Read Online Death Wave by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Coonts
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Tsunamis, Technological, Terrorism, Adventure fiction, Undercover operations, Prevention, Terrorism - Prevention, Dean; Charlie (Fictitious character), Canary Islands
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himself looking down at the pretty, blond morgue attendant. Her hands were on her hips, and her pale blue eyes had a no-nonsense glare about them. Her smock and rubber gloves were smeared with shockingly red streaks of fresh blood.
“Ah, no, actually,” he told her. “I’m with … a different unit. The 201st. I came along to get some photographs.”
“You have authorization, I suppose?”
“Um … no, actually. Lieutenant Colonel Vasilyev has it.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“Of course.” Akulinin glanced up at a large clock hanging on one concrete block wall. It was just past 7:10. “You’re here awfully late. Are you the night shift?”
“I’m working late, actually,” she said. “Lieutenant Colonel Vasilyev phoned me from Ayni and said he was on the way.”
He gave her his most radiant smile. “Really? So what time do you get off?”
“You can turn off the charm, Major,” she told him. “It won’t work. You still haven’t told me who you are or given me your authorization to be here.”
He cocked his head to one side. “That is an interesting accent there.”
“What about it?”
“It sounds American, actually.”
She sighed, took a step back, and began peeling off her gloves. “That’s because I am an American. Russian American. My parents moved to a place called Brighton Beach in Brooklyn when I was three.”
Akulinin started. “Really?” He hesitated. He could get into serious trouble dropping his cover, but he couldn’t simply ignore what the woman had just said. “Then you and I might be neighbors,” he said, shifting to Brooklyn-accented English.
It was the woman’s turn to look startled. “Brighton Beach? You? ”
“My parents emigrated to the United States in ’82. I was born two years later.”
“My God!” She shook her head. “What are you doing here ?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“How can I believe you? This is impossible!”
“Unlikely, yes,” he said, grinning. “Not impossible. Brighton Beach is probably the largest colony of transplanted Russians in the U.S. You know the intersection of Brighton and Coney Island Avenue?”
Her eyes opened wider. She nodded.
“Remember the subway/el tracks? They come down in a big curve overhead, right above the intersection … right? Q train for local service, the B train for weekday express. And when the train comes through, it sounds like thunder!”
“I used to walk under that overpass on my way to school!”
“Public School 253.”
“ Yes! How did you know?”
“I went to the same school …”
For several more minutes, Akulinin dredged up memories of his own childhood in Brighton Beach, enough to convince the woman that they had indeed grown up in the same neighborhood. He wondered if he’d ever seen her; she looked to be a couple of years younger, but they might well have attended the same school during the same years, just a few classes apart.
What were the chances of running into her here ?
He asked her what had brought her back to Russia—and Tajikistan.
“My … my parents moved back to Russia when I was thirteen,” she told him. There obviously was some pain associated with the memory. “A business opportunity for my father. There was … some trouble. Financial trouble. My mother was sick. He got into debt with some very bad people.”
“Mafiya?”
She nodded. “After my mother died, my father sent me to work with a man he knew, a friend, Dr. Shmatko. He is a pathologist with the Science Academy here in Dushanbe.”
“Why?”
“Those men, the ones he owed money? They offered to settle some of his debt if I would go to work for them. Photographs … movies … to be posted on the Internet, you know?”
Akulinin nodded. He did know. The Russian Organizatsaya was heavily involved in the sex trade, both prostitution and pornography. White slavery in the twenty-first century, vicious and sick.
“So I came here and trained as a diener with Dr. Shmatko.”
“ Diener . A
“Ah, no, actually,” he told her. “I’m with … a different unit. The 201st. I came along to get some photographs.”
“You have authorization, I suppose?”
“Um … no, actually. Lieutenant Colonel Vasilyev has it.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“Of course.” Akulinin glanced up at a large clock hanging on one concrete block wall. It was just past 7:10. “You’re here awfully late. Are you the night shift?”
“I’m working late, actually,” she said. “Lieutenant Colonel Vasilyev phoned me from Ayni and said he was on the way.”
He gave her his most radiant smile. “Really? So what time do you get off?”
“You can turn off the charm, Major,” she told him. “It won’t work. You still haven’t told me who you are or given me your authorization to be here.”
He cocked his head to one side. “That is an interesting accent there.”
“What about it?”
“It sounds American, actually.”
She sighed, took a step back, and began peeling off her gloves. “That’s because I am an American. Russian American. My parents moved to a place called Brighton Beach in Brooklyn when I was three.”
Akulinin started. “Really?” He hesitated. He could get into serious trouble dropping his cover, but he couldn’t simply ignore what the woman had just said. “Then you and I might be neighbors,” he said, shifting to Brooklyn-accented English.
It was the woman’s turn to look startled. “Brighton Beach? You? ”
“My parents emigrated to the United States in ’82. I was born two years later.”
“My God!” She shook her head. “What are you doing here ?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“How can I believe you? This is impossible!”
“Unlikely, yes,” he said, grinning. “Not impossible. Brighton Beach is probably the largest colony of transplanted Russians in the U.S. You know the intersection of Brighton and Coney Island Avenue?”
Her eyes opened wider. She nodded.
“Remember the subway/el tracks? They come down in a big curve overhead, right above the intersection … right? Q train for local service, the B train for weekday express. And when the train comes through, it sounds like thunder!”
“I used to walk under that overpass on my way to school!”
“Public School 253.”
“ Yes! How did you know?”
“I went to the same school …”
For several more minutes, Akulinin dredged up memories of his own childhood in Brighton Beach, enough to convince the woman that they had indeed grown up in the same neighborhood. He wondered if he’d ever seen her; she looked to be a couple of years younger, but they might well have attended the same school during the same years, just a few classes apart.
What were the chances of running into her here ?
He asked her what had brought her back to Russia—and Tajikistan.
“My … my parents moved back to Russia when I was thirteen,” she told him. There obviously was some pain associated with the memory. “A business opportunity for my father. There was … some trouble. Financial trouble. My mother was sick. He got into debt with some very bad people.”
“Mafiya?”
She nodded. “After my mother died, my father sent me to work with a man he knew, a friend, Dr. Shmatko. He is a pathologist with the Science Academy here in Dushanbe.”
“Why?”
“Those men, the ones he owed money? They offered to settle some of his debt if I would go to work for them. Photographs … movies … to be posted on the Internet, you know?”
Akulinin nodded. He did know. The Russian Organizatsaya was heavily involved in the sex trade, both prostitution and pornography. White slavery in the twenty-first century, vicious and sick.
“So I came here and trained as a diener with Dr. Shmatko.”
“ Diener . A
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