Mine: The Arrival (7 page)

Kozakov felt the skin on his arm being punctured again and his eyes widened, but they didn’t stay wide for long.

__________

W
HEN KOZAKOV WOKE
next, he was still strapped to a bed, but the plane’s cabin had been replaced by a small, rectangular room with walls of metal.

He weaved in and out of consciousness for a while after that, so he was unsure how much time had passed between the moment he first woke and when the door to the room opened.

Two men in dark business suits entered. The younger one was one of the men who had been sitting at Kozakov’s kitchen table. The older one he hadn’t seen before.

“Dr. Kozakov, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the older one said in English. “My name is Mr. Washington and this is Mr. Adams. How are you feeling?”

“Feeling? How do you think I am feeling?” Kozakov said, forgetting to pretend he couldn’t speak the same language. “Where am I? What is going on?”

“I know you’re confused, and I wish I could tell you more. All I’m authorized to say is that you’re on a United States Tambor-class submarine, approximately one hundred and fifty feet below the surface of the Indian Ocean.”

Kozakov stared at him in disbelief. The United States? He would have understood if Germany were behind this, but one of the Soviet Union’s allies? “You’re lying. This is some kind of test, isn’t it?” He switched back to Russian. “Which gulag is this? I’m a loyal Soviet citizen. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“I hate to disappoint you, Doctor, but you are not in the Soviet Union any longer. You are now a guest of the United States government.”

Kozakov sneered. “Why would the United States want to kidnap
me
?”

“We prefer to think of it as extracting you from a situation you’d eventually want to leave anyway,” Washington said. “As for why you’re here, we don’t know. Our job is merely to assist you with any needs.”

“I
need
to return to the Soviet Union! My government will not react well to one of their citizens being taken from them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already contacted your government and demanded my release.”

“I
would
be surprised,” Washington said. “As far as your comrades back in Russia are concerned, you’re dead.”

That silenced Kozakov.

“A terrible tragedy, really,” the man went on. “You were making dinner and your stove caught on fire. Several apartments were destroyed before the blaze was put out. Fortunately, yours was the only death. You made it as far as your living room before being overcome by smoke. The flames took care of the rest. Though the body that was found was unrecognizable, there were more than enough indicators to identify you.”

Kozakov gaped at him for a moment, and then tensed in anger. “They will be even more furious when they find out I am still alive.”

“Dr. Kozakov, I seriously doubt anyone in your former life will ever discover that.”

“You’re going to kill me when you’re through with me, is that it?”

“We don’t do that in the United States.”

“Everybody does that.”

Washington smiled, and then turned for the door and left.

T
EN

A
FTER ELEVEN DAYS
in the sub and a seventeen-hour flight over what seemed like an endless ocean, Kozakov landed in the United States. Given only enough time to use the toilet, he was then put on another, much smaller plane and flown four hours further east. While Kozakov had basic knowledge of United States geography, he was unable to determine where he was because the passenger windows remained covered throughout the journey.

A biting chill greeted him when he deplaned. He shivered and rubbed his arms, the jacket he’d been given wholly inadequate for the weather. How he wished he had his coat from home. Fur lined and long enough to cover his knees, it would’ve shielded him from the cold. But he presumed his coat, like all his other things, had burned in the fire that had taken his former life.

“Where are we?” he asked Adams.

“This way,” the man said. He headed toward a car waiting at the edge of the runway.

Kozakov had long ago given up asking questions, as it had never garnered a useful response. He followed his escorts across the asphalt to the car. As they neared, a man climbed out of the vehicle and opened the back door.

Kozakov sat in the rear seat sandwiched between Washington and Adams. When the car started to move, he looked out the window for something to tell him where he was. He was hoping for a sign identifying the airport. What he didn’t expect to see was a majestic chain of snow-covered mountains.

“What are those?” he asked.

Adams turned to see what he was talking about, but it was Washington who answered. “Mountains.”

“Do they have a name?”

“They do,” Washington said. He leaned forward to address the two men in front. “Close us off.”

Immediately an electric motor whirred and an opaque barrier rose, cutting off the back of the car from the front. Washington and Adams pulled down blackout shades over all the side windows.

“This is ridiculous,” Kozakov said. “What does it matter if I see anything? There’s no way for me to escape. I wouldn’t even know where to go if I did.”

Neither man said anything.

At least two hours passed before the sedan stopped. Adams exited first and waved for Kozakov to follow.

Twilight ruled the sky and the air was downright freezing now, a point emphasized by the snow everywhere. In some places it looked to be a meter and a half deep. More hung heavy in the pine trees. The road was covered with it.

Kozakov turned in a circle. No buildings. Nothing but the woods. If he were still in the Soviet Union, he would have guessed his life was about to end. But he’d long given up the notion he’d been taken by the Soviet secret police.

Washington joined him and Adams and handed Kozakov a thick manila envelope. “Hold on to this.”

“What is it?”

As usual, Washington provided no answer. Kozakov reluctantly tucked the envelope under his arm.

After blowing some hot air into his cupped hands, he looked at the other two men. “Are we just going to stand here?”

“Patience, Dr. Kozakov.”

Somewhere in the distance a branch broke, dropping its load of snow with a muffled
plop
.

After a few minutes of stamping his feet to keep them from freezing, Kozakov said, “This is ridiculous. If we’re waiting for something, can’t we do it in the car?”

He swung around, intending to climb back into the sedan, but Adams grabbed his arm. “Here is fine.”

Kozakov glared at him, but when that seemed to do no good, he returned his attention to the forest.

Another uneventful minute passed. “Maybe we can play a game,” Kozakov said. “See who can count the most trees. Mr. Washington, you go first.”

Washington’s mouth remained closed.

“All right. I’ll start,” Kozakov said. “One, two, three, four, five—”

Adams glanced at him. “Please stop.”

Kozakov went on for another half dozen numbers before the cold drained the rebellion out of him.

A few minutes later, three uniformed men emerged from the trees and stepped onto the road. Two held rifles at the ready, while the third clutched a flashlight.

“Time to go,” Washington said.

He and Adams led Kozakov toward the trio.

“Far enough,” the man with the light said when they were fifteen feet away. He appeared to be the one in charge.

Kozakov and his escorts stopped.

“Dr. Kozakov,” the soldier said, “please join us.”

It was foolish to think the Americans had flown him this far just to kill him, but Kozakov couldn’t stop the thought from crossing his mind.

“Go on,” Washington whispered.

Kozakov looked at him. “You’re not coming with me?”

“Our job’s done,” Washington said, and held his hand out.

Kozakov hesitated a moment and then shook it. “Thank you for…not killing me.”

“Our pleasure.”

Kozakov then shook Adams’s hand. The two men may have taken him from his home and kept him restrained for a while, but they had never been unkind.

“Doctor, if you please,” the lead soldier said.

Kozakov walked over to the three uniformed men.

“I’ll take that.” The head of Kozakov’s new escort motioned at the envelope Kozakov was carrying. Once it exchanged hands, the man said, “All right. This way. It’s about a ten-minute walk.”

He turned and disappeared into the woods while the other soldiers waited for Kozakov to start walking. But Kozakov couldn’t seem to make himself move.

“Dr. Kozakov,” the lead soldier called from inside the woods. “If you want to get out of the cold, it’s this way.”

Kozakov hesitated a moment longer before heading toward the sound of the man’s voice.

They were only a minute or so into their journey when static sounded from a radio on the main soldier’s belt, followed by two beeps, like the start of a Morse-code message.

“Everyone down,” the leader said as he dropped into a crouch.

Kozakov heard the two men behind him do the same.

“Doctor, please,” his escort said.

“What’s going on?”

“A precautionary measure. If you can’t manage it, one of my men can help you.”

Not wanting to be manhandled, Kozakov lowered himself until he was almost totally hidden below the snow.

The leader tapped a button on his radio, sending off three beeps.

This was answered in kind.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then from somewhere behind them came quick bursts of automatic gunfire. Four to be exact, and then silence.

Fifteen seconds later, the radio emitted a long single beep.

“Okay, we’re good to go,” the leader said, standing up again.

As Kozakov rose, he couldn’t help but think the gunfire had come from the direction Adams and Washington’s car had been headed.

No, impossible. He was overthinking.

Unless…

Kozakov felt the blood drain from his face. Killing Washington, Adams, and the men in the front of the car would erase Kozakov’s trail into the mountains. No one would know where he’d been taken after he walked off the plane.

Numb, but not from cold, he remembered nothing of the rest of the hike until they reached a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. One of the men unlocked a gate and closed it again after they’d all passed through. A few minutes later, they came to a large meadow surrounded by another chain-link fence.

Two spotlights popped on and shined on them as they approached a closed gate. Out of the darkness, several more soldiers appeared on the other side.

The leader of Kozakov’s group said, “Escort Alpha returning.”

“Welcome back, Alpha,” someone on the other side said as the gate swung open.

“What is this place?” Kozakov asked as they entered the meadow.

“You’ll be briefed inside,” the leader said.

“Inside?”

The man pointed toward the other end of the clearing, at what Kozakov now saw was a building next to a hill. As they neared, he realized it wasn’t next to a hill but under a portion of it. His escort guided him to the structure and pressed a button on the wall next to the door.

A moment later, a tinny voice came from a speaker mounted above the jamb. “Designation.”

“Five victor sierra seven zulu seven,” the leader said.

A brief pause, and then a buzz. The leader pushed the door open and he and Kozakov entered, leaving the other two outside.

The room they walked into held three desks, each occupied by a man in uniform. As Kozakov and his guide entered, the men stood, fingers hovering next to holstered pistols.

“Please stop where you are and remain there until instructed,” the nearest man said.

Apparently the order only applied to Kozakov, as his escort continued walking across the room and through the only other door.

At least the space was warm, Kozakov thought as he stretched his fingers to get his circulation going again.

In many ways, the place reminded him of the governmental offices back home—austere and uninviting. It certainly didn’t give off the impression of being someplace important.

Well, except for the remote location.

And the two barbed wire-topped fences.

And the guards staring at him, hands over guns.

When his escort returned, he was in the company of a man wearing a dark business suit. They stopped at one of the desks.

“File, please,” the suited man said in a pleasant unhurried voice.

The soldier stationed there used a key to open a drawer. He removed a file and handed it over.

The suited man walked over to Kozakov and held out a hand. “Welcome. My name is Dr. Leonard Durant.”

Kozakov left his own hand by his side.

With a sympathetic smile, Durant lowered his arm. “You’re frustrated. I understand that. Just like I’m sure
you
understand our need to ask a few questions to confirm that you really are who we think you are.”

Kozakov could hold his anger back no more. “Of course I do not understand! I do not know why I am here! I do not know who you are! And I do not know what is going on!”

“I promise all your questions will be answered very soon, but first—”

“No!
You
will tell me why I have been brought here, and you will do so right now.”

Durant took a deep breath, looking at Kozakov as if he were a petulant child. “I am very much counting on our relationship being a good one. We will be working very closely with each other, after all. I would hate to start off by having you taken to one of our cells until you’re ready to cooperate, but I will do it in a heartbeat.”

He stared at Kozakov, waiting.

Kozakov wanted to continue wrapping himself in his armor of righteous indignation, but as much as he hated admitting it, he knew his position was a hopeless one. Through clenched teeth, he said, “What questions?”

The interrogation that followed contained queries of the most personal nature. Kozakov had no idea how this man knew things that Kozakov was sure his own intrusive government was unaware of. Kozakov answered everything truthfully, more because he was stunned than out of any desire to cooperate.