Wall of Night

15

Oaken pushed through the ER doors and immediately saw Paul Randall.

“Hey, Walt.”

“How is she?”

“Still in surgery.” Randall explained Samantha’s injuries. “They’ve got a good vascular department here. If it’s fixable, they’ll do it.”

“Where are they?”

“Upstairs in the lounge. Come on.”

Oaken found a bleary-eyed Charlie Latham pacing the hallway near the elevators. He saw Oaken and walked over. They embraced. “Thanks for coming, Walt.”

“How’s Bonnie?”

“She’s okay.”

“What happened?”

“The cops are saying hit-and-run. They’re still canvassing, but so far there are no witnesses.”

“What can I do?” Oaken asked. “Tell me how I can help.”

“When she gets out of surgery, we’ll talk. I’m going to need a favor, Walt. A big one.”

Oaken and Latham had met nearly ten years before during an antiterrorism conference, Oaken from the State Department’s INR, Latham from the FBI, and had been friends ever since, having lunch and coffee as their schedules permitted. Oaken always assumed Latham knew Holystone’s role with the CIA went beyond mere consultation, but Charlie had never pressed the issue.

Until now, Oaken thought. He felt certain Latham had called him in search of more than moral support. It would have something to do with Samantha, but what?

She got out of surgery three hours later. Though severe, the damage to the artery had been repaired. She would be hospitalized for another week, in double leg casts for three months, and in physical rehabilitation for six months after that, but by this time next year she would be as good as new.

Oaken and Randall left Charlie and Bonnie to be with their daughter and wandered down to the cafeteria. An hour later, Latham joined them. His eyes were red rimmed, but he was smiling. “She’s okay, she’s gonna be okay.”

Randall clapped him on the shoulder and Oaken said, “Thank God.”

Latham poured himself a cup of coffee. “Walt, this wasn’t an accident.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Samantha’s awake; we talked. Now she’s remembering she’d seen the car that hit her around campus the last few days. It stuck with her because it had Maryland plates and the hood ornament was missing; an older model, light blue Cadillac. The more she thought about it, the more she remembered seeing it. She would come out of a class, and there it was; after lunch, there it was.”

“An old boyfriend maybe?”

“No. I’ve got nothing to back this up, but … you heard about the Baker murders?”

“Just what I read in the papers.”

Latham spent the next twenty minutes taking Oaken through the case: the murders, their suspicions about the Guoanbu, Baker’s secret bank account, the former LRRP Mike Skeldon, and finally his suspension from the case. “I know it’s a big leap, but I can’t help feeling like somebody wants me to drop this — or at least get sidetracked.”

A very big leap, Oaken thought. Though he knew better than to discount Charlie’s instincts, Oaken was skeptical. Latham’s little girl had nearly been killed; that was enough to cloud anyone’s thinking. “Supposing that’s true, why go after Samantha? You were already off the case.”

Randall answered: “Look at it this way: If somebody kills or kidnaps the child of a cop or FBI agent, the weight of the whole U.S. law enforcement system crashes down on them. On the other hand, if the child is hurt, say in a random accident, all you get is a distraught mother or father. The last thing that agent is thinking about is his or her caseload.”

Oaken spread his hands. “Charlie, I’m not unsympathetic, but this is a real stretch.”

“Humor me. A Commerce Department employee is murdered; he’s involved with a foreign intelligence agency; he’s paying an Army commando hundreds of thousands of dollars; and just as I’m starting to make headway, I’m jerked off the case.”

“You think the Justice investigation is bogus?”

“I think it’s too convenient. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. No harm done. Walt, somebody ran down my little girl. I can’t afford to assume anything — not until I’m sure.”

Looking into Latham’s eyes, Oaken found himself thinking of his own daughters. If there was even a chance — even one in a million — that someone was trying to hurt them, how would he react?

Oaken nodded. “Tell me what you need.”

Lieutenant General Vasily Basnin stared at the peeling yellow paint on the ceiling and thought, An old library for a headquarters building … what’s the army coming to? Of course, he admitted, it could be worse. The city of Irkutsk was nearly 350 years old, and some parts of it looked older still.

From that perspective, this place was brand-new.

Founded as an ostrog, or fortress, in 1661 at the confluence of the Irkut and Angara rivers, Irkutsk was known locally as the “Jewel of Siberia,” a nickname, that had never quite caught on. If not for its proximity to gorgeous Lake Baikal, Basnin thought, Irkutsk would be all but worthless.

Born and raised in St. Petersburg, Basnin’s assignment as the Irkutsk Army Garrison’s commandant felt like a slap in the face. This was the most reviled command slot in the Far East District, and yet here he was, servant of the Motherland, protecting this backwater village from … what, exactly? Protesting fur traders? Surly lumberjacks?

Though the population of Sakha — which the locals called Yakutia — was predominantly Russian, the formerly indigenous population of Buryats, Dolgans, and Yukagirs, emboldened by glasnost, had begun to protest discrimination on the part of their Russian masters. With the rolls of the Sakhan government dominated by Russians, little had changed for Yakuts since the Federation’s birth — or since the birth of the Soviet, for that matter.

At least one thing has changed, Basnin thought. Unionization. All the downtrodden natives had banded together into unions. A goddamned coalition of horse breeders, lumberjacks, and fur traders! Of course, it might pay to coddle the hunters, Basnin thought. With Moscow cutting the army’s funding at every turn, he’d been forced to supplement his garrison’s rations with local game. And what of the fur traders and horse breeders? If the money continued to dwindle, would his men be wearing beaver coats and riding around on horses instead of in armored personnel carriers?

With any luck the upcoming elections in Moscow would bring some relief. If the polls were correct, that Bulganin fellow might soon be the Federation’s new president, which might be good for the army — if, that was, Bulganin kept his promise to resume the military restructuring Putin had abandoned the previous year.

Basnin checked his watch. Almost supper time. A quick bite, then back to his quarters for some television. At least tonight we would have some peace. Thus far, the unionists had been cooperative enough to register their protest plans with the city. Tonight they were taking a break, which in turn meant a break for his troops.

Basnin had just drifted off to sleep when the knock came at his door. He rolled over and looked at the clock: Almost midnight. He got up, threw on his robe, shuffled to the door, and opened it.

“Apologies for disturbing you, General,” a soldier said. “The duty officer sent me—”

“What is it?” Basnin growled. “What’s the problem?”

“The protesters, sir. They’re back.”

So much for the niceties of schedules. “Where? How many?”

“At the Railway Monument. Several hundred. It looks like they’re preparing to march.”

“They’re probably headed for city admin building. Wait in the truck. I’ll get dressed.”

Goddamned natives, Basnin thought. Just one night of peace …

They were nearing the corner of Karl Marx Street when Basnin saw it: Flickering flames on the street bordering the river. “What is that?” Basnin asked.

“Torches, sir. They’re carrying torches.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, sir,” the soldier replied, then laughed. “Just like Frankenstein, eh, sir?”

“What?”

“The angry villagers in Frankenstein. You know—”

“Yes, Corporal, just like Frankenstein. Turn around. Circle up Gagarina; no sense trying to drive through the mob.”

Five minutes later they were driving along the river’s edge. Two hundred meters from the monument, Basnin ordered the driver to stop, then got out.

At least three hundred strong, the protesters milled around the base of the monument. At their center, the monument’s red granite obelisk rose into the night sky, reflecting the light from the torches. Amid the cacophony of voices, Basin could hear the occasional bark of a soldier’s voice as troops hurried to set up a perimeter “Where are the riot control troops?” he asked his driver.

“On the other side of the crowd, posted at the Okhiopkov Theater. The IFVs are—”

“IFVs?” An Infantry Fighting Vehicle was essentially a light reconnaissance tank. But Basnin knew in the eyes of civilians, a tank was a tank. Disorganized mobs tended to run from them; well-organized mobs tended to challenge them. “Who ordered IFVs deployed?” he demanded.

“All our trucks are down for maintenance, sir. The duty officer decided—”

Now Basnin saw them: Two BRT-70s parked on the museum lawn, their 14.5 mm cannons pointing toward the mob. “Get the unit commander on the radio,” he barked. “I want those BRTs pulled back immediately! And for God’s sake, get those turrets turned away from the crowd! If—”

From the trees around the library Basnin saw a flash of light, followed by what looked like a smoke trail streaking through the darkness. A half-second later one of the BRTs rocked sideways and burst into flames.

The crowd broke, half of the protesters running up Gagarina and Karl Marx Streets, the rest fleeing toward the trees along the Okhiopkov Theatre — toward the surviving BRT.

No, no, no … Basnin thought, praying the BRT commander was seasoned enough to show restraint. Please, God, don’t—

The rapid, overlapping boom of the 14.5 mm cannon cut through the night. The cannon’s shells — each larger than a man’s thumb and traveling at twice the speed of sound — raked through the crowd. Bodies began to drop. People stumbled about, some missing limbs, some torn open by shards of flying stone and concrete, still others falling under the crush of the stampede.

Behind him, Basnin could hear his driver yelling into the radio, “Cease fire, cease fire!”

The cannon stopped firing.

The square fell into silence. In the distance Basnin could hear screaming. A pall of smoke drifted over the square. In the distance came screaming. Basnin could see bodies writhing on the ground. A man in a fur hat struggled to his knees. Eyes wide, he reached across his body, feeling for an arm that was now just a bloody stump. A young girl’s voice called, “Mother … Mother …”

Basnin stared at the scene, stunned and momentarily confused. Oh God, what have we done …? He turned to the driver. “Call the hospital! Tell them to send ambulances! Quickly!”