As the phone broke into pieces, Sokolov engaged the roof-mounted blue siren, and sped away.
The ersatz police-car shell of the BMW belied raw power under the hood. Instead of a sluggish 520 model, it turned out to be an authentic high-performance M5, one of the world’s most coveted sports cars. The BMW’s engine growled, voicing the urgency that swelled inside Sokolov.
All too soon, the sky had grown dark. Sokolov winced as he saw storm clouds clash in the sky. Midsummer showers in Moscow were as fierce as they were frequent, bringing calamity to the poorly-maintained roads. A fat blob of a raindrop smacked against the windshield and streaked down before it was erased by the wipers that engaged automatically. And then the rain scattered more drops over the glass, drumming out its force.
He took the fact that the FSB was keeping Asiyah at the Central Clinical Hospital as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it was a civilian institution that would be easy for him to reach. But as such, it was located near Moscow’s heaviest traffic route, loaded with commuters that could well keep him stranded for hours. Making it in time could well be hopeless.
The thought forced a new feeling but it wasn’t panic. A clinical calmness associated with a rescue mission.
Resolve.
His foot pressed the accelerator harder.
14
Dazzling lights clashed in her head, whiting out the images of death, tipping her mind back into consciousness.
Before she opened her eyes, she became aware of distinct sensations. She floated in a cloud of numbness that gave off a faint smell of antiseptics coming off invisible surfaces.
When Asiyah finally did open her eyes, the overhead lights stabbing her temples, she discovered that she was alone.
It was a hospital. She lay in a white-walled room, fluorescent lamps above, a narrow bunk below her. Drab polka-dot pajamas were her clothes, right sleeve rolled up, an IV line connected to her arm. Hurriedly, she tore off the catheter, rubbing the purple bruise it had formed, panic swelling. What had they pumped her with? Definitely sedatives, but what kind? Amobarbitals? Had they performed chemical interrogation?
It didn’t matter. She had been trained to withstand the so-called truth serum. Narcoanalysis was error-prone, the hypnotic effect probing the imagination more than memory. Regardless, she should have been dead by now — and yet, she was alive, which only meant that her captors still wanted something from her.
She calmed her breathing, overcome with sudden exhaustion. Her bones seemed to be aching. Her hands and feet felt so cold that she shivered. She wanted to close her eyes and go back to the comfort of sleep… No. Must get up.
Pushing off the bunk, she attempted to raise herself, but her vision spun in a merry-go-round, and her knees buckled. She grabbed at the bed.
Slowly, her mind thawed off. Focused, she looked around the room.
There was a chair next to the bed, a folded blue robe placed on it. Donning the robe, she felt the extra layer of clothing give her some warmth. As she rounded the bed, she saw the security camera. Suspended under the ceiling, it was observing her from the far corner of the room. A door and a window were the only two links to the outside world.
The door’s electronic lock, activated by magnetic keycards, had a red light blinking below the handle, an alarm likely primed.
Feeling stronger, she crossed the room to reach the window, holding the sill for support. Outside, she could see the foliage of trees. Birches and pines, a familiar blend of century-old plants, so good for recovering heart patients.
She knew this place! She had been here before, when her father — no! — don’t call him that! — that monster was receiving treatment here.
The acres of forest, the alleys and benches, vivid in her memory from the long walks with him. A complex of several buildings scattered around. Straight ahead, cardiology… the main facility to the right… the maternity ward and pediatric care… And the room she was in was located in the psychiatric ward.
It was the Central Clinical Hospital.
Moscow.
She murmured a grateful prayer, and plotted her next move. Her thoughts raced, her mind sharp, life returning to her body.
15
She would make them pay for their complacency. Without knowing it, they had provided her with weapons. Made of stainless steel, the IV stand was light enough to carry, weighing around three kilograms, but heavy enough to cause damage.
Wheeling the IV stand near the window, she contemplated her plan.
The window was three or four levels above the ground. Any attempt to use that avenue of escape was suicidal.
Perfect.
Mustering strength, she gripped the pole two-handed, like a hockey stick, the stand’s low center of gravity resting on the floor. Lifting it, she banged its wheeled base against the reinforced glass of the window. Both the pole and the window rattled loudly. The armored glass was undamaged. Undaunted, she repeated the motion, this time with more force, shrieking as she struck.
“Let me out of here!”
She faced the camera, her cry hysterical, the metal in her hands smashing its lens.
There was audible commotion in the corridor outside the room. A rush of feet.
The lock clicked, and a man burst inside. Though he was wearing a lab coat over his suit, it hardly disguised his muscular bulk, all the more making him look like a guard instead of a doctor. Holding a shock baton ahead of him, he moved in to restrain her.
Asiyah struck him with the pole. He raised his arm to parry, but the steel shaft thudded, deflecting off his shoulder as it broke from Asiyah’s grip, and knocking the baton from his hand. The baton clattered on the floor. Before he could recover and attack her, she snatched the shock baton and discharged several hundred thousand volts of electricity into him.
Asiyah’s peripheral vision caught a second guard rushing through the doorway. The man lunged, grabbing at her. She zapped him, and he went down for good.
The short eruption of violence was over. Asiyah walked to the door, staggering.
Carefully, she peered out, eyeing the corridor in either direction.
It was empty. But not for long, she knew.
From one of the guards, she claimed a lab coat, and a master keycard. Locking the room behind her, she opted for the elevator instead of the staircase. The risk was justified. She knew she would not manage the stairs. She had to travel a long way down.
The elevator car was spacious, designed to hold a gurney and accompanying medics. Asiyah was quick to get in, pushing the button for a level below ground. Only when the doors closed and she felt the downward drag, did she let out a sigh.
Because the patients could not be taken outdoors for transfer from one building to another across the vast territory, especially during winter, a system of subterranean tunnels connected all the facilities of the Central Clinical Hospital. She intended to use one of them.
Asiyah would hardly be allowed to leave the psychiatric section through the front door unchallenged, but if she could reach the main building, her chances of escape increased, security virtually nonexistent. Leaving the hospital grounds was an entirely different matter, but she chose to tackle problems as they appeared.