Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

“Give me a gun,” I shouted. Sean handed me a. 38. I raised myself and through the splintered rear window shot the driver of the black Mercedes directly behind us. I could see his face take the hit and his head drop on the wheel. The black Mercedes lost control and rolled over the divider.

“Hold on,” said Sean in his cool voice, “we're getting into Moscow Ring Road in about one minute. Let's get the other son of a bitch before we make the turn – it'll be more difficult to shake them once we are on the highways with its heavy traffic.” Passing cars were doing their best to avoid this gunplay, scrambling to get out of the way.

The red Mercedes was still on our left, again trying to broadside us but failing each time due to Brandon's skilled maneuvering.

“Let me get him,” I said, “he's on my side.” I opened the left side window and shot at the driver but I missed and hit only the right door. Brandon swiveled our car to avoid being smashed by the Mercedes.

“Slow down,” I shouted, “slow down!”

“Why? Are you hurt?” asked Sean.

“No, just slow down and let him pass us a bit, I can get a better shot.” Brandon slowed and I finally got a good look at the passengers of the Mercedes. They were all light-brown-skinned men in their thirties. One of them in the backseat was aiming a shotgun at me. “Goodbye,” I said, and pulled the trigger, hitting him in the neck. I saw a gush of blood flooding his chest. I pulled the trigger again at the passenger next to the driver, but missed.

“Hold on, I'm making a sharp turn to the left,” shouted Brandon as we entered the expressway. I looked back; the red Mercedes was still after us. I aimed hard, holding the. 38 with both hands, and squeezed; that was my last chance, and it was also the Mercedes driver's last minute on earth as the bullet hit his forehead. The Mercedes collided into a passing eighteen-wheeler and burst into flames.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” said Brandon, as we merged into the hectic traffic.

“Are you OK?” I asked Ariel, pulling her up from the car's floor. She was confused and shaken. “Yes,” she mumbled and cuddled into my arms. “Just hold me.”

I put my arm around her. “Do you know who these guys are?” asked Sean.

“I can only guess, she was being watched by several different groups. I can't tell you who our pursuers were, but I do know we need to leave immediately before another smart-ass pops up from nowhere.”

Sean radioed the office and tersely reported the events, keeping his cool.

“I'm sorry to leave you with the mess,” I said.

“Don't worry,” said Sean. “We'll clean it up.”

I handed the gun back to Sean. “Thanks!”

“Nice shots,” said Brandon in appreciation, “Where did you learn to shoot so well?”

“I'm a hunter,” I said, “I hunt a lot.” I didn't mention that my usual prey was money launderers, not animals, and that I hunted them with my brain, not with my gun. Ariel was still cradled in my arms. I wanted it to last, but we saw the glittering lights of the airport approaching.

“Which airline?” asked Sean.

“I don't know yet; let's go to the main departure area. I want to take the first flight out, preferably to Germany, but any other major European city will do.”

“I'll come with you into the terminal,” said Brandon, as Sean brought the car to the curb.

“Go ahead, I'll join you in a minute,” said Sean. “I'll get rid of this car first. Be careful, others could be waiting for you here.”

We entered the departure hall and I looked at the big board. It was 8:15 P.M., and the next flight out was British Airways 875 to London leaving at 9:35 P.M. No further precaution was necessary; the place was full of police in uniform and probably just as many in plainclothes. If word of a highway chase came to their attention we'd have a lot of explaining to do; we'd miss the flight, and I'd miss the break-in to Guttmacher's bank. I could not allow that. We needed to hurry; in this case, even the rigid Soviet bureaucracy might move quickly enough to stop us.

I ran to the British Airways counter, bought two one-way tickets to Munich via London's Heathrow, and checked in our luggage. I'd fight the bean counters in Washington later over the extra ticket. I held Ariel by her hand and rushed to passport control. Brandon joined Sean as they stood at a distance waiting for us to clear through the police passport inspection.

“Did you get rid of the car?” I asked Brandon.

“Yes, I dumped it. It won't lead to us; the registration is under the name of a nonexistent person. But I don't think it'll get to that. I left it in an area that car scavengers love. In one hour it'll be taken apart as if it never existed. As far as we're concerned, this entire incident never happened.”

I stepped forward with Ariel to the passport-control counter, manned by a grim-faced Soviet officer wearing green military uniform. “Are you family?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “She is my friend and she is not feeling well, and she does not speak Russian or English, so I'm here to help.”

“Very nice of you,” he said without the smile I expected. “Step back.”

Ariel remained standing before his counter and signaled me that it'd be OK.

A few minutes later, which felt like eternity, I heard the sound of stamping and Ariel walked away to the gate. I approached the counter. The officer raised his head and looked at my face, which was losing its blood supply fast. He said nothing. He flipped through my passport and looked at some papers on his counter that I could not see.

“Please step aside,” he finally said and buzzed a button. That I saw. Two men in plainclothes approached me. “Please come with us,” they said firmly.

“Why? Have I done something wrong?” I asked, hoping they couldn't hear the tremble in my voice. They did not answer. I was led to a side room. “Sit down,” said one of the men in an unexpectedly polite tone and pointed at a metal chair next to an empty desk. I sat on the chair. I saw my duffel bag in the corner of the room. I'm in deep shit, I thought.

“Can you explain that?” asked the man as he showed me my bloodstained shirt. “Airport security discovered it in your luggage.”

I needed to come up with a quick explanation or I was doomed. “Oh, that,” I said, showing them how relieved I was, and I was indeed. “There was a car accident on my way here; you must have heard about it, I was in a car just behind it. A car collided with a huge truck on the Moscow Ring Road and I rushed to help the injured. It was a terrible scene, I'm glad I could help until the ambulance came, and then I had to leave because I didn't want to miss my flight. I hope the passengers were all right; when I left they were in an awful shape.” My interrogator went to the phone in the corner and dialed a number. Moments later he returned and said something in a Russian dialect I did not understand to the other guy.

“OK,” he said, “your story about the accident checks out. It was nice of you to help a stranger. Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I was a Boy Scout and took some courses in first aid.” I'll never know how I came up with that one.

They handed me back my passport and escorted me to the gate. Ariel was at the gate when they announced last call for our flight. When she saw me her face lit up. It was all worth it, I thought.

Five minutes later we were seated in the cabin of the Boeing 747, just like a couple of tourists. “Was there a problem?” she asked.

“No, just routine bureaucracy,” I said. Ariel squeezed my arm. “I'm always nervous during takeoff,” she said apologetically, and smiled.

The plane left the gate and taxied to the runway, moving faster and faster until it abruptly stopped. I saw two stewardesses running to the front of the aircraft. My heart was beating fast again. Had they found out who I was and tied me to the shooting? I looked out through the window. There was no activity around the plane and no explanation from the cockpit as to why we'd stopped. Ariel didn't seem to notice my concern. A few passengers got up from their seats to look through the windows. “Please sit down,” said the stewards politely but firmly. I thought I should tell Ariel to call David Stone in Washington and inform him of my forthcoming arrest. I wrote down David's name and number.