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The corporate jet chartered by the Russian Consulate landed just before dawn. Aboard was Fiona Zinyakin, assassins Three and Four, and, handcuffed to her seat, Andrea Talanov.
With the engines whining down, the jet taxied to a stop in front of a private hangar, where the four passengers stepped into a waiting limousine. Once they had cleared the security gate, the darkened window separating the passenger compartment from the driver was lowered. Behind the wheel was Cherniak. “I trust you had a nice flight?”
“Diplomatic privilege has its perks,” Fiona replied. She was dressed in a tailored business suit the color of ivory. It accented her short, auburn hair and red lips.
“We’ll talk more once we’re on board,” said Cherniak. “We’ll park on the upper deck of the hold, near an elevator. Few people will notice our arrival.” With a gentle hum, the darkened window into the driver’s compartment closed.
While they sped along Tapley’s Hill Road, Andrea appeared to be staring aimlessly at the blur of storefronts and houses. In actuality, she was very much aware that her captors had provided her with some useful information. First, they would be hiding on board a ship. Second, there was a remark about not being noticed, which could well mean the ship’s crew was not part of their operation.
Within twenty minutes, the limousine was driving beside a high chain-link fence topped with spirals of razor wire. They came to a gate and Cherniak opened his driver’s side window. “Russian Consulate, for the Coriander,” he said to the guard.
“You’re that diplomatic mob I was told would be coming in late,” the guard remarked. He flipped through several pages on his clipboard and located the proper sheet. “Here it is: Tango Blue. How many passengers have you got?”
“This car has special clearance.”
“I still need a head count,” said the guard.
“There are four, besides me,” Cherniak replied.
“I need to see ’em.”
“Is that necessary?”
“It is if you want in.”
Andrea did not get a chance to scream. The thought entered her mind about the same time Three jammed a pistol into her ribs. “Do not even think about it,” he said, “or I shoot you, then the guard.”
The window was lowered. The guard glanced in, made a quick head count, then stepped back. “All right, you’re cleared,” he said, opening the gate.
The limo sped through. After making several turns, it entered a vast storage yard, where hundreds of ribbed-steel containers of various colors were stacked three and four high. To their right, a yellow straddle carrier maneuvered into position over a stack of three containers and lowered a fourth on top. The whole area was brightly lit.
Directly ahead was the Coriander. It was being unloaded by two towering gantry cranes mounted on tracks. Each crane resembled a giant “H” but with an extended cross bar, to which were attached thick cables and a spreader capable of lifting many thousands of pounds. Mounted to the steel frame of each crane were numerous flood lights, making them appear as if they had been ornamented for Christmas.
Cherniak swung the limousine left toward the stern of the ship, where a wide steel ramp extended up into the brilliantly lit opening. Above the stern and covering nearly one-fifth of the freighter’s deck was a self-contained city called “the accommodation,” or superstructure, which appeared as though it had been constructed out of giant white building blocks.
The limousine drove up the ramp into a cavernous interior – “the cathedral” – where hundreds of vehicles had already been loaded.
By special orders from Ling Soo in Hong Kong, a reserved parking space had been allocated near one of the elevators. After parking, Cherniak got out and checked to make sure no one was watching. “We’re clear,” he said, opening the door.
Number Three pulled Andrea from the back seat and muscled her to the elevator. When the doors opened, she was shoved inside and the others stepped in behind her. Andrea did not resist. By all appearances, she was a woman without hope. Her shoulders were slumped. Her brown hair fell tangled about a face that was drawn and depressed. It was an image she had been careful to maintain.
Ironically, it was Alex’s words that gave her the strength to do what she was doing. If killers have a weakness, it is in the blind spot created by their weapons. One can easily become careless when heavily armed or with a feeling of unquestioned advantage.
At the time, his words seemed overly dramatic, as had his insistence that she take self-defense lessons. Now she found herself strengthened by them. In her mind, she could hear Alex telling her to stay alert without appearing to be alert. To listen without responding to what was being said. To observe without watching.
It had not been easy. In fact, the brutal shooting of Spiro nearly had broken her, especially when combined with the agony of not knowing if she would ever see Alex again. But then something had happened.
Sitting blindfolded and handcuffed in the killer’s flat in Sydney, Andrea heard the two assassins burst through the door cursing Talanov and the luck that seemed to surround him. That outburst gave her hope. It made her realize these killers could be defeated, that they were not omnipotent, that they did have weaknesses. And she would exploit those weaknesses.
The elevator doors dinged open and Andrea was led down a narrow corridor with pipes along the ceiling. The walls were constructed of boilerplate steel. Everything was painted gray. They turned a corner and Cherniak led them up a flight of metal stairs to another corridor, which they followed for a short distance before stepping through a large hatch.
They stopped at the second door on the right. Cherniak unlocked the door and shoved Andrea into a small cabin. The door was then locked behind her.
The room contained a single bed, a metal locker, a desk, a small sink, toilet, and a polished metal mirror. There were no portholes, although a ventilation duct provided the room with a flow of fresh air.
Sitting on the bed, Andrea was well aware that she was being kept alive solely for the purpose of trapping her husband. Yet, in light of the assassins’ obsession with killing Alex, what didn’t make sense was the firebombing of their house. In a bizarre way, she understood the killing of one policeman while allowing the other to escape. It would intensify the manhunt to capture Alex. However, knowing dozens of armed police would soon be arriving, they took the time to search the house before setting fire to it. Why? What were they after? It was obviously something important, although Alex genuinely did not know what it was.
Suddenly, Andrea cocked her head. Were those voices she could hear through the ventilation duct? She listened carefully. Voices and laughter and roughhousing. The crew!
If she could hear them, then they could hear her!
As if reading her thoughts, the door swung open.
“Can’t have you raising an alarm now, can we?” Cherniak said, raising a gun. He fired and a tiny, narcotized dart stuck in her leg. Andrea tried screaming, but Cherniak restrained her with a towel over her mouth. Finally, her body went limp.
