The Bitter Past, page 24
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How he ran so far so fast, Georgiy would never be sure. With every step came white-hot pain and thousands of reminders that if he somehow survived, he would carry a scar on his face that would likely terrify any woman or child that gave him a passing glance, leaving him to face the world alone. Perhaps that would be better since his life would be lived on the lam. His only hope was that the KGB and the Americans would believe that he had perished in a botched “nuclear accident” along with the others Moscow had sent.
He covered the distance in just under an hour.
The Ellison home was a hundred yards to the east and faced south, and like nearly all of the houses on the upper-class block, there were still no lights on inside. He had expected the opposite. The quiet house meant either Kitty had already been taken to the hospital to be with her father or they had not bothered with her yet because of the confusion that must have ensued after discovering the warhead was missing. From his position in a large hedge down the street, he waited and watched, and after a few minutes, the first rays of sun shooting over Sunrise Mountain, he was just a moment away from slinking away. But then his eye caught a spark of light coming from the inside of a black Chevy Styleline parked about seventy-five yards away. It was the flame from a cigarette lighter.
Was this the man William had watching Kitty in case Georgiy failed to access Building 11 and the warhead? Or was this the CIA or FBI waiting and watching for him? He quickly discounted the latter scenario. If the manhunt was on and the authorities wanted to talk to Kitty Ellison, they would not sit patiently outside her home until she got out of bed. No, this was a KGB man, a man who had not yet heard from his boss, a man who was waiting for direction.
Georgiy moved slowly and quietly through the vegetation from house to house, careful not to stir the neighborhood dogs. That lasted until they started howling at the police sirens coming in their direction. As the man in the car sat up stiffly in his seat, the commotion gave Georgiy the advantage he needed. When two police cars and a black sedan pulled onto the east end of the street, he had closed to within twenty yards, ducking into a hedge. The men in the cars got out and swarmed the Ellison home.
As he watched Kitty Ellison answer the pounding on her door and the authorities rush in, the man in the Styleline slowly slunk downward in his seat. He would watch and wait. But he was looking forward and, so, did not see the man with the bloody sock tied around his face approach the passenger side of the car.
Georgiy was in the car before he could react, a semiautomatic with silencer leveled at his oversized gut. “You’re the man William sent?” he asked in Russian.
“Yes!” the man responded excitedly in Russian. He was older, probably in his fifties. “What’s going on? What happened?”
His Russian was perfect, so Georgiy shot him. With so much belly fat, however, it was as if he was having a mild case of heartburn. He reached out with both hands and seized Georgiy’s gun hand. His grip was like a vise, and Georgiy could feel the bones in his wrist starting to break. It was his left hand that saved him, his fingers slicing upward into the man’s belly right where the blood was now oozing from the bullet wound. When he recoiled, Georgiy shot him in the throat.
That thirty seconds of struggle was all the time it took for the American authorities to remove Kitty Ellison from the house. In her bathrobe, they led her to the black sedan. If any of them looked in Georgiy’s direction, he would be seen, as would the blood that seconds earlier sprayed the windshield. He pulled the fat man down across the seat and lay over the top of him, the smell of spent gunpowder and fresh blood filling his nostrils.
His eyes barely above the dash, Georgiy looked at Kitty Ellison one last time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. A minute later, the sirens and lights pulled out of the neighborhood. Georgiy waited. The neighbors were all awake now, many of them looking out their windows or out on the front lawn wondering what all the noise was about so early on a Wednesday morning. Once they withdrew into their respective homes, Georgiy Dudko got behind the wheel and drove inconspicuously away.
CHAPTER 17
It is 6:00 P.M., and my nemesis the dark night waits outside. I take a call at my desk. It is brief.
“There is a brown Mustang parked just across the highway. Walk Wolverton to it, get in, and drive south. Leave your phone behind. There’s one in the car. I’ll call you in five minutes.”
“Really, Pete? You’re jacking cars now?”
No response, just dead air. I had anticipated something like this. Pete is too smart to allow me to take my own vehicle or to bring my phone. This way, he controls the means of transportation and communication. I pull the Kevlar vest over my head, strapping it tightly to my torso, and take my favorite flannel-lined Duluth jacket off the door hook. I walk out of my office for what I know could very well be the last time and nod to the folks. “It’s on. Arshal, you’re in charge. I’ll see you when I see you.”
They look at me, knowing that is very wishful thinking. I remove the holster strapped to my thigh and set the Glock down on Tuffy’s desk, along with the two spare clips attached to the back of my belt.
Tuffy steps toward me. “Boss.”
I shake my head. “No, Tuff. I’ve got something he wants. He’ll trade.” I look over to the waiting area where my father is sitting. “All of you are to stay here. If you don’t hear from me in three hours, all bets are off. Do what you think best.”
It seems inconceivable to them that I am willing to risk my father’s life like this, to pass him off as a Soviet spy from the 1950s, even though he is exactly that. This is news I haven’t shared with my deputies and which they would never believe, especially Arshal and Tuffy. The man who hired them both, who trained them, who knew their families and friends. I would have told them if the information would have been useful, but in this case all it does is put their lives in more danger.
The air is chilly and the sky all but black, the half-moon just now rising in the east. It took no convincing on my part to get Pop to come along with me on this. He demanded it, unwilling to risk another life for his. I walk him slowly across the street from the office, as much to pass him off as a partially disabled Chuck Wolverton as to allow me to focus on my narrowing field of vision. Pop does his part, bending over Wolverton’s walker, his winter hat pulled down low over his forehead, the portable oxygen tank slung over his shoulder. I see the brown Mustang immediately on the corner, and a minute later we are in.
“Why am I driving?” Pop asks.
“Humor me.” I tell him to take a right onto the highway. The burner phone on the seat rings.
“I’m here,” I say, hitting the speaker button as Pop quickly accelerates. I motion for him to bring the speed down as my eyes adjust to the spray of the headlights. Pop throws on the high beams, which widens my peripheral vision a few feet on either side.
“So far, so good, Sheriff. A few ground rules before we begin: I have eyes on you, obviously. Not me specifically, mind you. It’s important you follow my directions as soon as I relay them to you.”
About what I figured so far. No doubt Pete has a device under the car that tracks its location so that he and any helpers will know our location at all times. This way he can relay his directions a piece at a time, and I won’t know where Pop and I are going to end up.
“Second,” says Pete. “It should go without saying that the woman dies if you try anything stupid. That includes drones overhead, helicopters, other vehicles. If I get paranoid, she dies.”
I look over at Pop. “Check, no high-tech toys that will make Pete paranoid.”
“Third, I know your history, Colonel. You are not a man who likes to lose. You have lost a lot already. Atterbury, Pollack, that imbecile Wardell, and you’re about to lose Wolverton. If your pride tempts you to try to even the score, you will lose again. And you will never find Agent Locke.”
That confirms what I’ve suspected: Sana is being held in a separate location. If I have a chance at getting her back, it won’t be until I have surrendered my father to the Russians. And I doubt very much this is going turn into one of those Checkpoint Charlie scenes from the movies where I send Pop down the road while they send Sana toward me. This won’t be a one-for-one exchange. “Seems pretty clear to me,” I say.
“I’ll call you back,” Pete says. The line goes dead again.
I look over at the man who has shattered my reality. “Pop, you understand what we’re doing, right?”
He raises his chin, a look of shame on his face.
“I’m serious. I need you to repeat it to me.”
“The guy thinks Wolverton is the illegal. He’s never seen me, at least as far as we know, so we let it play as long as we can. When he starts asking me questions, I answer.”
Actually, Pete has probably seen Pop fifty times in his two months on the job. My office has his picture on the wall. The question is, will he recognize him in person and in the dark?
“Thing I don’t understand,” Pop says, “is why you didn’t tell the crew who I really am.”
I can feel my face getting hot again. “Oh, I may tell them. I may have to. Because whatever happens out here tonight, you are not going anywhere. Are we clear? You remember what to do if it comes to that?”
Pop’s head falls forward. “You don’t worry about me. I’ll do my part.”
We drive another minute, and I have Pop keep the Mustang close to thirty-five. “What are we doing all the way out here?” he suddenly asks, a blank look on his face. I know that tone.
My jaw drops. It’s not wise to have him driving right now, given his dementia, but right now his disability pales in comparison to mine. “Pop, are you with me? Don’t go away on me now.”
Pop turns to me. “Porter, this isn’t the way home. Take me home. I’m hungry.”
Shit. “Pop,” I say, and then slowly in Russian, “Georgiy, remember where you are. We are going to meet the man who has been hunting you. Do you remember?”
It takes a few seconds, but I see my words registering on his face. “Da,” he says, “ya pora domoy.” Yes, it is time to go home.
I have to look away. “Hearing you speak Russian upends my entire universe, Pop. Maybe we try putting that genie back in the bottle.”
He laughs, continuing in his native tongue. “Ah, but it feels so good to say the words out loud. For sixty years, I’ve only said them inside my head.”
“Jesus, please stop.” Thankfully, the burner rings again, and I press the green icon on the screen.
“Why are you driving so slow, Sheriff?” Pete asks.
So, he’s tracking us but has no idea Pop is driving. “Well,” I say, “Mr. Wolverton is not in very good shape, and he had to spit up a little. But I think we’re good now.”
“That’s good to hear because you’re coming up on your exit. In half a mile, take the turn for Cathedral Gorge.”
“You’re the boss.” It is a place of staggering beauty in the daylight, a two-hundred-acre narrow stretch of volcanic ash and bentonite clay formed millions of years ago, carved by erosion into the most spectacular sand-colored spires, some of them as tall and grand as cathedrals. It has been a home to various groups of Anasazi and, most recently, the Southern Paiutes, and as I came to know early in life, is the perfect place to play hide-and-seek.
I motion to Pop to make the turn into the main entrance of the park, more from memory than sight, the car’s headlights doing little to help me. “Park at the trailhead,” Pete says. Moments later, Pop brings the truck to a stop at the Eagle Point Trailhead.
“Hey, Pete?”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
“I have to ask. Why did you take out your own guy at Big Rocks the other day?”
It takes a moment for him to respond. “From the blood, I knew you had wounded him badly. There was no way for me to get him out, and I couldn’t risk you interrogating him. It was … unfortunate.”
“Gosh,” I say, using my finest sarcastic tone. “I’m sorry about that. I hope he wasn’t a friend of yours.”
I can hear the hate simmering in Pete’s voice. “Both of you get out of the vehicle. Take the stairs to the canyon floor and walk south on the trail until I tell you to stop. We’re watching.”
I drop my chin to my chest. “Is it just me, Pete, or is this an odd place for a handoff? Can’t we do this up here? Mr. Wolverton here is pushing ninety, and that’s a lot of steps to walk down.”
“Do it,” Pete replies, and I motion Pop to get out of the car.
The moon is a bit higher now, but looking down from the top of the gorge, I can barely see the stairs in front of me. Month by month, my disease is getting worse. If I make it out of here tonight, I will have to reevaluate a number of things, including available treatments, maybe a friendly Chihuahua who can guide me around at night. I’ve simply put too many lives at risk, Pop’s included now. I listen, but there is only the slight wind and the sound of desert crickets that carries on the air. Clicking on my flashlight, I support my father by the arm, and we precariously descend the metal stairs to each of many landings. It takes forever. Finally, we reach the desert floor and begin walking south.
A few hundred yards in, I hear Pete’s voice on the still-open line. “Up ahead to your left is a UTV. Get on and take the trail south. Do that until I tell you to stop. It will be noisy so keep the phone to your ear.”
I nod, wondering if he’s close enough to see me. “I’m impressed, Pete. You know your way around here. Beautiful place during the day. Nothing like this back home, though, right?”
There is no answer. My light finds the vehicle a minute later. It’s a nice rig, a Polaris RZR, one of the really expensive ones, and I wonder who Pete ripped off to get it.
“Thank God,” Pop says, yelling toward the phone and climbing in. “I’m on oxygen, you know?” I wink at him for playing the part well.
For better or worse, I’ll have to take the wheel this time. Pop drives these things like he’s riding a rocket, the faster the better. In this canyon, with cliffs and sharp edges, we’ll be dead inside two minutes. Thankfully, the headlights help a lot, and we drive slowly down the narrow, bumpy trail that meanders through the many ancient megaliths. Pete has planned well and obviously has called in additional help. The RZR will be how he takes his prisoner out of the canyon, leaving me on foot and too far behind to try to impede his escape. If I’m alive.
“Drive faster,” Pete says into my ear.
“Listen, asshole, it’s dark out here.” I don’t speed up because I’m buying time. Passing the Juniper Draw Loop, we come upon the old adobe-style water tower built in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps.
As we take the bend in the road, I hear Pete say, “Keep going, you’re almost there.”
That tells me everything I need to know. I reach into my coat pocket and touch a button on a little metal cube the size of a ring box. Then I pull it out and let it fall from my hand into the dirt. A minute later, Pete commands me to pull off the road into the area that fronts the Moon Caves, possibly the most majestic part of the park. Here the volcanic spires stretch highest into the sky, and sheer walls of clay and ash descend more than fifty feet in some places. Some of the interconnecting passages are barely wide enough to hold a human body.
“Stop there. Bring the key with you. Get off the buggy and walk straight. There’s a slot canyon to the left. Take it.”
Pop and I proceed on foot and enter a narrow crevasse between two massive walls of hardened ash.
“Stay behind me,” I tell Pop, pointing the light ahead. In a few minutes, I know, the moon will be high enough to light up these tunnels. Please hurry, I tell the moon.
“Don’t have much choice,” Pop says, turning sideways to squeeze through the tight space.
After a minute or so, we emerge into a grotto, a huge semicircular end of the road as it were. Pete is waiting twenty feet ahead. With my flashlight, I can just make out that he is wearing his night vision goggles and has a handgun with a silencer pointed in my direction.
“Douse the light, Beck. I can see you just fine.” I kill the flashlight. “In the dirt, both of you.”
I help Pop to his knees and then drop onto the hard ground. “Wish I could say it’s nice to see you, Pete.”
“Remove your coat, Sheriff. Slowly. And toss it to me.”
I comply, tossing the jacket just a few feet and making Pete come in for it. When he does, I can see him going through the pockets. He’s found the key to the four-wheeler. Then some handcuffs land between my knees. “Put them on. Behind you, if you please.”
“I gotta say, Pete. Your English is better than most Americans. Kudos to your instructors.”
He laughs. “Please. No more Pete. My real name is Drusan. Drusan Prostakov. My father was a diplomat. I spent three years in Washington when I was a boy.”
Not a good sign for me. If he’s telling me his name, he’s going to kill me for sure. “Ah, a diplomat,” I say, hoping I can buy another minute. “Hey, Drusan. You ever hear that joke about Russia sending a secret message over diplomatic cable to Syria?”
“No, Beck. I’ve never heard that one. Please tell me.”
“Love to. The message said ‘If we attack Turkey from the rear, do you think Greece would help?’”
He actually chuckles. “Funny. I’ll pass that one along when I get home.” I click the handcuffs into place behind me. “Show me,” he says. I swivel on my knees, my back to the Russian now—the young one, not the old one. Prostakov steps over to us.
I ask, “Where is Agent Locke, Drusan? Did you forget to bring her?”
“She’s close by.” Prostakov kicks me in the back, sending me sprawling onto my chest and face. “Stay there.” He moves quickly to the old man on his knees, grabbing him by the chin. “Mr. Wolverton, I presume?”
