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The Dubois family lived in a squalid, crumbling 5-story apartment block just behind the Barrio Esperanza. Dragov took his time finding somewhere to park in the narrow, garbage-strewn street, letting Etienne go up first. Kathy was amazed that such a sordid area could exist after the almost clinical cleanliness of the rest of America, but Dragov had seen it before. They went through a doorway into a dank hallway and climbed past ragged kids playing on the steep steps. Dragov found the apartment and knocked on the door. They heard the noise of voices raised in argument inside and then the door was flung open. A thin blonde woman confronted them, openly hostile.
"So you've come," she snapped at Dragov. "The last time we heard from you my son waited in a bus station for you half the night. You know how the boy hero-worships you. He wouldn't leave, his father had to go and get him in the end."
"Not now, Amelie," Etienne tried to remonstrate.
"Yes, now," she answered furiously, shaking off her husband's restraining hand. "I don't want this guy here, he brings trouble wherever he goes. We've got enough problems. We're not here legally, INS will deport us if they ever find that out."
Dragov was not prepared to be harangued on a doorstep. He turned to go, but Amelie saw the expression on her husband's face and put out her hand to stop him.
"I'm sorry," she said resignedly, her shoulders sagging in defeat. "It's the memories I fight against, I don't mean to make you unwelcome. There's food prepared for all of us, please come in."
She led them into a tiny apartment. Compared to the rest of the building, she had worked wonders: brightening the dark walls with pictures, some of them carefully cut from magazines and pasted on boards. It was apparent that they had had nothing when they came and that he had skimped and saved and collected and worked her heart out to make her family as warm and as comfortable as she could. She saw that Dragov and Kathy were seated, then quickly made her way to the kitchen. Kathy made an excuse to leave the men: she found Amelie leaning against the sink, weeping silently to herself. She heard Katahy come in and hastily straightened her shoulders and dried her tears.
"I thought maybe I could help with something," Kathy offered quietly.
Amelie turned to face her. It was clear that she had once been a very pretty woman. Some of her looks remained, but her face was thin now, pinched with the misery and poverty of her existence as an illegal alien among strangers in a land far from her home.
"I don't understand that magic that man has with men," she said angrily, referring to Dragov. "My husband lost a hand and half his face for him in Congo, and still he has only to snap his fingers and Etienne would drop everything and follow him." She closed her eyes wearily. "I haven't the strength to start again. He came here for a reason, I know it," she said.
There was a cry from the next room and she put her hands over her ears as if to block out the noise. Then she went out and returned with a small child, now lying quietly in her arms.
"Our youngest," she said, rocking the child. "She is nearly three. Do you know what Dragov wants of my husband?" she asked almost pleadingly of Kathy.
"I don't," Kathy answered. "I don't. He doesn't tell me and I don't know what goes on in his mind." She paused. "Did you know him when he had his wife and child?"
Amelie shook her head. "Eitenne met him after that when he and Zoltan defected to the West. To me, he was always a cold-hearted bastard but the men who followed him loved him. I couldn't understand why." She pulled herself together. "Come, we'd better serve the men their dinner."
Pascal sat by his father's side and watched Dragov throughout the meal, which infuriated his mother. She tried repeatedly to send the boy to bed but Etienne wouldn't hear of it. He was gentle but firm. "Tonight we are celebrating," he said. "Let the boy stay."
Kathy helped to clear away the dishes.
"You have done some good," Amelie observed from the safety of the kitchen. "With you at least Dragov is half human." She shot Kathy a shrewd glance. "You're in love with him," she said and Kathy nodded. "You're a fool," Amelie warned, "the man's a criminal, he brings trouble wherever he goes."
The words came out more sharply than she had intended. She was beginning to like the girl: it was good having another woman to talk to. Her expression softened.
"It's Christmas in two days," she said. "Where'll you be then? Alone?"
"I don't know," Kathy shrugged. "Maybe I'll go back to L.A. Dragov doesn't want me here."
They went into the living room with the coffee.
"You must let her stay for Christmas," Amelie demanded of Dragov. "We'll have a meal here." She turned to her husband. "We always used to have a big Christmas."
"Why don't you move to a different country? Somewhere safer than the U.S.A., where your enemies can't reach you?" She noticed a concerned look on Amelie's face, a mixture of worry and curiosity.
"It's Etienne," Amelie sighed, "he won't leave."
"I won't leave because of the freedom here," Etienne said. " I can hide better, and maybe, just maybe, one day, we can leave. And when we do, we'll head back to France."
"If he hasn't killed himself before then," Amelie cut in bitterly. "He works through the day, then drives cars at night. The children and I barely see him. But it's always Pascal must have this and Pascal must have that. Go to bed," she snapped at the boy. "Don't sit there listening to your parents argue, you have schoolwork to do in the morning."
"Did you know Zoltan?" Kathy asked as the boy left the room.
Amelie looked up, thoroughly alarmed. "Zoltan is here too?! I would have thought he would have destroyed himself by now. I don't want that maniac coming near me or my family."
Dragov caught Kathy's eye in a warning.
"Zoltan will stay here he is." He spoke firmly. "You won't see him."
Etienne shot Dragov a surreptitious glance, understanding by Zoltan's presence in California, U.S.A. that Dragov was working on something.
When they were ready to leave Etienne found an excuse to walk with Dragov to the street.
"I could use your help," Dragov said quietly to him.
"To do what?"
"I could show you tomorrow."
"I can slip away from my job and meet you around one."
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Dragov drove out and picked Etienne up at the garage where he worked during the day.
"How's it going?" he said as Etienne claimed into the car.
"O.K.," Etienne said with forced cheerfulness, wiping his hand clean on a piece of cotton waste.
"How do they treat you at this place?" Dragov asked casually as he pulled off the garage forecourt into the mainstream of traffic.
Etienne Dubois had never been rich but he had lived well in Europe, where his driving skill had made him something of a hero.
"Perhaps it was a mistake coming here," Etienne said. It was the first time he had ever admitted that, even to himself. "I thought with so much money around I'd get my hands on some. But it's not easy unless you can get papers. The bastard who employs me only pays me half what he pays the other mechanics, the same with the stock cars. Everyone takes a cut from an illegal alien and if you complain they report you to Immigration and you'll be deported---they've got me by the balls!"
"Can't you get back into racing again?"
Etienne held up his steel claw. "Who's going to trust me in an expensive racing car with this?"
They drove on silently for a while, and then Etienne's confidence reasserted itself. "Alright," he said. "What's this job you have in mind for me?"
Dragov took Harbor Boulevard heading east toward Harborview. From there, he turned onto a smaller road leading out of the city, passing through some of the less-populated areas. He turned onto an old, abandoned road that led to the outskirts of the ghost town Silverton. Once there, he continued driving in the direction of the old cemetery, threading his way through the deserted streets.
"I want you to arrange a traffic accident."
"Where?"
"Etienne, imagine an unmarked, nondescript van proceeding along the Pacific Coast Highway in this direction. Probably just before sunset, so there would be little other traffic on the highway. A truck suddenly loses control, swerving across the road. I want it to end up blocking the path of the unmarked vehicle, on its side, just before they reach the designated point---here." Dragov got out of the car and stood by a side road. "It's important that the vehicle you hit ends up crashing into this side road. The whole thing must look like an accident. There will be state troopers in unmarked cars protecting this van and they must not suspect for one moment that anything has occurred other than a traffic accident. Can you do it?"
Etienne looked out across the broad five-lane stretch of highway. "What kind of truck do you want me to drive?"
"That's up to you."
"Can I modify it to help me control it in a spin?"
"No, It must be a perfectly normal truck. The same goes for you inside, you can't wear a helmet or have any extra protection other than a normal seatbelt. We can't take the risk of some policeman with sharp eyes spotting anything out of the ordinary."
"What sort of vehicle will I have to hit?"
"It's a 1975 Dodge Tradesman 200, white, and it's about twenty feet long. Make sure you target that one."
"It's quite top-heavy, especially considering its length. A sharp blow to the side could easily send it tumbling." Etienne pondered. "There should be no issue. I'll use my old Chevy C10 pickup. It's sturdy enough to handle the job." He looked back across the highway, his brow furrowing. "Oui, I understand. You want it to seem like the van is caught in the chaos of a highway accident. It's a tall order, but with some planning and precision driving, it can be done."
"You're a good driver," Dragov reminded him. "And you've had lots of practice at accidents."
Etienne grinned. "I suppose you want the Dodge van not only to end up at the exact spot of your choosing but also to be knocked over onto a certain side?"
Dragov took him seriously.
"I want it to topple over just after the bend," he said, indicating a stretch of ground with more uneven terrain. "The ground is soft there, with some small bushes for cover. Make sure it falls to the left-hand side. That's the normal way it would fall anyway, but most important for us is that the guard in the front will be trapped against the road with the driver on top of him. The steering wheel will get in their way and we'll see to it that they don't manage to open the driver's door until we're ready. In the back, the psychiatric orderly will fall away from the patient so that we can get her out quickly."
"I take it that the patient will be strapped down."
"Yes, strapped into a stretcher and the stretcher will be secured, that's their normal procedure."
"Who's the patient?"
"Mischa Barton."
Etienne whistled softly. "You know, rescuing a famous person like that, especially in America, it's like messing with their gods. If we fail, there'll be hell to pay."
"I know. But your job will be to arrange the accident, this one great stunt, if you like. You won't be involved beyond that."
"How much is this 'one great stunt' worth?"
"I thought twenty-five thousand U.S. dollars would be a fair payment."
"That's a lot of money," Etienne said, tempted. "With that behind me, I could break free and maybe start up something of my own."
"Will you do it?"
"First I'll have to see what can be done to achieve what you want without breaking my neck."
Dragov nodded. "Will you bring me a scale model of this area including the side road, Silverton, the cemetery, and this stretch of the highway? We can work on it together."473Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1HZ79YWtZ0
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Dragov contacted Reed-Henry. They met in the old cemetery by the bend.
"It's a good plan," he agreed. "It could work and from this spot, it's only a few hundred yards through the trees to this cemetery. We can take Ms. Barton from you there."
"I have one problem," Dragov said. "My men will have to pass themselves off as a squad of California State Policemen."
"Indeed, that's a conundrum." Reed-Henry looked thoughtful. "Successfully impersonating state troopers requires more than just putting on a uniform; it demands an intimate understanding of their procedures, mannerisms, and the institutional culture. These law enforcement agencies have deep-rooted traditions and protocols that any impostor must convincingly emulate to avoid suspicion."
"They do not know regular police matters. That's why I want you to recommend someone to train us, to ensure that we're dressed and behave correctly."
"I see," Reed-Henry considered. "How long would you expect this impersonation to last?"
"Not more than a few minutes and it would be at dusk. But even though it will be during a time of great confusion, nothing we do or say must cause suspicion."
"I'll try and find someone to help you," Reed-Henry said. As they walked back through the old, deserted streets of Silverton, passing by the cemetery on their way he asked, "Have you heard whispers about an annual law enforcement exercise in the state called 'Operation Golden Bear'?"
Dragov shook his head.
"Operation Golden Bear is a statewide law enforcement drill, a massive coordinated effort involving multiple agencies. They simulate various scenarios, from hostage situations to high-speed chases, testing response times, and coordination between different branches. It's a way to keep everyone sharp and ensure that the response is swift and effective in the event of a real emergency. But here's the kicker: during Golden Bear, they utilize real police vehicles, uniforms, and equipment. It's as close to the real deal as you can get without an actual crisis unfolding. If we could combine the time of the exercise with the time that you make your move against Ms. Barton, then it would add considerably to the general confusion and few people would challenge an extra police patrol out on an evening such as that."
"How much warning could you give me before the exercise takes place?"
"Only the Governor and a few of his top aides know the date and time of the exercise. If I could find out I could give you, say, a maximum of 36 hours notice. You must appreciate," Reed-Henry warned, "that my regional supervisor knows nothing about this; the orders I have to assist you come directly from Langley. I think that's all until nearer the time. Oh, yes," he added as if he'd almost forgotten, "we have lost track of Karakazov. We suspect that he's left the country. Have you come up against him or any of his flunkies lately?"
"No," Dragov replied, wondering if Reed-Henry somehow knew of their agreement. "He seems to be leaving me alone at this time."
"I wouldn't count on that," Reed-Henry said pleasantly. "It's always a worry for us when a man like Karakazov drops out of sight." He climbed into his car and slammed the door. "I'll be in touch over someone to help you with the California State Police."473Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡObTkxqJ5qd
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Dragov took Kathy out to dinner. She noticed Zoltan further down the restaurant, sitting alone with his back against the wall. A couple of very pretty waitresses hovered around him and a girl at the bar was trying to catch his eye. His presence was beginning to rattle Kathy.
"Can't he join us or leave us alone?" she asked. "He makes me nervous watching us all the time."
"I'm afraid he's necessary," Dragov replied. "I'm prepared to accept the contract," he changed the subject. "My price will be $225,000 U.S. That's a great deal of money. Are you sure you want to go on with this?" He was hoping that she'd back out, but Kathy had no intention of withdrawing.
"We'll pay you," she answered. "Michael will clear up all the details with you. Can you tell me how you're going to do it?"
Dragov shook his head. "No, but with the help of the CIA, I think I can assure you there will be a minimum of violence."
She was conscious that they were both very tense, their conversation becoming formal and businesslike. "When will you make your move?"
"Early February."
"That long?"
"It's soon enough. You and Michael will have less than five weeks to complete your arrangements to receive Ms. Barton," he reminded her.
"Michael's got all that in hand."
"When do you want her delivered?"
"What choice do we have?"
"Brazil, Cuba, Taiwan---these places suit me best."
"I'll speak to Michael and get back to you, but Brazil sounds good to me."
"Very well," Dragov said. Both realized the commitment had been made. "The time has come for you to leave Harborview. I need you to contact your brother in Paris. Have him meet you in Los Angeles. It's dangerous for you to stay here any longer."
She looked at his face and didn't argue, though she suspected by now that his hard exterior was merely a front. She had seen the warmth with Etienne and his family: he was human and vulnerable after all and it gave her hope that he could care for her.
She reached out and touched his hand. He followed her onto the dance floor. Her blue-gray eyes seemed to be searching his. He thought her very beautiful and she moved with a sensuous grace. She felt his arms go around her and she kissed him.
"I'm going to miss you," she whispered, hating the thought of leaving him. "Take care of yourself and Zoltan."
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