Part 26 (1/2)
Twenty-Five.
SORAYA HAD NEVER understood the nature of panic, despite the fact that she grew up with an aunt who was p.r.o.ne to panic attacks. When the attacks came on her aunt said she felt as if someone had put a plastic dry-cleaning bag over her head; she felt as if she were being smothered to death. Soraya would watch her huddled in a chair or curled up on her bed and wonder how on earth she could feel such a thing. There weren't even any plastic dry-cleaning bags allowed in the house. How could a person feel as if she were suffocating when there wasn't anything on her face?
Now she knew.
As she drove out of the NSA safe house without Tyrone, as the high reinforced metal gates swung closed behind her, her hands trembled on the wheel, her heart felt as if it was jumping painfully inside her breast. There was a film of sweat on her upper lip, under her arms, and at the nape of her neck. Worst of all, she couldn't catch her breath. Her mind raced like a rat in a cage. She gasped, sucking ragged gulps of air in to her lungs. She felt, in short, as if she were being smothered to death. Then her stomach rebelled.
As quickly as she was able she pulled to the side of the road, got out, and stumbled into the trees. Falling to her hands and knees, she vomited up the sweet, milky Ceylon tea.
Jason, Tyrone, and Veronica Hart were now all in terrible jeopardy because of rash decisions she'd made. She quailed at the thought. It was one thing to be chief of station in Odessa, quite another to be director. Maybe she'd taken on more than she could handle, maybe she didn't have the steel nerve that was required to make tough choices. Where was her vaunted confidence? It was back there in the NSA interrogation cell with Tyrone.
Somehow she made it to Alexandria, where she parked. She sat in the car bent over, her clammy forehead pressed to the steering wheel. She tried to think coherently, but her brain seemed encased in a block of concrete. At last, she wept bitterly.
She had to call Deron, but she was petrified of his reaction when she told him that she had allowed his protege to be captured and tortured by the NSA. She had f.u.c.ked up big time. And she had no idea how to rectify the situation. The choice LaValle had given her-Veronica Hart for Tyrone-was unacceptable.
After a time, she calmed down enough to get out of the car. She moved like a sleepwalker through crowds of people oblivious to her agony. It seemed somehow wrong that the world should spin on as it always had, utterly indifferent and uncaring.
She ducked into a little tea shop, and as she rummaged in her handbag for her cell phone she saw the pack of cigarettes. A cigarette would calm her nerves, but standing out in the chilly street while she smoked would make her feel more of a lost soul. She decided to have a smoke on the way back to her car. Placing her cell phone on the table, she stared down at it as if it were alive. She ordered chamomile tea, which calmed her enough for her to pick up her phone. She punched in Deron's number, but when she heard his voice her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
Eventually, she was able to get out her name. Before he could ask her how the mission went she asked to speak with Kiki, Deron's girlfriend. Where that came from, she had no idea. She'd met Kiki only twice. But Kiki was a woman and, instinctively, with an atavistic clannishness, Soraya knew it would be easier to confess to her than to Deron.
When Kiki came on the line, Soraya asked if she could come to the little tea shop in Alexandria. When Kiki asked when, Soraya said, ”Now. Please.”
The first thing you have to do is stop blaming yourself,” Kiki said after Soraya had finished recounting in painful detail what had happened at the NSA safe house. ”It's your guilt that's paralyzing you, and believe me you're going to need every last brain cell if we're going to get Tyrone out of that hole.”
Soraya looked up from her pallid tea.
Kiki smiled, nodding. In her dark red dress, her hair up in a swirl, hammered-gold earrings depending from her earlobes, she looked more regal, more exotic than ever. She towered over everyone in the tea shop by at least six inches.
”I know I have to tell Deron,” Soraya said. ”I just don't know what his reaction is going to be.”
”His reaction won't be as bad as what you fear,” Kiki said. ”And after all, Tyrone is a grown man. He knew the risks as well as anyone. It was his choice, Soraya. He could've said no.”
Soraya shook her head. ”That's just it, I don't think he could, at least not from the way he sees things.” She stirred her tea, more to forestall what she knew she had to say. Then she looked up, licked her lips. ”See, Tyrone's got a thing for me.”
”Doesn't he ever!”
Soraya was taken aback. ”You know?”
”Everyone who knows him knows, honey. You just have to look at him when the two of you are together.”
Soraya felt her cheeks flush. ”I think he would've done anything I asked of him no matter how dangerous, even if he didn't want to.”
”But you know he wanted to.”
It was true, Soraya thought. He'd been excited. Nervous, but definitely excited. She knew that ever since Deron had taken him under his wing he'd chafed at being cooped up in the hood. He was smarter than that, and Deron knew it. But he had neither the interest nor the apt.i.tude for what Deron did. Then she came along. He'd told her he saw her as his ticket out of the ghetto.
Yet she still had a knot in her chest, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could not get out of her head the image of Tyrone on his knees, hooded, arms held behind him on the tabletop.
”You just turned pale,” Kiki said. ”Are you all right?”
Soraya nodded. She wanted to tell Kiki what she had seen, but she couldn't. She sensed that to talk about it would give it a reality so frightening, so powerful it would throw her back into panic.
”Then we ought to go.”
Soraya's heart tripped over itself. ”No time like the present,” she said.
As they went out the door, she pulled out the pack of cigarettes and threw it in a nearby trash can. She didn't need it anymore.
As planned, Gala picked up Bourne in Yakov's bombila bombila and together they returned to Lorraine's apartment. It was just past 10 and together they returned to Lorraine's apartment. It was just past 10 AM AM; his meet with Maslov wasn't until noon. He needed a shower, a shave, and some rest.
Lorraine was kind enough to provide the necessities for all three. She gave Bourne a set of towels, a disposable razor, and said if he gave her his clothes she'd wash and dry them for him. In the bathroom Bourne stripped, then opened the door enough to hand the dirty clothes to Lorraine.
”After I put these in the wash, Gala and I are going out to get food. Can we bring you anything?”
Bourne thanked her. ”Whatever you're having will be fine.”
He closed the door, crossed to the shower, turned it on full force. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took out rubbing alcohol, a gauze pad, surgical tape, and antibiotic cream. Then he went back to the toilet, put the seat cover down, and cleaned his abraded heel. It had taken a lot of abuse and was red and raw looking. Squeezing the cream onto the gauze, he placed it over the wound and taped it up.
Then he took his cell phone off the edge of the sink where he'd placed it when undressing, and dialed the number Boris Karpov had given him.
Would you mind going without me?” Gala said, as Lorraine reached into the hall closet for her fur coat. ”All of a sudden I'm not feeling well.”
Lorraine walked back to her. ”What is it?”
”I don't know.” Gala sank onto the white leather sofa. ”I'm kind of dizzy.”
Lorraine took hold of the back of her head. ”Bend over. Put your head between your knees.”
Gala did as she was told. Lorraine crossed to the sideboard, took out a bottle of vodka, and poured some into a gla.s.s. ”Here, take a drink. It'll settle you.”
Gala came up as gingerly as a drunk walks. She took the vodka, threw it down her throat so fast she almost choked. But then the fire hit her stomach and the warmth began to spread through her.
”Okay?” Lorraine asked.
”Better.”
”All right. I'm going to buy you some hot borscht. You need to get some nourishment into you.” She drew on her coat. ”Why don't you lie down?”
Once again Gala did as she was told, but after her friend left, she rose. She'd never found the sofa comfortable. Making sure of her balance, she went down the hall. She needed to crash on a proper bed.
As she was pa.s.sing the bathroom, she heard a sound like talking, but Bourne was in there by himself. Curious, she moved closer, then put her ear to the door. She could hear the rus.h.i.+ng of the shower more clearly, but also Bourne's voice. He must be on his cell phone.
She heard him say ”Medvedev did what?” He was talking politics to whoever was on the other end of the line. She was about to take her ear away from the door when she heard Bourne say, ”It was bad luck with Tarkanian . . . No, no, I killed him . . . I had to, I had no other choice.”