by Alan Orloff
For a split second, King considered retracing his steps, returning to his room, and burying himself under the covers, putting his faith in Locraft and the US government. But then Amanda’s face shimmered before his eyes. He spun around and punched in the code Gosberg had given him on the phone.
The door unlocked with a click, and he pushed it open, bracing himself, waiting for a Klaxon to sound alerting the entire compound he’d gone AWOL, but the only noise he heard was his pulse pounding in his ears. He continued down the hallway, half expecting Locraft to leap out from one of the rooms he passed yelling, “Surprise!”
But no one jumped out at him; no one yelled surprise or anything else. He passed the elevators and located the stairwell, just where Gosberg said it would be. King opened the heavy fire door and eased it closed. Then he tiptoed down the stairs. Along the way, he looked for security cameras. Gosberg had said he shouldn’t worry about those—Hemingway had given King a safe time window. Besides, Gosberg had said, even if the cameras had been operational, those men still working would have their attention on their mission and wouldn’t be worried about monitoring dark empty hallways at four in the morning.
King hoped Gosberg was right. So far, so good.
When he arrived at the landing for Level B1, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He hadn’t been overexerting himself physically, but the stress had taken its toll. That, and thirty years of not keeping in shape coupled with some horrendous dietary habits. At least he’d never smoked.
He resumed his escape, opening the Level B1 fire door and poking his head out. This hallway mirrored the one above. To the left, a corridor full of offices. To his right, just a couple of offices and a door. The door. To the outside world.
Gosberg had described a service entrance used to bring in—and take out—visitors whom dignitaries didn’t want on the official record. When King had pressed Gosberg about what he meant, Gosberg had explained that many mistresses and call girls had come a-visitin’ through the service entrance—emphasis on “service.”
The entrance led out the east side of the building. Because the building was built on a hill, Level B1 was at ground level on that side. According to Gosberg, a gravel road led from the entrance into some nearby woods and out to a gate in the perimeter fence about two hundred yards away. King was to stay roughly parallel to the road, in the weeds, and meet Hemingway—who would be armed with bolt cutters—about fifty yards south of the gate.
King pushed the door open, once again expecting all kinds of alarms, but nothing happened. He gently closed the door behind him, wondering how many concubines had used this exit for their versions of the walk of shame.
With a final glance at the hacienda, he trotted off. Adios!
Except for a five-week period about three years ago—owing to an ill-conceived New Year’s resolution—King hadn’t been jogging since college. He expected his knees or ankles to begin complaining any moment but was pleasantly surprised when he kept chugging along without any pain. Probably masked by his soaring adrenaline levels.
Forty yards of open space until the tree line. He covered it quickly, staying off the gravel road and on the grass, both to minimize the sound of his escape and to keep from stumbling on the uneven gravel. The grassy lawn wasn’t much more level, though, and he was thankful when he reached the cover of the foliage without stepping in a chuckhole, thanks to a moonlit night.
When he was out of sight in the woods, he turned and made sure he wasn’t being followed. If they found him, that was one thing—just a headstrong author trying to save his daughter. But King had the feeling Gosberg would catch holy hell if Locraft found out the truth about Gosberg’s “resurrection.” King wondered what was really going on between Gosberg and the rest of the team.
He could worry about that another time. Now, he just needed to get out of there.
Keeping about ten yards to the left of the gravel path, King pushed his way through the woods. He was making decent progress, but every so often, he’d hit a patch of dense undergrowth. Rather than wrestle with it, he’d reroute, and that cost him some time. It was darker the deeper he went into the woods, so he slowed his pace to avoid tripping on a root or stumbling over a rock.
Now he remembered why he’d given up exercising—too taxing. But every time he caught himself grousing, he knew there was no alternative. He had to escape. He had to convince Dragunov to let Amanda go, taking him in exchange. And for the moment, he’d hitched his wagon to Gosberg.
He kept plowing forward, then sideways around a tangle, then up and over a fallen tree. Despite the care he took, several times he slipped and planted his face into the leafy carpet. Each time, he pulled himself up and carried on, dirtier, sorer, and slightly embarrassed about how out of shape he was.
He could laugh about it next week, or next month, or whenever he and Amanda were safe and sound and Dragunov was behind bars somewhere. Or six feet under.
King had just sidestepped a small tree when he heard the sound of an engine. He hit the dirt, pressing himself down into the ground as best he could. The soil smelled of decay and moldy leaves, and he feared a thousand insects would attack him any instant. But he didn’t dare lift his head to see what was going on.
From the sound of it, the vehicle seemed to be inching along the gravel road. His face was pointed away from the path, but he could see wildly elongated shadows dancing around the forest as a spotlight searched for him. Or at least he thought it searched for him. Could it be just a routine check of the grounds? Part of every night’s security check?
Of course, it didn’t matter if it was a regular patrol or one that had been called for him specifically. If they spotted him, they’d haul his ass back to the compound and keep a closer eye on him. Probably under lock and key.
He stayed still as stone and prayed they’d move on soon.
#
Gosberg’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light during the hours he’d waited, but he still couldn’t make out much more than shadows. Some lighter than others, but shadows nonetheless. He knew the large shadow, five feet away, was the grand piano, covered with all of Jane’s pictures. Of happy times and wonderful places, many of her and Cole on their wedding day.
They’d had a traditional church wedding followed by a lovely reception, the full monty. A band. A fancy dinner. An exclusive Georgetown hotel. All memorable. But what stuck with Gosberg was a glimpse he got, after all the guests had left and the champagne bottles had been emptied. Jane and Cole were in the hallway, near a water fountain, sharing a private moment, when she whispered something to him.
A huge smile blossomed on his face, and he reached out and touched her gently on the cheek. She grabbed his hand and held it there, and they stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. It was a simple, loving gesture most couples have shared at one time or another, but then, at that particular moment, it told Gosberg all he needed to know about his new brother-in-law. Cole Tanner had been a keeper, and the man would have died before he let anything bad happen to his sister Jane.
And now . . .
Gosberg shifted again in his chair. It had been shockingly easy to get into Jane’s house. Locraft had two teams posted there, one in front, and one in the back, but all it had taken was for Ehreng to text a message—using the task force codeword—saying that Locraft was shifting priorities and they were needed elsewhere. Gosberg had watched the two teams roar off into the night, then he’d waltzed right in through the garage door, using the spare key Jane had given him so he could take in the mail and water the plants when she and Cole went on vacation.
At some point, his deception would be uncovered, although by that time Gosberg was betting no one would care.
It was odd thinking of his brother-in-law Cole as Dragunov. But the man who now walked in his shoes wasn’t Cole Tanner. Cole wouldn’t have killed innocents. That was the ultimate irony. Cole Tanner had put his life on the line for twenty years, protecting America; now he was intent on destroying it.
&nb
sp; No, Cole Tanner had indeed died in the rental car next to the dumpster behind that abandoned building, and Dragunov had been born during the electrical storm two days later.
When it came time to die again, Gosberg hoped he’d be able to look past Cole Tanner’s face and see Dragunov, the embodiment of evil.
It would be easier to do what he needed to.
Of course, Gosberg didn’t know for sure if Dragunov would show. He was gambling that whatever had propelled Dragunov to show up the other night, when Jane surprised him in the den, was still on Dragunov’s mind. And if tomorrow was the day Dragunov was making his play—some kind of final, grand gesture—with King’s daughter, then that left tonight for Dragunov to come back for what he wanted.
Gosberg really had little to lose. If he was wrong and Dragunov didn’t show up, then he’d join Ehreng and King in the morning, and they’d draw up an alternate plan, preferably one that didn’t involve Locraft. But if Gosberg was correct, and Dragunov did take this last chance to return, then Gosberg would be able to settle things right there, right then, in the proper way, not in a hail of bullets like in one of Locraft’s Dr. Strangelove fantasies.
Gosberg hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Cole Tanner deserved better. He was still a person, and he’d become a monster, but not due to anything he did himself.
Truth was, he’d become a monster because of what Gosberg had done to him. It was only right that Gosberg end this thing with compassion.
The sound of a key in the lock, followed by the faintest rattle of a doorknob, set Gosberg’s nerve endings vibrating. Do-or-die time. He rose, still gripping the syringe and gun, although his palms had become moist, and his mouth had become dry. He moved to a spot closer to the wall, deeper into the shadows, between the hallway and the flight of stairs.
Held his breath.
A moment later, a dark figure moved into Gosberg’s line of vision, backlit by moonlight through a window. Gosberg stepped forward and jabbed the gun into the intruder’s back. If King’s daughter weren’t in jeopardy, he would have jabbed the syringe into Cole’s neck and eliminated any conversation. He forced his tone to remain low and firm as he said, “Hello, Cole.”
The figure froze. Neither spoke, although Gosberg figured his own thundering heart could be heard down the block. Then a response, also in a low voice. “Who are you?”
Now that they were so close and Gosberg heard the voice he’d known for twenty years, Gosberg couldn’t think of Dragunov as anyone but Cole Tanner. Maybe the real Cole was in there, somewhere, waiting to be set free. Maybe all they needed to do was find the right mix of drugs, and all the effects of the Bivex-N14 and their experimentation could be reversed. And Jane could have her life back, too. “I’m Peter. Your brother-in-law. Jane’s brother.”
More silence. “Why don’t we talk about this, like two reasonable men? You are reasonable, aren’t you, Peter?”
The words sounded balanced, but the cadence was off. Gosberg knew Dragunov didn’t have a clue as to who he was. “I’ve got a gun pointed at your back. I want you to step away slowly, or I’ll shoot. Don’t turn around.”
Dragunov shuffled forward, and without taking his eyes off the dark shadow, Gosberg reached behind him and flipped a light switch on the wall. “Now, turn around slowly.” He kept his gun aimed at Cole’s torso and hoped his trembling hand wasn’t too obvious. At this moment, Gosberg’s entire world had shrunk to this room. To Cole Tanner. “Where is Amanda King?”
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You kidnapped her. Where is she now? You didn’t really mean to do it, did you?”
“I didn’t? How do you know that?”
“I know all about you, Cole Tanner. You live here. In this house. You’re a good man. A good husband. A good friend.” Gosberg fingered the syringe, unsure what Cole’s reaction to the haloperidol might be. Cole’s brain chemistry had been altered, for sure. If something went haywire, they may never find Amanda King. “But here’s the thing: you need some help.”
“Help?”
“You’re not well, but I can help you. You’re not who you think you are.”
“Who do I think I am?”
“A Russian terrorist named Dragunov. But you’re not. You’re an American. A patriot, actually. You served this country proudly. Cole Tanner is your name. Does that sound familiar? Cole Tanner. You’re married to my sister, Jane.” Gosberg swallowed, drops of perspiration beading on his forehead. “You call her Janie.”
Cole’s brow furrowed, and Gosberg thought he was reaching him, getting to his soul. He’d been right to keep Locraft out of this. Locraft would have shot first, asked questions never.
“Janie?” The way Cole said it, with the familiar inflection, brought back memories of family gatherings and summer cookouts.
“Do you remember?” Gosberg took two big steps to the piano, grabbed a honeymoon picture of Cole and Jane in Hawaii. Held it up. “See this? This is you. And Jane.” He tossed the picture to Cole, who plucked it out of the air. “Take a closer look. That’s you in that picture. Not some fanatical Russian. That’s you and your wife, Janie.”
Cole held it up, inspected it. Squinted. A faraway expression crossed his face for a second, then disappeared. “It seems . . . are there more pictures?”
Gosberg took a step backward and gestured to the piano with the gun. “Go ahead.”
Cole walked to the baby grand and began examining the pictures as Gosberg examined him. He’d pick one up, stare at it, set it down, give a knowing head nod. Then he’d move on to another. Gosberg watched in silence, hoping, praying that something would click in Cole’s mind.
He readied the syringe, mentally rehearsing how he’d do it. Two quick steps, then he’d drive it into Cole’s neck. But first . . . “Cole.”
“Yes,” Cole said, without turning around. He was looking at a large family portrait, one with Gosberg in it, too.
“Where’s Amanda King?”
Cole straightened. “Amanda?” he asked, and then he whirled and flung the picture at Gosberg’s head. Gosberg ducked instinctively, but it was too late. The picture hit the top of his head, and then Cole was on top of him, wrenching the gun from his hand. Gosberg swung the syringe at Cole, forgetting about the neck, just trying to hit skin somewhere, anywhere, but Cole deflected his arm. Cole Tanner, ex-special ops, was too strong, too well trained.
Peter Gosberg, lab rat, didn’t stand a chance.
But he fought on, giving his all, knowing it wouldn’t nearly be good enough. His gun and syringe had landed out of reach, and he got the distinct impression that Dragunov was toying with him, a tiger and a mouse, prolonging his enjoyment. Gosberg’s last thoughts were of his ultimate failure and the deaths of innocents, of his wife and kids on vacation, their last joyful moments before their lives got upended, and of his sister. He said prayers for them all, including a small one for himself—although he didn’t deserve it—until his neck snapped and he was put out of his misery.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dragunov sucked in a few deep breaths and ran through a quick muscle relaxation drill, trying to center himself and not lose focus.
Last time, there had been men outside. This time, when he didn’t encounter any resistance, he’d gotten complacent and allowed himself to get surprised. He’d responded well, killing the man named Peter, but it could have been a disaster. What if the gun had gone off and someone had called the authorities?
He needed to step up his game, but it was hard with all the interference affecting his decision-making. Peter had been clever, creating that bogus backstory and doctoring those photographs to make it appear they’d been related. For a moment or two, he’d almost believed it, the memories were so real. Those feelings must somehow be amplified by the drugs they’d used on him.
Time to get what he came for. Dragunov retraced the steps of his visit the other night and found himself in the den. As before, he went behind the desk and removed the wall calendar fr
om its hook. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he’d awoken that morning, the number 45377 had popped into his head, as if delivered by an angel.
He’d immediately known what it was.
Dragunov reached for the wall safe’s keypad and pressed the digits in order: 45377. Then he turned the handle. But before he could open the door, an intense wave of confusion hit him—a tsunami of memories.
Images of the brunette woman, with another man, this Peter, floated into view. They were at a wedding; everyone was smiling, laughing, drinking, eating. Dragunov knew both the woman and this man, Peter. He’d seen them before, many times, if his shaky memory could be trusted.
Peter and Janie. And him.
At picnics. Around a dining room table. The three of them smiling, laughing. Then more images rolled in, of him and the woman on a boat, at the theater, in bed. Making love.
The churning in his head revved up. He squeezed his eyes closed tighter, searching for mental peace, concentrating, trying to clear his thoughts. Focus on the task at hand. A tiny involuntary grunt issued from his mouth. He froze, attention torn between his mission and the whirlpool in his head.
Something wasn’t adding up right. Something didn’t make sense. Maybe there had been some truth in what Peter had been saying. Those stories. Maybe they weren’t a complete fiction. After all, the memories . . .
No. No. That was exactly what they wanted. They wanted him to doubt himself, his mission. They wanted him to question every step he took, every single thing he did. Who he was. That’s how you cracked someone from the inside.
It was a trick. All a devious mind-control maneuver. Something Nick Nolan’s scientists did to him on the table. Before he escaped.
The fog in his brain began to roll out, and different memories rolled in. The high-pitched whine of a circular saw. Blood and gristle everywhere. A bus exploding, the shrieks of terror music to his ears. Innocent citizens dropping dead on the streets. The Americans had done a good job of preventing panic in the streets, so far, but the best was yet to come. Throughout his career, he’d performed all sorts of necessary acts of violence, some more grisly than others. All had a purpose. All were mission critical. All were successful.
