Marked Man II - 02 (20 page)

Jordan already had his spare .22 out and was ready to toss it over, so he stuffed it away.

“Never can be too prepared. Even out here.”

“No I guess not. Can’t conceive how they’d find us out here though.”

They followed a clearing through the pines to a trodden path. When Agent Clemons expressed his concern about getting lost Jordan replied that he had come the same way in the snow.

“Fair enough. Just don’t want to get stuck out here in the dark. How long you figure they’ll be at it?”

Jordan snorted a laugh.

“Forty five minutes, an hour maybe.”

“Really? That sounds exhausting.”

“I’m sure it is.”

The path through the woods eventually led to a hunter’s ladder stand tied to a strong sycamore. Jordan had discovered it during his winter stroll. When they reached it Jordan told Agent Clemons that found sitting up there alone to be exceptionally peaceful, and suggested he give it a try since he seemed to be so tense.

“Not really a fan of heights.”

“Me neither, but it’s great. Try it.”

For a minute Agent Clemons stood at the bottom of the ladder looking up.

“How tall is it? Twenty feet? Twenty five?”

“Just go up.”

Feeling a familiar male peer pressure that he had resisted too often in his youth, Agent Clemons said alright and began his ascent. The ladder was sturdy. Still, he climbed up with baby steps, securing both feet on each rung before moving up to the next. Even though Agent Clemons knew the ladder to be secure he could not help but imagine the tiniest shifts and tilts in his balance. But when he reached the top all of his anxieties drifted away.

The view of the valley from the chair was partially obscured by branches and leaves, but it was nonetheless breathtaking. Agent Clemons scooted himself in and smiled at the waning sun. Two fawns were drinking from a brook nearby. They were undisturbed by their presence, apparently. After a minute Agent Clemons allowed himself to take a deep breath.

“You’re right. It’s great.”

“Told you so,” Jordan answered from below.

Just as he was beginning to feel at peace with nature Agent Clemons heard his phone ringing in his pants pocket. He considered not answering it but the force of habit won out.

“Special Agent Clemons. Who’s this?”

“Clemons.”

It was the Director. The Director had never called his cell phone before.

“Yes sir. What’s up?”

“Haven’t seen you around the office for a couple of days.”

“No sir I haven’t been in. I’ve been out in the field.”

The Director never sounded pleased, but this was more unpleasant than usual.

“Oh. Working on what?”

“Chasing down some leads, sir. On one of Shirokov’s associates who went missing from the manifest on Riis Landing.”

“I see.”

At the bottom of the ladder stand Jordan was looking up from a pile of pine needles.

“Who is it?”

Agent Clemons held his hand over the receiver end of his phone.

“It’s my boss. Give me a minute.”

The Director was talking in his ear again.

“Who is that you’re speaking with Agent Clemons?”

“Uh, nobody sir. Just a guy.”

“I see. So it’s not the resurrected ghost of bin Laden come to destroy us all?”

“Sir?”

“Because if it’s not then it can wait. Clemons, I want you back at the Queens office come Monday morning. You’ve had several weeks to wrap up the Shirokov business. It’s time to hand that football off to somebody else and come work in counter-terrorism.”

“Sir, all due respect I can’t do that. I still have work…”

“That’s an order, Clemons. Don’t make a mouth breather out of me. I won’t stand for it. There are much bigger sharks in the water than this Shirokov guy. We’re working on a case here that makes Shirokov look like your friendly neighborhood dime bag dealer. You show up here Monday and transfer to CT or consider yourself suspended. Is that clear?”

“Sir, I can’t do that.”

The Director sighed on the other end of the line.

“You are suspended. Without pay. Call me when you’re ready to grow up.”

The agent stammered and tried to defend his position one more time but before a cogent thought could form in his head the Director had hung up. Agent Clemons felt a hot surge coming over his features that had very little to do with the blistering weather. He hadn’t blushed so much since Junior High band. He felt like he had sorely disappointed his father.

When he climbed down Jordan Ross saw the pain writ on his face clear as day.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

Agent Clemons hung his head.

“I’ve been suspended. They’ve been wanting me to transfer to counter terrorism for weeks now. I kept putting them off. Now I’ve got nothing.”

“Weeks.”

“I was going to say something but…”

“But what?”

“I’m sorry.”

He could tell that Jordan Ross was furious but unlike in the x-ray room he managed to keep his temper in check. Something about the air and the woods had a calming effect on him.

“I’m sorry too I guess. Let’s get going. They ought to be done by the time we’re back.”

Bollier and Shannon were waiting for them in the cabin’s living room when they arrived. Both of them had a healthy glow about them, but while Shannon appeared to have discovered the secret to finding nirvana in the intervening hour, Bollier looked profoundly disturbed. She paced the room while Shannon lounged on the sofa.

“Where’d you go?” She asked Agent Clemons the moment they came in.

“Out for a walk. Listen, I’ve got some bad news.”

“Me too. I just got a call from my precinct. They wanted to know how the Montri case was coming along. I told them I was working, but they kept pressing for more and more. I stonewalled them. Then my captain comes on and he says since I haven’t made any progress that I’m suspended indefinitely...”

Agent Clemons felt a lump rising in his throat.

“I mean… can you even believe the gall of it? I’ve never been taken off a case in my life. Now they throw Jordan’s body on me and I’m expected to make a case in a week otherwise they suspend me? I’ll tell you what they’re doing. They’re giving us the finger.”

Flushed, Bollier paced around the room for a while longer, ranting at the injustice. Finally when she had gathered her wits again she asked Agent Clemons what was going on.

“So. Sorry I’m rambling like this but I’m just in shock. Anyway that’s my story. You said that you have some bad news too?”

“Les. I think you’d better sit down.”

Chapter Eleven

The night that the balloons passed Shirokov dreamt that he was a bear and that he gave birth to two healthy cubs, both boys. He was father and mother to them alike. They had been placed in his womb not by divine providence or Immaculate Conception, but Shirokov would have fought anyone fiercely who refused to call it anything but a miracle. Their presence inside him was a testament to the magical properties of his will.

Sherman was the first to arrive; mewling and covered in seminal fluid.

Sherman rolled around in the grass pawing at the dry Siberian air. He was searching for the comfort of a warm teat to suckle but Shirokov was too busy trying to bring his little brother out into the world. Patience, little one, he told Sherman in the bear language that was odd but had its own logic, at least in the confines of the dream. While he was waiting for the other cub he gave Sherman his name. It was not a Russian name, but Shirokov found it to be strong. A great general from some lost tract in time had been named Sherman. That was where the idea came.

Vodka came later almost an hour after his brother.

He was not as big as Sherman and his coat was pale. Watching him whimper, eyes clenched shut, Shirokov worried that he might turn out to be a runt. The sensible thing to do would be to smother him. Had he been awake and with his wits about him Shirokov would have been horrified at this thought. Years ago Shirokov had abandoned the church as a false facade even worse than superstitious hokum. Only a gangster could see the great Holy Roman Catholic empire for what it truly was; just another criminal enterprise, led by loan sharks who took ten percent from their marks and gave nothing but promises in return. Only the worst kind of fools did not see the scam. And yet the one thing that had remained with him was the sanctity of life. Shirokov believed that a child had the right to fend for himself or herself. In his muddled moral universe filled with contradictions, gray areas, and bald faced hypocrisies, this was one code that was inviolable. The sanctity of a child’s life. But as a bear, things were different. Living in the wild did not afford him the luxury of such principles. A weak child was a danger to the family, and therefore had to die. It made perfect sense as a bear. And yet when he looked at the tiny precious ball of fur he felt a grim determination come over him. He would not be a runt. Maybe small, maybe pale, but this baby bear was a blessing, not a runt. Using the bear language he told the cub that his name was Vodka, for God’s greatest blessing to man.

The splash is what woke Shirokov from the dream, more than the pain. For a second Shirokov was hysterical, still believing himself to be a bear and frightened that he had somehow been plucked in an instant from the frigid prairie and dropped into a dark man-made cell.

“What… where am I?”

Shirokov asked the darkness. Reclining on his bunk, Winston gave him an answer.

“Still in Disneyland I’m afraid.”

“Oy. It is you. Thank God. I had the strangest dream ever.”

“You wanna tell me about it?”

After a second Shirokov decided against this. He hated it whenever anyone related their own dreams to him. People who did such things were either intolerable bores, or selfish beyond the point of redeeming. That and he feared telling Winston about Sherman and Vodka might make him genuinely question his sanity.

“No.”

Once he was fully recovered Shirokov found himself in high spirits. Despite it being the dead of night he felt alive, awake, and nearly seven pounds lighter, even though he knew it was closer to twenty-four ounces. His quintessential Russian patience had paid off. The time had finally come. Shirokov cleaned himself, then reached into the toilet and took the two balloons out. He washed them and put them away in the inside pocket of his jumpsuit. For the rest of the night he huddled the precious potassium perchlorate and aluminum powder close to his chest.

In the morning a guard raked the bars with his baton. The noise startled Shirokov awake and he instinctively felt for the balloons. They were safe.

“Hey Jewokov!” The guard called him.

He had refused to answer to the derogative ever since the Aryans started using it to address him. Shirokov waited, ignoring the guard while he cracked the calcium deposits out of his neck and then his knuckles. Finally the guard took the hint.

“Shirokov.”

“Yes?”

“You gotta phone call.”

Shirokov had been expecting this. The lawyer Solomon had been making the final preparations. When last they met, Solomon said that he would call to confirm once every piece was in place. The timing was perfect. He shot up from his bunk, ready to greet the good news. The bars slid away and he stepped out of the cell, then followed the guard through north block, down the stairs, and past a security checkpoint. One of the prison’s security subcontractors waved a metal detector over Shirokov’s body and then let him through once he’d determined the inmate was clean.

A row of six landline phones were set up in the narrow room. Guards watched from either end as the prisoners took their calls. They were not allowed to listen, so the doors were made to seal in sound. The walls looked like payphones had once been set up but had since been ripped out. Copper wires and loose screws dangled from the stubs where the antiquated machines once hung.

Shirokov stepped over to the third phone on the left, the one with the blinking light. He picked up the receiver and spoke.

“Is everything prepared?”

The voice that answered sounded like it came from a half-drowned rusted metal animal climbing up from the bottom of a well. It was a modified by a machine.

“I am calling long distance so I will be brief.”

Shirokov was grateful that he had nothing left in his system or he might have voided his bowels right there in the phone room. He began sweating inexplicably.

“What do you want?”

“This plan that you have for escape. You will abandon it.”

“Who has told you this? How in God’s name do you know these things?”

“My time is short, Vladimir. You must presume that I know all things. You will abandon this plan for escape. It is dangerous. It is foolish. It puts our men at risk. I am arranging for your release through legal means. You will be patient and wait for these legal means to play themselves out.”

The hollow sound on the phone was worse than any demon’s hiss that Shirokov’s subconscious could conspire to invent. The mind was a wonderful, terrible thing, as evidence by his dream the previous night. But the fact that this voice was real; that it belonged to a real man was worse than any nightmare.

“I will not wait.”

“You will do what you are told, Vladimir.”

“I am fighting for life in this place. I cannot wait for lawyers and courts and witnesses. These men will kill me if they can. I cannot wait. You do not know what this is like in this place.”

Something resembling laughter came in from the other end.

“Do not presume anything about me Vladimir. Except that I know everything. You are aware of what happens to those that disobey me.”

“Yes.”

“Now tell me again. What are you going to do?”

A very long pause passed before Shirokov found the words.

“I will wait.”

The call went dead. A beeping from the receiver filled the room. Shirokov reached out with one hand to catch the wall with the phantom payphones. He meant to hold himself up. But after only a few short moments his trembling arm betrayed him and he collapsed to the floor, shivering.

...

Two days later the lawyer Solomon visited to inform Shirokov that everything was in place. Finding a captain for the speed boat proved both more difficult and more costly than he had anticipated, hence the delay, but that was the last piece. The guards and the electrician had been compensated, both the inner and outer fences had been marked, and the crew was on standby. They just awaited the go ahead from the plan’s architect.

Once Solomon was through describing the preparations he reverted to lawyer mode. It was his duty to double guess every course of action.

“So are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, things are going well on my end. Once we’re able to track down Zhadanov it may only be a matter of weeks, a couple of months maybe… Vladimir?”

Since the last call Shirokov had gone without a single wink of sleep. His eyes watered and he yawned intermittently throughout their meeting. He shook himself out of it.

“I am here. Yes.”

“What’s it going to be?”

Shirokov ground his teeth. He was convinced of his plan’s ultimate success. For months, even before the conviction, he had been studying from every angle. The layout of Sing Sing’s exercise yard,  making inquiries about the staff, the currents of the Hudson River, the geography of its sediment, not to mention the extensive coursework on flash powder. In the dingy subterranean cool of Paviel’s lab he’d nearly lost a hand several times before he got it right. All of that work could not go to waste. And yet defying the voice was a proposition that Shirokov had never considered before. Perhaps the voice was right. The lawyer could get him out of this place. And yet. Out of the corner of his eye Shirokov spied one of the skinheads making grotesque faces at him while his girlfriend with a series of swastika tattoos played in his pants.

“Vladimir?”

“Tell them tomorrow. One o’clock thirty. Precisely.”

…

When Shirokov saw a gray sky the next morning he was filled with dread. Rain, even a slight downpour, could derail everything. For the first time in years Shirokov crossed himself.

“So this is it then?” Winston asked from his bunk.

“How do you know?”

“Man finds religion in here all the sudden, it’s only for one of two reasons. He’s either getting ready to hang himself with his sheets, or gonna try busting out.”

“Will you not come with me?”

Given his sentence Winston had to be tempted but to his credit he did not let it show.

“Nah man. I hope I’m wrong, but if I was laying odds I’d say the chances of you seeing the sunrise tomorrow about 18 to one. If that.”

Shirokov sighed and turned to face Winston.

“Pah! I will take those odds. It was good meeting you my friend.”

“And you.”

They shook hands. Before they left for breakfast with the other inmates, Shirokov advised Winston to stay away from the southwest corner of the soccer and baseball field during the outdoor hour.

When the hour came the yard was getting showered by a light mist. This was unwelcome for two reasons. There were less inmates outside to occupy the attention of the guards, and the moisture made lighting the flash powder fuse problematic. Shirokov and his men huddled up around the weight lifting benches as was their custom. They stood in the tightly packed circle so that no one could see inside. For several days they had been doing this, so that when the time came it would arouse no undue suspicion.

From under his coat Shirokov brought forth the balloons with the compounds. Askokov produced an empty plastic baggy he’d lifted while working in the kitchens. Yakov brought a Zippo lighter he’d won in a game of Spades. They carefully poured the flakes of aluminum into the baggy, followed by the potassium perchlorate. Leonid brought the fuse, which he had gotten through some means so vile that when Shirokov asked him he only replied “you do not want to know,” and he believed him.

Ruslan’s contribution was himself. While he hoped to escape with his comrades in the impending chaos, Ruslan was operating under a unique sentence that superseded the laws of men and society. He’d contracted the bug at Leavenworth. The famed federal prison’s tattoo artist had not cleaned the needle properly, so the second that the metal pierced Ruslan’s skin it was over. Once Ruslan was diagnosed he instantly knew the cause. For consolation, he’d killed the guilty party with his own tattoo gun in a most heinous fashion, but there was no reprieve. Regardless of how the plan turned out, Ruslan would be feeding the soil in five, perhaps another six months at most.