Phoenix Rising

Nine: Queens’ Gambit


The guy who briefed me before my first-ever unofficial trek behind the Iron Curtain told me, ‘The KGB never arrest anyone. They accost you instead.’ He used to joke that they take a special class in how to say ‘KGB. Be calm.’ in just the right tone of voice to make your blood freeze.


Behind him, MacGyver swore he could feel the wave of ice hit Jason as they all froze in place. He tightened his grip on Gina and kept his voice even as he addressed the KGB operatives in Russian.

“How long have you been following me?”

“Long enough, Mr. MacGyver.” The speaker was the man behind them – Vasily. Mac tried not to wince at the sound of his name; he’d hoped they’d be less well-informed.

The man in front of them shifted, and Mac saw the light of the predawn sky glinting on the gun in his hand. “Get in the car. Now.”

“Wait.” Mac indicated Gina with his chin. “This woman needs a doctor. They both do. And they know nothing of our business.”

“So?”

Mac switched back to English. “Jason, my Jeep keys are in the right-hand pocket of my jeans. Take them out, slowly – real slowly – and give them to Tasha.”

The gun came up purposefully, and Mac caught his breath; but Jason followed MacGyver’s instructions, moving slowly but unhesitatingly. He heard Jason murmuring to Tasha, and his mind groped unsuccessfully for the meaning of the words until he realised Jason must be speaking in Romany. He heard the words ‘Tatiana’ and ‘zarptika’, but nothing else emerged from the flow of almost-familiar sounds.

“Stop that,” came the curt order from Vasily. “What are you doing?”

“My car’s over there,” Mac said evenly. He half-turned so he could see Vasily and address him directly. “Let them go. They can drive themselves to a hospital. They can’t follow us – and they won’t know where we’re going.” He added, “You have no orders concerning them, do you?”

The Russian studied him for a long moment before he nodded once and spoke to his partner. “Sasha, take Mr. Blake to the car. If I do not join you in five minutes, kill him.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Not takin’ any chances, are you?” he murmured. Inwardly, he winced; they had Jason’s identity as well. First time in a week I forget to watch my rear-view mirror. Figures.

Vasily didn’t take any chances; he held Tasha at gunpoint until Mac had placed Gina carefully in the front passenger seat of the Jeep, fastened her seatbelt, closed the car door and backed away. Vasily switched his aim to MacGyver as Tasha moved unwillingly towards the driver’s side.

“Tasha – don’t try to play hero now, okay? Please? Just get Gina to the hospital. Jay and I will be okay. But keep the cops out of it. All right?” Nothing’s gonna make the KGB cut their losses faster than attention from the local police.


φ


Mac wasn’t surprised when the car headed south and east, towards the moneyed enclave of Tiburon. They were being taken to the Baranyevs’ house. But something gnawed at him; some pieces of the puzzle weren’t fitting together. The Baranyevs had made the arrangements for Quayle’s mission, but Quayle hadn’t been working for the KGB – he was outside that system altogether, a renegade even from other rogues.

Never mind the right hand lying to the left – it’s faking out the entire arm and both legs.

He glanced at Jason, worried at how the younger man was holding up. Jason looked frightened and miserable, but his eyes hadn’t yet taken on the deer-in-the-headlights glaze that Mac half-expected to see. Their captors had searched them – fresh outta pocketknives for you guys to collect – and taped their hands behind their backs, and Jason was sitting bolt upright on the car seat, his entire body tense and rigid.

“Jason,” Mac whispered. “Relax your shoulders.”

Jason started, but he remembered to answer in a whisper. “What?”

“Your shoulders. They’re gonna get tired fast enough no matter what you do. Try to relax them as much as you can.” MacGyver had leaned back against the seat cushions as much as he could, although nothing could make him comfortable. His wrists had already been scraped raw by the rough cord Arvil had used on him earlier, and the tape felt like fire on the abraded skin. He had a moment of chagrin for the many times he’d used duct tape himself on other people. His shoulders and arms ached.

And Mac was tired: he’d caught a few hours of sleep on Gina’s couch the previous evening, before he’d headed out to Brookhearst, but it seemed a very long time ago. He closed his eyes and tried to rest while the drive lasted. He’d have to start running on adrenaline again soon enough.

Beside him, Jason murmured, “Mac. Comprendes español?”

“Sí. Just speak slowly, okay?”

“I told Tasha to call Phoenix.”

“I thought so. Good thinking.” The Spanish was even better thinking; the Russians weren’t likely to be able to understand it at all.

The click of the safety catch seemed very loud; Mac opened his eyes to see Vasily leaning over the seat in front of them, glaring over his gun. “You two shut up! No more talking.”



As before, they were brought into the house through the garage entrance. The place was quiet and there was no sign of the chauffeur; Baranyev must have cleared the house of any live-in staff. This time they were taken down a different hallway, into the large, grandly furnished living room towards the front of the house.

Even before Vasily approached to make a formal salute, the ramrod posture and attitude of the man standing in the centre of the room marked him clearly, in MacGyver’s mind, as the commander of the KGB unit. Mac’s attention went to the straight-backed chair in front of the CO, where a man was sitting, slumped forward, only his bound hands preventing him from sliding out of the chair. His face was bruised and bleeding.

Baranyev.

Mac stared at him in astonished horror. What the . . . He tried to hide his bewilderment.

Like his men, the CO was wearing nondescript civilian clothing, but his air of command somehow gave it the air of a crisply pressed uniform. His short hair was mostly grey, and his eyes were steely probes above a hatchet nose. His long assessing glance made Mac acutely aware of his own scruffiness, the soot smears on his bare shoulders and the smell of smoke that still clung to his clothes.

“Mr. MacGyver and Mr. Blake. Thank you for joining us.” His American accent was all but flawless, only an occasional glottal tic in the consonants catching at the ear.

Mac shook off his confusion and shrugged his sore shoulders. “Your invitation was kinda hard to turn down. Now, lemme guess – Major? No, Colonel . . . ?”

“Not bad.” The Russian commander bowed his head slightly. “Colonel Iosif Grigorivich Reznik. And I believe you have met our host.”

Baranyev had looked up at their approach, and was now glaring at MacGyver in livid fury. “You! You are MacGyver? By God, I let you into this house myself, with that damned Gypsy b*tch!”

Reznik nodded with satisfaction. “As I thought. He has not met you.” He walked over to Baranyev’s chair and leaned over him, speaking softly. “I’m getting tired of the lies, old man. Your son told you he had killed this American agent, but he is still alive. You said the Kremlin knows what you are doing, but my superiors have told me they know nothing of this.”

“Then you must ask them again! My son and I have always been loyal. We arranged for you and your men to enter this country!”

“At a price! There’s more going on than your little travel agency, you greedy traitor. What are you really up to?” He backhanded Baranyev savagely. “You helped that worm Quayle elude us last year. What side were you on then?”

At the sound of Reznik’s words, Jason had started. When Mac glanced at him in puzzlement, he blurted out, “Mac – the colonel, Reznik – he was there. At the prisoner exchange. He was the Russian CO I heard talking over your radio. I recognise his voice.”

At Jason’s words, Reznik turned away from Baranyev and glared at them. “You have a very good ear, Mr. Blake. And you, Mr. MacGyver – you dealt us an unholy mess back there in Czechoslovakia.”

“Wait a minute,” Mac said. “You think we set up Quayle to be shot? The sniper was on your side of the river!”

“He was not on our side of the game!” Reznik walked over to MacGyver and studied him with cold, narrowed eyes.

Oh, but it’s not a game. Something clicked in Mac’s mind and he looked over at Baranyev, whose eyes were bright with malice and contempt. We’re being played, but this isn’t a game. A wall had opened up in the complex pattern around them, and he could almost see the shadow player. He remembered the memos he’d pocketed from Quayle’s file at Brookhearst: he’d intended to ask Jason to translate them. Now the memos, with whatever answers they might hold, were safe in the pocket of his leather jacket, safely tucked behind the passenger seat of his Jeep. Safer than we are right now.

Reznik glanced at Vasily. “Did he have time to report in since the fire?”

“He made no calls.”

“Good. It will take time before the DXS start to look for him . . . they will have their hands full sifting through ashes.” His smile came nowhere near his eyes. “In fact, we have plenty of time, and all the resources of a private home at our disposal – a fine, secure, American home, here where they treasure privacy so very much.” Reznik waved a hand. “There is a kitchen with plenty of running water – although you seemed fond enough of cold water in Czechoslovakia.” He had been looking directly at Mac as he spoke, but his glance flicked over to Jason as if assessing which one could be broken with the least effort. He paced over to stand in front of Jason, who tried to back away; but Sasha was standing directly behind him, a stolid barricade of muscle.

“There is also the fireplace here,” Reznik continued. “We can build a fire. There is a pantry with cleaning supplies – caustic chemicals, acids – I was taught to be creative.”

Even as Mac interrupted him, a voice in the back of head was trying to tell him it was a bad idea, but he ignored it. “Hey, Iosif, I remember your name now. You were pretty hot stuff in the chess world, weren’t you? Didn’t Kasparov kick your butt just a coupla years ago?”

Reznik turned away from Jason, who wilted visibly, and studied MacGyver again, more carefully. “Comrade Kasparov is a Soviet hero,” he said in a controlled, even tone of voice. “And his job has always been to play chess. I still play chess, on a different board.”

He gave a slight jerk of his chin, a signal to one of the men who had been standing behind Baranyev’s chair. “Gennady.” Gennady walked over to take Vasily’s place behind Mac.

MacGyver didn’t like having the man behind him; he was tall and huskily built, and seemed far too pleased at the summons. Mac set his teeth as Gennady ran a thumb down his spine – even the touch felt like an invasion.

The man’s thumb dug into a nerve nexus and the blaze of pain ran up and down Mac’s spine; he threw his head up and arched his back to try to get away from the agony, and only the set teeth kept him from screaming. When the pressure eased, he found his knees had sagged and Gennady was holding him up.

“Enough of a demonstration, I think,” Reznik observed. “You might consider your words more carefully after this. I don’t like to be interrupted.”

As if to illustrate his words, he glanced up and scowled; another man had entered the room, and spoke quietly to Reznik. “Mikhail and Tolya have returned – they finally have the son.” MacGyver saw Baranyev’s head come up at the news; he looked alarmed but not as distressed as Mac had expected.

Reznik nodded with an unpleasant smile. “Excellent! Now we’ll really get somewhere.” He indicated Mac and Jason. “Take them to the library; they’ll be safe enough there. They can consider their situation. Arvil Volenevich also – but bring him in here first. He doesn’t need to speak to his father just now, but he should know how things stand.”


φ


The room where Sasha and Gennady took MacGyver and Jason was the same small, richly furnished room where Baba had met with Baranyev a very long day and a half ago. They were pushed roughly into the over-upholstered antique furniture, their ankles bound with more tape, and left alone. Gennady left Mac with one last dig into the overstressed nerves behind his shoulderblades.

Once the world had stopped spinning, Mac looked over at Jason and studied him. “You okay, Jason?” He didn’t look good.

“They haven’t hurt me at all, Mac,” Jason replied dourly. “I guess they didn’t figure I knew anything useful.”

“No, they think it’s easier to psych you out if you see what they’re willing to do to someone else.”

“It’s working,” Jason muttered.

“I’m not sure what they’re keepin’ us for, though – insurance, maybe. Or hostages, if anyone from the DXS shows up.”

“Just what are they after anyway? How did they know about the fire?”

“I’d guess Junior called his dad to report in, and the KGB guys were listening. They musta been following us for days; they probably had Baranyev’s line tapped. I think they’re really after Baranyev – and whoever else he’s involved with.”

“Isn’t he one of them?”

“You mean KGB? No. I don’t think he ever was. I think – ”

He broke off as the door was unlocked; Arvil Baranyev was ushered in, his hands behind his back, a shell-shocked expression on his face; Mac wondered if he’d received any of Gennady’s special attentions. He flinched visibly on seeing MacGyver.

“What the devil – ?”

He was deposited onto the couch beside Mac, who swore he could see a smirk on Vasily’s face as they left.

Arvil kept staring at Mac as if he was seeing a ghost. “The firemen – they found no bodies – but I did not think to see you alive again. I thought you had died in your own fire.”

“My fire – you think I set that? The Phoenix Foundation hired me to find out what was goin’ on, not to torch the place!”

“My father said you were a saboteur. You are a DXS agent! An enemy of the State!”

“Look, Junior, will you get a grip? Like it or not, the State is not your buddy any more, and the KGB are not your friends! The only reason we haven’t been shot yet is they’ve got more information to beat out of us first. Once they’ve got what they want, they’re gonna kill you and your dad. And me, too. And Jason. You might not care about that, but I do.”

“But my father – I don’t understand! My father sent me here to work for the State!”

Mac rolled his eyes. “Your dad sent you here to carve him out a beachhead for his own little empire.”

Arvil looked genuinely distraught. “We’ve got to get loose somehow.” He kicked his bound feet in frustration.

“Would you stop kicking?” Mac snapped. “Just be grateful that they didn’t go in for hogties.” He bunched himself up and slid off the couch onto the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Lookin’ for something I can use to get free.” MacGyver rolled onto his side, looking around to make sure he wasn’t going to bang his head against any of the furniture when he started to squirm out into the centre of the room. He found himself looking directly at the legs and underside of one of the fancy side tables that flanked the couch, a glossy antique in dark mahogany with elaborately carved ornamental scrollwork on the legs.

Tucked neatly into one whorl of carved wood was the Swiss Army knife Baba had ‘borrowed’ from him two days before.

Do not worry so much. You will have it back when you need it.

Mac rested his forehead against the thick carpet for a moment until the dizzy lurch had passed before he set to work.


After he had freed Jason and himself, he stood over Arvil for a long moment. “Junior, can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just tape your mouth and stuff you into a closet?”

“I know this house.”

“So do I.”

“I speak Russian, and my accent doesn’t stink.”

Jason spoke up. “So do I.”

After a moment, the stolid veneer of Arvil’s face cracked. “I don’t want my father to die. Please. I want to save him.”

Mac and Jason exchanged glances. Mac shrugged. “That’s good enough for me.”

As Mac freed Arvil, Jason picked up the library phone, then set it down, glanced behind the library desk, and lifted the severed cord. “No dice. Can we count on Tasha getting us any help?”

“Probably not; she won’t know who to ask for or what to say, or where to send it. Let’s see. Reznik might have wanted to be able to use the phone in the living room – he probably yanked the others. Careful guy. I wonder how thorough he was . . . c’mon.”

“Where to?”

“Baranyev’s study.”

“But we’re locked in here.”

Mac grinned and picked a shred of adhesive off the large blade of his knife before he switched blades. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a key.”


φ


In the study, Jason made a beeline for the phone; when he turned to MacGyver a moment later with a sombre expression and another cut phone cord, Mac wasn’t even paying attention. He was bent over one of the computers.

“Um, Mac? Reznik’s been through here too.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Mac’s fingers flashed over the keyboard as Arvil and Jason exchanged looks of complete bewilderment. “Arvil, what was your mom’s first name?”

“Valeriya. Why?”

“Thought so. It’s your dad’s password.”

Arvil jumped as the computer emitted a high-pitched whine and screech. “Chyort poberi, I hate that noise. What are you doing?”

“Callin’ for help.” The keys on the keyboard chattered. “Good thing Reznik doesn’t know about modems.”

“What are you talking about?” Arvil exploded.

The clicking continued. “Junior, you may think these are expensive toys, but your dad must have been using these computers to move millions of dollars in blood money around the world pretty much every day. We’re looking at the future of international crime here. I wonder how much he’s told Reznik so far?”

“But you said the line was tapped,” Jason objected.

“Different phone lines – and not even the phone company knows these are here. Willis said it took him hours to trace them, and he knew what he was looking for.”

Mac finished typing and turned off the nearest of the computers, then pulled the CPU towards him, disconnected the keyboard and started to dismantle the system with the screwdriver blade on his knife. “The only problem is, there’s no way to tell how long it’ll be before the cavalry gets here.”

“Then what do we do, Mac?” Jason asked.

“Get out if we can, hide if we can’t, fight if we have to. We’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

Arvil was nodding. “You are very clever indeed. And you pick locks? Can you open that middle drawer on my father’s desk?”

“Yeah, probably. Why? What’s in it?”

“Keys to the garage and to the car. Since the garage is locked, perhaps it will not be guarded.”

“Hey, good thinkin’, Junior.” Mac switched blades on his knife, feeling a moment’s glow at having it back, and bent over the lock.

The drawer gave after a moment’s work, and Arvil pushed him aside and opened it. Mac didn’t see any keys in the jumble of pens, paper clips and other paraphernalia including another of Baba’s domovushki, but Arvil reached in with confidence, sliding his hand towards the back of the drawer.

When his hand came out, instead of keys, he was holding a fountain pen. Mac took one look at it and tried to duck away, but he wasn’t fast enough; Arvil aimed the pen at MacGyver’s face and thumbed the release. The stinging liquid hit Mac full in the face, burning his eyes and sending a wave of fire right into his brain: it had to be the same chemical weapon Arvil had tried to use on him in the lab at Brookhearst, this time in concentrated liquid form.

Mac’s fingers clawed at his face and eyes and he scrabbled for the front of his tank-top, trying to wipe as much of the fluid from his face as he could while his hands would still obey him, before the eyes and skin could absorb the insidious stuff into his system. Arvil swung a heavy fist at Mac’s stomach and he fell against the desk, scattering the computer components, and crumpled to the floor. Worse than the blow or the burning in his eyes was the immediate sense of a heavy grey opiate fog, wrapping around his mind and dulling his senses. Behind it lurked the freezing grip of imminent paralysis. Behind that – how much of a dose did it take before breathing stopped?

He heard a cry from Jason and another blow, and the heavy thump of Jason’s body hitting the carpet; Arvil must have a collection of the pens, since he had ready access to the drug. The room receded to the far end of a long tunnel as MacGyver lay still, concentrating on his breathing, trying to claw his way out from under the fog that pressed down on him. He vaguely heard the sound of a body being dragged away – Jason? – then felt his own ankles seized as Arvil dragged him behind Baranyev’s desk.

“My father is not a criminal, MacGyver,” he heard Arvil hiss. “Once the KGB have you safe again, we will be able to clear up this misunderstanding. They will see who is loyal.”



MacGyver lay still, his heart pounding as if he was running a marathon, trying to focus on the rhythm of his own breathing. After each exhalation, he waited for an agonisingly long time to find out if his body still remembered what came next. His thoughts seemed to be wandering in circles, meandering through the endless maze that kept growing new branches. Every so often a wall would open up, but it never revealed anything except more twists and turns, every tunnel fading away into the heavy grey fog.

After a while, the fog became less dense and he remembered why he was lying on this thickly carpeted floor. Fentanyl. Fentanyl metabolises fast. Real fast. How fast? How much did I get? How long have I been lyin’ here? His head was spinning and there was a metallic aftertaste in his mouth.

Mac managed to open his eyes, but the room seemed very dim. He could see his own hand lying on the floor just a few inches in front of his face, and a few inches beyond that, the hard drive from the computer he’d been dismantling. That’s right. Baranyev’s computers. I wanted to take the drive with us. Evidence. Mac strained to make his fingers move, to slide his hand over and clasp the drive before it could retreat and hide in the maze, but the message wasn’t getting through. Come on, you guys, he thought to his fingers. This is no time to be goofing off. His hand continued to ignore him.

On the far side of his hand, he could see under Baranyev’s desk and across the room to the door that led into the hallway. Arvil had left – he must be elsewhere in the house, trying to bargain his way into the KGB’s good graces. How long had he been gone?

The door swung open. MacGyver threw every fibre of his will into the struggle to make his hand move, and saw the fingers stir in the dimness. Beyond them, two men appeared in the doorway – but it wasn’t Reznik and Arvil, coming back to finish the job. Baranyev was standing in his own study, while the young KGB operative, Sasha, closed the door and then hurried to cut Baranyev’s hands loose.

“Nu chto, starik . . .” – Mac’s mind grappled with the Russian, wrestled for a moment to make the sounds into meaningful words. “All right, old man. What did you mean in there about my future? Why are you talking about opportunities? Look at you!”

Baranyev spoke more gently than MacGyver had heard him do before. “Sasha – you are Sasha Mikhailovich Lebedev, aren’t you? I remember your name – you’re a star wrestler. Or you were. The Olympics of 1980, wasn’t it? A pity you were denied any further opportunities.”

Sasha’s face hardened. “That was the past.”

“Yes, it certainly was. And the future is more uncertain every day.” Baranyev’s voice was a honeyed rumble. “Are you the only athlete in your family? Or are there others – any younger brothers or cousins hoping for success and advancement?”

“We hope to serve our country. What else should we hope for?”

“Serve the State? Do you think it will value you as you deserve? Do you see how well I’m valued? My family gave everything for our country, and look how I’m treated now.” Baranyev placed a fatherly hand on Sasha’s shoulder. “But even as our government grows weak and begins to fawn on the West, we are building a new world in its shadow. And we need men like you – young men with quick minds, men who will adapt to the new world we are creating.”

“What about your son? They’re searching for him even now.”

Baranyev shrugged. “You would think a young man would be more flexible, more able to think ahead and see the possibilities. This is the future.” He pointed towards the computers, and Mac felt himself freeze inside his paralysis . . . if they spotted him, lying helpless behind the desk . . . “My son will have nothing to do with them – and look, your superiors have begun to tear them apart! But you – you’re not afraid of technology, are you?”

Beyond Baranyev, the study door silently swung open a crack. Someone’s there. Someone’s listening. Baranyev, you’ve been set up.

The door was thrust open suddenly and Mac had a glimpse into the hallway of one of the KGB men, standing and listening intently; then Arvil shoved his way past and bustled into the study, with Reznik and Vasily close behind.

“They’re safe in here – what?” Arvil looked from his father to Sasha, dumbfounded. Baranyev looked furious.

Reznik gestured towards the hall, and the listener entered. “Did you hear enough, Mikhail?”

“Yes, sir. A very interesting conversation, don’t you agree, Sasha?”

Baranyev turned to Sasha with eyes narrowed with rage, to be met with a look of contempt.

Reznik laughed. “You think I can’t trust my own men? Sasha had his orders. Sasha carries out orders very well.”

Arvil looked bewildered. “Father – I don’t understand – surely this is a misunderstanding?”

“Visha, you idiot! What have you done? What have you told these thugs? Why am I cursed with an idiot for a son? If your brother had survived, he would not have disappointed me so much.”

Arvil went as white as if he’d been slapped. Reznik turned his cool, dispassionate gaze towards the young man, smirking faintly. Even as he looked away, Baranyev snatched Sasha’s gun from its holster and shot Reznik in the head at pointblank range.

MacGyver felt his whole body flinch away from the sound of the gunshot, although the muscles were still reluctant to obey him. He made another desperate attempt, and his fingers began to move, crawling across the carpet towards the hard drive on the carpeted floor in front of him. His hand wrapped around the cool metal block.

Baranyev had stepped away from the others, brandishing the gun. “Listen to me, all of you. Forget those weak fools in the Kremlin – do you want to follow them blindly while we’re all run down by perestroika? Join me instead. With one click of that keyboard I can make every one of you rich. Do you think you’ll get what you’ve earned any other way? I didn’t!”

As Baranyev turned to gesture towards the computers on the desk, Vasily drew his own gun in one smooth unhurried motion and pulled the trigger.

Mac had a clear view of Baranyev’s face as the sheer blunt force of the shot drove him, staggering, several steps backwards to collide with the half-open hallway door behind him. He showed no sign of pain or shock, only astonishment as he looked down to see the sudden and rapid wash of blood spread across the wrinkled, stained fabric of his shirt. The look of surprise remained on his face as his eyes clouded over and he slid to the floor.

Arvil gave a howl like a mortally wounded animal and dived for Vasily. MacGyver didn’t see the fountain pen in his hand, but when Vasily screamed and clawed at his own eyes, he guessed easily enough what had happened. This time Arvil wasn’t satisfied with one hard punch to his victim’s stomach; he went for his father’s killer with his bare hands, grappling him by the throat.

Caught off guard, Sasha grappled ineffectively at Arvil’s back, trying to pull the screaming, flailing, half-crazed man away. Mikhail started to reach for his gun, circling the scrimmage to find a better angle.

Mac reached up a hand through the layers of resistance, caught at the edge of the desk and dragged himself to his feet, still clutching the hard drive, feeling an almost ridiculous delight at being upright again. It was difficult to stand, but easy enough to half-fall against Baranyev’s desk and slam the great square bulk of the computer monitor with his shoulder. The monitor toppled off the desk and crashed to the floor, and Sasha and Mikhail both jumped away and threw their hands up to shield their heads.

What, were they expecting it was gonna explode? The plastic cover of the monitor case had cracked but the CRT remained intact. The crash seemed to have penetrated Arvil’s maddened focus; he released Vasily, glanced around, and charged at Mikhail, knocking him to the floor and beating him with indiscriminate fury.

MacGyver saw Sasha stoop for his gun where it had fallen from Baranyev’s hand.

“Sasha!” Mac yelled. “Look out!”

Sasha glanced in his direction in confusion, and MacGyver tossed him the hard drive. Sasha grabbed at it instinctively, and Mac snatched the computer keyboard from the desk, took three long strides towards him and swung it edge-first at Sasha’s head. It connected solidly, and the young man sprawled on the floor.

MacGyver staggered, thrown off-balance by his own swing, glanced around and found he was the only person still standing – and none too steadily at that. Vasily was lying in a drugged stupor, his slow breathing rasping in his bruised throat, and Mikhail lay senseless beside him. Arvil was crouched beside his father, holding the lifeless form in his arms, his body racked with uncontrolled sobs.

Shouts and pounding footsteps out in the corridor told him that the respite was only momentary; the gunfire and crashes had alerted the rest of the unit. Half staggering, Mac threw himself against the partly-closed door, grunted with surprise to find it was heavier than he had expected, slammed it and shot the bolt.

That won’t hold ‘em for long . . . he glanced around the room; they were running low on options. He flinched inside his skin at the sound of bullets hitting the lock on the other side of the door, then grinned shakily at the unusual sound of the impact. The door – Baranyev musta had it reinforced with steel. Keeping his inner sanctum safe . . . I guess the paranoia paid off, for us anyway. Didn’t save him.

A quick search around the room revealed no way out. The windows were fortified but impassable, even if he’d been confident of his returning coordination. He spotted Jason’s glasses, miraculously intact, halfway under a massive armchair where they’d been kicked in the scuffle with Arvil, and then found Jason himself, shoved between the chair and the wall. Jason was still breathing, but was out cold. MacGyver dragged him out onto the floor, lifted one of his eyelids with a thumb and found the pupil shrunk to a pinpoint. No help there.

Sorry, Karen . . . and I got him into this one . . . He picked up the keyboard again and stood by the door, listening, trying to figure out what was happening outside.

There was a fresh rattle of gunfire in the hallway; not pistols this time, but automatic weapons fire. Aw, noo . . . wait . . . the burst had been from an M-16, not an AK-47. The gunfire ended, and the shouts on the other side of the door were recognisably English.

Even more recognisable was the rhythmic knocking on the door that followed: dum-da-da-dum-dum . . .

Shave and a haircut . . . Mac started to laugh, weakly, as he stumbled back to the door and rapped twice.

Six bits.

Beyond the door, he heard the impossibly familiar voice of Bill Foy calling out. “MacGyver? You okay? Wanna let us in? I’m kidding about the haircut. I promise.”

Mac unlocked the door and leaned against it weakly as he swung it open, feeling a new wave of dizziness hit him. He realised he was still holding the keyboard. He waved Bill in with it.

Beside Bill’s solid, reliable form was none other than Ruth Collins, brandishing a brightly polished pistol with every sign of familiar competence. She was flanked on the other side by her chauffeur Gregory; behind them in the hall was Emily Breckinridge, standing over the KGB agents where they lay on the hall carpet, covering them with an M-16 that looked absurdly oversized in contrast to her small frame.

Bill looked at Sasha lying on the floor, then at MacGyver and his keyboard. “You brainy types are getting awful militant, aren’t you?”

Mac gave a faint smile and shrugged. “It’s just the impact of modern technology.”

Bill glanced around the study and turned to Ruth. “I told you he wouldn’t have anything for us to do except to clean up after him. Pay up.”

“Four KGB operatives still standing, and you call that just ‘cleaning up’?” Ruth replied tartly.

“It wasn’t that hard – they were distracted, they didn’t expect us, and their CO was down. Don’t quibble.” As Ruth handed him a twenty, he added, “And no taking this out of my signing bonus.”

Mac looked from one to the other. “Signing bonus?”

“Yeah – Emily and I just accepted job offers from Phoenix. And you can congratulate me, pal: Phoenix doesn’t have a policy against field operatives marrying. Wanna be my best man?”

Mac winced. “Am I gonna have to rent that tux again?”

Bill laughed. “It’s up to Emily. But you know she’s more into Gore-tex. Maybe we’ll just elope.” His eyes lit up with mischief bordering on malice. “Hey, maybe we’ll have one of those really different ‘adventure’ weddings. Which would you hate more: following Emily up another sheer cliff, or stuffing yourself into another tux?”

“Emily – ” Mac called out. “About that elopement business? Great idea. Go for it.”

Bill laughed and returned to the hallway to help Emily secure the Russian operatives. Mac looked at Ruth, fighting a fresh wave of giddiness that threatened to swamp the sense of sheer relief. “So my message got through?”

“Which one?” replied Ruth. “A young lady called our main local office line early this morning, but it took some time for word to reach me; and she had no idea where you’d been taken. I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of personnel in the Bay Area, and most of what I had I sent out to look for you. When Willis called to tell me where you were, I scrambled what troops I had on hand.” She gently waved the hand that wasn’t holding a gun. “Exactly how Willis knew, I have no idea; I told him not to waste any time trying to make me understand. I simply assumed a little bird popped up out of a crystal ball and whispered in his ear.”

“You went ahead and acted on his information – just like that . . . ?”

“Without vetting it? Of course. Willis’ little birds may be incomprehensible, but they’ve always been reliable.”

A man Mac didn’t recognise poked his head in from the hallway. “We’ve finished sweeping the rest of the house, Ruth. All clear. No more enemy assets discovered.”

Ruth winced. “I do hate calling people ‘assets’. But we’ll turn the lot of them over to the DXS – and I do love setting them up to owe us favours.” She looked over at Arvil, her face sombre. “So that’s young Baranyev? You’ll have to fill me in on what happened – but I can see how it’s ended.”

Baranyev lay sprawled on the carpet like the toppled king at the end of a chess match. Arvil had stopped weeping, but was still crouched holding his father’s body, drowned too deep in grief to pay any heed.

Ruth shook her head. “Another one for the DXS to handle . . . I dare say he’ll be booted back to the Soviets as an undesirable. I doubt he’s worth much in trade.”

“Hard to say.” Mac tried to find some room for compassion at the young man’s devastation, but it was difficult.

“Swapping pawns . . . that’s supposed to happen early in the game. You’d think they’d have come up with some better moves by now.” She set the safety catch on her gun and it vanished into a pocket of her tailored suit. “Pete will be arriving soon – he’ll be best at making those arrangements. Dear me, Gregory. I was going to have you pick him up again, and you’re here instead. That was careless of me.”

“If you say so, ma’am,” Gregory replied with aplomb.

“I do. Well. One thing at a time.” Ruth glanced around the study again. “I think we’d better send for Willis immediately; he can hop up from LA and have a lovely time playing with all these wretched computers. Somebody might as well be enjoying themselves.” She gave MacGyver a thoughtful look. “As for you, you look terrible, and you smell like an chemical charnel house. How long has it been since you got any sleep?”

“I guess that depends on whether you count being half knocked out and dosed with joyless juice.”

“I don’t. And if I tried, I dare say Pete would have words with me. I’m supposed to return you undamaged.”

Mac grinned unsteadily. “I’m not sure you’re gonna get your deposit back.”

Afternote here: once again, deep thanks to Grrl for her chemical recipes, not to mention her patience and enthusiasm.

And special thanks to Rocky for help with the details of home computer systems of the era . . . including an explanation of how it's actually very hard to make a computer monitor explode. As a result, I had to use a non-exploding computer monitor; but hey, you do what you can with what you've got, right?

Thanks, Rocky! You're the best.

Brilliant... the way MacGvyer got the girls out of harm's way... as well as his jacket with the Intel hidden in the pocket!

Terribly exciting stuff... KGB... the Baranyevs... Arvil is a real menace with those pens! I'm glad it wasn't the standard KGB cyanide, but still... EEK!! Poor Mac and Jason!

So glad to see our SAK appear when it was most needed!! Yay Baba!! I liked how Mac was so surprised that he felt 'a dizzy lurch' of relief and wonder! *glee*

I loved how Ruth acted at once on Willis' information... if that doesn't win Mac over to the Phoenix Foundation's way of doing things (sans the red tape) then nothing will!

Wonderful chapter!!

Oh my, Mac really has it coming this day - this week? Out of the rain, into the frying pan, or something like that.

Now this was great action. And great whumping also, with this one nerve spot. Who needs tools and chemicals, when you have a great knowledge of the human body. Simple, but effective. Without any permanent effects, if you don't want that.

I loved Mac's line when he was thinking that he was freshly out of new knifes. And I really really loved how his knife came back to him when he needed it. This sent a shudder up my spine. Because, I have to tell you, I don't believe in supernatural crap any more than Mac does.

Yeah, and Mac thinking: "What did they think, that it would explode?" Wise guy!


This seems indeed to be powerful stuff that was laying around in those pens. I certainly would not want to get that into my face. No thank you, sir.

I have one question, though: The precious hard drive Mac wanted to rescue, with all the informations on it - why was he tossing it over for distraction? Wasn't there a chance the guy might drop it? And in the upcoming action, it might get trampled on it and thus destroyed? I would have not taken any chances. Surely there was other stuff for throwing as well?


Loved the end with Ruth and her "cavalry" waltzing in as well. Great, great chapter.

Is this already the end? Seemed so. I hope not! I could read on and on. And if I don't stop soon, this review is ending up longer than the chapter.



PS: I wonder what you are having for drink for this story. Since it was Guiness for the Irish one. So what now - Vodka?

You're free to like them or not as you choose. In my case, those "hippies" include many long-term friends and several family members. Their world has its bright side and its dark side, and I chose to explore it all.

Of course, the way I write, by skimming or skipping chapters you're also skipping key elements of the plot. But when it comes right down to it, your time is your own to spend as you like.

It was never the intention to offend and I truly apologize if I did. I'm considering it would be best if I keep my opinion to myself in any of your future stories or perhaps is better not to comment at all

Like I said, I apologize for any hurt I caused, it was never the intention.

"Out of the frying pan into the fire" -- gee, anyone would think I was working with a lot of fire imagery in this one, along with the gamesmanship references.

Glad you, um, liked it! And it can indeed cause permanent damage, but I don't like to break anything I might want to use later.

The main ingredients were fentanyl (a very powerful, fast-acting opiate), pancuronium bromide (a paralysing agent), and droperidol (an anti-anxiety drug), in a liquid solution. Grrl provided endless delicious details on the immediate and later effects, side effects, and why the same compound would behave differently when administered in different ways (such as breathing the stuff versus getting it splorted into the face).

Because, like Mount Everest, it was there, right in his hand. And the situation had changed. Preventing a shooting might be considered more important than successfully sneaking off with the data. Even when the guy who might get shot is the one who just betrayed you. Interesting dilemma if you stop to think about it . . .

What plot threads are still unresolved? Here are a few hints:
What did Pete fail to tell Mac at the end of chapter 2?
Who set the fire?
What's in the memos?
Why did Baba help Mac at all?
Not to mention: Ruth is still talking about Mac returning to the DXS.

Oh, and it doesn't say "the end" at the end.

As for a second drink -- maybe White Russians would be apt.

"Out of the frying pan into the fire"

He, I got them mixed up nicely, then! Because, in Germany the saying goes like this: "Out of the rain, into the eaves" - please don't ask me how one can get into eaves, but maybe it is meant when you try to keep dry under a roof - and then get splashed with water from the eaves.

I'm sure Mac did not, though...

It can ? Now you frighten me! Just where exactly did you do your research?!? (I have a friend who writes a lot of, um, sex-scenes - you would not want to know where SHE does her research for all the available toys )

Don't you fear that if you, say, search for incredients for a bomb - that homeworld, I mean, homeland security catches you?

I think I should buy her a drink then, too... I will run out of money pretty soon if I keep that up! (maybe you could be nice and buy me one in return )

But he still might need evidence after the shooting was over and the police started to ask questions?

No, it didn't, but it seemed like there was only one "wrapping up" chapter coming, just like in the show, after the action, some nice for calming. But I see you are right, lots of unresolved plot devices so far. Happy to hear that!

Have no idea what that is, sorry!

Astra, there is a huge difference between having and researching knowledge and applying it. The chemical cocktail in the pens is a known agent used in a real world incident that happened a few years ago. I did some in depth digging and was able to find a 'probable' recipe for the chemicals used. The countries involved have never officially admitted what chemicals were used, but based on the symptoms of those exposed, a likely combination was determined by investigators.

All of the chemicals used in the cocktail have viable medical applications and are routinely used in the health care professions. Beth's idea of putting the chemical in the pen is brilliant. It is very mid 80s James Bond, and the pen is a common everyday object that few people would initially suspect as dangerous. Much more practical than carrying around a needle and syringe.

As far as the Dept of Homeland Security, well, I probably already on their list and have been for several years simply because of the topics I teach for my job and the types of chemicals I have worked around in the past. So far, it hasn't been a problem. I still travel and it was totally smooth sailing last month when I went to Scotland. I don't expect problems and am looking forward to meeting al you other Mac nuts in Vancouver next month.

And my personal recipe for White Russians: vodka+kahlua+French vanilla ice cream+blender =

We'll be mixing them up next month...if Beth brings the blender.

Par-tay!!

*is incredibly excited*

A White Russian is a drink made from vodka, Kahlua or some other coffee liqueur, and cream. If you leave out the cream, it's a Black Russian.

I remember a lovely turn of phrase from H. Beam Piper, along the lines of two good drinks getting together, and that calls for drinks all around . . . yes, I'll get a blender.

I live in a large urban centre. I already know where to do that kind of research! Not that I'm expecting to need it.

As for the pen -- well, I had this nasty chemical just lying around, and hadn't used it up in chapter 6 -- and the funny thing about a fountain pen is that you can put any fluid into it that isn't too corrosive for the pen.

When I started peppering Grrl with questions, I brought up the hostage incident with the Chechnyan terrorists pretty early; I had followed that story very closely while it happened, due to an association relating to another part of my life. I think I like the recipe for her latest cocktail much better.

And given the number of "hippie" groups to which I've belonged over the last thirty-five years, I imagine Homeland Security already knows where I sleep. That didn't stop me from getting a State Department clearance several years back, though.

Oh, I guess I'll have something else, then. I'm not too fond of the taste of coffee, in any form, being it chocolate or liquid. But I am a sucker for Vodka-lemon *yummy* (But maybe I'll try a sip of yours, if you allow it)

Party indeed, Loth! *Astra tried frantically to remember this special Irish word for it, but fails*

I live in a large urban centre. I already know where to do that kind of research! Not that I'm expecting to need it.

I meant online actually, but still. One time she needed to know the price for a callgirl - and had to be careful not to go onto pages where you have to pay for being there

This took a while to translate to me - never have seen the English spelling of Chechnyan before. Around here it is written "Tschetschenen"

Which one? The one with the school kids or the one in the theatre? They used something like that? I don't remember, actually.


and did actually anybody get my pun with homeworld security? *hides*



PS: In case you haven't noticed, we all read this chapter now, you can bring on the next one

Realy great chapter, I love all the detail you put into your stories. And Thank you too, 'Grrl for all your knowledge of "chemical things".
I'd love to be even half as inteligent as all of you are.. wow!

I laughed at the way Baba left Mac's knife for him! I DO believe in the "supernatural". I've seen some things that couldnt be explained and I was not so much afraid as simply awed. There is so much we just dont know.

As for the "hippies" of this story,their "culture" seemed to me to be more like that of Wiccans.
I have met some Wiccans, and they were very good and kind people, and I have also met some who claimed to be Christian that were.. ah.. NOT so kind... (I am a Christian, Non-denominational) Takes all kinds to make a world, I guess...

It's the intent of a persons heart and the respect that they have for themselves and for others that ultimately matters.

Anyway, Its not my intent to start an arguement, and I sincerely hope my opinion has not offended anyone. I enjoy the works on this site very much and the quotes and comments of everyone! Love and Blessings to all!!

I say, Kyrian, well said!


And Astra... I giggled heartily about 'homeworld security'!
Unless my brain has utterly failed me, I think the word you're looking for is "Seisiun"

Well, Astra, I actually did an all-out facepalm over "Homeworld Security" -- it brought up a vision of Teal'c and his staff weapon, raising an eyebrow over my internet history! So you can visualise me rolling on the floor.

The Irish word you're looking for is "craic", pronounced almost exactly like "crack". Craic is the good time you spend with friends; a seisiun is getting together to do music. A seisiun should always include craic, but craic doesn't only happen during a seisiun. Everyone confused yet?

There will be lots of craic at Gatecon.

The hostage incident I meant was the one at the theatre. Amongst the hostages were members and students of the first Irish dance school that had ever been opened in Moscow: it didn't include anyone I knew myself (even online), but it included some friends of people I did know. That was a long and horrible online vigil.

Kyrian, thank you very much for your comments. Part of the nature of the California counterculture has always been a tendency to mush everything together, pick the shiniest bits and then have a party with them; which can be maddening when you're actually interested in anthropolgy, mythology, etc., but is also pretty intoxicating. It's a world in which the unscrupulous can do a lot of damage, but where the impossible and miraculous can also occur. As both a literal and a figurative "family", I probably find them as lovable and infuriating as most families are everywhere.

Actually, I feel pretty much the same about the folk music side of my "family", when you get right down to it!

Craic! *footmouth* How did I forget that?!

No, no potcheen for me, thanks... I'm driving!

No this doesn't sound right somehow.

Exactly! And I should remind myself just to think of crack, and there it is, the word.

Do you have actually a name for this? We call it a donkey bridge

<-- like this?

This was indeed funny! Maybe Teal'c might even raise all of his eyebrows for you.

Sorry though if I have spoilered you, as I don't know in which season this exactly occured for the first time, but there was indeed talking of an institution called "Homeworld Security" later in "Stargate".


Well, I look forward to all the craic and maybe we can have a seisiun as well, since I love to sing with friends.

(this was the last night in Avalon) http://s137.photobucket.com/albums/q227/Di...kenSailor-1.flv

I think we will have plenty of both about a month from now. Looking forward to it.

Thanks Lothi and 'Beth!
After I posted yesterday, I was SO hoping I hadnt offended anyone.
My Dad used to say "Opinions are like butt ho**s. Everybody has one, some people ARE one, so be carefull yours dosent make an a** out of you!"
Rather crudely put, but true.

Just wanted to say thanks and that you are all REALY great people!
Perhaps someday we will all meet. The world is only SO big, so who knows.
Love to all! <big hug to all>

If anyone ever needs any "animal" advice for a story, I work part time for a Vet and I can always find out any info you might need. <Doc is a great teacher>

Cool! Rocky, can you add that to the list of research help available?

I think we have at least one other veterinary person on the boards also -- my mind is too mushy to recall details, though.