by Dave Edlund
“Your travel was fine?” Dmitri asked to no one in particular.
Gary nodded. “Yes, uneventful and on schedule,” Peter added. “We walked around Independence Square before coming here and had lunch outside at a nice restaurant.”
“And the hotel? You are staying at the Crowne Plaza—it is okay?”
“Dmitri made the hotel reservations for all of you,” Ian said.
“So it is you I have to thank. Yes, the hotel is wonderful and the staff are very friendly, thank you.”
“It was nothing. The Crowne Plaza is usually where international guests of the university stay.”
“I understand your campus tour is tomorrow?” Ian asked, looking at Ethan.
Ethan nodded. “I’m supposed to meet at the Administration Building at 9:00 a.m.”
“Oh, that’s very close,” Dmitri said. “Are you planning to apply as an exchange student?”
“Yes, sir. I’m studying chemistry at the University of Oregon.”
Dmitri beamed with pride. “You know, this is the best university in Belarus, and it’s in the top ten of all universities in Europe. And Minsk is a lovely city, with something for everyone.”
“The architecture is beautiful,” Jo said. “The city has preserved so many older buildings.”
“You know, some of the oldest structures date to the invasion of Napoleon’s Grand Army. We are fortunate that the Nazis didn’t destroy everything during the War. Much of the rebuilding was done by the Soviets when they took their turn occupying my homeland.” Dmitri’s cheerful tone faded when he referenced the Nazis and Soviets.
“There aren’t many students on campus now,” Ian explained. “Summer break.”
Ethan nodded.
“Your grandfather,” Dmitri said, “speaks very highly of your academic achievements. I would be pleased to put in a good word for you with the department chairman. We have been colleagues for more than twenty years.”
“Thank you,” Ethan replied, feeling a tinge of embarrassment at being the focus of attention.
Sensing his discomfort, Peter shifted the conversation to Jo. “My daughter is interested in seeing some of the art treasures here in Minsk.”
“You won’t be disappointed, my dear. Please, allow me to serve as your guide at the National Art Museum. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast? It is forecast to rain lightly tomorrow, so carry an umbrella if you have one.” Dmitri’s charm was irresistible and Jo smiled.
“That would be wonderful,” she said.
“Are you also here on vacation, Gary?” Professor Savage asked.
“Not really. My company was recently hired by the university to review their IT security. When Peter mentioned he was coming here for a few days, it seemed like a good time to tag along and conduct a site audit. But I should be able to squeeze out a day of sightseeing.”
“Only one day? But there is so much to see,” Dmitri objected.
“I’m sure there is. I suspect I’ll be back to review recommendations to enhance security and reduce successful attacks on the servers,” Gary replied, not wanting to offend his new friend. “Hopefully then I’ll have more time to enjoy the city.”
The small talk wound down, and following a pregnant pause, Peter looked at his father. “How is the work going, Dad? You haven’t said much about it.”
Dmitri cast a sideways glance at Ian, unsure if there was something more to the question.
“We’ve made some progress, but lately the results have been… discouraging.” Ian looked at his son, an austere expression on his face.
“Come now, Ian. You make it sound as if we have nothing worth reporting,” Dmitri scoffed.
Ian faced his friend. “No, of course that’s not the case. But you have to agree, the data over the past month has not been positive.”
“Perhaps…” Dmitri shrugged. “However, negative results also provide valuable knowledge. I am reminded of a statement by a very famous American inventor, Thomas Edison. You know, he tested over a thousand different materials before he finally found a carbon thread that would serve as the filament of his electric lightbulb. When a reporter asked about all his failures, he replied that those experiments were not failures, rather he had succeeded in identifying a thousand materials that were not suitable for his invention.”
Ian frowned. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Sometimes I’m too impatient, I know that. Not necessarily a good trait for a scientist.” He forced a smile, and Dmitri returned a huge grin.
“Forgive me,” said Dmitri, “I am being a poor host. Allow me to show you our laboratories. Our facilities are first rate, including an advanced electron microscopy lab. After the tour we will enjoy some wine at the faculty club. Of course, you will be my guests for dinner. I know a delightful restaurant that serves wonderful Belarusian cuisine.”
“That sounds marvelous, Dmitri. Thank you. I hope your wife will join us also,” Peter said. He assumed the woman in the photo was Dmitri’s wife.
For a second, the gleam left Dmitri’s eyes, and his smile—which had been almost constant since they met—faded. “No, she will not.”
Peter immediately sensed the awkwardness of the moment, and regretted the question. “Dad tells me your labs are very well equipped,” he said, deliberately selecting a safe subject for conversation.
“Yes, we are rightfully proud of our facilities,” Dmitri said, cheerful once again. “Shall we start?”
With pride and purpose to his step, Dmitri turned right into the hallway with his guests one step behind. After passing a half dozen offices, he spoke over his shoulder, “The laboratories are in the basement so if there is any spill of water or reagents, it cannot leak into the offices or conference rooms. Just ahead, we will take the stairs.”
Suddenly, a voice boomed down the hallway from behind the group. “Ostanovis!” Dmitri planted his feet and turned, expecting to see a colleague or administrator who had issued the command to stop. Instead, he saw three men dressed in military uniforms. The lead man had thick salt and pepper hair and a bulky, muscular build. Although he appeared to be around 50 years of age, his physique was fit, lacking the belly bulge so often plaguing middle-aged Americans and Europeans. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder but the two following him were holding their rifles with both hands, still casually pointing downward.
Ethan and Jo hadn’t noticed Dmitri’s concerned expression and, failing to understand Russian, did not interpret the order to stop. They continued walking toward the stairs, speaking softly to each other. In contrast, Gary, Peter, and Ian had turned when Dmitri did and immediately recognized that something was wrong.
The trio of soldiers approached quickly, and seeing that the young man and woman had not halted, the leader issued his order again. “Stop where you are!”
This time Jo and Ethan noticed and turned to face the commotion. They were only two steps from the double doors at the entrance to the stairwell.
The leader was now standing within arm’s reach of Dmitri and his American friends. Peter’s head spun toward Ethan and Jo. “Go! Run!”
Ethan bounded for the doors, yanking one open. His sister right behind, they dashed through and sprinted down the stairs two at a time.
Crack!! The gunshot echoed in the hard confines of the hallway, obscuring the sound of the bullet shattering the glass door as it automatically swung back toward the closed position. Peter launched himself into the soldier still recovering from the recoil after firing his AK-74. He ducked his head, planting his shoulder in the man’s belly, slamming him into the wall. Still holding the rifle with both hands, the soldier slammed it down across Peter’s back, but Peter refused to release his grip around the man’s midsection.
Gary was poised to spring forward, frozen only a few feet from the muzzle of the second AK-74. The leader appraised Dmitri and Ian with discerning eyes, unconcerned with the scuffle. Without averting his gaze, he pulled a pistol from the holster at his side, pointed the gun at the ceiling, and fired.
Re
luctantly, Peter released his grip, his back deeply bruised from the beating. He knew he could not win but was satisfied Ethan and Jo were not being pursued. Peter stood upright, easily three inches taller than his adversary who still clutched his rifle, the barrel pointed at his chest. Before Peter stepped away, the soldier swung the rifle butt connecting with Peter at the belt line, doubling him over.
Nyet! Dmitri shouted and Ian rushed to his son’s aid.
Cocking his head to the side, the leader announced, “You are my prisoners. Raise your hands and do not move, or you will be shot.”
Chapter 6
Minsk
WITH ONE HAND ON his holstered pistol, still standing in the hallway, the leader spoke to Dmitri in Russian, receiving short replies to his questions. Perspiration began to appear as glistening beads on the face and neck of the Belarusian scholar. He addressed his friends. “This is General Gorev. He is in charge of the pro-Russian militia—”
“You are Americans?” Gorev interrupted. “Yes?” He paused, scrutinizing Ian and Peter while waiting for their reply.
“Yes, American,” Ian said. He raised his head and looked Gorev directly in the eyes as he replied, “I am working here with Professor Kaspar as a guest of Belarus. I’m on sabbatical.”
As he listened, the corners of Gorev’s mouth twitched and his eyes narrowed. He held out his hand. “Passports.”
Reluctantly Ian removed his passport from his pocket and handed it over to General Gorev. Gary followed suit. Peter stared at the officer, not uttering a word, hands still raised.
Gorev opened the passport and glanced quickly at the photo of Ian Savage, reading his name and city the passport was issued from. He then placed the document in his breast pocket. He repeated the process with the second passport.
“Mr. Porter,” Gorev said.
“Yeah, that’s me. You have no right holding us at gunpoint—“
“Silence!”
Gary’s eyes burned into Gorev, but the general absorbed every bit of the anger and outrage without a flinch. Shifting his gaze to Peter, he repeated his demand.
Peter shook his head slowly. “I don’t have it. I left it at the hotel.”
Gorev issued a short order and the two soldiers quickly frisked Peter. All they found was some local currency and a street map.
“Which hotel?” Gorev asked.
“The Holiday Inn.” Peter’s lips were drawn tight, his eyes hard and fixed on the general.
Gorev took a moment to measure the three Americans, looking them over from head to toe. The older one certainly fit his image of a professor, wearing khaki slacks and a light-blue long-sleeve shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His hair was whiter than snow, thinning on the top, and his goatee beard matched the pure white hair color perfectly.
The other two Americans were troublesome. The one named Gary Porter definitely had an attitude, but had so far been easy to intimidate and control. The other man, though, he was different. His defiance was obvious, having already attacked one of the militiamen, and there was a recklessness in the way he responded to questioning, as if he was looking for a fight. He stood slightly taller than the older man—a little more than the general’s own height of 1.8 meters. His thick brown hair was cut short, but not a military haircut. His frame was slender but fit; there did not appear to be an ounce of fat. General Gorev scrutinized his face again, focusing on the steel blue eyes, reading defiance and determination.
“Are you also a visiting scholar?” Gorev said.
“I’m just passing through. I was lost and asked these nice men for directions.”
Gorev’s mouth pulled back in a smile that was not reflected by the remainder of his features. “You are a funny man. How do you say it… a comedian, yes?”
“Yeah, I’m a comedian.” Peter paused for a moment before adding, “I’ll be going now.” He lowered his hands and was immediately jabbed in the back by a rifle barrel. He raised his hands over his head again.
“What is your name, funny man?” Gorev said.
“Peter.”
Gorev frowned. “Peter? That is all, just Peter?”
“Peter Savage.”
“Ahh,” Gorev said, his eyebrows raised. “You are related to Professor Ian Savage. His son, maybe?”
“That’s right.”
“I see.” Gorev paused, looking over the three men. Dmitri was sweating profusely now, and his eyes were wide in fear. In contrast, the Americans appeared to be in better control over their emotions.
The doors to the stairwell opened and five more militiamen emerged from behind Peter, Gary, and Ian. General Gorev, speaking in Russian, asked if they captured the young man and woman who fled down the stairs minutes earlier.
Two of the militiamen exchanged a confused glanced. Peter did not understand what was said but suspected it was related to Ethan and Jo. He leaned toward Dmitri. “What are they saying?” he asked in a whisper.
“Your children, they escaped.”
Inwardly Peter smiled. Thank God, they made it.
General Gorev shifted his stare to Peter. “No matter. My men will find them before they leave the campus and hold them with the other students and staff.” Then in Russian, he issued a command to the militiamen, and they moved swiftly down the hallway searching every office. If the door was locked, they kicked it in. Four of Dmitri’s colleagues were found hiding in their offices and were herded down the stairs with Dmitri and the three Americans.
Chapter 7
Minsk
A TOTAL OF 36 FACULTY PLUS Peter, Ian, Gary, and Dmitri were corralled on the ground floor in the large main conference room just off the spacious lobby and principle entrance. Two sets of double doors connected the lobby to the conference room. A large oval table was centered in the room surrounded by standard black office chairs, sufficient in number for the hostages, while additional padded chairs lined two of the walls. Overhead fluorescent tubes provided illumination, emitting a constant, soft buzz. Blackout draperies were pulled closed, preventing any view of the campus through the large picture windows. Off in a corner, General Gorev sat at a small, utilitarian metal desk, conversing with two militiamen.
Every person had been searched, and their keys, wallets, cell phones, and money were all taken and placed in a rucksack stashed underneath the desk where Gorev sat. Soon all the hostages had found a seat, forming small clusters around the room. Conversation was sporadic; voices were hushed.
Peter was carefully scrutinizing their guards. The number of guards was frequently changing as men would enter and leave. Peter thought he had counted seven unique faces, but he could not distinguish any unit patches or rank badges on the uniforms.
Abruptly Peter stood and walked toward General Gorev, only to be quickly intercepted by one of the guards. With an AK-74 poking Peter in the belly, the message was clear though no words were spoken. He returned and dropped into a chair next to his father.
Ian Savage leaned close to his son and spoke in a low voice, “Be careful. Don’t antagonize these men.”
Peter nodded almost imperceptibly, although his tense posture and stern expression told Ian that he did not fully accept his advice.
Gary scooted his chair so it was just to the right and behind Peter. He bent over, pretending to adjust the laces on his shoes. “You’re up to something; I know it. You didn’t really leave your passport at the hotel, did you?”
“It’s in my boot.” Peter whispered and tapped one foot against the other.
Gary surreptitiously glanced at Peter’s brown-leather motorcycle boots, “Anything else hidden in there?”
At first Peter didn’t answer. He turned his head and body slowly, scanning around the room and taking in both the hostages and the militiamen. At the moment, no one was paying any particular attention to the Americans.
Eyes still flitting around the room, he said, “A composite Zytel-ceramic blade.”
“Jim taught you well.”
At the mention of his friend, Commander Jam
es Nicolaou, Peter felt a minute uplift to his spirits. Soon enough, Peter reasoned, the news of the pro-Russian militia taking over the BSU campus and, most likely, other government buildings, would leak out to the world press. But it would still be days before anyone in the U.S. government knew that Americans were among the hostages. And how long would it take for Special Forces to rescue them? Days? Perhaps weeks?
Dmitri was silent—his head down and hands folded on his lap. To Peter, he appeared resigned to their fate.
“Professor Kaspar,” Peter said, modulating his voice to avoid attention.
He raised his head and looked at Peter.
“Some of your colleagues were in their offices when we were captured. They must have heard the gunshots. Did anyone call the police?”
“They said the phone lines were dead. But two managed to call using their cell phones.”
Peter nodded, imagining the local police organizing a rescue, also knowing it would take time. Then his attention landed on Gorev.
“What are they talking about?” Peter said, referring to the conversation between General Gorev and two other militiamen. They made no attempt to subdue their voices, and in the quiet room the sound carried easily.
“See the tall one with blonde hair? His name is Major Leonov. General Gorev ordered him to make certain the machine is ready and to set up a radio in the office of the Department President.”
Major Leonov was decidedly taller and younger than General Gorev, also more muscular. To Peter’s eye, Leonov looked like an elite, professional soldier.
“What machine? What are they talking about?”
Dmitri shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Although puzzled by the reference, Peter let it go for now. “Most likely the radio is so they can coordinate their actions with other groups. Have they said anything about government buildings also being taken? Anything about the police?”
“I think so. One of the men said that a police station was captured. Also the KGB Headquarters.”
“KGB?” Gary said.
