I had just finished shaving when I stepped from the bathroom and noticed that someone had slipped an envelope under the door to my room at the Sportsmens Lodge. I reached down, grabbed the envelope, and opened it. It was from the front desk, “a message from a Mr. Hinds. You are to call him in San Diego.” I knew that Harry wouldn’t call the hotel unless it was important. He must have called the cell phone and realized it was turned off.
A few minutes later Herman and I descend into the basement of the Sportsmens Lodge, near the exercise area. The place is deserted except for some of the hotel staff taking care of laundry. Herman watches the stairs while I make the call.
Harry answers the phone on the first ring and doesn’t even say hello. “I hope you’re sitting down. Let me get outside.”
I give him a few seconds to get out of the office so that federal bugs can’t pick up the conversation.
“What’s wrong?”
“Templeton dropped the world on us early this morning,” says Harry. “He raided the office, seized all the files in Katia’s case. There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”
Even though Harry and I have talked about this, the possibility that Templeton might charge me, the actual news that he has now done it knocks the breath out of me.
“Where are you now?” says Harry.
When I don’t answer he says, “Are you there?”
“I’m here.” I am swallowing hard.
“Are you still in the hotel?”
“Ye…Ah, yeah. Down, we’re, Herman and I, are down in the basement.”
“Get your stuff together and get outta there,” says Harry. “Do it now.”
“First tell me what’s happened.”
“Trust me. You don’t have time to talk,” says Harry. “Gather your bags, check out, and don’t leave by the front door. Is there another way out?”
“Yeah. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Templeton knows you’re in Costa Rica. He’s working on a fugitive warrant. The minute he gets it, he’ll bring fire down on the FBI to pick you up. You can bet on it. You were right; he had a hold on your passport, so he’s hopping mad. He knows the feds had it lifted. He’s already leaking information to the press to turn the heat on Rhytag. I got a phone call from a friend. It’s already been on Fox News. San Diego lawyer charged with murder, and the report is that you’re hiding out in Costa Rica with federal authorities close on your heels. You’ve got to move.”
“He still has a pretty thin case,” I tell him.
“Not after he found the bag of catnip in your desk drawer.”
“Oh, shit.”
“You might want to think about where it came from,” says Harry, “and we can talk about it later.”
“I forgot all about it. I found it the day we were out at Pike’s house.”
“I’m not the one you have to convince,” says Harry.
“It was cumulative evidence. The cops already had their own collection of the little white bags, all of them the same. I couldn’t see how one, more or less, was going to change anything,” I tell him.
“Yeah, well, the Dwarf must have feline DNA in his blood then, because he looked like he wanted to roll in your drawer and have an orgasm when they found the bag there,” says Harry. “And one other thing; it seems the cops have been holding back another piece of evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“You remember the promotional pens we had made up last year, the plastic ballpoints? We did a batch of them for New Year’s, along with the calendars, to give to clients.”
“I remember.”
“Forensics found one of the pens in the study, underneath Emerson Pike’s desk, when they processed the crime scene.”
There is a pause on the phone as Harry allows this to sink in. “Are you there?” he says.
“Yes.”
“According to their investigative notes, you told the police you’d never been to Pike’s house and that neither Pike nor Katia had ever been to our office. So Templeton is dying to know how the pen got there.”
My mind is racing with all of this.
“We don’t have time to talk about it now. Just get your stuff and get outta there. If the FBI doesn’t pick you up, the Costa Rican police will. Get back to Katia’s house, find the camera, get the pictures, and scoot. Lose the federal tail and get out of Costa Rica as fast as you can. It’s the only chance you’ve got.”
“Herman and I were going to wait until tonight, try one more time after dark.”
“You no longer have that luxury,” says Harry. He’s right.
“I understand. Listen, I’m sorry about the item in the desk drawer.”
“Save it for later,” says Harry. “Just don’t come back here unless you have something solid by way of evidence. Otherwise you and Katia are going down for the count. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll nail you the second you enter the country. That is if they don’t catch up with you down there first. So get moving,” says Harry.
“How is she doing?”
“Katia?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t ask,” says Harry. “Just get moving. I don’t care what you did, or why you did it, just find whatever you need. And call me tomorrow.”
“Harry, listen to me.”
“Just keep me posted. Let me know where you are.” With that the line goes dead on the other end as Harry hangs up.
Having watched Tomas die, Nitikin decided that he could at least use the lethal dragon’s breath to his own advantage. This, as he maneuvered for final leverage with Alim.
Alim Afundi’s man, who had retrieved the ramrod against the tree, paid for his effort in agony. He lingered for two more days after Tomas died. He was more distant than Tomas from the source of radiation, but unlike Yakov, he was without the protection of a lead-lined suit. It was the reason Yakov had selected him to help finish the job. Nitikin knew the man was dead the moment he felt the heat of the ionizing flash.
Alim wanted to use the expedience of a quick bullet to end the man’s pain, but he was facing a small rebellion. The dying man’s brother was part of Afundi’s group, and Alim had resorted to his pistol as the tool of command once too often. To shoot another of his followers, even under the guise of putting the man out of his misery, might inspire thoughts of mutiny among his dwindling band.
Now that the bomb was assembled, Afundi needed to move the device and do it quickly. Instead they were forced to sit and watch as his follower died on his own clock, bleeding from every orifice.
Nitikin could read the anxiety in Alim’s eyes. Yakov had never been informed as to the final target, but he knew that Alim was running out of time. During the weeks of preparation the Russian had picked up bits of information from friends in the FARC and subtle signals from Alim himself. He knew that the device was to be shipped, at least partway, by sea inside a container that had been specially lined with lead. Yakov had seen the container. It was ready to go.
He also knew that the container was to be transferred from a small coastal freighter to a larger oceangoing ship at the port of Panama City. Nitikin had been told by one of his FARC comrades that a fax had been received from a shipping company in Panama and that the transfer was to take place in three days. This did not leave Afundi much time. If his man did not die today, Yakov knew that Alim would have to find some excuse to clear the hospital room by nightfall so that he could smother the man with a pillow.
Nitikin picked this moment to enter the sweaty death room where Alim’s man lay dying. He caught the eye of the interpreter and motioned him with a finger. Alim got up and followed the interpreter as they both approached the Russian.
“I want you to give them a message,” said Nitikin. He gestured toward Alim’s men. “Tell them that the device now contains a safety mechanism and that it will not be armed and cannot be detonated until this mechanism is removed. You can tell them that the device is now completely safe.”
The interpreter whispered the message to Alim, who nodded and smiled. This was good news, something to quell the fear of his men as they watched their comrade die.
In a forceful voice the interpreter delivered the message to Alim’s men. The four remaining men nodded, and three of them offered up reassured smiles.
Nitikin now finished the message. “They must understand that only I can remove the safety mechanism, and that can only be done after the device is transported to its final target. It would not be safe to move the device otherwise.” He waited and watched.
This time when the interpreter whispered in Farsi to Alim, Afundi did not smile. Instead he said something to the interpreter and gestured that he wanted to step outside, presumably to discuss the matter with Nitikin there.
Yakov refused to budge from the door. “Tell them.” His voice was raised a full octave and several decibels in volume.
Alim glanced over his shoulder and realized the men were watching. He could tell by the looks on their faces, they knew something was wrong. Afundi looked at the interpreter, his lips drawn and tight. There was nothing he could do. The Russian had boxed him in. He nodded. Then he studied his men as they listened to the translation, the rasping breath of their dying comrade as background. They looked at each other for a moment and then began to whisper among themselves. Alim walked over and joined them. They talked for a few more seconds. Alim patted one of them on the shoulder as he smiled and spoke to them. He was doing PR. He needed them to move the bomb, and Yakov knew it.
After a few more words with his men, Alim looked at Nitikin and said something in Farsi. “They understand. What you say is acceptable to them,” said the translator.
The words did not square with the livid expression that flashed in Afundi’s eyes at this moment. But the Russian didn’t care. He had gambled on the superstition of Alim’s men. They wanted someone between themselves and the demon that belched blue fire from the hut in the jungle. Of the three men in close proximity, only Nitikin had survived to tame the beast. Surely they had to wonder whether the dragon’s egg he had hidden all these years returned the favor by declining to take the life of its sentinel and guardian.