Текст книги "Independence Day "

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

43

FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

SAINT PETERSBURG

Dewey finished his meal and paid. He was the last person inside the restaurant other than Katya and her men, who were in a booth out of his sight line. Before standing up to leave, he removed the .45 from a concealed pocket on the inside of his leather jacket. From his pants pocket, he removed a suppressor, screwing it into the muzzle of the gun beneath the table. He repocketed the gun, then stood and walked to the door. He glanced right, around the corner, to Katya’s booth. Both of the men with Katya returned his look. As Dewey passed the maître d’, he caught movement in his eyes, a fleeting glance over Dewey’s shoulders, behind him.

Dewey crossed the lobby, looking quickly at his room key. The lobby was empty except for a woman behind the desk, who smiled and said goodnight to him.

At the elevator, Dewey heard footsteps, hard-soled shoes clicking on marble, approaching from behind him. A moment later, the bigger guard joined Dewey next to the elevator doors.

They were approximately the same size. The Russian stood close, waiting for the elevator. When it came, he stepped on first.

“Which floor, my friend?” he asked in English filtered with a sharp Russian accent.

“Four.”

As the doors shut, Dewey watched the guard carefully, spreading his legs in case the bodyguard wanted to engage him in the elevator.

The bodyguard instead pressed the button for four, then a button for a floor higher than Dewey’s.

When the elevator stopped at the fourth floor, Dewey stepped out. He walked down the dimly lit hall.

Dewey’s back was to the bodyguard as he walked away, trying to appear nonchalant but hyperaware of the man back at the elevator. With his right hand he reached inside his jacket, removed the .45, and clutched it tight beneath his left armpit, the suppressed muzzle of the gun aimed behind him, back up the hall, inside the leather jacket, so the man couldn’t see it.

Dewey heard the faint metallic click of a round being chambered.

At the end of the hall, he came to the last door. With his left hand, his free hand, he pulled a room key from his pocket.

Dewey inserted the card into the lock with his left hand while, with his right, he put his index finger on the trigger. The key slid into the lock. A red light came on. In the same moment, Dewey fired the Colt as fast as his finger could flex; several quick blasts, through the jacket, moving the .45 in a line without looking, left to right, across the hallway.

The scream from the Russian came from the second round, in the same instant a silenced slug sailed by Dewey, striking the door just above his head.

Dewey pivoted, ducking. The gunman lay on his back, a pistol at his side.

Dewey’s round had struck him in the stomach. His shirt was already drenched in blood. Groaning, the Russian reached for his weapon as Dewey moved toward him. Dewey watched as the bodyguard found the butt of the gun. Dewey stepped quickly toward the Russian, who now lay on the ground in a growing pool of crimson. Dewey had his gun out and he trained it on the killer’s head, saying nothing. Then Dewey fired. A slug ripped the Russian in the right eye.

Dewey heard the door to his right abruptly open, a curious hotel guest, then the sound of a chain. As the shocked occupant of the room screamed, Dewey booted his foot at the door, ripping the chain off, then lunging into the room.

Standing in a bathrobe was a man in his seventies. Dewey pointed at the bed, training his gun on him, holding a finger to his lips, telling him to be quiet.

Dewey stepped backward, gun fixed on the man. He opened the door and grabbed the ankle of the dead bodyguard. He dragged him into the room, keeping the muzzle of the Colt trained at all times on the old man’s head.

Dewey shut the door shut and left the dead thug just inside the room.

“Please don’t kill me,” the man stuttered.

Dewey said nothing. He came to the man, flipped him on his stomach. He removed his Gerber combat blade from his ankle sheath. He sliced apart a towel, ripping it into strips. He gagged the man tightly, then bound his arms and legs.

Dewey moved to the dead man. He had another gun—Walther PPK—and a pack of cigarettes. In a secret pocket in his left sock, Dewey found a plastic room key.

Dewey looked in the bathroom. On the sink was a plug-in razor.

Dewey took the electric razor and shaved his beard, mustache, and hair. It took him five minutes, and was rough. His hair was now short, a quarter inch of stubble. He looked in the mirror, and for a second, he didn’t recognize himself.

He checked the old man to make sure he wasn’t tied too tightly. He went to the door and looked out the peephole. The corridor wall had a small arc of wet blood. The beige carpet was pancaked in scarlet.

He had to move.

He exited the room and moved methodically down the hallway, soundlessly inserting the key, watching, at each door, as the light turned red. He took the fire stairs to the fifth floor, repeating the sweep. Near the far corner, a door lock suddenly flashed green and the lock clicked. Dewey removed his gun. He opened the door, then kicked with all his strength. The door swung violently in, crashing against the wall. The other bodyguard was sitting, shirt off, on one of the beds, the TV on. Next to him on the bed was a small submachine gun.

He looked at Dewey. His eyes shot, inexplicably, reflexively, to the closet next to the door.

Dewey turned the gun and fired into the closet as the shirtless guard reached for the SMG.

Dewey swept the Colt and fired again, ripping a slug into the man’s chest.

He yanked the closet door open. On the floor was another man. His chest was oozing blood. A gun was at his feet. He looked up at Dewey, whispering something in Russian as blood drenched his chest.

Dewey shut the door. He stepped to the window. In front of the hotel, at least a dozen police cruisers had arrived, red lights flashing, along with a growing line of black sedans.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

He stepped to a door connecting to the next room. He knocked.

“Da.” A woman’s voice.

Dewey said nothing. He waited, then knocked again. The door opened. Standing in the door was Katya. She had on a white terry cloth bathrobe.

Dewey raised the weapon and aimed it at her head.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t scream. Don’t try to run. You do that and I won’t hurt you.”

Katya nodded. She looked as if she was about to cry.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Put on some clothing,” said Dewey.

He shut the connecting door and walked to the window. Flashing blue lights dotted the road surrounding the hotel. The sound of sirens came in through the window.

He kept his gun trained on Katya as he pulled out his cell. He dialed the number of the Navy SEAL, Jacobsson, who was in the harbor waiting.

“Jacobsson, go.”

“I have the girl,” said Dewey. “We need to move.”

“Who are you?” she asked again.

Dewey ignored her question.

“Where are you?” asked Jacobsson.

“Four Seasons.”

“Go out the front entrance,” said Jacobsson. “Right one block to the canal. I’ll be there, beneath the bridge.”

“How long?”

Above the sirens, a sharp, high-pitched beeping noise suddenly roared. The hotel fire alarm. The Four Seasons was being evacuated.

“Five. By the time you get there I’ll be in position.”

“See you soon,” said Dewey calmly.

44

FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

SAINT PETERSBURG

Dewey pocketed Katya’s cell phone. He ransacked her suitcases, purse, handbags, coat pockets, and anything else he could find. He went into the bathroom and dug into her toiletries kit, keeping the muzzle of his gun aimed out the open door at Katya.

“What are you looking for?” she asked. “Do you know who I am?”

Dewey returned to the living room of the luxurious suite, then stepped into the bedroom, the gun always aimed at Katya through the open door. He looked in the drawers of the bureaus, lifting up clothing. He went to a mahogany desk in front of the window and opened the drawers, finding nothing. He returned to the living room.

“Get dressed,” said Dewey. “Get some shoes on. Now.”

“Why are you doing this?” Katya asked, her voice trembling.

Dewey pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. On it were photos of Cloud. He handed it to her.

Katya’s hand went to her mouth, covering it.

“Is that your boyfriend?” asked Dewey.

She nodded as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“He’s a terrorist,” said Dewey. “He’s planning an attack on the United States.”

Katya wiped her cheeks, staring at the paper, then let it fall to the floor.

“He killed five Americans tonight. Lured them into a trap, then killed them. They never had a chance. Now get dressed.”

Katya burst into tears.

“Pyotr,” she said. “He’s not a terrorist.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Vargarin.”

Dewey took out his cell and hit Speed Dial.

“Control. Identify.”

“Andreas, put me through to Bill Polk.”

As Dewey waited, he nodded to Katya.

“Get dressed,” he said again. “Now.”

Polk came on the line.

“Dewey?”

Dewey stepped to the window, out of earshot, then spoke in a low voice, all the while keeping his gun trained at Katya.

“I have her,” he whispered.

“Where?”

“The hotel.”

“That would explain why Metro police is going haywire.”

“Yeah, I know. I need to get going, but you need to know something: His name is Pyotr Vargarin.”

“She told you that?”

“She seemed genuinely shocked that he’s a terrorist. She’s either a very good liar or is unaware of this guy’s true identity.”

“Does she have a cell phone?”

“Hold on.”

Dewey took out Katya’s cell phone, then dictated the number to Polk.

Polk cleared his throat.

“One more thing,” Polk said. “You need to stay inside Russia. We just received word that the nuke is through the Strait of Gibraltar. Katya Basaeyev is now our only link to Cloud. Get her out, then stay in-theater and wait for further orders. You got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Get going.”

“Where are you taking me? Please, I ask you sincerely.”

“You’re the only connection we have to Cloud,” said Dewey. “I’m taking you out of Russia.”

“You’re kidnapping me,” she sobbed.

“Yes,” said Dewey, “I am. Kidnapping. Abducting. Whatever you want to call it. We will do whatever we need to do to stop this attack on the United States. I don’t want to hurt you, Katya. But that’s up to you. Do you understand?”

She stared at him in silence. He looked back, trying not to look too long into her eyes, trying not to get to know her in any way, trying not to think about anything other than the mission. His eyes went to the window and peered down at the chaotic mess in front of the hotel.

“Please get dressed,” he repeated.

In the reflection in the glass, Dewey watched as Katya removed her bathrobe and allowed it to fall to the ground. He stopped looking, even at the blurry reflection, until she had pulled on a pair of white jeans and a sweater. He saw her take a small object from the table, something that was beneath her shirt, and tuck it under a book.

“What was it?” he asked, pointing to the book.

“Nothing.”

“Give it to me.”

Katya picked up the object and stepped toward Dewey, staring daggers as she handed him a small leather object the size of a wallet. Dewey opened it up. It was a traveling photo album, with slots for just a few photos. There were only two. One was a color photo of a pair of teenagers, a girl and a boy. They were seated at a restaurant. In front of the girl was a piece of cake with a single candle lit on top of it. They were holding hands. The girl had pigtails and a big smile on her face. The boy had short, curly blond hair. He was smiling too.

Dewey stared at it for several moments, then looked at Katya.

“My fifteenth birthday,” she said.

“Is that him?”

Katya nodded.

The other photo was black and white, its edges frayed with age. This photo showed a child. He was standing dead center in the middle of the photo. Other children were gathered to his side, all eyes looking at him. He was in front of a table, upon which was a large trophy. An adult, presumably a teacher, was presenting the trophy to the boy. Behind him, a plain-looking, slightly rotund woman was standing next to a tall, bearded man with glasses and curly brown hair. The woman had a blank, serious expression on her face. The man was smiling proudly.

Dewey studied the black-and-white photo. Cloud was very young. He wore a button-down shirt and tie. His hair sprouted up from his head in big, wavy curls.

“What is this?”

“The only photo he has of his parents,” she answered. “They’re both dead.”

“How old is he?”

Katya shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Even he doesn’t know.”

Dewey pulled the black-and-white photo from the leather case, folded it in half, then stuck it in his pocket.

Katya watched him do it, a look of disbelief on her face.

“It was the only photograph Pyotr—”

“Pyotr isn’t going to be alive much longer,” said Dewey. “I don’t think he’ll miss the photo.”

“He would never have anything to do with terrorism,” she said. “He’s a kind man. I’ve known him since age thirteen. He’s gentle. Please, you must believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” said Dewey, scanning the street in front of the Four Seasons, which was now a pandemonium of police cars. “Besides, there are about a hundred cops outside. They all have guns. I don’t think they’re very happy with me at the moment.”

“Perhaps they will shoot you, like you shot my guards.”

Dewey looked at her.

“At least I’m not wearing white pants.”

Katya looked down at her white jeans.

“What’s wrong with white pants?”

“It’s an easy target for a marksman. Especially at night. They’ll probably be shooting at me, but if they miss, it’s going to hit you.”

“Why are you trying to scare me?”

Dewey walked to Katya and stood in front of her.

“Because I need you to be scared. If you’re scared, maybe you’ll listen to me. There’s only one way out of here. But you need to do exactly what I say.”

Katya became quiet.

“Where will you take me?” she asked.

“I don’t know the answer to that question.”

“Please tell me your name. I have the right to know.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“To me it does.”

Katya’s English wasn’t flawless. And yet the aristocratic softness of her accent made the imperfections somehow charming.

Dewey held the curtain to the side. A cordon of police were stretched across the road in front of the hotel.

“My name is Dewey Andreas.”

“What did he do?”

“He acquired a nuclear bomb. He put the bomb in a boat that right now is on its way to the United States. He intends to detonate it there.”

She stared at him, a look of utter shock at his words. She walked to one of the couches and sat down.

“He would never do this,” she said. “It’s a mistake.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know much,” said Dewey. “And yet you have, let’s see, one, two, three bodyguards? Why would anyone need so much protection?”

“Are you implying that I’m involved?”

“I just find it strange that you have three operatives guarding you. Ex-military. Spetsnaz, if I had to guess.”

She stared.

“They’re provided to me. I’ve had guards as long as I can remember.”

Dewey stared out the window.

“The first one followed me upstairs and tried to kill me,” said Dewey.

He turned and their eyes met.

“Why would I kill you?” she asked softly. “There is already too much misery in this world. I would not kill you. I would never kill anybody.”

She stood up. She walked to the window, next to him, and looked out.

“Let’s go,” said Dewey.

She pointed at the police cordon.

“Are you insane?”

“We’re going to walk out the front door. I’m one of your guards.”

“That will not work,” Katya said, shaking her head.

“You’re probably right. They’ll kill me and you can go back and hang out with a terrorist and jump around in a bird costume. It doesn’t mean we’re not going to give it the old college try, though.”

Katya smiled.

“College try? What does this mean?”

Dewey took her wrist and lightly clutched it, pushing her toward the door. At the door, he turned.

“I’m going to explain how this works,” he said quietly. “I’ve stood where those guys we’re gonna walk by are standing, and right now they’re looking for a killer. You alone can convince them I’m not the one they’re looking for. It’s like a play, and you’re the star, and your role is to be the pissed-off ballerina who doesn’t like gunshots and sirens and wants to move to a different hotel. I’m the goon who’s supposed to protect you. Got it? Sell that and we both live. Don’t sell it and we both die.”

“What if I give you up?”

“You die.”

“You would kill me?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“If you rat on me, that qualifies as something wrong—in my book, at least.”

“I’m innocent.”

“If you’re innocent, you won’t be harmed,” he said. “You’re not the one we’re after. You’ll be asked to help us find Cloud. Then you’ll be set free. It’s that simple.”

She closed her eyes, looked at the ground, then looked up and opened them again, staring directly into his eyes.

“I will do it. I will try to help. I still do not believe the man you say is a terrorist is the same man I know. But I will help. I have nothing but fondness for the United States of America.”

He pointed at the phone on the desk.

“Call the front desk, ask them what’s going on,” said Dewey. “In English. I want to hear it. Ask why the police are here. Then tell them to bring the car around. You would like to move to the Grand Hotel.”

Katya picked up the phone. She dialed the front desk and did precisely as Dewey instructed, then hung up.

Dewey lifted her bag.

“Dewey,” she said.

“Walk in front of me, like I work for you,” he said.

Dewey handed her a pair of sunglasses.

“Put these on.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Don’t take it personally.”

Dewey followed Katya to the door. She opened it and stepped into the hallway. A pair of armed policeman in blue tactical gear were standing near the elevator.

The first officer looked at Katya, then at Dewey. Dewey maintained a cool demeanor but nodded.

“Miss Basaeyev,” he said in Russian. “We ask that everyone remain in their room.”

“I’m leaving the hotel,” she said in English, walking toward the elevator.

The agent blocked her path.

“Get out of my way,” she snapped indignantly.

The officer didn’t move.

“I’m under orders, Miss Basaeyev. I’m sorry. Until the killer is apprehended, no one goes in or out of the hotel.”

Dewey was behind Katya. He had the Colt .45 in his right hand, behind his back. He raised the gun, moved to Katya’s side, and fired. The silenced slug hit the agent in the forehead. Before the second officer could react, Dewey fired another shot, hitting him in the mouth, kicking him backward and down.

Katya stared at the dead men, her eyes wide, momentarily repulsed by the bloody scene.

Dewey grabbed Katya’s wrist and pulled her into the elevator. He pressed the button for the ground floor, then the button for the second floor. He stood in the far left corner, waiting and watching. His eyes were calm, blank, above all cold, with a hint of anger.

The elevator stopped at two. Dewey eyed Katya. Quickly, he raised his gun and trained it on the elevator doors. As they began to slide open, Dewey held Katya by the back of her jacket with his left hand.

Another agent in blue tactical gear was waiting. He had on a combat helmet and had a carbine raised and trained on the elevator as the doors opened.

The solider barked something in Russian.

“Zapustit!” Katya screamed, warning the agent. Run!

Dewey lunged toward the door, firing. The soldier ran. Dewey stepped into the hallway, firing as he moved, striking the officer beneath the lower edge of his helmet, a quarter inch above his Kevlar flak jacket, dropping him.

He turned back, looking for Katya. His eyes saw the white of her jeans, just a glimpse, as the elevator doors shut.

Dewey lurched, getting a finger between the doors just as they went tight. The elevator made a low mechanical grinding noise as the doors tried to close. Dewey fought against the elevator doors; if they closed, he would lose Katya. The mechanical grinding became louder as Dewey struggled to pull the doors apart, his face contorted. A low ringing noise came from somewhere inside the car. Inside the elevator shaft, below, on the other side of the doors, he could hear the cables tugging against the elevator housing, trying to lower the elevator. But Dewey would not let the doors shut, and finally, the low beeping noise stopped. The doors suddenly opened.

Dewey stepped inside and was greeted by a violent kick to the groin from Katya. The kick doubled him over. The elevator doors started to close again as Katya charged at him. From a pained crouch, he swung, but she ducked, spinning, then hammered her right foot counterclockwise, a vicious motion aimed at his head.

Dewey recognized Katya’s martial training; his brain processed it in the split second following the kick to the groin. As her foot moved toward his head, he anticipated it, bending just as her foot cut viciously across the air above his head. In the instant that followed, Dewey slashed his left arm out, slamming Katya in the knee with a fist, then speared her in the rib cage with a brutal punch that sent her flying into the wall, then down.

Dewey stepped back, gun trained on her. He glanced at the elevator door, then back at her. Both of them knew that the first floor held a waiting army of Russian police.

Dewey put his hand in the elevator door before it closed. As it moved automatically back open, he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the elevator, gun raised, then moved right. At the end of the hallway, he knocked several times on the door to a room. When a woman answered the door, Dewey pushed the door in, weapon raised. The woman burst into tears. He pointed to the bathroom, ordering her to go inside.

He turned off the lights in the room, then moved to the window.

Below was a courtyard, closed for the night, with tables and sun umbrellas.

Behind it was a street. Beyond that, the canal.

He dialed Jacobsson.

“I need to move right now.”

“Go,” said Jacobsson. “I’m here.”

Dewey heard shouts from the hallway in Russian, then the loud drumbeat of footsteps. He looked at Katya just as her mouth opened and she started screaming. Dewey charged at her, catching her near the bed, and covered her mouth with his hand, silencing her. He felt her sharp teeth bite down.

Dewey pulled his hand, now bleeding, away from her mouth. He wrapped his forearm around her neck and tightened it. She struggled, kicking his legs, trying to punch him, but it was futile. In seconds, she grew weak, then went limp in his arms.

He carried her limp body to the window. He quickly surveyed the courtyard, as, behind him, a steel battering ram slammed into the door with a somber thump.

Dewey took a few steps back and aimed his gun at the window.

The battering ram slammed a second time. The door made a loud cracking noise as wood splintered.

Dewey lifted Katya’s body and wrapped it around the back of his neck, clutching her legs and neck in a tight grip with his left hand as he held his gun in his right.

He charged toward the window, as, behind him, the door crashed in. He fired a slug, shattering the window, just as he leapt into the air. Yelling in Russian was interwoven with automatic gunfire. Dewey’s right foot hit the windowsill as slugs erupted behind him. He hit the sill, then leapt out as far as he could, launching into the air as bullets flew just above his head. The momentum of the jump was quickly gone; Dewey and Katya dropped in a sharp line toward the ground two stories below. Dewey kicked his legs furiously through the air, trying to maintain his balance, holding Katya tightly around his neck. Their trajectory took them toward a red-and-white canvas umbrella. Dewey slammed into it, feetfirst. He ripped through the thick canvas and smashed painfully into the wooden pole holding the umbrella, snapping it in half, then crashed to the ground, his right palm, elbow, hip, and knee all absorbing the trauma yet protecting the unconscious Katya.

Dewey jumped to his feet, despite piercing pain in his leg.

The staccato of unmuted gunfire clotted the Saint Petersburg night.

He shifted Katya’s body to his left shoulder, fireman style, and charged across the Four Seasons courtyard. He hurdled a wall of neatly manicured boxwoods as bullets pocked the slate on the ground around him.

They were trying to slow him, or scare him into stopping, but the gunmen did not target him directly. They would not want to kill Katya, and that fact alone offered him a slim margin of protection.

Dewey could see the iron balustrade above the canal entrance, just a block and a half away. He sprinted as fast as he could, sweat drenching him. The scene was chaos. Gunfire mixed with shouting, screams, cars honking, and, in the distance, the low thunder of a chopper moving in.

From both sides, policemen swarmed. For the first time, Dewey registered the khaki-and-red uniforms of Russian soldiers. He sprinted past a block of mansions, lungs burning, then lurched out into traffic, dodging cars as he crossed the last remaining roadway before the canal. Suddenly, to his left, he eyed a pair of soldiers running toward him.

Horns blared. Bullets struck a taxicab, shattering its windshield. Sirens mixed with hysterical screaming.

Dewey leapt to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. He had a few yards on a pair of officers who were closest, but they were gaining. He had less than a block now, a block lined with a half dozen limestone mansions. After that, he would be free and clear.

Suddenly, just past the last mansion on the block, precisely where Dewey wanted to run, a police cruiser cut across the road and bounced up onto the sidewalk, blocking him.

Dewey kept running as police officers jumped from the front and back of the sedan, weapons aimed at him. As one of the men stepped toward him, Dewey slammed his left shoulder into the officer, pummeling him backward, then kept charging toward the canal ahead.

Dewey recalled Polk’s words: The nuke is through the strait … get her out, then stay in-theater …

Dewey was now running as fast as he could, despite the pain in his hip, just feet in front of a pack of Russian policemen. His eye shot right as a plainclothes agent lurched at him, diving toward his legs. Dewey kept running, bracing himself as the agent’s arms wrapped around his thighs. He broke through the tackle, his knee striking the man’s head, a loud grunt coming from him as he tumbled to the ground.

From behind, police officers swarmed, coming from what seemed like every direction, shouting at Dewey to drop Katya.

At the iron gate above the canal, Dewey threw Katya, like a rag doll, toward the water, then followed, leaping in the air, hurdling the fence. He heard a splash as Katya’s body hit the water beneath him, then, suddenly, he slammed feet first into the water next to her. Dewey dived down into the dark canal as bullets hit the surface of the water just above his head.