They Disappeared

48

Somewhere in New York City

Bulat Tatayev bent over the worktable.

He studied a map of New York City, took a pencil and made a small neat X on a Manhattan street, then marked a second X on the map several blocks from the first one.

Reflecting on all the new and careful changes, adjustments and recalibrations he’d made to calculations that he’d labored on over the past few weeks, Bulat sipped the take-out coffee one of the men had picked up from the Slavic place nearby.

It was good, for coffee made in America.

Swallowing the last of it, Bulat pushed aside any trailing bittersweet thoughts of Zama. The fool had to be removed. At this stage of the operation all liabilities had to be eliminated. Nothing could jeopardize their work.

Nothing could be permitted to stop them.

He needed the woman and boy alive to make the new recalibrated operation work.

Bulat crushed his cup and glanced at Alhazur, the man to his right, talking softly on a cell phone. The backup plan to obtain the component was in play and everything hinged on it. When Alhazur ended his call he hesitated to speak.

“Well?” Bulat asked. “What is the status of the device?”

“It has arrived here from Europe safely and the courier has just departed Newark for Manhattan.”

“Good, you lead the pickup team. We’ve salvaged the operation. A few more steps and we’ll launch.”

Alhazur lit a cigarette and drew on it hard.

“There’s a problem,” Alhazur said. “Our sources tell us the contact in Amsterdam has just been killed. They suspect Russian security agents. We don’t know how close they are to us, or if they’ve alerted American intelligence. What if they put surveillance on the courier?”

Bulat held up his hand to stem Alhazur’s suppositions as he absorbed the complication and analyzed it.

“We proceed,” Bulat said.

“But it’s dangerous.”

“Everything we do is dangerous. We’ve come too far to turn back. Send your team now to meet the courier.” Bulat shot a finger at him. “No mistakes. We must have the device, at any cost.”

After Alhazur’s small team left, Bulat sat before one of the laptops, searched an encrypted file to obtain a telephone number. He then selected one of the prepaid, untraceable cell phones from the two dozen on the table and placed a call to a number with a 646 area code.

The line rang. He turned to look in the direction of the woman and the boy. Yes, they were now Bulat’s assets. They would play a vital role in the operation. He squinted. In the distance he saw some sort of commotion among a few of his men near the hostage area.

Bulat’s concern shifted when the line was answered.

“Hello.”

It was the voice of an older woman Bulat had known from his days of traveling the world, establishing a network of support cells.

“This is the prodigal son,” he said in their mother tongue. “We met when I visited at your home the last time I was in New York.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Are you willing to help us?”

“I am willing to do whatever is needed.”

“Good. I will contact you with further instructions. Goodbye.”

“Wait!”

“Yes?”

“You are a hero to our people.”

Bulat allowed himself the beginnings of a smile. It died when he ended the call and took notice of the commotion by the hostages.

As he strode across the vast factory floor the situation came into focus. Several men were shouting, smacking the young guard’s head, holding up the end of a chain.

Where was the boy? Did he get away?

“Sir!” One of the men stiffened. “This moron fell asleep and let the boy escape.”

Bulat examined the chain while the guard dropped to his knees.

“Commander, the chain was faulty. Forgive me!”

Bulat looked at the woman, took quick inventory of the area as his blood began pulsating.

“How long has he been free?”

“Sometime before the dawn, a few hours?” one of the men said.

Volcanic rage rose in Bulat’s gut. He stepped up to the frightened guard and slapped his face.

“You insult the blood of the revolution!”

“I’m sorry, Commander.”

“You,” Bulat ordered his men, “secure the woman. You three! Take this sorry excuse for a life below to the furnace!”

Bulat’s breathing quickened.

“The rest of you find that fucking boy and bring him to me!”

Bulat’s nostrils flared and his eyes widened with wrath as he squatted down in front of Sarah and softened his voice.

“You’d better pray to your God that your son got away.”

Sarah battled the panic rising around her.

Cole is free.

She said this to herself over and over after Bulat had walked away and his men started scouring every part of the old structure. They overturned steel drums, smashed wooden crates and toppled old equipment. The menace was almost palpable.

Pop!

Sarah convulsed-the air had split with the firecracker bang.

A gunshot. In the lower level.

Cole? No! They didn’t shoot Cole!

Sarah cried out for him.

Then she looked at the two new guards a few feet away, assessing their low-toned mutterings and body language for any hint of what had happened below.

They wouldn’t shoot an innocent boy? They couldn’t shoot an innocent boy? What have I done? Was I wrong to send him off alone? I should’ve kept him with me. Oh, God, please let him be safe.

The shot echoed like an accusation until she could not longer bear it.

“What was that?” Sarah asked.

The guards glared at her, saying nothing, then she realized that the gunfire was for the young, terrified guard they’d led away. He paid for his mistake with his life, like the creep before him, who was going to kill Cole.

Then it hit Sarah, hit her the same way reality hits an ill-fated climber in the instant before the plunge.

I’m going to die.

There was a sense of finality in the air, a sense that their plot may be a massive suicide mission. They’d killed four people so far, surely they’d kill Sarah and Cole.

We’ve seen their faces.

For one terrifying moment she fell into a comalike stupor.

But Cole’s not here. Cole is free.

She had to believe that he got away, that he’d make it back to Jeff and back to Montana and a life without her.

Sarah fought her tears and tried to think clearly through her exhaustion, through her fear, taking comfort in her one hope, her prayer.

Cole’s not here. Cole is free.

She let her anguished mind take her back home, back to where she was standing on a gentle hill that offered her the great sweeping plain and the eternal sky.

God, please let Cole be safe.