He pushed open the door and entered the corridor, pulling Julie behind him. Out of nowhere, an old couple emerged from one of the doors.
“Inside!” Charlie shouted, pointing his gun at them. “Now!”
The cowering old couple backed into the room.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Charlie said to the old man as he locked the door, “but we need absolute quiet. Understand?”
The old man nodded and Charlie herded the couple into a back room.
“What are we doing?” Julie asked.
“We’re going to wait,” Charlie said. “We’re going to wait for them to come to us.”
Chapter Sixty-one
Charlie stood by the door, gun drawn, ears straining. He’d turned the radio down but had it next to his ear so he could monitor what his assailants were doing.
“This is the only way out,” one of the voices said.
“We checked all the hallways,” another voice answered. “Nothing.”
“They must be hiding in one of the apartments,” the first voice said.
“Farhod, Stas, guard the roof. We’ll check all the apartments.”
So they were coming.
Charlie took a deep breath. It was the first time since he’d reached Julie that he had a moment to really take her in, to see what she’d been through. She looked wan and exhausted. There was a bruise on her cheekbone, a cut above her left eye. Her wrists and ankles were freshly bandaged, but blood was already seeping through the gauze.
“What did they do to you?” he whispered.
She shook her head and smiled bravely. “Nothing. It’s . . .” She looked back at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry for what I’ve put you through. For everything.”
Charlie felt a wave of tenderness. But before he could respond, the radio crackled. “First floor clear.”
A loud bang. Then another. Byko’s guards were kicking in doors somewhere on the floor below. WHAM. Shouting. WHAM. More shouting.
Charlie peeked out the door, scanning the third-floor hallway. It was empty for now, but the shouting and door banging from the floor below was getting louder and he was sure that Byko’s thugs would be here soon.
The radio crackled again. “Second floor’s clear.”
“Head up to the third floor,” said another voice.
Charlie could hear footsteps thumping up the stairs at the end of the hallway and left the door open about half an inch—just enough to see out. Through the crack, he saw two armed men burst out of the stairwell. One wore a black coat, the other brown. Someone screamed as the man in black kicked down the first door, while the man in brown covered him from the hallway. They began alternating doors—one covering, one kicking. Once the door was kicked in, they would both enter the apartment.
Charlie turned and put his finger over his lips, signaling to the old people in the bedroom to remain silent. The old man nodded, his eyes pinned on Charlie’s gun.
The screams of protest, the threats, the thudding of boot heels and the splintering of doors continued, growing closer and closer and closer. Julie pressed against Charlie, holding his hand. He could feel her rapid breathing against his neck and squeezed her hand silently.
The man in the black coat kicked in another door, then disappeared inside. This would be the last apartment before reaching the one where Charlie and Julie were. But for the first time, the man in the brown coat didn’t follow his compatriot into the apartment. Instead, he hesitated in the hallway, head cocked, as though he’d heard something that bothered him. Charlie was sure he hadn’t made a noise. Maybe the man had noticed the door was a few millimeters ajar?
From inside the next apartment came loud voices, then several thuds and a groan of pain. Someone was being beaten. The man in the brown coat frowned, muttered something to himself, then disappeared inside.
“Now!” Charlie whispered.
They stepped into the hallway, Charlie holding Julie’s hand in his left, Quinn’s Makarov in his right. As they began to run toward the far end of the hall, the man in the brown coat stepped back out of the apartment. His eyes widened as he spotted Charlie.
In full sprint, Charlie fired three quick rounds at point-blank range.
The man in brown went down in a heap.
Charlie let go of Julie’s hand and allowed her to run ahead as he turned back, still running at three-quarter speed himself so he could lay down cover fire.
The man in black poked his head out the door but the moment he realized Charlie was shooting in his direction, he ducked back inside.
This was just enough to give them a lead. Eight seconds. Maybe ten.
As Julie opened the stairwell door, Charlie could hear the man in black shouting into his radio, “Shots fired! Shots fired! Jasur’s down!”
Charlie took the stairs two at a time, still holding on to Julie. As they hit the next landing, the door from the floor below flew open and a man with the crooked nose and scarred face of a boxer plowed out into the stairwell.
Charlie released Julie’s hand and speared the boxer with a flying tackle. The boxer grunted and slammed into the wall, but didn’t go down. Charlie tripped the stunned thug and gave him a hard shove. The boxer clawed wildly at the wall, trying to arrest his fall, but to no avail. The next thing he knew, the boxer was tumbling ass over elbow down the steep concrete stairs.
Charlie raced after him, Julie in tow.
The boxer hit the next landing hard, squealing in agony. When they caught up to him, Charlie saw the boxer’s left leg sticking out at a stomach-turning angle. But with gun in hand, the man was still dangerous.
Before Charlie could react, Julie stomped the boxer in his face, slamming his head into the concrete. The boxer’s body relaxed and he slumped backward, unconscious. Julie aimed another kick at his face, then a third.
“Son of a bitch!” she screamed, plowing her foot yet again into his pummeled scowl.
It dawned on Charlie that this face must belong to one of the men who’d helped Quinn torture her. But there was no time for vengeance now. Charlie grabbed her and pulled her away.
“Come on!”
“The motherfucker!”
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
They hurled themselves down several more flights of stairs and reached the ground floor. But when Charlie shoved at the door, it groaned on its rusting hinges, opened a few inches then stuck, leaving them just barely enough room to get out.
Charlie looked up the stairs. The footsteps were getting louder. And closer.
He urged Julie through the tight gap, then squeezed through himself.
Not a second later, gunshots rang out, splintering pieces of the door.
Charlie grabbed Julie’s hand and they rushed toward the Square, pushing their way into the thickest part of the crowd.
“I think we lost them,” Julie said.
Charlie nodded. “We need to find Byko.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hopkins. MI6. They think Byko might not have given out the targets yet.”
“He hasn’t. I don’t know why, but he’s waiting.”
“You’re sure?”
“I saw him talking to his people on his computer. He said they would be sent the targets in half an hour. That was maybe twenty minutes ago.”
“If I can get to him, Jules . . .”
“His men are out there! They’re everywhere!”
“I have to try.”
“Charlie.” She touched his face gently, voice cracking. “It’s over. There’s nothing we can do now. Let’s just get out of here and go home.”
Charlie hesitated. That sounded so good. And so easy. And it was everything he’d wanted since this whole nightmare began. To be home. Safe. With his family.
But what about London and New York, Copenhagen and Vienna, Sydney and Tokyo . . . ?
Those people.
That was why Julie had entered into all of this to begin with. Even if she was willing to give u
p—out of exhaustion or the belief that it was futile—how could he? When he knew there still might be a chance.
He pulled her by the hand, forcing his way through the crowd. “Come on. I’ll get you a taxi at the Metropol and meet you at the embassy in Tashkent.”
“No,” Julie said.
“Jules—”
“You’re not going alone.”
They had reached the edge of the Square and the clouds had parted. In the sudden wash of light, everything was visible with crystalline clarity. On the far side of the Square the statue of Sultan Babur thrust upward from the throngs of people. A young man shouted into a public address system from just to the right of the bronze steed. The municipal building where Julie had sought shelter stood unchanged. Same sandstone walls, same green roof, same high windows. It was as though nothing had changed at all in six years, as though they were stepping back into the past.
She took his face in her hands, looking into his eyes.
“I know you think that you left me that day,” she said. “That you should have been there with me. But that’s just chauvinist bullshit, Charlie. I left you. I left you alone in that Square. And what you went through, what you saw—” Her voice cracked. “Don’t bother arguing with me, Charlie. I started this whole mess. If you’re doing this, there’s no way you’re going alone.”
Charlie sighed. He knew that expression. She hadn’t been broken by three days with Quinn; she wasn’t going to be broken now by him.
He paused for a moment and surveyed the scene, trying to work out what he needed to do next—and to figure a way to pull it off without getting Julie hurt.
As he tried to make sense of the confused mass of humanity, he realized that Byko would be standing up on that statue soon. How was Charlie going to work his way through the crowd to get to him? How was he going to evade Byko’s bodyguards? And how was he going to stop the dissemination of the targets? It was a madhouse already—teeming and jam packed and he was nowhere near the heart of the action yet. He needed eyes on the scene.
And then he remembered back to that day six years ago. How he had climbed up that pole, how he’d been able to see the whole thing . . .
That was it. This time, Julie would be his eyes.
Chapter Sixty-two
Byko was so angry that his entire body felt like it was vibrating.
He stood behind the statue of Babur, shouting derisive instructions to Stas, the senior surviving member of his crew. What was wrong with these cretins? An entire team of Russian special forces veterans against one journalist? And the journalist had decimated them?
Well, it hardly mattered, did it? There was nothing that Julie and her meddling husband could do to stop him now. In a few moments he would execute the final part of his masterpiece then go into hiding.
Byko held his right hand in front of his face, willing it to stop shaking. The thought that his plan was now virtually unstoppable began to calm him and the trembling subsided.
In front of him, Uktam searched the crowd with his field glasses, looking for the Davises. Stas and Farhod flanked him, submachine guns hidden under their leather dusters.
Byko forced himself to put Julie and her husband aside, to ready himself for his speech.
It was nearly time.
As they pushed their way through the crowd, Charlie explained his plan to Julie. She was skeptical at first, thinking that he was merely trying to get her out of harm’s way, but she soon realized he’d never pull any of it off without her help.
Now the question was finding binoculars or a camera. The group assembled in this Square was not a wealthy one—and Charlie needed to find someone with decent equipment.
So far, he’d seen lots of cheap cell phones and point-and-shoot cameras, but nothing that would serve his purpose. Finally, Charlie caught sight of a man who could help them. He was pointing a Russian-made Zenit with a long lens in the direction of Babur’s statue.
“You got a good look?” Charlie asked the middle-aged man, poking him on the shoulder.
The man lowered his camera and looked at Charlie with annoyance.
Charlie instantly pulled out a wad of cash and waved it at the man.
“I want to buy your camera,” Charlie said. “Two thousand U.S., no questions asked. And I’ll need your cell phone, too.”
The man frowned as he stared at the money. The offer was simply too good to be true. But he hungrily snatched the money, forked over his camera and cell phone and scurried into the crowd as if he’d just stolen something.
Charlie grabbed Julie’s hand and led her to the half-dozen large trucks parked on the other side of the Square. On the cabs of those trucks, several young men stood, high above the scene, watching everything.
Charlie handed the camera to Julie and programmed his newly acquired phone with the number of his pink-and-diamond beauty. He tested it and the bimbo’s phone rang, chiming out her song of choice.
“ ‘Baby I Love Your Way,’ ” Julie noted with a tiny tear in her eye.
“Rather appropriate,” Charlie quipped.
She grabbed him and kissed him hard on the mouth.
“I’m not going to say, ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ ” she said. “Just don’t get yourself killed after all of this. ’Cause that would really suck.”
He kissed her again and held her hard. “There’s no way,” he said. “Our story doesn’t end like that.”
She nodded, wanting to believe him. “I love you.”
“I love you,” he said, then called to one of the kids atop the truck. “Hey! Can you help this lady get up there?”
Salim skirted the crowd, dragging his wounded leg, trying to find a good location.
Charlie was a good man, maybe even a great man, but despite all they’d been through together, he still seemed to think that Salim was just a boy, someone who needed to be protected. Well, he was not the first one to make that mistake. People had been underestimating Salim for a long time.
He stopped and surveyed the Square. He had seen a video once of the rally from six years ago. It had been larger than this one. But not by much.
He looked for a place that was higher than everything else, someplace from which he would have a clear, open view of the Square.
Then he saw it. On the far side of the Square was a big municipal building with a green roof. It had high windows that looked directly down onto the statue of Babur.
Perfect.
Charlie stopped fighting his way through the throngs of people when he got to within twenty yards of Sultan Babur. He had spotted several of Byko’s remaining men at the base of the statue.
“I see at least three on the base,” Charlie said into the phone.
“There’s four,” Julie responded. “One’s on the western side, in your blind spot.”
“I can’t see Byko.”
“I’ve got him. He’s about to get up on the statue.”
Charlie had to get closer. Even if there was a danger of being seen. He was sure Byko was going to send out the targets during his speech.
“I’m moving in,” he said.
“There’s some kind of barricade around the statue,” she replied. “He’s got two, wait, no, three guys moving right next to him. Two of them are bodyguards. The other one, it’s this guy in a Homer Simpson T-shirt. I saw him back at the hotel. He’s some kind of computer geek.”
Charlie pulled the pistol out of his waistband, letting it dangle where nobody in the crowd would spot it, then put his shoulder down and bulled his way toward the statue.
“Where’s Byko?” Charlie barked.
“East! He’s on the east side of the statue.”
And Charlie spotted him—eyes intent, body coiled with energy. Charlie considered trying to shoot him from here. But it was pointless. He was too far away. And in a crowd like this, all he’d do was kill an innocent bystander.
Suddenly Byko turned and looked out at the crowd. This time, he seemed to be searching the faces of the people in front of him
. Charlie tried to avert his eyes, but it was too late. Byko was staring right at him.
How in God’s name did he get here?
Byko whirled and shouted at Farhod, “He’s here! Goddamnit, get him!”
He watched Charlie duck into the crowd and disappear from view.
But Byko would not allow that man to get in his way, or to get in his head. There was nothing Charlie Davis could do now.
Byko turned back toward the statue.
A college student had been speaking to the crowd, his mouth so close to the microphone that his cries of outrage and optimism were distorted by the powerful sound system. Byko recognized the innocent ardor in the eyes of the young man as he shouted about democracy and freedom, and supposed there had been a time when his own face had probably looked like that. But platitudes were not enough. Not anymore. The message Byko was about to bring to the stage was going to be darker than this boy’s. But it would also be clearer, purer, more mature.
And his people would recognize the hard wisdom in it.
Byko closed his eyes and prepared himself. He had played this moment over and over in his mind. The performance needed to be perfect.
“And now let us hear from the hero of Andijan . . . ,” the young man shouted. “ . . . Alisher Byko!”
Byko swung himself up onto the statue and looked out at the crowd, remembering the last time he had been here, the hope with which that day had begun—and the tragedy into which it had descended. This time it would be different.
Forget Julie Davis. Forget Charlie Davis. They were irrelevant.
Byko raised his hands and the crowd broke into a long, sustained cheer.
This is my moment.
Julie could see Byko’s men—four or five of them—fanning out into the audience, all armed with AK-47s. And they were getting closer and closer to Charlie.
“Where exactly are they?” Charlie asked. “Give it to me on a clock.”
Julie looked through the camera. “Two at your three o’clock. One more at eight o’clock. I don’t know where—I lost the other one.”
She swung the camera wildly, trying to isolate the most important threat, to guide Charlie to safety. But then she lost him altogether.
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