Death Wave by Stephen Coonts

swing something.” He saw a pad of notepaper on a desk nearby, and a pen. He walked to the desk and wrote out an address in clear block Cyrillic letters. “Do you know where this is?”
“Adkhamov Street? It’s in the eastern part of the city. About, oh, five kilometers from here.”
A long way for her to walk. “Do you have a car?”
“No … but there’s good bus service.”
“Where do you live?”
“Prospekt Apartments, on Karamova. Perhaps a kilometer and a half.”
“I want you to go home, pack whatever you need to bring with you—a small suitcase, no more. Then get to this address.”
“What is it?”
“A safe house. You’ll buzz the intercom at the front door, and when a voice answers, you’ll ask them Net li oo vahs luchshi comatih? ”
She looked puzzled. “Do you have a better room?”
“Right. It’s a code phrase. They’ll let you stay there, no questions asked. I’ll come by later.”
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“I have to see about rescuing my friend.”
“Who? Oh! The Indian Air Force officer?”
“The same. He’s in a lot of trouble right now.”
“You … you know they probably have men watching the hospital outside. If they see you leave … or me …”
Damn, she was right—and he should have thought about that. He wasn’t thinking clearly, and that could spell disaster for operators in the field, especially when the carefully crafted script had just been thrown out and they were ad-libbing it.
“I know. Masha, look. I’ll see what I can do about getting you out of the building and on your way. Then I have to take care of my friend. But I will come back for you. You … you’re just going to have to trust me.”
“I … I do. It’s just …”
“Just what?”
“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me this way?”
“Let’s just say I really liked the way you stood up to Vasilyev a little while ago. And you were willing to help me. Besides … what are the chances of two kids from Brighton Beach meeting up here , of all places, eh?”
“Thank you, Ilya.” She stepped forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him. After an awkward moment, he put his arms around her and hugged her close.
“Well, well,” he said as they stepped apart. “What was that for?”
“For helping me get these cadavers into the refrigerator,” she said, all business again.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I don’t want to just leave them here in the open to start decomposing! Dr. Shmatko thinks better of me than that.” She began opening refrigerator doors, pulling out a morgue slab from each opening.
With a rueful shrug, Akulinin began helping her move the bodies.
    ALLEY OFF RUDAKI AVENUE
DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN
WEDNESDAY, 1935 HOURS LOCAL TIME
     
They’d taken Dean out the back door to one of the cars parked beneath a pool of illumination from a security light in the alley behind the hospital. Vasilyev had told a soldier to put him in the rear seat and keep him there, then got into another vehicle just ahead, where he appeared to be making a phone call.
His guard was outside the car, leaning against the wall. The window was rolled down, but the man was far enough away that Dean could say, “I’m back. Did you miss me?”
He spoke quietly, barely vocalizing at all, but he knew the sensitive microphone would pick up the words and transmit them to a communications satellite and back to the Art Room.
“We hear you, Charlie.” It was Marie Telach. “What the hell happened?”
“No reception in the basement,” Dean said. He kept his replies terse. “I’m being held by Vympel personnel … decoy.”
“We still don’t have a signal on Ilya. Is he with you?”
“Negative. Ilya’s in the morgue. Still free, far as I know. I’ll keep you informed.”
“We copy, Charlie. Uh-oh. Hang on.”
“What’s going on?”
There was a long pause. “Your friend Vasilyev just put a call through to Subarao’s office. We had a ‘secretary’ talking to him. Now … okay. Sudhi is talking