Circle in the Square - CHAPTER TWELVE

Dragov found Manuel's address in a small apartment complex on the outskirts of Harborview. The complex appeared modest, with peeling paint and a worn exterior. It was not far from Pescadero, situated within a mile or two. When Manuel opened the door, he was a wiry man with weathered features, his dark eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and caution as he regarded Dragov. His hair was unkempt, and he wore a faded T-shirt and jeans, giving him a casual, laid-back appearance.

"Agent Reed-Henry said I could find you here."

"Yessir. Come on in, I've been expecting you."

As Dragov followed Manuel into his apartment, he noticed the modest living space furnished with simple, second-hand furniture. "Wife's out at work, I'm afraid," said Manuel. "She won't be working much longer, we're expecting a baby, see? Can I get you some coffee?"

Dragov hesitated.

"It's no trouble, I've got a Thermos bottle full of it."

The room was dimly lit, with sunlight filtering through dusty curtains. The air carried the faint scent of cooking spices and stale tobacco smoke. Various personal items were scattered about—a few books on a worn coffee table, a half-empty ashtray, and a well-used sofa with faded upholstery. The space felt lived-in and comfortable, yet tinged with a sense of resignation and weariness.

"Tell me, Manuel," Dragov began, settling down in a chair, "what exactly are your duties as a nurse at Pescadero?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Dragov," Manuel started, his tone cautious yet candid, "my duties are mostly attending to the basic needs of the patients, administering medication, and assisting the doctors during examinations and treatments. It's all quite routine." Pausing for a moment, he continued, "As for Marta, well, yes, it's true that we both found solace in each other's company amidst the challenges of working at Pescadero. There's a certain understanding that comes from sharing such experiences. And, well, the second time around, you tend to appreciate companionship in a different light, if you know what I mean."

He poured out the coffee and gave Dragov a cup.

"Manuel, you have to understand," Dragov began, his tone grave and urgent, "if you're caught helping us with Ms. Barton, you could lose your job, maybe even face prison time. This is serious business, and I need to know if you're willing to take that risk."

"Mr. Dragov, I understand the risks, but I'm willing to take them," Manuel affirmed, his voice resolute. "I've seen firsthand the appalling treatment at Pescadero – the mean orderlies, the callous psychiatrists, the inhuman conditions. And Mischa, well, she's not exactly an angel herself," he continued, his tone tinged with frustration. "But I've come to care about her despite her attitude."

"I understand,' Dragov said. He had thought about little other than Mischa Barton for months now, and he used an expression of Zoltan's to explain. "The lady's beginning to grow into my bones, too. Tell me about Mischa's supposed neurological disorder, is it fatal?"

"No, it's not fatal. It's called Neurogenic Dysphagia Syndrome, a rare neurological disorder affecting her ability to swallow. The treatment she receives at Cedars Sinai involves a combination of neurostimulation therapy and targeted medication to improve neural connectivity and muscle function in her esophagus."

"What's she like, describe her to me as she is now?"

"Since her commitment, Mischa's physical appearance has deteriorated," Manuel explained with a heavy sigh. "She's lost weight, her skin looks pale and sallow, and her once bright eyes now carry a weary, defeated look. And her attitude..." He paused, shaking his head. "It's gotten worse. She's constantly cursing, yelling at the staff, and demanding special treatment. She reeks of cigarette smoke, and despite her condition, she still tries to exert power and control over others. But yes, there's still something about her, a lingering aura of charisma and beauty. Even in her current state, she stands out in a crowd and her voice... It's harsher now, roughened by anger and frustration. As for her accent, she's let her English roots come back, perhaps as a defiant reminder of who she used to be. Her hair, once lustrous and vibrant, now looks dull and unkempt, reflecting the inner turmoil she's going through."

"I take it," Dragov said, "that the guards would shoot anyone trying to gain access directly to Pescadero Hospital, like going over the wall."

"The guards would shoot without hesitation," Manuel affirmed grimly. "The law gives them that right, and they won't hesitate to use it. Many have tried to forcibly extract friends and loved ones from the facility over the years, but they've all failed. Those incidents are usually hushed up and not reported to the authorities."

"I wanted to check that the guards had the right to shoot without question and you have satisfied me on that. I wasn't thinking of approaching her in Pescadero.

"Yes, I heard that."

"Then you will know that we intend to arrange an incident near the old ghost town of Silverton?"

"I do."

"Tell me two things. I'm counting on the fact that very few people have seen Ms. Barton as she is now, and much of the identity goes out of a corpse when the face sags and the eyes become glazed. If we were to switch, say the body of a dead woman of similar facial characteristics to Barton and keep up the deception until the imposter is taken to Cedars Sinai, how long do you think we'd have before she's discovered?"

The nurse considered for some moments.

"You might have as much as four hours, maybe more," he said at last. "But it depends on a few factors. The coroner would demand to be present at any autopsy performed for Mischa Barton. And her father, Lord Barton, would want his people there, too. It would take at least four hours to assemble all the necessary individuals concerning Mischa Barton. No one would move without them being present. Much of Pescadero is run like that—meticulously controlled and monitored.

"I can tell you a story that happened just after I got to Cedars Sinai. Mischa was moved there for her regular medical checkup. The bureaucracy we had to work through was staggering. When she leaves for the hospital, four representatives---one from the Health Department, one from the Department of Corrections, one from the Attorney General's Office, and one legal advisor from Pescadero--- have to go with her. No decisions can be made without all of them in agreement. Of course, I didn't go with her to Cedars Sinai, but I heard she was taken to a maximum-security ward. It was a scorching day, and she simply asked if a window could be opened. But could the doctors make a move without all four representatives huddling in a corner of the room to reach an agreement on whether or not the window could be opened? No, they couldn't. When the time comes I expect you could use this kind of bureaucratic buildup around the actress to your advantage."

"I will remember that," Dragov said.

"And the other thing?" the nurse asked.

"We can't just wait for Ms. Barton to be moved," Dragov explained. "It's vital for us that we pick the time and force the escorts to take a route of our choosing. For that, we would need to find some drug that would make Ms. Barton sufficiently ill so that she would have to be rushed directly to Cedars Sinai. If the state police escorts were convinced it was a true emergency I'm sure they'd use the Silverton route. If we knew when the drug was going to be administered, we could be waiting for them."

"Well, lately Mischa's been dealing with respiratory issues typical of an excessive smoker. But she's also battling chronic bronchitis and recently she's been showing signs of early emphysema. It's a real mess. The only thing she seems to respond to is a drug we've been giving her called PulmoFix. It helps with her breathing, but it's not a long-term solution. If we were to administer the reverse of it, let's say PulmoStop, it would cause severe respiratory distress. She'd struggle to breathe, and if not treated promptly, it could indeed be fatal."

"What procedure would be followed in that case?"

"The doctor on call would have to administer emergency treatment immediately. That would likely involve putting her on oxygen and administering a fast-acting bronchodilator injection, maybe something like RespiroMax. If we switch her medication abruptly to PulmoStop, it would indeed cause a dramatic effect, and the doctor might be initially confused by her respiratory distress. He'd have to act fast to stabilize her, and he'd likely be concerned about the risk of a stroke or heart attack due to the sudden change. Admitting her to the intensive care unit at Cedar Sinai would be a top priority to monitor her condition closely."

"I'll strike in February when the California Highway Patrol is on duty."

"Good idea. The CHiP wouldn't want Ms. Barton dying on them any more than you would. By the time they got the oxygen mask on that woman, the Health Department would be calling out the CHiP and trying to get hold of her."

"PulmoStop," Dragov said softly. "I take it Reed-Henry has been talking to you about this?"

"You could say that," the nurse agreed. His eyes met Dragov's and there was a flash of understanding between them.

"Will you be prepared to administer it?"

"Yes, sir. Give me two days' warning and I'll see to it that the patient leaves Pescadero within a few minutes either way of the time you want with her."

"Could you put some kind of mark on the unmarked van that is carrying Miss Barton so that we can identify it?"

"No problem. I'll place a small reflective strip on the underside of the driver's side mirror of the unmarked van carrying Mischa Barton. It'll be hidden in plain sight, visible only to someone who knows where to look. Would that do?"

"It would be best if you put it on the underside of the passenger's side, on the right."

They got to their feet.

"You've been very helpful," Dragov told him.

The nurse cleared his throat. "I've no doubt you'll be paid handsomely for this, so since I'll be working with you...."

"Of course," Dragov said, anticipating his demand. "You can take your share equally with the others."

"How much loot can we expect?" the nurse asked.

"It's being arranged even as we speak."

Dragov retraced his steps back to Silverton, the ghost town, to meticulously check the route taken by the Pescadero group once again. He walked through the area surrounding the town, carefully timing each section of the journey from Pescadero to Cedars Sinai. As he observed the terrain and landmarks, the pieces of his plan began to fit together, and he grew more confident in its feasibility. He made mental notes and confirmed the contract in his mind, knowing that every detail mattered. After completing his reconnaissance, Dragov phoned the hotel. The concierge told him that Kathy had left a few minutes before. He respectfully added that she was dressed for a night on the town.

Kathy had sat in the hotel room. After the high of the previous night, she was feeling depressed. She had never been good at waiting. There was no sign of even Zoltan. She wandered into the bathroom and looked at her face in the mirror, thought listlessly of taking a bath, then the phone rang. She rushed to pick it up. It was Tom Dade.

"Hi there, Kathy," the cheerful voice boomed down the phone at her.

It was good to hear him. His big bear warmth and unfailing humor always seemed to cheer her up.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing."

"Where's Dragov?"

"Out."

"Hey, Kathy. Listen, you won't believe what just landed in my lap. Two Russian nationals sent me tickets to catch that Soviet Sci-Fi flick, 'Solaris,' at the Royal Madrid Theater. My boss thinks it's good for international relations or something, so he's got it in his head that I should tag along with them. Now, here's the kicker: I've got an extra ticket, and I was wondering if you'd like to join us. Be my good Samaritan, you know? Dragov wouldn't kill me for it, would he?"

"No," she said. "I'm sure he'll understand." She hesitated for only a moment; the thought of seeing a movie made in the USSR and with English subtitles intrigued her. "I'm in."

"It's a date! Pick you up at about 6:30 then."

"Fine."

Tom Dade arrived in his battered Mustang. He was in uniform. They took a left turn onto Ocean Boulevard, passing by a lake with picturesque boats bobbing gently in the water. Eventually, they arrived at a narrow street lined with cozy cafes and boutique shops, where the Royal Madrid Theater was located. Dade found a convenient parking spot just a short walk from the theater, nestled between two towering buildings. The area was bustling with activity as people made their way to various attractions nearby, adding to the lively atmosphere of the neighborhood. They approached the entrance, where a large, ornate door stood invitingly open. The facade was adorned with intricate details, harking back to a bygone era of grandeur and sophistication. Above the entrance, the theater's name was proudly displayed in elegant lettering, welcoming patrons to step inside and experience the magic of the silver screen.

"Solaris" was expected to be more than just a typical science fiction film; it was anticipated to be a showcase of Soviet cinematic prowess and artistic excellence. While some may have anticipated special effects, the primary focus was likely on the film's narrative depth and philosophical themes, given its source material and the reputation of its director. As they entered the brilliantly lit foyer of the Royal Madrid Theater, Kathy and Tom found themselves amidst a throng of excited moviegoers. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation and chatter as people eagerly awaited the screening of "Solaris." Among the crowd, there were VIPs and local celebrities, drawn to the event by the allure of Soviet cinema and the chance to witness history in the making. Their presence added an air of excitement and prestige to the occasion, heightening the anticipation for what promised to be an unforgettable cinematic experience.

The interior of the exuded a sense of grandeur and old-world charm. The lobby was adorned with elegant décor, featuring intricate chandeliers, plush carpets, and ornate furnishings. Rich red velvet curtains framed the entrance to the main auditorium, adding a touch of opulence to the space. Rows of plush seats awaited the eager audience, arranged in a gentle curve to provide optimal viewing angles. The walls were adorned with classic movie posters and framed artwork, celebrating the rich history of cinema. Soft lighting bathed the room in a warm glow, creating a cozy and inviting atmosphere. At the front of the theater, a large screen awaited, poised to come to life with the magic of cinema. Surround sound speakers were strategically positioned throughout the room, promising an immersive audio experience that would complement the visual spectacle about to unfold. Kathy couldn't take her eyes off the people around her.

"This beats Carnegie Hall on its good days," she gasped.

"You've seen the best part," Tom Dade replied mournfully, adjusting his bulk into his seat, trying to get comfortable. "Now comes a long one-hundred-sixty-seven minutes of movie. I won't understand a word those Russians are saying, subtitles notwithstanding."

There were seats by the screen. In one of them, a lone man watched the film's opening. Tom Dade pointed him out to Kathy. The man had a ravaged pale face and hunched shoulders. He was wearing a coat, despite the warm auditorium.

"Blake Karkazov," Tom Dade remarked casually. "Do you know him?"

"No," Kathy said. "Who is he?"

"A temporal dynamics assistant for QDS Corporation."

Kathy glanced up at the seat at the end of the movie but the man had left before the lights went up.

They hit the cool night air as they exited the theater. Kathy's head was still spinning from the glitter and glamor of the movie as they walked to the car.

"It wasn't the dreary propaganda film I expected," Kathy stated, astonished. "I never thought the Soviets could spin such a moving futuristic tale."

"All you saw tonight, honey," Dade warned, "was a fantasy. Come on, I'll show you something."

They walked past the car and approached a stark, menacing-looking one-story building just across the street. Its weather-beaten facade loomed ominously under the streetlights, casting long shadows onto the cracked pavement. The windows, boarded up and stained with grime, gave the impression of secrets locked away within. As they stopped to take a closer look, an eerie silence enveloped them, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.

Tom's voice carried a tinge of fascination and dread as he recounted the dark past of the building. "This eyesore has a chilling history," he began, his tone grave. "Back in '40, it was a hub for Soviet spies, agents of Stalin's NKVD. They were after dissidents, sure, but rumor has it they also used it as a staging area for the assassination of Leon Trotsky." He paused for effect, letting the weight of the revelation sink in before continuing. "Those bastards operated ruthlessly, following strict procedures to avoid detection. They used secret codes, hidden compartments, hell, the whole nine yards. And the thing is, they might have gotten away with it had there not been a slip-up that led to their capture."

Kathy noticed a faded but still discernible hammer and sickle emblem painted on the front wall of the building, a chilling reminder of its dark past as a hub for Soviet espionage. Dade nudged her and pointed to an old bum slumped against a building wall, just a few feet away from where Kathy and Dade stood. His body was frail and emaciated, bearing the signs of a hard life and advanced age. His clothes hung loosely on his gaunt frame, tattered and worn from years of use and exposure to the elements.

A story about that old man has been floating around for years. Some folks say he's the real Leon Trotsky. The one Stalin's boogymen killed in Mexico was just an imposter. Nobody's ever been able to prove it, though."

Dade took her arm and led her away.

"This world we're living in, it's just a damn toilet. Names might change, but people? Nah, they stay the same. Evil's evil, no matter what the calendar says."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Kathy said defiantly, thinking of all the people she knew and loved.

They reached the car.

"Listen," said Dade. "This is your night out on the town, I don't want to spoil it. I know a great restaurant, Elysium, it's the best in Harborview, if not all of California."

They found the Elysium, in all its fading glory, down by the lighthouse. The interior seemed not to have been refurnished since the state's heyday in the threadbare thirties. Kathy gazed at the worn scarlet curtains, shabby carpets, high-backed chairs, and the waiters in long aprons and old-fashioned evening clothes. Two aged musicians, one on the piano and the other on the violin, broke into the theme from The Sting as soon as they recognized Tom Dade's uniform. They welcomed him warmly.

"They should have retired a long time ago, but they couldn't bear to. Music is all they know," Dade explained.

They took a table by the wall.

"Interesting place this," Tom Dade commented quietly. "It's not just the music. You've got your student radicals, white-collar criminals, and foreign terrorists allegedly here to pick up black market weapons to take back home."

At the neighboring tables, Dade pointed out a diverse array of individuals. Some appeared to be tourists, with casual attire and cameras slung around their necks, while others wore business suits, engrossed in intense discussions. A group of teenagers sat nearby, their attire marked by a mix of urban streetwear and gang colors. Their racial diversity reflected the melting pot of the state, with members from various ethnic backgrounds. Kathy watches them discreetly, noting their peculiar mannerisms and gestures, particularly one who bore a striking resemblance to Dragov in his confident demeanor and piercing gaze. Despite the lively atmosphere, Kathy's appetite waned as she longed to return to Dragov's embrace, yearning for the comfort and security of his presence. But Tom Dade was holding out the menu, asking for her to order. Dade was a perceptive man. He smiled at her. "Don't worry," he said softly. "You won't turn into a pumpkin, I'll have you back at your hotel before twelve." He found himself a little jealous of the spell Dragov had cast on her.

"Well, Kathy," he teased her, "you must like our little town to be back so soon."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is," Kathy said. She bit her bottom lip and her eyes twinkled.

"The man's exciting company?"

She nodded.

"Dragov's got a friend," Tom Dade said casually. "No one ever gets to see him."

"You mean Zoltan?"

"Yeah, that must be him. What's he like?"

"You want me to describe him?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he's young and impossibly good-looking; he's just a kooky kid," she dismissed him.

"He's the one with the gun, right? Watches Dragov's back?" Dade persevered.

"Yup."

"Do you know where he lives? I mean which building he's in near Dragov?"

"Why do you ask?" Kathy's suspicions were shared.

"It's not important. What's Dragov up to? You said he was off seeing someone."

Kathy realized that Tom Dade was apparently in cop mode now, grilling her all evening and she'd been too much of a fool to realize it.

"Damn you, Tom!" she sounded furious, realization dawning. "You set me up right from the start when you gave me all that information, then you let me go as bait and waited to see who I'd bring in. Now you're using me to spy on Dragov. Why should you be helping Reed-Henry, what's your part in all this?"

"Even a traffic cop is still a cop," Dade said. "It's called 'probable cause.' See, that guy you dismissed as a 'kooky kid' is one of the best killers in the business. He killed three men right here in Harborview only days before you arrived and if you were bait, as you think, then, in Dragov, you've reeled in a shark and it's a great white."

Tom Dade seemed sincere. His massive hand reached out and covered hers. "Look, Kathy, I know you got involved in this because you're a rebel looking for a cause, but you'd be smart to drop the hell outta it. If you don't, then I might have to take you to the station for questioning."

"What?!" Kathy was bewildered, unable to believe what she was hearing. "I thought you guys were on the same side!"

"The department's only Internal Affairs officer caught wind of me chatting with Dragov. But guess who's supplied us with the info about him? Our so-called pals at the FBI. And now they're not sure about him. They dug into his past. It's the usual suspects: his KGB training, the mercenary gigs. You name it. Just another day in paradise, huh?"

Kathy leaned back in her seat and breathed in deeply. She didn't know what to think. Her mind was racing. Her instincts told her she couldn't trust Dade anymore, only Dragov.

"Listen," she played for time. "I should be getting back now."

Dade relaxed and spoke casually, "Hey, just giving you a heads-up, Kathy. Think about it, okay? I'd hate to see you caught up in something messy."

He dropped her outside the hotel and refused an invitation to come in for coffee.

"It's late," he said. "And these Russians have got a reputation for being insanely jealous."

"He's not a Russian anymore," Kathy defended him. "He and Dragov are both men without a country."

"A Russian's a Russian," Tom Dade grinned cheerfully. "I've been with you all evening and I'm not risking him putting a bullet in me."

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CHAPTER TWELVE

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