“I understand, Your Excellency. And I assure you, everything is being done.”
“Perhaps Miss McCoy is tougher than you had thought,” said Gogolov, changing tactics.
“Her psychological profile suggests she is a religious fanatic,” said Jibril. “She believes her death will take her to heaven. We thought the threat of torturing Bennett would break her. So far, it has not.”
“Give it another week,” said Gogolov. “Then kill her.”
Gogolov knew Jibril had been waiting for permission to do just that.
“And Bennett?”
“What do you recommend?”
“If it pleases you, Your Excellency, I would suggest you authorize my forces to track Bennett down, capture him, and videotape his beheading. Then I suggest we ship his body parts to the Washington Post or the New York Times. I guarantee the White House will get the message: do not even think about a preemptive strike, or more Americans will die like this.”
Now Jibril was finally making sense, thought Gogolov.
“Just make sure I see the videotape before you send it.”
53
Someone was unlocking the door.
McCoy prayed it was the nurse, and it was. She heard the metal cart being rolled across the cement floor as the steel door closed and locked.
A verse suddenly came to mind—“Thou dost prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies”—and then an idea.
McCoy could hear Nurse Grizkov begin her nightly ritual, preparing the heavy narcotics that would again plunge her into a deep and dreamless sleep. She heard her fumble for the right bottle. Then came the tearing paper, from which a new hypodermic needle was emerging. McCoy slowly opened her eyes and began to stir.
“You live,” Grizkov said flatly.
“I need to use the bathroom,” McCoy replied in Russian, suddenly wincing at the intensity of the light and realizing the second bulb had been replaced during the night.
“Da, but quickly. I am late as it is.”
McCoy closed her eyes again, as if to rest, and heard Grizkov unlock her handcuffs. Then McCoy made her move.
With her left hand, she grabbed the ID around the woman’s neck and smashed her face down into her pillow, cutting off Grizkov’s oxygen. With her right hand, McCoy grabbed the needle off the cart and stabbed it into the woman’s neck, depressing the plunger.
Stunned, the nurse struggled, but only for a moment until she fell limp across the bed. McCoy checked her pulse. She was still alive.
McCoy rolled her face away from the pillow, allowing the unconscious woman to breathe again. She knew she had only a few minutes. She stripped off Grizkov’s uniform, ID, and wristwatch, donned them herself, then positioned Grizkov under the bedcovers and gave the woman another shot of sedatives to make sure there would be no surprises.
Next, McCoy took several pieces of gauze and carefully unscrewed the newly replaced lightbulb. Careful not to burn herself, she took hold of the bulb’s metal base, put the bulb under one of her blankets, and smashed the glass as quietly as she could.
“You finished in there?” the guard barked in Russian.
“Da, da, let me out,” she mumbled back, trying to approximate Grizkov’s voice as best she could.
Keys jangled. The door began to open, but McCoy didn’t wait.
Using all her strength, she pulled the door open and plunged the hot, jagged bulb into the man’s throat. The guard never knew what hit him; he was dead even before he collapsed to the floor.
The hallway was clear. The cells up and down the floor were all empty. McCoy pulled the guard inside her own cell and rolled the medical cart over the pool of blood on the hallway floor.
There was no way she was going to make it out of the hospital carrying the guard’s AK-47. Instead, she grabbed the man’s pistol and radio and stuffed them in her pockets. Then she locked the cell door behind her and made her way toward the end of the hall.
Swiping Grizkov’s ID through the electronic card reader, she gained access to the darkened stairwell. She realized she was on the fifth floor, but of what building she had no idea. She made her way down to the fourth floor, then the third. She saw no one.
When she finally reached the second floor, she suddenly saw a video camera mounted over the door. Had there been others? Could she have been spotted?
Her heart raced faster. She was now down to the first floor, and another security camera stared at her, threatening to expose her. She had to stay calm.
McCoy swiped the ID through the card reader and heard the electronic locks snap open. Her left hand pulled the steel door open as her right hand slipped into the pocket of her nurse’s smock and rested on the sidearm.
The night staff was skeletal, but as McCoy entered the main floor and looked left toward the main doors, she saw three guards, all armed with automatic weapons. She prayed there was a back entrance, for staff perhaps, and turned right, ducking the glances of fellow comrades at the main nurses’ station.
Suddenly she saw a group of doctors coming toward her. What if they saw her ID? What if they knew Tatiana Grizkov? Her eyes darted from side to side, and just as the doctors were coming within range she spotted a staff lounge and ducked inside, breathing a sigh of relief as she heard the doctors pass.
She poured herself a steaming hot cup of coffee, her first in weeks, then fished a half-eaten muffin out of the trash. She closed her eyes and thanked God for her food.
Two guards suddenly walked in.
“Who are you?” one demanded.
When she hesitated for a moment, he reached for his sidearm.
She threw her coffee into the face of the first guard, then kicked the second in the groin, knocking him to the floor and sending his gun flying across the room. She grabbed a chair and smashed it over the man’s head, only to see the other guard going for his gun.
McCoy spun around. She grabbed the remaining pot of coffee, heaved it forward, and forced the guard to duck, buying her just enough time to dive to her left, grab her own pistol, and fire the first shot. Her aim was true, and the guard dropped instantly.
McCoy heard a siren. She feared a lockdown.
If that happened, she’d never get out alive.
She grabbed the first man’s machine gun, burst into the hall, and raced for the nearest exit sign, spraying rounds at guards approaching from both directions.
She crashed through the internal exit but found the next exit door locked.
She tried Grizkov’s pass. It didn’t work.
She tried to go back. She might have to shoot her way out, but it was better than being trapped. But the door back into the prison was locked as well.
It was too late. She was already trapped.
The employee parking lot was inches away. But the lockdown had already begun. Her mind raced through her options. She could already see emergency vehicles racing to the front of the building. It would only be a matter of seconds before some units pulled into the back and she was surrounded.
McCoy pulled the radio from her pocket. It was alive with cross talk from guards trying to figure out what was going on. She found an open channel.
“Who’s in charge here?” she growled in Russian.
“General Stupachkin,” came the reply. “He’s on his way.”
“He’s here, you fool. But he can’t get in. Open the outer doors before he puts a bullet in your head, instead of the prisoner’s.”
“Da, da, one moment.”
Six seconds later the outer doors released.
McCoy raced outside and ran headlong into a black Mercedes coming in from the north gate, bearing blue flashing lights. She immediately recognized General Stupachkin of the FSB in the backseat. The Mercedes screeched to a stop. The driver slammed on his horn and lowered his window, cursing at her to get out of the way.