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The Greyhound bus rumbled into the sprawling Harborview bus terminal after a journey that wound its way down the scenic coastal route from Los Angeles, taking approximately two hours to reach its destination. As it came to a complete stop, the brakes hissed and the engine grumbled, emitting a low rumble that reverberated through the terminal. Passengers shuffled off the bus, their footsteps echoing against the concrete floor as they made their way towards the bustling terminal. The Harborview bus terminal, known locally as Seaside Station, buzzed with activity as travelers hurried to catch their connecting buses or reunite with loved ones.
After stepping off the bus, Viktor Dragov collected his bag with a swift, practiced motion, his keen eyes scanning the cavernous lobby of Seaside Station. Amidst the bustling crowd, he couldn't help but notice the photographs of wanted fugitives hanging on the wall, their faces staring back at him with an ominous air. With a glance, he ensured that his face did not feature among them, a silent reminder of the enemies he had made back home. The thought of their lingering vendetta sent a shiver down his spine; after all, the vengeance of the Soviet Union respected no borders. Despite the potential risks, Dragov remained vigilant as he navigated through the bustling terminal, every sense attuned to the possibility of danger lurking in the shadows.
After purchasing a large street map of Harborview at a Triple-A kiosk, Viktor Dragov swiftly navigated its intricate folds, pinpointing a cheap hotel nestled nearby. Making his way through the bustling streets, he arrived at the modest hotel, its faded sign bearing the name "Harborview Inn." Situated by the bustling harborfront, the hotel overlooked the iconic Harborview Lighthouse, a distinctive landmark of the town. Upon check-in, Dragov was conducted to a small yet tidy room, furnished with a comfortable bed, a modest table, and a single chair. The room boasted a small mini-bar stocked with essentials, providing Dragov with the basic comforts he required for his stay. Despite its simplicity, Dragov found solace in the quiet ambiance of the hotel, appreciating its unassuming charm amidst the bustling town.
As soon as the concierge had left, he sellotaped the map of Harborview onto the wall above his bed and then began to trace the major arteries and suburbs of the city, imprinting the street names in his mind. He memorized the situation of the State Police barracks and the side streets surrounding Pescadero until, at least on paper, he could find his way around like a local.
Darkness fell and he stood at the window, the reflection of the blue neon lights across the road flashing in his face. He opened the window a little and smelt the breath of the city streets, watched the prostitutes and the pimps, the scurrying mass of people silhouetted in the glare of carl lights. He stood immobile for a long time, breathing in the sounds and the smell of the city, feeling its pulse, watching and listening.
In the morning Dragov rose very early and for a full hour put himself through a grueling routine of physical exercise. He phoned Kathy Lakas and arranged a meeting, then showered, dressed, and walked through the Harborview Lighthouse district with its nightclubs, cinemas, and shops. Kathy had been in Harborview for a week. She had rented a little VW Beetle and was waiting for him by the entrance to the Tranquility Gardens. He crossed the street and slid into the car beside her.
The darkness was giving way to gray daylight, and the temperature was pleasantly cool.
"Welcome to Harborville, California," Kathy greeted him wryly. Dragov nodded briefly in reply.
"Did you make contact with the local policeman?" he asked as he drove.
"Yes."
"What does he do for them?"
Kathy was concentrating on the rush-hour traffic. "He's just an ordinary traffic cop, but he's proving very helpful."
"What have you got?"
"I didn't know what you'd be looking for," Kathy said, "so I've made notes of all the information I could lay my hands on." She drew up at some lights and nodded to the folder on the dashboard shelf. "It's in there."
Dragov scanned the contents of the folder as they left the city center, crossed the bridges spanning Silberbach Creek, and turned into Via del Mar. Kathy watched him from the corner of her eye. She remembered the editor of Soldier of Fortune who had recommended Dragov saying of him: "This guy's good, he's very good----one of the best there is----only trouble is---he's Russian...."
"Holy Mother of God!" Kathy muttered under her breath, her eyes widening in disbelief at the sight of the imposing institution. "Take a look at that bastard, willya?"
Dragov looked up and saw it, a grotesque structure reminiscent of the notorious Gasr Prison in Tehran. The imposing facade was characterized by towering concrete walls topped with razor wire, creating a foreboding barrier that separated the institution from the outside world. The harsh angles and stark design of the exterior evoked a sense of oppressive authority, casting a shadow of dread over all who approached. Tall watchtowers dotted the perimeter, manned by guards who surveilled the grounds with a vigilant eye, their presence a constant reminder of the institution's ironclad security measures.
"Very well," Dragov said as Kathy parked the car, "leave me here. Remember, I work alone."
"I can't possibly let you work alone," Kathy answered him stubbornly, "I had no idea such a thing could exist in the Land of the Free." She had persuaded the committee to risk their money and their reputation on this mercenary and whatever happened, she was staying with him.
Dragov didn't argue with her, he shrugged his shoulders and got out of the car. Kathy followed him down the street. Dragov didn't waste time with the front entrance, he'd already guessed that it would be the most protected part of the institution. Instead, he continued down Via del Mariposa where the weather-beaten concrete, rose to considerable heights, its surface marred by years of neglect and decay.
As Dragov approached the institution gates, he paused by a formidable boom blocking access, its heavy metal construction imposing a barrier between him and the facility beyond. Mounted on the boom was a weather-beaten sign, its faded lettering barely legible against the backdrop of the grim surroundings. The sign read: "Authorized Personnel Only. No Entry Without Clearance. Violators Will Be Detained. By Order of Pescadero State Hospital." Beside it were two flagpoles, one flying the Bear Flag of the Republic of California and the other flag belonging to the California Mental Health and Retardation Authority at the same time. The boom lifted and a small convoy of delivery trucks rolled out through the main gates onto the street. The guards on the barrier noticed Kathy and Dragov and they moved away, returning to the car. He didn't talk and she felt conscious of being in his way. Dragov was trying to picture in his mind the area around the institution. The west and south sides were either set back but visible from the street or protected by the gates. That left the east side...
"Come on," he said impatiently.
They found their way around a small strip of waste ground leading to the east side. To the right lay a row of ad-hoc buildings that dotted the perimeter, their haphazard construction contrasting starkly with the imposing structure of the main facility. These makeshift structures serve various purposes, from administrative offices to storage facilities, their dilapidated appearance hinting at the institutional neglect that permeated the entire complex. Despite their makeshift nature, they exuded an air of grim functionality, their presence adding to the oppressive atmosphere that hung heavy over Pescadero State Hospital. On the left was a broad strip of dead ground between the four-meter-high wire fence and the main wall of the institution. At the top of the wall, spaced at regular intervals were modern concrete and glass "goon" towers. Helmeted sentries armed with assault rifles were watching in each tower.
On the north side, there was just a single line of fence, but the goon towers had less area to cover.
They waited until dark, then came back and picked the lock of one of the small ad-hoc structures. As Dragov and Kathy entered, they were met with a scene that sent shivers down their spines. The room was a grim chamber of horrors, filled with an array of ominous-looking equipment whose purpose seemed incomprehensible to Kathy. Rows of archaic devices lined the walls, their intimidating presence casting a pall over the dimly lit space. Kathy couldn't help but wonder if these instruments of torment were being used on Mischa Barton, the thought sending a chill of dread down her spine.
"We're going to spend the night here," Dragov announced, his voice firm but reassuring. "Don't be afraid. It's not such a bad place," he added, his gaze sweeping over the room with a calculating intensity. "There are objects here that could serve me well as lethal weapons."
Pescadero loomed above the gleam of searchlights. Viewed from a crack in the shutter, it was indeed the huge and grim fortress, the walls surrounding it so impenetrable that Kathy was forced to realize the sheer impossibility of the target she had chosen. How were they ever to get a 21-year-old woman out of there? She had no answer. She was beginning to feel hopelessly out of her depth in this little hamlet called Harborview. Her only hope of success now lay with the mercenary----she was forced to rely on him.
The day had been long and the ceaseless walking had worn her out. At first, she had relished all the tension and excitement of action; but now there was a fear in her, a feeling of great vulnerability at spending the night alone in a pre-fab building with this unknown man whose declared trade was violence. She wondered for a moment if she were as crazy as the inmates here, then consoled herself with the thought that a professional like the mercenary worked for money, and without her, he would receive no payment.
To her relief, Dragov ignored her. From a crack in the shutter, he watched the east wall: he knew that the fence itself would be no problem. The five-meter-high wall could be scaled, but the goon towers were so positioned that even a dimwitted sentry could pick a man off as he came over. There were a hundred meters of dead ground on this side, and he was pretty sure there would be another hundred meters of cleared killing ground on the other. Without going closer it was impossible to spot trip wires or other more sophisticated alarms.
Kathy found some foam mattresses stacked on the floor at the end of the prefab. She gave one to Dragov and wrapped the other around her as best she could.
"Let me help you," she offered for a while.
"Later," Dragov answered impatiently, not turning from the crack in the shutter. "It only needs one of us to watch at a time." He checked the times of the guard changes and watched their searchlight beams running out along the tops of the walls and over the fence. He picked up the glow of a half-hidden cigarette from time to time, as a sentry walked along the platform enjoying the pleasant, cool breeze that whistled from the Pacific Ocean. They could not afford to risk the smallest spark of light. Added to that Dragov resented any unnecessary movement that could spoil his concentration or give him away.
Kathy's watch was not luminous and she sensed the hours dragging by; the atmosphere was dismal and oppressive, with a palpable sense of foreboding lingering in the air. Despite the grim surroundings, Kathy tried to make herself as comfortable as possible, though it was a challenge given the austere conditions. She arranged some makeshift bedding on the floor, hoping to create a semblance of comfort amidst the bleakness. When Dragov had curtly rejected her offer of help, she suspected that he had brought her there for the night as a way to shake her off of him. She refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her complain, but as her nerves were racked more and more, she resented him, crouching there, ever still in the darkness by the shutter.
In what seemed like the middle of the night, Dragov reached out and shook Kathy. "You can take over now," he said. "Call me in about one hour."
Kathy watched as Dragov lay back in the darkness, assessing the information on the sinister operations at Pescadero State Hospital. It had strong ties to the California bureaucratic structure, particularly the Department of Mental Health. The high-security measures and strict prohibition on visitors stemmed from the institution's reputation for housing high-profile and potentially dangerous patients, including celebrities like Mischa Barton. Security was tight, with a significant number of guards, doctors, nurses, and orderlies overseeing the facility. Guard rotations occurred regularly to maintain vigilance. The current facility administrator, often a shadowy figure, remained elusive but exerted considerable control over the institution. Despite the rigid structure, there were elements of unpredictability within Pescadero, with constant power struggles and shifts in authority. In normal circumstances, it was primarily the staff who entered the patients' rooms, adhering to a strict routine to maintain order within the facility.
By morning both Dragov and Kathy were stiff. They ate breakfast at a nearby restaurant and energized themselves over pint-size cups of steaming coffee.
"Well," Kathy spoke bitterly, suspecting that it had been a total waste of time, "what, if anything, did we achieve?"
"We know about Pescadero's tight security, its high-profile patients, and the authoritarian grip of the California bureaucracy," Dragov told her. "Miss Lakas," he said quietly after long moments of silence, knowing what her concern had been, "you can see you're getting your money's worth, there's no point in the two of us spending another night in one of those awful buildings. I know what I'm looking for and I haven't the time or the inclination to train you, so I'll look from the outside and you try to find out what's happening inside. I need to know how Ms. Barton is guarded, who's guarding her, and when. I also need to understand her treatment schedule and any routines she follows...." He was offering her an honorable means of retreat, and Kathy was forced to accept the sense in his proposal.
"O.K.," she said, "I'm not sure how much longer I can work on Officer Dade without outstaying my welcome, but I'll try. Contact me every second day, or sooner if you're onto something."
Dragov watched her leave, and then he walked the area surrounding Pescadero again, familiarizing himself with the main road and side streets. He observed nearby buildings, likely residential or commercial structures, that could potentially house individuals who might interfere with his plans or raise alarms if they notice any suspicious activity around Pescadero. These neighboring buildings could complicate the operation by providing additional obstacles or sources of unwanted attention. Dragov worked with the inbred caution of his trade, but he failed to spot a car turning innocently at the end of the road or the passenger in the back who photographed him through a 500 mm zoom lens.
Dragov returned to his room at the hotel and lay on his bed, hands behind his head, staring up at the map of Harborview. He fixated on several key buildings surrounding Pescadero State Hospital, including nearby residential structures and possibly local businesses. Considering the potential response to an alarm being sounded, Dragov speculated that a significant number of security personnel, including state troopers and other law enforcement officers, could quickly converge on the facility's location, making any escape attempt highly challenging. Many hours later he sat up and began to sketch a rough plan of Pescadero. In the completed sketch, he discovered that the western wall of the facility formed a common boundary with a large building, possibly a factory, adjacent to it. The structure appeared to be a roof or part of a complex that abutted the hospital's perimeter.
Dragove drove to a hardware store that he had noticed earlier and bought himself some worker's clothes. His next move was to blend in with a work detail that appeared to be heading to the building adjacent to Pescadero. It was not a factory, as he'd first thought, but rather a large industrial building, possibly under construction or undergoing maintenance. Dragov managed to go unnoticed by carefully mimicking the behavior of the other workers and maintaining a low profile, allowing him to seamlessly integrate into the group without drawing suspicion.
Navigating through the work detail, Dragov took note of their movements and the layout of the area. The workers, all of them focused on their tasks, paid little attention to him as he blended into the crowd. As they approached the industrial building, Dragov observed the bustling activity within—a symphony of clanging machinery and the shouts of workers echoing across the compound. Yet, amidst the organized chaos, he discerned a vigilant security presence, making any infiltration attempt futile. Undeterred, he continued his reconnaissance, his trained eye seeking out potential vulnerabilities. At a crossroads, he paused, weighing his options. To the left, a path less traveled beckoned, promising the allure of the unknown. Following this path, he soon found himself confronted by the sight of an abandoned structure, its weathered facade a testament to years of neglect, its shattered windows and graffiti-covered walls hinting at a darker past. Yet, despite its dilapidated appearance, he sensed opportunity lingering within its crumbling walls.
The abandoned building stood as a looming monolith against the backdrop of the industrial complex. Despite its decay, it retained an imposing presence, its sheer size hinting at its former importance. Stretching several stories high, the structure dominated the surrounding landscape, casting a shadow over the neighboring buildings. The rooftop, though littered with debris, offered a precarious vantage point overlooking the area below.
As Dragov further scrutinized the building, his gaze fell upon a curious detail—a section of the rooftop that appeared to abut Pescadero's walls. A faint glimmer of hope flickered within him, as he realized that this proximity may provide the opportunity he sought to breach the fortress-like institution.
With cautious steps, Dragov approached the building's entrance, a rusted metal door barely hanging on its hinges. With a swift, forceful push, he shoved it open, its creaking protests drowned out by the eerie silence of the abandoned structure. As he stepped inside, his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through broken windows, revealing a cavernous interior filled with the remnants of its former occupants. There was a maze of empty corridors and decrepit rooms, each bearing the scars of its abandonment. He moved stealthily, his senses heightened as he navigated the labyrinthine space. He heard the faint echoes of his footsteps reverberating off the walls, prompting him to tread lightly despite the absence of any living presence.
Ascending a set of crumbling stairs, Dragov reached the building's upper levels, where he discovered an attic space shrouded in darkness. With careful steps, he traversed the dusty floorboards, his movements calculated to avoid disturbing the silence that enveloped him. Though he knew the building to be deserted, he stayed vigilant, his instincts honed by years of training urging him to proceed with caution.
In the daylight filtering through the dusty attic, Dragov's eyes focused on the row of broken window panes, their surfaces smudged with years of neglect. Through the gaps in the glass, he peered out at the landscape beyond, spotting the formidable walls of Pescadero in the distance. Shrouded in the shadowy confines of the attic, he ensured his face remained hidden from any potential observers as he positioned himself near the broken windows. Despite the broad daylight outside, he moved cautiously, mindful of the need for stealth. His gaze fell upon a section of Pescadero's rooftop, bathed in sunlight, offering a clear view of the hospital's vulnerable areas.
A revelation struck Dragov as he realized the overlooked connection between the attic and the crucial section of the rooftop. It became evident that the architects of Pescadero's security had failed to recognize this hidden vantage point, providing an opportunity for someone with his skills to exploit. He knew that this was the closest that anyone could get to Mischa Barton without actually being inside the hospital. He had found the weak spot, a place where there were no fences, no area of dead ground to cross under the glare of spotlights. A trained man could jump from that rooftop to the top of the wall. Dragov leaned further forward to improve his field of vision. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a movement and ducked below the window ledge, cursing his stupidity. He had been so intent on memorizing the ground that lay before the central plaza that he had not spotted the sentry when he stirred, but his eye had caught the outline of his rifle.
Dragov waited for the alarm to sound. When he heard nothing he cautiously raised his head again. The goon tower that he failed so completely to notice was immediately below his line of vision to the left of him. The sentry had walked out of the shadow and was standing with his back to Dragov, staring down into the institution grounds. Dragov checked carefully----there was just one man. His mind was racing. One sentry could be silenced. From there a group of men could make their way over the wall and through the grounds, but then Dragov knew his problems would just be starting. First, how would they scale the towering walls surrounding the institution without drawing attention? Then there was the problem of navigating the hospital's premises undetected, avoiding patrols and surveillance systems. Once inside the group would have to locate Mischa Barton's room amidst the labyrinthine corridors, assuming they could reach her without alerting the facility's staff. Moreover, Dragov would have to strategize how to extract Barton swiftly and covertly, considering the potential resistance from security personnel, doctors, nurses, or, potentially, orderlies. It was getting late. He crawled back through the attic and joined the workmen who streamed out of the industrial building at the end of the day.
Late that night Dragov lay stretched out on his bed, his brain exhausted from poring over notes and sketches. Beyond the immediate challenges of orchestrating Mischa Barton's extraction from Pescadero, he contemplated the subsequent hurdles that awaited them. Once Barton was liberated, their escape plan hinged on evading pursuit and finding refuge in a location beyond the reach of U.S. authorities. He considered potential destinations such as Mexico, Cuba, or Haiti, each offering varying degrees of anonymity and security. However, even as he strategized their escape route, he remained wary of the hidden dangers lurking within Harborview itself. Despite its small size, the hamlet could still harbor informants or individuals sympathetic to law enforcement, posing a risk of betrayal or surveillance. Moreover, the town's proximity to major urban centers like Los Angeles and San Diego increased the likelihood of encountering unwanted attention or a law enforcement presence. As he grappled with these multifaceted challenges, he knew that their success depended not only on meticulous planning but also on swift and decisive action to navigate the precarious landscape of their surroundings. It seemed an impossible project. Dragov told himself it was no good trying to work anymore, he was too tired. What he needed now was sleep, and yet sleep wouldn't come.
The neon lights on the opposite side of the street flashed through the net curtains and colored the wall and his face and hands with a cold blue radiance. Dragov's mind wandered back to memories that were better left undisturbed: to his parents' modest apartment in Leningrad. He remembered the vast agricultural fields, the dense forests of his native Russia, and the apartment where he had lived in the suburb of Zelenograd, a suburb of Moscow.
Dragov had a wife and child then----they were dead now. He tried to picture them, tried to bring them back into his mind, but there was a wall deep inside him, a great barrier of pain that closed everything out.
He came awake later that night from a sweat-stained nightmare. He could or would not remember the dream, but he remembered finding himself amidst the chaos and devastation of a major disaster in the Soviet Union. The details were murky, but it felt like an earthquake had ripped through the region, leaving destruction in its wake. Buildings were reduced to rubble, and the ground trembled beneath his feet. He desperately searched for his wife and child, his heart pounding with fear and anguish. As he navigated through the debris-strewn streets, he encountered a group of survivors who were frantically searching for their loved ones. He joined them, his mind consumed with worry for his family. Eventually, he stumbled upon the makeshift medical center where the injured were being treated. There, he found a kind-hearted nurse who offered to help him locate his family. He remembered being approached by the somber-faced doctor who delivered the devastating news to him: "I'm sorry, Comrade Dragov. We did everything we could, but... your wife and child, they didn't make it." He paused, then leaned in closer, his eyes filled with compassion. "I know this may sound strange, but I'm a Christian. Let's pray together and ask God for strength in this difficult time." He put his hand out to guide him, but the man who now possessed Viktor's face and body turned and walked away.
"Where are you going, Comrade Dragov?"552Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIAhEBqcCKX
"I am going to see the world." 552Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIeSP5Vvz39
"What do you think you're going to do there?"552Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt6BASaxppX
"I'm going to make a living," Dragov remarked as he gazed out over the ruins of the devastated Soviet city. "I'll work for whoever appreciates my talents best, be it capitalist, communist, socialist... I don't care. Yes, there is a God, Doctor. But He's a God of war and destruction."552Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ78OAXjyOmS
