They needed to get on the road and head south. ASAP.
Damn, he missed Lopez right about now.
Rebecca clutched the door handle as Lopez used the emergency brake to make a sharp left at what must have been thirty miles an hour. Tires screeched as even the Marussia F2 SUV complained. Harvish and Talli, in the backseat, did not complain. If anything the point man egged Lopez on.
"I know," Rebecca said, "that we want to get to the apartment building as soon as-"
She stifled a scream as Lopez cut in and out of traffic, missing a large truck carrying hay by about a millimeter.
"Did I not tell you this thing cornered nearly as well as a Porsche?" Lopez asked and then stepped on the gas. Apparently trying out the entire 420 horsepower of the engine.
Maybe it was just best to close her eyes. But that was how she hit her head on the window a few minutes ago. If you couldn't see what Lopez was doing, it was hard to protect your body from the G-forces he generated.
Like right now. Lopez slammed on the brakes and downshifted, all while cutting across three lanes of traffic, pulling them to a gut-wrenching stop.
Somehow Lopez was able to talk rather than try and gag back the bile that had been forced to his throat by the seat belt dug into his belly.
"Harvish, you and I are going to escort Dr. Monroe up to Osip's apartment. Talli, you are going to set up in your perch."
Rebecca hit a button that swung the passenger side door open. She had to push off the hard leather seat to get out of the SUV. Clearly Russia had a different definition of luxury than America or Germany. This thing had been built like a tank. An incredibly fast tank. A fact Lopez had taken full advantage of. She leaned against the top of the car for support as her stomach tried to settle itself back into her belly.
"What about the car?" Talli asked.
Lopez frowned. Normally Lopez would have stayed with the car, moving to an inconspicuous yet nearby location, ready for any getaway they needed. Now, however, in Brandt's absence, Lopez was in charge. He no longer could stay with his precious car.
With a sigh, the corporal tossed the keys to Talli. "Park it far enough away it doesn't draw attention to us..." Which four people piling out of such a rare car was already doing. Lopez grabbed his gear as he continued. "But close enough we can grab it if we need a quick getaway."
Rebecca frowned. If that was how Lopez drove that car without anyone chasing them, she could only imagine what he would do if they were in trouble. On second thought, she did not want to imagine it. Not with her stomach still complaining about its intimate interaction with the seat belt.
Swinging her laptop case over her shoulder, Rebecca took a look around. She really hadn't seen much of Pushchino on the ride here given the blur factor. It had been all gray buildings and green farmland. The blur had been kind to the town. Now looking more closely it looked mostly sad. Tired. Even in spring the Russians walked with their heads down, leaning forward as if a frigid winter wind still blew.
Only the Marussia "luxury" SUV drew their attention up from the pavement. Rebecca was glad when it pulled away from the curb and left them in obscurity. Pedestrians came and went on the busy street. The street was lined with identical buildings. Block-shaped and eight stories tall, it honestly looked like someone had set up two parallel rows of dominoes. Each building was indistinguishable from the others.
It had been the Communists' attempt to squelch individuality. Conformity had been more valued than creativity. Like she said. It made her feel sad. Russia had such a rich architectural history. And to have it turned into this?
No wonder the people seemed depressed. She was getting bummed just thinking about living in these "ditto" digs. No wonder Osip had chosen the last building on the block. At the least his apartment overlooked the greenbelt.
For a man who had traveled the world, helping to build the largest Jewish center in Russia, only to be ostracized from Moscow must have been a blow. Then to have his shtetl, his sanctuary fail? He must have come here to lick his wounds.
"Ready?" Lopez asked as he escorted her to the apartment building entrance.
To what? To accept the fact Brandt and Davidson were MIA? To trick a defeated old man into telling them where a stash of weaponized Rinderpest was located?
"As I ever will be."
Brandt swerved the motorcycle, or at least what passed for a motorcycle in Russia, around an old Moskvich. For fuel efficiency, the Chinese had their bicycles. America had its Priuses. Russia had these barely-more-than-a-lawnmower motorcycles. But damn they could rev up. Even with their heavy packs strapped onto the backs of the stolen motorcycles, they were still crushing the ninety-mile-an-hour speed limit. Lopez would be proud. Well, at least a little bit.
He glanced over his shoulder as Davidson completed his swerve, joining Brandt right on his six. The kid was hanging in there. When they had found the bikes Brandt had been hesitant. Could Davidson's damaged hand take the punishment a motorcycle could deliver? Davidson insisted it could.
Given that the motorcycles were by far more maneuverable than any car they could boost, here they were.
Brandt didn't have to look to his watch to know how close they were. If you added the time he and Davidson had traveled in the wrong direction on the train, plus the time to hike to the nearest town, then take into account their increased speed of the motorcycles over the train, they were about fifteen minutes behind Rebecca and the rest.
Up ahead brake lights flashed as cars slowed. What the hell?
Fear of a roadblock flared, but then the cause of the traffic jam became apparent. A combine harvester. Yes, a combine. It plugged along at probably twenty miles an hour. And since it was towing an extra wide set of plows, no cars could get around the blockage.
Channeling Lopez, Brandt gunned his motorcycle, taking it off the expressway and into the loose gravel. Rocks popped under the tires, shooting out in a spray all around him. His teeth chattered as the struts could protect him only so much from the punishment.
Once past the tractor, Brandt muscled his way back onto the expressway with only a few seconds lost. He looked over his shoulder to find Davidson with the biggest shit-eating grin a pair of wrecked lips could form. Brandt had to stop himself from smiling back.
Damn it. This was how he got sucked in the last time. Davidson's easy manner and infectious optimism.
Not this time. Davidson was a means to an end. As long as he served the team he stayed. If he didn't serve the team? Well, Davidson wouldn't be grinning anymore.
With the open road stretching out before him and only the rural countryside to either side, Brandt shoved aside his misgivings. His sole purpose had to be getting to Pushchino without delay.
How much trouble could the team get into in fifteen minutes anyway?
Remembering India, Budapest, and Rome, Brandt hit the gas.
Screw the speed limit.
Rebecca readjusted her case as she mounted the last step to the eighth floor. Another Communist plot. No elevators to make sure their workers stayed in shape. Which during subzero winters was probably a good way to warm the blood. But in May at ninety percent humidity? Not so much.
Lopez held up his hand. Rebecca stopped within the stairwell as Harvish checked the hallway. A stark bulb glowed above them. To say this building had no decorative touches was like saying Lopez kind of had a lead foot. Gray paint peeled off the walls, and the concrete steps had large chunks broken off after decades of hauling furniture up and down them.
As they waited, Rebecca took a peek down the hall. It looked exactly like the seven other halls they had passed. Threadbare rugs with dark gray doors. The only difference between the apartments were the numbers on the door. And over half of those were really just the outline where the number used to be.
For such a large complex the building was eerily quiet. On their travels up the eight floors they hadn't passed a single person. There had been one baby wail a few floors down and the occasional squawk from a television set. Which wasn't that surprising. Russia's unemployment rate was extremely low. Rebecca guessed that was one of the perks of communism. If there weren't enough jobs, the government would make one for you.
Down the hallway, Harvish waved them forward. They joined him at apartment 829.
She looked to Lopez, who nodded. They might as well get this over with. Rebecca knocked twice. However no answer came.
"Maybe he's out?" she asked, although that seemed unlikely. The man was in his late seventies. Not even the Russians considered Osip an "able-bodied worker."
Harvish pulled out a handheld thermal scanner. He pointed it to the door. The screen showed a rather wide, bright yellow and red figure straight ahead. It looked like Osip sat at a small kitchen table.
Rebecca knocked again, this time harder. Maybe Osip had trouble hearing? On the screen the figure cocked his head to the door, however he did not answer. She tried again, but this time he turned his head back toward the window.
"Osip," Rebecca said, trying not to attract attention from any neighbors left at home. "It is Dr. Rebecca Monroe."
That got his head to swivel in the direction of the door. Still he didn't get up.
"I was Archibald Lochum's research student. We all had dinner at the Institute of Archeologist's award ceremony in ninety-five? Oxford?"
The glowing figure rose slowly, then shuffled a few steps toward the door but stopped.
"Be more specific," Lopez urged. "Tell him something no one else could know. Jog his memory."
Rebecca tried her best, however that had been a pretty boring and routine ceremony. Archeologist weren't exactly known for their off-the-hook parties. But wait, there was one detail...
"They overcooked Archibald's Yorkshire pudding," Rebecca stated. "And he sent it back three times?"
Lopez raised an eyebrow. Okay so it didn't sound like that big a detail, yet had you been there, and had to listen to Lochum grouse for two hours, the night was etched in your mind. Clearly Osip felt the same way as he made his way to the door.
The sound of locks being opened filled the deserted hallway. Finally the door cracked a few millimeters. Rebecca could barely make out the plump face as Osip. The years had not been kind to him. The last she'd him he was a bit "stocky" as Lochum put it yet still had a vitality to him. Now he looked as gray and worn as the walls.
Osip muttered something in Russian. Even if she understood Russian, Rebecca doubted she could have understood what he said.
"Osip, I don't speak Russian, remember?" Rebecca prompted. "Please let me come in."
A few doors down the click of metal sounded. A neighbor getting nosy.
"Please."
With a humph Osip closed the door. Harvish tightened his grip on his gun, but Rebecca put a hand up. She could hear the chain lock slide against the guide. The door opened to reveal a rather short, squat, and sweating old man. He stood in what appeared to be a pair of boxers he'd worn for the last few days and a white wife-beater that he'd possibly worn for more than a weak given the red and brown stains across the front.
His long beard and unkempt hair did little to enhance the image. A decade ago he would not have been considered any Tom Cruise by any means, but he was dapper. It was almost difficult to reconcile the troll-like man in front of her with the revered biblical scholar of old.
And what Rebecca could see into the small apartment, it looked in no better shape than Osip. If anything it looked like a ream of paper had gotten really, really mad at the old man and thrown a tantrum across the floor. Dirty clothes, dirtier than the ones Osip had on, lay strewn on furniture, and the stack of dishes went well above the lip of the sink.
No wonder the place smelled vaguely of borscht.
The only objects not in total disarray were Osip's books. Those were still neatly stacked on bookshelves or carefully opened on the table by the window.
"Step aside," Harvish said, pushing his way past the old man.
Osip cursed in Russian, spit flying. As Rebecca put a hand on Osip's arm to comfort him, she shot a glare to Harvish. Like the point man couldn't have added a "may I?" It was going to be hard enough to convince Osip to help, antagonizing the old man was not going to make it any easier.
"Please, let's get inside," Rebecca urged as the old man's rant carried down the hallway. As Lopez shut the door behind them, Rebecca turned to Osip. "It's okay. They don't mean you any harm."
"Ebanatyi pidaraz KGB," Osip snarled.
"No," Rebecca reassured him. "No, they're American."
The old man spat at Lopez, slurring his words. "That makes it worse."
Okay, not only was she worried for Brandt, now she missed him. Not in that "I wish I were still engaged to you" kind of way, but in the ring master kind of way. The sergeant's calm, "I am going to kick your ass if you don't get into line" manner certainly made things easier.
The point man came out of the studio apartment's small bathroom. "All clear."
"Get out," Osip said, waving toward Harvish. "Poshel von!"
"Please, if we could just sit down."
"Nyet!"
The confrontation between Osip and Harvish looked like it was about to get physical. This is not how Rebecca envisioned this meeting going.
"Amed," she blurted out.
All heads swiveled to her. The plan had been to slowly talk Osip up and try to tease out of him whether or not he had met with Amed.
Oh well.
She'd learned last year how quickly plans could go out the door, and equally quickly you had to get another in place.
And it turned out the name "Amed" had silenced Osip.
"If you did not meet with him, we'll walk out that door," Rebecca stated, even though it was Harvish's turn to glare. "But if you did, can we please sit down and discuss it?"
The old man still glowered, his eyes darting from Harvish to Lopez and then back. Rebecca nodded to the corporal. "Maybe eager beaver can check the hallway?"
Lopez didn't hesitate. "Harvish, make sure the stairwell is clear."
Osip visibly relaxed as the redheaded soldier left the apartment. Lopez inclined his head. "I'll stay by the door."
Rebecca turned her attention to Osip, herding him toward the table. It seemed to be the only place in the apartment where he took care. Surprisingly the tablecloth shone a stark white and not even a crumb cluttered the surface. A mixture of scrolls, textbooks, and Bibles were laid out in neat, clean precision.
"Have a seat," she urged as the older man's hand shook. "I'm sorry we barged in like this, but as you know, this really is a matter of life or death."
Osip's eyes studied her as she sat down opposite him. Rebecca shrugged off the scrutiny as the sun streamed in the window, dappling the yellowed pages of the ancient documents. It appeared Osip had been researching Exodus intensively. No great surprise there. Early Jewish history was his wheelhouse, after all.
"So you did speak with Amed?"
The old man snorted. "He came to me."
Rebecca cocked her head, glancing to Lopez. That was not just confirmation their terrorist had visited Osip, but had somehow not only tracked down the old man, then let him live. Certainly not normal terrorist behavior.
"Why?" Rebecca asked, not bothering to beat around the bush.
With a groan and a few creaks, Osip rose. "It is too early in the day for such talk without coffee."
She didn't bother to correct him. It was midafternoon.
"You want some?" he asked as he made his way to the kitchen.
"Sure," Lopez answered.
"Not you," Osip corrected. "Only the pretty one."