Lauren felt herself being searched and she winced at the rough pat-down as she was relieved of her passport as well as the phone containing Dmitri’s interview and the images of Sofya. Moments later, both she and Kristof were dragged to their feet, and as they were marched toward a hatch, two soldiers rushed past with a stretcher for Dmitri. As Lauren was propelled forward toward a narrow stairwell, she squinted at the harsh light as she began a descent into the bowels of the Russian embassy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“DONOVAN, SHE’S AWAKE,” Montero said softly from the galley space. “I think you should come back and sit with her.”
“You have the airplane,” Donovan said to Michael as he released his harness, stepped out of the cockpit, stretched, and went to Sofya.
Montero led the way. Sofya was sitting up, her legs tucked underneath her. As he neared, he saw that her eyes were red, and overall, she looked raw, fragile, and damaged.
“How are you doing?” Donovan said as he took a seat across the aisle. “Did a nap help?”
“Yes,” Sofya said. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I can’t even pretend to comprehend what you must be going through.” Donovan turned in his seat, leaned across the aisle. “I’m ready to listen, I want to know what you know, and I’ll do whatever I can to find a way to help you. First and foremost, I need to understand why we’re still in danger. Who is trying to kill us and how can we stop them?”
Sofya put a hand over her mouth and remained silent.
“Do you remember anything?”
“Andrei,” Sofya said. She reached out and took Donovan’s hand as the first fresh tear rolled down her cheek. “He was my partner, actually more than my partner. We were going to be married.”
“I’m listening.” Donovan put his hand over hers. “Is Andrei the man Michael and Montero found in the forest?”
“Yes, he and I are—were—operatives for the Russian government,” Sofya said as she fought her tears. “The SVR likes teams that operate as a couple; it draws less attention to our activities and movements. Andrei and I were working undercover when everything went wrong.”
Donovan, still holding her hand, squeezed it, hoping to keep her talking. Montero came forward, stopped and listened, not wanting to interrupt.
“If you want to help me, then you need to know that I can’t ever go back,” Sofya said, her eyes shifting from wounded to deadly serious. “I need you to tell my handlers I died in the plane crash, because I would rather die than go back. For years after I was kidnapped, I was tortured, and raped. At some point, I was taken by the SVR and ordered to do whatever they wanted. It was either submit to them and become an agent, or they would send me back to the sex clubs where I know I would have eventually died.”
“Whatever it takes,” Montero said. “I promise you’ll never have to go back to that life.”
“I promise as well,” Donovan said. “Between the two of us we have the resources to help you live whatever life you might choose, but we need to ensure that we all survive. Can you help us understand who wants all of us dead?”
“His name is Gregori Petrov; he’s our enemy.”
“I know who he is,” Donovan said and his eyes flared in anger. “He’s one of the richest and most corrupt men in Russia, and he made that fortune on the backs and lives of the less fortunate. Was the Boeing his?”
“Yes. We were trying to understand what he was doing, why he was making these flights. I trained as a flight attendant and Andrei as a steward, though there is a huge hole in the events, and then I remember when they started torturing Andrei. After that, I see just darkness, fragments of what happened, a jumble I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”
“Was Petrov ever on the airplane? Did you ever meet him?” Montero asked.
“No,” Sofya said. Her eyes fluttered briefly and she stared up at the ceiling as if in thought, and then her gaze dropped to her lap. “But Petrov’s son and the son’s wife were aboard, traveling under another name. They’re in their fifties. I remember from the briefings.”
“So they were on holiday?” Donovan asked.
“No, everyone was very serious. There was a bodyguard, as well as another man, and a woman who seemed in charge of the trip. Everyone seemed afraid to be around them.”
“Sofya,” Montero said as she knelt down in the aisle. “There are more pictures, images that Donovan and Jesse took inside the Boeing. Do you feel up to looking at them? They might help you fill in the black spaces.”
“Are they terrible?” Sofya asked as her eyes danced between Donovan and Montero, as if pleading for help, to not have to see horrific things ever again.
“There are some pictures of people who have died,” Montero said. “They can’t hurt you. All they can do is help you remember. Think of them as a harmless clues left behind by the universe to help you piece your life together.”
Sofya swallowed and then nodded as she pulled her hands out of Donovan’s and crossed her arms defensively across her chest while Montero opened the laptop.
“Just so you know, these are arranged in the order Jesse took them, so they start in the main salon, work aft to the main stateroom, and then forward to the galley and cockpit. If you need me to slow down, go back, or stop, let me know, okay?” Montero set the laptop on the desktop and positioned the screen so all three of them could see the images. “Are you ready?”
Sofya nodded.
Montero brought up the first image of the Boeing, shot from above, showing the airplane sitting on the sandy bottom, its nose pointed up into the air as if struggling to leave its watery tomb. The second was taken from the wing. The hole in the fuselage where the over wing exit had been opened was clearly visible.
Donovan looked at the computer, then at Sofya, trying to gauge her reaction. So far, her face seemed locked in a wince of anticipated pain and remained unchanged through the next four exterior shots. Jesse hadn’t taken another picture until he and Donovan had shed their tanks and entered the cabin. The instant the view of the flooded salon filled the screen, Sofya’s head jerked backward, startled. She closed her eyes and tears trickled down from both eyes. Montero waited until Sofya could continue, and Donovan was relieved that the next several images showed nothing but the empty passageway leading to the stateroom.
Donovan knew what was coming, and as the picture of the dead man and woman appeared on the screen, Sofya flinched as if remembering and then turned away. Montero stopped and waited.
“You’re being very brave looking at these,” Donovan said, and Sofya managed to turn back to look at the young woman in the hallway.
“Can you tell us who these two people are?” Montero asked.
“It’s the man everyone was afraid of, Konstantine, and his assistant, her name was Jaqueline.”
“Do you know how they died?” Donovan asked, knowing what the next image was going to show.
“I killed them,” Sofya said softly.
Donovan looked into Sofya’s eyes. The soft light from the computer combined with the Northern Lights spilling in through the window created an otherworldly glow. From the matter-of-fact way she said the words, he understood that she had no regrets.
Montero hurried through the next dozen pictures and slowed as Jesse entered the main salon and she stopped at the shot of the open briefcase with the gold coins.
Sofya leaned forward as if studying each coin, then turned to Donovan. “Did you take pictures of the papers that were inside the bag?”
Surprised by the request, Donovan had to stop and think. “No pictures, but we have the papers themselves, they’re in the baggage compartment. I think Jesse put everything we found in a blue duffel bag. They’re probably still half soaked and frozen.”
“You two keep going. I’ll go find them.” Montero jumped up and hurried toward the rear of the plane.
“Okay, you’re doing great,” Donovan said. He steeled himself for the next series of pictures as he pushed the button that advanced to the fire damag
e he’d found in the salon. “This is what I don’t understand. Why was there a fire?”
Sofya’s body began to shake, and she lowered her face into her hands. Donovan reached out and put his hand on her back to comfort her.
“They were torturing Andrei!” Sofya said as she cried. “They caught him going through the briefcase. They were burning him with a cigar lighter—it was like a tiny blowtorch. He was screaming. I couldn’t take it anymore and I made them stop.”
“You did the right thing,” Donovan said. In his peripheral vision, he caught Montero coming up the aisle, and as before, she stopped in the darkness close enough to listen but not so close as to interrupt.
“They were burning Andrei, so I grabbed two bottles of vodka. I broke them on the table. As I’d planned, the alcohol ignited and the men caught on fire, one man, the bodyguard, was shouting, then clothing, magazines, and blankets caught on fire. The smoke was bad, and the plane began to descend.”
“Did you know we were there?” Donovan asked.
“No, not until I was out on the wing.”
Sitting in the semi-darkened cabin, Donovan allowed himself a small smile. She’d just given him the first inkling that she was filling in the gaps after the landing. “What happened then?”
“Konstantine, who was in the stateroom, rushed forward and grabbed Andrei who was still in shock, reeling from the burns on his hands and neck. I tried to save him by using the broken bottlenecks as weapons, but I had no chance. Someone hit me from behind, and I went down to my knees. Konstantine yelled that I wasn’t to be killed, only put out of commission, and as someone held me, Petrov’s daughter-in-law jabbed me in the shoulder with a hypodermic needle. I think that’s when I went berserk. A woman named Tatiana, this horrible woman who was in charge of the girls at a club, used to drug me before she let the men at me. I learned to use my adrenaline to fight off the drugs as long as I could.”
“That ability probably saved your life,” Donovan said.
“I screamed at Konstantine as he held Andrei. The cabin was filling with smoke, and then Konstantine pulled open the emergency exit, gave me a sick twisted grin, and threw Andrei out into space. He was gone and I lost it. I threw off Petrov’s son who was holding me, picked up the shattered bottlenecks, and threw them at Konstantine, cutting him deeply on his arm, and he retreated. I turned and kicked Petrov’s son in the groin, and then without warning, the airplane touched down. The reverse thrust threw all of us off balance, and we were tossed across the salon.”
“Why do you think the pilots landed?”
“I think with the heavy smoke and all of the screaming, they thought the entire cabin was on fire and that they’d lose control of the plane and everyone would die.”
“Who had the gun?” Donovan asked.
“The woman, Petrov’s daughter-in-law, completely panicked. I doubt she even knew where we were. I think she wanted to kill everyone who knew she and her husband were on board. Once we were stopped, I heard two shots from the cockpit. When she stepped out of the cockpit, I was waiting. I grabbed the pistol and hit her hard in the throat and stomach until she released the gun. I pointed it at her and pulled the trigger. I felt nothing, no anger, no remorse, just overwhelming grief for Andrei. Next, I killed her husband, who was still on the floor holding his balls. Then, I shot their badly burned bodyguard. After that, I ran back toward the stateroom and met Jaqueline coming out the door. She had no time to react, and I shot her, too. I remember the look of shock and denial on Konstantine’s face when I pointed the gun at him. He was pitiful. He begged like a weakling to live, offering me money, freedom. I shot him twice, once to inflict great pain, the other to multiply that pain and to summon his death.”
“Then what happened?”
“I heard the sound of the cracking ice. I ran to the exit and threw myself out on the wing, but I could feel the drugs starting to take effect. It was so cold, and all I could think about was to get away from the sinking plane and the people inside. I jumped. The icy water felt like an electric shock; it drove me to climb out and keep running, but I grew so weary my legs wouldn’t push through the snow. I fell. I was only going to lie there a moment and rest before getting up again. The next thing I remember is you picking me up from the snow. I thought you were an angel. I think maybe you still are.”
“What you did was so courageous,” Montero said. “I’m in awe of what you did to survive.”
Sofya started to say something, then started to unravel. She’d recounted the events, and now the emotions caught up. She let out an involuntary moan and closed her eyes. She rocked back and forth as sobs wracked her body. She cried out to Andrei in painful, gasping spasms. Over and over she told him she was sorry.
Donovan set aside the computer and gathered her in his arms, rocking her as she cried. She was inconsolable, and he knew there were no words. The least he could do was let her know she wasn’t alone. He knew all too well the depth of her pain and the agony she felt, and would always feel. The guilt and anguish might diminish eventually, but it would never leave—it’s impossible, the wounds run too deep. Dying was easy; surviving was the hardest part.
Montero went forward to the galley and returned with a mug and a small box of tissues.
“Sofya, I brought you some tea,” she said, and even though Donovan pulled away, Sofya kept rocking back and forth. “I know it hurts, but this is not over, and we can’t lose you to your grief. You need to help us stop the people who hurt you and took Andrei’s life, starting with the Tatiana woman. I promise, when this is over, I’ll take you to Florida, or wherever you want, and I’ll introduce you to people who can help.”
“We can’t change what happened,” Donovan added. “But we can make sure that there is no one left who wants to hurt us. But to do that, we need your help. Montero found those papers, and we need you to help us read through them, to see if they can help. Can you do that?”
Sofya stopped rocking and wiped at her eyes. She started to talk several times, but her voice failed and the tears continued. Montero pressed the cup of tea into her hands and Sofya sipped. Then she opened her eyes and blinked; for the moment, she seemed to be pulling it together.
Donovan stepped away as Montero set the stack of documents on the workstation. He watched Montero peel off several of the sheets to discover that the papers beneath were soaked and fused together.
“My suitcase,” Montero told Donovan. “In the side pocket is my hairdryer—can you go get it for us?”
Donovan hurried down the aisle, switched on the light, found the blow dryer, and headed forward. When he came back, Sofya was holding the first page, reading out loud, translating the Russian to English, while Montero, pen in hand, was taking notes. Donovan slid into the science station across the aisle and plugged in the dryer. Montero handed him the stack of soggy pages and Donovan went to work. As each page succumbed to the blast of heat and could be safely peeled away from the others, he’d hand it across the aisle to Montero, who would lean in as Sofya began to read. He finally decided to aim the blast of heated air at the side of the entire stack and move the nozzle back and forth. The hot air coupled with nearly zero humidity in the cabin was working, and he began separating the stack into smaller and smaller piles until he was working well ahead of Montero and Sofya. When he was finished, he switched off the dryer and motioned to Montero that he was going to the cockpit.
“Are you okay?” Michael asked as Donovan sat down and buckled into his seat. “I could only hear parts of what was said, but it sounded difficult. Was Sofya able to help?”
“Yes. Give me a minute to process everything.” Donovan scanned the instruments and discovered that they’d already crossed a huge portion of Canada and would reach the east coast of Baffin Island in a matter of minutes. “Sofya is a Russian spy. Her fiancé was the man you found in the woods. He was thrown from the 737 after his cover was blown. He was tortured, burned with a butane lighter, and she stopped them. She killed everyone on the 737 except the fligh
t crew, and I don’t blame her. They’re going through the documents now. Maybe we’ll learn more.”
“Is she going to be okay?” Michael asked.
“I told her I’d do whatever I could to keep her safe,” Donovan said. He looked over at his friend. “Help me keep my word, and let’s not let anything happen to her.”
“You got it,” Michael said.
Donovan looked outside, and as far as he could see were the undulating ripples of the Aurora Borealis, the glow from the Northern Lights overpowering the stars. Below them, snow covered the land and the North Atlantic appeared on the horizon as a vast expanse of black. Lauren and Abigail were on the other side of the ocean, as well as a host of people who wanted them all dead. In the back of the plane a Russian spy and a former FBI agent were trying to understand how to stop the killing. He glanced at their ground speed, which was still over six hundred miles per hour, and as they roared through the night sky eight miles above the earth, Donovan had the brief sensation that they were all hurtling toward an uncertain fate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ONCE INSIDE THE Russian embassy, Lauren had been immediately separated from Kristof. Even though she sat in what appeared to be an unused office, she had no illusion that it was anything other than a holding cell. Lauren crossed her arms; they’d taken her coat and the room held a chill. As she sat in the bare room, she could finally feel her fatigue closing in on her. She had no idea if it would take them twenty minutes or twenty hours to come for her.
Seconds to Midnight Page 25
