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The roadblock of police cars filled the darkened street ahead with flashing blue lights. A total of seven cars had been driven into angled positions to form a barricade. Behind the cars, officers with rifles had taken up posts.
With his car clacking and hammering as it inched along, Talanov once again pounded the steering wheel. He could see the hospital. It was right across the Mediterranean Highway, which was no more than twenty feet on the other side of the roadblock. Noya had a fighting chance if he could get her to that hospital. He would willingly go to jail in exchange for Noya getting help. But with the police having orders to shoot him on sight, he simply could not take the risk of Noya getting shot by some trigger-happy moron wanting to make a name for himself.
The police radio was full of shouting about where he was. A police helicopter had been following him overhead, reporting his every move. He could hear the thumping of its rotor as it hovered in the sky. A second chopper had also joined in. In his rearview mirror he could see police cars emerging from side streets. They were falling in beside other police cars already closing in. He slowed down as he passed the last side street. He looked left and right. Speeding toward him from both directions were more patrol cars, their blue lights flashing. He was boxed in.
Suddenly, the focus of the police chatter on the radio changed. The second helicopter, which was a news helicopter, was being ordered to leave.
They’re getting ready for the kill, thought Talanov, and they obviously don’t want any pictures.
Talanov thought back to Bixler asking why he hadn’t simply turned Noya over to the paramedics. He hadn’t then, but maybe it would work now. He would stop the car, get out, lay Noya down on the street and move away with his hands raised. The only reason the police weren’t shooting right now was because they knew she was with him. So this option at least afforded her a chance of getting medical treatment . . . a chance at life. However, once he stepped away, even with his hands raised, there was an excellent chance they would gun him down. But would they rush her to the hospital? Or would they be afraid to help her because of the anthrax scare? Would they let her die in the street? The thought of everyone just standing around in a wide circle was infuriating. He had tried everything and failed. His only choice now was to keep trying.
In the end no one would know how hard he had tried, not that it mattered and not that he could ever atone for what he had done. No, he had not pulled the trigger that shot Gorev, his wife, and his parents. Nor had he been the one who shot Noya or stabbed her with the syringe. He was, however, the one who tracked them down. He was, however, the one who failed to detect Sofia’s intentions, and there had been plenty of signs. And even though Sofia was now dead, the consequences of her actions – and his – had destroyed a family wanting nothing more than a new chance at life.
From the cacophony of chatter over the police radio came a booming voice shouting in Russian. “Aleks! Ty zdesʹ? Vy menya slyshite?”
Hitting the brakes, Talanov yanked the microphone from its bracket. “I’m here! I can hear you!” he replied.
“Are you listening to this?” asked Zak.
“Listening to what?”
“The news. Turn on your radio!”
Talanov switched on the car radio just as the news helicopter descended into view above the police barricade. It was hovering thirty feet above the squad cars and Talanov could see the agitated officers trying to wave it away. An officer with a bullhorn shouted for the pilot to vacate the area. Turning up the volume, Talanov heard recorded interviews with Luis and Justine and some of their friends, including Joe Abernathy, the young man in the Houston Oilers baseball cap. They were praising Talanov for saving their lives. Others were pleading for people to help Talanov, saying he was trying to save the life of young Noya Gorev. Two British captains were then interviewed and they echoed what the others had been saying. The reporter came back on and promised regular updates on Talanov’s race to save Noya.
“What is happening?” asked Noya, hearing her name. She tried to sit up but was too weak. Her eyes were barely open. Tangles of hair had fallen over her face.
Talanov did not answer. He was listening to the voice of the Spanish reporter, who was describing how many police cars had been set up to block his access to the hospital.
“I can see Talanov!” the reporter proclaimed. “He is right beneath us. He has stopped in the middle of the street!”
There was silence on the radio for a moment, and over the sound of the helicopter, Talanov heard the distant clatter and whine of car engines. The police, he thought. They’re closing in. But when he looked in his rearview mirror, he could see the police cars behind him had stopped. He switched off both radios and listened. The whining and clattering grew louder. What was happening?
Suddenly, a stream of old cars and vans squealed out of a narrow alley halfway down the block. The cars turned toward him and roared past. In the lead van was Luis and Justine, then Joe Abernathy, who waved, then their friends, and then their friends. Many of the cars screeched to a stop in front of the side streets, blocking the police cars coming that way. The rest made screeching U-turns to form a protective wall of vehicles behind Talanov. Others formed a funnel into the alley and began waving and shouting for Talanov to hurry.
“Hang on, sweetheart,” said Talanov.
Pressing the accelerator pedal to the floor, Talanov made a squealing turn into the alley to cries of “Te amamos, Noya!” When he had disappeared, students on foot ran into the mouth of the alley and sat down, blocking any attempt by the police to follow.
The pavement in the alley was cracked and broken as the crippled police car rocked and bounced along. Along each side were whitewashed concrete walls with doors outlined in decorative tiles. Twice he hit trash cans and sent them clanging and bouncing ahead. Emerging at the other end, Talanov made a hard right, where the car backfired once and died.
“No!” Talanov shouted, trying repeatedly to restart the engine as the vehicle finally rolled to a stop. Jumping out, he lifted Noya out of the backseat and began running with her in his arms. He could see the hospital. It was just ahead, on the other side of the Mediterranean Highway, which was clogged with traffic that had slowed to a crawl. Noya felt eerily light as he ran, as if she were wasting away in front of him. Talanov looked at her unconscious body. Her head was flopping back and forth, so he hoisted her closer to his chest. His wounded shoulder was screaming but he would get her to the hospital or die trying. In the sky above, he could see the police helicopter. It was close enough that he could see the pilot’s lips moving as he communicated with units on the ground. He could hear the sirens of police cars behind him. They were closing in and he could hear the throaty roar of their engines. Up ahead, two columns of armed police officers began running toward him. As the squad cars behind him screeched to a stop to cut off his retreat, the officers fanned out to form a line that stretched the width of the street. At the command of a ranking officer, they aimed their weapons.
From a loudspeaker attached to the police helicopter came a demand for Talanov to stop. But Talanov kept running straight toward the line of policemen.
“Halt or you will be shot!” the loudspeaker barked.
With Noya cradled in his arms, Talanov staggered to a stop in the middle of the darkened street, which was illuminated by the line of police cars parked behind him. He was panting and stooped and was favoring his wounded shoulder, which was a dried mass of red. For a long moment, no one moved. It was Talanov against a phalanx of armed policemen. The only sound filling the night was the thumping of rotor blades overhead. Even traffic on the Mediterranean Highway had ground to a complete stop. There were hundreds of cars stretching in both directions. Headlights and taillights as far as one could see. People had been following the news reports of what was now being called, The Race to Save Noya. All along the highway, people were standing on top of their cars, watching and waiting to see what would happen in the dramatic standoff unfolding before their eyes. More people began filling the sidewalks bordering the street. Word was spreading quickly, and the students who had raced to help Talanov earlier were now lining the street.
With sweat dripping from his forehead, Talanov began walking toward the wall of officers. Exhausted to the point of collapse, he pushed forward, step by step, one foot after the other in what was little more than a stagger.
Talanov stumbled and started to fall. Two pairs of arms caught him from behind. Talanov looked at the two students supporting him. They were Luis and Justine, panting and winded from their run.
“Get back,” he said. “Noya’s sick and there’s a chance she may be contagious.”
“How come you’re not sick?” asked Luis.
“I don’t know,” said Talanov.
“Then we’re staying,” Justine replied.
“I mean it. Get back,” said Talanov.
Without answering, Luis and Justine positioned themselves on each side of Talanov, one hand under each elbow, an arm each around his back. They called for others to join them but no one did. Everyone else just watched from a distance.
“Colonel Talanov, this is Comandante Álvarez of the Civil Guard,” a man with a bullhorn shouted from the cordon of police officers. “I need you to stop where you are and get down on your knees. I need the young man and woman who are with you to step away.”
Talanov did not stop, and Luis gave Álvarez the finger to cheers and applause from the crowd.
“Colonel Talanov, I am ordering you to stop where you are!” commanded Álvarez over the bullhorn.
With Luis and Justine, supporting him, Talanov kept marching onward. Several students came running up and joined them. Others from the crowd soon began falling in behind.
“This is your final warning!” announced Álvarez.
Talanov and the others kept walking.
“Keep the target in your sights!” Álvarez yelled to his men, raising his hand. “Get ready. On my command.”
“Comandante, are we really going to fire?” asked Lieutenant Barraza in a low voice. He glanced worriedly between Álvarez and the dozens of people now walking with Talanov.
“Do you know how much damage this man has caused?” hissed Álvarez. “He has killed people. He blew up a café. We have been chasing him all over town!”
“Sir, the people regard him as a hero. If you shoot him now, while he is trying to save this girl, you will not survive the backlash, especially if the girl dies.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Álvarez just as Talanov stopped two feet from the tips of his men’s guns.
While Barraza whispered in Álvarez’s ear, Talanov looked both ways along the line of troops. Overhead, the news helicopter continued hovering alongside the police helicopter. The downdraft from their rotor blades whipped everyone’s hair and flapped collars and shirts.
“How many of you have children?” Talanov shouted in fluent Spanish.
Most of the policemen shifted nervously in place. Others glanced quickly around before adjusting their grips on their weapons.
“From your reactions, I’d say two-thirds,” answered Talanov over the thumping of the rotor blades. “What would you be doing right now if Noya were your daughter?” He looked up and down the line. “You’d be doing the same thing I’m doing. You’d be risking your life to save hers. Trouble is, Noya doesn’t have a father. She only has me. So if you’re going to shoot me for trying to save her life, then either do it or get out of my way, because I need to get to that hospital and I need to get there now.”
Several seconds passed and no one moved. Suddenly, the policeman in front of Talanov nodded a discreet salute of respect and raised his rifle.
“Sir, you’d better act now,” whispered Barraza as other policemen joined in by raising their rifles.
Álvarez quickly brought the bullhorn to his mouth. “Let Colonel Talanov through!” he yelled as a huge cheer went up from the crowd. “Form an escort! Clear the way!”
The policemen parted to let Talanov through. Other policemen ran to the gridlocked highway and ordered drivers to inch their cars forward. Still others cleared a path through the enormous crowd of spectators packed in front of the hospital. Overhead, the news helicopter followed Talanov’s progress. People everywhere were clapping and cheering.
With Noya’s motionless body draped over his arms, Talanov followed the pathway being cleared for him by the policemen. Still supporting him on each side were Luis and Justine. Behind them were dozens of others. Talanov led the procession all the way to the entrance into the hospital, where a medical team in blue scrubs was waiting. A doctor wearing a mask gestured to a gurney. Talanov hesitated.
“We will take good care of her,” said the doctor. “We will run tests and find out precisely what is wrong.”
“I know what’s wrong,” said Talanov. “She’s got anthrax. A virulent strain.”
“As I said, we will run tests—”
Talanov grabbed the doctor by the wrist. “Run tests later. She needs an antidote now.”
“If this girl were infected with anthrax, she would be dead right now. But she’s not, she’s alive, even if barely. Hazmat confirmed the anthrax rumor to be a false alarm. Please, colonel. Allow us to run our tests.” He nodded and an accompanying physician inserted an IV of hydrating fluid into Noya’s slender arm. A nurse placed an oxygen mask over her face while a second nurse laid a cool pack over her forehead. When everything was secured, they rushed her away.
“It wasn’t a false alarm,” said Talanov, walking with the doctor. “It’s anthrax, a weaponized strain, and I know the doctor who made it – knew, I guess I should say, because he’s dead now – as is the bastard who deliberately infected Noya with it.” Talanov stepped in front of the doctor and stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk. “Do not test my patience on this, doctor, or risk Noya’s life with some routine examination that will use up precious minutes. Get her into a sterile environment and give her an antidote now. Do you understand?”
The doctor’s eyes flashed defiantly. Talanov replied by intensifying his glare. The doctor swallowed hard and nodded. “As soon as we’re inside,” he said. “You have my word.”
Talanov nodded his appreciation and allowed the doctor to hurry after his medical team.
With people along the sidewalk clapping, Talanov limped toward the hospital entrance accompanied by Luis and Justine. By now, the news helicopter had landed on the roof and a camera crew had made its way down the elevator and out the front door just as Álvarez and two officers caught up with Talanov. “We’ll assist Colonel Talanov from here,” he told Luis and Justine. With a broad smile, he straightened his uniform as the camera crew approached. The accompanying officers took hold of Luis and Justine’s arms and started to escort them away.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” Justine replied, twisting away.
“That’s right,” added Luis. “Colonel Talanov needs a doctor and we’re going to see that he gets one.”
“I will make certain Colonel Talanov receives the best of care,” responded Álvarez.
“As if we’re going to believe you,” said Justine. “You’re the guripa who wanted him killed.”
“Comandante,” said Talanov appeasingly, “I’m grateful for your generous offer, but the truth is, I would not have made it without these two. Allow me the honor of completing the journey in their care.”
With an appreciative smile, Talanov clasped Álvarez politely on the shoulder before continuing with Luis and Justine. Ahead of them, a cameraman began filming.
Álvarez motioned for Barraza.
“Si, Comandante,” Barraza replied.
“See to his admission and make sure Talanov remains in the hospital for observation,” Álvarez said quietly. “Approve whatever costs are involved and give no one – especially Talanov – any cause for alarm. Later tonight, when the media have gone, I want him shackled and taken to jail. In a week, the people will have forgotten he ever existed. Then we can show NATO how Spain deals with spies.”
