Patient One (24 page)

Aliev waited patiently, now looking down through the space between the staircases and listening for any activity. Everything remained still and quiet. Once again he inspected the tripwires on the stairs going down. All appeared intact. Glimpsing at his watch, he said into the phone, “You have ninety seconds.”

David tried to keep his face impassive, but he knew an innocent hostage would shortly be executed and he was responsible for it.
Goddamn it! My fault! I killed a terrorist, and someone was going to die for it. But I had no choice. It was either kill or be killed.
Goddamn it
, he growled again to himself, still feeling guilt and wondering who would be chosen to die. Probably Sol Simcha, who Aliev had earlier threatened to push off the roof in his wheelchair. David shivered involuntarily at the thought of the nice old man falling ten stories to his death.

Aliev saw David’s shiver and asked, “Are you frightened, doctor?”

“Yes,” David lied, gazing around at the three terrorists and knowing there was no way he could take out more than two and survive.

Aliev pressed the cell phone to his ear and listened carefully, then cried out, “He what?… You think he must have slipped! Is that what your Secret Service told you to say? Do you expect me to believe that nonsense?” There was a long pause before Aliev spoke again. “Oh! You will send the body up! That is so kind of you.” Aliev curled his lips into a snarl, then said, “I would like you to stay on the line.”

Aliev turned to the balding terrorist and issued a set of orders in Chechen. The terrorist nodded and smiled, exposing metal-lined front teeth. Then he hurried away.

David glanced over at the two terrorists remaining in the fire stairs, thinking he could probably kill both, but that would still leave two terrorists who, with their Uzis and grenades, could easily slaughter the First Family and most of the other hostages. Yet, without Aliev, the terrorists might …

A high-pitched shriek came from the corridor. It was a woman’s voice, crying and screaming and begging.

Aliev held the cell phone up to the sound, then spoke into it. “Do you hear that, Lady Vice President?”

Then there were even more screams, louder this time. Then more begging.

The balding terrorist appeared at the door and pushed Diana Dunn into the stairwell for the fire stairs. “
Leela!”
—Move!

Diana Dunn gazed frantically around the group. “Why … why am I here?”

“To set an example,” Aliev said simply.

He grabbed her by the back of her hospital gown and shoved her over to the railing that overlooked the space between the staircases. “What do you see?”

“I don’t see anything,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Well then, let me give you a closer look.”

Aliev pushed the frail woman over the rail and watched her fall. She screamed at the top of her lungs until her head smashed into the rock-hard landing one floor down.

“Did you hear that, Lady Vice President?” Aliev asked into the cell phone. “Like my man, it seems that one of the patients slipped and fell to her death.”

Aliev nodded to himself. “Ah! You did hear. Now hear this as well. If any more of my men disappear I will kill two hostages. And one of them will be from the First Family. Am I understood?… Good.”

Aliev handed the cell phone back to the terrorist and instructed him in English to have the hostages lined up outside their rooms.

“All of them?” the terrorist asked. “Even the very sick ones?”

“All, except for the President,” Aliev replied.

“Some are too ill to stand,” David reminded him.

“One of them won’t have to stand for long,” Aliev responded, checking his watch. “Because he will soon be dead.”

“These are innocent people,” Carolyn pleaded.

“So was my dead wife,” Aliev said icily, and stepped toward Carolyn. He poked her in the side with the barrel of his Uzi. “Now you will come with me.”

“Wh … why?” Carolyn asked fearfully. “What do you want with me?”

“I’m going to give you the honor,” Aliev said cruelly.

“What honor?”

“You will choose which hostage is the next to die,” Aliev said, and pushed her out the door.

Twenty-five

Eagle Two skimmed along
the coastline in total darkness, at 560 miles per hour. There were no stars or moon visible, only faint flashes that came and went in the distance.

Special Agent Jake Anderson, the pilot of the Gulfstream turbojet, pointed ahead. “Those lights are coming from the Mexican interceptors.”

“Are they closing in?” Joe Geary asked.

“It’s hard to tell,” Anderson answered. “But they sure as hell aren’t any farther away.”

“Do you think they’re just trying to scare us?”

“For now.”

Geary peered at the radar screen in the panel before him and asked, “How many interceptors can you make out?”

“Four,” Anderson reported. “And that’s three more than they need.”

“Will this instrument panel tell us if they’ve got their missiles locked in on us?”

“No.”

The turbojet hit a small air pocket and dipped slightly, then regained altitude. Both men glanced out at the flashes in the blackness again. The Mexican interceptors were definitely closer now.

“Do some fancy flying and get us out of this mess,” Geary urged.

“We’ve just about used up all of our tricks,” Anderson told him. “If those Navy jets don’t get here soon, we’re toast.”

Geary grumbled under his breath. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong. Their chances of success were slipping away. He turned on a penlight and restudied the diagram of the Beaumont Pavilion and the plan to rescue the President.
It should work
, he kept trying to convince himself. If they could get back to Los Angeles in one piece, and if their timing was good and if the terrorists were in place, it should work. But all it would take was one mistake and there’d be a firefight with the President and his family in the middle of it. He sighed inwardly, wishing they still had a man on the inside they could communicate with. That would give them the edge they needed. But Ballineau was either dead or captured. He was no longer of use to them.

The radio crackled loudly before an accented voice came on. “Aircraft number N-Four-Three-Four-Two-P, this is Mexican Air Force jet flight leader. You must turn right to zero-two-zero and follow us to a nearby air base. Do you read? Over.”

“Ignore him again,” Geary said at once.

“We’re going to really piss them off,” Anderson warned.

Geary shrugged. “That happens in our line of business.”

They flew on in the blackness, their gazes alternating between the outside and the instrument panel in front of them. One of the screens provided a heads-up display of the exterior terrain and beyond. It showed the sea and open air. No incoming jets were discernible.

Another twenty seconds passed before the Mexican flight leader spoke again. “Do you read, N-Four-Three-Four-Two-P? You are requested to acknowledge.”

“Keep going!” Geary directed. “Maybe he’ll think our radio is screwed.”

“That won’t last for long,” Anderson said hoarsely.

“We don’t need long.” Geary checked his watch. The terrorists’ deadline was rapidly approaching. “How close is the U.S. border?”

“Twenty-two minutes.”

“They’re not going to let us reach it.”

“Tell me about it!”

Suddenly a Mexican jet zoomed overhead, producing a deafening roar. It was so close the Gulfstream shook violently and rattled in its wake.

“Holy shit!” Geary blurted out.

Anderson struggled with the controls and righted the turbojet. “That was to get our attention.”

Ahead the Mexican interceptor slowed and leveled off, then began tilting its wings from side to side.

“And that’s the international call sign for ‘Follow me,’” Anderson went on. “We can’t make believe we didn’t see it.”

“They’ve got us boxed in, haven’t they?” Geary asked, steadying his nerves.

“And some,” Anderson replied. “What do you want to do?”

Geary was sweating through his thick combat fatigues, trying desperately to think of a maneuver to reach the border with his team intact. He concentrated his mind and searched for an answer, but he kept coming up with the same conclusion. They were trapped with no way out. And landing on a Mexican airstrip was out of the question. They’d not only be delayed, they’d be put in jail. “Do you really believe they’d blow us out of the sky?”

“Oh, yeah!” Anderson said without hesitation. “To them, we’re just a rogue plane carrying people who shot up a Mexican town.”

Geary glanced to his right and left. He could see the lights of Mexican interceptors off both wings.
Christ! They’re making a sandwich out of us!
Again he tried to come up with a way to buy time. “Do you think these Mexican pilots have ever seen combat?”

“No way,” Anderson replied. “The closest they ever got to it was in some training exercise.”

“So in all likelihood they’d be either gun-shy or trigger-happy.”

“I guess gun-shy, real gun-shy.”

“Me, too,” Geary said with a firm nod. “I want you to call them and say we’re a United States plane.”

“What!”

“Just do it.”

Anderson switched on his radio and said, “Mexican Air Force flight leader, this is N-Four-Three-Four-Two-P. We are a United States government plane. Do you read me? Over.”

There was no response.

“Tell them we’re authorized to be in Mexican airspace,” Geary added quickly.

Anderson repeated the lie, and waited.

Still there was no response.

Seconds ticked by in the silence. Then the Mexican jets on their wings peeled off into the darkness.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Anderson asked.

“Probably checking with their higher-ups,” Geary said, looking out for the telltale flashes of the Mexican interceptors. He saw only blackness. “That should take a little while.”

“I only need nineteen more minutes and I can get this baby to San Diego.”

“They won’t be having that long of a conversation.”

Eagle Two flew on in the dark night, maintaining an altitude of three hundred feet and a speed of 560 miles per hour. The only sound inside the cockpit was the loud hum of the plane’s two Rolls-Royce engines. A few minutes passed without the interceptors reappearing. There was no activity on radar or on the night vision screen.

“Do you think they’ve gone home?” Anderson asked, swallowing back his fear.

“Nah!” Geary replied absently. “They’re just waiting for instructions.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling here.”

“Me, too.”

“Maybe we should call Washington and see if they can clear a flight path for us,” Anderson suggested. “You know, some kind of diplomatic bullshit.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Geary said. “We’re all on our own up here.”

A missile suddenly streaked by the Gulfstream’s cockpit. It came so close its trail of fire lighted up the cabin and blinded the agents for a moment. The turbojet abruptly dipped as one of its Rolls-Royce engines began to sputter.

“Jesus Christ!” Anderson bellowed. “Those bastards are going to kill us!”

“Where are those Navy jets?” Geary cried out. “Where the hell are they?”

Twenty-six

Aliev paraded Carolyn back
and forth between the rows of hostages. They walked at a slow, deliberate pace, as if measuring each captive for execution. The selection process went on and on in silence. With each passing second the tension mounted. The male hostages tried to stand tall, but the fear showed on their faces. The women cowered and looked away.

Aliev stopped abruptly in front of the Russian Foreign Minister and spoke in English. “I notice your hands are shaking, Valerenkov.”

Alexi Valerenkov clenched his fists and glared back. “I hope I live long enough to see you hanged.”

“You won’t,” Aliev snarled, and turned back to Carolyn. “Now you must choose who will die.”

“I can’t,” Carolyn begged off.

“Make the choice,” Aliev demanded, “or I will kill two hostages instead of one.”

“I’m a nurse,” Carolyn pleaded. “You can’t ask me to …”

“Then it will be two.”

They were standing by the nurses’ station, looking down the corridor. All of the hostages, except for the President, were outside the doors to their suites. Some were so weak they had to lean against the wall to support their weight. A few were sitting on the floor. Terrorists with Uzis watched their every move.

“So let us begin,” Aliev said casually. “We will choose one from this end and one from the other.”

“Please don’t!” Carolyn implored.

Aliev shoved her down the corridor in front of him. The phone at the nurses’ station began to ring. He ignored it.

“We should answer the phone,” Carolyn said quickly, hoping to spare people a little longer. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“We attend to business first,” Aliev growled, and pushed her on.

They came to the Russian president and his wife. Dimitri Suslev looked beat and defeated, his face drawn, his head hanging down as if it was too heavy to carry.

“Ah, the powerful President of Russia,” Aliev taunted in Russian. “Do you feel like ordering your planes out today to bomb Chechnya? Maybe you could kill a few hundred more innocent women and children, eh?”

Suslev didn’t answer.

Aliev used the barrel of his Uzi to lift up Suslev’s chin. “I should blow your brains out now. But I have other uses for you and your ugly wife.”

They moved on, passing Ivana Suslev, who was seated on the floor and still gagging with nausea. Her blond hair was disheveled, her lipstick smeared, the makeup on her face cracked and peeling. She smelled strongly of vomit.

“Ugh!” Aliev said theatrically, dragging Carolyn along behind him.

They walked slowly up to the Secretary of State and his wife. The couple were holding hands and straining to maintain their dignity. Aliev paused to inspect them, like they were mannequins on display.

“Are you ready to die, Mr. Secretary?” Aliev asked.

“There are worse things,” the Secretary replied evenly.

“Yes, I know,” Aliev answered. “I have experienced them.”

At the end of the corridor, they approached Lucy and Jamie Merrill. The First Lady was standing beside her daughter, her eyes glued on Aliev and the weapon he was pointing at them. If she was frightened, she didn’t show it.

“Ah, the First Lady and the First Daughter, two of our most valuable hostages,” Aliev remarked. “You would agree with me, no?”

Lucy Merrill didn’t reply.

“And killing the First Daughter would make a very strong impression,” Aliev continued on. “Certainly you would agree to that.”

“You leave her alone!” Lucy snapped, hurriedly placing herself between Aliev and Jamie. Pushing her fear aside, she glowered at the terrorist and added, “Only cowards go after children.”

“Oh, yes,” Aliev said, nodding to himself. “The mother bear protecting the baby bear.”

“You touch her, and you’ll get nothing,” Lucy warned.

“What if I just point a gun at her head?” Aliev wondered aloud. “In front of the President, of course.”

“Bastard!” Lucy spat out.

“Yes. And a bastard who knows how to obtain the things he wants.”

Aliev turned sharply and headed back down the corridor, shoving Carolyn in front of him. “So you’ve picked the Secretary of State to die first,” he said, raising his voice for everyone to hear. “A good choice.”

Carolyn quickly looked over to the Secretary and shook her head and gestured with her hands.

The Secretary nodded back. He understood.

Ahead of them, the door to the lounge opened and a wounded terrorist ran into the corridor. “Aliev! Aliev!” he called out, pointing to the blood-soaked bandage on his shoulder.

Aliev quickly pulled the dressing off and exposed a gaping wound that was filled with blood clots. At the edges were pieces of dirty cotton. He motioned Carolyn over and said, “You will attend to this.”

Carolyn examined the shredded deltoid muscle, which was still oozing blood. She knew immediately that it was a through-and-through gunshot wound. “It has to be cleaned and he’ll need antibiotics.”

“Do it,” Aliev ordered and steered the pair into the treatment room.

As Carolyn reached for a bottle of sterile saline, she had an almost overwhelming impulse to put dirt in the wound and start a virulent infection. But she just couldn’t do it. Even a terrorist deserved humane medical care.

“What are you doing?” Aliev asked, moving in for a closer look.

“Irrigating the wound.” Carolyn poured saline into the open muscle and carefully removed the blood clots and debris. The bleeding began to increase, particularly at the base of the gash.

“How do you stop the bleeding?” Aliev inquired.

“With a pressure dressing,” Carolyn replied. She placed a thick gauze atop the wound and wrapped it tightly with an Ace bandage. “Now I’ll give him a shot of antibiotics.”

She hurried out into the corridor, through the nurses’ station and into the medicine room. Aliev was only a step behind her. He crowded into the small room and peered over her shoulder, watching her every move.

“What is this antibiotic?” Aliev asked.

“It’s called Cefobid.”

Aliev eyed her suspiciously. “How do I know you are telling me the truth?”

“Here.” Carolyn handed him the insert from the packaged antibiotic. “You can see for yourself.”

The printing on the insert was small, and Aliev had to step out into the brighter light of the nurses’ station to read it.

Carolyn took out the vial of Cefobid, which came as a powder and had to be dissolved in a diluent. Preparing the solution for injection, Carolyn suddenly stopped and smiled to herself.
Let’s see if I can put another terrorist out of commission.
She reached up for a handful of Valium vials that David had requested. Quickly she removed two ccs from a vial and mixed it in with the solution of Cefobid.
That’s ten milligrams of Valium—not enough to knock him out, but plenty enough to make him drowsy.

“Okay,” Aliev approved. “You may give it.”

They went back into the corridor where the hostages were still standing. The President of Russia had slumped to the floor, obviously defecating in his pants. The stench was awful.

Aliev grinned at the spectacle, seeming to enjoy it.

What a bastard!
Carolyn thought to herself, wishing it was Aliev who would be receiving the shot of Valium. A sedated Aliev would be easier to kill. Carolyn had never hoped for someone to die before—until she met up with Aliev. She would happily dance on his grave.

Aliev called the wounded terrorist into the corridor where Carolyn administered the injection of Cefobid and Valium. The terrorist stared at her without even a hint of gratitude. All she saw was hatred in his eyes.

The terrorist growled menacingly and spat at her feet.

You animal!
Carolyn seethed and glared back at him, her temper almost boiling over. She clenched her jaw and resisted the urge to rip his bandage off and start the wound bleeding again. With effort she controlled her anger and silently said to him,
Let’s see how tough you are when the Valium soaks into your brain.

“All right,” Alive announced, “we must return to our selection process.”

“These people are so ill,” Carolyn beseeched. “They have to be allowed to get back into their beds.”

“They will,” Aliev promised. “As soon as you’ve chosen the second hostage to die.”

“Please don’t—”

“You’ve already chosen the Secretary of State,” Aliev cut her off. “So we need only one more.”

At the nurses’ station, the phone continued to ring. Aliev motioned to one of the terrorists to answer it. “Whoever it is, tell them we’re busy with an execution.”

They came to Sol Simcha, who was sitting in a wheelchair outside his room. He was reading from a Hebrew prayer book. He quietly recited a final verse before closing the book and looking up. His face was serene.

“Your God can’t help you now,” Aliev jeered.

“I wasn’t asking for help,” Simcha replied.

“What were you asking for?”

“That’s between Him and me.”

Aliev shrugged and pointed his Uzi at Simcha’s head. “Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Because shortly you will be a dead man.”

“So will you,” Simcha said without inflection. “They’ll shoot you like they would a mad dog in the street.”

“Say your last words, Jew!”

“No!” Carolyn screamed. “Let him alone!”

“Only if you pick someone to take his place,” Aliev snarled.

“I can’t do that!” Carolyn protested.

“Then the old Jew dies.”

Simcha closed his eyes and thought back to the dreary day he and his family arrived at Auschwitz. He could still recall the exact moment his mother and father and little brother were pulled away from him and taken to the gas chambers.
Oh, how I would love to see them again! Dear God, I’ve tried to live a good and decent life. So in your infinite mercy, grant me one final wish. Let me see my family once again. Let me kiss my mother and father and little brother Yakov. Please, dear God!
Then Simcha began reciting the oldest of Jewish prayers, proclaiming there is one God and only one God. “
Shema Yisrael Adonai
…”

A terrorist yelled down the corridor. “Aliev! It is Shamil on the phone! It is Shamil!”

Simcha felt the barrel of the Uzi still on his head. He continued to recite the
Shema
.