The Lazarus Moment (32 page)

A new
Air Force One had already arrived, the title merely a designation for whatever
plane was carrying the President. Technically a Cessna would be Air Force One
if he were on it.

“How
were your steak and eggs?” asked Niner.

Dawson
patted his belly. “Damned fine. The galley did a good job.”

“I think
they enjoyed the special requests,” grinned Atlas. “My fried chicken was good.
Not as good as my gramma’s, but she’s from Louisiana. Hers is worth going to
war over.”

“I
thought you were born in the Bronx?” asked Niner.

“I was,
but my folks were from the South originally. Moved to New York when they were
young.” Atlas looked at Dawson. “So, did they tell you who was responsible in
your briefing?”

Dawson
nodded. “Yeah, some Ukrainian separatist with the help of a rogue FSB agent.”

“Christ!”
exclaimed Red. “Are they sure he was rogue?”

Dawson
chuckled. “If they aren’t, they’ll never admit to it. If he wasn’t, then we’ll
be going to war, so something tells me they’ll accept the Soviet—sorry,
Russian—explanation.”

“Soviet
Union Two point Oh, brought to you by madman Poutine, not just a French
Canadian treat.”

Dawson
and the others laughed at Jimmy’s outburst. “Soviet Union Two point Oh. Wasn’t
that what Professor Acton called it?”

Niner
nodded. “Yup. It fits.”

“Sad but
true,” agreed Spock. “I wonder what they’re going to do with Lennox.”

Dawson
shrugged. “Above my paygrade, but they just received a report that his wife and
daughter walked into a police station in Annapolis about an hour ago,
unharmed.”

Niner
picked at his nails, frowning at something. “So this Ukrainian guy, do they
know where he is?”

“CIA has
a lead apparently.”

“No!”

They all
turned to see Nancy Starling sprinting across the floor, her father looking
helplessly on as tears rushed down the young girl’s cheeks. Niner stepped
toward her, holding a hand out. She spotted him and made a beeline toward him,
wrapping her arms around him as she sobbed.

Dawson
felt his chest tighten, a lump slowly rising in his throat, as there could be
no doubt what news had just been delivered. President Starling walked over, Dawson
and the others standing a little straighter.

“The
First Lady?” Dawson asked gently.

Starling
nodded. “I’m afraid she didn’t make it.”

Another
wail from Nancy as she tightened her grip on Niner.

“I’m so
sorry to hear that, Mr. President. I wish there was something I could do.”

Starling
looked at him.

“There
is.”

Dubai International Airport, Dubai

Igor Khomenko stepped out of the jetway and quickly made his way
toward the gate for his next flight. Plan B had him on a tight schedule and
heading for Beijing next. If they had truly identified him, then Moscow would
be the logical destination, or anywhere else in Eastern Europe, so his backup
plan had him heading for Beijing then by the Trans-Siberian Railway to Moscow
and eventually Donetsk. Once he was in China, he was pretty sure he’d be safe, and
the fact he hadn’t been met at the gate suggested he had successfully given the
authorities the slip.

Which he
had to admit surprised him.

They had
been betrayed, of that there was little doubt. The fact the South African
police had hit the motel meant someone had talked. His men in America hadn’t
been captured up to that point, and they only knew what they needed to know
operationally.

They had
no clue the operation was even taking place in South Africa, let alone the name
of the motel they were staying at.

Which
meant Moscow.

Dudnik
must have talked.

And he
was privy to the entire plan. He would have been able to tell the Americans who
he was and where he was. What Dudnik didn’t know was that the accommodations
had been changed, just in case. He had learned long ago to trust no one,
especially spies.

It
must have been the cellphone.

He felt
it in his pocket, turned off since South Africa. It suddenly felt very heavy.
He spotted a garbage can and headed for it, pulling the cellphone out of his
pocket and palming it. He dropped it in the can then continued on.

Somebody
slammed into him, hot coffee splashing onto his chest.

He
cursed, pulling the scalding hot shirt off his skin as he stepped back from the
asshole. “Look where you’re going!” he cried in English. The man looked at him,
the half-empty cup held out to his side, his face aghast.

“I’m so
sorry!” He glanced at his watch. “I’m really sorry, I truly am, but I’ve got a
flight to catch.” The man rushed off, pulling a carry-on behind him, continuing
to apologize as he disappeared into the crowd.

Khomenko
futilely wiped at the coffee covering his shirt, the heat quickly dissipating,
but the bastard was a coffee pussy, it loaded with sugar and cream, his chest
quickly turning into a sticky mess. He searched for a bathroom and spotted the
universal blue sign, heading quickly for it, there not much time to waste.

Entering
the bathroom, he walked up to the sink, pulling his soiled shirt off and using
it to wipe as much of the coffee as he could off his chest, then shoved it into
a garbage can. Splashing copious amounts of water on his pale, hairless pecs,
pecs that now sagged under the weight of his own skin, he used paper towel to
dry himself off.

He glanced
in the mirror and noticed several people giving him odd looks, making him
wonder if it was his actions or his appearance causing the rude behavior.

You’d
be staring too.

He
looked in the mirror, staring into his own eyes.

He was
tired.

Tired of
living.

I
just want this to be over with.

Now.

CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane shoved the rest of the sugar and cream
laden coffee cup into a garbage can, circling back toward his target. He quickly
reacquired him with some help from his eye in the sky back at Langley. His old
high school buddy, and one of his only true friends in the world, Chris Leroux,
was acting as Control on this op, his team expertly overriding the video
cameras as he walked through the airport. By the time he left, there’d be no
evidence he had ever been there.

Not that
he expected the authorities in Dubai to dig too deeply, especially when they
found out who his target was.

“He’s
headed into the bathroom.”

“Copy
that.”

“Do
you see the janitor?”

Kane
spotted what looked like a foreign worker, possibly a Filipino, pushing a
janitor’s cart toward the bathroom entrance. He was actually a CIA plant, a low
level operative that worked Dubai, not cleared for assassination like he was, though
definitely more than qualified to assist in one.

“Affirmative.”

The
janitor put a sign in front of the bathroom door indicating in several languages
that it was closed, several disappointed and uncomfortable men already being
redirected farther into the terminal. Kane stepped past him, each ignoring the
other, knowing glances not exchanged in real life. Instead, Tagalog curses were
directed at his back as this tourist ignored the sign, the man following him in
and handing him a rolled up newspaper.

Kane
took it, the heft of a gun obvious. As he rounded the corner, he found about
half a dozen men, including Khomenko at the far sink, washing his chest clean.
The bathroom quickly emptied as toilets flushed, taps turned off and hand
dryers finished.

They
were alone, Khomenko reaching into his carry-on bag, pulling out a clean shirt.

Kane
pulled the gun and cleared his throat.

Khomenko spun toward the sound, immediately recognizing the asshole
that had spilled coffee all over him.

Then he
noticed the gun.

He
frowned, realizing it had all been planned, not an accident at all.

And that
he hadn’t escaped like he had thought.

“You are
American?”

The man
flicked the gun, indicating their conversation should be moved to the bathroom
stall, then twisted a suppressor in place.

Khomenko
nodded, resigned to his fate. He raised his hands slightly, walking toward the
large handicap stall, stepping inside. He could feel the cold sweat of fear
begin to drench his body, a chill shivering over him as he turned to face his
assassin, bare chested.

He
wasn’t going to die in his beloved Donetsk; he wouldn’t be buried beside his
wife and child, overlooking the river for eternity. Instead, he was going to
die in an unholy country, his body probably sent to America and cremated after
an undignified autopsy, his ashes scattered in some grotesque manner.

So be
it. At least I’ll be with my family soon.

He glared
at the man who had yet to say a word.

“Let’s
get this over with.”

The man
nodded, then aimed his weapon low, catching Khomenko by surprise.

Why—?

A shot popped,
then another, it taking a moment before Khomenko realized what had just
happened, the excruciating pain suddenly overwhelming him as he dropped to his
knees, the impact sending another jolt of agony through his body, the shattered
kneecaps now bloody pulps. He fell to his side, trying to relieve the pressure on
the wounds, his body slamming against the cool metal of the bathroom stall, one
hand gripping the toilet paper dispenser, the other reaching for his knees, too
scared to touch them.

He was
about to scream out at the agony when the man leaned forward, gun pointed at
Khomenko’s chest, the free hand clamping over his mouth.

“Feel
free to scream.”

Khomenko
did, his tearing eyes wide, staring into the cold, unfeeling orbs of his enemy.
It was as if the man had no soul, didn’t care about the agony he was causing.

He’s
merciless.

Khomenko’s
scream subsided and the hand was removed, leaving him gasping for breath as his
body adjusted to the new level of pain. He looked back up at the man. “Kill
me.”

“Oh,
you’re going to die. But first I have a little secret to let you in on.”

Khomenko
said nothing. He was being toyed with to prolong his suffering, and he wasn’t
about to give the man the satisfaction of playing along.

The man
smiled. “What, not interested?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a
cellphone, swiping his thumb then tapping a few times. “I think you’ll want to
see these photos. Do you know who they’re of?”

Again,
Khomenko said nothing, instead wincing as a jolt of pain surged up his leg.

“You
know these two ladies. Are you sure you don’t want to guess?”

Two
ladies. Who the hell is he talking about?

All the
women in his life were dead. His wife, his daughter, his mother. All dead. He
knew a lot of women, though none was close enough for anyone to possibly think
he would care about them.

“Here,
I’ll give you a hint. They died six months ago.”

Khomenko
glared at the man, his lip curling up slightly as he tried to grab him, the
surge of pain at the movement completely incapacitating him as he fought to
stay conscious.

“Don’t
pass out on me now. This should cheer you up so you’ll want to be awake.” He
felt a slap on his cheek. “You still with me?”

The
world snapped back into focus and he glared at the man, finally breaking his
silence. “If you have disturbed their graves, my men will seek you out and make
certain you suffer a death far worse than the one you intend for me.”

The man
smiled, then flipped the phone around so Khomenko could see the photo.

He
gasped.

It was his
wife, sitting on a bench, their daughter curled up beside her. He didn’t
recognize the photo or the location, but a Ukrainian flag was on the wall
behind them. The last time a Ukrainian flag would have been anywhere near them
was long ago, and their daughter much smaller.

“Wh-what
is the meaning of this?”

The man
swiped his finger, flipping through several photos of his wife and daughter,
then stood back. “Your wife and daughter never died.”

Khomenko
felt his mouth fill with bile, then his stomach leaped in relief then his chest
tightened in anger. He was being toyed with again. He knew they were dead, he
had seen their bodies with the others, he had attended their funeral.

They
were dead.

You
picked out two bodies that looked like them. They were unrecognizable.

He
closed his eyes, trying to remember that day. There were so many bodies, so
much confusion. He had walked up the line, picking them out where his
lieutenant had stopped.

“That’s
them.”

It
was
them.

“That’s
them,” the lieutenant had said.

He
gasped at the sudden realization, his memory of that day completely wrong.
He
hadn’t identified them at all; it had been the lieutenant. The lieutenant
had pointed at the two mutilated bodies, covered in blankets. It was this young
man who had never met his family that had identified them.

He had
never actually looked at them, had never actually seen their faces. The funeral
had been closed casket, everything happening so fast due to his wound, he had
never stopped to question if it was them.

But even
if it wasn’t, they should be dead. The apartment building was flattened and
they were inside it.

Weren’t
they?

“Would
you like to know the truth?”

Khomenko
looked up at the man, his eyes pleading for a little mercy, for proof that his
beloved family was still alive.

He
nodded. “Y-yes.”