Shattered Bone

by Chris Stewart

  Robertson walked over to the special video cameras and checked the tape indicator readouts. The right camera was almost out of videotape. Reaching behind him, he pulled a fresh cassette from out of a small box and ripped it open, letting the torn cellophane drop to the floor, then turned the camera off, extracted the recorded cartridge, and replaced it with the new one. Leaning over, he checked the indicator on the other camera. It had another hour left on it. He checked his watch and decided he would return after lunch.

  As he walked out the door, he placed the recorded cassette tape in a purple and white Federal Express envelope. It would be sent to D.C. on the evening flight and delivered before ten the next morning.

  GUTHRIE, OKLAHOMA

  That night, Richard Ammon and Ivan Morozov sat in a small booth at the back of the Wooden Spoon restaurant, a greasy tin and glass cafe.

  The orange vinyl bench in which Ammon sat made his back sweat. His skin stuck against the torn plastic seat. Although they were in the nonsmoking section, Morozov constantly kept a cigarette going. The waitress would give him an occasional look of displeasure as she refilled his thick mug of coffee, but she never considered asking him to quit smoking. Richard Ammon had no doubt that, had they been in Los Angeles, the waitress would have taken Morozov’s cigarette and stuffed it in his coffee.

  But they weren’t in L.A. The ocean and hills that surrounded the Los Angeles basin were over one thousand miles to the west. Where they sat, they were surrounded only by wheat fields and dust and an occasional line of trees that had been planted to break the wind. They were nearly in the center of the country. Small town, U.S.A.

  For the past seventy-two hours, Ammon and Morozov had been world travelers. Using four different passports, they had made their way across Europe, first from Helsinki to Copenhagen, then across the ferry into Germany, and finally by train into Brussels. The nonstop from Brussels to Dallas had left them both cranky and tired, jet lag fouling up their natural circadian rhythm. After leaving the confines of the metro airport, Morozov had headed north along Interstate 35 toward Wichita, Kansas. Or, to be more specific, McConnell AFB, which lay just outside the Wichita city limits.

  All through the day they drove, always traveling just the speed limit, until they came to the small town of Guthrie. There Morozov had turned off the highway and pulled into the tacky pancake house. The two men walked inside and, though it was night, ordered the breakfast special. It didn’t take the waitress long to bring them a heaping stack of hot pancakes with a half dozen links of tiny, greasy sausage on the side. A smaller plate with diced ham and fried potatoes was set down next to the plate of pancakes. Both men dug into the food like they hadn’t eaten in a week, neither of them talking until they had cleaned their plates.

  Then Morozov ordered a refill on his coffee while Ammon sipped at the lemon slice that floated in his ice water. While he waited for Morozov to finish his coffee, Ammon looked around the restaurant with a renewed appreciation for the States. There were so many things here he had learned to enjoy. So many little things that made life here pleasant and easy. He also loved the feel of the air. Not just the smell, but the feel. It was dry and brisk and smelled of fresh wheat. It raced along the prairie and touted its freedom. It stood as a symbol and seemed to remind him of what this country was about.

  Ammon leaned back on his bench and stretched his arms while he yawned. He stared across the table at Morozov, then glanced at his watch. Morozov noticed him check the time, but gave no indication that he was ready to leave. Instead, he asked for another refill on his coffee and struck a match to light a fresh cigarette. While the waitress filled Morozov’s cup, she asked if they wanted their check. Morozov waved his hand to send her away, all the time keeping one eye on the door.

  It was then that Ammon noticed the man staring at him from the counter. The stranger had turned on his rotating stool to rest his right elbow on the counter while he inspected Richard Ammon. He made no effort to hide his interest, never turning away, eyes defiant and unblinking. Ammon tried to ignore him, avoiding his stare. The stranger was obviously not a local boy. He was dressed in tight blue jeans, thick steel-toe work boots, and a tattered black t-shirt. His head was shaved clean, except for a narrow band of six-inch hair that protruded from the back of his head and dangled down the nap of his neck. Three gold earrings protruded from his left ear. A diamond stud highlighted his pierced nose. He had enormous shoulders and arms, the obvious result of long hours pumping weights. On his right bicep was a long, black tattoo of a slanted dagger which pierced his own skin, red blood dripping from the tattered wound. He had narrow eyes, a square face, and eyebrows so heavy they connected over his flat nose. He looked to be about Richard’s age, maybe a little bit older.

  Moving slowly, he placed his coffee cup on the edge of the formica counter, stood up, and approached Ammon and Morozov. Richard nervously looked around the crowded room. The stranger pushed his way into the booth, ignoring Ammon’s look of displeasure as Morozov slid across the plastic bench to make room for him to sit down.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” the stranger asked, directing the question to Richard Ammon. Ammon looked up to study the face. He stared into the water-blue eyes. They were cold and unfeeling. Pale as haze and reflective as glass. He knew those eyes from somewhere. Sometime long ago. He studied the face, taking in the shaven head and bulging neck. It, too, was familiar. But from where, he didn’t quite know.

  “I don’t know who you are,” he finally said, sounding very vague.

  “Oh? You don’t? Come on, Carl. Think. Think back on your past.” the stranger prodded.

  Ammon still shook his head.

  “Well, we were both much younger then. Really no more than children.

  “But I know all about you, Carl Vadym Kostenko. I know where you come from. I know why you’re here.” The stranger stared intently into Ammon’s eyes and frowned. He challenged him, willing him to look away, a cold burning in his eyes. Ammon returned his cold stare, his mind racing, searching his past to place the stranger’s face. The waitress approached their table again, pot of hot coffee in hand, a check protruding from her apron string. Upon observing the two men, she changed her mind and quickly turned to the side and passed their table by.

  “Let me see your hand,” the stranger said, reaching across the table to examine the top of Ammon’s knuckles. Ammon did not pull away. With rough nails, the stranger traced the thin white line of a scar that ran between Ammon’s third and fourth knuckles. He tapped lightly on the ring finger, still knotted from the long-ago beating.

  “Good ol’ Mrs. Downer,” he sneered. “That ol’ wench could sure swing a pipe.” He let out a husky laugh. Ammon pulled his hand away. Morozov’s lips spread into a thin smile and he raised his left hand to cover his face.

  And then it hit him. “I remember you now,” Ammon said. “Back at the school. You were a little bit older. I competed against you once in boxing. Broke two of your teeth. Everyone laughed. You were already the ugliest kid in the school. Made you look even worse.”

  The stranger faked an exaggerated smile, exposing two crooked front teeth. “One day, I’ll give you another chance,” he breathed. “We’ll go at it again, you and I. See if you can take me out twice. I don’t think that you can. From what I’ve heard, you’re turning soft and pink in the middle.”

  Ammon didn’t reply. The stranger coughed and looked away. Under the table, he reached into his front pocket, pulled out a tiny bundle, and hid it inside his fist. Leaning forward, he grasped the back of Ammon’s neck. He pulled Ammon’s head across the table until their foreheads nearly touched. Ammon reeled from the smell of his breath and pushed himself back. He felt the man’s enormous fingers tighten around the muscles of his neck. His bones and tendons crunched together. He felt as though the stranger would pull off his head.

  “Do the right thing,” the man commanded in a hiss. “Do what’s right for the girl.” Tiny drops of spittle splashed across Ammon’s face. “Finis
h the mission, and don’t let us down.” He squeezed once again to emphasize his point.

  Ammon’s eyes flickered. He reached out and grabbed the man’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look in his eyes. “Touch her,” he breathed, “and I’ll kill you. It will be my only reason for living. To find you and tear out your heart.”

  The stranger’s lips curled up in the corners. “You do that, Carl,” he whispered. “I’ll be waiting for you. Pretty Boy.”

  The stranger released his grip and leaned back in his seat. Tossing something across the table, he got up without another word, placed his baseball cap upon his head, turned, and walked away. Several people, including the waitress, watched him warily as he left, his patch of dark hair curling out from under the back of his cap.

  Ammon turned to look down at the object which lay before him. As he stared at the bundle, his heart sank into his chest.

  There sat a four-inch lock of silky hair, tied in a tight knot around a simple gold ring. Jesse’s hair. Jesse’s wedding ring.

  He reached out and, ever so gently, raised the ring and hair to his face. He could smell the soap and cream rinse. The hair smelled of Jesse.

  He lifted his eyes to Morozov. He burned with murderous rage. His shoulders shook. He swallowed hard. He fingered the hair with trembling hands, then closed his eyes.

  Morozov watched Ammon for a moment, then smiled and said, “Let’s go,” as he slid across the booth and stood up. He dropped a fifty dollar bill on the table and walked casually out the front door.

  After a very long time, Ammon followed him outside. They climbed into the car, and Morozov pulled out of the parking lot, turned onto the interstate, and headed north. After accelerating up to seventy, Morozov set the cruise control, then turned on his wipers to their lowest setting. It was just barely starting to mist, but ahead of them a long line of rain clouds loomed. Ammon stared at the dark shadows that passed by on his side of the car. Blackness filled his soul. The lonely miles melted by.

  After driving for a long time in silence, Morozov suddenly turned to Ammon. “Carl, I’m going to ask you something.” he said. His voice was very direct. He made no attempt to hide his bitterness or impatience. “I want you to think about this before you answer. And I want you to tell me the truth.”

  Morozov paused. Lightning flashed in the distance. A huge semitrailer sped by, washing their car in a spray of dirty mist. Ammon waited.

  “Where does your heart lie?” Ivan Morozov continued. “What is important to you now? Do you feel any allegiance to your past or this mission?” The wipers stroked the windshield at an even pace as Morozov leaned across the car toward Ammon and asked in almost a whisper. “Carl,” he said, “can I trust you?”

  Richard Ammon didn’t respond. He continued to stare into the distance, watching the shadows from their headlights. His mind flashed back to the picture of Jesse tied to the bed, cigarette ashes specking her face. He thought of the ropes and terror in her eyes. He thought of the thug in the diner. He reached up and gently touched the tender bruise on the side of his head.

  Morozov already knew the answer to this question. Ammon really had nothing to say.

  Morozov turned his attention to the road ahead. “I want you to know something, Carl,” he said after a while. “I want you to know where you stand. I want to be very clear about the seriousness of your situation.

  “I want you to realize that it was you. You are the one who brought in Jesse. It was your disloyalty that dragged her into this mess.

  “You forced us to do that, Carl. I want you to know that. I would have preferred to not get Jesse involved. But as we watched you over the past few weeks, as we started to do a little digging, it became very obvious that you couldn’t be trusted. So we had to use Jesse. It wasn’t something we wanted to do. It was you who forced our hand.”

  Morozov glanced over at Richard Ammon, his yellow-green eyes darting between the road and his passenger. He could see that Ammon was furious. Morozov drummed on his steering wheel for a few seconds, then continued. “Ammon, your personal feelings about this job are irrelevant. And you know what I have told you is true. You would have taken off and run before I could even have stepped off the plane back in Dallas, except for the fact that you now have to worry about Jesse.

  “But as I considered your loyalties, I started to wonder. If you could be so disloyal to me, was it also possible you would walk out on your wife. I had to ask myself. What if the coward leaves me, too? What if he doesn’t really care about Jesse? What if he cares more about his thin hide than he cares about that poor little girl?”

  Ammon didn’t respond. It was such a startling thought. Leave Jesse! He had to be kidding! She’s my life. The only reason I breathe every day.

  The two men rode in silence. Lightning continued to dance in the distance, flashing from cloud to cloud. A few miles passed before Morozov slowed down and took an isolated ranch exit. The exit ramp quickly narrowed into a roughly paved road. After a few hundred feet, the pavement came to an abrupt end and a dirt road took over, winding its way into the darkness. Not another car was in sight. Morozov drove down the dirt road for about a mile, to where it suddenly made a sharp cut to the right. There he let the car coast along until it rolled to a stop.

  “What are we doing?” Ammon asked in an urgent voice.

  “There’s something I want you to see.”

  “In the middle of this field?”

  Morozov grunted. “Follow me.” He jerked open his door and stepped out into the night.

  Richard Ammon reluctantly followed him into the cool, misty air. He watched Morozov walk a short distance out into the open fields. Morozov’s body soon turned into a faded outline as he kicked and paced through the dirt. He seemed to be looking for something. Suddenly Morozov stopped and bent over. After a short pause, he yelled, “Come over here.”

  Ammon began to walk slowly out to where Ivan Morozov was now standing, stepping carefully through the muddy soil. He stopped for a moment about ten feet from Morozov. From this distance he could recognize what lay at his feet.

  “Come here,” Morozov commanded.

  Ammon inched forward until he was standing next to Morozov. There on the ground, illuminated by the reflected light of the headlights, lay a woman’s body. It was curled up into a fetal position. A dark pool of blood had collected around the figure’s head and short brown hair. A thin arm lay sprawled across the face, hiding her identity. Ammon could see that the face had been horribly mangled. A skeletal grin stared up from the darkness. The eyes were round and gaping and dried over in a thick film. Ammon instinctively recoiled.

  In a rage, he turned on Morozov. Grabbing him by the collar, he twisted his head and spun him around. “What have you done!” he screamed in his face. “Who is this? What have you done?”

  With surprising strength, Morozov pushed him away. Ammon slipped in the mud, then caught himself before he fell. Ammon turned and brought up his fists, only to find himself facing a Colt 45, the muzzle just inches from the center of his eyes. The polished steel glistened in the semi-darkness. Ammon heard a click and froze.

  “You want to know who this is?” Morozov asked, waving the center of the barrel in front of Ammon’s face, moving the tip from his nose to each of his eyes in a taunting, rotating circle. “I’ll tell you who this is. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll give you all of the details. Like how did it feel? What did we use? How long did it take her to die? You name it, and I’ll spill my guts. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Ammon shuddered, then looked away. Morozov kept the gun at his head. Ammon ignored it. Morozov pulled back on the hammer, locking it in the fire position.

  “This is you, you stupid fool,” Morozov said coldly, his voice suddenly calm and even as glass. “So take a good look. This is your future! This is you if you don’t go along.

  “You know who this is, Ammon? This is the airman who planted the bomb in your jet. We thought we could trust her. But look a
t her now. Look what my boy did to her face. And all because she got a little sloppy. Came home on leave. Had to impress her old friends. Started flashing her money. Started talking too much. Couldn’t control her loose lips.

  “And if you think this looks ugly, keep this thought in mind, for I swear to you, for every throb of pain that I cause you, I will make things even worse for your girl!

  “So walk softly, you snot-nose little fly-boy. Walk softly. And don’t piss me off.”

  Ammon glared up at Morozov. Morozov smiled. Ammon choked on his rage and frustration, then passed his hands over his eyes. Turning away, he stumbled into the darkness and made his way back to the car.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Buddy Spencer held the color photos up to his nose to get a close look. His hands shook.

  “When did these come in?” he demanded.

  “Yesterday, sir,” the aide replied. “We got the tape from Dallas in this morning. It took us until noon to digitize it so that we could manipulate the pictures for better observation. One of our interns made a match late last night. I think we got lucky. It looks like a good pick to me.”

  Spencer held the photos close once again, then set them down on the top of his desk and picked up another picture, this one a glossy black and white. It was a clear shot of Ivan Morozov. He held the pictures side by side. He was a little unsure. He wasn’t very good at such things. But it looked like a match. He punched the intercom switch to buzz his secretary.

  “Get Oliver Tray,” he said abruptly.

  Forty minutes later, Lieutenant Colonel Oliver Tray walked into the office, escorted by an Agency security guard. He wore a visitor’s pass around his neck and carried a brown leather briefcase. As he walked into the office, Spencer nodded to his desk and Oliver immediately picked up the pictures and started sorting through them. There were eleven photos in all. Each of them had been enlarged and cropped to zoom in on Morozoy’S face. They showed him from several different angles as he had made his way through customs in Dallas.