by Alan Orloff
Did he need medical attention?
He pounded on his head again, trying to force out the false memories. He was Dragunov the Destroyer. Not . . . Cole Tanner. He fell back on the floor and prayed for the waves of confusion to pass.
A few moments later, or an hour, Dragunov opened his eyes. The woman, Amanda, was still there, hands and feet bound with duct tape. He was lying near her on the floor, tired but not injured in any way. Some vague thoughts swirled in his mind, and he felt very much like he did sometimes when he woke in the morning, trying to grasp the ephemeral wisps of a fading dream.
He glanced around at the large empty space. A couple of days ago, he’d come there searching for the American scientists who had messed with his mind. He wasn’t sure how he knew this had been where they’d held him against his will and performed medical experiments on him, but he did.
Ignoring the “For Lease” sign on the door—figuring it was hung there to keep out nosy neighbors—he’d broken the locks and stepped inside, but the entire place had been emptied. Since he’d been there, the research lab had been disassembled or destroyed or moved to another location. He’d hoped he could persuade them to reverse his condition. If they’d refused or were unable to, then at least he’d be able to exact some revenge. He’d also harbored some hope of finding Nick Nolan.
Whatever the scientists had done to him had been effective. Obviously, the chaos and confusion hadn’t abated like he’d hoped. Rather, they’d gotten worse; at times he was impaired almost to the point of debilitation, the latest attack the worst yet. Dragunov knew it before now, and it was just confirmed—without some sort of medical intervention, he feared his time was drawing short.
That realization was what had accelerated—and changed—his plans. Why he needed a hostage. This hostage. He rolled over and found himself looking directly at her moving mouth. Words registered. Had she been talking to him the whole time?
“Can you hear me now? You need to go to a hospital. You might have had a stroke or something,” she said. “Take the tape off, and I can drive you there.”
“I’m okay.”
“What’s your name?”
“It’s . . .” He was about to blurt out “Dragunov,” when something stopped him. He took a deep breath and tried again. “My name is Dragunov.”
Amanda looked puzzled for a moment. “Dragunov? Like in the book?” Her eyes had gone wide again; this time, though, Dragunov sensed more amazement than fear. “My father’s book?”
“What book?”
“Attack on America. It was published like thirty years ago. When I was a child.”
Dragunov stared at her. Was this another trick? A clever deception? Part of the scientists’ experiment?
“Dragunov was the villain. A Russian operative who’d been living in the US his whole life. You can’t believe you’re . . .” She stared at him.
“I am Dragunov, but . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about. There is no book.”
“It was a bestseller. They made it into a movie, too. Grossed more than one hundred million dollars the first year. Dolph-somebody played Dragunov.” She smiled, despite her predicament. “You never heard of it?”
Dragunov scrambled to his feet. “Stop the lies. Your father, Nick Nolan, is the man I must see.”
“My father isn’t Nick Nolan. Yeah, maybe he wishes he was, but Nick Nolan is just a character. Like Dragunov.”
“No! Your father may call himself Mathias King, but that is just an alias. He is Nick Nolan.”
She shook her head. “You are seriously ill. Please let me take you to the hospital, get you checked out. I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding. Please. You have to—”
“Be quiet!”
She stared back at him with wild, wet eyes. “Listen, you—”
“Shut up!” He’d had enough of her desperate pleading and her blatant lies. He wasn’t used to talking to his victims; usually, he just killed them immediately. Kidnapping typically wasn’t suited for his missions, but here, it just felt right.
Actually, that wasn’t quite true. Kidnapping didn’t feel right as much as killing her felt wrong. Splitting hairs, perhaps, but he figured keeping her alive as bait would be an effective way to lure Nick Nolan to him. And it needed to be soon. If Dragunov didn’t get the noise vanquished from his head, he wouldn’t be able to function. And if Nick Nolan wouldn’t order his scientists to reverse their experiment, then he was SOL. Shit out of luck. “I sure hope your father loves you enough to try to rescue you. For both our sakes.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The same robotic driver who’d picked up King before returned him to his house to gather a few things, standing in the doorway of his bedroom the whole time, treating King as if he were a prisoner looking to escape. King threw clothes into two duffel bags and grabbed his laptop, and he was out the door in less than five minutes.
King got the driver to break his vow of silence by asking a few inane questions: “Hot enough for you?” “Will I need my snow boots where we’re going?” and “Will the safe house have internet access?” But that was about it. Not that it mattered much; King figured if he asked any juicy questions, the answers he’d get would be so vague as to be useless.
So he settled in—to the back seat, where the driver evidently preferred having him—and tried to enjoy the ride. It was impossible, of course, with Amanda unaccounted for. And with all the other terrible things weighing on his mind. So he stared out the window, feeling sorry for himself as he headed to his “voluntary” exile.
They drove in circles for about twenty minutes, probably to shake anyone who might be following them. Then the driver headed west on I-66, then south on I-81 for a few miles before leaving the highway and zigzagging through a score of turns down increasingly rural roads. Finally, they pulled up to a metal security gate, which was cut into a sturdy perimeter fence in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere. The driver hit a remote control clipped to the sun visor, and the gate slid to one side on suspended metal rollers, granting them access.
As soon as the back bumper cleared the fence line, the gate trundled back into place. King counted four security cameras mounted in various spots. He wondered how many more were mounted in places he couldn’t see.
The driver maneuvered the car up the winding driveway beneath a thick canopy of trees. Was the tree cover simply nature at its best, or had the creators of this place transplanted these trees to provide a blanket of protection from the prying eyes of a spy satellite? King laughed to himself. Man, was he getting carried away by all this stuff. Thirty years ago, when he was delving deep into all the clandestine operations shit for his books, he would have been fascinated by the possibilities. Now, he couldn’t care less about the details. All he wanted was Amanda back, unharmed.
They cruised around a final bend, and the safe house came into view. A sprawling one-level structure, it reminded King of a palatial Mexican estate, woefully out of place in the foothills of the Appalachians. Arched entryways, Spanish-tiled red roof, spiral columns, porticos, porches, and a bunch of other architectural gewgaws King didn’t know the names for.
His temporary home away from home.
The driver pulled in behind two other identical vehicles in the circular drive and twisted around in his seat. “Hope you had a pleasant trip. You can get out now. I’ll get your bags.”
King hopped out, stretched his arms, glanced around. The humidity was lower there, and the temperature was at least ten degrees cooler, thanks to the surrounding woods and higher elevation. The driver took his bags into the house, but King didn’t see anyone else. He wasn’t expecting a welcoming party exactly, but . . . he shrugged and strolled into the house through the front door.
The temperature dropped another ten degrees. He’d stepped into a huge room like a hotel lobby. High ceilings, fancy rugs, expensive artwork on the walls. A few sculptures on pedestals, strategically placed to maximize viewing pleasure, yet out of the traffic fl
ow.
“Welcome, Dr. King,” Slattery called from where he sat across the room. “Please, come join me.”
King crossed the room, admiring a colorful tile mosaic on one wall. Huge ceiling fans circulated the air, and when he reached where Slattery sat, he got a glimpse out the back windows. A lush green valley below a sunny sky. Tranquil.
“Have a seat,” Slattery said, gesturing with a glass of red liquid containing chunks of fruit and plenty of crushed ice. The only thing missing was a tiny umbrella. Was this a safe house or a Club Fed? “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks.” King sank into the fat cushion of the wicker chair. “How did you beat us here?”
“Chopper. There’s a helipad on the east lawn. We’ve moved our operation here. We can sleep and work without interruptions. More efficient. Plus . . . well, now that we know he’s coming after us, there’s better security here. We can protect everyone involved while still working. Windows are bulletproof. Walls and ceilings are reinforced. Perimeter surveillance. Full-fledged nuclear-safe level underground. This is the main house, and there are two more outbuildings. In all, this compound can sleep thirty. The operations room is in the basement. I’ll show you that later.”
“So why do I feel like a prisoner?”
Slattery chuckled, but it sounded forced. “This place has three operating modes. There’s Zeta Mode, when this place is simply used as a retreat. We had a project retreat weekend here two years ago, and everyone had a great time. Then there are two protective modes. Alpha Mode is two-way protection. No one can get in, and no one can get out. The Feds use it for protective custody, for example. Right now, we’re in Beta Mode, protecting against intruders. In this case, it’s a single suspect, Dragunov. I’m not too worried. He’s just one man. Dangerous, yes, but acting by himself. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to penetrate this facility. Besides, he can perpetrate plenty of terror without having to come after us.” He smiled, but it looked as forced as his chuckle. “Of course, you’re free to go anytime.”
“I don’t think Colonel Locraft would like that.”
“Neither would I. Staying here is for your own benefit. But this is a free country. You can do what you wish. If you want to leave, I’ll even have someone give you a ride back to the city.”
“Thanks,” King said. “That’s very generous of you.”
Slattery eyed him. “I don’t think you’ll mind staying here. I realize this isn’t a vacation, but Locraft threw some of his weight around and secured this place for us, for the duration. Frankly, with helicopter access, we can get places faster than battling rush hour traffic.”
“Do you think you’re going to catch him? Really? Before more people are killed?”
“I have to believe that. If I didn’t . . .” Slattery held his hands out. “I hope you believe that, too. I know you don’t trust us, but we need your help. Somewhere in that creative, fertile mind of yours is the key that will lead us right to him.” He rose. “Follow me; I’ll show you to your room. And one more thing. The most important thing.” He grabbed King’s shoulder. Slattery’s hand felt cold through his shirt, and King wasn’t sure the icy drink he’d been holding was entirely to blame. “We’ll find Amanda, too. I’ve got six people searching for her as we speak.”
#
King’s room was in keeping with the rest of the mansion. Large and airy, it held a desk and executive chair, an easy chair, a double-wide oak dresser, a television, and a small refrigerator, all in addition to a king-size bed. An adjacent bathroom—with soaking tub and separate shower stall—added to the luxury. It struck him that if this was a government safe house, then maybe some of its occupants were visiting heads of states or other dignitaries. Thus the well-appointed surroundings. Better that explanation than a titanic waste of taxpayer dollars.
King’s duffel bags had been deposited on the floor next to the dresser. He hoisted one up onto the bed and unzipped it. When he’d packed, he’d just thrown the clothes into the duffel bags. Now, the clothes still seemed jumbled up, but . . . different. He picked out some socks and held them up, trying to sense something just by looking at them. He couldn’t be sure, but he had the distinct feeling someone had searched his stuff.
He inspected the second duffel bag, and the feeling grew. What were they looking for, anyway? Was this how Slattery and Locraft treated all the members of their team? Suddenly paranoid, King pulled out his cell phone to see if they’d somehow disabled his phone or jammed the signal. He phoned his most recent caller, Emily.
She answered on the first ring.
“Emily, this is Professor King. Did you make it home safely?”
“Sure, no problem at all. Has Amanda turned up yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Where are you? Did you talk to—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” King interrupted, realizing his room might be bugged. Hell, it probably had more bugs than the first release of Windows. “Emily, I have to go now. I’m fine. Don’t worry about anything, okay? And please, go back to your regular routine.” He clicked off before Emily had the opportunity to say anything incriminating. As far as King knew, Slattery wasn’t aware she knew anything about Dragunov, and he wanted to keep it that way.
King was almost finished putting away his clothes in the dresser when there was a knock at the door. “Dr. King?”
“Come in.”
Slattery poked his head in. “All settled in?”
“Any news on Amanda?” King threw his last pair of boxers into the top drawer and closed it with a thud.
“Not yet. We’ll let you know as soon as we find her. You can be assured she is a top priority.”
“She might just be a priority to you, but she’s my daughter.”
“I understand completely. We’re doing everything we can. If you’d like, you can grab a quick shower before we get started.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Two hours later, King emerged from a lounge in the basement, totally drained. He’d been interviewed again by the army psychologist—another thorough trip through his sordid past. At least as thorough as one could be in two hours.
This time, the psychologist had concentrated on King’s life while he’d been writing Attack, and King hadn’t held anything back. Not if it could help find his daughter. He’d opened up about his out-of-control drinking and slightly-more-than-recreational drug use. He’d told tales about his skirt chasing—both his failures and his conquests. He’d lamented about his shortcomings as a parent and husband during that time. The psychologist poked and prodded and nodded a lot, but King had the feeling it was all for naught.
How could the boorish Mathias King of thirty years ago reveal clues to a psychotic’s whereabouts today? He was probably missing something. After all, he was a simple English professor, while most of the people surrounding him were big-brained scientists, fortified with the latest research and discoveries.
Most disconcerting were the psychologist’s parting words: “See you bright and early tomorrow morning for the real battery of tests.”
Slattery met him outside the lounge. “Productive?”
“Doubtful. Anything on your end?”
“No. But we’ll keep going, 24/7. Let’s get some dinner.”
A buffet dinner was set out in the large kitchen. Six or eight serving stations offered a selection of entrées and side dishes. “Food for our little army. Grab a plate and fill it up. It’s pretty good, I have to admit.”
King followed Slattery’s lead and got a plate from the stack. He wasn’t hungry, but he helped himself to a sample of each dish, knowing he had to eat something or he’d feel even worse. While they were getting their food, two other men joined them in the kitchen—one was the tall man with the sunken eyes he’d remembered from the team meeting. A guy from Gosberg’s lab. He thought about offering condolences but chickened out. The two men nodded and said hello but didn’t go any further with the conversation. Polite but professional. On some level, that inspired con
fidence in King. He didn’t care about making friends with these people; he just wanted them to find Amanda and capture Dragunov.
He wanted his life to return to the way it was. Was that too much to ask for?
Four men—two in uniform and two in civilian clothes—ate at a long dining room table, but King and Slattery passed it up so they could sit by themselves. Slattery led King to the deck where Slattery had been enjoying his drink earlier. Evidently, looking out over the valley served to relax him. “This okay?” he asked as he set his plate down.
“Sure,” King said. After his two-hour grilling, he was happy not to have to make small talk with any strangers. Although, if they were like the others he’d encountered, small talk wasn’t on their agendas, either.
“This is quite the place, huh?” Slattery said, unwrapping a linen napkin that held his silverware.
“Yeah. A regular resort.”
“Most of the time, the men and women working here are going above and beyond the call of duty. No reason they have to toil in substandard working conditions. Studies have shown people will actually work harder and are more focused when they’re comfortable and feel pampered.” Slattery forked some lasagna into his mouth.
“I said it before—it feels like a prison.”
Slattery’s eyes narrowed as he swallowed. He jerked his head toward the front of the house. “The decision is yours, stay or go. Just do me a favor: stop complaining. It gets old.”
“Sorry. I’ll keep my opinions to myself from now on.”
Slattery nodded but didn’t say anything else, evidently content to concentrate on his food. They ate the rest of their meal in silence, and when he finished, Slattery set his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. “Listen, Dr. King. I’m sorry I was short with you. This whole thing has me on edge. Has everyone on edge. We have to find Dragunov—and your daughter, of course—as soon as humanly possible.” He pushed his plate away. “Come on, let me show you the Ops Center.”
