“He tried to kill you?” Roman looked up. “He was to bring you to me, unharmed.”
“Tell that to the bullets he shot at me while chasing me up a tree,” Marina snapped. “So now what? Does he flip a switch and everything goes boom?”
Varden was looking at her intently. “He sets a timer then walks away. Forty minutes later, the first of the bombs will detonate. Ten minutes after that, the second will blow. And then the third.” He made a show of looking at the clock on the wall. “And he will be setting the timer in less than sixty minutes. So ninety minutes, Marina. Only a little more than an hour is all that’s left.”
The lump filled her throat. Ninety minutes. What could she do? And why was he telling her all of this?
Why?
Marina wondered suddenly where Gabe’s gun was. Did Varden have it? Maybe that would give her a chance. She tried to peer around to see if there was a bulge in his clothing. Nothing that she could see.
“And even if they found the box,” Varden continued calmly, “there’s nothing that can be done to stop the timer without the code. Which is written in Skaladeska. And it’s right here, in this room. Nowhere near our associate in the US. He is powerless to stop the timer, even if he would wish to. Or be forced to.”
“I’m going to be sick.” Marina wasn’t lying. No gun. She was helpless. How ironic that the weapon she’d once disdained would have been a lifesaver in this situation.
“There’s a toilet down the hall.” Varden flashed her that nasty smile. “Victor, why don’t you escort your daughter to the toilet. And keep her out of our way.”
Roman had appeared to be disinterested in the repartee between Marina and Varden; but now he pulled his attention away from the screen where he’d been typing communications with his cohort. “Where is the code, then, Rue? You and Nora had tested it.”
“It’s here.” Nora spoke for the first time and gestured to a green plastic sheet with writing on it. “I wanted it nearby in case … in case there was need for it.”
“No need. I just told Fridkov to set the timer.” Roman pulled away from the controls with a satisfied smile on his face.
Varden looked as though he’d been slapped, but the expression was quickly subdued. “But that is twenty minutes early.”
Roman looked at him. “I know. I could wait no longer. Why should I? I told them everything they needed to know—where it was, what the targets were—even the time—as you suggested. But I am impatient, and I see no reason to keep my word. I want to make certain they know we are in control.”
Varden’s lips were tight, and his face rigid. Obviously, he didn’t like to be surprised—even by his boss. He didn’t like to lose control. He looked up and saw Marina standing there. “I thought you were going to be sick. Take her to the toilet, Victor. We don’t need her standing here looking like she’s going to cry.”
When her father gestured for her to follow him, Marina was too frozen to move. Forty minutes until the first bomb was detonated. At 11:40 instead of noon. And there was no way to warn them.
She followed Victor as if she’d just awakened from a deep sleep: numb, slow, heavy. When he led her toward the main door, out of the control room, into the hallway, she felt a minor blip of surprise. But then, what good would running away do? The place she needed to be was back in there, in control of the communication. And that wasn’t going to happen.
Marina didn’t speak to Victor as they walked down the hall; nor did he try to direct her or speak to her, other than to gesture toward what she assumed was the direction of the toilet. It was as if they’d both given up the pretense of anything remotely like a relationship.
As they rounded a corner, Marina saw a streak of dark blood on the white wall. Gabe! He wasn’t there but maybe she could follow his trail.
She didn’t bother to explain to Victor; she just started off following the drops, splotches, and streaks that marked his route.
It ended at the door to a room, and she pushed on it. If he’d gone in, he’d either had help or it didn’t need a radio-key. It opened.
“Gabe?” she dashed in, heedless that there might be others in with him. There was no time left to slink around. They were going to have to be bold if there was any chance of stopping Roman’s plan.
“Marina?” a low voice called, and she found him near the back of the room, huddled, breathing heavily, clutching his satellite phone.
“Where are you hit?” Instead of embracing him, she started to lift his arm to assess the damage.
He pulled away. “Just a skim on my arm,” he told her. “I’m okay. Been trying to stop the bleeding. I’m going to be okay, but a little slow, but we—”
“We have to move quickly to stop them. We have less than forty minutes. Does that work in here?” She wanted to snatch the phone from him and start dialing herself.
“I was just going to try it. I just got in here; thought I could try to call Bergstrom and warn him, if the battery’s not dead. It’s been turned off since we got here, so it should be all right. Then I was coming after you.”
“I followed your blood streaks. Victor—my dad—is probably right behind me.” She was talking while he was pushing buttons on the phone. “I don’t know if he’s going to interfere or not—he seems so out of it.”
“Colin?” Gabe was speaking into the phone. “Yes, it’s me. I hope to God you’re in Detroit.” Marina could hear the voice squawking through the speaker. “It’s going to blow in sixty minutes … .” He looked at Marina, who was shaking her head. “ … No, they changed it. Forty minutes. Less. Less than forty—”
“Damn!” Gabe looked up. “Lost the connection.” He looked up and behind Marina, and she saw the expression on his face.
She whirled. Victor stood there, pointing Gabe’s gun at them. “Roman might be terrified of guns, but I’m not.”
“Where did you get that?” Marina demanded.
“I saw where Varden disposed of it.”
Again Gabe moved before Marina expected. He shot up, knocked Victor’s arms, and numerous shots blasted in the room above and around them. Victor fell back, and Gabe leapt on him, wrenching the firearm from his hands.
Once he held the Smith & Wesson firmly, he pointed it at Victor and demanded that he stand.
“I was going to give it to you,” Victor said, his hands trembling. “Marina, Mina, I was bringing it to you.”
Marina turned away. She didn’t know whether he was lying, but she was past caring. Either way, it didn’t matter. She would walk away and, if she got out of here alive, this man would play no part in her life.
Gabe moved past Victor as if he hadn’t spoken. His stride was awkward, and he held his arm against his chest, but he was mobile. He clutched the gun in one hand, and the phone in the hand curled against his ribs. “Come on, Marina. You lead the way.”
She followed and left Victor staring after them: a shell of a man.
-43-
July 14, 2007
Detroit, Michigan
Helen had always pictured Detroit as a danger-infested urban location with murders on every street corner; but the downtown area where the General Motors Building was located looked peaceful, clean, and busy.
July 14 was a Friday morning and the streets were packed with businesspeople and tourists alike; Comerica Park—where the Tigers played—was crowded with fans coming in for the first of a double-header, and the Fisher Theater was hosting a production of Wicked. Nearby, the MGM Grand Casino flashed lights and gaudily-dressed people as they hurried in to lose their hard-earned money. And it was nearly eleven o’clock.
The Detroit River gleamed gently in the low light, separating Detroit and the United States from Windsor and Canada. The five silver towers of the Renaissance Center, previously an office complex and now home to the largest automobile company in the world, loomed over the river and completed the skyline.
And if Helen didn’t find a way to stop it, those towers would split and tip and collapse.
If she was right about the target.
Pray God her instincts were right.
“How big of a radius do we need to evacuate?” She had to be right. “We have two other sites to secure.”
The Ford Motor Company World Headquarters was located twenty miles away in nearby Dearborn; an area, she’d learned, that contained a large shopping mall and the heavily-traveled Ford Freeway, among other things—including the Henry Ford Museum and the Detroit area’s only Ritz Carlton.
The third site, the North American Headquarters for the former Daimler-Chrysler, was situated thirty miles north of Detroit in the suburb of Auburn Hills—a mainly residential area, but also near the entertainment complex where the Detroit Pistons played. And also situated within half a mile of a busy freeway, appropriately named the Chrysler Freeway.
Detroit certainly loved its autos.
If any or all three—God forbid—of these planned explosions detonated, the damage would be much more severe and widespread than the four AvaChem factories. The explosives would have been designed as larger and more powerful to be placed under such massive structures.
“Ten miles, at least. We’ve already begun to give the orders,” Detroit Police Chief Harold Benning told her. “But we can’t evacuate the entire area; the traffic alone would be phenomenal. Instead, we’re securing people in safe areas and we can’t do anything but hope our buildings are strong enough to withstand the force.”
Since Detroit hadn’t known many—perhaps any—earthquakes, Helen rather doubted the buildings had been built with that potential problem in mind.
Helen looked at her watch, willing the hands to stop turning. It was nearly 10:45. Eighty-five minutes until the explosions would detonate, and they were powerless to stop them unless they found the person with the control box—which was like searching for a needle in a haystack.
