The Lysenkos’ persistence paid off. Viktor and Galina had pored over Lenny Sulzberger’s notebook, struggling to make sense of a strange form of shorthand that defied interpretation. Their training had not prepared them for pages of hieroglyphics laced with Yiddishisms and homemade notations probably picked up from his recently departed Japanese roommate. It wasn’t that Lenny had devised a personal language for secrecy purposes, it was just his way. But Viktor spotted an opening. Mixed in with all the gibberish were simple abbreviations, which when plucked out, could be understood.
Lenny had headed his notes with the capital letters MC, an apparent reference to Michael Carson, and throughout his notes had used a capital M for Michael. And similarly he had found it easier to write ENGLWD-RX, than render it in an undecipherable scribble. Using this information, Galina and Viktor began to make phone calls to Patient Information in the North Shore University Hospital and to the Englewood Hospital and Medical Center. After hours of continuous telephoning, on June 3 just before noon, Viktor learned that Sasha Akimov would be transferred by private ambulance to Englewood Hospital and Medical Center in Englewood, New Jersey, on the following day, June 4, at 9:00 P.M.
Now Viktor and Galina could set in motion the plan that they had created even before they knew the name of the hospital where Akimov would be transferred.
The Estonian had doggedly maintained twice-daily communication and had flashed the words of Oleg Vladimirovich Deryabin: “Any failure by the Lysenkos in dealing with the Akimov matter will not be tolerated. In such event, they will no longer be needed.”
“What Oleg means,” Trivimi explained, “there will be no excuses and no discussion. You will be . . .” He had paused before finishing the sentence. “Let go.”
Deryabin’s message was thinly veiled and ominous. It meant both he and Galina would be hunted down and killed. Destroy the evidence.
The threat had angered Viktor. “We shall see who is needed and who is not.”
The Ford Taurus Viktor had rented was gone and in its place was a black Grand Am with red stripes. Do not hold on to a rental car for more than three days was one of many commandments he had learned during his training. Though he had been cautioned to stay with popular American models, the kind that were like so many others on the road, Viktor’s personal taste in automobiles favored power and maneuverability. He stretched the rules and chose the Pontiac with a big engine and a dashboard reminiscent of a jet airplane. The catechism further required a change of address every three days or every other day if there was the slightest chance he and Galina might be under surveillance.
While Viktor shopped the rental agencies for his car, Galina took on the job of finding a new place to stay. She chose a small hotel, the Adria, centrally located in Bayside on Northern Boulevard. It was accessible to the major expressways, thirty minutes to Kennedy Airport, out of the way, and had an enclosed parking area
Without consulting Viktor, she phoned an old friend from St. Petersburg, the only person in New York that she knew. Pavel Rakov had left Russia in January of 1994, two years after the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics went out of existence. He had gone directly to New York and lived where he told Galina he could see the big river. They had been introduced by Viktor, who later complained that Pavel could not be trusted. But Galina knew that it wasn’t a matter of trust. It was because Pavel had warned her that Viktor was jealous. Even more threatening, he had said that Viktor was an impetuous human time bomb.
Galina needed Pavel’s help. She had brought the little Semmerling pistol with her, carefully packing it in two pieces so that it escaped detection. There had been three bullets in the gun when she packed it, and she had brought additional ammunition in small, oddly shaped tin boxes that would show as a compact or lipstick when her cosmetic case was put through the X-ray line. But mysteriously, or because at the last minute she failed to pack them, extra ammunition had disappeared. Pavel was not anxious to oblige her, but after much imploring, he agreed to bring a quarter of a box of Remington 9mm Luger 88 grain cartridges. They met briefly at an Exxon station a half mile from the motel.
At 10:35 on Wednesday morning, June 4, Mr. and Mrs. Gustav Cernik from Prague signed in at the desk of the Adria Hotel. Their clothes and makeup had converted them to a middle-age couple, average in the usual categories. To all the world, they were a typical husband and wife on their every-other-year visit to America. Mr. Cernik, who walked with a slight but noticeable limp, had asked if passports were required. When told they were not, he had slipped the Czech passports back into his wallet along with a Visa credit card. He said he would pay in U.S. dollars.
Their room was an improvement over the Boulevard Plaza Motel, though minimally. The bed was king size and took up a third of the room. In front of the window was a table and two chairs and running the length of the inside wall was a low built-in unit that combined a set of drawers, a desk, and a surface on which the television had been placed.
Early that afternoon, the Lysenkos, separately, and appearing in their new roles, entered Englewood Hospital. They agreed to meet in the cafeteria at 2:15. Viktor arrived first, bought a cold drink, and went to an empty table. Several minutes later, Galina joined him. They met as strangers. They exchanged pleasantries, and spoke quietly to each other.
“Akimov will be taken into an examining room in the emergency department,” Galina said. “I went there. The nurses wear white. Some are in blue, but most in white and they wear a sweater that has colors, like the one over there.” She pointed to a nurse wearing a white cotton sweater with a print of small flowers in pastel colors.
Viktor said, “Security is not tight. They have cameras, but in the usual places. Entrances, stairs, one at the ambulance ramp. No one patrols. I have the number for the pay telephone that is in the corridor outside the waiting room. Everyone wears a name badge and has other pins on their uniforms.” Viktor stood. “I’ll meet you in the car.” He stopped for a newspaper on his way out of the hospital.
In the town of Paramus, a short drive from Englewood, they had found Irene’s Uniform Center in one of the shopping malls. Viktor had parked and waited while Galina selected her uniform.
Irene was a pleasant woman who listened sympathetically to Galina’s tale of woe, a story that was told with a rush of strangely accented words that were completely unintelligible at times.
“My husband will be angry,” Galina had said, genuine tears flowing as she described the contents of her lost suitcases.
“But your husband will understand. It was the airline’s fault, not yours.”
Galina shook her head, sobbing. “He is very strict. But I must have a uniform. I begin early tomorrow.”
Taken by Galina’s plight, Irene helped her choose pants and a blouse or basic scrub as Irene called it, a kind of overblouse. And sneaker-style white shoes. Irene recommended that she buy two pairs of scissors, a pocket flashlight, and a pen with a chain and clip. “My customers buy their own stethoscope.” Galina asked Irene to select one.
“Maybe you have a badge I could put my name in?”
Again, Irene proved helpful and had put a boxful of pins and badges on the counter; big and little, gold-plated and enameled. Galina chose a pin commemorating Blood Donation Week, and a red ribbon AIDS pin. She also found a badge with ENGLEWOOD HOSPITAL AND MEDICAL CENTER embossed at the top and snatched it up.
“That’s one of the old ID badges,” Irene had said, grinning, “and I think it looks better than the new ones. They wear both.”
For less than two hundred dollars cash, Galina had acquired a nurse’s uniform, complete with the basic tools of the trade and an all-important hospital badge. After a few purchases at a stationery store, Viktor would be able to fashion a clip-on ID pin that would look from six feet away like all the other ID pins worn by authorized personnel in the hospital.
Galina studied herself expertly in the mirror. She was wearing the nurse’s uniform. She scowled. “It looks too new.” She smudged her fingers on the bottom of her shoes and rubbed little dark spots around the pockets of her pants and blouse, then she put tiny streaks of face powder on the collar of the blouse. After several more minutes she had aged her uniform and it no longer looked brand-new. She brushed out a wig of brown hair speckled with gray, and then put it on, carefully tucking her own hair inside it. Her scowl disappeared. Galina had transformed herself into a woman of fifty-five, reminiscently attractive, only barely so now. She had used more care with the makeup than when she had surprised Lenny Sulzberger two days earlier. And for good reason. In several hours she would be under close scrutiny.
There was one final detail and Galina concentrated her full attention on it. In a zippered case was a hypodermic syringe and an inch-and-a half-long stoppered vial that contained a clear liquid.
A critical asset in the Lysenkos’ scheme was their unswerving dedication to carrying it out with professional skill and efficiency. They each knew their assignments, and as was usual, each was capable of carrying out the other’s role.
They knew that they could not allow themselves to be overwhelmed by the immensity of New York: its vast network of highways and city streets; its rivers, bridges, and tunnels; its relentless, heavy-thumping rhythm. And so they concentrated on two locations: the North Shore Hospital in Manhasset, New York, and the Englewood Hospital in Englewood, New Jersey. It was as if all the thousands of other sights and attractions in the great city did not exist.
Viktor had computed the direct air distance between the two hospitals at slightly more than sixteen miles, and the most direct route by car, at 20.6 miles. The ambulance that would carry Akimov might make the trip over one of a dozen different combinations of roadways and bridges, but the most direct and most likely route would take the ambulance via the Throgs Neck and George Washington bridges.
Success would also hinge on Galina’s ability to become part of the Englewood Hospital receiving team. She would have to establish herself as a nurse on assignment to the wounded Russian by the time the ambulance carrying Akimov was backed into one of three positions at the emergency receiving dock.
The plan was simple, as good ones usually are. Galina would enter the hospital at 7:30 in the evening and familiarize herself with the layout of the emergency wing as well as learn who held and dispensed authority. She would announce to the duty nurse in the triage station that she had special training and allow a heavy Russian accent to add authenticity to her claim. She would say that her name was Iyrena Petrenkro, the name on her badge. She would tell one of the roving security guards that she was awaiting the arrival of Sasha Akimov from another hospital. At 8:00 P.M. she would venture into the staff cafeteria and have a dessert and cup of coffee. At 8:30 P.M. she would go to the car that she had rented earlier in the day and wait for Viktor’s call on her own cellular phone. The call would come at 8:45. Viktor would describe the ambulance that was transporting Akimov to New Jersey. He would give Galina an estimated arrival time.
After talking with Viktor, Galina would inspect herself in one of the small rooms reserved for doctor-family conferences. While there, she would take from her sweater pocket a hypodermic syringe and load it with a lethal dose of sodium pentobarbital.
When Viktor called, he said that the estimated arrival time for an ambulance marked TRANSCARE was 9:25.
A white Transcare ambulance with orange and red trim turned into the Englewood Hospital and Medical Center at 9:39. Waiting was a receiving team comprised of a male nurse in blue scrubs and white Nike shoes, a security guard with phone in hand plus two beepers and handcuffs dangling from a wide black belt, and Galina Lysenko.
The driver’s assistant, a paramedic, opened the double doors in the rear of the ambulance and went inside to help a nurse who had accompanied Akimov during the ninety-minute drive. They released the clamps that held the stretcher in place, then quickly eased it out of the ambulance and extended its legs. The IV unit was reattached and an additional blanket laid over Akimov’s body. He was awake, his eyes moving slowly to take in the mystery of another strange place. Then he heard familiar words . . .
“Dobriy vehcheer.” The greeting came from a new face that suddenly appeared close to his. “You are in New Jersey,” the voice continued in Russian. Galina leaned nearer to him, speaking slowly.
They were inside now. Experienced hands reached under Akimov and with barely a jostle moved him onto a hospital gurney and transferred the IV bottle. The team from Transcare ambulance service followed the gurney into the emergency room and acknowledged that the patient had been successfully turned over to the team from the receiving hospital. They returned the stretcher to the ambulance, then went off to attend to the paperwork.
The gurney was pushed ahead through automatic doors and into a large square room with a nurse’s station in the center surrounded by small rooms and stalls partitioned from each other by gray-colored curtains. Half were occupied with patients who waited for whatever treatment their emergency required.
Sounds ranged from mechanical noises to the hissing of air under pressure to the soft moans that came from behind a curtain where the wounds received in an automobile accident were being cleaned and sutured. Akimov was wheeled into a room that bristled with chrome and bright lights and the accoutrements needed to deal with emergencies ranging from broken bodies to a heroin overdose. A young woman physician appeared. She was accompanied by a nurse who exuded considerable authority and maturity and who was clearly the senior-ranking ER nurse. The doctor leafed through the medical report that had been faxed from North Shore Hospital. She examined Akimov, then added her own notes to several of the pages. Watching, one at each side of the bed, were the male nurse and Galina. The doctor looked again at the wound under the thick dressing that covered his neck and upper chest. Akimov’s halfclosed eyes were on the doctor, watching with silent curiosity.
There was a stirring of voices at the nurse’s station. A man had appeared, unannounced, asking for the patient who had been transferred from Long Island. Mike Carson insisted he had come to register his Russian friend, and that he would be responsible for all charges.
Mike was directed to where Akimov was undergoing the intake procedure. He introduced himself to the doctor, spoke tenderly to Akimov, trying in his unfamiliar Russian to comfort the old man. Pleased that the transfer had been successful, Mike Carson acknowledged the help of the staff, then went off in the direction of the registration office.
It was decided that Akimov would be placed in overnight isolation where he could be monitored closely, and where the surgical team would have an opportunity to determine how soon they might schedule the procedure. The doctor wrote out her instructions and discussed them briefly with the senior nurse before going on.
The male nurse was in his early forties and had a full crop of prematurely white hair. He said to Galina, “I’m Nick. Kind of a fixture around here.” He frowned. “This poor bugger needs all the help he can get. You know about him? He’s the one that got blasted at that car dealer a week ago. Long Island. Funny he shows up in Jersey.”
Galina replied quietly in Russian.
“Where you from?” Nick asked. “Tonight’s the first time I’ve seen you.”
“I have come for special assignment,” Galina said with a heavy accent.
Nick released the brake on the gurney and backed it out of the examining room. “You coming with us?”
Galina nodded. She moved beside Akimov, and as she did, she put her right hand into the pocket of her sweater and gripped the hypodermic syringe. The IV was clipped to the sheet next to Akimov’s shoulder and the tube followed his arm down to an angiocath that was taped to the back of his hand.
Nick began to push the gurney ahead. Galina looked back at Nick, whose attention was drawn to the lights at the elevator thirty feet ahead of them.
Galina cupped the IV tube in the palm of her left hand, and at the same instant took the hypodermic from her pocket with her right hand. Expertly and swiftly, she punctured the tube with the needle and quickly discharged 12 cc of sodium pentobarbital. It was done in less than twelve seconds. The dose was more than needed and most likely not all of it would enter Akimov’s body because the man’s heart and circulation would simply cease to function.
Galina estimated that it would take several minutes, less than ten, to reach the intensive care unit. She knew that in fifteen minutes, Akimov would be dead. She slipped the empty hypodermic syringe back into her sweater pocket, then leaned over and spoke to the Russian. She continued to speak to him as Nick pushed the gurney onto the elevator and the door closed behind them. Galina looked up to Nick.
“He is asleep. That is good.”
Nick smiled. “That’s good. Means we probably won’t have any problems with him.”
The instant Akimov was turned over to the ICU staff, Galina retreated to the stairs next to the elevator and down to the emergency department. But she turned to a door that led to the main lobby of the hospital. Four minutes later she was standing in the driveway. A Pontiac Grand Am came to a stop in front of her and a door opened. She got inside and the car went off.
Galina slipped off the wig and loosened her hair. She said, “Sasha Akimov is no longer a problem.”
Viktor nodded. “As it should be.”
