The Lazarus Moment (3 page)

Dudnik leaned
back in his chair. “If I didn’t know you, I’d say it was some desperate attempt
to prolong a pathetic life.” He jabbed the air with a finger. “But I
do
know you, and I think you’re sticking around because you want to do something before
you die.”

Khomenko
smiled. “You
do
know me.”

“What is
it you want?”

“You
heard President Starling’s announcement?”

Dudnik nodded.
“Of course. It’s really no surprise. The policy changed almost a year ago,
they’re just announcing it now. Somebody probably found out they weren’t
prosecuting anyone they caught funding weapons purchases.”

“And the
artillery that was used against my men?”

“Funded
by a Ukrainian friendship group in San Diego. They passed the money on to Kiev
who purchased the system on the black market.” He leaned forward. “You might
find it humorous to know it was actually a Russian system.”

“Hilarious.”

Dudnik shrugged,
sitting back. “I guess the sense of humor is the first thing to go.”

Khomenko
ignored him. “And the pilot that killed my family?”

“Your
men found him and killed him along with his family. Two boys and a girl. And a
very pretty wife who I don’t think enjoyed her final hours.”

“Good.” Khomenko
felt no pity, no remorse. They all deserved to die.

An
eye for an eye.

His
family was dead, and so was their killer’s. They were even. Yet the score
wasn’t settled.

Not yet.

He
looked at Dudnik. “Now that the world knows the taps have been opened to
Ukraine, money will begin to pour in and more of my men, more innocent
Russians, will die.”

“Of
course. I have no doubt President Starling is fully aware of that, and as we
both know, he couldn’t care less that Russians are dying because of his
decision. Americans hate Russians. Always have, always will.”

“The
feeling is mutual.”

“Of
course.”

Khomenko
pushed himself up slightly on his elbows. “President Starling has blood on his
hands.
Russian
blood.”

“He
denies that he does, since there are no Russian troops in Ukraine.”

“Russian
blood flows beyond borders. It covers the landscape of my homeland, whether
that American bastard wants to admit it or not.
He
is responsible for
the death of my men.
He
is responsible for the death of my family.”

Rage
filled his stomach as the images of his wife and daughter flooded back. After
being evacuated to safety and given some battlefield treatment, he had insisted
on returning to his home, only to find the unrecognizable bodies of all that he
had left in the world lying on the street, their corpses already salvaged by
the rescue team, laid out for the cameras with dozens of others, the relatives
left to guess which of the fallen belonged to them.

Seeing
them was a decision he had regretted ever since.

I
should never have seen them like that.

His last
memories would have been the hugs and kisses exchanged earlier that morning as
he headed to the front for what was supposed to be a routine day of staring
through binoculars at the enemy, neither side exchanging anything more than the
occasional rifle shot.

Never
would he have dreamed those would be the last moments they would share
together.

I
would have told her I loved her.

He felt
a lump form in his throat as his tortured memory of merely grunting at her “be
careful, love you” goodbye.

Instead,
due to his insistence, his last memory was her shattered corpse, his daughter’s
crushed body, their home destroyed by a pilot too terrified to take the time to
find a military target, instead dropping it on the biggest structure he could
find.

His
wasn’t the only family destroyed that day.

“President
Starling killed my family, and will kill many more.”

“You
could look at it that way.”

“I see
no other way to look at it.”

Dudnik said
nothing.

“I only
have a few months to live.”

“I
know.”

“And
only a few weeks before I’ll be too weak to do anything.”

“I
know.”

“I want
revenge.”

“The
pilot is dead, his family is dead. What more do you want?”

“I want
him
dead.”

Dudnik leaned
forward, his eyes narrowing. “Who?”

“President
Starling.”

Dudnik
drew a deep breath as he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He held
the breath then let it out slowly before looking at Khomenko, his expression
dead serious. “That could start a war.”

“Bullshit.
Americans are cowards, they’d never risk it.”

Dudnik
leaned forward, shaking his head. “Don’t underestimate America’s love for their
President. If you kill him, and they trace it back to you, they
will
kill you.”

Khomenko
snorted. “I have nothing left to live for so what do I care? He motioned for Dudnik
to come closer. Dudnik shuffled his chair forward. “I don’t have much time left
to punish the man responsible. Will you help me?”

Dudnik
lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “Killing the American President isn’t
easy otherwise everyone would be doing it.”

“I
didn’t expect it would be. But I’m sure FSB has developed some scenarios should
it become necessary.”

“Of
course. But anything you do can’t trace back to Russia. It
would
lead to
war, a war neither side wants, but one side would be obligated to start.”

“I have
men loyal to me who will take care of everything. I just need to know how to do
it. How do we breach his security perimeter?”

Dudnik glanced
over each shoulder, then leaned in closer. “I was on a team that developed a
scenario just last year that if it worked, would leave no evidence that could
be traced back to us.”

Khomenko
felt his heart race, the monitor beside him betraying his excitement. “Then why
haven’t you done it?”

“Because
we’re not insane!” hissed Dudnik. “If something
does
go wrong, it could
be traced back to us.”

“But if
my men do it, then you have nothing to fear.”

Dudnik
frowned. “I doubt that. I would suggest we have
little
to fear. And if
your people execute the plan, and it was somehow traced back to us, I’m sure a
few sacrificial lambs would be handed over to the Americans and life would move
on in short order.”

“A rogue
operation.”

“Exactly.
The Americans wouldn’t risk war for a renegade action. Dossiers on all your men
would be handed over, showing how and why you did what you did. Russia will be
protected at all costs.”

“Assuming
we fail. And we won’t.”

Dudnik tapped
his chin. “You know, if the President were to die, it might leave enough of a
power vacuum for the Ukrainian situation to be dealt with once and for all.”

Khomenko
smiled. “Even more reason to proceed, then.” He glanced at the plastic bag over
his shoulder, still half-full, there no worry of a nurse looking in on him for
some time. “What is your scenario?”

“You
need to get someone on board Air Force One.”

Khomenko’s
eyes widened. “How the hell do I do that?”

“That’s
one of the problems with the scenario. For us to execute it we would have to
activate a sleeper agent from within the American Air Force.”

“Can
you?”

Dudnik shook
his head. “No, Moscow would never do that. Too much of a risk in tracing back
to us, and those assets are incredibly valuable.”

“So what
would you suggest?”

“Coercion.
You need leverage over someone on board with the proper access. Use this
against them, and you’ve got your inside man.”

“What if
he changes his mind?”

“Then
the plan fails.”

Khomenko
closed his eyes as the scenario played out. He needed someone on board Air
Force One to execute whatever the plan was that Dudnik had developed, yet he
couldn’t take the risk of them getting cold feet at the last minute.

He
needed a backup.

He
smiled. “The news said President Starling is going to South Africa.”

Dudnik
nodded. “Why?”

“I know
exactly
how to get someone on that flight.”

Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute, Moscow, Russia

Three weeks before the Air Force One crash

Igor Khomenko walked down the stark corridor of the hospital that
had been his home for months. The Russian government was indirectly footing the
bill for his care, care that would inevitably be a waste of money.

But
not if I succeed.

Dudnik
had filled him in on the rest of the scenario, and it was audacious. America
always thought their greatest edge was technology, but this time it would lead
to their downfall. The plan was brilliant in its simplicity, though impossible
to execute without an inside man.

He
stopped in front of one of the private rooms, its door closed.

Sucking
in a deep breath, he knocked.

“Come
in!”

He
opened the door and poked his head inside, his thigh protesting at the
unexpected maneuver. Though he was technically recovered from his shrapnel
wound, the muscle damage was permanent, and he had opted not to bother with the
physiotherapy offered after he had discovered his cancer diagnosis.

He was
now regretting that decision.

“Hey, Thulas,
it’s me.”

“Igor!
Come in, come in!”

Khomenko
smiled and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Thulas Zokwana was the
first black man he had ever met, and he wasn’t at all what he was expecting,
though he had to admit all of his preconceptions were based upon American
movies. Zokwana was South African. A simple man with a simple life, a man he
had come to know over the months and now even considered a friend.

Something
he could never have imagined six months ago.

Though they
had both been through the hell of cancer treatments in a foreign land, at least
Khomenko had the comfort of speaking Russian like everyone else here, but poor Zokwana,
who spoke several languages, didn’t know a word of it.

But they
both spoke English.

Over the
months, a bond had formed and not a day went by where they didn’t spend at
least an hour together speaking of their homes and their families.

It had
been good therapy.

It had
kept him sane.

But they
both shared the same fate.

Zokwana
was dying, just as he was.

And just
as Khomenko’s family had meant everything to him, so did Zokwana’s, and it was
his constant concern they would be left with nothing, he a poor man with little
to show for a life of hardship.

Khomenko
pulled up a chair by the window Zokwana was sitting in front of, the afternoon
sun pouring in, warming the chill out of the sterile room.

“How are
you today?”

Zokwana
shrugged. “As good as can be expected, I guess.”

“Are you
still heading home tomorrow?”

Zokwana
brightened. “Yes. It seems like I’ve been gone for years.”

“I know
how you feel. I guess you’re looking forward to seeing your family. Have you
told them?”

He shook
his head. “No. That’s news you have to deliver in person.”

Khomenko’s
head bobbed as he watched a bee hop between the flowers outside. “True. How do
you think she’ll take it?”

“She’s
strong, but I know she’ll be devastated.”

“Of
course.”

“I just
worry about her and the kids. We have nothing, and I’m afraid I used up all my
collateral to get these treatments.”

And it
was that collateral Khomenko was counting on.

For Zokwana
was no ordinary South African.

He was
the cousin of its president.

The
family was huge, as were many in South Africa, so the wealth hadn’t spread to
his portion of the clan, though when he had become sick, he had reached out and
in a goodwill gesture, was provided with treatment, but quietly, out of the
country, the president not wanting anyone to know he had helped a relative
obtain expensive medical treatment.

Unfortunately
it had failed, and Zokwana was not long for this world.

“What if
I told you I had a way for your entire family to be taken care of? Forever.”

Zokwana stared
at him, his eyes narrowing. “I would ask you to share this wonderful revelation
with me.”

Khomenko
smiled, Zokwana’s English at times interesting. He wondered if his own would
sound just as strange to an American. He quickly explained what would be needed
of his friend, then waited as Zokwana contemplated the offer. He finally spoke.

“I
sacrifice myself now, sacrifice my final days with my family, but in doing so,
I save them all.”

Khomenko
nodded. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ve been promised a significant amount
of money to reward your wife and children for their sacrifice. Once the job is
done, you need never worry about them again.”

A tear
rolled down Zokwana’s cheek, his eyes glassing over as a pained expression took
hold. “When?”

“Three
weeks.”

Zokwana
gasped, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his chair. “Three weeks,” he
whispered. “Three weeks.”

“Three
weeks to say goodbye. Cherish them. I had none.”

Zokwana
reached out and squeezed Khomenko’s hand, a move that a year ago would have
probably resulted in a punch to the face. But not today. He squeezed back. “You
are right, of course. Three weeks is an eternity. But they mustn’t know.” He
smiled. “I won’t tell them I’m dying. I don’t want our last days together to be
sad, I want them to be happy.”

Khomenko
smiled. “I think that’s a great idea. Let them think you died like the others,
a victim of a terrible accident. Then my people will deliver your wife the
money. We’ll tell her you had purchased life insurance when you were here.”