “Why did you call me?”
“I saw him.”
“Who do you think you saw?”
A flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Cole. I saw Cole. He was here.”
“Why was he here?”
“He lives here, you know. You said he was missing and presumed dead, but . . . He’s not dead, Peter.” Her unmodulated voice was almost as unnerving as the news it delivered. “I saw him.”
“What did he say?” Gosberg hadn’t told Jane any of the truth—about Cole’s suicide, about their experiment, about Cole’s resuscitation and escape. How could he? Instead, he’d told her Cole had gone missing on a top secret mission in Afghanistan. And, tragically, he was presumed dead. The kicker: because of the sensitive nature of the mission, no one could know of Cole’s fate, until some future undetermined date when the news would be made public. Gosberg felt like a complete shit for deceiving her, but he knew he had no choice. And now, he didn’t know quite what to say.
“I saw him. Here.”
Gosberg shifted in his chair. “Did he tell you why he was here? Or where he was going?”
“No. He left. Bye, bye, birdie.”
Gosberg exhaled. They’d assumed that Cole’s mind had been completely erased by the nerve agent. But if he came back home, it was logical to assume there must be some vestige of Cole’s memory left, on some level, conscious or subconscious. If the situation weren’t so dire, it would be utterly fascinating. “Please tell me exactly what happened, and don’t leave anything out.”
Jane told him what she’d seen, step by step. No blabbering. No hysterics. Just that measured, creepy, disconcerting monotone, the kind Gosberg associated with cult members.
“And what time was this?”
“About midnight. Dong. Dong. Dong . . .”
Gosberg glanced at his watch. More than an hour ago. A tough head start to overcome. And that was if they knew where he was headed. “Where do you think he went?”
“Dong. Dong. The church bells were ringing. Dong. Dong. Dong. All over the valley and up on the hill. To fetch a pail of water. Fell down. Broke his crown.”
Gently, Gosberg reached over and grabbed his sister’s shoulders. “Easy, Jane. Easy.”
She regarded him with glazed eyes. Gosberg couldn’t tell if she comprehended anything. He’d seen plenty of patients behave like this, suffering from brain injuries or even waking up from anesthesia. Loopy. Unreliable. “Jane. This is important. Did Cole say where he was going or what he was doing?”
No answer. Gosberg jostled her a bit. “Jane. Concentrate. Did he say where he was going?”
“Who?”
“Cole.”
“Cole left.”
Slattery had been right about Jane being in shock. He’d probably be, too, if he’d seen a ghost. The bump on her head wasn’t helping, either. “Jane. You must believe me. Cole is dead. You didn’t see him. Your medicine induced a . . . hallucination. Caused you to sleepwalk or something. Like a dream.”
“Like a dream?”
“Yes. You saw him, but it was in a dream. Not real.”
“It didn’t seem like a dream. It seemed real. Very real. I . . . held him. He was . . .” She trailed off, gazing into the middle distance.
“He was what, Jane?”
“He said something about his head. He seemed to be in pain. Poor, poor Cole.” She brightened. “He was here. Cole was here.”
“Did he say anything else? In your dream?” Gosberg’s pulse raced. This might be their only chance to get a bead on him, and his sister was completely stoned.
“No.” She cocked her head at a funny angle.
Gosberg pointed at the lump on her forehead. “How did you get that?”
“What?”
“That bump, the cut. You should put some ice on it.”
Her hand touched her head, and she winced. “Ow.”
“Do you remember how you got that?”
“No.”
Gosberg sat back. Ran through some options in his head. “Okay. Have you taken anything? A pill, maybe?”
“Yes. I took a pill. Two pills. After I saw Cole and called you.”
“After you saw him? Are you sure?”
“Yes. After.”
That also contributed to her altered state. “Good. You’ll feel better after some rest.”
“I saw Cole. Not in a dream. In real.”
“Uh-huh. I’ve got good news. You’re going to go on a little vacation, and you can catch up on your sleep. I’m sure you’ll feel better soon. Come on, I’ll help you pack your bags.”
#
Gosberg sat in his car, idling outside of Jane’s house, air conditioning fighting the muggy night. Guilt ate at him. His sister, reeling from Cole’s death, was further unraveling, and he had a part in it, convincing her she was seeing things. Why had he decided to screw with Mother Nature in the first place? Who was he to play God, messing with people’s brains? And why had he accepted Cole’s “donation” anyway? A severe breach of protocol, to say the least. He knew it was terribly wrong at the time, but in his burning desire to succeed, he’d ignored it as if it were simply an inconvenient speed limit sign on the highway.
And now the hound of hell had been loosed.
Gosberg stared at his sister’s house. From the outside, it looked like every other house on the block. On the inside it did, too, but Gosberg sensed the decay of his sister’s life had already begun.
She’d never recover from this. And he wouldn’t, either.
His biggest salve would be to find Dragunov, the monster he’d let escape, before more innocent people died.
Most law-abiding citizens, when faced with a similar set of circumstances, would call the police. Report what had happened. But Slattery, acting under orders from Locraft, no doubt, had called in a team of highly trained “cleaners.” Their team had swooped in and, in a matter of minutes, scrubbed the crime scene behind the hedge where the two agents had been killed. Before the sun came up. Before prying ne
ighbors’ eyes had even opened for the day.
Aside from the plain van sitting in Jane’s driveway, there was no sign of the night’s slaughter.
Gosberg knew the rationale behind the decision to keep the incident secret. No one could afford to let the news leak just yet, not with Dragunov still on the loose. If people realized a terrorist was on the loose, there was liable to be panic in the streets. And really, what good could come from making this public? Locraft and his network of personnel were already scouring the countryside for Dragunov.
Gosberg came back to the one small nugget they’d mined from Dragunov’s visit there. There was at least a small part of Cole Tanner’s soul that still remained.
For better or for worse.
Chapter Eleven
King was dreaming about chasing tigers in the jungle when his eyes popped open. A noise from downstairs had woken him. He glanced at his clock: 8:42. If he was about to be killed by an intruder, at least he’d gotten a chance to sleep a little later than normal.
He grabbed the phone, ready to dial 911, when the noises got louder. From the kitchen. Cabinets opening and closing. Someone singing softly. He relaxed a bit, figuring assassins would usually sneak up on their targets a little more quietly. He listened for a few more moments, recognized the tune his daughter was singing, then remembered she said she’d come over this morning to deliver groceries. He threw a robe on and padded downstairs.
“Hello there,” he said, coming into the kitchen. Three grocery sacks—the reusable kind—were on the counter as Amanda emptied them.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, coming over to peck him on the cheek. “I hope I didn’t startle you, but I didn’t want to disturb your sleep.”
“You never disturb me.”
“Ha! Now I know you’re a liar.” She poked him in the gut with her forefinger, just like Barbara used to do on occasion. “How’s everything?”
“Fine.” No sense getting her worried. Of course, if she found out later he hadn’t filled her in on what was going on, he’d catch holy hell. He weighed the consequences of each option and maintained his silence.
