After that, the big guy picked up Hansen and headed toward one of the hangars. Meanwhile, Bratus stood by his car and made another phone call, waiting impatiently for an answer.
Sergei frowned. The fat man was taking Hansen inside the hangar. Why? To question him? That meant Hansen might still be alive. They’d knocked him out? How? And why would they remain here, at the scene of multiple murders, to question a spy they’d captured? Why not take him someplace else? Maybe they didn’t feel rushed. Maybe this was all planned from the beginning.
Sergei waited a moment more; then he darted away from the fuel truck toward the back of the hangar. He found the rear service door locked, of course, but he always carried his picking tools, and within a few breaths the knob turned freely.
Wincing, he carefully opened the door and slipped, save for a slight gust of wind, soundlessly inside. He now crouched behind a pair of helicopters, small ones reserved mostly for business travel. Nearby was a wall of mechanics’ stations with power and air tools cluttering the benches. A pair of rolling carts with stacks of drawers sat beside one bird, and Sergei took up a position behind the taller cart while the fat man switched on a light near another station on the opposite side of the hangar. Once more he set down Hansen’s body. Then he went into a small adjoining office and returned with a wooden chair. He propped Hansen on the chair and proceeded to flex-cuff him to it. That the fat man walked around with flex-cuffs in his pocket said a lot about his line of work.
He grabbed Hansen by the hair, stared into his face, then grumbled something and let Hansen’s head drop. He began searching Hansen’s pockets and weapons belt, along with the pack, which he’d removed before setting him down. After the fat man moved the gear to a nearby table, he grabbed Hansen’s wrist, studied the OPSAT, whose touch screen remained dark, then decided to remove the device and toss it down with the other stuff.
Just then Hansen began to stir, his head lolling from right to left, and suddenly the fat man smacked him across the face. “Wake up! Wake up!”
Slowly Hansen lifted his head, glancing vaguely, and that was when the fat man reared back and delivered a solid blow to the jaw. Sergei flinched and glanced away for a moment, even as the Russian let loose another fist.
Then the bastard went over to the table, took something, and returned.
A blade sprang to life in his hand.
Sergei wasn’t sure he could watch any more of this. In his mind’s eye, he saw Hansen’s severed fingers dropping to the floor… then an ear… another ear… and shrieks of agony from his old friend.
“We know why you’ve come,” growled the fat man. “Now, if you tell me what I need to know, you will live.”
Like Sergei, Hansen had been trained on how to steel himself against torture, but you never really knew how you’d react until it was real. Would Hansen really hold it?
And then Sergei wondered why he was crouched there, just watching. Why hadn’t he already reacted? Would he let the fat man kill Hansen? Why not? Wasn’t it easier that way? But then, what about Victoria? He needed to ensure that she would not be harmed, and all he had left was the mission.
“You won’t break me.” Hansen gasped.
The fat man grinned and leaned over to stare directly into Hansen’s eyes. “It’s going to be a long night for both of us.”
I don’t think so, thought Sergei.
Ames was at a precipice between sheer panic and utter violence. The bile was already gathering at the back of his throat, and he clutched his binoculars with a white-knuckled grip.
Then — as if watching Bratus kill everyone wasn’t enough, as if the universe had a personal vendetta against him, one Allen Ames, Third Echelon operative and NSA mole — someone from somewhere took a shot at the Russian operative, who’d been standing by his car, on the phone.
Bratus’s head snapped back like a PEZ dispenser, and he dropped out of sight behind his car.
Trembling and swearing aloud, Ames scanned the area. He searched the low-lying forest, the ditches, the hangar areas, and all along the service road.
It was as though the bullet had been fired by an apparition that had dematerialized into the night.
Now everyone — save Bratus’s fat driver, Hansen, and Sergei — was dead. Ames thought of that Anvil case inside Bratus’s car. If he could recover it… But there was a shooter out there.
As much as he hated the decision, Ames knew what he had to do. Nothing. Except watch.
Sergei slid from behind the tool cart, took aim at the fat man, and fired a single suppressed round into the back of the man’s head.
As the Russian fell forward, Sergei sighed and shrank behind the cart, just breathing and wondering if he could go through with the rest.
And then, for just a few seconds, his hackles rose and he sensed that someone else was inside the hangar.
He craned his neck, shot glances toward the big doors, the office, and all along the workstations. The shadows seemed to come alive as his paranoia grew, and he imagined a man dressed all in black and wearing trifocal goggles. He leapt down from an impossibly high rafter, stood before Sergei, and tore off his goggles.
It was Hansen, who took a deep breath and said, “Don’t kill me.”
Sergei ground his teeth, shuddered off the image, then reached into his breast pocket and dug out a cigarette. He placed it between his lips, stood, and moved around the cart.
Hansen had dug himself out from beneath the fat Russian and was lying there, asking questions.
Sergei barely heard the man. He grabbed his lighter, lit his cigarette, and took a long drag.
They talked, and it was a like dream, the words floating on currents of blood that wound their way through a dark forest at the end of which lay Victoria, on a stone altar, her hands folded over her chest, her skin alabaster white to match her diaphanous dress, which fell in great waves across the mossy earth.
Sergei took a deep breath and stared through the image and finally saw Hansen. There was so much he wanted to tell the man, but he feared that if he turned his apology into a speech, by the time he finished, his pistol would be back on his belt and he’d be helping Hansen off the floor.
All Sergei really wanted to do was thank Hansen for what he’d done in the past, for his unconditional friendship, for his belief that Sergei, despite his failures, could still make something of his life. Even Sergei’s own father did not believe in him the way Hansen had.
Hansen deserved the truth. At the very least. Sergei apologized and added, “They sent me to kill you.”
That was all he wanted to say.
But Hansen demanded the details, so without hesitation he supplied them. And again, he wanted to say so much more, to somehow justify what he was doing, but there were no words that could ever do that. All he could say was, “I didn’t want to see you suffer.”
When he showed Hansen the camera, his old friend cursed at him, and that was all right. That was natural. And that helped, didn’t it? It was better if the man hated him.
Sergei had been thinking about how they’d been trained to deal with torture, and now he would use the same methods to steel himself against the killing of a friend.
He was now a being of cold flesh and function.
Action. Reaction.