Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

Samantha pinched out a smile that Jonathan couldn’t see. “Simon is more than capable of taking care of himself,” she said, “Unless you’ve got some government-issued super-ninja assassin squad waiting in the wings.”

“If you’re referring to his self-defense skills…I know how good they are; I trained with him. But this is different, Sam. Very different.”

“It can’t all be about that stupid message and the chess diary,” she said. “I mean, really? A diary?”

Jonathan didn’t answer at first, and she wasn’t surprised. For as long as she had known him, Jonathan had always been involved with one government agency or another, and she hated that. All the secrecy, all the vagueness. She’d never felt completely comfortable with him, and the last few hours hadn’t changed that one bit. She also found Jonathan’s fascination with Simon’s father disturbing and rather contrived. Why it bothered her, she didn’t know, but it did. She knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“It’s absurd,” she said. “You know what I think about all this crap. You and your government bullshit. You know I’ve always hated this surveillance and tracking stuff. That’s why I chose to take a less bureaucratic job…and even then I had to go live in the jungle, go climb Mount Kilimanjaro for Christ’s sake, just to avoid being constantly monitored, even in the hospital.”

“Look,” he snapped, turning to glare at her in the back seat, clearly frustrated, “I really don’t care what you like or dislike at this point. You decided you had to be part of this thing. You forced your way in. And now, like it or not, you’re part of it.”

“Bullshit!” she shouted. “I could get out of this car right this instant! I could go to the police and tell them everything!”

He laughed at her-a short, harsh sound. “Tell them what? A man broke into your apartment, but you have no evidence and you don’t remember anything about him? You saw a cheerful message from a dead man-a message that’s been destroyed, by the way-but he seemed okay? That your friend’s house was broken into, which is clearly a sign of international conspiracy and-”

“Oh, just shut up,” she said and focused outside the window as if to ignore looking at him.

He let her steam for a long time. When he spoke again, it was in a low and serious tone. “It’s just not safe for you to be in England anymore,” he said. “You or any of us.”

She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. “I’m going to get a drink,” she said without looking at him. She sounded angry and brittle, even to herself. “I’ll be right back.”

Without another word she opened the door and left the Rover, ignoring him as he called after her. Jonathan leaned back in the driver’s seat and turned his head to watch her cross the street and enter the family-owned teashop that looked like it hadn’t changed since the early ‘90s.

It was too much for her to handle. He could see that. She needed some time to herself, if only a few minutes.

“Maybe when she gets back here, she’ll have thought it through,” he said to the empty air.

But he had serious doubts.

* * *

Takara stood absolutely motionless in the blackest of shadows, less than half a block from the parked car. She couldn’t hear or even lip-read what Samantha and Jonathan were saying, but she didn’t have to. Their gestures, their body language, even while they were seated in the vehicle, told her more than enough. These two didn’t care for each other. And they certainly didn’t trust each other. But they were committed to whatever the plan was.

She touched the lobe of her left ear and triggered the communication device that linked her to her superior. It wasn’t the most pleasant sensation to begin with, and speaking to him was never enjoyable-never safe. Still, it had to be done.

He acknowledged the connection with a single syllable. “I have them in view,” she said without preamble.

And then, in answer to his question: “No. The others are not here. I just arrived. They could be on their way; they could be-”

He interrupted, already bored with her report. She listened to his instructions and nodded though she knew he could not see her.

“I understand. Of course. Yes, I’ll report later.”

She touched her ear again and severed the contact. Time to move.

The Tunnel

Simon and Andrew had no idea what to expect when they finally pried open the door into the safe house. But they certainly hadn’t expected to find Hayden lying on the concrete directly in front of them, and half a dozen black-clad commandos creeping toward him from every direction, weapons up and at the ready.

They gaped at the terrifying scene for a full three seconds. Then the first bullets hit the doorway beside them and they moved. Acting in unconscious unison, they leaped forward, shoved their arms under Hayden’s limp body, and dragged him back-five steps, ten-into the tunnel and the darkness. The moment they were past the frame, Simon released Hayden just long enough to jump back and slam the door shut. He double-locked the dead bolts with two desperate slashes.

“My god, this guy is heavy,” Andrew said, panting under the inventor’s bulk. “You’d think a skinny man like this wouldn’t weigh so much.”

“Dead weight,” Simon said between clenched teeth. “So to speak.”

“But you’re sure he’s not?”

“Positive,” Simon said as he put his shoulder under one side of Hayden’s body, and Andrew adjusted to take the other side. They began their uneven stagger down the dark subway tunnel, back the way they had come. Every minute took them a few steps farther from the safe house and closer to their secret exit. “Did you smell the gas in the safe house?” Simon said breathlessly. “I know that stink. Not poison, immobilization gas.”

“So he’s alive-”

“-but paralyzed. Hopefully temporarily.”

“Hopefully?”

Simon shrugged under Hayden’s weight.

“Depends on how big a whiff he got.”

“My god, Simon, do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Don’t know,” Simon replied. “We have to get him to Samantha as quick as we can.”

Hayden could barely feel his body being carried through the tunnel. All he could feel was cold: cold face, cold fingers, cold curve of his eyeballs.

He concentrated as hard as he could on moving his head, but nothing happened. He tried lifting an arm, turning a hand, even crooking a finger. Nothing. His body was as limp and unresponsive as a corpse.

But he could hear-too well, in fact. He was fully aware of every sound around him, and was able to see-in a distant, blurred way-whatever happened to pass near his open, unfocused eyes. He could hear Simon’s voice and Andrew’s. He could see a faint show of bouncing lights as they carried him down the tunnel. Nothing more. Nothing.

Don’t leave me, he prayed. Don’t get tired, don’t give up, don’t think I’m dead. Please. Please.

They picked up the pace, straining to find a light in front of them or detect the sounds of pursuit from the rear. It was harder to haul Hayden’s body than Simon expected, but both of them were in good condition. They could do this, he knew. They had to.

They trudged along in silence for almost five minutes. Finally Andrew couldn’t stand it anymore. “How much farther do you think?” he said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice.

“A few more minutes, but I can carry him alone, if you’d like,” Simon insisted.

“No,” Andrew said, “I’m good.”

Simon set his jaw. “Hayden risked his life for me and my father.” He took in another lungful of air and forced his breathing to normalize. “This is my responsibility. None of this would have happened if I had kept my mouth shut.”