Текст книги "The Kill Switch"
Автор книги: James Rollins
Соавторы: Grant Blackwood
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
18
March 15, 10:10 A.M.
Along the Volga River, Russia
As ugly as the Marussia SUV had been, Tucker had no complaints about the vehicle. In the end, it had saved their lives.
That, and the soft mud at the bottom of the ditch.
Tucker turned his back on the overturned vehicle. The others wobbled along the shoulder of the road. After extracting them from the SUV and doing a quick triage, he managed to rouse Utkin, who helped him with Anya and Bukolov.
In all, the group had sustained bruises and a smattering of cuts and abrasions. Bukolov suffered the worst, with a dislocated shoulder and a slight concussion. Tucker had managed to pop the old man’s shoulder back into place while the doctor was still asleep. The concussion would take time and rest.
But now was not the time to stop moving.
Tucker led them to their new car, their attackers’ dark blue Peugeot 408. Aside from a dent in the front bumper, the sedan remained unscathed. Whoever had rammed them off the road knew what they were doing. Tucker searched the car for transmitters or GPS units but found none.
As Anya helped Bukolov into the car, Utkin pulled him aside.
“What is it?” Tucker asked, wanting to get moving.
Utkin acted rather furtive. “You’d better see this.”
He slipped a cell phone into Tucker’s hand. It was the only phone they had found amid the attackers’ possessions.
“Look at the photo I found in the digital memory.”
Tucker squinted at a grainy image of himself on the screen. He was seated at a computer workstation, his hands frozen in midair over the keyboard. With a sinking feeling in his gut, he recognized the location. It was that dingy Internet café in Dimitrovgrad.
Someone had taken a picture of me.
Not knowing what to make of it, Tucker e-mailed the photo to his own phone, then deleted the original. He scrolled to the phone’s address book and found it empty; same with the recent calls. It had been sanitized. Frustrated, Tucker removed the phone’s battery case and SIM card and crushed them both with his heel. He crossed the road and threw the remains down into the ditch.
He took a moment to consider the meaning of the photo. Clearly someone had been covertly following them. But how? And who? He glanced to the overturned SUV. Could there have been a hidden tracer planted on the Marussia?
He didn’t know . . . couldn’t know.
In fact, there were far too many unknowns.
He faced Utkin. “Have you shown the others this photo?”
“No.”
“Good. Let’s keep this between us for now.”
A few minutes later, they were again racing south along the Volga River.
Aside from a desire to get off the main road and put some distance between themselves and the ambush site, Tucker had no immediate plan. After ten miles, he turned off the highway and onto a dirt road that led to a park overlooking the Volga. He pulled in and everyone climbed out.
Utkin and Anya helped Bukolov to a nearby picnic table.
Tucker walked to the rocky bluff above the thick-flowing river. He sat down, needing to think, to regroup. He let his legs dangle over the edge and listened to the wind whistle through the skeletal trees. Kane trotted over and plopped down beside him. Tucker rested his hand on the shepherd’s side.
“How’re you feeling, buddy?”
Kane thumped his tail.
“Yeah, I’m okay, too.”
Mostly.
He had cleaned the gash on Kane’s head, but he wondered about any psychic damage. There was no way of knowing how the shepherd felt about killing that man on the road. His partner had killed in combat before, and it seemed to have no lasting impact on him. While for Tucker, that particular onion was more layered. After Abel’s death, after leaving the service, Tucker had come to appreciate certain parts of the Buddhist philosophy, but he knew he’d never match Kane’s Zen mind-set, which, if put into words, would probably be something like Whatever has happened, has happened.
As he sat, he was torn between the instinct to run hard for Volgograd, and his desire to take it slow and cautious. Still, many things troubled him. It was why he had stopped here.
Four men, he thought. Why only four?
Back at the ambush site, he had checked them for identification and found nothing but driver’s licenses and credit cards. But the tattoos they bore confirmed them as Spetsnaz. So why hadn’t the enemy landed on them with overwhelming force? Where were the platoon of men and helicopters like back at Nerchinsk?
Somehow this current action reeked of rogue ops. Perhaps someone in the Russian Ministry of Defense was trying to snatch Bukolov without the knowledge of their bosses. But for now, that wasn’t the most pressing question concerning Tucker.
He knew the ambush couldn’t have been a chance accident.
So how did the enemy know where to find them?
He pictured the photo found on the phone.
What did that mean?
Utkin joined him, taking a seat at the bluff’s edge. “Good view, yes?”
“I’d prefer to be staring at the Statue of Liberty.”
That got a chuckle out of Utkin. “I would like to see that, too. I’ve never been to America.”
“Let’s hope I can get you there.”
“So have you figured out a plan? Where to go from here?”
“I know we have to reach Volgograd.”
“But you’re worried about another ambush.”
It didn’t require an answer.
Changing the subject, Utkin waved an arm to encompass the river and region. “Did you know I grew up around here?”
Actually Tucker did. He’d read it from the man’s dossier, but he remained silent, sensing Utkin wanted to talk, reminisce.
“It was a tiny village, along the river, about fifty miles south. My grandfather and I used to fish the Volga when I was a boy.”
“It sounds like a nice childhood.”
“It was, thank you. But I meant to make a point. You wish to reach Volgograd, yes?”
Tucker glanced over to him, crinkling his forehead.
“And you wish to stay off the highway,” Utkin said.
“That would be good.”
“Well, there is another way.” Utkin pointed his arm toward the river below. “It worked for thousands of years. It can work for us now.”
11:01 A.M.
Tucker had one last piece of business to address before moving on. He asked Anya to stay with Bukolov at the park. He instructed Kane to guard them. For this last chore, he needed Utkin’s help.
Climbing back into the Peugeot, Tucker headed out into the tangle of the remote river roads. He followed Utkin’s directions. It took less than an hour to find the abandoned farmhouse tucked away in a forest.
“This was once part of an old collective,” Utkin explained. “It’s at least a hundred and fifty years.”
Tucker used the remote to pop the trunk.
They both stared down at the bound figure inside, his mouth secured with duct tape. He was the last of those who had ambushed them, the boy of nineteen or twenty.
“Why did you let him live?” Utkin whispered.
Tucker wasn’t exactly sure. He simply couldn’t execute someone in cold blood. Instead, he had clubbed the kid with the butt of his gun, bound him up, and tossed him in the trunk.
The boy stared at Tucker and Utkin with wide eyes. They pulled him out and marched him toward the farmhouse. Utkin opened the front door, which shrieked on its hinges.
The interior was what Tucker had imagined: knotty plank walls and floors, boarded-up windows, low ceilings, and layers of dust on every surface.
Tucker pushed the boy inside and sat him down on the floor. He peeled the tape from the boy’s mouth.
“Can you translate?” he asked Utkin.
“Are you going to interrogate him?”
Tucker nodded.
Utkin backed up a step. “I don’t want to be a part of any—”
“Not that kind of interrogation. Ask him his name.”
Utkin cooperated and got an answer.
“It’s Istvan.”
Tucker took the boy through a series of benign personal questions designed to massage his defenses. After five minutes, the kid’s posture relaxed, his rat-in-a-cage expression fading.
Tucker waved to Utkin. “Tell him I have no plans to kill him. If he cooperates, I’ll call the local police and tell them where to find him.”
“He’s relieved, but he says you must beat him. For effect. Otherwise, his superiors will—”
“I understand. Ask him his unit.”
“It’s Spetsnaz, like you thought. But he and his team had been assigned to the Russian military intelligence.”
“The GRU?”
“That’s right.”
The same as the Spetsnaz at Nerchinsk.
“Who did his unit report to at the GRU?”
“A general named Kharzin. Artur Kharzin.”
“And what was their job?”
“To track down Bukolov. His group was told to intercept our car here.”
“By Kharzin.”
“Yes, the order came from Kharzin.”
This guy must be one of Bukolov’s mysterious Arzamas generals.
“And once they got hold of the doctor?” Tucker asked. “What were they to do?”
“Return him to Moscow.”
“Why does General Kharzin want him?”
“He doesn’t know.”
Tucker pulled out his cell phone and showed the grainy image from the Internet café to their captive. “How and when did you get this?”
“By e-mail,” Utkin translated. “Yesterday afternoon.”
“How did they know where to intercept us?”
Utkin shook his head. “He was just given the order.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Let’s find out.”
Abruptly, Tucker pulled the Magnum from his jacket pocket and pressed it against the boy’s right kneecap. “Tell him I don’t believe him. He needs to tell me why Kharzin wants Bukolov.”
Utkin translated Tucker’s demand.
Istvan started jabbering, white-faced and trembling.
“He says he doesn’t know,” Utkin blurted, almost as scared as the kid. “Something about a plant or flower. A discovery of some kind. A weapon. He swears on the life of his son.”
Tucker kept the Magnum pressed against the guy’s kneecap.
Utkin whispered, “Tucker, he has a son.”
Tucker did his best to keep his face stony. “A lot of people have sons. He’s going to have to give me a better reason than that. Tell him to think hard. Has he forgotten anything?”
“Like what!”
“Is there anyone else after us? Anyone besides the GRU?”
Utkin questioned the boy, pressing him hard. Finally, he turned and stammered, “He says there’s a woman. She is helping Kharzin.”
“A woman?”
“Someone with blond hair. He only saw her once. He doesn’t know her name, but he believes that she was hired by Kharzin as some sort of mercenary or assassin.”
Tucker pictured Felice Nilsson. She was old news. “Go on. Tell him I already know about—”
“He says after they pulled her from the river, she was taken to a hospital.”
Tucker felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach.
“Has he seen her since?”
“No.”
Could she truly have survived?
He remembered the strong current, the icy water. He pictured Felice swimming or being pulled along by the flow, maybe finding a break in the ice, maybe radioing for rescue. If the Spetsnaz had found Felice quickly enough, there was a slight chance she could have made it.
Tucker took the Magnum away from Istvan’s knee and shoved it into his jacket pocket. The boy leaned back, gasping with relief.
Tucker was done here. As he turned away, he imagined that cunning huntress coming after him again, but he felt no fear, only certainty.
I killed you once, Felice. If I have to, I’ll do it again.
19
March 15, 1:15 P.M.
North of Volgograd, Russia
Back in the Peugeot, Tucker continued working his way south, staying off the main road. Utkin’s knowledge of the area came in very handy as he pointed to rutted tracks and cow paths that weren’t on any map.
Anya broke the exhausted silence and expressed a fear she had clearly been harboring. “What did you do with the young man from the trunk?”
“Are you asking me if I killed him?” Tucker said.
“I suppose I am.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Conditionally, he added silently. They had left Istvan duct-taped to a post at the old farmhouse. His parting words to the kid had been clear: This is your one free pass. Appear on the field of battle again and I’ll kill you.
“Please tell me you didn’t hurt him.”
“I didn’t hurt him.”
Tucker glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her blue eyes stared back at him in the reflection.
She finally turned away. “I believe you.”
Following Utkin’s directions, Tucker drove south for another thirty miles, reaching a farming community near the Volga’s banks.
“The village of Shcherbatovka,” Utkin announced.
If you say so . . .
Half the buildings were either boarded up or looked abandoned. At the far end, a narrow dirt road led in a series of sharp switchbacks from the top of a bluff to a dock that hugged the river.
They all unloaded at the foot of the pier, a ramshackle structure of oil-soaked pylons and gap-toothed wooden planks.
Utkin waved to a man seated in a lawn chair at the end. Floating listlessly beside him was what looked to be a rust-streaked houseboat. Or maybe tent boat was the better description. A blue tarpaulin stretched over the flat main deck.
Utkin talked with the man for a few minutes then returned to the car.
“He can take us to Volgograd. It will cost five thousand rubles, not including the fuel.”
The price wasn’t Tucker’s concern. “Can we trust him?”
“My friend, these people do not have telephones, televisions, or radios. Unless our pursuers plan to visit every fisherman personally between Saratov and Volgograd, I think we are safe. Besides, the people here do not like the government. Any government.”
“Fair enough.”
“In addition, I know this man well. He is a friend of my uncle. His name is Vadim. If you are in agreement, he says we can leave at nightfall.”
Tucker nodded. “Let’s do it.”
After storing their gear in the storage shed of Vadim’s boat, Tucker drove the Peugeot back toward Shcherbatovka. A mile past the village, following Utkin’s crude map, he reached a deep tributary to the Volga. He drove to the edge, put the car in neutral before turning it off, and climbed out.
Kane followed him, stretching, while searching the woods to either side.
Tucker quickly tossed the keys into the creek, got behind the car, and shouldered it into the water. He waited until the Peugeot sank sullenly out of view.
He then turned to Kane.
“Feel like a walk?”
8:30 P.M.
Captain Vadim stood on the dock, a glowing stub of a cigar clenched between his back molars. The stocky, hard man, with a week of beard scruff and hardly more stubble across his scalp, stood a head shorter than any of them. Though it was already growing colder following sunset, he wore only a shirt and a pair of stained jeans.
He waved Tucker and the others toward a plank that led from the pier to his boat. He grumbled something that Tucker took as Welcome aboard.
Anya helped Bukolov tiptoe warily across the gangplank. Kane trotted across next, followed by Tucker and Utkin.
Vadim yanked the mooring lines, hopped aboard, and pulled the gangplank back to the boat’s deck. He pointed to an outhouse-like structure that led below to the cabins and spoke rapidly.
Utkin grinned. “He says the first-class accommodations are below. Vadim has a sense of humor.”
If you could call it that, Tucker thought.
“I should take my father to his cabin,” Anya said. “He still needs some rest.”
Bukolov did look exhausted, still compromised by his concussion. He slapped at Anya’s hands as she tried to help him.
“Father, behave.”
“Quit calling me that! Makes me sound like an invalid. I can manage.”
Despite his grousing, he allowed himself to be helped below.
Tucker turned to find Kane standing at the blunted bowsprit, his nose high, taking in the scents.
That’s a happy dog.
To the west, the sun had set behind the bluffs. The afternoon’s brisk wind had died to a whisper, leaving the surface of the Volga calm. Still, underneath the surface, sluggish brown water swirled and eddied.
The Volga’s currents were notoriously dangerous.
Utkin noted his attention. “Don’t fall in. Vadim has no life rings. Also Vadim does not swim.”
“Good to know.”
With everyone aboard, Vadim hopped onto the afterdeck and took his place behind the wheel. With a rumble, the diesel engine started. Black smoke gushed from the exhaust manifolds. The captain steered the bow into the current, and they were off.
“How long to Volgograd?” Tucker asked.
Utkin glanced back to Vadim. “He says the current is faster than normal, so about ten hours or so.”
Tucker joined Kane, and after twenty minutes, Anya returned topside.
She stepped over to him. Chilled, she tugged her wool jacket tighter around her body, unconsciously accentuating her curves.
“How’s your father doing?” he asked.
“Finally sleeping.”
Together, they stared at the dark shoreline slipping past. Stars glinted crisply in the clear skies. Something brushed Tucker’s hand. He looked down to find Anya’s index finger resting atop his hand.
She noticed it and pulled her hand away, curling it in her lap. “Sorry, I did not mean to—”
“No problem,” he replied.
Tucker heard footsteps on the deck behind them. He turned as Utkin joined them at the rail.
“That’s where I grew up,” the man said, pointing downstream toward a set of lights along the west bank. “The village of Kolyshkino.”
Anya turned to him, surprised. “Your family were farmers? Truly?”
“Fishermen actually.”
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally.
Still, Tucker heard—and he was sure Utkin did, too—the slight note of disdain in her question and response. It was an echo of Bukolov’s similar blind condescension of the rich for the poor. Such sentiment had clearly come to bias Bukolov’s view of Utkin as a fellow colleague. Whether Anya truly felt this way, Tucker didn’t know, but parents often passed on their prejudices to their children.
Tucker considered his own upbringing. While his folks had died too young, some of his antisocial tendencies likely came from his grandfather, a man who lived alone on a ranch and was as stoic and cold as a North Dakota winter. Still, his grandfather treated his cattle with a surprisingly warm touch, managing the animals with an unusual compassion. It was a lesson that struck Tucker deeply and led to many stern conversations with his grandfather about animal husbandry and responsibility.
In the end, perhaps it was only natural to walk the path trod by those who came before us. Still . . .
After a time, Anya drifted away and headed below to join her father.
“I’m sorry about that,” Tucker mumbled.
“It is not your fault,” Utkin said softly.
“I’m still sorry.”
9:22 P.M.
Belowdecks, Tucker lounged in what passed for the mess hall of the boat. It was simple and clean, with lacquered pine paneling, several green leatherette couches, and a small kitchenette, all brightly lit by bulkhead sconces.
Except for the captain, everyone had eventually wandered here, seeking the comfort of community. Even Bukolov joined them, looking brighter after his nap, more his old irascible self.
Tucker passed out snacks and drinks, including some jerky he’d found for Kane. The shepherd sat near the ladder, happily gnawing on a chunk.
Eventually, Tucker sat across from Bukolov and placed his palms on the dining table. “Doctor, it’s high time we had another chat.”
“About what? You’re not going to threaten us again, are you? I won’t stand for that.”
“What do you know about Artur Kharzin, a general tied to Russian military intelligence?”
“I don’t know anything about him. Should I?”
“He’s the one hunting us. Kharzin seems to think your work involves biological weapons. So convinced, in fact, he’s ordered all of us killed—except you, of course.” He turned to Anya. “What do you make of all of this?”
“You’ll have to ask my father.” She crossed her arms. “This is his discovery.”
“Then let’s start with a simpler question. Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“I know who you claim to be, but I also know you’ve been pumping me for information since we met. You’re very good at it, actually, but not good enough.”
Actually he wasn’t as confident on this last point as he pretended to be. While Anya had asked a lot of questions, such inquiries could just as easily be born of innocent curiosity and concern for her father.
“Why are you doing this?” Anya shot back. “I thought such suspicions were settled back in Dimitrovgrad.”
“And then we were ambushed. So tell me what I want to know—or I can take this discussion with your father in private. He won’t like that.”
She stared with raw-eyed concern and love toward Bukolov. Then with a shake of her head, she touched her father’s forearm, moving her hand down to his hand. She gripped it tightly, possessively.
Bukolov finally placed his hand over hers. “It’s okay. Tell him.”
Anya looked up at him, her eyes glassy with tears. “I’m not his daughter.”
Tucker had to force the shock not to show on his face. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting.
“My name is Anya Malinov, but I’m not Doctor Bukolov’s daughter.”
“But why lie about it?” Tucker asked.
Anya glanced away, looking ashamed. “I suggested this ruse to Abram. I thought, if he told you that I was his daughter, you would be more inclined to take me with you.”
“You must understand,” Bukolov stressed. “Anya is critical to my work. I could not risk your refusing to bring her along.”
No wonder this part of the plan was kept from Harper.
“But I meant what I said before,” Bukolov pressed. “Anya is critical to my work.”
“And what is that work? I’m done with these lies. I want answers.”
Bukolov finally caved. “I suppose you have earned an explanation. But this is very complicated. You may not understand.”
“Try me.”
“Very well. What do you know about earth’s primordial history? Specifically about plant life that would have existed, say, seven hundred million years ago?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Understandable. For many decades, a hypothesis has been circulating in scientific communities about something called LUCA—Last Universal Common Ancestor. Essentially we’re talking about the earth’s first multicellular plant. In other words, the seed or genesis for each and every plant that has ever existed on the earth. If LUCA is real—and I believe it is—it is the progenitor of every plant form on this planet, from tomatoes and orchids, to dandelions and Venus flytraps.”
“You used the word hypothesis, not theory,” said Tucker. “No one has ever encountered LUCA before?”
“Yes and no. I’ll get to that shortly. But first consider stem cells. They are cells that hold the potential to become any other cell in the human body if coaxed just right. A blank genetic slate, so to speak. By manipulating stem cells, scientists have been able to grow an ear on a mouse’s back. They’ve grown an entire liver in a laboratory, as if from thin air. I think you can appreciate the significance of such a line of research. Stem cell research is already a multibillion-dollar industry. And will only escalate. It is the future of medicine.”
“Go on.”
“To simplify it to the basics, I believe LUCA is to plant life what stem cells are to animal life. But why is that important? I’ll give you an example. Say someone discovers a new form of flower in Brazil that treats prostate cancer. But the rain forests are almost gone. Or the flower is almost extinct. Or maybe the drug is prohibitively expensive to synthesize. With LUCA, those problems vanish. With LUCA, you simply carbon-copy the plant in question.”
Bukolov grew more animated and grandiose. “Or, better yet, you use LUCA to replenish the rain forest itself. Or use LUCA in combination with, say, soybeans, to turn barren wastelands into arable land. Do you see the potential now?”
Tucker leaned back. “Let me make sure I understand. If you’re right, LUCA can replicate any plant life because in the beginning, it was all plant life. It’s as much of a genetic blank slate as stem cells.”
“Yes, yes. I also believe it can accelerate growth. LUCA is not just a replicator species, but a booster as well.”
Anya nodded, chiming in. “We can make flora hardier. Imagine potatoes or rice that could thrive where only cacti could before.”
“All this sounds great, but didn’t you say this was all an unproven hypothesis?”
“It is,” Bukolov said, his eyes glinting. “But not for much longer. I’m about to change the world.”
