Extreme Faction (18 page)

Jake had stopped after the shots. He didn't want the man with the gun thinking he was the target. His heart was pounding loudly. Could the man hear it?

He couldn't move, but Jake thought of something. He crouched down low against the wall and aimed his gun toward the light. When he was ready, he yelled, “Tully?”

The flashlight whipped around. “Jake?”

Jake held his position. “What in the hell is going on?”

“Did anyone pass you?” Tully asked, as the light moved toward Jake.

“No. He must have gone the other way.”

Tully was now just a few feet away. He shone the light on Jake's face. “You can put down the gun.”

Jake lowered his aim and rose to his feet. “What was that all about?”

Tully flashed the light on his own face. He had blood trickling from a cut lip. He motioned with his index finger to be quiet, and then he turned off the light and tugged on Jake to follow him.

They wandered back through the darkness toward the entrance. After they reached the lighted passageway, Tully let go of Jake and they hurried up toward the parking area.

When Jake reached the outside, he squinted from the brightness, and took in a whiff of fresh air. Then he looked at Tully. His clothes were soiled. His hair was messed up.

Jake returned his gun to its holster. Tully did the same. “What's going on?” Jake asked.

Tully wouldn't look at him. “It was a contact of mine. We were supposed to meet tonight at the train station, but he called to cancel. No reason. He wanted to meet me here instead. Something wasn't right, so I left a message for you to back me up.”

They were through the gate now and almost to the parking lot.

“Why didn't you wait for me?”

Tully shrugged. “If it was a set-up, you wouldn't be in as much danger following me as you would standing next to me.”

True. But he might have been more cautious. “What were you arguing about?” Jake asked.

They both stopped alongside Tully's car.

Tully was thinking the question over. “Money. He wanted more. I told him he needed to give me more before I could give him more.”

“So, he tries to kill you?”

“I don't know why. He's a little touched, I think.”

That didn't make sense, Jake thought. Why had Tully tried shooting the man? Jake looked at Tully more carefully now that his eyes had completely adjusted to the light. He was looking pretty bad. His eyes looked like a Mexican road map, the red lines streaking every which way. His hair was tousled and slimy-looking, as if he had used an entire tube of gel on it.

“I see my car is still in one piece,” Tully said. “Did you find Petra?”

“Yeah, we did. Quinn is talking to her now. Seeing what she knows about Tvchenko's research. What about your contact? Is he going to get out of there?” Jake swished his head toward the catacombs.

“Shit, yeah. He knows those things inside and out.”

“You got a ride?” Jake asked.

Tully shook his head no. “I took a cab.”

“Let's go. I'm driving.”

BRIGHTON, ENGLAND

The train ride from London to Brighton was much the same as it had been the last four years. Routine. Sir Geoffrey Baines, as chairman of Britain's foreign service, could have warranted a car and driver and a weekly apartment in London. But Baines would have none of that. He preferred to travel as he always had by train to London and then by taxi from Charing Cross Station to his office on Whitehall, across from the Houses of Parliament. He would only indulge his superiors and take a limousine on those rare occasions when he addressed parliament, even though it would have been only a short walk. Appearances.

He spent the hour each way by train from his home in the morning, and again at night, reading a good book. He would have gone over papers, had he not been required to leave them in a safe each night. And sometimes he even stretched his own rules, bringing less sensitive information home with him. Tonight was one of those rare times. He had been in meetings all afternoon, and only had time to scoop up the papers from his desk before hurrying to catch his train. Included in that mass of paperwork was a secure fax from Sinclair Tucker in Odessa. It was probably one of his routine reports on bogus letterhead from the communications firm. Anyone off the street picking it up would have to conclude it was the babbling of a child. Either that, or somehow the fax machine had gone haywire, replacing standard English for obscure, disjointed diction.

Baines was dressed somewhat down for a man with his power and prestige, wearing a modest wool suit, a putrid green overcoat, and scuffed brown oxfords protruding from his crossed legs. He was rarely without an umbrella and never without his felt derby hat, which hung over his umbrella handle at the corner of his seat.

He was reading a Thomas Hardy classic for the third or fourth time. Once never seemed to be enough. He was lost in the book as the countryside flew past the window to his left. His stop was just minutes away, and he was trying desperately to finish a chapter before he reached Brighton Station.

In a few minutes, the train slowed and then seemed to sneak along, until it finally came to a halt alongside the brick walkway of Brighton Station.

Baines had timed his reading just right. He slipped his book back inside his leather briefcase, locked it securely, gathered up his umbrella, and popped his hat on his head. He swayed down the narrow aisle, his wide frame bashing against each seat he passed.

Once on the loading terminal, he turned instinctively to the left, and walked off toward the main station. He checked his watch. He was right on time. It was ten after six. Baines lived four blocks from the terminal in an old Victorian that dated back two hundred years. It had been in his family for a century, and would go to his son when he passed on. His son, who probably wanted nothing to do with the old house, since he had worked in Paris for eight years, was married to a young French wife. Deep down Baines knew the house would go up on the auction block, or be sold outright by his son. His wife would never leave France.

He found himself growing tired with each step he took toward home. He was seventy-two, but only death would make him retire.

His house was on Preston Lane. It was a three-story place with a second-floor balcony overlooking the street, and a third-floor balcony with a view of the back garden. As a young man, Geoffrey Baines had watched German planes fly over his house on their way to London. When he was old enough, he had joined the British Air Force as a pilot, and after crashing in Belgium while returning from a mission, he was offered a position in the intelligence service. He had been with MI-5 or MI-6 ever since.

Baines stood before his house and gazed up at the balcony, where the door was open. That was odd. Perhaps Mrs. Jones, his housekeeper, had simply forgotten it. She wasn't normally prone to forget, but it was possible.

He went through the creaky metal gate and unlocked the front door. He placed his umbrella and hat on the wooden rack, instinctively, and then with some difficulty pulled his overcoat off and hung it over a peg by the door.

Looking into the library to his right, he noticed things shuffled around. Mrs. Jones could not have cleaned, he thought.

He started to turn toward the hall that led to the kitchen, when there was a flash of movement.

Something hit him in the face.

He reeled back against the wall and smashed his head against it. Then a punch in his stomach knocked the wind out of him. He slowly slid toward the wooden floor. Stars sparkled before his teary eyes. He could taste blood. The pain in his nose was overwhelming. He reached up and felt the blood pouring out over his lips, into his mouth, and down over his chin. He shook his head and tried to look up.

There were sounds above him. Men talking. Baines rolled to his side so his head was through the doorway to the study. Two feet away was Mrs. Jones's face, her eyes opened wide. She had an ice pick sticking out of her forehead and her throat was slit.

Baines reeled backward in horror. One of the men kicked him in the kidneys and Baines passed out.

●

When he came to, Baines was lying on the study floor. The two men were standing over his desk. They had opened his briefcase and were shuffling through the papers. One of them noticed he was awake, and he slapped his partner and muttered something to him.

Who were these men? Baines studied them carefully. They appeared to be Arabs or Turks. He couldn't tell for sure. But the language wasn't right. He couldn't understand anything. Maybe it was because his brain was still not functioning after the blow to his nose. He tried to pull himself up to his elbows.

The largest of the two men started toward Baines, but the other one stopped him.

The smaller man smiled. “You didn't expect us?” He asked in a crude version of English, as he swept his arms out in a grand gesture.

“Who are you?” Baines asked. His throat was sore and caked with dried blood. His nostrils were nearly plugged as well.

“That doesn't matter,” the man said. “Our relationship will end in a few minutes. You have to be asking yourself, why? Why me? Just remember that God has a reason for everything. If you were good in life, which I doubt, then God will send you to a better place. At least that's what you believe is true. Am I right?”

Baines didn't answer. He had always wondered what it would be like to die. He had a feeling he'd find out soon. When he was younger, falling from the plane after being shot down during the war, he had prayed to God to spare him. Bring him home to England safely. God had done just that. But now...in his own home. A place where everyone should feel safe. Yet he was not.

The man kicked him in the leg. “Are you still with us old man? You want to know who we are and why we're here. Well I'm not going to tell you. My people were killed for no reason, and your government did nothing to stop them. Nothing to punish them for their crimes. Now you will die wondering why. Why you? Why now?”

What was that accent? Baines tried desperately to think, but his mind wasn't working right. He was about to die. He knew that. If he had only carried a gun—

The smaller man nodded for his friend, and the larger man moved behind Baines, pulling his arms over his head. Next, the smaller man put his knee on Baines' chest. He withdrew a syringe from his coat pocket, and much like a cruel dentist would, he brought it in front of Baines' eyes. With one hand the man grabbed Baines' throat, and then he shoved the needle up his nose.

Baines tried to scream in pain. He shuddered.

Then the man injected a full shot of liquid into him.

The men let him go and backed off across the room to watch.

In a few minutes, Baines felt his head swirling even more. Then he started sweating. He felt so hot. His heart started racing. It felt like it would burst from his chest. He couldn't breathe. He grabbed his own throat and tried to squeeze air through it. All he could hear was a gurgling sound in his wind pipe. His head pounded now. Spinning. He was spinning. He tried to think of pleasant things. Good things that had happened in his life. His wife. The birth of his son. But there was only the pain.

He twitched on the floor, and the two men watched him, smiling, until he no longer flopped around. No longer moved at all.

Before the men left, the large man kicked Baines' flaccid body just for the hell of it.

They picked up the papers from the desk and were out the door.

ODESSA, UKRAINE

Jake was tired and confused. He was still somewhat chilled from the short time he had spent in the catacombs. He had dropped off a reticent Tully at the office and then drove to the small apartment to the east of Shevchenko Park. The place Tuck had loaned him. It was nothing special, and Jake hoped the two women wouldn't have to be there long. He had been extremely careful coming here, ensuring he wasn't followed.

He now had Petra alone. He was sure that she was important. She was perhaps the only person who might know what Yuri Tvchenko was up to. Her and the Kurds.

Quinn went back to the office to brief Tully O'Neill, and Helena was resting in the back bedroom. Quinn had told Jake before he left that Petra had told him nothing. But Jake wasn't sure that Quinn had asked the right questions. Perhaps he was too close to her.

Petra was on an old sofa cradling a cup of tea Jake had made for her. Jake leaned against the wall peering through a corner of the curtains to the street three stories down. It was starting to get dark and some of the street lights were beginning to turn on.

Jake went over and sat on the sofa across from Petra. He was finally alone with her. “Are you all right?”

She shrugged. “I was all right at Helena's apartment.”

“No. They would have found you there.” He thought she seemed less afraid than at Helena's place. More willing to talk.

“How long will Quinn be?”

“Not long. He had a few things to take care of.” He wondered what she would be willing to talk about. Start with the things he already knew. That always worked best. “How long have you been a bio-chemist?”

“Ten years.” She took a slow sip of tea, her eyes still trained on Jake.

“Did you work with Yuri the entire time?”

“No. I started at the university in Kiev as a research assistant for another man. He was nowhere near as brilliant as Yuri. He was uninspired. Yuri was a genius.”

He thought about asking her again if she was in love with Yuri. He didn't believe what she had said earlier about him being a homosexual. But sex was irrelevant to what he was trying to find out. “What was the basis of your research at his apartment?”

She took another sip and stared off across the room over the top of the cup. “I thought I told you. We were seeking a better pesticide. Yuri was certain he could come up with a substance that would revolutionize the industry.”