Marina did not want to feel sentimental; she wanted to act. She pushed away the need to ask about the woman who must have been her grandmother. This couldn’t become personal.
“Your grandmother did not understand that this is a battle, a movement … one that will not be won today, or tomorrow, regardless of the result of Roman’s operations. We will be victorious … we will save Gaia, but it will not be an easy task. It will be a long-fought conflict. And that is something Roman does not comprehend.” Those last words were spoken so quietly that they seemed meant for his own musings, instead of her own ears.
Marina wanted to know more beyond his Obi-Wan philosophizing and she asked, “Who’s Rue Varden? He seems very close with Roman. Nora’s son?”
“Not Stegnora’s son. She is an Out-Worlder, one from the outside—like your grandmother was. It has been the Aleksandrovs’ curse as well as our blessing to find love outside of our clan. Varden is Roman’s nephew, I believe you would say—the son of Roman’s wife’s brother.”
“Roman is married?”
“We say mated; but yes, he is. To Nila. But he has been obsessed with Nora since he met her at university in London, and seduced her away. He will never leave her, nor she, him. Varden is Roman’s most trusted supporter, and it is fitting as he is destined to be the next leader. He will take Roman’s place when he is gone … unless an Aleksandrov shall take her rightful place.”
“I would not.”
Lev nodded once, then, as if satisfied, settled back in his chair and watched her. “And the library will come under Varden’s control as well, then.”
The temptation he dangled before her should be little more than a prickle of curiosity, when compared to the reality that simmered outside this room … in the city of Detroit. And, if Lev were to be believed, the world itself. Yet, it was there. It burned in her belly, churned white-hot lust.
To have those manuscripts. He was offering her a life-long dream—yet beyond anything she could have imagined, could have conceived.
Suddenly unable to sit, to listen any longer, Marina rose from her chair. She walked over to Roman, Varden and Nora and thrust herself into their little group.
“Have you come to see what you’re missing?” asked Varden with a cool look.
“I’ve come to learn what you’re doing so that I can find a way to stop you,” she replied boldly. Varden grinned suddenly, his eyes glinting, while Roman pulled up his attention from the screen to look at her.
“Don’t be foolish, Marina. It is too late to stop anything now, even if you knew how.”
“Then why not let me in on the secret, since I am one of you.”
She turned her attention to the screen. A man appeared on it. His pose was such that it reminded her of a newscaster—waist-up, with a bit of scenery behind him: a sparkling river, five tall silver towers, a cityscape. She recognized him immediately.
“The man who tried to break into my house,” she murmured. So he’d been working for Roman?
But instead of asking—what did it matter now anyway?—Marina turned her attention to the screen and suddenly realized she recognized the background. Behind him—the Renaissance Center, across the Detroit River. She knew where he was!
Excitement poured through her, then evaporated. So she knew where he was. What did that help? She already knew this was to go down in Detroit. It made sense that he would be one of the team that was there to detonate the underground bombs.
“He tried to kill me; guess he doesn’t mind murdering a few hundred people in Detroit, eh?” Marina said.
“He tried to kill you?” Roman looked up. “He was to bring you to me, unharmed.”
“Tell that to the bullets he shot at me while chasing me up a tree,” Marina snapped. “So now what? Does he flip a switch and everything goes boom?”
Varden was looking at her intently. “He sets a timer then walks away. Forty minutes later, the first of the bombs will detonate. Ten minutes after that, the second will blow. And then the third.” He made a show of looking at the clock on the wall. “And he will be setting the timer in less than sixty minutes. So ninety minutes, Marina. Only a little more than an hour is all that’s left.”
The lump filled her throat. Ninety minutes. What could she do? And why was he telling her all of this?
Why?
Marina wondered suddenly where Gabe’s gun was. Did Varden have it? Maybe that would give her a chance. She tried to peer around to see if there was a bulge in his clothing. Nothing that she could see.
“And even if they found the box,” Varden continued calmly, “there’s nothing that can be done to stop the timer without the code. Which is written in Skaladeska. And it’s right here, in this room. Nowhere near our associate in the US. He is powerless to stop the timer, even if he would wish to. Or be forced to.”
“I’m going to be sick.” Marina wasn’t lying. No gun. She was helpless. How ironic that the weapon she’d once disdained would have been a lifesaver in this situation.
“There’s a toilet down the hall.” Varden flashed her that nasty smile. “Victor, why don’t you escort your daughter to the toilet. And keep her out of our way.”
Roman had appeared to be disinterested in the repartee between Marina and Varden; but now he pulled his attention away from the screen where he’d been typing communications with his cohort. “Where is the code, then, Rue? You and Nora had tested it.”
“It’s here.” Nora spoke for the first time and gestured to a green plastic sheet with writing on it. “I wanted it nearby in case … in case there was need for it.”
“No need. I just told Fridkov to set the timer.” Roman pulled away from the controls with a satisfied smile on his face.
Varden looked as though he’d been slapped, but the expression was quickly subdued. “But that is twenty minutes early.”
Roman looked at him. “I know. I could wait no longer. Why should I? I told them everything they needed to know—where it was, what the targets were—even the time—as you suggested. But I am impatient, and I see no reason to keep my word. I want to make certain they know we are in control.”
Varden’s lips were tight, and his face rigid. Obviously, he didn’t like to be surprised—even by his boss. He didn’t like to lose control. He looked up and saw Marina standing there. “I thought you were going to be sick. Take her to the toilet, Victor. We don’t need her standing here looking like she’s going to cry.”
When her father gestured for her to follow him, Marina was too frozen to move. Forty minutes until the first bomb was detonated. At 11:40 instead of noon. And there was no way to warn them.
She followed Victor as if she’d just awakened from a deep sleep: numb, slow, heavy. When he led her toward the main door, out of the control room, into the hallway, she felt a minor blip of surprise. But then, what good would running away do? The place she needed to be was back in there, in control of the communication. And that wasn’t going to happen.
Marina didn’t speak to Victor as they walked down the hall; nor did he try to direct her or speak to her, other than to gesture toward what she assumed was the direction of the toilet. It was as if they’d both given up the pretense of anything remotely like a relationship.
As they rounded a corner, Marina saw a streak of dark blood on the white wall. Gabe! He wasn’t there but maybe she could follow his trail.
She didn’t bother to explain to Victor; she just started off following the drops, splotches, and streaks that marked his route.
It ended at the door to a room, and she pushed on it. If he’d gone in, he’d either had help or it didn’t need a radio-key. It opened.
“Gabe?” she dashed in, heedless that there might be others in with him. There was no time left to slink around. They were going to have to be bold if there was any chance of stopping Roman’s plan.
“Marina?” a low voice called, and she found him near the back of the room, huddled, breathing heavily, clutching his satellite phone.
“Where ar
e you hit?” Instead of embracing him, she started to lift his arm to assess the damage.
He pulled away. “Just a skim on my arm,” he told her. “I’m okay. Been trying to stop the bleeding. I’m going to be okay, but a little slow, but we—”
“We have to move quickly to stop them. We have less than forty minutes. Does that work in here?” She wanted to snatch the phone from him and start dialing herself.
“I was just going to try it. I just got in here; thought I could try to call Bergstrom and warn him, if the battery’s not dead. It’s been turned off since we got here, so it should be all right. Then I was coming after you.”
“I followed your blood streaks. Victor—my dad—is probably right behind me.” She was talking while he was pushing buttons on the phone. “I don’t know if he’s going to interfere or not—he seems so out of it.”
“Colin?” Gabe was speaking into the phone. “Yes, it’s me. I hope to God you’re in Detroit.” Marina could hear the voice squawking through the speaker. “It’s going to blow in sixty minutes … .” He looked at Marina, who was shaking her head. “ … No, they changed it. Forty minutes. Less. Less than forty—”
“Damn!” Gabe looked up. “Lost the connection.” He looked up and behind Marina, and she saw the expression on his face.
She whirled. Victor stood there, pointing Gabe’s gun at them. “Roman might be terrified of guns, but I’m not.”
“Where did you get that?” Marina demanded.
“I saw where Varden disposed of it.”
Again Gabe moved before Marina expected. He shot up, knocked Victor’s arms, and numerous shots blasted in the room above and around them. Victor fell back, and Gabe leapt on him, wrenching the firearm from his hands.
Once he held the Smith & Wesson firmly, he pointed it at Victor and demanded that he stand.
“I was going to give it to you,” Victor said, his hands trembling. “Marina, Mina, I was bringing it to you.”
Marina turned away. She didn’t know whether he was lying, but she was past caring. Either way, it didn’t matter. She would walk away and, if she got out of here alive, this man would play no part in her life.
Gabe moved past Victor as if he hadn’t spoken. His stride was awkward, and he held his arm against his chest, but he was mobile. He clutched the gun in one hand, and the phone in the hand curled against his ribs. “Come on, Marina. You lead the way.”
She followed and left Victor staring after them: a shell of a man.
-43-
July 14, 2007
Detroit, Michigan
Helen had always pictured Detroit as a danger-infested urban location with murders on every street corner; but the downtown area where the General Motors Building was located looked peaceful, clean, and busy.
July 14 was a Friday morning and the streets were packed with businesspeople and tourists alike; Comerica Park—where the Tigers played—was crowded with fans coming in for the first of a double-header, and the Fisher Theater was hosting a production of Wicked. Nearby, the MGM Grand Casino flashed lights and gaudily-dressed people as they hurried in to lose their hard-earned money. And it was nearly eleven o’clock.
The Detroit River gleamed gently in the low light, separating Detroit and the United States from Windsor and Canada. The five silver towers of the Renaissance Center, previously an office complex and now home to the largest automobile company in the world, loomed over the river and completed the skyline.
And if Helen didn’t find a way to stop it, those towers would split and tip and collapse.
If she was right about the target.
Pray God her instincts were right.
“How big of a radius do we need to evacuate?” She had to be right. “We have two other sites to secure.”
The Ford Motor Company World Headquarters was located twenty miles away in nearby Dearborn; an area, she’d learned, that contained a large shopping mall and the heavily-traveled Ford Freeway, among other things—including the Henry Ford Museum and the Detroit area’s only Ritz Carlton.
The third site, the North American Headquarters for the former Daimler-Chrysler, was situated thirty miles north of Detroit in the suburb of Auburn Hills—a mainly residential area, but also near the entertainment complex where the Detroit Pistons played. And also situated within half a mile of a busy freeway, appropriately named the Chrysler Freeway.
Detroit certainly loved its autos.
If any or all three—God forbid—of these planned explosions detonated, the damage would be much more severe and widespread than the four AvaChem factories. The explosives would have been designed as larger and more powerful to be placed under such massive structures.
“Ten miles, at least. We’ve already begun to give the orders,” Detroit Police Chief Harold Benning told her. “But we can’t evacuate the entire area; the traffic alone would be phenomenal. Instead, we’re securing people in safe areas and we can’t do anything but hope our buildings are strong enough to withstand the force.”
Since Detroit hadn’t known many—perhaps any—earthquakes, Helen rather doubted the buildings had been built with that potential problem in mind.
Helen looked at her watch, willing the hands to stop turning. It was nearly 10:45. Eighty-five minutes until the explosions would detonate, and they were powerless to stop them unless they found the person with the control box—which was like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Still. Helen wasn’t about to give up.
Her fingers tingled. She had to be on track. And that was what she was counting on today. Little more than her instinct.
Determined and certain as she was, Helen hadn’t been foolish enough to pull the Feds and local cops from other potential targets … but she’d chosen to come to Detroit to oversee because it had to be here.
With the help of Dr. Everett, on-staff geologists had determined that the controller must be within ten miles of the explosion detonation; yet, he wouldn’t want to be too close, or he’d be caught in the destruction. So, the bomb experts and the geologists had done some rough calculating and pinpointed an outer radius of two miles wide where the searches were contained—at all three locations.
Three hundred law enforcement officials combed the areas; checking cars, buildings, shops; everywhere.
Someone had to find something.
The tingling in her fingers told Helen it was a matter of time.
She just hoped that time would come in the next eighty minutes.
At that moment, Colin Bergstrom ran up to her “Helen!” he shouted. “I’ve got them! MacNeil!”
“Tell me it’s Detroit.”
“It’s Detroit.”
She almost grinned, but there was no time. Hope, now, yes, but no time. “What else?”
“He called from his sat phone. I could barely hear him but he told me he and Marina Alexander were with the Skaladeskas.”
“What else? Do they know how to stop this?”
“He said they moved up the time. Forty minutes from now. We lost connection, but I know he will try and call back.”
“Forty minutes? Do they know how to stop this? Get him on the damned phone!”
Frustration crawled into her belly, gnawed there. It was close … so close. Gabe was still alive and on the job. And there was even someone who might be able to help them … .might. But couldn’t.
“Get him back on the phone. See if he knows anything!” She stalked away, ignoring the fact that she’d just snapped orders to a senior CIA director.
She didn’t care, because the tingling in her fingers was beginning to wane.
-44-
As they hurried along the hall, as quickly as Gabe could move, Marina felt the desperation climbing inside her. “Give me the phone. We need to try and get through again. I have some information that will help—” She wanted to scream in frustration; it took too long to get the words out. “Dial Bergstrom. I hope to God he’s in Detroit.”
Gabe handed her the phone. The ring sounded tinny and
far away, but when the voice boomed on the line, it came through loud and clear. “MacNeil?”
“This is Marina Alexander. Are you in Detroit?
“Yes.”
“The man who is going to detonate the bombs—I can tell you where he is. You have to pick him up and get the box.”
“Wait.” There was silence, a scuffle, and then a female voice came on. “Helen Darrow speaking. Gabe? Am I to understand you’re with the Skaladeskas?”
“This is Marina. Yes. The man you want, who has the control, is in Windsor. He’s across the river from Detroit, directly across from the RenCen. You have about twenty minutes to apprehend him and for me to give you the code to stop it. If I can get to it.”
Colleen Gleason Page 28
