Alex Shaw - Cold East

‘Aidan, I wouldn’t have ordered you to save his pompous arse.’

*

New York, USA

East opened his eyes. The room was dark save for a thin line of light spilling in from under the door. He tentatively sat up and removed the drip from his arm. The medical staff had ‘settled’ him for the night and, bar an emergency, wouldn’t be troubling him for several hours. This was his window, his chance. Closing his eyes in anticipation of the pain that was about to hit him, East swung his legs out of the bed and let his bare feet make contact with the linoleum. He shook as a wave of cold shot around his head before turning into a hot pain at his temples. He opened his eyes and gasped, but managed to grab the metal bedframe and push himself to his feet as the pain moved to the back of his head. He swayed for several seconds and, had the room been illuminated, would have noticed the edges of his vision grey out as he fought to remain conscious.

Once steady, East took a step towards the exit, then another and another, until he was certain he wouldn’t fall. He held his breath as he prized the door open a fraction of an inch. The light blinded him and made him nauseous. He stood stock-still until it passed and his vision adjusted. He opened the door further, looked left, and saw a corridor. Several other doors led off to what he imagined would be rooms like his; further along was a cleaning cart and then double doors at the end. The corridor led on to a junction – he didn’t know what was around the corner. Unable to turn his head with his neck alone, he swivelled his shoulders to the right and saw two empty chairs. Whoever had been guarding his door was gone.

Taking a deep breath, East edged out of his room and towards the cleaning cart. It contained supplies and spare towels. He picked up a towel and held it over his arm, as though he were looking for a shower room, and continued forward. He heard a door open somewhere behind him. He didn’t look back, but continued on, head throbbing as he tried to move faster. Just as he reached the double doors two large men in suits burst through them. Their eyes widened at the sight of the semi-naked man before them, the man they had been told to guard, the man who could not get out of bed. East saw the sidearms on both ‘suits’ and knew instantly they were there to guard him. Doing the only thing he could, he threw the towel. The first man automatically raised his arms to protect his face while the other took a half-step sideways. In the same instant, East moved forward and kicked the second man in the groin. Caught completely off-guard, suit two doubled up and dropped to the floor. Ignoring the lightning bolts of pain in his head, East reversed his momentum and stiff-elbowed the first man’s throat. With both men down, East grabbed the nearest suit’s sidearm and, struggling to remain conscious, pressed it into the man’s forehead. ‘Get up slowly and keep your hands above your head.’

Coughing, the suit pushed himself to his feet as his colleague continued to hold his throbbing genitals. East was about to speak again when a round impacted the door inches above his head, the repeat sounding like thunder in the enclosed space.

‘Put the gun on the floor, Mr East.’

Dizzy, East did as he was told and within seconds the suits had secured him.

Casey approached and holstered his Glock. ‘Very impressive, for a banker from Boston. Perhaps you were in ad-venture capital?’

‘Thanks.’ East’s vision had started to blur.

‘You OK, Beck?’ A grin creased Casey’s face.

‘Yes, Mr Casey, just hurt my pride, that’s all.’ The former Navy SEAL continued to massage his groin.

‘I’d get that seen to.’

‘He’s been asking the nurses to all day,’ Needham, the other suit and a former Delta, croaked.

‘Take Mr East back to his room. I’m gonna call the doc, Mr East, and have him give you a once-over. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

East tried to reply but blacked out.

*

East’s hospital bed had been raised, bringing him to a sitting position. Casey sat in a chair to one side, two manila folders resting on his lap. ‘Who are you, Mr East?’

‘Is that an existential question, Mr Casey?’

‘If you like.’

‘I’m an old soul in a young body.’

‘Cute. Who are you, Mr East?’

‘I’m an investment banker.’

Casey placed a folder on the bed. ‘Your legend is good, almost too perfect. James East from Boston who runs his own start-up investment consultancy based out of Yonkers. You’ve got some great recommendations from current clients, by the way. Where did you receive your combat training?’

East felt his pulse quicken. He was hooked up to monitoring equipment so could do nothing to hide it. ‘I’m a fan of the WWE.’

‘Yeah, that Undertaker.’ Casey didn’t hide his sarcasm. ‘James – I’ll still use that name for the moment – let’s not waste any more time. I know you’re not a banker, and possibly not even an American citizen. Now, I’m no fluent Russian speaker, but I understand enough to realise you probably are. Dr Litvin certainly believes so.’

‘I did a college course.’ East reached for a glass of water on his tray table and sipped.

‘I ran your prints through all our databases. I got one partial match. It was from an unsolved Interpol case. Would you like to take a look?’

‘Sure.’ He tried to stay calm.

‘Here.’ Casey handed him a folder.

East opened the dossier and saw a blurry surveillance photograph of himself at London’s Gatwick Airport. He turned the page to a report on the assassination of a British businessman named Bav Malik. It had several graphic images attached. East sped-read the document without showing any outward signs of emotion. After this came an image taken by a camera in an Austrian restaurant; this one was clearer and showed him wearing glasses and enjoying a drink with a beautiful woman. East felt his pulse race at the sight of her. He turned to another report. It was written in Ukrainian, a language he didn’t speak, and contained images of a second corpse – Jas Malik, Bav Malik’s son. East raised his eyes and saw an odd smile on Casey’s face.

‘I know what you are, but not who you are, James.’

‘What am I, Mr Casey?’

‘I think you are a contract killer. Possibly former Spetsnaz, gone freelance.’

‘Is that the official belief of the FBI?’

‘Did I say I was with the FBI?’

‘You didn’t say who you were with.’

‘ Touché! I’m the only one who has this opinion, James. That’s why we’re having this conversation. You did a noble thing; you eliminated an Al-Qaeda sleeper cell – one we missed. You saved the lives of countless civilians.’

‘Do I get a medal?’

‘No medal, James. There are those who want to know more about you, the FBI included, and this file will come to light eventually. Unless I bury or lose it. I could potentially use someone like you, if you are what I think you are. I’m offering you a chance. I can protect you from all of this, the wolves here in the US, and Interpol, but in order to do that I need you to be honest with me. You are not James East. I need to know exactly who you are and what you were doing in New Jersey.’

East made a decision. ‘My name is Sergey Gorodetski, and I was shopping.’

There was a moment of silence as Casey held eye contact with Gorodetski before he replied. ‘The funny thing is, Sergey, I believe you. So, Russian or Russian speaker?’

‘Russian.’

Casey tapped the file with his index finger. ‘And so to this. Why did you assassinate these two British citizens?’

‘What guarantee do I have that you are not taping this? That you will not turn me over to the Feds for rendition to the UK?’