“Coach, we need a doctor,” Thorn said into the cell phone, holding it with one hand as he cradled Iggy with the other.
“Are you hurt?” Ingram asked, alarm in his voice.
“I’m fine,” Thorn said, staring out the window as the city lights of Boston drew nearer, not bothering to bring up the tenderness of the wounds on his back.
“The hostage,” Ingram said, a statement more than a question. “You got there in time.”
“Just barely,” Thorn said. “You see everything on satellite?”
“Saw you go in, stay twelve minutes, and exit carrying a rug before the place was blown to hell.”
“An attempt to try and stave off hypothermia,” Thorn said, opting against going into the full explanation.
“And the shadow you had following you?” Ingram asked, the tiniest bit of inflection in his voice.
Glancing to his left, Thorn saw Nio in his periphery. At some point he would need to explain the entire situation to Ingram, from meeting the Garcias on the docks to their involvement at the mansion.
Now just wasn’t the time for it.
“He’s driving now,” Thorn said. “An ally. Can you have a doctor at the house? Should we take her somewhere else?”
The abrupt change of course pushed Ingram away from the topic of Nio, a clattering of his keyboard letting Thorn know he was back on task. Silence came over the line a moment before Ingram said, “Someone will be there by the time you arrive.”
Both sides dropped off the line without saying farewell, Thorn peeling back the top corner of the rug to look in on Iggy. Despite the heavy tapestry and the heat blasting in the car her skin was still pale blue, her eyes shut tight. Tracing a finger down her cheek Thorn found her body temperature to be a degree or two above ice.
The drive took just under half an hour with Thorn directing and Nio leaning on the gas. Otherwise neither one spoke as they drove on, willing the miles by.
At half past three in the morning, they pulled into Thorn’s driveway to find a black sedan sitting on the curb. As they piled out of the Suburban, an older man in a tweed sport coat and matching pageboy cap emerged from the car, a gray leather medical bag in hand. He walked directly to Thorn and peeled back the tapestry, looking in before even introducing himself.
“What happened?”
“No idea, for sure,” Thorn said. “When I got there she was chained up in the middle of a room that looked like an irrigation chamber. I know she’s ice cold and beaten to hell.”
“Let’s get her inside,” the man said, motioning Thorn and Nio toward the front door.
Stepping inside, Thorn carried Iggy straight up the stairs and placed her atop the bed, Nio, the doctor, and Abby all following up in order.
Taking up a post beside the bed, the doctor placed his bag down and removed his cap from his head, his pate clear of any hair. “My name is Isaac Whittle. You may refer to me as anything but Whittle Guy or Whittle Old Man, understood?”
The thought had never entered Thorn’s mind. “Uh, yeah.”
“Good,” he said, nodding as he shrugged out of his jacket. “The first thing I need is for you get me some hot water bottles. If you don’t have those, some towels soaked in warm water will do.”
On command Thorn disappeared into his bathroom, setting the shower to the warmest setting. Nio entered behind him as he took a handful of towels from the corner cabinet and handed them across, Nio wetting them and handing them back as Thorn squeezed the excess down the sink. When they were done Nio killed the water, Thorn carrying them back out to Whittle.
“All right, now if you could lift her up, please,” Whittle said.
Thorn placed his hands behind her knees and neck and lifted her several inches off the bed as Whittle lined the towels beneath her. When they were in place Thorn lowered her down atop them, watching as Whittle wrapped them across her.
“Your friend’s body temperature is dangerously low,” Whittle said as he worked. “Until we get that brought back up, there isn’t a lot else we can do.”
Whittle draped the tapestry back over her, trapping the warmth of the towels beneath the heavy fabric. “Thank you, that’s all I need from you right now.”
It was clearly a dismissal, though Thorn didn’t feel the slightest bit of offense at it. Instead he tapped Nio on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow downstairs, whistling for Abby as he left.
“Thank you,” Thorn said, Nio murmuring the same, as the three traversed back downstairs just minutes after arriving.
Moving straight to the computer, Thorn opened the program and called the video conferencing to life. To the side he could see Nio staring up the stairs, a forlorn expression on his face.
“She’s in good hands. She’s going to be fine.”
Nio nodded, but said nothing.
“Is the doc there?” Ingram asked, jerking Thorn’s attention back toward the sound of his voice.
“He’s with her now,” Thorn said, nodding. “Thank you for getting someone here so fast.”
“We have people on standby for this sort of thing, it kind of comes with the line of work,” Ingram said by way of an explanation.
“Still, thanks,” Thorn said.
Waving a hand in front of him, Ingram stared into the camera and said, “Right after you guys went in, a ground-level retraction roof opened and a helicopter got away.”
A low, sharp whistle slid from between Thorn’s lips as he shook his head. “I wondered how they got out if we had the grounds and docks covered. Must have scuttled the electronics and went airborne.”
“I was lucky,” Ingram said. “I just happened to be on the back half of the house when the door started to open, so I zoomed in close. Was able to get a couple of shots before everybody boarded.”
“Any idea where they were headed?”
“Nothing definitive,” Ingram said. “They took off on a course to the northwest, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
Thorn nodded at the assessment, knowing it could have been nothing more than a ruse. Once airborne they could have readjusted, or landed somewhere briefly before switching aircraft. More than an hour had now passed since departure, giving them quite a head start in any direction.
“I’m sending over the pictures I have now,” Ingram said, a moment later an incoming email making a sound as it hit the inbox.
Minimizing the video screen, Thorn pulled the images up, four in total.
The same three people were present in all four. On the right was a man dressed entirely in black with a fedora covering his head. From the high angle no more details could be made out, but it didn’t take more than a glance to know who he was.
Beside him was an older man with grizzled white hair and a Magnum P.I. floral shirt pushing a wheel chair. Seated in the chair was an elderly man with thick white hair and a well-cut suit.
“What are you finding on these guys?” Thorn asked, pulling Ingram back up.
Ingram was waiting for him, spreading his hands out wide. “This is the first we’ve seen or heard of the guy in the floral shirt. His face didn’t hit anything even close in the NSA database. No dice there.
“The man in black we assume to be the same Asian guy you’ve been running into for a while now, but still nothing concrete.”
“Ling,” Thorn interjected.
“Excuse me,” Ingram said, pausing mid-sentence.
“His name is Ling. I stopped a servant in the house to ask directions and they let it slip.”
Ingram scribbled the name down on the printout of the picture in front of him. “I’ll run a search for it. Maybe a name and a partial picture will be enough to get us going.”
“And the third guy?” Thorn asked.
“Nothing,” Ingram said. “We have to assume he’s the boss. Sharp dress, waiting helicopter, Ling by his side.”
“If he’s not the boss, he’s pretty damn high up,” Thorn agreed.
“I ran his picture through NSA and didn’t get a firm ID, but I got somethi
ng interesting. We have an 83% match with a Yuri Chekov.”
Confusion fell across Thorn’s face as he chewed on the information, trying to force it into place. “Should that name be ringing a bell with me?”
”Doubtful,” Ingram said, his attention moving to the side as he clicked through things on his own screen. “Yuri Chekov was a Russian diplomat to the United States for over thirty years.”
“Was? As in he’s dead?”
“Was, as in he’s retired. The man is pushing eighty years old,” Ingram said.
Nothing about the information seemed to make sense, especially almost thirty years after the end of the Cold War. For a moment Thorn processed the situation in silence, his face contorted as he pondered it. “You think this could be our guy?”
“No,” Ingram said, shaking his head. “Like I said, there’s only an 83% match. I’m looking at the images side by side right now and unless this guy had his nose done and some serious hair transplants, they’re definitely not the same person.”
“So how does he fit in?” Thorn asked.
“I don’t know,” Ingram replied. “Maybe he doesn’t, hard to be sure. I’m just telling you what the scan returned.”
Once more Thorn fell silent, glancing to Nio and up the stairs, the shadow of Whittle moving about along the ceiling. “Where is Chekov now?”
“Again, he’s retired,” Ingram said. “Current address is in the Catskill Mountains, upstate New York.”
“Upstate New York,” Thorn said, mumbling the words aloud as he stared at the clock on the wall. “It would take me six hours to drive there from here. Can you get me in the air and down there quicker than that?”
Thorn turned his attention back to the screen to see Ingram’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “You want to fly down and meet with Chekov?”
Thorn met the stare, saying nothing. He knew it didn’t make the most sense in the word, but right now it was the closest thing he had to a lead. The mansion was obliterated, Iggy was being taken care of. There was no way Ling would be showing up at the docks again soon.
If there was any way for him to get out in front of whatever this global scheme was, he had no choice but to tug on the only thread remaining.
“I’ll set it up,” Ingram said, a tiny sigh of defeat in his voice. “Text you the details straightaway.”
“Thank you,” Thorn said, still leaning forward over the screen.
“Anything else?” Ingram asked.
“Yeah,” Thorn said, again glancing to Nio. “Germany, Russia, Japan.”
As he spoke Ingram, jotted the names down in order. “Okay, what about them?”
“Those three in addition to England, France, and Italy we already knew,” Thorn said. “It was all we were able to glean out before the self-destruct kicked in, but whatever this is has major reach.”
“Damn,” Ingram said, drawing the word out several seconds in length. “That’s a random list if I’ve ever seen one. Any idea how they tie together?”
Chapter Fifty-Five