Chapter 15
Kuznetsov called when the team was halfway back to Iowa.
“We are told by our asset that Sokolov was wearing armor under his sweater. Your bullet hit him over his heart, but the armor stopped most of it. Not all of it—he has a serious chest wound and may yet die. He is in the hospital operating room, in surgery. We will know more when he emerges.”
“If your asset is so close, why didn’t he warn us of the armor plate?” Abramova asked.
The sigh was audible. “They put the armor on one minute before they walked out the door,” Kuznetsov said.
Nikitin: “Ah! A head shot was too risky, so I shot for the heart. If I had known about the armor…”
“Tell me why this shot is risky, so I can explain it,” Kuznetsov said.
“People move their heads all the time, and quickly, and in all directions. The chest, not so much. It is steadier and larger. We are trained for heart shots when that is possible. I could see no armor when he came out of the building. If I had known about the armor, I would have shot for the head.”
“I will explain this to the people here,” Kuznetsov said. “There is much disappointment.”
“Call again when you know if Sokolov lives,” Abramova said. “We will talk here about what to do next, if he lives.”
· · ·
The Russian team again took two separate rooms at the Iowa motel, and smuggled Nikitin into Titov’s.
When it seemed safe, they gathered in Titov’s room to strategize, eat, browse the Internet, talk about possibilities, and watch television.
Titov, because he could pass as American, went out to pizza parlors for food and soft drinks.
Kuznetsov called Abramova that evening. She put the phone on speaker so the others could hear, and Kuznetsov said, “Our source in Minneapolis tells us that Sokolov may yet survive. Also, you are all now famous on television.”
“What?”
“You were on television this afternoon and now are streaming on the Internet on this Jonesing for News…”
“The what?”
“Jonesing for News. I’ll spell it for you…”
He did, including the “for News” part. Nikitin, who was online, brought up a search field and typed in “Jonesing for News.”
As he was doing that, Kuznetsov said, “This matter of the cars is perplexing. You are scattering them like potato chips. We have spoken to our friends in Minneapolis and they are finding two more cold cars for you. You will have them tomorrow morning. I will text the location and license numbers. Keys on the back tire.”
“If we’re to go for Sokolov again, with the rifle, we’ll need them,” Abramova said.
“They won’t be moving him for a few days. They took some metal from his chest,” Kuznetsov said.
“You have an excellent source,” Abramova said.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we should deal with this person directly.”
“Not possible at this time,” Kuznetsov said.
“Then call us when you have the pickup arrangements for the cars. And all other arrangements.”
“We’re waiting for a return from our source. In the meantime, I should tell you that Orlov is on his way home.”
“No! How did you manage that?” Abramova asked.
“When he was stable, we informed the hospital that his wife wanted him moved to a private clinic for recovery and physical therapy,” Kuznetsov said, sounding pleased with himself.
“We had him picked up by a private ambulance service and taken to a smaller Milwaukee airport and flown from there to Toronto on a Canadian passport. Two hours ago, he was in the air for Leningrad.”
“This is very gratifying,” Abramova said, and behind her, Titov called, “Wonderful!”
“We expect to have the new cars for you tomorrow. I remind you, and I am serious, the man is watching this operation. He asks for updates in the morning, and noon, and night.”
“We will not let him down,” Abramova said.
“We will tell him of your pledge.”
· · ·
“This scares me,” Nikitin said, when the call had ended. “The man is asking about us morning, noon, and night. I didn’t need to know that.”
“We could defect,” Titov said. He tried to sound like he was joking. “The Americans would protect us.”
“We would have to eat at McDonalds,” Abramova said, with a put-on grimace. “Or this Burger King. Death would be preferable.”
“You might get your death, from one side or the other, if we fuck this up,” Titov said.
“We won’t fuck it up, but whatever we’re about to do, it will be complicated,” Abramova said. “Now let’s see this ‘Nosing for News’ that we’re on.”
“Jonesing,” Nikitin said. “I don’t know what that means.”
“American drug slang,” Titov said. “If you ‘jones’ for something, you want it badly.”
Nikitin: “Ah. I have the video.”
· · ·
They watched themselves on the computer screen, scrambling out of the oversized Jeep and into the Subaru, and then fleeing the motel. They watched it again, and again. The photos of two marshals came, up and Abramova said, “So this is the fucker who shot us.”
After the third time through the video, Titov asked, “What do you think?”
Abramova: “You don’t see our faces, but we are…
a group of types. If you see the video, and then you see the three of us together, you might recognize us.
One at a time, we are not distinct. We are not distinct in this motel, but if somebody walked in this room in one minute, with all three of us here… ”
“Give me the TV clicker,” Titov said. He said “clicker” in English, and Abramova and Nikitin looked at each other, and he added, “remote” in Russian. Nikitin found the remote in a couch cushion and tossed it to him.
The room television was not a particularly smart TV, but it was smart enough to bring up the TV channels from the largest nearby stations, which were the Twin Cities.
It took some clicking around, but eventually they found Jonesing for News and again watched the replay from earlier in the afternoon.
“Even Iowa people can see us,” Nikitin said, when Titov clicked off.
“Not easy to find that show. Who would watch it, anyway, if you live here?” Abramova asked.
“Almost nobody,” Titov said. “But all it takes is one.”
“When each of us has a car, we can check into separate motels, and then we’ll be invisible again,” Nikitin said.
“Tomorrow,” Abramova said. “Tomorrow, in the Twin Cities. Maybe I will deliver flowers to a hospital patient in a room near Sokolov’s.”
“A thousand policemen there, FBI, marshals,” Titov said.
“But we should have a look, somehow,” Abramova said. “I wouldn’t try to get close.”
“We’ll need some information about the hospital,” Nikitin said.
“With their source, Kuznetsov should be able to help us with something as simple as that.”
“Unless they’ve isolated Sokolov on a whole floor, or in some special security area,” Titov said. “It would be better if I made the reconnaissance. I have good ID, I really can pass as American.”
“Then I will leave it to you,” Abramova said. “We talk about it. I have no other ideas.”
· · ·
Nikitin was still in pain, though the drugs were helping, and the wound seemed to be healing.
The pain was deep, and he had hand-sized bruises on his butt and leg, but they were turning yellow, which the Internet said was a good sign.
Still, he wouldn’t be running or even walking any distance.
He felt he could drive, since he had no problem sitting upright, and had been wounded in his left leg.
If they were to try sniping Sokolov again, it would have to be from a car.
“I don’t believe they will give us another chance with the rifle,” Nikitin said.
“Not unless I can get a platform across from the hospital and hit him through a window. But they’re not complete fools: if there was such a platform, they would be occupying it, and they would never open the curtains on the room. ”
“Maybe you should check out, see if you can get home,” Titov said. “We could talk to Kuznetsov. If they could get Matvey out…”
Nikitin shook his head: “I can’t run, but with drugs, I can walk, if I have to. Even better tomorrow. I still have eyes and a telephone. I can drive. I’m not Kat, but I’m good enough.”
“That could all be useful,” Titov said. “Still, we have to take care. The Americans know from the video that you were wounded: they could be looking for a man who limps.”
They plucked at the possibility of entering the hospital on a reconnaissance, ate pizza and drank Dr Pepper, and at eleven o’clock, Abramova slipped out of Titov’s room and returned to her own, unseen in the night.
· · ·
Abramova was thirty-six, unmarried, unattached, an attractive blonde who worked with two athletic, thirtyish men.
Under normal circumstances, sex would raise its head, but that had been dealt with early in their relationship.
She did not, and would not, sleep with either of the men on her team, nor with other operators, who, like Titov, were contracted by the Unit.
She’d had occasional sexual relationships in Moscow, mostly with men from the Russian State Agrarian University, where she was allowed to audit courses at the Institute of Horticulture and Landscape Architecture.
She had nothing against sex, but didn’t find it compelling.
The refusal to sleep with team members was a matter of good management. They got along on that basis.
She approached the work of her team as she would a puzzle, though it was much more interesting than a common puzzle, because the pieces were always shifting shape.
Time, place, methods—they constantly moved.
Violent death was always the final piece, and in itself, didn’t much affect her, as long as the puzzle was complete.
She didn’t believe that she was either a sociopath or a psychopath, she was simply a person with muted emotional reactions to things that caused great emotion in others. Things like danger, and death.