Free Revolution by J.S. Frankel

loss and had seemed only too willing to
tell them everything. Then again, neither Lyudmila nor Piotr had
amnesia. He heaved out a sigh. “Okay, like you said, trust but
verify.”
    Something else disturbed him, and that was
the look of their third wheel. Istvan had begun to devolve, a major
problem when animal genes were mixed with human ones. Harry had
managed to solve the problem with Anastasia, but Istvan seemed to
be changing minute by minute. His nose, formerly long, had shrunk
and now resembled a pig’s nose, round and flat. There would be more
changes. Harry only hoped he’d be able to get to the bottom of this
mystery before Istvan devolved too much to be of any help.
    Farrell came back to warn them that they were
going to land soon. “We’re going to be met at the airport by Major
General Anton Bartok,” he said. “He’s the FBI’s liaison over there.
It’s just him, a private car, and he’ll do the driving. No one else
is in on this.”
    Thirty minutes later, they landed. The pilot
taxied into a private hangar away from prying eyes. As they
deplaned, the hangar was empty save for a lone individual standing
near the doors. “That’s Bartok,” Farrell said as the door
opened.
    A massive man in his forties with a head of
short jet-black hair, he wore a light greenish-brown uniform
festooned with numerous medals. With square features and dark eyes,
his face had the look of unmistakable authority, but that look of
being in control faded when Harry and Anastasia stepped down on the
tarmac. Instead, a stare of incredulity replaced the authoritative
mien. It grew more pronounced when he saw Istvan.
    Harry felt the man’s stare, somewhat akin to
a scientist observing a rather unusual lab specimen. His mind
flashed back to the convenience store incident, but Bartok
recovered nicely and addressed them. “My name is Major General
Anton Bartok,” he said in flawless English with only a trace of an
accent. “I am attached to and at the service of the Ministry of
Defense in this country.”
    “Pleasure to meet you,” Farrell said.
Observing formalities, they shook hands and exchanged cellphone
numbers.
    Istvan stayed in the background, but squeaked
out something in Hungarian. After blinking his eyes in surprise,
Bartok recovered and gave him a curt nod. Istvan bobbed his head
and remained quiet. “When you contacted me, Agent Farrell,” Bartok
started off by saying, “and told me about one of our countrymen
being, er, transformed, I admit that I was skeptical. I thought
that the news reports about transgenics in Manhattan were nothing
more than a publicity stunt. I was wrong.”
    He turned his gaze on Harry. “Your last
name—Goldman—I read about your father after Agent Farrell gave me
some of your background. Your father was a genius. It seems that
you are as well. I hope that you are not the one who has
transformed anyone.”
    Harry didn’t see the need to talk about his
practical work with transgenics. He was living proof of the
process’ effectiveness, as was Anastasia. Instead, he nodded at
Bartok. “I just do research, sir.”
    “There are more,” Anastasia put in. “My
name’s Anastasia Yakusheva, and I’m from Russia, originally.”
    “She’s American now,” Farrell chimed in. “Her
citizenship papers came through only yesterday.”
    Anastasia turned around, a pleased look on
her face. “You didn’t tell me. Thank you.” Her tone didn’t sound
sarcastic, though, merely grateful.
    “There wasn’t time,” Farrell answered,
shrugging. “We just got the word. I brought along your passport,
just in case.”
    Bartok then interrupted the feel-good moment
by waving them to a private army limousine. They got in, Farrell in
the front seat and Harry, Anastasia and Istvan in the back. Bartok
drove off, leading them away from the airfield and onto a highway.
Miles of forest on either side of the highway passed in front of
them. Bartok kept the conversation going with Farrell about