x
Amidst the desolation of the "no-man's-land," Dragov noticed scattered litter, evidence of occasional visits by tourists or travelers passing through. The detritus of civilization clashed with the stark, untouched landscape, creating a jarring contrast. Among the debris were discarded water bottles, food wrappers, and other remnants of human activity, highlighting the transient nature of human presence in this barren expanse. He contemplated the potential utility of the discarded items, recognizing that in a pinch, he could fashion crude but effective weapons from the refuse should conventional firearms prove inadequate.
As Dragov walked toward the bus stop, he sensed an unsettling presence behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted the first tail—a man with a conspicuous bulge under his jacket, likely concealing a firearm. Moments later, he detected the second shadow, subtly positioned to cover any blind spots left by the first. They had been working him in a pincer movement. When the tags realized that they had been flushed they didn't bother to hide themselves anymore. One followed about forty meters behind, the other walked some seventy meters in front. He knew there would be a third in a car and that if they weren't bothering to hide themselves any longer, they must be getting ready to pick him up. Dragov found a telephone booth on a crowded corner, dropped a coin, and dialed a number. As he waited for the reply he wondered who employed the men who were following him. He was a man who had made enemies, but he had not expected them to find him in Harborview, California. At last, someone lifted the receiver at the other end and cut through his train of thought.
"Hello. Étienne Dubois."
He recognized the voice. "This is Dragov."
"Viktor!" The voice at the other end was warm with delight. "Where the hell are you?"
"I'm in a small California town. Harborview, it's called. There's no time to talk. I'm in trouble. Will you help me?"
"Of course," Etienne said instantly.
"There are men following me," Dragov said quietly into the mouthpiece. "I don't know the area, tell me someplace I can go to shake them off, somewhere I can get to without going onto the streets again. I think they're getting ready to pick me up."
"Where are you now?"
"I'm near a bus stop on a street called Riverside."
"Dragov, mon ami, it seems you've attracted some unwanted attention," Etienne said, his voice immediately efficient. "Tell you what, head down to La Paloma Bar down on Calle Riverside. You can hide out there for a while. But watch your back, those fellows tailing you will be watching the place. Don't open any doors you're not sure about. When the coast is clear, head back to your hotel using the backstreets. Stick to the plan, and you might just evade their grasp."
"They'll be watching my hotel," Dragov said. "If I can shake them off, can I spend the night with you?" He knew he was endangering Etienne and his family. He hadn't wanted to involve them, but he had nowhere else to go. It was typical of Etienne that he agreed at once.
"If you can't shake them off on Calle Riverside, head to my place at 421 Rue de la Mer. My son---do you remember him? He's eight years old now ---- will be waiting for you. Just follow me and don't say a word. Once it's safe, call out my name, and I'll know to take you home."
"Is Jean-Luc there?"
"Don't worry, Jean-Luc will be expecting you. We'll have a celebration."
Dragov hung up. The tags were all around him. One of them, a stocky young man in a lumber jacket with long greasy yellow hair and a 3-day beard, was leaning contemptuously against the opposite wall. Dragov had been so easily tagged that somehow it spoiled their enjoyment of the chase. Sooner or later they would force him onto the street and then pick him up. That was, of course, if they wanted to pick him up.
Dragov slipped out of the booth and mingled with a crowd making their way to the famous La Paloma Bar. He kept his back to the wall, maintaining a discreet distance from the others. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his jacket, ready to react if he had to. The building housing La Paloma Bar was a weathered, two-story structure with peeling paint and a neon sign flickering above the entrance. He had no gun, a decision he made to avoid drawing unnecessary attention or risking trouble with local law enforcement; a decision he momentarily regretted given the uncertainty of the situation.
The interior of La Paloma Bar was dimly lit, with a haze of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The tables were worn, with chipped edges and mismatched chairs scattered around them. Waitresses, clad in black uniforms, moved between the tables, taking orders and delivering drinks with practiced efficiency. The entertainment consisted of a small stage in one corner, where a live band played soft jazz music, providing a backdrop for the murmured conversations of the patrons. Dragov took a seat at the bar, ordering a whiskey neat from the waitress who approached him. As he waited for his drink, he forced himself to relax, adopting a casual posture and scanning the room with feigned disinterest. When his drink arrived, he took a sip, savoring the burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat. Meanwhile, his followers entered the bar after him, their eyes trained on Dragov as they took up positions at the opposite end of the room. They grew tired of watching him, but they remained vigilant, their gazes never leaving him as they waited for him to make a move.
Dragov's strategy for evading them involved slipping out of the bar unnoticed, using the distraction of the band and the dim lighting to his advantage. He made note of the entrances and exits, calculating which one would lead him to safety. As soon as he saw the opportunity, he slipped out through a side door, dropping out of sight before his pursuers could react. He found himself in a narrow alleyway, the sounds of the city echoing off the walls around him. He wastes no time in putting distance between himself and his pursuers, gaining a significant head start as he weaves through the crowded streets of what he guessed to be the Hispanic quarter of Harborview. It was alive with activity, bustling with people going about their daily routines. Dragov rudely pushed past the throngs of pedestrians, focusing solely on putting as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible. Some of the people he pushed past yell at him in Spanish, their voices lost in the cacophony of noise.
Eventually, Dragov came to a small plaza, where a fiesta was in full swing. The air was filled with the scent of grilled meat and the sound of lively music, laughter, and conversation. Dragov hesitated for a moment, considering his options, before blending into the crowd, disappearing into the festivities as if he had always been there. The fiesta erupted with vibrant energy, enveloping him in a whirlwind of sights and sounds. Colorful banners fluttered in the warm breeze, casting playful shadows on the cobblestone streets below. Mariachi music filled the air, its lively melodies mingling with the laughter and chatter of the crowd. He moved through the throngs of revelers with practiced ease, his senses alert for any sign of danger. Navigating the bustling plaza, he caught glimpses of flamboyantly dressed dancers twirling and spinning to the infectious rhythm of the music. Food vendors lined the edges of the square, their stalls overflowing with tantalizing treats---tacos, tamales, and spicy enchiladas sizzling on grills, their mouthwatering aromas wafting through the air. Yet Dragov was still able to remain vigilant, his eyes scanning the crowd for any familiar faces. And sure enough, there was one of the tags weaving his way through the revelers on the right, his partner shadowing Dragov's movements on the left. With a sinking feeling in his gut, he realized that he was being pursued and time was running out.
Determined to evade his pursuers, Dragov veered toward the far end of the plaza, where a narrow alleyway beckoned like a hidden sanctuary. The alley was dimly lit, the sunlight filtered through tangled vines and cast-iron balconies overhead. He slipped into the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest as he moved swiftly but silently through the maze-like passages. Upon nearing the end of the alley, his pulse quickened with anticipation. He knew that he was on the verge of escaping the clutches of his pursuers, but the danger was far from over. Glancing over his shoulder, he pushed forward, his footsteps echoing against the ancient cobblestones as he raced toward freedom.
As Dragov darted through the labyrinthine alleys, his pursuers hot on his heels, one of the tags managed to push through the crowd with determination and agility. With a burst of speed, he broke free from the fiesta's throngs and resumed his pursuit of Dragov. Sensing the urgency of the situation, Dragov's mind raced as he searched for his next move. Without hesitation, he veered towards a narrow side street, his feet pounding against the pavement as he sprinted towards a nearby bridge. With a leap of faith, he propelled himself over the bridge's railing and plunged into the cool waters below. Emerging on the other side, he found himself in a quieter, more secluded part of town. The bustling energy of the fiesta faded into the distance, replaced by the tranquil stillness of the night. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Dragov surveyed his surroundings, searching for any sign of his pursuers. In the shadows of the sunlit streets, he found a brief respite from the relentless chase, knowing that he must remain vigilant if he hoped to stay one step ahead.
Dragov's hurried footsteps echoed through the streets in the muted light of the day, accompanied by the distant hum of an approaching car engine. Amidst the ambient sounds of the town, the vehicle's roar grew louder, drowning out his hurried steps as it drew nearer. Dragov's senses sharpened as he became acutely aware of the imminent threat closing in on him, unsure of whether it was afternoon or early evening, but feeling the weight of the impending confrontation all the same. With a glance over his shoulder, he confirmed his suspicions as he spotted the approaching car, casting a long shadow against the pavement. The tags, undoubtedly coordinating their pursuit with unseen forces, had orchestrated this trap precisely, their intentions clear as they closed in on their quarry. As the car drew alongside him, its presence casting a looming shadow over Dragov, he felt a surge of adrenaline course through his veins. Without warning, the back and front passenger doors swung open in unison, cornering him against the unforgiving concrete wall.
The pain of a blow to his groin brought his head down against the car roof, then he was dragged half unconscious inside. It was over in seconds. The big Chevy came smoothly off the empty pavements and turned back into the traffic.
Dragov was forced onto the floor, his head pinned down by a heavy boot pressing hard against his neck. As a further inducement for him to remain still, the cold muzzle of a gun was rammed against his temple. The pressure on his neck was choking him, the blood from a cut on his cheek streamed into his eyes and the lower half of his body was still rigid with pain from the blow to his testicles. These people were professionals, they understood the use of pain in tranquilizing a victim, and not for one moment had Dragov been able to give thought to resisting them. His arms were wrenched back and he felt handcuffs close over his wrists, pinching the bone. Manacles were fastened around his ankles. Then the pressure came off his neck and he was lifted onto the seat where he was squeezed between two big men in 3-piece business suits. Dragov let his head loll forward. One of the men began to slap his face, cursing when he realized that he was splashing the blood from the cut onto his blazer.
"Rudy, don't hit him anymore," a quiet voice ordered. "You'll knock him out."
From the passenger seat beside the driver, a man turned around, his hand reached out and lifted Dragov's head.
"That's more like it," he said, as he saw Dragov's eyes open. "You don't want Rudy hitting you anymore, do you?"
The man in the passenger seat could have been in his forties or much older, it was hard to tell. He wore a mask, a sleek, black, full-face covering made of a flexible material that molded to the contours of his face. It had dark-tinted lenses over the eyes, obscuring the interrogator's gaze and making it difficult for Dragov to discern his intentions. The mask had a neutral expression, devoid of any distinctive features, further concealing the interrogator's identity. It fit snugly around the mouth and nose, muffling his voice slightly when he spoke. Overall, the mask exuded an air of anonymity and intimidation, effectively hiding the interrogator's true identity from him. Dragov had encountered men who concealed their identities behind masks during his time as a covert operative for various intelligence agencies. Usually, they worked for rival agencies or clandestine organizations that employed these tactics to maintain anonymity and instill fear in their targets
The man let Dragov study his mask so that he would know better than to expect mercy. "I know who you are, Dragov," the masked man growled, his voice distorted by the mask. "What brings a former KGB thug like you to the United States? What business do you have in a place like Harborview?"
"How do you know my name?" Dragov demanded, his voice tight with suspicion.
"I have my sources," the masked man replied cryptically.
"Who the hell are you?" Dragov demanded, his voice tinged with frustration.
"I ask the questions here," the masked man asserted, his tone dripping with arrogance. "Why are you here?" he demanded, his threat hanging heavily in the air. "And if I have to beat the truth out of you, I will."
The car was turning through the back streets away from the town square. Dragov was silent. the pain had eased enough now for him to begin quietly testing the grip of the handcuffs around his wrists and the manacles on his ankles. The man in the passenger seat watched him and understood---he'd had years of experience in interrogation. He nodded to one of the men beside Dragov.
Dragov's mouth was forced open and a gag was fitted between his jaws so that he couldn't close them. Then a plastic bag was pulled down over his face and fastened tightly around his neck. Dragov tried to hold his breath and shook his head violently from side to side, struggling to brush the bag off, but the men on either side held him up and away from them. The bag was completely airtight. When he had to breathe, the plastic sucked against his mouth. He tried to control himself but he felt panic coming on. He attempted to bite through the gag so that he could chew through the plastic, but it was no use. His lungs cried for air and he knew the absolute terror of suffocating. He was throwing himself around the back of the car with maniacal force, beating his head against anything he could find, trying to tear the bag from his face. Then he felt himself fainting, his limbs giving way, his head lolling down. The fight went out of him and he collapsed onto the floor of the car.
One of the captors leaned down and pulled off the bag. The man in the front seat looked at his watch. "Nearly two minutes. He's very fit," he observed. "Wake him up."
Dragov came to with the memory that his last conscious moment had been spent trying to breathe. He knew what they were going to do to him now. Already he felt the first flicker of his terror of the plastic bag. It was nonchalantly held up in front of him.
"Why would a man like you, a mercenary, come to a podunk town like this?" the masked man sneered, his tone dripping with arrogance and menace. "What strategic importance does this place hold for someone like you?"
"If you've been following me then you know what I'm doing here," Dragov said. He tried to gain control of his fear, tried to stall the moment when they would put that plastic bag over his head again, but the frontman would give him no time.
The masked man's gaze flickered to the bag at Dragov's side, his voice laced with arrogance and menace. "Answer the question," he demanded, his tone bold and commanding.
Dragov was silent and the bag was pulled down over his face. This time he forced himself not to fight it. He sat still, shrouded in tight claustrophobic darkness. A silence descended inside the car; they waited for him to break. He heard only the hum of the engine and the tires licking over the dusty streets. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn sounded. The car drew up at some traffic lights---it was the first them they'd stopped. Dragov threw himself blindly to one side, trying to crash through the window. The man beside him blocked him with his shoulder. Dragov's head smashed against the door. The shock of pain used the last of the air in his lungs, the plastic sucked against his mouth. He screamed silently to himself, then his limbs gave way and he collapsed unconscious onto the floor again.
It took them longer to revive him this time. Dragov's face was a mask of blood and sweat.
The masked man's voice resonated with authority and threat as he delivered his speech to Dragov. "You have no legal recourse here," he began, his tone dripping with disdain. "We will continue to hurt you until you cooperate. We know you were near Pescadero State Hospital. Why?" His question hung in the air, heavy with implication. "Are you interested in Mischa Barton, the actress? Confirm it for us." Dragov told them he was. They knew what he was doing, there was no point in hiding it from them anymore. Besides, he was pretty sure that he would have to report that it was impossible to rescue Ms. Barton.
The masked man's voice was laced with urgency and demand as he pressed Dragov for answers. "Who gave you the contract?" he demanded, his tone leaving no room for evasion or deception.
Perhaps they didn't know about Kathy Lakas. "Some people in Los Angeles," Dragov hedged, "nobody special. Just some pressure group of liberal media people."
The masked man's voice cut through the tension, heavy with menace as he confronted Dragov with his suspicions. "Was your assignment to rescue Mischa Barton?"
"I was only hired to see if it was possible," Dragov replied calmly, his voice steady despite the intensity of the situation.
"Is it?"
Dragov shook his head. "No."
The masked man's voice resonated with authority as he delivered his ominous message to Dragov. "You need to understand, Mr. Dragov, that you're nothing but an amateur in this game, as are the amateurs who hired you. Many have attempted to breach the walls of Pescadero, hoping to rescue their loved ones, and not one has succeeded. This is California, this is the United States of America, and we simply cannot tolerate the intrusion of a mercenary with your history, regardless of your intentions. We've uncovered your past exploits and your treachery against us after you defected to the West. You caused irreparable damage to our covert operations in critical global hotspots, and the KGB didn't take kindly to that. They put a price on your head, Dragov. And now, it's time for you to pay the price. You see, our friends in this land have been generous to us in the past, and it's only fair that we return the favor. That's why, Mr. Dragov, we're going to kill you."
As the car pulled away from the town, the sun had dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the landscape. The traffic signals flickered to life, changing from green to yellow to red, directing the flow of cars along the highway. Alongside the road, there were no medians dividing the lanes; instead, there were stretches of barren land dotted with scrubby bushes and occasional clusters of trees, a stark reminder of the arid terrain of the region. One of Dragov's captors was forcing his feet into the bottom of a big hessian sack. They doubled him over and closed the sack around his head, tying the top tightly with wire. The car slowed for a moment and one of the back doors opened.
"Goodbye, Mr. Dragov," the masked man in the front seat said. "We don't want mercenaries like you in our country," the masked man asserts, his voice laced with cold determination. "Your death will serve as a warning to others who might dare to tread on our soil with similar intentions."
Dragov was pushed violently from the car. He couldn't use his arms or legs to protect himself, but he buried his chin in his chest, trying to roll as he hit the ground, to take some of the shock out of the impact. As it was, the scrubby brushes saved him---he hit them on his side and slid for about 20 meters. He heard the deep note from the Chevy exhaust as it accelerated into the traffic.
For a moment there was silence. Then he heard the roar of one of the great trans-continental diesel trucks approaching him at high speed, twenty tons on eighteen wheels hurtling down at him. He couldn't tell which way to move, the sounds seemed to be coming from all around him. Yet he knew that if he didn't move the driver high up in his cab would mistake him for a garbage bag, and rather than change lanes in the heavy traffic would run straight over him.
Dragov brought his knees up under his chin, rocked backward and forwards to gain momentum, and then threw himself over so that he balanced on his forehead and his knees. He rolled over again and repeated the procedure, trying desperately not to move into the way of what he thought was an oncoming line of cars.
Then the truck was on him, a great roaring beast, the tires half as high as a man, hooter blaring angrily as it passed him with inches to spare, the sudden blast of air and exhaust fumes from its passing sucking him in and pitching him over. He could hear cars passing him now. He could not see, he could barely breathe; the sack was his tomb, and there was no time to try and get out of it. He thought the only way to survive was to attempt to roll across the lanes to the side of the highway. A blind 3-legged dog stood a better chance. The traffic was heavy and although the cars were prepared to move lanes rather than run over a stricken object, the big trucks, especially the ones towing trailers, would have no option but to go over him.
There were two of them now, one truck just behind the other across two lanes. He could hear the thunder of their diesel engines above the more subdued roar of the other traffic. The beat of so many wheels confused him: he couldn't tell which way to move so he lay still, curled up in the sack, trying to take up as little room in the road as possible. The trucks bore down on him, the whine of the great wheels on the road growing louder and louder until they were on him. One of the truckers must have seen him. Dragov heard the sudden squeal as a foot stomped on the airbrakes but there was no way the truck could've stopped in time. The driver did the next best thing and lined the sack up between his wheels. The freighter hurtled over Dragov, first the engine cab and then the trailer. The noise was unbearable. The shock absorbers and the massive wheels must have passed inches from his face. Dragov could stand no more, he was near to fainting.
The driver of the Mack pulled over onto a layby and made his way to where he'd seen the sack. He'd noticed it move and thought that someone must have trussed up a big dog in there. He'd seen a gang of young hooligans do that to a litter of puppies by the left bank of the Volga once. Dragov felt someone pulling at the neck of the sack and he cried out.513Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj7PLHbSAGc
513Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe6JKg0MRa8
513Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi0s4xvTWqJ
513Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg7uwf2EQ5Z
513Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcLzuIDdEVv
513Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFPtxz78RIi
Dragov regained consciousness sometime later in a hospital with his face, arms, and head in bandages. A policeman was sitting by his bedside and a doctor was bending over him, examining the extensive bruising on his thighs.
"You were very lucky, my friend," the doctor said. "There's nothing seriously wrong with you. Your chances of survival on the highway must've been less than 10%. Nobody else would have stopped for a sack---lucky for you that truck driver was a dog lover. Now," he continued, standing up, "when you've fully rested the cops need a statement from you."
Dragov told them nothing.
The following morning, when he was due to be released, a CIA agent came in to see him.
"You were found unconscious near the outskirts of Harborview. Quite an odd place for someone to be, wouldn't you agree?" The agent paused, observing Dragov's reaction before continuing, "I'm here to investigate what happened and to ensure your safety." He was a shy, almost diffident man of similar age and height as Dragov, but with a small-boned body and ginger hair growing thin on top. He drew up a chair beside the bed.
"I'm Special Agent Reed-Henry." He didn't offer to shake hands. "I gotta say, this California climate's got me feeling like a fish outta water. Back in my hometown, the worst time of year was always winter. You'd think growing up in Minnesota would toughen a guy up, but I guess I never quite got used to the cold." He chuckled softly before adding, "But hey, I guess I turned out alright, tough enough for the job, at least." He looked up with a gleam of amused self-deprecation in his eyes. "We've been tracking you down for a while," the agent said, his tone serious now. "Thanks to INTERPOL, we know who you are and where you're from. Now, Mr. Dragov, I'd like to know what exactly you're doing here in the U.S."
Dragov had been warming to the diffident agent and he was caught off-guard. It took him a moment to recover.
"I told the police----I was a visitor here and somebody hit me over the head from behind."
"We found you near the highway, about a mile north of Harborview. It's a peculiar spot, to say the least," Reed-Henry nodded sympathetically. "Well, then, Mr. Dragov, do you have any idea who did this to you? I know," he said before Dragov could speak, "you didn't see anything." Reed-Henry produced a thick, black binder, its edges frayed from use, and placed it on the little table in front of Dragov. "Would you just have a look through these and see if you can recognize anybody? It would save you having to come down to the Federal Building back in Harborview," he added.
The implied threat had its effect and Dragov began to go through the photographs. They were all shots of men either extracted from police files or, more often, taken clandestinely when the subject wasn't aware. As he gazed at one particular photo, a shiver of recognition ran down his spine. The man in the image was sinister-looking, with eyes that seemed to pierce through the paper, devoid of any humanity or compassion. His face bore several distinguishing marks—a jagged scar running from his left temple to his cheek, deep pockmarks on his right cheek, and a prominent birthmark above his lip. His hair was a dark, oily black, slicked back in a menacing style. The photo appeared to have been taken several years ago, judging by the graininess of the image and the dated fashion of the clothing worn by the man. As Dragov recalled the voice of the masked man, it aligned perfectly with the face in the photo, solidifying his suspicions about the identity of his assailant.
"I know him," Dragov said drily.
"You should. That's Drake Kazakov," Reed-Henry said. "He's an old Shadow Syndicate man, used to be right-wing but everyone's forgotten that, now he works for the communists. Kazakov clandestinely aids urban terror groups across Europe and the United States, providing them with weapons, intelligence, and financial backing. He operates under the radar, conducting his activities in countries such as England, the United States, and various European nations. I chose pictures of his group because they're the most active here at the moment. The Soviets, as far as we can ascertain, have placed sums amounting to four hundred thousand dollars at his disposal in the last two years."
Reed-Henry leaned forward. "Recognize anybody?"
Dragov shook his head and turned over the rest of the photographs. Someone had done a good job. Shots of the tags and the bodyguards in the car were all there.
"It would be very dangerous to cross these guys," Reed-Henry remarked. "Will you be staying in Harborview much longer?"
"Probably not."
"I'll tell you what, Dragov," Reed-Henry said sternly, leaning in closer. "You take the next bus out of this town. Any place. Anywhere but here. And you watch your back. You never know who might be a Red agent."
Dragov discharged himself from the hospital. He made his way to a nearby diner to use their pay phone. The diner was a small, quaint establishment with booths along the walls and a long counter with stools. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and the sound of sizzling bacon emanated from the kitchen. The pay phone stood near the entrance, its faded yellow color a testament to years of use. Dragov inserted a few coins and dialed Kathy Lakas' number, his mind racing with thoughts of their next move.
"This is Dragov," he said as she answered.
"Where the hell have you been?!" Kathy asked worriedly. "I've been expecting you to get back to me before now."
"I regret to inform you, Kathy, that I must decline the assignment," Dragov said solemnly over the crackling line. "Pescadero seems impenetrable, more fortress than a treatment center. I cannot fulfill the contract under these circumstances."
Dragov hurt as he said that. He hated to recognize any kind of defeat, but this was a professional decision.
"Hold it," he heard Kathy shouting as he lowered the receiver. He lifted it to his ear again.
"Let's meet somewhere," Kathy urged desperately. "You can't just drop out on me like this."
"I have to get out of Harborview."
"Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Yes, unfortunately."
Kathy quickly strategized. "What about the town of Riverside?" she suggested. "It's a hub for bus routes back to Los Angeles. Do you still have some miles left on your ticket?"
"Yes."
Kathy proposed, "Meet me in Riverside in two days. If you call me, I'll let you know which bus I'm coming in on."
Forty-eight hours later Dragov met Kathy off the Greyhound bus into Riverside.
"I've only got two hours' stopover here," she said. "I'm going back to L.A. tonight."
They made their way out of the bus terminal and along the road between the taxi ranks and the car park.
"Oh God, I'm sorry about what happened to you," Kathy said, seeing his bruises. "The papers used a different name but I guessed it was you. Why didn't you tell us you had a KGB price on your head?"
"Would you have done so if you were me?" Dragov answered. "It's not something one willingly advertises."
"Goddammit," Kathy said bitterly, "do you know the damage this will cause the committee? They're bound to hear what happened to you in Harborview and they sure as hell won't want to get involved in some East-West feud. They're running scared, and I'm having trouble holding them together."
"You have no reason to try anymore," Dragov told her. "As I said, there is no contract."
Kathy walked a few paces in silence. She stopped and turned to him. Her candid blue-gray eyes seemed to change with the light.
"Mr. Dragov," she spoke determinedly, "I'm not ready to give up just yet. I believe you can do it. Please go back to Harborview for another try. There has to be a weak link, something you haven't seen."
"The challenges are numerous," Dragov deliberated as they walked on. "Pescadero presents formidable barriers, from its fortified walls to the vigilant goon towers. Even if we successfully breach these defenses, there's the daunting task of traversing the territory undetected. And then, even if we manage to extract Mischa Barton, the question remains: where to? I see too many risks for a venture in which failure would not be an option. I feel they aren't worth it. I'm sorry, Miss Lakas, but the cards are stacked against us."
"Bullshit!" Kathy said. "In two world wars, men escaped from prison camps worse than Pescadero State Hospital and without any outside help. They made their way on foot across hundreds of miles of enemy territory, some of them even walked clean out of Nazi Germany. And that was in the middle of wartime. I don't believe it's impossible. Give it just one last try."
They turned to walk back towards the bus terminal.
Dragov's tone carried a note of caution as he asserted, "Your colleagues are playing a dangerous game here, risking too much for the sake of a mere actress. After what transpired in Harborview, they should understand the perils of operating beyond the law's protection. It's time to cut your losses and abandon this venture. Let Barton face her fate, however grim it may be."
"I believe that the world needs a new creed of human rights," Kathy said, always the fighter. "If we can only get people to understand that human dignity and freedom is their right and their security, then that creed can have just as powerful an influence on mankind's development now as capitalism or communism at the turn of the century. We need to do something massive to gain attention. Get Mischa Barton out for me and I'll hold her name up and brandish it to the world like a banner," Kathy promised. "I'll build a movement around her."
The tannoy was calling her bus. "Will you do that?"
"Miss Lakas, your committee may not like...."
"To hell with the committee," Kathy interrupted brusquely. "I'm asking you."
Dragov stared unblinkingly at her. Tall, and attractive, the sheer force of her personality was impossible to ignore.
"Very well," Dragov said. "I'll go back, but first I need to get myself some protection. I'm not going in there unarmed again. Secondly, I want to know and read everything there is documented about Mischa Barton."
Kathy insisted, "You should visit my brother in Paris. He's got files and information on every theatrical figure in Europe. He'll know more about Mischa Barton than anyone else."
Kathy turned left at the ticket booth before her tension level eased. She reassured Dragov, "You can call me Kathy," just before disappearing.
