“Fuck!” he yelled, hurling the gun against the glass.
He called Malnikov.
“Talk fast,” said Malnikov.
“I can’t get out,” said Dewey. “The windows are bulletproof. The doors are bolted shut.”
“Can you get to the roof?”
Dewey looked up.
“Maybe.”
88
IN THE AIR
OVER THE NORTH SEA
One of the pilots looked back from the cockpit.
“There’s an alarm going off in the loo, Derek,” said the pilot.
Chalmers unlatched himself from his seat. He stood up and walked to the rear of the jet. He knocked on the door to the restroom.
“Katya?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”
Katya didn’t respond. This time, Chalmers banged harder.
“Katya!”
Both pilots emerged from the cockpit.
“Where’s the key?” barked Chalmers.
One pilot charged to the door and inserted a key. Chalmers tried to push in the door, but it was blocked by Katya’s body. Chalmers slammed his shoulder at the door and was able to stick his head in.
Katya lay unconscious on the floor. Her wrists were exposed and bleeding.
“Get the first-aid kit,” said Chalmers. “We need to land and get her to a hospital.”
Chalmers reached his arm down and moved her body, then pushed the door in. He pulled Katya out, lifted her up, and carried her to one of the leather sofas midcabin and laid her down. She was covered from her chest down in blood. He felt her neck.
“She’s still alive,” he said.
Chalmers shook her shoulders, trying to bring her out of unconsciousness. When that didn’t work, he slapped her hard across the face. Her eyes opened.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I swear.”
“Know what?”
“Where the bomb is going. But I remember. I heard him speaking. It was through the wall.”
“Where?” asked Chalmers, pulling his cell out and dialing Calibrisi.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Then I remembered.”
“Where is it going, Katya?”
“Boston.”
89
THE WHITE HOUSE
Calibrisi and Polk were in the small office down the hall from the Situation Room when Calibrisi’s cell vibrated. It was Chalmers.
“Hi, Derek,” said Calibrisi. “Are you in the air?”
“Yes. She gave me a target.”
Calibrisi snapped his fingers, getting Polk’s attention. He put it on speaker.
“Do you believe her?”
“Yes. She tried to commit suicide. I think she’s starting to realize that if she doesn’t help us, she’s complicit, if not legally, then morally.”
“Where’s it going?”
“Boston.”
“Does she have anything more specific?”
“No.”
Polk nodded at Calibrisi, then sprinted out of the office to the Situation Room.
“We’re going to land,” said Chalmers. “She needs medical attention.”
“You’re going to have to patch her up on the plane,” said Calibrisi. “We need to get her to Moscow.”
“She’s going to bleed to death.”
“At this point, we have the name of a city and that’s it. And who knows if it’s even the right city. Until we find that bomb, Katya is the only card we have to play. Please, Derek, get her to Moscow.”
90
SITUATION ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE
Inside the Situation Room, there wasn’t a spare chair or place to stand. The mood was surprisingly calm.
In addition to President Dellenbaugh, most key White House, Pentagon, and intelligence officials were gathered. Anyone not there in person was patched in, their faces adorning plasma screens along the walls.
President Dellenbaugh was seated at the head of the large mahogany conference table. The plasma to Dellenbaugh’s right showed live video from Boston, taken from a satellite in the sky. The Boston waterfront was fully visible. All Coast Guard, FBI, police, and military assets were highlighted in red, including a pair of Navy Aegis destroyers, three Coast Guard cutters, and more than one hundred FBI, Boston Police, and other law enforcement vessels.
Superimposed atop the live satellite image was a bright green grid, which was tied into the Defense Intelligence Agency. They were running the feed against a Milstar satellite and its IONDS platform, which was sweeping over the harbor, searching for signs of tritium, uranium, or plutonium emissions.
All eyes were glued to one of the screens. Bob Schieffer of CBS News was speaking, the volume turned up. Six other screens displayed different TV channels, all of which had the volume down as they continued to show normal programming.
As Schieffer spoke, one by one the other screens cut away from normal programming and went live to special reports, cascading like dominoes down the wall.
Dellenbaugh flashed a look to an aide who controlled the TVs, and the volume from the screen behind him abruptly lowered.
“How are we going to find it?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“We have eight hundred people with Geigers spreading out across the waterfront,” said Kratovil, the director of the FBI. “General Electric is bringing in Geigers from their Pittsfield facility. Siemens emptied their warehouse to fill in the gap. We’re going boat by boat. If the bomb’s there, Mr. President, we’ll find it.”
91
MOSCOW
As his Ferrari ripped west on the freeway, Malnikov hit speed dial.
Stihl, Malnikov’s helicopter pilot, answered.
“Alexei, it’s three thirty in the morning.”
“I don’t have time to talk,” said Malnikov. “You need to pick someone up. He’s outside the city.”
“Where?” asked Stihl.
“Elektrostal. A building at the corner of Vostochnyy and Michurinskiy.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“The S-92?” asked Stihl, referring to Malnikov’s most luxurious helicopter, a Sikorsky S-92 VVIP.
“No,” said Malnikov. “Take the Dauphin.”
“There’s no seating, Alexei. I had it retrofitted for tactical assaults.”
“That’s the idea. Now get going. His name is Dewey.”
* * *
Every time Malnikov thought he was getting closer, Cloud seemed to sense it, finding an extra burst of speed at precisely the right moment. He was running the bike recklessly, stabbing left and right, dodging the occasional car or truck, trying to get away.
Malnikov owned six motorcycles. He’d climbed aboard his first when he was only twelve. But the thought of going as fast as Cloud was now going—and in the rain—was unfathomable.
He glanced down at the speedometer: 144 mph.
He couldn’t go any faster, and yet, when he saw the straightaway, he throttled the Ferrari even harder. He watched as the distance between the Ferrari and the Ducati slowly decreased. A quarter mile became a few hundred yards, then only a hundred.
Above the blurry lights of the motorcycle, Moscow’s skyscrapers came into sharp relief, spires of glass and steel illuminated against the dark sky.
As Malnikov came within a dozen feet of the Ducati, Cloud suddenly slowed, then burst right down an exit ramp. Malnikov didn’t see it coming. He hit the brakes, put the car in reverse, then slammed the gas, ripping backward until he was even with the ramp. He jammed the car into forward then shot off the highway.
Again Cloud opened up distance, but Malnikov tasted blood. He trailed Cloud along the river, soon closing the gap. Near the center of Moscow’s business district, Cloud abruptly slashed right, charting a course that led into the crowded warren of steel and glass that constituted Moscow’s skyscrapers.
Malnikov pushed the Ferrari as fast as it would go without skidding out of control. Looking down, he saw the number: 160 mph.
As he brought the Ferrari alongside Cloud, time seemed to freeze. Despite the low primitive growl of the Ferrari, despite the high-pitched roar of the Ducati, despite the rain and the chaos, Malnikov felt nothing but stillness and calm.
* * *
Cloud felt the lights on him. He heard the low rumble of the Ferrari; even as wind torched his ears and bended with the Ducati’s roar, he still heard it. He glanced quickly left. It was Malnikov after all.