“What happened?” Holmes asked, sounding numb.
Admiral Deming looked up from his computer. “It looks like the hackers were ready for Aegis because a geostationary satellite that we needed to pinpoint the Trident II was hit with a denial-of-service attack.”
The final seconds were approaching fast.
Lana took her seat, feeling as numb as Holmes had sounded. She imagined what it would be like at the Amundsen-Scott research station right now, or one of Antarctica’s other facilities. Prayer vigils were reportedly being held at many of them, certainly at Amundsen-Scott, which only mirrored what was also taking place in churches, mosques, synagogues, and temples all around the world.
She wondered if the vigils in Antarctica were well attended. The scientists she knew were the least likely to find hope or solace in prayer. But she understood the impulse. While she was unlikely to ever pray to some omnipotent power — about whom she had the gravest doubts — to save her own life, she’d learned the hard way that when Emma was in danger, she’d crawl across miles of broken glass to try to curry the favor of a creator.
It hit her right then: Emma’s life might well be on the line.
Lana squeezed her eyes shut and offered prayer, drawn from the distant annals of childhood.
The digital readout slipped from 1 to 0.
The countdown ended.
The nightmare began.
PART II
CHAPTER 14
Galina reached 160 kilometers per hour so quickly that the speed scared her, but not as much as the car tailing her, keeping pace like a panther after its prey. She picked up her pace to 180, about 110 miles per hour. The beast still clung to her trail three car lengths back, an extremely short distance at these speeds.
She had no faith that he would ever give up. He was too tenacious. Had to be a cop, but he hadn’t put on his flashers. She had PP’s money, a lot of it. Does he know that? If he searched the car, he’d find out fast enough — and steal it. Cash in an envelope? It would be her word against his, and she didn’t figure hers would be worth much with the powers-that-be these days. Namely, Oleg. And if it weren’t a police officer behind her? That could be even worse. A hired thug answerable to no one but Oleg.
But she had that small gun in her right hand. She glanced at it gleaming in the reflected light from the dashboard. Blue steel dark as midnight. Murky as murder. Bleak as the soul who would use it.
She couldn’t kill. She was for peace. She’d been a regional director for Greenpeace, for Christ’s sakes. Peace on earth. Peace with the earth. She couldn’t use a gun.
Galina rested it on the passenger seat.
“Mommy, why are we going so fast?”
She’s awake.
“We’re not going so fast, Alexandra. It’s a different car, that’s all. It’s newer so it seems faster. Go back to sleep.”
The car was inching closer, only one length back. He had his brights on. They filled up the rearview mirror, like the blazing eyes of a nightmare. Up ahead was a four-lane highway. She had no training for taking the long curving on-ramp at high speed, but she feared slowing down at all.
She glanced back, remembering that her daughter was lying down. Not strapped in.
“Alexandra, sit up and put your seatbelt on right now.”
“Mommy, I’m too tired.”
“Do it, Alexandra. It’s very important, please.” Her foot pressed down even harder: 255 kilometers per hour.
Alexandra fiddled with the belt. Galina heard Alexandra’s seatbelt click shut. “Good girl.”
They raced by the sign for the turnoff: “1km.” If she’d blinked, she would have missed it.
But then she hit the turn so soon — in such a flash of highway markers — that she felt the Porsche slipping, sliding. Little wonder: she’d slowed only to 130 in a 70-kilometer-per-hour zone.
The unknown vehicle hung on her bumper as g-forces jammed Galina’s shoulder against the door.
Jesus, don’t roll it.
And then she slowed just enough that the Macan seemed to take ownership of the curve. Galina realized PP had given her the right car, at least for this. The small SUV had a racer’s heart. Her tires squealed, but the radials held the road.
She peeled onto the four-lane highway and pressed harder on the gas, bolting right back up to 255 kilometers per hour. Like the Autobahn, but better. Not a car in sight, not at this hour. She no longer felt fearful of the car’s performance.
That was when the police lights came on, ending the mystery. Not a bubble top. She would have seen that in profile. The flashing lights were hidden in the grill. She thought it might be the Federal Security Service. But who knew anymore? And just that quickly the mystery deepened. It could even be private security.
Galina slowed, watching the speedometer needle recede to the left. She looked for a place to pull over. No challenge there — paved shoulder as far as she could see. No excuse for any further delay.
When the speedometer dipped to under sixty, she let the Macan roll to a stop. Still no other cars in sight. Her mama used to say the Russian night was “quiet and dark as the inside of an oyster, where the pearls come to life.”
Galina had lots of doubts about pearls right then.
Put away the gun. It was still on the seat next to her, but she thought it would look suspicious if she leaned over to slip it into the glove box, like she was actually pulling out a gun. Instead, she tucked the small pistol under her right thigh.
The papers. PP said they were in the glove box. She could get them out. That would be legitimate. Have them ready. She reached into the glove box and felt around. There was the envelope with the cash, a comb, pen, the owner’s manual, and the registration sealed neatly in a clear plastic pouch.
She sat back with it, ready to hand it over. But they would want more than papers. Whoever they were, they hadn’t been sitting in the shadows waiting to check the registration. Don’t kid yourself. Then she realized she could have put away the gun when she was digging around in there. She didn’t dare now. It would look supremely suspicious if she started going through the glove box again.
She glanced back at Alexandra. There was no fooling her daughter. She looked petrified; oddly, that made Alexandra seem more alert, more alive than she’d been in weeks.
In the rearview, she saw the man get out of his car. The vehicle looked American, like a wide-bodied Chrysler, but that seemed unlikely. The big sellers, at least in Moscow, were the German, Japanese, and Korean makes.
And then she gripped both sides of her seat. Not the Federal Security Service. Not unless they were hiring the worst breed of thugs, because the man approaching the Macan was Tattoo.
He tapped on her window, surprisingly gentle, then waved his hand in small circles for her to roll it down. She feared he’d grab her neck as soon as she did and choke the life right out of her.
Cooperate. Don’t piss him off.
She pressed the window control. It rolled down. A low hum. Cool air. The window disappeared. Tattoo bent over, resting his meaty arms on the door, his face no more than eight inches from hers. He hadn’t shaved in at least a couple of days. She tried to hand him the registration. He shook his head, as if to say, “Don’t bother.”
“Galina Bortnik. And Alexandra.” He smiled at her daughter. “See, I never forget a pretty girl’s name.”
It appalled Galina that he’d remembered. She studied Alexandra’s reaction in the rearview. No reaction at all. Flat affect with her eyes frozen on her mother.