But that could be explained by the fact that he had been sleeping and didn’t know what was going on. Martin would already have passed countless background checks, lie detector tests, all sorts of investigations.
The pilots of the Fokker 80 were Brits who were only too happy to land at Kirov, since it would save them considerably on the use fees and fuel.
The pilots did a lot of work for the CIA. They probably had been set up in business by MI6, though that wasn’t entirely clear, since the British intelligence agency actually used different freelancers, all native. The only thing Karr was reasonably sure of was that the pilots wouldn’t sell them out to the Russians, the Chinese, or anyone from the Middle East.
That, and their plane was reasonably fast and spacious.
Karr had told them the team was a group of American businessmen who’d gotten sick while looking at oil sites in Siberia. The odds on them buying that story were about the same that a snowman would last a full day on a Miami beach.
“OK, up and at ’em,” he told the team camped out in the well-appointed passenger cabin.
“Moscow already?” asked Fashona, unfolding himself from the seat.
“Kirov. Let’s go.”
“Kirov?” said Lia.
“Hit the road. Up, Martin. Let’s go, Dean, shake it. Come on.”
They got a rental car and began driving toward a collection of tall buildings on the highway, one of which bore a Holiday Inn logo. Karr found a nondescript semi-Western-style no-questions-asked motel — its Russian name translated literally as “small name”—at the edge of an industrial complex. The motel had what amounted to a coffee shop at one side; he told the others to go in and get something to eat while he talked to the Art Room.
“Why aren’t you in Moscow?” demanded Rockman, the runner, when he came on the line.
“I have questions.”
“I need you in Moscow right away. Where is Martin?”
“He’s around. He’s what I have questions about.”
Rockman didn’t answer for a moment. “We need you in Moscow. Deliver Martin to the embassy and we’ll find someone to take him back.”
“I want to keep him sterile.”
“Sterile? You’re sure it’s him, right?”
“Yeah,” said Karr. “I’m sure.”
“Look, we have something of a much higher priority than Martin,” said Rockman.
“Can I have Dean take him back?”
“You’re going to need Dean.”
“My ESP isn’t working all that well tonight,” said Karr.
“We’ll tell you the game plan when we’re ready. Your line’s not secure enough.”
The satellite system connecting Karr with the Art Room used four different and independent encryption systems; the NSA itself would have trouble reading it.
But it was theoretically possible.
The only more secure system — aside from going home and speaking in person — was located in a Moscow safe house.
“Do what you can with Martin,” added the runner. “Put him on ice if you have to. That’s your call. But we need you in Moscow. And we’ll need your whole team.”
“All right,” said Karr.
56
Two cups of coffee — actual, real coffee — and Dean felt wired. He had a hard time sitting in the restaurant booth, let alone concentrating his thoughts. He wanted to get back home and sleep for a week, if not more.
Lia had on her pissed-off scowl and Fashona kept jerking his head back and forth. Martin seemed to be in a fugue state, possibly so mentally wasted that he couldn’t process information anymore.
Dean had been on a mission in Vietnam rescuing a South Vietnamese village official from the Vietcong. They’d gotten the man back alive — he’d actually been left when the small unit retreated as the Marines moved in. That guy had had the same look Martin did now, completely spaced. The gooks hadn’t hurt him physically, but their taking him screwed his head so badly, Dean had doubted he lived more than a few weeks after his rescue. The first cold he caught would kill him.
Same thing with Martin. He slumped in the corner of the booth, eyes wide open, but body stiff, as if its joints were welded in place.
Dean could’ve ended up like that, too. Still might.
“Wow, you’re a cheerful bunch,” said Karr, sliding into the booth next to Dean. “Jesus, only Dean looks like he’s awake.”
“You’re talking pretty loud,” said Lia.
“You don’t really think they don’t know we’re from out of town, do you?” asked Karr.
“What’s the drill?” asked Fashona.
“The drill is, we have about an hour to get to the airport,” said Karr. “Our tickets await.”
“Why’d we get off the charter?” said Lia.
“Complications.” Karr looked at Martin. “Stephen, you figure you’re all right to travel by yourself?”
Martin didn’t seem to hear. Lia kicked Karr under the table so hard Dean felt it. He looked over at her; her brow was furled as if she were trying to send a telepathic message.
Karr ignored it. “Yo, Stevie?”
“I’m OK,” said Martin.
“I’ll give you the route when we get there. Come on, let’s do it.” Karr threw a small wad of crumpled rubles on the table. “Anyone looking for souvenirs can get ’em at the airport.”
Karr didn’t bother checking in the rental car when they reached the airport. He’d booked Martin on a flight to St. Petersburg and from there to Sweden and then the UK; the rest of them were going to Moscow. Karr took Martin along to the gate — he’d booked two seats just so he could do so — while the others checked in. Their flight was already boarding.
“He’ll have to catch up,” said Lia.
“You know where we’re going?” said Dean.
She rolled her eyes instead of answering.
Their seats were next to each other. The airliner was a Tupolev Tu-154, somewhat similar to a Boeing 727 with a comfortable, if nondescript, cabin. But after the Fokker the interior seemed dowdy and crowded. Lia jerked her legs away as Dean’s foot accidentally brushed against hers. She seemed to have recovered from her brief try at being human and was back into full-bitch mode.
Dean briefly fantasized about what she might look like without her clothes. He remembered the skirt she’d worn when he first saw her — very nice, though even in the baggy pocket-laden pants she was a knockout. One of the attendants was a blonde with a model’s body and soft blue eyes, but she looked bland by comparison.
Obviously he needed real sleep.
“Shit,” Lia muttered. The plane had filled up; Karr’s seat was empty.
“You think we should get out?” Dean asked.
“He can take care of himself.”
“Just checking.”
She twirled her finger around the bottom edge of her shirt, working out her anxiety or something.
They were taxiing back from the gate as Karr bounced down the aisle, his shit-eating grin lighting his face.
“Hey, homes,” he said, pointing at them and then plopping down next to Fashona in the row in front of
