by Gayle Lynds
Beth smiled. "I've been lucky. I usually come in low. But then, that's sort of typical for my year. I've been healthier than I ever recall. A few months ago, I got a cold, but it was gone in three days, just the way it's supposed to. In the past, my colds would linger, sometimes for a month or more, and then I'd end up with a secondary infection. Plus, of course, the regular exercise makes me feel all-around better, too. I sleep like a log. Even my eyelashes are longer and thicker."
"That's the prednisone." Stephanie chuckled. "You're a walking advertisement for organ transplants. It'd be great if everyone sailed through as healthy as you."
"I know, and believe me, I'm grateful."
Traffic was scattered, with few cars out at this hour on a week night. As she stared at the dark highway with the stars sparkling overhead, she was acutely aware how fortunate she was to be here . . . to be alive. In her continuing volunteer work at the hospital, she had seen too many people die waiting for a transplant, and a few die because their transplants somehow failed. Despite being a highly successful recipient, she was still vulnerable to rejection, failure, and a host of other medical problems, too. But she seldom thought about it. Being grateful was far more important.
Stephanie said, "Have you ever held a human heart in your hands?"
"No." Beth asked curiously, "Have you?"
Stephanie's voice filled with reverence: "Yes. I swear you can feel the life force in it, even when it's not connected to a body. A sound heart is beautiful—pink and smooth. Luscious. I once held one for a few seconds. There's a quiver and a kick to it, but also a serenity. Imagine . . .take a heart from one chest, pack it in ice for transport, put it in a strange new chest a couple of hours later, and ninety percent of the time it won't even need an electric shock to get back to work. How can any of us doubt a heart has intelligence?"
"I never looked at it that way."
They rode in silence, each with her own thoughts, on the quiet highway. Beth let her head fall back against the headrest. Her eyes relaxed into tired slits, and she played with Russian names. Was one her donor's?
"Beth . . . did you feel anytime today you were being followed?" Stephanie sounded worried.
With a jerk, Beth sat up and peered back over her shoulder. "No, I didn't. In fact, I tailed Hammond, not the other way around. Is it that van behind us?" The headlights were high off the ground. As they had rounded a curve, she had been able to get a clear side view of it—a big, glossy black vehicle. Panic tightened her chest. Could Hammond be back from West Virginia?
"I thought I was imagining it, so I drove very fast, but it kept up." Stephanie's mouth trembled. "Then I switched to the right lane and slowed down, and it fell behind in the same lane. But now as you can see I'm really pushing it, doing eighty miles an hour, and it's keeping up easily."
"Go faster," Beth commanded. Her hands clenched. She wanted to reach for the steering wheel to drive. Feeling helpless, she stared back tensely as Stephanie floored the gas pedal of her old car.
The little Ford Escort jumped ahead, and it seemed they were leaving the big Chevy behind. But then like a bolt of black lightning the van caught up. Their sedan was hurtling down the highway at a hundred miles an hour, and the van was right on its tail.
"I can't get away from him." Stephanie's voice rose, frantic with fear. "Who is he? It can't be me he's after. It's got to be you! He's going to catch up . . . shoot us. Or force us off the road. He's big enough. He'll make a move soon. What are we going to do!"
16
Tension was electric in Stephanie's old car as it rushed south on the dark highway. Beth stared back through the rearview window at the big van. It had been built to ride high, and it was so close that its headlights shone down menacingly, filling the little Ford with blinding light.
Conditions were bad: The traffic was sporadic, which meant there were times when the van's driver could act without witnesses, and the night itself would hide myriad clues. The van was so black as to be nearly invisible. And this stretch of highway had steep drop-offs to the left and right—an additional danger they did not need. The pursuit could not be an accident. Beth had to be the target, and Jeff Hammond must be in the van. But how had Hammond found her?
As she stared, the guardrails flew past in a metallic streak. A moment of disorienting fear raced through her, instantly replaced by anger.
"We've got to get off the highway," she ordered.
Stephanie's voice shook. "There hasn't been an exit in miles." She clutched the steering wheel in a death's grip, but she still had enough control to keep the car from swinging from lane to lane. At this speed, one small driving mistake could be fatal.
Behind them, in the van, Nikolai Fedorov watched the Ford. By the way it had sped up and slowed down, it was obvious the woman realized she was being followed. The driver—Stephanie Smith—was off balance. He could see it in the way the car no longer moved smoothly. This was what he had wanted. He needed her to be unnerved.
The geography, the steep declines off to both sides, the lack of traffic, everything was perfect. With cool precision, he reached down into another of his black tradecraft cases and lifted a bottle from its protective padding. It was an old-fashioned Molotov cocktail, but with a modern innovation—the glass bottle filled with gasoline was stoppered with a safe electronic fuse that triggered the instant the glass shattered.
He checked the speedometer. His van and the little Ford were going 104 miles an hour. Despite his long experience, a film of sweat formed on his upper lip. At that speed, anything could happen. Anything lethal. Certainly an accident that might shatter the thin bottle and incinerate him. He pressed the accelerator and switched lanes.
"He's coming up on our right." Stephanie gazed wildly around as if searching for escape.
"I see him." Beth felt an odd calmness. "Hold steady." They were trapped. The van had already showed it had a lot of horsepower. There was no way they could outrun it. "I think he's pulling alongside . . . he wants to force us off the highway. At this speed, the drop could make the car roll and kill us. We've got to fool him. Are you listening, Stephanie?"
"There aren't any other cars on the road right now." Stephanie's breath came in terrified pants. She was a researcher and a scientist. She had neither the skills, the psychological makeup, nor the natural talent to cope with what was happening.
"I know. But we're not completely helpless."
Stephanie said gamely, "I'm listening. I'll try . . . but Beth, I . . . I . . . I—"
Beth clutched her shoulder, trying to infuse her with confidence. She desperately wanted to drive. "I'll make it simple. When I say 'ready,' hit the brakes. Let our car drop back fast, then pull over to the right lane behind him. I know you can do it. Got it?"
Stephanie licked her lips and nodded. "He's almost at our bumper now."
Beth nodded. "Almost ready."
But in her panic, all Stephanie heard was ready. She slammed the brakes.
Shocked, Beth crashed forward, straining against her seat belt. Pain shot through her chest. Instantly, the car spun out of control, tossing them back and forth inside like popcorn. Pain made bright lights flash in Beth's brain.
At the same time, Fedorov was watching with his window rolled down, ready to throw the Molotov cocktail. The abrupt spin of the Ford surprised him. He swore in Russian and hit his own brakes. But he had accelerated to such a terrific speed to pass the Ford that he had only a few seconds before it would drop back out of his range. This was where training counted. He immediately analyzed, understood, and acted.
He heaved the glass bottle out his window at the spinning car. It shattered against the driver's door. A sheet of brilliant red flames erupted.
As Fedorov sped away, the out-of-control Ford burst through the guardrail, trailing sparks and streaks of fire. He laughed hard and long. To the police, it would look as if the Ford's driver had been going far too fast. She had lost control, and her gas tank had exploded as the car shot off the side of the highway. Driver
and passenger both dead. Tragic. What would it take to convince people to drive safely?
But as the Ford rushed into darkness, Beth was still alert, her faculties at work. Fire had engulfed Stephanie's side of the car. Stephanie's head rolled from side to side. She was unconscious.
The heat was ferocious, but the speed of the Ford's angular descent momentarily stopped the blaze from spreading. They had to get out before the car was consumed, but the accelerating G force pinned Beth to the seat. She summoned all her strength to force her hand over to unlock Stephanie's seatbelt.
She had only seconds. "Stephanie!" It felt as if everything were moving in slow motion. She gripped Stephanie's arm. "Wake up!" The hot air scorched her throat. She gasped. "Stephanie, you've got to wake up!"
But Stephanie's eyes remained closed. Her face poured sweat and was bright red, as if from a sunburn. Beth knew it was no sunburn. The white-hot fire that had raged next to Stephanie had begun to sear her skin. As the car hurtled onward, Beth struggled to pull Stephanie from the conflagration, but all she could manage was inches.
There was no more time. Heartsick, struggling to breathe, she unsnapped her own seatbelt. As the wheels crashed at the bottom of the culvert, the car spun another 180 degrees, and Beth's door burst open. The force hurled her out into the cool night. She landed hard on grass about twenty feet from the fireball. And was up and limping back toward the Ford. The car was an inferno. She could not get close.
"Stephanie!" she screamed. She raised her fists above her head and screamed again.
There was no answer. As the fire boiled and spat, she hobbled in a big circle, searching for Stephanie. But there was no break in the blistering flames and heat, and no sign Stephanie had escaped. Beth moaned and sank to her knees. The extreme temperatures had probably welded Stephanie's door closed, and that was why she had not been thrown to safety, too.
Beth burst into tears. Metal snapped and groaned. Sparks shot up like pretty fireworks against the cavernous sky. Weeping, she said a silent prayer that Stephanie had not regained consciousness.
Then with a sickening jolt of horror, she saw Stephanie, a black shade in the center of the blazing flames. Almost immediately the figure was gone, consumed in a shroud of red. Horror wracked Beth as the fire continued to howl. And guilt hit her: She had survived, but Stephanie had not. The stink of burning rubber and oil poisoned the air.
In her mind, she saw Stephanie again—the long hair a cloud on her shoulders, the quiet eyes, the soft face. Her compassionate smile. Beth sobbed. First Colonel Yurimengri, now Stephanie. Both murdered. And Beth was somehow responsible. But why? What had she done to cause all this? Whom had her donor killed?
She wrapped her arms around herself. Sirens sounded in the distance, and she knew she could stay no longer. Stephanie was dead, but Beth was the intended victim. Tears streaming down her face, she forced herself to her feet and moved through the thick brush toward the embankment.
With each heavy step, her anger grew. No longer was it an undirected rage, easily triggered and just as easily repressed. Now there was some kind of deep, anguished power behind it. She was going to find Jeff Hammond and . . .
She stopped herself. Shuddered. It was the first time her rage had carried her to a sudden desire to murder. A cold, hard voice inside her demanded death. It would feel so good to kill him, to watch him die, the voice insisted. She tried to shrug it off, to make the desire go away, but it hung on, as attached as her skin.
Stiff and sore, she climbed the bank, the heat from the fire still licking at her back. She still had no answers, and she had only one clue left: Find out whether the house she had seen in her nightmares really existed. That was where the garage, the riderless motorcycle, and the man she had killed had been. She had to figure out how to get to the address—she had seen it on the mailbox.
Because her purse had burned up in the car, she had no car keys, cash, credit cards, or meds. She could do nothing without money and transportation. And without her meds she would die anyway. Somehow she had to get back to her house where she had all three, where she fervently hoped no more killers would be waiting. With luck, she thought bitterly, Jeffrey Hammond should believe she was dead now.
Still quietly crying, she crouched at the top of the steep slope and looked back once more at the raging fire in the base of the culvert between the north and south branches of the highway. She wiped her arm across her eyes. On the other side, two cars had stopped, and people were getting out to stare at the fire. None of the cars was a black van. Still, she could take no chances. She breathed deeply and turned away, willing her tears to stop. She had work to do, and she could not indulge her grief any longer.
Her heart pounding, she ran along the highway until there was a break in the traffic. Then she rushed across and began walking. Vehicles flew past at the usual high speeds, kicking up sand that stung her hands and face. Years ago, when she had been in college, she had hitch-hiked—a stupid practice maybe, but she had been bold and had never had a problem.
As sirens screamed to a stop across the lanes of traffic behind her, she stuck out her thumb and hoped. She could change her mind and go back to talk to the officers. If she had any real evidence to pass on, she would go back. But what little she knew would be of no use, and if she talked to them, her survival would be reported in newspapers and on TV and radio, and right away Hammond would know she had lived.
Fury stuck like a rock in her throat. She never thought she could hate anyone so much. Yet a small voice spoke from the back of her mind: Even if he had flown back or sent another killer, how had he known where she was?
When a big six-wheeler truck pulled off onto the shoulder twenty yards ahead, she approached it warily. The driver's side window rolled down, and a woman in her sixties, with gray hair braided in long pigtails, leaned out.
She looked at Beth curiously and smiled. "Want a lift?"
"Thanks. You bet I do."
An hour later, Beth arrived back in Georgetown, her head filled with the road stories of a lonely female trucker glad for safe companionship. It was a lucky break for Beth, and she hoped that it was a harbinger of more. She pulled her cardigan close and hurried along Wisconsin Avenue, where the trucker had dropped her off, and turned the corner. She passed Georgetown Presbyterian, heading for Stephanie's bungalow, where she had left her car.
Nervously she watched everywhere. The moon glowed low in the sky, and the street was deserted. She looked in the shadows for signs of danger as she approached Stephanie's house. Even simple night sounds made her jump. Each bush was a potential assassin. From a distance, she studied her Mercedes, which was waiting where she had left it at the curb. She let fifteen minutes pass.
She approached carefully. She reached under the left front fender, found her spare car key in its magnetic holder, and hopped into the car. Her heart was pounding. The motor turned over instantly, and she sped the car away. Scrutinizing all around, she waited with dread for someone to pull away from the curb and follow along the empty street. No one did.
She parked four houses away from her Victorian. The house was dark, as it should be, and there were no signs it had been broken into. She rolled down her window. The sweet scent of dogwood was in the air. Katydids and crickets sang. She grimaced, trying to reconcile the tranquility of it all with what had happened to poor Stephanie.
Finally she drove into her driveway, parked, and got out. By the time she found the key she always kept hidden under the geranium pot by the back door, her hands were shaking with nervous relief. She let herself into the house and hurried through it, turning on lights. Upstairs in her bedroom, she grabbed her shoulder bag from last summer, and from a cabinet in her bathroom she unloaded her backup meds into it.
Then she went down to her office and pulled out the thousand dollars in cash she kept locked in her bottom desk drawer. She would report the loss of her driver's license and credit cards when she had time. As she turned to go, she noticed the red message light on her answering
machine was blinking. Suddenly she was exhausted, weary to the bone. Events overwhelmed her in a rush, especially Stephanie's death. She shook her head. It was a symptom of modern times: A blinking light on an answering machine could inflict dread.
She punched the LISTEN button. Three messages had come in that afternoon, all from fellow associates at Edwards & Bonnett, saying they were sorry she had quit or been let go. One hinted he would not mind some gossip about exactly what had happened, but the other two sounded genuinely unhappy she had left the firm.
There was a fourth message. She sat down, surprised, as she heard the voice of her old friend Carly King, the analyst at Toole-Russell who had relayed the information about HanTech's new owners.
"Well, girlfriend, when I'm this tired, I keep wondering why I love numbers. Tax season's definitely too exciting." Carly chuckled, but her voice was weary. "So I finally had time to dig some more into what the new owners were doing with HanTech, like you asked." Her voice grew sober. "I don't like the looks of this. They're not just brokering the sale of unenriched uranium. Somehow they've gotten their corporate claws into weapons-grade uranium, too. They're buying it up from Third World countries like Iraq and Libya that the Russian government sold it to in the nineties when they were trying to raise money."
She hesitated then continued worriedly, "HanTech's returning the weapon's-grade uranium to Russia. What does that mean? Maybe it's good news, since the Russians are supposedly our allies. But I wonder. Should I report it to someone in the State department? Or maybe to Commerce? Think about it and give me a call. I need advice." There was a long, worried pause, and then she disconnected.
Stunned, Beth played the message a second time. Weapons-grade uranium was a closely controlled, necessary ingredient for nuclear armaments. What was an American company doing mixed up in it? It was illegal, dangerous, and frightening. And why was Russia selling its weapons-grade uranium to America while at the same time taking it back from Third World nations?
