The pretty Russian interpreter. She was the only outsider privy to that conversation.
“I need a phone,” I tell Sharipov, swinging my feet to the floor and standing up. My knees shake a bit, but my legs are able to hold my weight. This is good. It means I’m capable of walking out of here under my own steam.
“I need it right now,” I add when he just gapes at me as I pull the IV needle out of my arm with my teeth and peel the monitor sensors off my chest. My hospital gown and bare feet undoubtedly look ridiculous, but I don’t give a fuck. I have a traitor to deal with.
“Of course,” he says, recovering from his shock. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a cell phone and hands it to me. “Peter Sokolov wanted to talk to you as soon you woke up.”
“Good. Thanks.” Placing the phone in my left hand, which protrudes from the cast, I begin to punch in numbers with my right. It’s a secure line that moves through so many relays, it would take a world-class hacker to trace it to its destination. As I hear the familiar clicks and beeps of the connection, I reclaim the phone with my right hand and tell Sharipov, “Please ask one of the nurses to get me some regular clothes. I’m tired of wearing this.”
The colonel nods and walks out of the room. A second after he leaves, Peter’s voice comes on the line: “Esguerra?”
“Yes, it’s me.” My grip on the phone tightens. “I assume you heard the news.”
“Yes, I heard.” A pause on the line. “I had Yulia Tzakova detained in Moscow. It seems like she’s got some connections that our Kremlin friends overlooked.”
So Peter is already on top of this. “Yes, it seems like it.” My voice is even, though anger boils within me. “Needless to say, we’re scrapping the mission. When are we getting picked up?”
“The plane is on its way. It should be there in a few hours. I sent Goldberg along in case you could use a doctor.”
“Good thinking. We’ll be waiting. How is Nora?”
There is a brief moment of silence. “She’s better now that she knows you’re alive. She wanted to fly out there as soon as she heard.”
“You didn’t let her, though.” It’s a statement, not a question. Peter knows better than to fuck up like that.
“No, of course not. Do you wish to see her? I may be able to set up a video connection with the hospital.”
“Yes, please set it up.” What I really want is to see her and hold her in person, but the video will have to do for now. “In the meantime, I’m going to check on Lucas and the others.”
* * *
Because of the bulky cast on my arm, it’s a struggle to put on the clothes the nurse brings me. The pants go on without any issues, but I end up having to rip out the left sleeve to get the cast through the armhole. My ribs hurt like hell, and every movement requires tremendous effort as my body wants nothing more than to lie back down on the bed and rest. I persist, though, and after a few tries, finally succeed in clothing myself.
Thankfully, walking is easier. I can maintain a regular stride. As I exit the room, I see the soldiers Sharipov mentioned earlier. There are five of them, all dressed in army fatigues and toting Uzis. Seeing me emerge into the hallway, they silently fall into step behind me, following me as I head over to the Intensive Care Unit. Their expressionless faces make me wonder if they’re there to protect me or to protect others from me. I can’t imagine the Uzbekistani government is thrilled to have an illegal arms dealer in their civilian hospital.
Lucas is not there, so I check on the others first. As Sharipov told me, they are all badly burned, with bandages covering most of their bodies. They’re also heavily sedated. I make a mental note to transfer a huge bonus into each of their bank accounts to compensate them for this, and to have them seen by the best plastic surgeons. These men knew the risks when they came to work for me, but I still want to make sure they’re taken care of.
“Where is the fourth man?” I ask one of the soldiers accompanying me, and he directs me to another room.
When I get there, I see that Lucas is asleep. He doesn’t look nearly as bad as the others, which is a relief. He’ll be able to return with me to Colombia once the plane arrives, whereas the burned men will have to stay here for at least a few more days.
Coming back to my room, I find Sharipov there, placing a laptop on the bed. “I was asked to give this to you,” he explains, handing me the computer.
“Excellent, thank you.” Taking the laptop from him with my right hand, I sit down on the bed. Or, more appropriately, collapse on the bed, my legs shaking from the strain of walking all over the hospital. Thankfully, Sharipov doesn’t see my ungainly maneuver, as he’s already heading out the door.