FIFTY-FOUR

With Haines and Witner each flanked by two marines, Spavin marched them to the stern, into the tall atrium, and past the giant terrarium, halting in front of the metal detector. Another marine handed them plastic baskets. “Everything out of your pockets, please. And remove your belts.” After they’d passed through, the guard didn’t return the baskets, but gave them instead to Spavin, who commanded them to follow.

“Colonel,” said Haines, grasping the waistband of his pants. “My belt.”

Spavin tossed him the belt, and they set off down the corridor, Spavin carrying a basket in each hand like an usher after the offering. He opened the double doors and led Haines and Witner up into the cool, spacious office, the marines in tow. Potemkin was at his desk, half hidden by the monitors.

“They’re here, Prime Minister,” Spavin said.

“Goodness,” Witner whispered to Haines. “Why not king?”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Potemkin said. “Leave them with me.”

“Shall I stay, sir?”

“Don’t bother,” Potemkin replied, striding over. He was dressed in a black T-shirt, khaki shorts, and leather sandals. He was also wearing a shoulder holster. The butt of a pistol protruded from under his armpit. “I’ll call you when I need you. Just leave one of your men by the door. Armed. Anything of interest on their persons?”

“Nothing obvious, sir.” Spavin held out the plastic baskets and gave them a shake.

“Set those on the coffee table.” Potemkin pointed.

Spavin did so, then saluted and marched off, ordering one of his men to stay behind. The doors clicked shut. Haines had never seen him this tense looking. Potemkin had yet to make eye contact.

“Hello, Mikhail,” said Witner. “Surprise.”

The oligarch exhaled through his nose. “Hello, Dr. Witch.”

“Listen here, Mikhail,” said Haines. “I was given no foreknowledge of any escape plans, and I had no idea we weren’t expected. He called me out of the blue this morning. Said you wanted radio silence.”

“I believe you, Lawrence,” Potemkin said. “I believe you. This is quite unexpected for me too. I have to give him credit for being full of resources.”

Witner turned and spoke directly to Haines. “You see, Lawrence, I’m supposed to be dead. He betrayed me instead of helping me. But the tables turned. The best laid plans of mice and men.”

“What the bloody hell is going on?” demanded Haines, blood rushing to his face. “You tricked me into bringing you out here and now you’re saying Mikhail betrayed you.”

“Mikhail tends not to keep his word,” Witner said calmly. “But now that I’m here, a fait acompli, it will best serve us all for him to honor his original promise.”

Potemkin sighed audibly and looked down at the plastic baskets. He lifted one and removed something. Haines could see it was a coin in a little plastic box. The Russian looked at Witner and chuckled. “Bryson, is this what I think it is?”

Witner’s expression went blank. “Yes. Kindly leave it alone.”

Taking the coin out of the plastic protector, Potemkin held it up to the light, rubbing it. Then he broke into a full-throated laugh and shook his head. “Yes! It’s the one you outbid me for, Dr. Witch. I’m impressed you have kept it all these years . . .”

Winter’s face darkened. “You couldn’t have it then,” he said, his voice deepening, “and you can’t have it now.”

“Oh really?” Potemkin replied, making an amused snort. “A brave statement, considering your position.” The Russian turned to Haines. “This is no ordinary quarter, Lawrence. It’s a 1970-D Washington Quarter that Dr. Witch outbid me for back in Boston. It was stamped upon a dime blank, see?” He held it up, then gave it a kiss and smiled.

“It’s my lucky talisman,” said Witner. “Hand it back.”

Potemkin continued directing his attention at Haines. “It’s touching, no? This is most likely his last item of value. He wants to hold it close. Bryson is right, of course, Lawrence. I tried to have him killed yesterday. My only question is why he comes here for me to finish the job? Maybe he has something up his sleeve.” He turned to Witner. “What is up your sleeve, Dr. Witch? You think you have some power over me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Witner.

“Something spooky, no doubt.” The Russian chuckled. “Another spider?”

“I have planted an IEID.”

“Ooooh . . . and what might be that?”

“An improvised exploding information device. I left behind a cache of compromising information. If I don’t personally abort the process, in one week a great number of precise and well-documented facts will be released, detailing what you did at New Canterbury. I know that you’re safe from prison out here in your little domain, but you’ll lose all that work and destroy Lawrence and his company. And it’ll help them catch up with you someday. I am the only one who can prevent this from happening. I will defuse the device on the condition that you set me up in comfort where I can’t be harmed, as you once promised. Kill me instead and . . . bang.”

Potemkin snorted again. “Bang? Why should I care? I might lose some investment, but just a drop. Lawrence is the person you’d destroy. You come invading my home and expect me to help you? No way, my friend. You are an illegal immigrant. Your time on Earth is over.”

“Wait a goddamn minute, Mikhail,” said Haines, straightening and pointing at the Russian. “Stop right there. I have a say in how this thing plays out.”

“Then make your say,” said Potemkin. “In the meantime, Dr. Witch can have his coin back. Let him enjoy it while he can. A single turd of mine is worth more than ten of these.”

Potemkin tossed the rare quarter to Witner. It made an arc, twirling in the overhead lights. Witner, to Haines’s astonishment, made not the slightest effort to catch it. He let it bounce off his chest and fall to the plush carpet. Witner folded his arms and grinned at the Russian.

Potemkin’s smile slowly transmogrified into a puzzled frown, and his face appeared to grow pale.

A teasing smile played on Witner’s lips. “How are you feeling, Mikhail? Maybe a little sick to your stomach? A little lightheaded?”

Indeed, the oligarch’s face had gone gray, his forehead gleaming with sweat. Swaying slightly, Potemkin lowered himself onto the sofa and coughed, his neck reddening, his Adam’s apple rising and falling.

“What’s happening?” said Haines, glancing at Witner.

“Mikhail, tell Lawrence, while you still can, about the people you murdered as you helped him acquire New Canterbury.”

Haines glared at Witner, then Potemkin. “What the devil are you talking about?”

Potemkin’s face was now bathed in sweat. It was dripping off his chin. He opened his mouth to speak but groaned instead.

“I believe he’s at a loss for words,” said Witner, winking at Haines. “I’ll tell the story for him. As far as murderers go, I’m a novice compared to him. One of Mikhail’s techniques, you see, is to make people die in car accidents by hacking into their vehicles. That’s what happened to the comptroller at New Canterbury and to my medical director at Patterson, may he rest in peace. And we can safely assume he was involved in the death of that fake Ukrainian journalist there, who was actually his niece.”

“Good God,” said Haines.

“And there’s one other killing too, Lawrence. When I first reached out to you, my primary motive was not to help you buy New Canterbury. That was just an incentive for you. What I wanted was for you to put me in touch with Mikhail so that he could conduct a little unfinished business for me—getting rid of Dr. Forester. Mikhail failed, though, and took care of his wife instead. But close enough.”

“Both of you are disgusting bastards,” Haines hissed.

Potemkin gagged and vomited.

Witner turned to the marine by the door, who had been edging closer, clearly concerned about Potemkin’s condition. “Excuse me, young man,” he said. “I think the PM needs some help.”

“What’s wrong with him?” asked the marine, striding toward them. “He looks sick.”

“Very astute,” Witner said. “I’m not sure what the problem is. I’m sure you have some first aid training; why don’t you check him out while I call for help.”

The oligarch swayed, saliva and more vomit oozing from his mouth. The marine dashed to his side, grabbed him by the shoulders and tried at first to steady him. “What’s wrong, sir?” The Russian didn’t answer. He was hyperventilating now, and sweat had begun dripping from his brow as if irrigation pipes were buried under the skin. Catching his breath, Potemkin tried to speak. He could only choke.

“We need help now,” the marine said.

“You’d better lay him down, young man,” Witner said.

Stepping aside to avoid another gush of vomit, the marine eased Potemkin to the floor and knelt next to him.

“Keep him on his side so he doesn’t breathe in the puke,” said Witner.

As the marine rolled him over, Witner suddenly reached down and pulled the marine’s cap off. Haines stared. In his other hand, Witner raised up the large glass ashtray that had been on the nearby table. Haines hadn’t seen him take it. Before the marine could express surprise, Witner brought the heavy piece down square on his head. It must have been made of tempered glass, because it didn’t break as it slammed onto the young man’s skull. The marine went rigid and slumped down next to Potemkin.

“Jesus Christ, Witner. What the hell are you doing? What’s going on here?”

“Can you still hear me, Mikhail?” Witner asked.

The oligarch vomited again, groaned, rolling his eyes toward Witner.

Witner leaned closer. “It was the coin, Mikhail. I swabbed it with the Novichok that you had smeared on my reading device. I’ve got you to thank for my freedom after all.”

Potemkin shuddered and began convulsing.

Witner turned to Haines and smiled. “I hope he heard me. It won’t be long now.”

“You really are a monster,” Haines said, his throat tight. “You had this planned all along. You knew he’d take the coin.”

Potemkin’s seizure activity was already slowing, his face turning purple and bloated, his breathing erratic and raspy.

“I did, yes,” Witner said, bending over and jerking the pistol from the oligarch’s shoulder holster. “I wasn’t sure whether there’d be a guard with us, but it was a scenario I’d thought about.”

He turned and leveled the muzzle at Haines’s head. Too stunned to speak, Haines stepped backward, nearly stumbling on the coffee table.

Witner laughed and lowered the pistol. “You are in no danger if you follow my lead. We must get to your helicopter.”

“Why would I help you, Witner? I should just let them kill you.”

“You will help me for two reasons. One is that you’ll be seen as an accomplice, of course. We’d both be shot. And secondly, you won’t want my information bomb to explode.”

Potemkin was no longer moving or breathing. The marine, however, began to groan and attempt to roll over. Witner slammed the butt of the pistol against his temple, and all effort ceased.

Haines was speechless.

“We can’t linger,” Witner said. “I told Mikhail once that I didn’t believe his ship was as big as he bragged, so he sent me a file containing the blueprints. There’s a bathroom behind this desk that connects to his private stateroom. We can make our way to the helipad from there.”

It took several minutes to reach an exit close to the helipad. It was already dark outside. Nobody was guarding the Jet Ranger, and they clambered aboard. Haines rushed through the starting sequence from memory. The engine whined to life and the blades began to spin faster and faster. He was almost ready to lift off when marines came running down the deck toward them. He saw bright muzzle flashes and the zip of green tracers.

“Make sure you’re strapped in, Witner,” he said. “This will be rough.”

He lifted the bird in one swift movement, then hovered over the rail of the ship and made a turning dive. Switching on the landing light, he saw water in front of him and leveled off just above the surface, staying low and increasing the airspeed as quickly as the engine would allow. More AK-47 tracers zipped by like angry wasps, rounds hitting the fuselage with metallic thunks. He pulled power to the maximum, felt the turbine straining. They were at ninety-five knots now and past the bow of the ship. He pulled back the cyclic and they soared up, centrifugal force pushing him into the seat. No more tracers were visible now. They were out of range. He scanned the instruments and gauges. Everything was in the green and the controls felt normal, but every muscle in his body was trembling.

“We’ve made it,” he said, then realized they didn’t have headsets on. He turned on the interior lights and saw Witner leaning forward hugging his chest. Putting on his own headset, he jammed a pair on the other man’s head.

“Witner, are you all right?”

Witner’s face appeared ghostly pale. There was a dark patch of blood in the center of his chest.

“Shit,” said Haines, turning off the overhead light to preserve his night vision. “Shit.”

Witner made a sound like water gurgling down a drain, then managed to say, “Indeed.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Haines said. “We’ll get you some help.”

“You always were such a boy scout, Larry.”

Haines’s face burned with frustration. “Level with me, Witner. This information bomb—is it real or something out of your imagination?”

“Oh, quite real,” Witner said, shifting and moaning. “It hurts to breathe.”

“Am I implicated?” asked Haines.

“Of course. Sorry about that.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say? Sorry about that? Is there any way to defuse it?”

“You mean if I’m dead? No.”

Witner coughed. In the dim glow of the instrument lights, Haines could see blood oozing out of Witner’s mouth, dripping from his chin. Witner groaned, gave a long sigh. Then nothing. As the helicopter bumped through a downdraft, Witner’s head slumped forward and stayed there, lolling. Haines reached over and fumbled to find the man’s carotid pulse. There was none. Witner was dead, his information bomb now ticking.

No longer caring about ATC radar, Haines climbed to twenty-five hundred feet. Far ahead he could see the lights of the first barrier island twinkling. His thoughts circled back to the agreements he’d made with Witner and Potemkin, and further back to the long-ago day he’d acquired his first hospital when the dream was fresh, and even further back to the summers working on the farm, his mother and father, his basketball days.

He undid Witner’s restraining harness, reached over and unlatched Witner’s door. Then he put the chopper into a steep right bank. He slowed to ten knots and added extra right pedal. The door opened, and he pushed Witner toward it until gravity took over and Witner’s body slid awkwardly out into the night, the bird lurching with the loss of weight.

He leveled out and headed north toward Ocracoke Island, where he had a summer home. He should have enough fuel to make it, but what was he going to do afterward? An unaccustomed sense of fear invaded him. Like an unwholesome visitor, it rummaged the rooms, toppling furniture, yanking pictures off the walls, spitting on the carpet. The moon was a white smudge behind clouds that hid the stars, the sort of night that induces vertigo among inexperienced pilots. Half a mile below, the Atlantic was featureless. He slid on through the night. By the time he could see the scattered lights of Ocracoke ahead, it didn’t seem worth it anymore.

He shut down the engine and dropped the collective pitch to autorotate, not sure when the air would give way to the sea.