Текст книги "Independence Day "

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

98

NATIONAL ARCHIVES

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Katie Foxx was seated on the floor, against a filing cabinet. Tacoma was several feet away from her, also on the floor. Both were reading through the files.

Each file in the room detailed CIA agents, case officers, paramilitary, and nonofficial covers who, in the Agency’s mind, merited termination. There was no single cause, but there were recurring themes. Treason was the main one. A close second was nonsanctioned murder.

Files were stacked up in piles.

“I have something,” Katie said.

In her hand was a small stack of paper, yellowed and fraying at the edges.

LOS ALAMOS NATIONAL LABORATORY

MEMORANDUM

FROM:

H. Agnew

TO:

N. Bradbury

SUBJECT:

IMPLICATIONS OF A. VARGARIN THEORY

DATE:

September 10, 1982

Norb—I was able to meet with Anuslav Vargarin in Vienna, where we were both attending the conference. As you said, he is a most charming man. We spent most of our time talking about wine!

However, he mentioned something that, if true, would be significant. Dr. Vargarin stated that he and some colleagues have been experimenting with various divalents as adjunct to nuclear moderation and reflection. He would not say which ones, though, as you and I both agree, Z seems to show the most promise. While most of this was chitchat, as we were of course being watched, Dr. Vargarin stated something I should pass on. He said, “We have now succeeded in three successive tests.”

The implications of this are clear: if the Soviets are able to predictably moderate fast neutrons in a lab setting using Z (or other), it would mean the Soviets could double the scalability of their HEU and thus double the size of their nuclear stockpiles in a matter of months.

Let me know what, if anything, you want me to do.

Harry

“What is it?”

“Cloud’s father was a scientist who developed a formula,” said Katie. “It’s all about his dad’s formula.”

She stood up and dialed her cell.

“I must be missing something,” said Tacoma. “So fucking what?”

Katie listened to Calibrisi’s phone ringing.

“It’s a formula for how to convert one nuclear device into two.”

99

PRESS OFFICE

THE WHITE HOUSE

J. P. Dellenbaugh poked his head inside the small, cluttered office of John Schmidt, his communications director, the person charged with managing the unruly group of reporters that constituted the White House press corps.

Schmidt, at 11:38 P.M., had just taken a large bite of a steak and cheese sub as he watched, eyes scanning left to right, six television screens on the wall of his office, all showing the same images: live video, taken from news choppers, of the chaotic scene in Boston. The harbor was awash in the blue and red lights of police boats, Coast Guard cutters, and a pair of Navy destroyers.

The voice of Dan Harris from ABC News was turned up.

“You’re watching live feed from Boston,” said Harris, “which ABC News can now confirm was the site of attempted terror strike. Less than two hours ago, law enforcement—acting on a tip—discovered something near the Boston waterfront. We have been unable to determine who was behind the attempt, or what was found, but we do know that several vessels have departed the harbor in the last hour.”

“Hey, John,” whispered Dellenbaugh. “You need a shovel for that?”

Schmidt nearly coughed up the bite of steak and cheese.

“If you have a coronary before reelection, I’m going to kill you,” added Dellenbaugh.

Schmidt finished chewing. He took a quick swig of Diet Coke and then turned, slightly embarrassed, to Dellenbaugh.

“John, I apologize,” added Dellenbaugh, before Schmidt could get in a word, “I didn’t realize you were having a Diet Coke. That should cancel out any unhealthy effects from the steak and cheese.”

Schmidt burst into laughter, then was joined by the president.

“I didn’t eat dinner,” said Schmidt.

Dellenbaugh’s attention was grabbed by one of the plasma screens, which showed a lit-up stretch of coast. It was surrounded by military vehicles, ambulances, police cars, and hundreds of people, most armed and wearing uniforms or tactical gear.

“You are looking at an aerial view of Revere, Massachusetts,” said Harris. “This is as close as we are allowed to get. As you can see, various law enforcement agencies as well as military are now clearly in control of what was apparently to have been a strike, by terrorists, on Boston. There are still many questions.”

Dellenbaugh and Schmidt stared at the screen in silence.

“Thank God, sir,” said Schmidt, looking at Dellenbaugh.

Dellenbaugh put his hand on Schmidt’s shoulder.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Do you want me to write up some quick remarks for the press conference, Mr. President?”

“No,” said Dellenbaugh. “I know what I’m going to say.”

Schmidt pressed his phone. The speaker came on.

“Get them seated and quiet, Joanne,” said Schmidt to Joanne Hildebrand, his deputy.

In the background, the live news report continued.

“We’re waiting for a statement by the president of the United States,” said Harris, “who we’re told was very much personally involved in the government’s response to the terror plot. And, I’m told, we’re going there right now. Ladies and gentlemen, we take you to the White House, where President J. P. Dellenbaugh is going to address the nation.”

100

EVOLUTION TOWER

MOSCOW

Dewey stood—dropping the rifle—and charged, yanking the handgun from his chest holster. He sprinted toward the concrete piling, gun out, then came around it, acquiring Cloud in the muzzle’s fire zone.

His eyes shot to Malnikov, lying on the ground. The left side of his chest was drenched in blood.

Cloud was facedown.

Dewey scanned for his gun. It was on the ground next to his head. With his sidearm trained on the back of Cloud’s head, Dewey stepped forward and kicked it out of reach.

He put his foot beneath Cloud and flipped him over. His eyes were open. His right leg looked badly damaged. His hip was worse. A small chunk was missing, the slug from the anti-materiél rifle having blown it off.

Dewey looked back at Malnikov.

“You gonna make it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Malnikov, as he struggled to climb to his feet.

Dewey’s eyes moved back to Cloud. Without shifting his gaze, he dialed his cell. A moment later, a female voice came on the line.

“Name?”

“Andreas, Dewey.”

“Flag?”

“NOC 2294-6.”

“Go.”

“I need Calibrisi. Crisis Priority.”

“Protocol?”

“Dayton.”

“Hold.”

Dewey heard a series of clicks, then Calibrisi came on the line.

“Where the hell are you?”

“We have him, Hector. What do you need to know?”

“We found the bomb,” said Calibrisi. “We stopped it. It’s been disarmed.”

Dewey was silent for several seconds.

“You should know, it was Katya who provided the intel.”

“Where was it?”

“Boston.”

Dewey’s eyes moved from Cloud’s eyes to his hip. He’d seen injuries on the battlefield and had long ago been hardened by those horrible sights. But even with that knowledge, the sight of it was gruesome. The dull white of bone was visible within the blood. Tendrils of skin and parts dangled down to the concrete, now awash in blood.

Cloud stared up at Dewey. He said nothing.

He was the opposite of the sort of person Dewey expected. He didn’t look angry or mean. He looked frail, intelligent, curious, above all innocent. Perhaps, at one time in his life, he had been. But something destroyed it.

He heard Malnikov’s footsteps to his left.

Both stared down. To Dewey, he was the one who wanted to kill a million Americans. To Malnikov, the one who took his father away.

Dewey still held the cell to his ear.

“So what you’re saying is, Cloud is expendable?” Dewey asked.

Calibrisi was silent for several seconds.

Then he spoke: “Affirmative.”

Dewey hung up and stuck the cell in his vest. He clutched the Desert Eagle, its steel muzzle aimed at Cloud’s head.

“Boston,” Dewey remarked to Cloud. “Original.”

Suddenly, the elevator cage rattled and started descending.

“We need to get out of here,” said Malnikov.

“Here,” said Dewey, extending the gun to him.

“You take it,” said Malnikov. “You saved my life.”

“Do you want to do it, Alexei?” asked Dewey. “It’s all the same to me as long as he ends up dead.”

Malnikov shrugged.

“Well, I will tell you, I have had this desire ever since he fucked me to put a bullet in that big brain of his.”

Dewey handed Malnikov the gun.

“All yours.”

101

OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF

THE WHITE HOUSE

Adrian King was seated in his office, along with Calibrisi, Josh Brubaker, and George Kratovil, head of the FBI.

Two plasma screens showed live coverage from Boston. A third screen streamed live video feed from the scene, taken by the FBI. Three individuals in bright yellow hazmat suits were preparing the nuclear device for transport out of the area. A fourth screen displayed the White House Briefing Room. The dais was empty, though the room was crowded.

A knock came at the door, then Arden Mason entered. He had a concerned look on his face.

“What is it?” asked King.

Mason handed out manila folders.

“I think you should all see this. It was sent in a few minutes ago.”

The folders contained copies of a police report, filed by the Gloucester, Massachusetts, police department, detailing the purchase of a boat that day by someone whom the owner of the marina found to be “suspicious-looking.”

According to the marina owner, the customer was young and looked Middle Eastern. Perhaps most important, he bought a used Hinckley Talaria, which cost $450,000.

“He paid cash,” said Mason.

“So this is the boat?” asked King, looking at Mason, then Kratovil. “Let’s put out an APB for a green Hinckley Talaria. That would be a pretty good start to the weekend, first we stop the bomb, then we catch the terrorists.”

“President Dellenbaugh is about to go live,” said Brubaker. “I think we should hand him a note before he goes on. If he can mention the precise boat we’re looking for, my guess is we’ll find it pretty quickly.”

Calibrisi’s cell phone vibrated.

“Calibrisi.”

“It’s Katie.”

“I need to call you back.”

“No. I need to talk to you. It’s about Vargarin. We found something.”

“We found the bomb, Katie. Why don’t you grab whatever you got and we’ll meet over at the Willard. I could use a drink.”

“Wait, you said you found the bomb?” asked Katie.

“Yes. It was in Boston.”

“How many were there?”

“How many what were there?”

“Bombs.”

“One.”

“And was it the original device?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it repurposed? Was it altered in any way? Smaller than the one they took from Kiev?”

Calibrisi looked at the screen showing the FBI feed. The bomb was being lifted by two men. It looked brand-new, like a long stainless steel canister, very different from what the original bomb looked like.

“It’s different,” said Calibrisi. “Looks like a big soup can.”

Brubaker was trying to get Calibrisi’s attention.

“Hold on, Katie,” he said, covering the phone.

“Do you want to read this before Schmidt takes it out to the president?” whispered Brubaker. “We need to get this on the news right now.”

“Katie,” said Calibrisi, “I have to call you—”

“There are two bombs, Hector!” yelled Katie. “That was his father’s big idea. How to take one bomb and convert it into two. We killed him for the formula.”

Calibrisi stared at Brubaker. He hung up the phone, then hit another number.

“Control.”

“I need an immediate patch to that last overseas caller.”

“Hold.”

Everyone in the room stared at Calibrisi as he sat, eyes closed, waiting for the phone to ring.

“What’s going on?” demanded King.

“There’s another bomb,” said Calibrisi.

Silence took over the room.

“The president of the United States is about to take a victory lap,” said King. “I’m canceling this press conference.”

“Don’t,” said Calibrisi, still holding the cell to his ear. “The American people need to know what’s going on. The best thing right now is if the terrorists think we’re done. Let J. P. Dellenbaugh lull them into a sense of complacency. It’ll buy us time. And do not let him mention the boat.”

Finally, he heard a pair of beeps, then Dewey’s voice.

“How can I miss you if you won’t go away?” he asked.

“Whatever you do, don’t kill him.”

102

BRIEFING ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE

Dellenbaugh entered the White House Briefing Room. He stepped to the dais, the front of which showed the seal of the president of the United States.

Dellenbaugh paused. Except for the rat-a-tat-tat of cameras clicking, there was absolute silence. His look was confident, calm, with just the slightest hint of anger on his ruddy face.

“Late this evening,” said Dellenbaugh, “an attempt by terrorists to attack the United States was stopped. The location of the failed attack was Boston, a place that holds an extremely important place in the history of our country, especially this time of year. We will have much more to tell you in the coming hours, days, and weeks. For now, it’s important that we complete our investigation before getting into too many details. But I can tell you that we do not believe this is part of a broader plot. This was a small group of individuals, acting alone.”

Dellenbaugh’s eyes swept across the crowd of reporters.

“I’m outraged that anyone would attempt to use the July Fourth holiday—a time families and friends gather together to celebrate the day our country was born—to hurt innocent people. Some people, I know, are scared. You’re asking yourself, what if there’s another threat out there? The worst thing we could do would be to quit, to cancel the parade, to not put the red, white, and blue icing on that cake Mom made. Because then they will have won.

“Tomorrow, with my family by my side, I’m going to barbecue. Then I’ll go to the parade in town. If you’re there, I hope you’ll come up and introduce yourself. I won’t march, I’ll watch, because on July Fourth, I like to think I’m just a plain old United States citizen. Oh, yeah, I’m going to get revenge on my brother-in-law for his victory over me in Ping-Pong last year, a match that, in case he’s listening, we both know was rigged.”

Dellenbaugh smiled as laughter burst out from the gathered White House press corps.

“This Independence Day weekend is already shaping up to be the best in my lifetime. Because today I saw what brave Americans are capable of. The fact that it happened in Boston, well, I have to tell you, there’s something mighty poetic about that. The place our country was born was tonight the place where freedom was preserved.

“May God bless you, and God bless the United States of America. Have a happy Fourth of July.”

“Mr. President, can you tell us anything more?” yelled a reporter.

But Dellenbaugh was already off the stage and stepping quickly down the hallway. As he rounded the corner, he came face-to-face with King and Brubaker, both standing outside the Oval Office, arms crossed.

Dellenbaugh had a big smile on his face. He ripped off his tie as he walked past them.

“There’s nothing you can say that would upset me,” said Dellenbaugh, entering the Oval Office, tossing his tie on a chair, then opening a closet and grabbing his fly rod.

“There’s a second bomb, Mr. President.”

103

EVOLUTION TOWER

MOSCOW

Dewey looked at Malnikov, making a gesture across his neck and shaking his head, telling him not to shoot.

“Why?” asked Malnikov, anger in his voice. “Fuck that.”

“There’s another bomb,” said Dewey, making eye contact with Cloud.

Dewey spoke to Calibrisi: “He’s going to die soon, Hector,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s bleeding out.”

“What happened?”

“He got in the way of a bullet.”

“How long do we have?”

“Maybe an hour. Two if I can stop the bleeding for a little while.”

Just then, voices echoed up from the elevator shaft. Both turned their heads.

“You need to get that chopper back here,” said Dewey.

Malnikov pulled out his cell and dialed Stihl.

Dewey returned to Calibrisi: “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Can you get him to the airport?” asked Calibrisi.

“He’s not going to survive a flight out of Russia, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, that’s not what I’m thinking. Just get him to Ostafyevo Airport.”

*   *   *

Calibrisi, escorted by Secret Service agents, stepped through the Oval Office and out onto a stone terrace, then walked through the Rose Garden.

On the South Lawn of the White House, the rotors of the Sikorsky S-76C were already slashing the air in anticipation.

He dialed Chalmers as he climbed into the cabin and the chopper flew into the dark sky above Washington.

“Hector,” said Chalmers.

“Is she still alive?” asked Calibrisi.

“Yes,” said Chalmers. “We bandaged her wrists. She’s stable.”

“Where are you?”

“We land in Moscow in fifteen minutes. You should know we’re being met by Russian authorities. They’re meeting us on the tarmac.”

“Which airport?”

“Domodedovo,” said Chalmers, referring to Moscow’s largest airport.

“Tell your pilot to take the plane into Ostafyevo,” said Calibrisi. “We need a few minutes before the cops take Katya away.”

“Why? I read the Interpol tear sheet. You stopped the bomb.”

“We stopped one of the bombs. There’s another one. We’re down to our last out here.”

“She’s in bad shape,” said Chalmers. “She cut both wrists. She lost a lot of blood.”

“You said she feels guilty?” asked Calibrisi as he glanced out the window at the Washington Monument, already lit up in red, white, and blue for the Fourth of July. “Tell her she’s already saved at least a hundred thousand lives. Thank her on behalf of the American people. Then tell her she’s going to get the chance to save ten times that number.”

“Will do.”

A minute later, the chopper swooped down to the roof of the National Archives building. Katie and Tacoma were waiting, Tacoma holding a cardboard box filled with files. The door to the helicopter opened. They climbed aboard, then the door shut and the chopper quickly took off.

“You find anything else?” asked Calibrisi.

Katie nodded.

“Guess who one of the case officers was who witnessed Vargarin’s murder?” she asked.

“Josh Gant.”

“How did you know?”

Calibrisi stared at Katie but said nothing.

“Let’s table that discussion for later,” he said. “Right now, we have a nuclear bomb in a Hinckley Talaria that we have to stop. I want you to call Igor. Give him the make and the model on the boat and see if there’s anything he can do.”

Katie pulled out her cell.

“What do mean, ‘anything he can do’?”

“Some sort of variation on facial recognition technology. I want whatever ad hoc software he develops to be live on every possible video feed and security camera from Providence to Washington, with an obvious focus on New York.”

“Is that where we’re going?”

“Yeah,” said Calibrisi. “I might be wrong, but I have to believe that’s where the final target is.”

*   *   *

Dewey stepped over to Cloud. His eyes were shut. He was unconscious. Dewey felt his neck for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. He was still alive. Dewey lifted him up onto his shoulder, fireman style.

The voices from the elevator shaft were becoming louder now.

“We have to move,” said Malnikov.

He followed Malnikov to a set of stairs. They climbed up three flights, emerging at the top floor of the skyscraper. Wind ripped across the unfinished concrete, drenching them in rain.

The sky was starting to turn a silvery gray as dawn approached. The Moscow skyline was dimly illuminated in sporadic cuts of light from other buildings. Twin ribbons of steel jutted up from the concrete, arched in curvilinear black against the sky.

Blood from Cloud’s wound covered the right side of Dewey’s coat and pants. Dewey could feel the wetness, warmer and stickier than the rain.

Malnikov clutched his shoulder as he searched the sky for Stihl.

“Pull it aside,” said Dewey to Malnikov, nodding at his blood-soaked shirt.

“No,” said Malnikov. “It hurts too much.”

“Pull it aside.”

Malnikov paused.

“You’ll have to do it,” said Malnikov.

Dewey reached his hand out and gently ripped Malnikov’s shirt away from the left side of his chest. The bullet hole was visible—a small black opening that continued to ooze dark blood. Dewey pulled the shirt down, then looked at Malnikov’s back. It was covered in blood. But there was no exit wound.

“It’s still inside you,” said Dewey. “It didn’t hit your heart, but it needs to be removed.”

Malnikov nodded.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say,” said Dewey.

“What is that? That I’m going to die?”

“No,” said Dewey. “Go back downstairs. Let the cops or whoever they are get you to a hospital.”

“No fucking way,” said Malnikov.

Just then, the black Eurocopter plunged from the clouds, knocked by the crosswinds, then cut toward the top of the building.

“Promise me something,” said Malnikov.

“What?”

“If I die, you will make Calibrisi live up to his end of the bargain.”

“You’re not going to die, Alexei,” said Dewey.

The chopper dropped down quickly as Stihl used the speed of his descent to counter the violent winds. The front of the Eurocopter was tilted forward. As it came closer and closer, it appeared it might slam nose-first into the slab. At the last second, Stihl pulled the chopper back, rear wheels hitting first, then the front.

Dewey and Malnikov moved through the rotor chop toward the door.

“Then the promise won’t cost you anything, will it?” yelled Malnikov.

“Fine,” said Dewey. “I promise.”

Dewey stepped inside the cabin and lay Cloud down on the steel floor. Malnikov followed him on, then the door slid shut behind them. Seconds later, Stihl lifted off.

Dewey went to the back and started pulling out drawers and opening compartments, searching for the trauma kit. He carried the steel case to where Cloud was lying. He pressed several large gauze pads against the wound. Cloud jerked from the pain, though his eyes remained shut. Dewey wrapped a large bandage around Cloud’s hip, as tight as he could, keeping the pads pressed to the wound.

He took another gauze bandage and moved to Malnikov. He pulled Malnikov’s shirt aside and pressed the bandage against the bullet hole, then wrapped a bandage across Malnikov’s chest to keep it in place.

“How do I know you’ll keep your promise?” asked Malnikov.

Dewey looked at Malnikov.

“I never break a promise,” said Dewey.

*   *   *

Chalmers’s Bombardier touched down at Ostafyevo Airport and came to a stop at the end of the runway.

Chalmers unbuckled and stepped to the cockpit.

“Take it over toward the terminal building but stay at least a hundred feet away.”

“Sure, Derek.”

Chalmers walked back into the cabin. He sat down across from Katya.

“Katya,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

Katya was lying on the leather built-in sofa, eyes shut. She didn’t respond.

“The United States found the nuclear bomb,” he continued. “It was in Boston. They stopped it. They believe, had it been detonated, at least one hundred thousand people would have perished. Your information prevented that from happening. You saved a lot of lives.”

Katya remained still.

“But we need something more from you. There is another bomb. There were two bombs. There’s only one individual who knows where it’s going.”

Katya’s eyes opened, then tears came to her eyes and started to roll down her cheeks.

“I don’t know where it’s going,” she whispered, looking at Chalmers. “That was just a conversation I overheard. You must believe me. I don’t know!”

“But Pyotr does know,” said Chalmers.

“I don’t know where he is,” she protested. “What do you want me to do? He’s a monster. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

The faint din of a helicopter hit the cabin, causing Chalmers to turn to the window. Katya’s eyes followed Chalmers.

“No,” she cried. “No!”

“He will listen to you,” said Chalmers. “I need you to be strong. One more time, then it will be over. You can do it. I see how brave you are. I know you can do it. Lives are depending on you.”

*   *   *

Dewey tapped Stihl’s shoulder as the chopper cut across the Moscow dawn.

“How long until we get there?”

“Five minutes.”

Dewey stepped back into the cabin. Malnikov was seated quietly. He looked weak. Dewey knelt next to Cloud and checked the wound. The bandages were soaked through and a small pool of blood was on the ground beneath his hip. Dewey felt his pulse. It was weaker than before. Dewey shook his shoulder, trying to revive him. It didn’t work.

He pulled out his cell and dialed Calibrisi.

“We’re about to land,” Dewey said. “Is she there?”

“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “Is he still alive?”

“Barely. He’s unconscious. I’m going to try and revive him. I’m not sure it’s going to work.”

“You need to know something,” said Calibrisi. “It’s about his father.”

“His father?”

“He was a nuclear scientist. Before the breakup of the Soviet Union, we recruited him. He was going to defect. He had second thoughts.”

The chopper arced forward and right, descending. Dewey glanced out the window. He could see the small airport in the distance.

“Can this wait?” asked Dewey.

“An agent named Roberts shot his father and mother in front of him. He was five years old.”

Dewey stared at Cloud.

“What’d we do with the agent?”

“The Agency put a sanction on him, but he escaped. I don’t know if he’s still alive.”

“Understood.”

Dewey hung up. He went to the trauma kit. In a compartment on the side of the case were several small bottles of drugs, including painkillers and antibiotics. He found a bottle labeled EPINEPHRINE. Adrenaline. Dewey took a syringe from the kit, removed it from its sterile packaging, and filled it. He left the loaded syringe in the case and stood up.

He glanced out the window. The tarmac was visible in the distance. A light blue jet was parked. Running and cabin lights were visible.

“Put it next to that plane,” said Dewey.

Stihl banked left and descended. A half minute later, the chopper stopped and hovered just a few feet above the ground. Its wheels lowered, then the Eurocopter settled smoothly onto the tarmac.

Dewey opened the side door and crossed a thin stretch of tarmac to the jet, whose cabin door was now lowering. He climbed the stairs and stepped into the cabin.

Looking right, he saw Chalmers, seated, legs crossed.

“Hi, Dewey,” said Chalmers.

Dewey’s eyes moved to Katya, who was seated across from Chalmers.

“Let’s go,” said Dewey.

Katya glanced at Chalmers, who stood up and extended his hand.

“It’s time,” Chalmers said.

Dewey led Katya and Chalmers down the stairs and across the tarmac. Halfway to the helicopter door, Chalmers took Dewey’s arm at the elbow.

Dewey shot Chalmers a look.

“She tried to kill herself,” said Chalmers, out of Katya’s earshot. “Make this quick. She needs to get to a hospital.”

“I’ll do my best, Derek. But right now, I only care about one thing.”

Dewey opened the door of the helicopter and climbed inside, followed by Katya. Chalmers paused at the door, then followed, sliding it shut behind him.

Katya searched in the dimly lit cabin, her eyes finding Cloud. She dropped to her knees beside him. A horrified look crossed her face as she registered his right leg, cleaved of its skin below the knee. Then she saw Cloud’s hip, the dark red bandage, the blood on the floor.

She looked at Dewey. As much as Cloud’s actions horrified her, Katya’s expression showed an even stronger reaction. Her eyes betrayed revulsion at what Dewey had done to him.

She looked back to Cloud.

“Pyotr,” she said. “Pyotr, it’s me.”

Cloud’s head remained limp.

Behind Katya, Dewey removed the syringe. He knelt next to her.

“This is adrenaline,” said Dewey. “I’m going to try and bring him back. Let me speak first.”

Katya nodded.

Dewey pulled the collar of Cloud’s shirt down, exposing his chest. With his left hand, he felt Cloud’s chest, locating the breastplate. He kept two fingers pressed to a specific spot almost directly in the center of the chest, then placed the end of the needle between his fingers and pushed the needle in. Blood spurted from the puncture. He moved the needle in several inches, then pressed the plunger and pumped adrenaline directly into Cloud’s heart.

Cloud’s eyes opened up, then shut. A moment later, he screamed. He said something in Russian, repeating it over and over.

“What’s he saying?” asked Dewey.

“Kill me,” said Malnikov.

“Pyotr, listen to me,” said Dewey.

Cloud continued to scream. His eyes again opened. He turned and looked up at Dewey.

“I know what they did. What we did,” Dewey told him.

“You couldn’t know,” whispered Cloud.

“We killed your father. Your mother. I know about it. But the man who did that was a killer. One man. He was slated for termination because of what he did.”

“You lie!”

“Roberts,” said Dewey. “That was his name. He did it. The people you’re planning on killing, the people in Boston you tried to kill—they didn’t kill your parents. One man did. An evil man.”

“Lies,” Cloud groaned.

Dewey stood up and moved toward the front of the cabin.

For the first time, Cloud saw Katya.

“Oh, God,” he said in a pained whisper. “I’m…”

“Pyotr,” she said as she began to cry, “you have to tell them.”

Cloud looked away from her, shutting his eyes.

“You have to tell the Americans where the bomb is going. It’s not fair. It’s not right.”

“There’s no such thing as fair, Katya,” he said. “Don’t you see that?”

“You’re going to kill a million innocent people. What they did was wrong, but God will judge the man who did that.”

“I was innocent too. My mother was innocent. My father, he was innocent.”

He stared into Katya’s eyes. He was blinking rapidly, trying to hold back his emotions.

“Tell them,” Katya pleaded. “Please, for me.”

Cloud stared at Katya.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

“Of course I love you.”

“And if I was there? If I was in the place where you are sending the bomb? Would you tell them? Or would you let me die?”

“I would tell them,” he whispered. His eyes moved to Dewey, then back to Katya. “But you’re not there.”

She leaned over him, her head just inches from him, her lips nearly touching his.

“Pyotr,” she whispered. “Please show them the person I know. Show me the person I love.”

Dewey took a step back. He leaned into the cockpit. Stihl turned and looked at Dewey.

“Take us up,” Dewey said.