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“A pity you will not get to see her die,” Svet said. “I hear anthrax is a horrible death.” He grinned at Talanov lying against the side of the building holding his shoulder. Blood was oozing through Talanov’s fingers while the café behind them burned and Noya cried and coughed.
“Your time is coming,” said Talanov. “Maybe not by me, but I promise you’ll pay.”
“Do not make promises you cannot keep,” Svet replied with a grin. “Do you not remember how I tell you this before?”
“It will happen, so keep looking over your shoulder.”
“Too bad you did not take your own advice, because there you are on the ground and here I am with your gun, and there she is, your little friend, Noya, who is now our laboratory animal. Such a pretty animal, too, so full of spirit and fight, defending you the way she did, like a kitten, bearing her claws. Too bad she will never reach motherhood. Oh, but wait – she is a mother, isn’t she – of a new disease!” Svet laughed. “So, before I kill you, I want you to remember me in the café with your little friend. Remember me stabbing the syringe into her arm. Think of her screaming as fever begins to eat away at her and—”
Suddenly, a massive hand clamped Svet’s wrist and wrenched it upward to the inside, diverting the aim of the gun away from Talanov while twisting the weapon out of his hand. Another hand clamped Svet by the neck and lifted him completely off the ground. Svet tried punching the dark hulk of a figure looming in front of him but it was like hitting the trunk of a tree. Svet kneed the man and kicked him, but to no avail. Svet was like a ragdoll hanging in midair, flailing and wriggling, eyes bulging, unable to breathe. Zak scowled briefly at the Makarov he had taken from Svet before dropping it on the pavement. He then turned his fury on the man who had been wielding it. “You should have taken the colonel’s advice and looked over your shoulder.”
Lifting Svet higher with one hand, Zak began to squeeze but was interrupted by the sound of running footsteps. Looking right, he saw a group of college students round the corner of the burning café. They stopped when they saw Zak holding Svet by the neck. They stared for a long moment, then saw Talanov holding his bloody shoulder, then saw Noya lying on the pavement, unconscious, then saw Gorev writhing in a pool of his own blood.
The students all turned and ran except for a boy in a Houston Oilers baseball cap, who dashed over and knelt beside Gorev. The student pulled off his T-shirt, wadded it into a ball and pressed it to Gorev’s chest. He then placed Gorev’s hand over the shirt. “Hold this. It will slow the bleeding,” he said in English.
“Ah . . . merican?” Gorev asked in a weak whisper.
“Yes,” the student replied. “Don’t speak. I’ll get some help.”
Gorev grabbed the student by the back of the neck and pulled him close. “Dying. Must . . . tell . . . what to do.”
“Please, sir, save your—”
“No! Must . . . listen,” gasped Gorev, pulling the student close enough to whisper in his ear.
While Gorev spoke to the student, Svet tried gouging Zak’s eyes in a desperate attempt to free himself. Zak blocked Svet’s attempt, then grabbed the fingers of his right hand and broke them. Svet tried screaming, but the scream emerged as a muffled gargle with Zak’s hand around his throat. Svet locked eyes with Zak. Saw his rage in the flickering light from the burning café. Felt the pincer of Zak’s hand cut off air and blood flow. Seconds later, Svet’s eyes rolled back in his head, and after a few twitches and jerks, he went limp.
After a final crushing squeeze, Zak tossed Svet’s body into the same dumpster where Svet had dumped Anna Gorev. He then ran over to where Talanov was kneeling beside Gorev and the student in the baseball cap. Gorev was unconscious and Noya was kneeling beside Talanov, looking on with a blank stare on her face, which was streaked with dirt. Her clothes were torn and stained.
“What’s your name?” Talanov asked the student.
“Joe Abernathy,” the student replied.
“Tell me again what Gorev told you.”
“He asked if I was an American, and I said yes. I tried getting him to save his strength, but he insisted on telling me something.”
“Which was?”
“Melissa in time,” answered Joe. “The words came out in gasps. He said it twice in deliberate English, then passed out.”
“But he didn’t say who Melissa was, or where we could find her, or why we need to find her?”
Joe shook his head.
Noya coughed and Talanov leaned over and felt her forehead. “She’s got a fever. Can you help me get her to the car?”
“After what you did inside, saving all of us like that? Anything you need, Colonel. I’m here.”
“Have you got a handkerchief?” asked Talanov. “We need to cover her mouth.”
“Sorry,” Joe replied.
Talanov saw Gorev was wearing a long sleeve shirt and asked Zak to rip out a sleeve. Zak grabbed the shoulder and pulled off the sleeve like it was a perforated sheet of paper. He handed the sleeve to Talanov, who tied it gently around Noya’s mouth. “Okay, let’s go,” he said.
“What about you?” asked Joe. “That shoulder looks—”
“I’ll be fine,” said Talanov. “Help Noya to her feet. Zak, if you’ll grab Gorev.”
Joe helped Noya stand while Talanov struggled to his feet. Zak picked up Gorev and hoisted him over his shoulder. With Talanov leading the way, they hurried toward the car.
“Melissa in time. You’re sure that’s what he said?” asked Talanov.
“Yes. He said it twice,” Joe replied.
Talanov looked down at Noya. “Does your father call you Melissa?”
Noya shook her head.
“Do you know anyone by that name?”
Noya coughed and again shook her head.
Half a dozen more university students – four boys and two girls – came running down the lane after them.
“La policía!” a freshman student named Luis called out, asking his friends if anyone spoke Russian.
“I speak Spanish. What’s going on?” answered Talanov.
“Some local pitufos came running out from the alley claiming they had seen the Russian spy,” answered Luis.
“So we steered the police across the street,” added his girlfriend, Justine, “but they will figure the truth out soon. So you must hurry.”
“Reporters are here, too,” said Luis, “and they are talking to everyone. Lieutenant Barraza, the police spokesman, said you were dangerous, and that what occurred in the café was the latest in a long string of crimes for which you are responsible. I told them you had saved our lives by chasing everybody from the café before the bomb exploded.”
“The reporters did not want to believe us,” added Justine, “but all of us here were all saying the same thing, and it made Barraza look like the pitufo that he is. I told them how the Chinese woman placed the bomb beneath her table. How you fired your gun to chase everyone out. How I came back and saw the timer and all the broken glass encasing the bomb. How you chased us out again, and then, ka-boom, a massive explosion ripped off the roof.”
“There were even two British soldiers saying how you told them to make sure the restaurant was cleared,” added Luis. “Barraza insisted you were to blame, but in the end, he looked like a fool.”
“What do you need us to do, Colonel?” asked Justine.
“Colonel? You know who I am?”
“Of course. Everyone knows.”
“If you know that I’m KGB, why are you helping me?”
“You saved our lives,” answered Luis. “We do not care what you are. We care who you are.”
“We do not like the police, anyway,” said Justine. “Comandante Álvarez is always sending the police to push students around – in nightclubs and rallies and protests – so this is a way we can push back.”
“And do something good, like you did for us,” agreed another.
“What happened to the girl?” asked Justine.
“Her name is Noya and one of Sofia’s men stabbed her with a syringe containing infected blood.”
“Why would he do something like that?”
“So that I’d rush Noya to the hospital and allow Sofia’s bomb to go off, which was laced with the same anthrax that Noya has. Sofia and her colleagues – colleague, singular, because I had to kill the other one – want to demonstrate its killing power so that Sofia can sell it as a weapon. As cruel as that sounds – and is – Noya was simply a means to an end.”
“And yet you chose to stay,” said Justine.
“Sofia thought she could make me choose. One or the other. I plan to do both . . . with your help.”
They reached the end of the darkened lane, where it met the intersection of two streets. One street led back to the Mediterranean Highway and the burning cafe. The other street was the dead-end spur where Talanov had parked. Talanov looked back toward the Mediterranean Highway and saw a police car easing its way through the throngs of onlookers clogging the street. Its lights were flashing but the people were not moving. They wanted to watch the burning restaurant. The driver hit the siren and people began jumping out of the way.
“They’ve seen me,” said Talanov just as Noya began to cough. “Can one of you get her some water?”
“I’ll go,” said Joe, sprinting away just a the last of the crowd parted and the patrol car sped up the street toward them.
“Block that car,” said Talanov. “I have to get Noya and her father to a hospital.”
The students ran into the street waving their hands back and forth. The squad car skidded to a stop and an officer yelled for everyone to get out of the way. The group responded by sitting down in the middle of the street. An officer jumped out and began dragging the young people out of the way, two at a time. But as soon as he returned for others, the first pair would run back into the street and sit down again.
“Put Gorev in the front seat,” Talanov told Zak while he placed Noya in back.
“Are you okay to drive with that shoulder?” asked Zak.
“There’s a medical kit on the floorboard. I’ll take a couple of caffeine tablets and clean the wound later.”
Joe came running up to them. “It’s the best I could find,” he said, handing Talanov a can of beer. Talanov nodded his thanks and handed the beer to Zak. “Do your best to keep Noya awake,” he told Zak, who climbed into the back seat beside Noya.
Before sliding behind the wheel, Talanov paused when he saw a tangle of ground cover beneath a tree. Lemon balm.
“Grab me a handful of that ground cover,” he said to Joe, pointing to the lemon balm growing beneath a tree. While he got in and started the engine, Joe twisted off a handful of stems and leaves and brought them back. Talanov thanked Joe, then gave some to Noya. “Eat this, it will stop your coughing,” he said, placing the remainder in his shirt pocket. To Joe: “The hospital. Which way?”
“That way,” Joe said, pointing down the dead-end street. “There’s a barricade at the end, but you can go around. You’ll end up on the Mediterranean Highway and will have to go right. Flip around as soon as you can and head back east. The hospital is about a mile on your right. Five stories high. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” said Talanov. “I owe you for all you’ve done.”
“Not as much as we owe you,” said Joe. “Good luck, Colonel.”
Talanov shifted into gear and roared down the darkened street. At the end was a knee-high barricade mounted on thick wooden posts. Talanov veered left and drove the stolen police car over an oleander bush, crushing it as he bounced over the sidewalk and curb and into the busy highway. Cars screeched and swerved to avoid hitting him as he fishtailed into the flow of traffic over the blasts of horns. The police radio was still on and an excited dispatcher squawked that Talanov was seen leaving the café with hostages. The dispatcher interrupted herself to say Talanov and the hostages were now heading west on the Mediterranean Highway in a stolen police car.
Gunning the engine, Talanov roared into the left-hand lane and made a squealing U-turn at the first turn lane through the median. Heading back east, he pounded the steering wheel when he saw brake lights ahead. A barricade of police cars had been set up and they were inspecting every car.
The radio squawked another report that said Talanov had made was now heading east, toward the barricade.
“Hang on,” said Talanov, steering the police car up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians leaped out of the way as the car flattened small trees and sent trashcans flying. The officers manning the barricade saw him coming and ran up onto the sidewalk, their guns drawn. Talanov roared toward them full throttle, the engine whining as another trashcan was sent cartwheeling across the tops of several stopped cars. Across the Mediterranean Highway to his left was the burning café.
Hesitant to shoot, the police shouted for Talanov to stop. But Talanov flew straight at them, horn blaring, lights flashing. At the last minute, the officers jumped out of the way and let Talanov roar past. When he did, he flattened another sapling before veering back into the street and racing away toward the east. The officers sprinted to their cars and peeled away after him, sirens screaming. The police radio was still broadcasting reports about what direction Talanov was headed.
Talanov looked at Gorev sitting slumped over in the seat beside him. He did not appear to be breathing. He then looked at Zak in his rearview mirror. “How is she?” he asked.
“Getting worse,” Zak replied. “She’s burning with fever.”
“Can I have some water?” asked Noya. Her voice was weak and her coughing had subsided after eating the lemon balm.
Zak opened the beer and gave her a swallow.
“The hospital is up ahead,” said Talanov.
“Who’s Melissa?” asked Zak, “and how do we reach her in time?”
“If I had access to Gorev’s files, I could check to see if there was someone named Melissa who worked with him. Judging by the name, which sounds American, I doubt we’ll find her in a Soviet lab.”
“Maybe she’s his contact in America? Someone who knows his research?”
With her father’s torn-out sleeve still covering her mouth, Noya laid her head against Zak’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Zak shook her lightly to keep her awake.
“If she is,” said Talanov, “the Americans aren’t about to share that information. Hold on, we’re almost there.”
Because Talanov had been dividing his attention between the road ahead and Zak in the backseat, he did not see the police waiting in the darkened side street. It was on the other side of the Mediterranean Highway and its headlights were off. So there was no warning for Talanov when the car shot across both lanes of traffic and rammed them in the rear fender.
The crash sent them spinning clockwise into a parked car, with the police car that rammed them plowing into a van immediately behind. An instant later, three gunshots rained chunks of glass in on Zak and Noya.
Talanov ducked and looked around to see Sofia push open her car door and climb out. Jamming the gearstick in reverse, he stomped on the gas. The car squealed backward and smashed into Sofia’s stolen police car just as she fired three more times and jumped out of the way just as Talanov’s police car smashed into hers.
“Where the hell did she come from?” yelled Zak, protecting Noya with his arms.
“She knew we’d have to find the nearest hospital,” Talanov said, shifting into drive and hitting the accelerator again just as Sofia fired again, jumped back in her car, reversed away from the van, and sped after them.
“Obviously, she’s been following our progress on the police radio,” said Zak. “They’re broadcasting our every move.”
“We’ve got no gun and no way to defend ourselves,” said Talanov, looking worriedly in his rearview mirror at the headlights of Sofia’s police car closing in on them. Farther behind were the flashing blue lights of other police cars.
“Gorev, how is he?” asked Zak.
Talanov looked over at the motionless body of Gorev. The crashes had toppled him over and he had not moved. “I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead,” Talanov replied. Noya, how is she?”
“We need to get her to that hospital now,” said Zak, feeling her forehead with the back of his hand.
“I know,” Talanov replied. “But we’ve got to lose Sofia, and I’m not sure how to do that. She can handle a car better than anyone I know.”
“Can I have some water?” asked Noya.
Zak offered her more beer but Noya didn’t want it.
“We’ll get some as soon as we can,” said Talanov.
“Talanov, can you hear me?” a woman’s voice crackled over the police radio.
Talanov grabbed the microphone out of its bracket. “Agent Bixler? Is that you?”
“Yes, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“And a pleasant good evening to you, too,” Talanov replied just as Sofia fired again. The bullet punched through both windshields and narrowly missed hitting Talanov in the neck.
“Listen to me!” shouted Bixler. “The police have orders to shoot you on sight, and the only reason they didn’t turn you into Swiss cheese a moment ago is because you’ve got hostages in the car.”
“They’re not hostages,” said Talanov, swerving around two cars. “We’re trying to get them to the hospital to save their lives.” He switched on his lights and siren.
“Two police officers said they saw you force Gorev and his daughter into your car.”
“We didn’t force them. Noya’s sick and Gorev’s been shot. Talk to the people who helped us. They’ll verify what I’m saying.”
“A lot of people are saying a lot of things,” said Bixler, “and most of them are about you shooting up the place before setting it ablaze.”
“I set that fire to incinerate the anthrax. There was a timer counting down and Noya had been stabbed.”
“Why not switch off the timer? Or pull out the wires? Why risk infecting the entire continent by blowing a café to smithereens? The explosion was heard on Gibraltar, for crying out loud! Flames are still billowing fifty feet into the air.”
“I didn’t try any of that because I couldn’t tell what the configuration of the bomb was, or if you can even pull out wires without setting the whole thing off. It’s pretty easy to give advice when you weren’t there.”
“Look, just pull over and wait. We’re right behind you.”
“Were you dropped on your head as a child? Sofia’s behind me and she’s shooting at us. The moment I stop, we’re dead.”
“Why didn’t you hand Noya over to the paramedics? They were at the café. Why run?”
“Because she’s been infected with anthrax, that’s why. Sofia had Svet infect her with some tainted blood, and I was not about to leave her in the street or risk getting us shot by some trigger-happy cop.”
“They have antidotes they could have given her.”
“Not for this stuff. She needs a hospital. So does Gorev.”
“You can’t keep running forever. Someone’s bound to get killed.”
“Since you’re so concerned for my welfare, I need you to do me a favor. Before Gorev lapsed into a coma, he said something about reaching Melissa in time. You need to find out who Melissa is and whether or not we can reach her. Was she a contact, a colleague . . . someone who knows of his work?”
“We’re not doing anything until you pull over.”
“I can’t pull over.”
“You will if you want my help.”
“Come on, Glenda. I’m not the enemy.”
“The hell you’re not.”
“He’s not, Glenda, and you know it,” said Pilgrim.
“He drugged me,” Bixler shouted. “With your help!”
“Because he needed to stop Sofia from setting off that bomb. Which he did, in case you’d forgotten. The anthrax was incinerated. Hazmat is there as we speak and so far they’ve found nothing.”
“He blew up a café!”
“And if he hadn’t? Come on, Glenda, you were not about to let him go.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” snapped Bixler.
“Noya’s,” Pilgrim fired back. “And she doesn’t have much time. So will you please let me handle this? Colonel, this is Agent Pilgrim and we’re in one of the police cars behind you. Tell me exactly what Gorev said about Melissa.”
But Talanov was focused on his fuel gauge. A minute ago the gauge showed their tank being full. Now it was just over half. He glanced in the side mirror and saw a tiny plume of liquid spraying out behind them.
“What’s wrong?” asked Zak.
“Sofia shot a hole in our tank.”
“Colonel?” asked Pilgrim.
“All I know is what an American student named Joe Abernathy told me. I’d been shot in the shoulder and he ran over to help. Gorev could barely speak, but he told Joe we needed to reach Melissa in time.”
“Was Gorev speaking Russian or English?”
“English.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Joe said Gorev spoke those words – Melissa in time – in deliberate English.”
“Okay, just to be sure, aside from the name, Melissa, is there a Russian word that sounds like Melissa?”
“None that I know of.”
“What about time?”
“Vremya is the Russian word, so if Gorev said, ‘time,’ he was speaking English, just like Joe said,” answered Talanov, weaving around three cars, with Sofia staying close behind. Talanov could see her in his rearview mirror.
But when Sofia passed the same three cars Talanov had just passed, she shot the front tires of the two lead cars. In his rearview mirror, Talanov saw the lead car’s tire explode. It sounded like a shotgun blast. Talanov saw the rim bite into the pavement, which flipped the car in a twisting cartwheel motion, round and round, end-over-end. It then took a bizarre high bounce and landed on top of the second car an instant before both cars were hit by the third car for a screeching metal-on-concrete collision. Other cars hit their brakes but not in time to avoid skidding and crashing into one another for a massive multi-car pile-up that completely stopped traffic on the Mediterranean Highway.
“So we’re talking about . . . watch out!” shouted Pilgrim over the sound of screeching tires.
“There goes any police protection we may have been hoping for,” said Talanov just as Sofia sped forward and rammed them from behind, causing their car to swerve back and forth.
“Talanov, what just happened?” shouted Pilgrim.
“Sofia happened, that’s what,” Talanov shouted back. “Find Melissa! It’s Noya’s only hope.”
“How? We’ll be stuck in traffic for hours.”
“I’m not interested in your excuses, Donna. I don’t care what you have to do. Call your consulate, call Langley, call your President. Do whatever it takes to find out who Melissa is, and for God’s sake, find out now.”
