As he stared at the wall, a funny thought kept rolling around in his head. It had popped in his mind when he had first woken up, and now he couldn’t seem to get rid of it. It was a line from How the Grinch Stole Christmas, a perennial favorite among his three kids.
“He puzzled and puzzled until his puzzler was sore.”
That was how Oliver felt. His brain actually hurt. Deep in his skull, it actually hurt. A result of the stress and constant worry. And three nights without any sleep. The frustration was boiling inside him! The answer was there, but he couldn’t see it! It all fit together, but he didn’t know how!
What was going on with Badger? It just didn’t make any sense! Why had Morozov suddenly called his man back? And now, here they were, the two of them back in the country! That was the absolute last place Tray thought Morozov would be. With the Ukraine about to be overrun by a million Russian soldiers, why on earth would he be here in the States? And what about the stolen computers? It all fit — it had to — it’s just that he hadn’t yet figured out how.
He shook his head and reached into his pants pocket to take out a tiny package of aspirin, popped two in his mouth, then chewed on them without any water.
“Any news on Jesse?” he finally wondered, with genuine concern in his voice.
“Nothing yet,” Fullbright replied. “I talked with Pearson, one of the deputy directors, yesterday noon. Those guys over at FBI are ready to pull out their hair. I think they are even more stressed out than we are. It’s like she just disappeared. Normally, I wouldn’t be too concerned, but with the way things are going, I see a negative trend, which makes me believe that it might not look so good.”
Tray replied, “Yeah… but you know, I was thinking, late last night as I was driving home from work. He said something to me long ago. It didn’t mean much at the time… but I wonder. Now I know it’s a long shot, but I think we should try. I mean, at this point, what else have we got?”
Fullbright looked up from his work.
Tray glanced quickly around the room, scanning the cluttered desk and the disorganized bookshelf that filled the far wall. “What I really need is a Rand McNally,” he finally said. “Have you got a map of California anywhere in this mess?”
TWENTY-THREE
Richard Ammon lay in his bed and listened to the sound of the aircraft as they took off and landed at McConnell Air Force Base, located just outside the Wichita city limits. The cheap motel that Morozov had chosen for them was situated directly underneath the departure routing for the airport, and Ammon tried to identify the different aircraft by the sound of their engines as they flew overhead. The KC-135 tankers sounded like any jet airliner, while the F-16s lifted off with a high-pitched scream.
Then there were the B-1s. The sheer size of their engines made them impossible to miss. The walls of the motel vibrated and rattled as the B-1s took to the air.
Ammon glanced at the alarm clock that was sitting on the fake cherry nightstand next to his head. It was almost 10 A.M. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in so late. It had been three days since he and Morozov had checked into this truck-driver dive, and so far, laying in bed and watching television was about all he had been allowed to do. Once he had walked to the window and pulled back the blinds, but Morozov had quickly pushed him away. But still, Ammon had had enough time to see him. He was walking from a dark blue Camaro toward his hotel room. The goon from the diner. Morozov’s main man.
For three days Ammon had not been allowed to leave. No maids ever came in, for the “Do Not Disturb” sign was always left hanging from the outside doorknob. The only thing he had eaten was Domino’s pizza and the soggy coffee cakes that Morozov brought him from the corner vending machine. He was never left alone. Morozov had always stayed with him, except for quick walks to the lobby for donuts, colas, and the morning paper. And whenever Morozov left for even the shortest amount of time, the goon from the diner, who was apparently staying in the room next to theirs, was invited in first. The goon would sit in the corner and play with his nose ring while drinking beer and watching television. He would swear at the television and complain about Morozov while spitting black chew into a plastic hotel cup. He always seemed anxious and very impatient.
It had been three very long days.
Ammon listened to the sound of Morozov sleeping, then rolled onto his side and stared at the clock once again. For the thousandth time he looked at the tan telephone on top of the night stand. It was dead. Morozov had pulled out the cord and cut it in half the night they had checked into the hotel.
How long had Richard been trying to get to a phone? From P’yongyang to Kiev to Helsinki, he had only one thing on his mind. It wasn’t a huge undertaking. It shouldn’t have been a big thing. All he wanted was three minutes of time with a telephone and an international operator. But he now recognized that had been one of his biggest mistakes. He had never realized how closely Morozov would control him, once he had him back under his wing. He had assumed that he would be trusted. And given a little leeway. A little freedom.
How wrong he had turned out to be.
Come on you guys, where are you? he thought, as once again he stared at the phone.
It was early morning when Nadine pulled Jesse from her bed, dragged her by the hand into the cabin’s tiny kitchen, and sat her at the kitchen table. After three days of lying on her bed in the darkness, without eating, without responding in any way to their presence, Jesse was worrying Clyde and Nadine. If things didn’t go well, if anything happened to Jesse on their watch, they would pay a terrible price. The foreigner had been very specific. Keep track of her. Keep her in the cabin. And don’t hurt her in any way.
But something wasn’t right. For the past seventy-two hours, Jesse had done nothing but toss in a restless sleep. Her skin appeared cold and clammy, her hair drenched in sweat. Clyde had been wakened at four in the morning to the sound of her retching. Huge, gasping, dry, wrenching heaves.
They needed to keep her alive. And to keep her alive, she needed to eat. Clyde was in the small kitchen, waiting, already sitting. As Jesse was shoved up to the table, she noticed the 9mm pistol holstered over Clyde’s left hip.
Jesse sat down. Clyde pulled out a long, black nightstick and placed it on the table next to his plate, just out of Jesse’s reach. Its thin leather wrist-strap dangled over the edge of the table. On the chair, between him and Jesse, was a long cord of rope. Jesse recognized it immediately. She could see faint smears of blood smattered throughout the length of the rope from where they had tied up her wrists. With a barely perceptible motion, Clyde caught Jesse’s eye as she glanced down at his gun. He nodded his head toward the stick and rope while raising an eyebrow. The meaning became very clear. “Make any moves, do anything funny, and I’ll whack you on the head with my stick. Then I’ll tie you back up to your bed. It won’t be fun. It will be painful. So sit still, girl, and do what I tell you to do.”
Jesse looked at the floor.
The woman had made an enormous breakfast; ham, eggs, pancakes, blueberry muffins, toast, and hot cereal. The kitchen smelled like a House of Pancakes. A huge plate of food was set before Jesse.
“Eat something, you idiot!” the man ordered. Jesse sat without moving. The man made a sudden motion toward her, lifting up in his chair, raising the back of his hand, his face a picture of contempt. Jesse flinched.
“Stupid woman. Why won’t you eat?”
Jesse turned her face away, shielding it with her shoulder. The man sat down with a huff. Jesse looked down at the food. Her stomach ached from hunger. Her arms felt heavy and weak. Her mouth started to water. Oh, how she wanted to eat! The pit in her stomach began an insistent growl, begging to be nourished, reminding her of the many hours since she had eaten anything of real substance. The smell of ham and maple syrup overwhelmed her. It smelled so good. So sweet and warm.