Siberian Treasure

45

Helen looked at her watch. Eleven-fifteen.

They had twenty-five minutes to apprehend the bomber and reconnect with Gabe and Marina Alexander, who were God knew where, and have her translate the code ….and hope that it worked.

Her underarms were soaking wet and her heart drummed so fast in her chest that she thought it was going to erupt from her body like Alien.

First things first. She had to do her part.

“Did you get him yet?” she bellowed into her cell phone. Thank God she’d had some manpower near the tunnel that went under the Detroit River to Windsor and sent them over immediately. Fortunately, the Windsor police were as dedicated to keeping the peace as she and her people were, and they didn’t start any turf wars or jurisdiction games.

There was always the chance that their target had moved; but he couldn’t have gone far if he was keeping control of the bombs.

Could he?

“He’s got a green and blue shirt on. Dark hair. He could be in a vehicle, or standing outside. Or in a nearby building.” Stay calm. Follow the plan.

At last, the Taurus her aide was driving blasted through the Tunnel onto the Canadian side of the river and turned north. Her fingertips were tingling in earnest now; she knew she was close.

Urging Colin Bergstrom, who’d somehow commandeered driving her car, she pointed in the general direction she knew they needed to go. “Along the river! Go, go, go!”

She glanced at her watch. Eleven-twenty. Jesus-peets, if she made this …..

“Stop!” she screeched, flipping off her seatbelt so hard it smashed against the window. She was out of the vehicle before it came to a halt.

Yanking the Beretta from the holster at her waist, Helen streaked across the road, heedless of the oncoming cars. She’d seen a flash of green and blue under a streetlight, and, by God, she was going to get him.

“Stop! I have you covered!” she yelled.

Damn, it felt good to be moving; to be doing something. She ran onto the grass, half-lit by the lamps high above, and hurried after the man who was rapidly disappearing into the night.

She didn’t catch him; she couldn’t catch up to him. He was gone.

But he hadn’t been carrying anything … so the box, the box that she knew had to be at least twelve inches square, and that he had not been carrying — it had to be around somewhere.

Bellowing into her cell phone, Helen ordered her men to look for the box. “It could be under a park bench. In a car. Anywhere! Grab anything you find that looks suspicious and bring it back.” She sited and selected a landmark that was easily found, even in the dark, and even to agents not familiar with the area, and started running back to the car.

She was almost there when she saw it. A faint gleam of metal.

Helen veered to the side, shouting for Colin to follow her back to the car.

“Got it!” she screamed, recognizing the box as she ran up to it. She was already digging the phone from her pocket and stabbing at the keys to call back Marina Alexander.

Please let her answer. Please let this go through.

Green to the left. She remembered that one.

Eleven-twenty-seven. She looked at Colin, who crouched next to her. His rugged face wore the same intensity, the same worry she knew her own did.

Good God.

Please connect. Please.

She looked at the box, already trying to tear into it. Colin’s thick fingers, surprisingly nimble, pushed and shoved and poked at the box in her lap.

“Green to the left,” she repeated aloud. What did that mean? “Green to the left.”

She pulled the phone away from her ear to look at the screen. It was still trying to connect.

Come on. Come on!

Suddenly, on the bottom, a panel slid away from the box, falling into Colin’s lap.

Buttons and dials. They were all there.

A green one.

She looked at Colin — their eyes locked. Holding her breath, Helen turned it to the left.

Nothing happened. That was good. She heard him expel his breath, heard his murmur, “Good girl.” He looked at her again.

Please! Connect!

Then suddenly, it did. The phone was ringing.

“Green to the left,” came a voice over the phone. She was running; moving; Helen could hear it in her breaths. “Blue down ….Red down.” Marina was panting into the phone.

“Yes, yes, come on!” Helen said. “Blue down, red down.”

“Black and white, cross over right—”

The phone went dead.

And Helen looked down. There was no black and white.

It was eleven-twenty-eight.