"Yes, but we're back in business." Renkin leaned in his deep leather armchair, then spun to his safe. He hadn't mentioned the retirement question to Carrington. It might not be necessary. His control hadn't brought it up since the California meeting.
"Bye-bye, Brad." Carrington grinned.
"Not yet, Carrington. Mr. Lofton has some tutoring to do, which includes saying a few words to his captors about the SSN-21 program. After that, we can say 'bye-bye'."
"I don't understand."
"Here." Renkin flipped a picture on the desk, another three-by-five color glossy.
Carrington snorted, "Lofton. An old picture. He's--what? Dressed as a Spetsnaz. This is his brother?"
Renkin nodded.
Carrington handed back the picture. "Jesus, a lieutenant colonel. Beard and all. Exactly the same. When was that taken?"
"Two years ago when he was promoted. Now, I want you to do some research. I need their data confirmed and I need it quickly."
"Whose data? I don't understand what is happening."
"We're doing a switch, Carrington." He arranged the photo-envelopes in the safe.
"What?"
Renkin explained as he closed his wall safe and twirled the dual combinations. His nose itched, and he nudged the bandage with his finger. Not good enough, he couldn't make the itch go away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lofton checked the Casio: 4:57. Rain drummed outside, he was hungry, he hadn't seen anyone since breakfast. Breakfast...the borscht...why had they decided to give him a decent meal? Maybe his last? Maybe something to raise his energy to make him talk, to make pain, any sensation more acute....
I can't do it here, not in this damned cell. Wait 'til later. Besides, my hands are cuffed in front, I can free my airway with my fingers.
When? Maybe on the airplane. No, I might be drugged by then.
Do it now.
Bite my tongue? Drown in my own blood? Kill myself for what? So they won't be able to empty my head.
They're going to kill me anyway.
Put it off. Wait 'til the airplane.
No! Do it now before they come.
He tried to roll his tongue between his teeth. There. His tongue lay jammed between the upper and lower teeth on the left side of his mouth. Everything from the molars to the incisors were ready to go.
Now, bite! Hard!
Do it now, Brad, before Sadka comes.
A tear ran down Lofton's cheek. He relaxed his jaw.
Physical torture? Tear out my fingernails, gouge my eyes? Do they cut me up or use electrodes or pliers or fists? OK. So I jump out a window, fall under a tank. But then...if they tranquilize me right away, I turn to a talking vegetable. I won't know what I'm saying, I won't be able to move.
How long to live? A few weeks to get everything out of me, probably.
Then some dark, cold, rainy night one of Sadka's boys, a white‑coated 250-pound drooling Ivan with a single-digit IQ and rimless, round glasses comes into my room on squeaky, two-inch rubber soles. He's testing the plunger on a gigantic syringe; it has a six-inch needle and he grins while enormous drops glob onto the shiny linoleum floor.
That might be too sophisticated, maybe the goon just snaps my neck between thick, hairy paws. If the guy really lacks subtlety, he slips a knife between my ribs or puts a bullet behind my ear.
The upstairs landing door squeaked. Lofton heard footsteps. Still, he was relieved, he didn't have to do it now, he'd get to his tongue later. The key scraped in the lock, his cell door opened and the gat‑toothed Dr. Sadka walked in, rain dripping off his greatcoat and cap.
"OK, Commander, you're good. Time we to move." He waved over his shoulder and the burly redheaded guard came in with a long, thin section of towel and quickly blindfolded Lofton. They jerked him to his feet, then removed his leg manacles. His jacket was stuffed under his armpit.
"OK, Commander, you need feet, not eyes. Not to run, please. We go to an airplane."
A hand pushed his back, others grabbed his elbows and guided him down the hall and up the stairs. The door rumbled open, he heard typewriters, smelled pencil shavings, a telephone chimed over muttered conversation.
"Silence, please," Sadka's voice ordered from ahead. A hand at each elbow guided Lofton through a room, then another, down some steps and into the rain.
They waited quietly in the downpour. Seconds stretched to minutes. Five...seven...ten? Lofton lost count.
Ridiculous. "Could I put my jacket on?"
A fist drove into Lofton's back. His rib cage screamed in pain, and he fought for breath as his knees gave way. Falling to his side he reached in mud to steady himself and rose shakily. His jacket plopped to the ground.
"Quiet, shithead," from behind in Russian.
The message was plain enough in any language. Lofton forgot his jacket and concentrated on staying on his feet and holding down the nausea.
A wet, soggy lump was stuffed under his arm. Sadka said, "OK, Commander, you stay warm sooner. Put on sometime. The car will--Ah!"
Lofton heard a car's tires on the pavement. They squished to a stop beside him. A door opened and he was shoved in. Strong hands grabbed his elbow and roughly pulled him down. To his right, Sadka said, "OK, Commander, problem fine. We are late but please hang out. Real hot."
A man on his left growled across him. "No, idiot, the trunk lock is broken. The doctor's luggage goes in front beside the driver."
That Spetsnaz Colonel! The voice next to him belonged to his brother. Lofton jerked. The man groped for his elbow and squeezed hard as the luggage thumped into the front seat. The door slammed shut.
"Right, let's go, Sergeant," Sadka commanded.
The car jerked and moved away with scraping windshield wipers.
"Damn summer storm," muttered Sadka. "Where were you?"
The Spetsnaz next to Lofton said, "Sorry, Doctor Sadka. The car pool assigned me to a vehicle with a dead battery. I had to requisition another. Didn't Captain Noya call?"
"Nobody said anything. Did you contact the airport?"
"Sir?"
Sadka's breath reeked of garlic as he leaned across Lofton. "Rakovaya Airport, you dunderhead. They are on a strict schedule and I want to be on time. This car was to be equipped with a phone. Where is it?"
"No, sir, this car is a replacement. It's as I said, I had to--"
Sadka yelled, "Damnit driver, slow down. I want to arrive in one piece."
"Sir!" from up front. The master sergeant--Ullanov, the man was driving fast. The car lurched and its engine growled, the rear end lost traction when the doctor yelled.
"I'm sorry, sir," the Spetsnaz continued, "It took a while to draw another vehicle. Those clerks over in the Twenty‑fifth aren't used to working after three o'clock."
Another curve. They swayed to the right.
Lofton felt Sadka lean before him. He caught his whisper.
"...inject this man as soon as we arrive at the air..."
Lofton's heart plunged to his stomach, cold waves of nausea swept over him.
The Spetsnaz replied softly, "...good idea...sir, I wonder if we can--"
"Driver!" Sadka yelled. "Sergeant! Slow down, I said, at once. What's your name?"
"Pardon, sir?" from Ullanov.
The Spetsnaz Colonel suddenly jammed his shoulder and elbow into Lofton's chest. Lofton's right foot was kicked forward and raised against the front seat, then the left. The car swayed wildly.
"Your name, idiot," roared Sadka.
"Ullanov, sir."
"How long have you been driving?"
The car lurched to the left.
"Six months, sir."
"Colonel, what's going on? This man is incompetent!"
"There was no one else, sir. The pool's duty driver is installing a new battery in the other car." The Spetsnaz braced his feet alongside Lofton's.
The car whipped sharply to the right.
"Look out," Sadka screamed. "Stop!"
The Spetsnaz pushed hard against L
ofton. The car seemed to recover, but gravel crunched beneath and it left the pavement.
"Eyachhhh. Don't--!"
Sadka's wail was cut off in the white‑hot grinding of rock, undergrowth, glass, and steel. They hit something. Metal shrieked. The car bounced, teetered on one side, almost rolled, landed upright, and stopped with a loud crash.
Silence. Rain drummed on the car's roof.
"Colonel?" from up front.
"Fine, Josef." The colonel relaxed his feet and arms. "How about you, Mr. Lofton?"
"Not sure...I'll live."
The colonel grunted and reached across. "I'd better check the doctor."
Lofton heard Sadka groan, then a hard pop. The groaning stopped.
"OK, let's move, we're late," Dobrynyn said.
Lofton's blindfold was untied. He blinked at gray-black surroundings. Enough light remained to distinguish a large, wet boulder on the car's right side and an enormous tree trunk that stood before the radiator. Sadka's limp form lay beside him, his mouth gaping open.
The colonel was bending to unsnap Lofton's handcuffs while Ullanov got out and ran to the rear of the car. The colonel jumped out. "Mr. Lofton--Ernst. Pull the doctor from the car while Josef and I take care of this. Drag him over to that gully." He joined Ullanov and they fumbled at the trunk.
Lofton sat dumbly. "What...what the hell's going on?"
"Get out. I can't hear you."
Lofton leaned out the door. Water dripped down his neck, shocking him. "Why are you doing this?"
The two men raised the trunk and bent in. Dobrynyn shouted, "Move."
Lofton shook his head and got out of the car. Weaving for a moment, he reached to the doorjamb and steadied himself. Rain cascaded over him, roaring, stimulating. He looked around, seeing no more than twenty or thirty feet. Muddy car tracks trailed back in the mist, trees and boulders surrounded him.
"Mr. Lofton!"
He reached into the back seat, heaved on Sadka's belt and pulled. The KGB colonel's head flopped against his shoulder. Blood ran from his nose and mouth, and a deep, three-inch gash oozed on his forehead. Lofton felt his neck and found a pulse. He arranged Sadka's hands over his head and yanked him out of the car.
He'd almost made the gully when he stopped, out of breath. As he rested he saw the master sergeant carrying a naked, inert human form, a hawk‑nosed man about his own age with a shiny white face. The man's thin arms dangled. His head hung back and his mouth was stretched wide open to the rain.
He dropped Sadka's arms and jogged back. "Is that man dead?"
"This is the new Commander Lofton. Take off your clothes." Dobrynyn threw Lofton a bundle. "Your watch, too, I'm afraid. I just hope they don't find a way to check dental records."
Lofton ripped open the bundle, finding ordinary workman's clothes, boots, and a jacket.
"You're going home."
"What?" Lofton stood dumbly.
"Later. Put that stuff on."
Lofton stripped in the rain and tossed his clothes and watch to Ullanov. "Who was he?"
"A transient welder, a drunk. He fell this morning at the Frenza Ship Repair Yard and broke his neck. A body switch was the only thing I could think of when I heard of Sadka's schedule change to ship you out tonight instead of tomorrow. We had the devil's own time diverting this body from the crematory. Josef kept talking to the undertaker and distracting him while I rolled the man out a window. I even had to stuff pillows under the sheet. Then we helped the undertaker burn two other bodies; there were supposed to be three. The records are correct. We used KGB uniforms and posed as auditors. Those people remove the gold and silver fillings from their--uh--clients, and make a small profit after a while. We wanted to make sure the state was getting its share. That's why we were so late."
Lofton pulled on the clothes while Ullanov splayed the body across the back seat. He peered through the rain, seeing the road embankment fifty feet away. "Where are we?"
"Coast road on the way to Rakovaya Airport. The main gate is about a mile and a half north of here."
"Is this the main road?" Lofton asked. "I don't hear any traffic up there."
"They closed the road this morning because of a train derailment in the Nalacheva Tunnel. Sadka didn't know that.
"Josef, are you ready?" Dobrynyn called.
"Another minute, Colonel." Ullanov had the man dressed in Lofton's clothes. They heard the handcuffs ratchet, then Ullanov went to the trunk and hefted two large gas cans. He went back to the car and splashed the contents on the body, then over the back seat.
"How do my clothes fit?" Dobrynyn asked.
"Yours?" Lofton held out his arms. "Amazing. You'd think I'd bought them."
"Thought so. But I'll have the boots back before the evening's over."
Ullanov worked quickly in the car. A white-pink liquid spewed from the gas can.
"How is this going to work?" Lofton asked.
"You were a SEAL weren't you?"
"Yes."
"We're putting you on a Be‑12, a seaplane. You're going to swim ashore to Rebun Island. It leaves in forty minutes. That's why we're in such a damn hurry."
"Rebun...where? How can I just get on an airplane?"
Dobrynyn's turned. "Josef?"
"Almost finished, Colonel."
Watching, he said to Lofton, "The pilots owe me a favor; in fact, plenty of them. Josef and I worked with them in the Caspian Sea Flotilla. They dropped us near shore for incursions into Iran. They're good, brave men but the fools were caught smuggling marijuana. I found out and destroyed the evidence. Still, they were relegated to Petropavlovsk. Now, they fly the evening guard mail run to and from Vladivostok.
"And you should know their route; from here they fly south over the Kamchatka Peninsula, then the Sea of Okhotsk, then over the southern part of Sakhalin Island near the Soya Strait. At that point that they will develop engine trouble, dip down below radar coverage, and land within one to two miles of Rebun Island, the westernmost of two Japanese islands just off Hokkaido. You jump out and they take off immediately, as if they had never landed, and only a minute or two behind schedule."
Dobrynyn adjusted his beret and smoothed his tunic. "I checked the La Perousse weather two hours ago; it's clear down there, with a moderate chop. Water temperature is fifty‑four. We have an immersion suit for you." His shoulders slumped. "It's the best I can do. By this time tomorrow you should be with your own people."
Lofton's mind whirled. Fifteen minutes ago, he'd been in jail. In hours, he was to have been in Sadka's Moscow redoubt where the doctor would shoot him full of drugs, brainwash him, kill him. Now, Lofton was going home. "I don't know what to say."
Dobrynyn stared at him. "I can only...."
"The body is set, Colonel," suggested Ullanov.
Dobrynyn's head snapped to Ullanov. "Where's the pistol?"
"Right here." Ullanov pulled a single-shot large bore-flare pistol from his belt.
"The gasoline, Josef?" Dobrynyn asked.
"Well‑laced with naphtha, Colonel. It will be a hot fire. We should do it now before too much rain gets in there and--"
"Stop, all of you! What is this?"
Their heads spun. The KGB doctor swayed in dimness ten feet away. He was hatless, and rain ran down his face and mixed with blood. His automatic pistol was raised.
Ullanov tensed and growled. His thumb caught the sling of his AK‑74.
Dobrynyn grabbed the sergeant's elbow and said in a low voice, "Not now, Josef."
Lofton took a step to the side.
"Stay right there, don't move. What are those fuel cans for?" Sadka weaved up to Ullanov. He shook his head and his eyes focused. "Who is that man in the car? Why are you just standing around?" He turned and saw Lofton, then jammed the pistol in his stomach. "My prisoner! Where are his handcuffs?"
He jumped behind Lofton, shoved the pistol in his back and clamped an arm around his throat. "Drop your weapons. You, there, Sergeant! It's obvious that flare gun isn't going to be used to s
ummon help. What is this all--"
Lofton jabbed backward with his elbow. The pistol muzzle arced away from his spine and fired into the rain, but Sadka's arm gripped his neck tighter. Lofton twisted. He grabbed Sadka's wrist, forcing the pistol straight in the air as it fired again. They were eye to eye. Lofton's ribs shrieked as his right hand found Sadka's chin and nose. Then he crawled his palm over the doctor's gaping mouth and worked his fingers toward the bulging eyes.
Two other hands grabbed Sadka's wrist--Dobrynyn's--and brought the pistol slowly down. Dr. Sadka bent his knees slightly, then raised up with a growl. Dobrynyn pulled the pistol down further. Ullanov stepped in and fumbled at the automatic just as Lofton, five inches from Sadka's nose, threw a knee hard in his groin.
Sadka gasped in pain. His wrist came down suddenly to his head. The pistol barked.
The KGB doctor's face ballooned slightly and a rush of white and deep red spewed from his left temple. Sadka's eyes glazed, one rolled back. He went limp and the pistol fell with a splash.
"Jesus!" Lofton muttered, then dropped Dr. Sadka in the mud. They stood over the body, their mouths open.
Ullanov spat, "Clinic ghoul! He runs a floor, he has--had thirty patients, if that's what you call them." His eyes bored through Lofton. "I don't care if you are American, Russian, or Bolivian; this man got what he deserved."
"Maybe so," Dobrynyn said, "but it wasn't supposed to happen this way. We were supposed to save him from the flaming car with just a few burns, then haul him unconscious to the main gate and send him to the dispensary."
"What now?" Lofton asked his brother.
They looked at each other and nodded silently.
They bent to pick up the corpse, but Ullanov nudged them aside. "I'll take care of it. It'll be my pleasure." He looked at Lofton again. "Really, Commander--uh--Mr. Lofton, this man was the KGB's own devil. Don't let his slang fool you. On his orders, his squad ruined one of my men's legs at Baikonur. They had to amputate. It was needless. And a friend of mine, an old platoon sergeant, went through his program and was one of the few this man released. The sergeant's close to being an idiot now. And I think you realize now that you were to be Dr. Sadka's star pupil."
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 26
