After Farrell had made a few calls, they settled down to wait for their lift to the airport. The two remaining FBI agents went outside to stand guard duty and Anastasia sought her own counsel by staring at the window. A car came by and took Morozoff away. He said nothing to anyone, although he nodded politely to Harry on his way out. Anastasia merely hissed at him. As for Istvan, he did what he did best—he ate half of what was in the refrigerator and took a nap on the carpet.
With the cabin now mostly empty, Harry sat at the table and hoped that Jason and Tina would be safe. In the deeper recesses of his mind, he prayed that his program would work and that they’d be able to do what they did in time.
“Are you going to work on something?” Anastasia called from her window position, interrupting his mental gymnastics.
What could he work on? He had no computer and didn’t feel like going through the equations again. It just made his head hurt. Right now, he didn’t feel like revealing his uncertainty to her. It was a sure bet that she already knew. “I, uh, I’ve got some things to figure out,” he said.
With a series of quick steps, she came over and draped her arms around his neck. “Then figure things out,” she whispered into his ear while her hands caressed his face. “I’m going to take a nap upstairs. You can join me later if you want.”
That was the best offer he’d had in a long time. “I’ll be up soon.”
She left him alone then and he sat idly, doodling on a piece of paper. As he sat and drew nonsensical pictures, Farrell came over and took a seat beside him. “Sorry to keep you running all over the place, kid, but that’s part of the job.”
“Your job, not mine,” Harry answered, feeling that once again, he and his girlfriend were about to be tossed into the den of mutant lions. Would they have any backup? Probably not, but he couldn’t predict the future. Right now, he was too tired to correct the older man on his use of the word kid. It wasn’t worth it.
“Let’s talk out back,” Farrell suggested, pointing to the rear door. “The walls have ears.”
Not sure if he was joking or not, Harry followed him outside. The tableau in front of them, stately elms and firs, the sounds of insects singing and birds chirping, calmed him down somewhat. However, this calm could be shattered at any moment, so he remained on edge and sniffed the air. So far, all was as it should be—quiet. “What is it?” he finally asked.
Farrell chewed on his lower lip. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this, sorry for you and your girlfriend. At the beginning, I really didn’t know about Szabo or Kulakov or any of this.”
Listening to that explanation, Harry found it more than a little hard to take in. Farrell had known about the escapees, all thirty-plus of them, months back. He’d exchanged information with the Hungarians and the Russians. The only thing he couldn’t predict was that the enemy would come where they were... but he should have figured on it. Harry swallowed his anger. “Fine, so you’re sorry. What else is there?”
“I don’t have much else going except this,” said Farrell, his voice very quiet now. “You know what I do when the job is done for the day?”
What was up with the true confessions? Was this really a time to go into it? Flustered, Harry got out a “No” answer.
“I usually sleep in my office. Or I go home and sleep. That’s it. How’s that for a lifestyle?”
He spoke without pity. It was the sound of a person who’d accepted his lot in life and didn’t complain about it. Yet the sound in his voice spoke of hurt, relationships irreparably damaged, and pain. Farrell reached into his pocket and withdrew a picture of a young blonde girl, late teens, pretty, with an angular face and a cute smile.
“Is that your daughter?” Harry asked, after doing the polite thing and examining the picture.
Farrell pocketed it again. “Yeah, she lives with her mother on the West Coast. We got divorced three years ago... haven’t seen her much. I’m, uh,” he shuffled his feet, suddenly at a loss for words, “not much on conversation.”
“How about doing the old reconciliation thing?”
A harsh chuckle came from Farrell’s mouth. “No, no that isn’t in the cards. I’m too involved in this job. That’s the reason she left me, because I had my work, twenty-four seven, and now this, and...”
His voice trailed off, but Harry heard the loneliness and regret in it. He also regretted his earlier, lonelier years, but time was something you could never get back. Once it was gone, only the memory remained. A person couldn’t live in the past forever. Farrell picked up a handful of pebbles and flicked them away one by one. “I’m just sorry that you and Anastasia won’t have the chance of living normal lives.”
With a quick move, he chucked the other pebbles away. “Do you want to change back, I mean, to being human?” he asked.
Offended by the question, Harry snapped his head around and responded, “I am human. I eat, go to the bathroom, shave—a lot—and do everything you do. Don’t box me into one of your departmental categories. Don’t do that to Anastasia, either.”
Farrell put up his hands as a sign of backing off. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I mean, you chose to become, uh, how you are. Anastasia didn’t. If that plan of yours works out, are you going to use it?”
The expression on his face read sincere all the way, so Harry dropped the anger act. Farrell had asked an honest question. It required an answer, but Harry didn’t have one. If his plan worked and if the engineers could build a proper Genesis Chamber, if... he stopped thinking about it. Being as he was, it didn’t bother him, but the very fact that he was different seemed to bother everyone else.
Yes, he had chosen to take the serum. Anastasia hadn’t, and he wanted her to have the chance at being what she was. She’d been denied a proper life. He felt it only right to give her the chance of one. That was, if his formula worked. It always came back to the formula.
Finally, Harry decided to let whatever happened, happen. He wasn’t the one to decide for anyone. “It’s her choice,” he said, “and why are you telling me all this?”
Farrell spread his hands wide as if to lay out the facts of life in a few sentences. “Because I don’t want you winding up like me. You’ve got a future. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Age is not a factor, and I’m not butt-kissing. I, uh, just want you and your girlfriend to be safe... and to be happy.”
He turned away then and walked into the cabin. Touched by Farrell’s sincerity, Harry thought about what had just been discussed. Right then and there, he promised himself that no matter what anyone said, he’d always be true to himself and to his girlfriend... and to no one else.
He went inside and up to where the rooms were. Anastasia lay on a bed, her eyes closed. He thought she was asleep. She wasn’t, as she turned over in a flash, her eyes glittering in the semi-darkened room. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
What to tell her—that they were about to become cannon fodder for one maniac and possibly two? Perhaps she knew, for she reclined on the bed and said softly, “Talk to me. I’m here for you. I always have been.”
He went over to the bed and she held him tightly. “I’m worried about what might happen,” he confessed, feeling ashamed of what he thought was weakness.
Anastasia’s touch, gentle and soft, soothed his soul, if only for a while. “Whatever’s going to happen, there’s nothing we can do about it. If anything does happen, I’ll be there for you. I’ll never leave you,” she whispered. “You can never leave the one you love.”
Chapter Nine: Welcome to My World
The same evening, they set out for Serbia. Harry contacted Jason by email and asked him to be careful. Guards or not, he wrote to keep a sharp eye out. Jason wrote back in five minutes. Maze and I are still on duty. We’re going to keep track of what’s going on by satellite. Take care, man.
As for Szabo, there was no point in Harry leaving a message. He doubted that the man-shark had stuck around long enough. He might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid enough to risk hi
s life over a letter or stay on unfriendly shores.
At eight that evening, a car picked them up and they drove to the airport. “Stop for no one and nothing,” Farrell instructed the driver, a compact bald man with a grim, unsmiling face. “If anyone tries to slow us down, shoot him.”
Along the way, Farrell passed out three small capsules to each of the travelers. “What is this?” Istvan enquired. “Do I eat this?”
“It’s a transponder,” Farrell replied. “You swallow it. It attaches itself to your lower intestine and will remain there for up to five days before your body gets rid of it.”
Harry had read about these things as a high school student, a home schooled student, that is. He’d never attended a public high school, as he’d outperformed even university professors by that time. “I thought these transponders didn’t have a great range, something like five hundred meters,” he said.
“Most of them do,” Farrell said while clicking something on a remote control type of device the size of a cellphone. “These are prototypes, developed by our people as well as some of our friends in the armed forces. They’re designed to bounce a signal off a satellite. The signal is then relayed through other satellites and we can pick up your location via a tracking system.”
It sounded workable, so Harry took his capsule and swallowed it. Anastasia and Istvan did the same and Farrell clicked the remote on. “This is my portable tracker,” he said. “We’ll use a more powerful one at a safe location in the States once you get over to Belgrade.”
Safe... was anywhere safe? Harry wondered. “How are Jason and Tina taking all this?” Anastasia asked, cutting into his thoughts.
“For now, they’re being guarded at their houses,” Farrell replied. “I doubt they’re targets, but we’ve got plainclothes agents on watch and we’ll keep them there until this is over.”
“If it’s over,” Anastasia muttered.
Her comment caused Farrell’s lips to tighten, but he said nothing. Instead, he swiveled around in his seat and remained quiet until they got to the airport. Once there, Harry, Anastasia and Istvan got on a plane in a private hangar. Farrell saw them off. “You’ll be met at in Belgrade by a man named Dobrilo Ilic. He’s a commander in the Serbian Armed Forces. Outside of you two, he’s the only person who’s ever survived a close encounter with those things. He’ll be your guide. Listen to him.”
It seemed like a plan. The airplane was a small, bare-bones deal, just seats and not much else, but it did have a television screen, and the pilot had been kind enough to rustle up a few sandwiches to tide them over on their trip to Belgrade. The flight from JFK to Reykjavik and then to Nikola Tesla Airport took roughly eleven hours. During the flight, Harry tried to sleep, but couldn’t. His heart raced with the possibility of meeting more of his kind—and not liking them.
Istvan, as usual, curled up in his own seat and passed out, while Anastasia whispered, “It’s just you and me. If you’re into talking, then we can talk.”
Tongue-tied at the possibility of being rejected, Harry decided to ask the question that he’d been thinking of. He’d mentioned it earlier on, but never got a definitive answer, as something always seemed to pop up at the last second. Still, he was too much in love with her not to ask and he didn’t want to wait. “Uh, I just wanted to ask you a question.”
She leaned closer to him, her breath warm and sweet. “Yeah, I’m listening.”
“Are you into, I mean, do you,” he stuttered out, “do you want to get married?”
Her eyes widened. “Are you really serious?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
For a change, she had no snappy comeback. Instead, her jaw dropped open and she wet her lips with a delicate pink tongue. “I didn’t think you were serious about it when you asked me before,” she said.
“I am.”
An eternity passed and he saw the scales of marriage and single life being weighed in her eyes. The eternity ended when her lips parted in a smile, something he hadn’t seen in a long time. “The answer is yes,” she said. “Yes, I will marry you. And we’ll have kittens, you’ll see.”
She said it with such a serious air, he burst out laughing. The sound woke Istvan up and he blinked. “Are we there yet?”
“Go back to sleep,” Anastasia commanded. He pouted, but lay down and soon passed out.
Once he did, Harry whispered, “Are we going to name them Huey, Dewey and Louie?”
“Those were ducks,” she answered, regarding him with all the imperiousness of a princess eyeing an underling. “I was thinking of something more aristo...”
“Catic,” he finished for her.
Anastasia giggled and kissed him hard on the mouth. Their mirth was interrupted by the sound of the pilot opening the door. “I’m turning on the television screen,” he called out. “You have to watch this.”
A second later, the screen lit up. It showed an empty room with only a few tables and chairs. A laptop sat on the table. Farrell walked into the frame and took his seat in a chair. With a trembling hand, he turned on the computer. He looked disheveled and his eyes were red, as if he’d been crying. When he spoke, it came out as a whisper of anguish. “Harry, Anastasia, this was sent to me a few minutes ago. It was a tape that Szabo made.”
He pointed at the computer screen. The image was dark, but Harry made out the details easily enough. Szabo stood in front of a row of cells crammed with frightened, shouting people. “Goldman,” he said in a voice that held a terrible purpose and glee in it, “since you have not answered me, I can assume that you have not accepted my offer.”
Szabo then swept his hand at the cells. “These are some citizens that my friends and I have invited. I have others held at different locations. What you see before you are doctors, teachers, bankers, housewives, police officers and more. Because of your recalcitrance, they shall be no more.”
As Harry watched, transfixed and with a sense of mounting horror, Szabo snapped his claws and two more mutants with insect-like heads and human bodies entered carrying large metal canisters with nozzles attached. They proceeded to spray the hapless inmates. A second later, Szabo took out a lighter. “Think about this, Goldman.”
He tossed the lighter inside. Flames immediately filled the cell and the occupants started screaming. The tape abruptly cut off. Glancing sideways, Anastasia had her hands at her mouth. “He didn’t do that... did he?” she whispered.
“He did,” Farrell confirmed in the grimmest of all voices. “The tape is real. Those were some of the prisoners he captured earlier on. I’m going to assume the others are also dead.”
Anastasia started growling curses in a low, angry voice. Farrell urged, “Be careful, please.”
The transmission ended. Anastasia turned to him, a look of murder in her eyes. “He’s going to die. No question, if anyone deserves to die, it’s him.”
“We have to find him first.”
Anastasia’s look of rage then faded, replaced by a terrible emptiness. “Can we really do this?”
Privately, Harry was asking himself the same thing. “No one else can.”
With a quick move, she slid her hands around his waist and snuggled her head into his chest. “I want to sleep, but I can’t. Those people...”
Her voice trailed off. “Yeah, those people,” he echoed as he stroked her fur. “We’ll do what we can. That’s all we can do.”
They continued to hold onto each other, each of them lost in their thoughts. Harry remained alert. No talk of marriage now. They had too many things to worry about, chief among them when Szabo would strike next. The man-thing was a certifiable maniac, and killing indiscriminately didn’t bother him at all. Harry only hoped that if it came to a showdown, then he’d have the strength to outlast the monster. At the very worst, he’d take Szabo with him.
One layover in Reykjavik and eleven hours later, the flight touched down at three-thirty local time and they taxied into a private hangar. Jet lag hit Harry right away and all he wanted to do was
to get some sleep, but that would have to wait. The pilot, a thickset man by the name of Murphy, said that their contact would be meeting them soon. “Good luck,” he said. “I saw what that thing did. If you can get him, then get him. Farrell said that you two were special, so try not to get dead.”
With those sage words of counsel, the pilot once more disappeared behind his door. Anastasia let out a low whistle. “Don’t get dead, he says. Now that’s a real confidence booster.”
Harry chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, it is. Let’s go meet our contact.”
After waking Istvan up, they disembarked from the airplane and found themselves in a large hangar roughly the same size as the one the FBI had used back in New York. A short and muscular man in his early thirties stood next to a nondescript four-door car a few yards from the plane.
Even from a distance, Harry saw the scars on his face. It looked like talon marks had left deep purplish-red grooves down the right side of his face. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had done that. An eye-patch covered his right eye. He wore a dirty green uniform similar to what American army grunts wore and saluted them as the approached. He gave Istvan only a passing glance. Instead, he focused his attention on Anastasia and Harry. If he felt any displeasure at seeing them, he didn’t show it.
“My name is Dobrilo Ilic,” he said in a thick accent. “I am attached to the Eleventh Infantry Battalion of the Serbian Army in Novi Sad. That is where the attacks were. I am pleased to see that you are on our side.”
His grammar was decent enough, but Harry found his accent tough to get straight in his own head at first. “Nice to meet you,” he answered. “I’m Harry and this is—”
“I know who you are,” Ilic interrupted. “Agent Farrell of your FBI told me. He also sent me pictures of tape that showed people being roasted alive. Those were Serbian people.” A scowl crossed his features. “Come, we have much to discuss.”
Revolution Page 13
