well.
Somehow the FBI knew.
But why only send three or four agents? If they really had intel about what she was up to, they would have certainly sent a larger team-at least a second trail groomer.
They’re just on a fishing expedition.
Immediately, she thought of Chekov. The Bureau had to be getting their information from somewhere, and he was the most likely link.
Perhaps she hadn’t made the right choice in allowing him to live after all.
The only way she was going to get her money or see Terry again was if the mission was successful. This was not the time to make a misstep.
She considered aggressive action, but if these three went missing, it would only draw more attention to the site at a delicate time in her operation. Definitely not something she needed.
Option one: press forward, get her team to the building, deal decisively with the people in the trail groomer.
Option two: retreat to a safe location, monitor the situation, and move in as soon as night fell. Only respond with force if necessary.
Waiting it out in the cold wouldn’t be ideal, but it would be manageable.
So, option two.
Solstice spoke into her mic, ordered everyone over the ridge to the west: “There’s an old hiker’s shelter. We’ll wait there until they’re gone.”
“What about the MA patrol routes?” Cane asked through her earpiece. “The timing?”
“We still have forty minutes or so. If these people aren’t gone by then, we’ll put ’em down and make our move on the base.”
The team skied over the ridge, and as they did the wind pursued them, sending snow quickly scurrying across their path, obscuring their tracks.
Forty minutes max.
Then, move on the base.
63
4:06 p.m.
Alexei Chekov still hadn’t told me anything about Kayla Tatum’s location.
From my regular updates with Tait, I knew we still had no idea where she was. Jake and the officer with him had found no sign of Kayla at the hospital or in any of the surrounding homes. However, one of the cars in the hospital parking lot belonged to a nurse who they found tied up in her basement. Kayla’s car was in the woman’s garage, so at least we knew how Alexei had gotten to the hospital.
But that was about all we had.
Alexei still hadn’t asked for a lawyer or made a phone call.
Over the years I’ve learned that during interrogations the best thing is usually just to get people talking, really about anything, and then move to the specific matter at hand. And almost always, the best way to get them to open up is to find out what they’re interested in and then simply ask them about it.
So, over the last half hour, hoping to spark Alexei’s interest, I’d tried mentioning some of the locations where he’d done his work. It hadn’t been especially fruitful, and now, in my search for interests and commonalities, I said, “I heard that during the Cold War, Russians had a saying that the Kremlin was the tallest building in the world.”
“Because you could see Siberia from the basement,” he said, quoting the rest of the axiom. He gave me a wry smile. “Yes. Thankfully, I never had that experience.”
I remembered his wife had been murdered last spring. “I lost my wife about two years ago,” I said. “Breast cancer.”
He told me a little about Tatiana, about arguing with her the day she was murdered and how he had regretted it ever since. After a moment he said, “I have someone to take out my vengeance on; you have only God to blame.”
His words caught me a little off guard. I’d done just what he said for a long time and wasn’t sure how to respond to his comment.
The conversation broke off, and I tried something a little less personal. “One of my friends in the US Air Force used to test our experimental planes. The new designs.”
Alexei looked at me inquisitively. “Do you remember which planes he flew?”
“He wasn’t allowed to tell me. But he mentioned something about aerostatic wing design.”
“Active aeroelastic wing,” Alexei corrected me. “Yes, for smoother roll maneuvering. Which years was he flying?”
“2006 to 2010.”
“Probably the Boeing X-53. NASA worked with your Air Force and private contractors on that one.”
“Did Russia have active aeroelastic wing planes too?”
He shook his head. “A few similar designs, but nothing as advanced.” Then, slowly, he began to open up, telling me about some of the planes he’d flown: the Su-47 Berkut, a forward swept-wing supersonic jet. “The lift to drag ratio is higher,” he explained. “It’s more maneuverable and doesn’t require as long of a runway for takeoff and landing.” The MiG 1.44, which actually never ended up being developed, the Beriev A-60: “They’re comparable to your Boeing YAL-1, equipped with megawatt-class chemical oxygen iodine lasers to shoot down missiles, other planes, potentially satellites.”
That sounded like science fiction to me. “A laser-shooting plane that takes out satellites?”
“The laser heats the outer casing, causes structural failure. Given the right conditions, it can be accomplished from over five hundred kilometers away.”
I remembered hearing about China shooting down one of its satellites a few years ago. “Does China have planes like this too?”
“It’s likely, although it hasn’t been confirmed. They’re a bit more clandestine about their experimental aircraft than America is.” He looked past me into the corner of the room. “My favorite plane was perhaps the Sukhoi PAK FA. It can cruise at over forty-five-thousand feet at speeds of over Mach 2. Very enjoyable to fly. I was in on the early development.”
Then he gave a nostalgic sigh and shook his head. “Our two countries. Your president slashes NASA’s budget in order to buy car companies and socialize your health care; mine sells our military secrets to Iran for money to build caviar-producing fish farms. America turns Marxist, Russia dabbles in capitalism. What has happened to us in the last thirty years?”
As interesting as all of this was, I was more concerned with getting him to feel at ease enough with me to share something actionable regarding Kayla.
Move to the case, Pat. Press him a bit.
“Earlier today,” I said, “you were anxious to go look for the people who killed the Pickrons. What’s changed? Do you think they left the area?”
He didn’t answer me.
I didn’t like how he was carefully appraising me, and I took my turn to look him over once again. He wore boots, jeans, a neatly pressed oxford, bloodied somewhat from when he was attacked. When Burlman processed him, he’d taken his belt so that he wouldn’t have a way to kill himself-something that in this case I didn’t think was very likely.
Alexei certainly didn’t look threatening.
Looks can be deceiving.
I asked him one last time about Kayla, and when he didn’t answer, I thought, Enough of this. You need to get to your notes, find a way to locate her.
My computer was back at the motel and so were Tessa and Natasha. In addition, Lien-hua would be
