A Touch of Malice (18 page)

He reached his hand around the chair and touched her bare leg under her robe. There was something sensual about the gesture, but it felt to Ann as if he were attempting to attach a safety line to her. He was about to dive into the abyss and he wanted her there when he returned. If he returned.

“I was doing pretty well until this happened, right?” Merrick asked in a defensive tone.

“Yes,” she said. “You were doing great.”

His hand rose up the inside of her leg, slowly creeping toward her tenderness, as if the proximity of his fingertips could form a tacit bond between the two of them. His fingers moved between her legs and cupped her butt cheek in his hand. He gently squeezed.

In the deep recesses of her mind, Ann understood the product of this moment. Everyone went to the president for help—poor people wanting food for their children, rich people wanting tax cuts, abortion abolitionists, environmentalists, gun control advocates. There was a never ending line of citizens who needed help, but who did the president go to when he needed help?

Ann allowed him to softly caress her body while he let off some pent up frustration of having nowhere to turn. She bent down and kissed the top of his head.

Merrick continued probing and Ann was beginning to melt with his touch. She whispered, “I wouldn’t start the launch sequence unless there’s going to be liftoff.”

As she touched his face with her hands, she could feel his cheekbones lift from a brief smile.

“I miss you,” he said.

From the darkness, a cell phone chirped. The large silhouette of Sam Fisk came to a sitting position on the couch. He fumbled around for his phone until he found it on the coffee table. The chirping stopped.

Fisk cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said into the phone. Then he shut it off and said, “Air Force One is ready for us.”

Merrick quickly lowered his hand as Fisk lumbered over toward the desk and came into full view. He ran his hands through his hair and said, “Hi, darling.”

“Sam.”

Fisk grabbed a handful of trail mix from a bowl on Merrick’s desk and threw some into his mouth. He chewed for a moment, while seeming to sense the tension.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” Ann said, backing away from Merrick and pulling her robe around her neck.

“Good.”

“I spoke with Jaqui a while ago,” Ann said, looking at her husband. “She said you were going to Colombia and you were coming back with Trent.”

Merrick hesitated. “What did you expect me to tell her, sweetie, I’d give him a ten percent chance of surviving?”

“Please don’t use your negotiating skills on me,” Ann said, crossing her arms. “Exactly what are you two doing down there?”

Fisk put his hand out to stop Merrick from answering. “We’re meeting with the President of Colombia to discuss any leads they may have acquired regarding Trent’s disappearance.”

“That’s it?”

Fisk held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Ann looked down at her husband suspiciously. “Why do I have the feeling there’s more going on here?”

Merrick rose from his chair and cradled her face in his hands. “Sweetie, I’m going to try to help my brother the same way I’d help any citizen who’s in trouble with a foreign country. With diplomacy.”

Suddenly he wasn’t her husband anymore. He was trying to look too presidential. Too businesslike. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then followed Fisk out the door. The President of the United States walking away from her with his State of the Union speech strut. Like he was going to battle and nothing she said would stop him.

Then it hit her. He had said, “Any citizen who’s in trouble
with
a foreign country, not
in
a foreign country.” Trent was a prisoner and Merrick was on his way to save his younger brother and in his state of mind Ann was convinced he would do anything to accomplish that goal.

She hurried out to the hallway and watched the two of them turn the corner in deep conversation. Ann Merrick considered what she could do to keep her husband from going and realized the answer was . . . nothing.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Merrick?” A voice came from beside her.

Ann turned to see a Secret Service agent with his eyebrows raised.

She shook her head. “No,” Ann said, watching her husband about to jump into a giant void. “There’s nothing you can do to help me.”

Chapter 23

The twin-engine plane droned through the night sky barely above the tree line, avoiding radar and acting like a drug smuggling operation. The rain had dissipated, but they seemed to be sandwiched in between the thick clouds above them and the green topography below. Nowhere to land and nowhere to bail. At this point they were all in and Nick felt a sense of community with the team surrounding him. Ultimately, it was Matt’s presence which always brought the greatest sense of security, but the SEALs and Kalinikov kept his heart rate from bursting. The pills helped mitigate his symptoms so he took the least amount of medication to be effective, yet without dulling his senses.

They were heading east and the sun was illuminating the horizon with a pinkish blue aura. Nick watched as Kalinikov worked with his pistol like a chef putting together a sauce he’d made a thousand times before and could’ve done it blindfolded.

Kalinikov kept his attention on the pilot who’d suddenly developed an interest in the topography of the land below them, even though they were landing on the lake. The pilot swiveled his head side-to-side and it put some bad thoughts into Nick’s head.

Kalinikov was back to working with his gun. His hands slid over the pistol with a smooth dexterity.

“That’s nice,” Matt said, admiring Kalinikov’s Makarov 9mm.

“Thank you,” Kalinikov said. “I actually met Nikolay Makarov a year before he died. He was very proud of his weaponry. As a matter of fact, he was awarded the title, ‘Hero of Socialist Labor.’” Kalinikov looked at Matt through the corner of his eye. “That probably does not impress you very much, does it?”

“No, hey, as far as Socialists go, the Hero of Socialist Labor title is right up there with the best of them.”

Kalinikov offered a slight grin. While examining his pistol, he said, “You still do not believe I am doing this for the money, Agent McColm. Or my family’s safety.”

“No,” Matt said. “I don’t.”

Kalinikov nodded, as if agreeing with Matt’s assessment. “When I was in training for the KGB, they sent us to the Amazon rainforest to acclimate ourselves to jungle warfare. We were attempting to join an elite branch of the service.” Kalinikov pointed to the three SEALs. “Very much like their outfit. It was the final stage of the training. We started out with four hundred soldiers vying for the very prestigious status and were down to the final ten men. They dropped us off deep into the Amazon without food, water, or weapons. We were told where our pickup point would be some two hundred miles away.”

Kalinikov stuck the Makarov in his holster and said, “Well, after two weeks, there were only three of us left. Everyone had suffered from malaria, dysentery and taken on too many parasites which our bodies were not prepared for. We would bury the dead along the way. After less than three weeks, I buried the final soldier, Dimitri, while spitting up blood on his grave. He was my closest ally.”

The large Russian looked past Matt, out the window, as if reliving the scene in his mind. “The next day,” he continued, “my own diseases had taken hold. I had an insatiable thirst, a skull-splitting headache and uncontrollable shivers. I was not able to move. I lay down next to a tree and prepared for death. At that point I welcomed it. Relished it, really.”

Kalinikov’s eyes wandered over the treetops. “Then, a tribe of Native Indians surrounded me. At first I thought it was a hallucination. They wore nothing but patches over their genitals and snail shells strung around their necks. They rarely spoke. They used mostly sign language. I later discovered they were the Marutos.”

The name triggered something with Nick. “The same tribe Trent Merrick was filming a documentary about when he was captured.”

“Precisely,” Kalinikov said. “They had been following me for some time, but they were so clever about their camouflage. They would never remain at eye level. They were either in the trees or underground. Their language is comprised of a series of birdcalls identical to the real thing. They could be talking just overhead, but you would never know it.

“I was taken to a stream where an elder, the doctor, crushed a mixture of plants with a stone and dropped the powdery substance into the water where it formed a milky cloud. One of the Marutos dipped a small snail shell into the mixture and handed it to me, signaling me to drink it. Well, it only took minutes before my symptoms began to subside and I was ambulatory within an hour. I ended up staying with them for a month, learning about their culture, understanding their respect for nature. These are remarkable beings with a profound affection for life. They are very possibly descendants of the Mayans. They deserve to have their land protected.”

No one spoke for a moment. The plane engines droned on while the fuselage would jerk up and down sporadically.

Kalinikov gestured to Matt. “Is that good enough reason to come?”

Nick was fascinated, but Matt seemed reluctant. “Sure.”

Then Kalinikov seemed to regain his sense of surroundings, edging up to a window and staring down at the land just below them. “Do you know how long I normally require to do a job?” Kalinikov said to no one in particular.

“How long?” Matt asked, snapping a chest holster in place.

“Sixty days,” Kalinikov said, clicking the magazine into the bottom of his pistol, then releasing it into his palm, then back into the pistol. “Do you want to know why?”

“Not really,” Matt said with a sour tone, looking out the window.

“Because that is how long it takes to devise a plan of attack. To do my job correctly you must have contacts willing to support you and present you with information. You must be able to trust these people and it takes time to check on these contacts to determine whether they are reliable.”

There was an opening in the trees up ahead suggesting a body of water. The left wing tilted down and the plane banked to the left just over the treetops, lining up with the opening a few miles away. The sun was just beginning to peak up. The pilot remained fascinated with the jungle floor, frequently looking out both sides of the plane.

“That Agent Garber,” Kalinikov continued. “He was waiting for someone to exit the plane. Why?”

Nick didn’t have an answer for that.

“He called me, ‘The Russian.’ Did your people indicate to him there was a Russian on the flight?”

These were all good questions. Nick didn’t have the time to check that fact. “Why are you asking these questions now?”

“Because I wanted to be sure I was not suffering from paranoia.”

Nick pulled out his satellite phone.

Kalinikov shook his head. “It is too late now. We are committed.”

Matt and the SEALs were now scrutinizing the jungle with increased intensity.

Kalinikov snapped the magazine into the bottom of his pistol, then crouched forward until he reached the front of the plane and placed the tip of the gun to the pilot’s head. “You will make a pass at the lake, but keep the nose up and accelerate. Do not attempt to land or I will certainly end your life.”

The pilot kept his attention straight ahead and nodded with intensity.

“Stay down,” Kalinikov ordered to the team, as the pilot maintained speed and altitude over the water.

They all crouched, but Nick followed Kalinikov’s stare out the right side of the plane. The Russian seemed to see something Nick couldn’t detect. The assassin quickly swung his attention over to the opposite window and Nick heard him make a cursing noise.

As the plane cruised over the lake, a glint of something metallic flashed across the shoreline. The sun had come to life just in time for the event to be seen.

Lieutenant Olson looked at Nick. “You see that?”

“I saw it,” Nick said, now sure they had been set up.

Kalinikov looked over his shoulder and raised his voice over the roar of the accelerating engine. “It takes at least thirty days to do a proper check of your contacts.” He gestured to the pilot who seemed frazzled with the gun to his head. “How long did you say you had to develop this contact?”

Nick nodded with recognition. “Twenty-four hours.”

Kalinikov had made his point. To the pilot he said, “Continue on this exact path. And stay just above the trees.” Then he crouched down and took a couple of steps to the middle of where the crew was seated. He got to a knee as they huddled around him.

“The Camenos were expecting a rescue mission,” Kalinikov said. “This means the president’s brother may still be alive. That is good news. Now we have a choice. We can abort the operation and live another day. Or we can have the pilot fly extremely low and jump into the lake the moment the aircraft reaches the water. We cannot wait for it to slow or stop. It is our one chance to succeed.”

Kalinikov looked at the SEALs. “We can do this, correct?”

“Blindfolded,” Lieutenant Olson said casually. Then he glanced at Matt and Nick.

Matt immediately said, “We’re ready.”

“All right,” Kalinikov said. “Line up at that back door. I’ll signal when to jump.”

They did as the Russian said. Single file. Matt first. Nick second. The SEALs last.

Kalinikov turned back to the pilot and said, “Now keep it low and turn around. I want you to land on the lake from this direction.”

The plane banked hard, making a complete 180-degree turn and buzzing down to the very tops of the trees. Nick’s stomach made the exact same turn, only it didn’t seem to stop when it returned to level. It sloshed around looking for a place to exit.

Kalinikov pointed to Matt. “Open the door.”

Matt twisted the access lock and the door was thrust open. The cool morning wind thundered throughout the fuselage.

The plane had lowered, but it didn’t slow. It was still trekking pretty fast.

“Throttle back,” Nick shouted above the engines. His ears were being assaulted by the wind.