He held out his open palms and helped her up, walking her away quickly from the car and the assassin’s body. He guided her to the empty Lexus, which still had its engine running, and opened the rear door. Climbing inside, Asiyah spread across the seat, feeling dead. She huddled against the heated leather, the warmth and dryness almost dizzying. She shut her eyes, she wanted it all to be gone, the death, the broken bodies. She felt the car’s wheels roll. Someone cared for her, someone wanted to save her from this madness, even if she didn’t know him.
The Lexus picked up speed, the rain splashing harmlessly outside, wipers swaying. She believed she would be alive now, and with that, something snapped inside her, making her unable to stop crying.
20
Sokolov directed the Lexus to the hospital’s main gate. In the back of the car, Asiyah lay sobbing, tears seeping through her fingers as she covered her face. Sokolov felt for her, but he knew it to be the mind’s response to extreme stress, an emotional release that was necessary. He would have feared more for her if it hadn’t come. Sokolov himself was shaken. He struggled to hold the steering wheel steadily, as if it still carried the aftershock of the impact that had resonated up to his shoulders when he ran over the gunman. Turning to the main building, he had seen the assassin pointing the gun at Asiyah, and at that moment he knew there was no other option left but to hit him. Under the circumstances, the killer’s injuries were minimal, the reduced speed meaning he had suffered broken legs at most. His life was not in danger — the hospital was the best place to be hit by a car, anyway. Sokolov had little concern or pity for the killer, but it was not the kind of experience he would ever want to relive. The thump a human body made against a rushing mass of metal turned Sokolov’s stomach no matter what. He forced the remembrance of that sensation away. Now he had to finish his job — get Asiyah to safety.
Impatiently, he honked the horn at the main gate of the compound, and only when he merged with the traffic in the street did his tension begin to ease. The first hurdle had been cleared. Sokolov needed to find a temporary stopover to get hold of his senses and contemplate further action. He followed the highway away from the hospital and took the first exit at Kuntsevo. The full-fledged tropical storm had reduced to a drizzle. Going deeper into the back alleys of the residential district, the Lexus made its way through a maze of sleepy apartment blocks. Generic Soviet-era high-rises, weathered by decades, stood alongside their newer siblings that boasted superior design and floor count, but shared the same concept. In front of each house, the narrow driveways were made almost unusable by parked cars crowding either side of the curb. As the Lexus crept past, its tires rustled over pools, stirring the rainwater. Sokolov eyed a tree-shaded opening in front of a stretching iron fence, and brought the Lexus to a stop. The fence surrounded a squat, rectangular building. Between the building and the fence, in the spacious enclosure, was a children’s playground with basketball hoops, which the rain made look forsaken.
Sokolov pulled the handbrake and silently let out a breath. He realized that the place he’d parked next to was a public school. Regardless of the memories, the location would suit him just fine. It was a quiet spot, far from the main traffic, and deserted because of the summer holidays. No one would trouble them here for the moment, and it would be easy enough to ditch the car — which they would have to do as soon as possible. There was no way of knowing if the Lexus was equipped with a homing device that the killers might follow. Also, he had to do something about Asiyah’s condition; if she remained immobile, they would have no chance of survival.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
It was the first time he had ever heard her voice, which was softly melodic even when her question was cold and demanding. Sokolov craned his neck and looked back to see her sitting upright, her gaze fixed on him. The tears on her face had almost dried, leaving transparent trails that highlighted her perfect cheekbones and jawline. Her eyes were deep cosmic black, sucking him in with their burning intensity. There was not a trace of confusion or panic there, and it pleased him. She handled the stress well.
“My name is Eugene Sokolov. I want to save your life.”
She tried not to show it, but Asiyah’s eyes glistened, her brows arched slightly as if the reply had caught her by surprise, as if no one had ever said such words to her before.
“Why?”
Sokolov could not easily rationalize an explanation, but he knew that for her the question was logical, and extremely important. Her mind was trying to cope with the madness that raged around her, unaccustomed to the notion that someone would want to end her life.
“I command an Extra-Risk Team of the Russian EMERCOM. My team reacted to the crisis in Sochi.” He avoided mentioning the Olympia or any specifics that could be too vivid. “You were unconscious when we found you. We took you to Moscow and put you under special supervision. But then… I learned that your life was at risk, so I came over to investigate. Don’t worry, everything will be fine now.” He did his best to reassure her, speaking calmly. “I will get you to the embassy. From there you will safely travel to Kazakhstan, under protection.”
“No. It’s out of the question.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but its force was piercing. “I can’t go back to Kazakhstan.” As she spoke, moisture filled her eyes and streaked down her cheeks, but her voice never quivered, not a muscle moved. “The person who blew up the Olympia was my father, the President of Kazakhstan, Timur Kasymov. He arranged for the Russian President to rape me. After that, they would have killed me and dumped my body in the Black Sea. I escaped. I killed Nikolai Alexandrov and escaped. Sounds crazy, but it was self-defence, I broke his neck. So you see, I don’t think I should go back to Kazakhstan.”
Her hypnotic black eyes remained locked on his, tears cascading, the words ringing in Sokolov’s ears, cracking with their meaning. He had never been so stunned before.
Leaning closer to him, she said, “I didn’t ask you how you decided to rescue me from those assassins. I asked you why. Why did you come? Why didn’t you leave it to the police? Or the FSB? Who are you, Eugene Sokolov, and why do you care for me?”
Sokolov had attempted to shield her from revelations that could be too shocking for her, but in fact, she had hit him with a truth that was far more frightening than anything he could conceive. And what she told him was true, without a doubt. The dead President, neck twisted, was a residual image before his eyes.
He would not lie to her. He couldn’t. Sokolov decided to tell Asiyah everything. She had confided in him fully, bared her soul for him. And she needed no false protection of half-truths, she had been too hardened by what she had gone through. From the beginning, she questioned him to assess him, not seek comfort. She needed to look into his psyche, test his motives, determine if she could really trust him with her life.
“I did not leave the matter to the FSB because I know they are involved. They practically forced your arrest after Sochi. FSB agents showed up at my house this morning to detain me, but they were killed by assassins who were sent after me. That’s how I knew you were in danger. But the same people who tried to kill you and me are hunting for my brother.”
He told her the rest. Constantine’s disappearance a year before; the alleged murder of the Metropolitan; the mysterious connection with Sochi. He told her about Beslan, about the demons of guilt and the memories she brought back.