Death Wave

Masha. “As for you … I think we’ll take you as well. We can show you a good time, yes?”

“Please—” Masha said.

“How long ’till Dean gets here?” Akulinin muttered. He was still holding Masha’s hand, and he gave it two quick squeezes, hoping to communicate get ready.

“Coming down the street in front of you, right to left. Thirty seconds!”

The smallest of their three assailants was on the left, the one with the pipe. He looked young, probably a teenager. Hell, they all looked young, even bearded Gap-tooth. Akulinin took two steps closer, snapped out his free hand, and slammed it open-palmed against the pipe-wielder’s shoulder. The blow caught the kid by surprise and knocked him off balance, sending him stumbling back against the thug beside him.

Akulinin turned, shoving Masha ahead and through the sudden opening in their assailants’ line. “Run!” He shouted in English, then added,

“Skaray!” Quickly!

Akulinin’s training with the NSA had included long hours of martial arts at the Farm, as the CIA’s Camp Peary training center near Williamsburg, Virginia, was popularly called. He knew both Tae Soo Do and the U.S. Army Combative System, a streamlined synthesis of several martial arts forms. Pivoting, he brought his right foot up and snapped it around in a roundhouse kick hard to the falling kid’s kneecap.

Gap-tooth screamed and lunged forward, jabbing with the knife. Akulinin countered with a wrist-breaker lock, kicked his right ankle, and slammed him to the pavement.

Then Ilya ran after Masha. He’d only disabled one of the thugs — the kid was on his back shrieking, cradling a broken kneecap — but the idea was to get away, not to let himself get bogged down in a street brawl. Besides, more shouts and whistles were sounding from the west end of the alley. The police were closing in.

The two fugitives ran as hard and as fast as they could, their footsteps echoing off bare brick walls. The alley opened onto a larger north-south street, and Akulinin led Masha diagonally across, then turned south. Seconds later, headlights flashed, and the boxy Ulyanov Hunter squealed to a stop beside them. Akulinin clambered into the backseat, Masha into the front.

Then Dean squealed the tires as he accelerated down the street.

Behind them, Lieutenant Colonel Vasilyev burst out of the alley, pistol in hand, breathing hard.

He was just in time to glimpse the number on the vehicle’s license plate.

6

DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN

WEDNESDAY, 2014 HOURS LOCAL TIME

So, are you going to introduce me?” Dean asked as he drove the Hunter south.

“Masha, this is my friend Charlie Dean,” Akulinin said in English. “Charlie? Maria Alekseyevna. She works in the morgue.”

“There’s a conversation stopper,” Dean said. “I remember you, Ms. Alekseyevna. You were telling Vasilyev where to get off.”

“Call me Masha,” she said.

“You speak excellent English.”

“She’s from Brighton Beach, Charlie! Tell him, Masha!”

“It’s true. I grew up in Ilya’s old neighborhood!”

“Remember the Royal Pizzeria, right there under the Brighton Avenue tracks?”

“I do.”

“Sounds like old home week,” Dean said dryly. “Ilya? Better break out the weapons.”

“Got ’em right here.” A foam-filled aluminum case hidden under one of the seats held two Makarov PM semiautomatic pistols and several full magazines. The weapons were the Russian equivalent of the Walther PP series but would not shout “foreign spy” if they were found in a search. Dean heard the snap-click of a magazine being inserted and a round being chambered.

Akulinin handed him one, butt first. “Round chambered, safety on,” he said.

Dean pocketed the small weapon. It wouldn’t be much in a firefight, but anything was better than nothing. “So, Masha,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Masha filled Dean in as they drove, telling him about her family’s move back to Russia, her father sending her to Dushanbe, and how she’d worked for Dr. Shmatko now for two years.

Dean caught Akulinin’s glance in the rearview mirror. “Sharkie, this is so against regs.”

“I know — but we can’t leave her for Vasilyev, can we?”

“No. No, we can’t now.”

“Sharkie?” Masha asked.

“It’s the name,” Akulinin told her, rolling his eyes.

“Ah! Akula. Shark.”

“You’re quick,” Dean said.

“Charlie,” Jeff Rockman said, interrupting. “They’re throwing out a cordon. Roadblocks on Rudaki at the Medical Institute in the north, at the university in the south. They’ve already blocked off the bridges over the Varzob, west of you, and they’re putting units out on Mirzo Tursunzade to the east.”

“Talk me through it,” Dean said. “I’ve got a major drag crossing just up ahead.”

“That’s in front of Dushanbe University. Turn left.”

“That’ll take us back to Rudaki.”

“Affirmative.”

“They have that roadblock in place yet?”

“We’re working off a satellite map here, Charlie. We heard them calling for a roadblock in front of the university. Don’t know if it’s in place yet.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out.”

Traffic was heavy at the intersection with Rudaki, which seemed to be the main north-south thoroughfare through the city. Cars and trucks honked continuously, and a harried-looking policeman stood in the intersection, trying to direct traffic away from Rudaki, which was completely clogged toward the north. The cars in Dean’s lane inched ahead.

“Masha,” Akulinin said, leaning forward from the backseat, “we’re not going to be able to go back to your apartment for your things. Vasilyev will have your records checked to learn where you live. Guaranteed he’ll soon have some interior troops on the way there in case you show up.”

“That’s okay, Ilya. There’s nothing there I need.”

“Good.”

The line of cars moved ahead a few more yards toward the intersection, then halted again as several police cars worked their way through the congestion, blue lights flashing. Dean described the scene ahead.

“Turn right if they’ll let you,” Rockman told him. “That’ll put you south on Rudaki, past the university.”

“Okay … here we go. I’m signaling … he’s waving me through …”

They made the turn. Ahead, in front of the main entrance to the university, more policemen were moving cars to block traffic, and Dean could see one man in an army camouflage uniform holding an AK assault rifle.

“Shit. They’ve got us blocked. Okay … wait a second …”

The street was utter chaos, with halted vehicles and shouting drivers. To the right, however, was a broad walkway, crowded with pedestrians, flanked by trees. Dean hauled the steering wheel over and accelerated, bumping up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians scattered, some shaking fists or gesticulating as Dean nudged ahead through the crowd. The soldier shouted something unheard in the din as he unslung his rifle. More pedestrians scattered, and Dean put his foot down on the gas, sending the right-side wheels jouncing up onto the broad concrete steps in front of the main university building. A crowd of students spilling out of nearby dormitories appeared to be cheering.