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Talanov did a quick scan of his surroundings. They were near the corner, where Calle del Bergantín met a cross street. Several blocks to the left was the busy Mediterranean Highway. To the right was a quiet residential section of apartments. Talanov could see lighted walkways and windows beyond a high wall bordering the street. Vines spilled over the top of the wall and floodlights illuminated the tops of trees.
He had no idea where the old woman lived, but right now that didn’t matter. What mattered was leading this mob away from the safe house.
He looked back at Paco and said, “Well, Paco, I guess this is your lucky night. You get to live. For the second time. So why don’t you and your playmates run along home before one of you really gets hurt?”
Taking the old woman by the hand, Talanov and Sofia ran with her to the corner, where they turned right and hurried along the sidewalk. Thankfully, the street was dark. Roaming bands of hooligans had smashed out the streetlights.
A car came toward them and they ducked through an arched doorway that opened into a secluded courtyard. Lighted staircases and passageways overlooked the area, which contained deep pockets of shadow among the palm trees and shrubs. A lighted path meandered among the foliage to the other side. Bordering the path were flower beds of colorful impatiens.
Talanov told the old woman to stay hidden in the shadows. “We’ll lead them up the street,” he said, unscrewing the silencer from his Makarov. He placed it with his pistol in the gun pockets near the small of his back. “Once it’s clear, hurry home and lock your door. I’m sorry about your car.”
“They will not go home, señor, not after the way you insulted them.”
Talanov smiled. “I know. Stay here. You’ll be safe.”
Leaving the courtyard, Talanov and Sofia turned right and jogged along the base of the courtyard wall, which soon became a series of garage doors for the whitewashed apartments above. Balconies overlooked a row of carports across the street. The parking spaces beneath the carports were filled with cars. A few spots were empty, but not many. Beyond the cars was a high wall topped with terra cotta tiles. On the other side lay more apartments.
Running silently in boots with soles of hardened rubber, Talanov knew his insults would provoke the mob into coming after them. The key was running slowly enough for them to maintain pursuit until they fatigued and collapsed. Not only was it important to lure them away from the safe house, but drive them to the point of exhaustion. That part was essential.
“Hurry, this way!” Talanov shouted in Spanish, cupping his hand near his mouth so his voice would carry.
Seconds later, he heard excited shouts and the clapping of footsteps. The mob had taken the bait and were coming after them.
Keeping pace beside him, Sofia said nothing. Talanov could tell she wanted to but was holding back.
Talanov knew he was not an impulsive person, nor was he reckless, although what he had done – helping the old woman – was both. Sofia therefore had a right to be angry. He would be angry, too, if the situation were reversed. And he was sure he would hear about it sooner or later.
His nickname, the Ice Man, had been given to him many years ago by his dǎoshī – literally, “mentor” – in the ancient monastery of Lóngshù, set among the peach trees high in the foothills near the colossal mountain of Khan Tengri. Known also as “blood mountain,” Khan Tengri was located in the remote Tian Shan range, where Soviet Kazakhstan met Soviet Kyrgyzstan at the northern tip of China, near the ancient Silk Road that skirted the perimeter of the forbidding Taklimakan Desert. The dǎoshī were a group of Chinese martial arts philosophers who trained elite Soviet youth in the various disciplines of survival, combat and fitness.
Lóngshù was a compound of eleven wooden buildings – some open and spacious, others tiny and confined – all austere and devoid of furnishings – all with tile roofs and open windows and wooden floors. The dǎoshī slept on bamboo mats and required neophytes to do the same.
The goal of their training was fitness and self-sufficiency, which was why survival and self-defense skills were emphasized. The neophytes trained barefooted on gravel and in snow. They did knuckle push-ups on stone. Building up calluses in training prevented injury in combat.
It was the same with people. A callused attitude toward others prevented injury from those people, or because of them, which was why friendships among the neophytes were strictly forbidden. Indeed, neophytes were forbidden even from speaking with one another, and those violating this directive were punished and sent home.
Young Alex not only embraced his training, he excelled, and his dǎoshī saw in him a combination of drive and determination that was unmatched by anyone else. However many push-ups young Alex was given, he did more. However many miles he was required to run, he ran more. He smirked at deprivation. He endured hardship without complaint. His mentor kept looking for a weakness but could find none. He even pitted young Alex against a Chinese girl brought in as a sparring partner for the Soviet youth. The girl beat Alex every time. Young boys were usually filled with ego and resented being beaten by a girl. Not Alex. He took it in stride and trained even harder.
Then an incident occurred. The girl beat an older Chinese boy in a sparring match that took place among the trees beyond the vegetable garden. Blossoms were still on the branches and when the wind blew it caused a flurry of soft petals. The older Chinese boy had also been brought in as a sparring partner for the Soviet boys but had made the mistake of challenging the girl. And got beaten. So the older boy brought two of his friends and cornered the girl out in the peach grove. They would teach the girl a lesson.
Watching from his upstairs balcony, the dǎoshī saw Alex come to the defense of the girl. He saw the smaller Alex push the boys away from her. Saw young Alex fight a valiant but losing battle. Saw him take their kicks and punches and finally go down. Saw the older boys leave him bleeding on the grass, sobbing silently, in pain. The dǎoshī called the Chinese boys to his room. The boys stood trembling before him, fearing his wrath. Instead, he commanded them to attack the girl again. And he watched while Alex was beaten defending her again. When that happened, the dǎoshī smiled. He had finally found a way to break young Alex Talanov.
And he did.
Completely.
The incident at Lóngshù flashed through Talanov’s mind as he and Sofia ran along the darkened street. His compulsion then for a girl whose name he never knew had cost him dearly – several times – just as his compulsion tonight was costing them again. Exactly how much remained to be seen.
They came to a Y-shaped fork in the street. To the right, two cars were parked in the middle of the street, engines idling, their drivers talking. One car faced toward them and the other faced away. The street was lit up with headlights in both directions. That much light was bad, so they ran left.
This section of the street was dark. On one side were more garage doors. The lights above the garage doors had been smashed out. Chunks of broken glass littered the pavement. On the other side was a high wall. Tangles of jasmine hung over the wall, which was punctuated with several arched doorways and gates of wrought iron. Beyond were the lighted windows of apartments.
Talanov spun around and ran backward. “Hide in here!” he shouted. He could hear the quickening of footsteps behind them. His plan was working. Time now to ditch their pursuers.
The canyon of garage doors and walls turned left and terminated abruptly at a high chain-link fence preventing access into some new blocks of apartments that were being constructed. Talanov and Sofia reversed direction only to see the darkened silhouettes of their pursuers racing toward them.
Talanov ran over to a wrought iron gate and tried the handle. It was locked. A locked gate on one side. Garage doors on the other. A chain link fence behind.
The footsteps grew louder.
They were trapped.
