Pat hoped the Soviet leader's reforms would succeed. Then in all good conscience, he could support dismantling SIGMA ONE. But in spite of that hope, Pat knew the dramatically changing world situation brought with it instability to a previously stable equation where the two superpowers held each other in nuclear stalemate. It was this instability which made his work on SIGMA ONE even more valuable. The fact that the Soviets seemed to be moving toward democracy wouldn't necessarily mean they would destroy any of their massive inventory of nuclear weapons in the near term. Neither would it mean we would unilaterally destroy any of ours. Certainly, it might signal that bilateral arms negotiations would proceed more smoothly than before and that perhaps complete nuclear disarmament would become a reality. But, Pat knew until the details could be worked out to both side's satisfaction, such progress toward world peace would proceed slowly and deliberately. It wouldn't happen overnight. Until such agreements could be reached, unilateral moves on either government's part would be extremely dangerous.
If, on the other hand, the US had SIGMA ONE already in place, real progress could be made toward limiting, if not completely eliminating nuclear weapons, almost overnight. As an added benefit, the threat of an accidental attack could be made all but non-existent as those trained in thought-programming on both sides kept a constant vigil over mankind. This, of course, presumed that we would share this secret with the other superpower to keep third world nations in check.
But the problem was SIGMA ONE wasn't in place, and given the shortsighted nature of the doves in Congress, it wouldn't be supported for continuation in spite of its obvious near term benefits.
Pat stared at the clock and shook his head, resigned to accept whatever his meeting with Grayson would produce. In a few moments, Agents Stearns and Gunter would arrive with him giving Pat his one last chance. He crossed his fingers and waited.
Meanwhile in the adjacent suite, Andre Kamarov sat alone in his bedroom listening to classical music to get his mind off his assignment and to quell his anger that had been brought to a boil as a result of Huxley's questions. Ironically, the radio blared Wagner's Flight of the Valkyries and its warlike overtones only heightened Andre's dark mood instead of calming him. He hated the fact his mission had been found out by the American's and, even more the American scientist who had questioned him.
His two KGB agent-guards sat in the adjoining room speaking in Russian to each other while two of Walker's men stood at their posts outside. All three Russians were now prisoners. Walker had seen to that. It had been easy. All he had to do was put some of the recently-developed contact tranquilizer on his hand after taking the antidote. The tranquilizer was given him by the guys in the lab back at Langley, the US equivalent of agent 007's Q. When he was introduced to the KGB men and shook their hands, the rest, they say, was history. Five minutes later, the drug took effect and he and his two minions quickly disarmed them and locked them in the room with Kamarov. Being on the tenth floor, there wasn't much chance of them leaving by the window. Shortly after that, Walker went downstairs to await Stearns and Gunter, leaving his men in the hall to stand guard.
Kamarov felt like a prisoner as he sat on the bed staring at the four walls of his room. He was angry and bitter and that anger and bitterness remained long after Wagner's song ended. His bitterness was brought about by the feeling that his country had betrayed him when they somehow let news of his mission reach the Americans. He knew he wasn't the source of the leak. His parents' lives depended on his silence. He began to think how the information had gotten out. Perhaps one of the KGB guards was the source.
He got up from the bed and moved toward the door to listen to what the two KGB agents were saying. The door was just cracked and he could see the back of one of the agent's head. The other was hidden from view.
The one with his back to him poured himself another shot of the Stolichnaya given them by the American posted outside. Kamarov watched as his countryman took the glass of alcohol down in one swig and began to speak to the other agent.
"Well, Illya, what do you think the Americans will do with us?"
Illya responded and then came into Kamarov's view. "I don't know, Gregory. They may eliminate us. But I think not. They will probably hold us as prisoners of the capitalist regime. But it won't be so bad. I hear their jails are far better than our gulag. Besides, we can find comfort in the fact we've told them nothing of our plans. I don't understand how they found cut. This mission schedule was even ameliorated to ensure security wouldn't be breached. Yet somehow they know about Dr. Kamarov's
Gregory looked puzzled. "How do you know that?" Gregory asked as he lifted the bottle and held it up to the light watching the liquid sparkle. He was beginning to feel its effects and slowly nodded his head as he spoke. While he did Illya turned until his face became visible.
"I overheard the American doctor in the other room ask Kamarov questions about his special talent. Why would he ask if he didn't already know?"
"Are you sure he knows, Illya?"
He nodded, "of course I am sure. The American agents thought I was still unconscious when they began the questions. I heard everything."
Gregory leaned forward and spoke slowly and deliberately. His voice was slightly slurred. "And Kamarov, did he violate security? Not that it makes any difference now that we have been found out? But did he?"
"He did not. He remained silent throughout."
Andre then heard Gregory laugh but didn't know why he did. He had been silent during the questioning. He had said nothing, in spite of the fact it was obvious the mission was over the minute the questioning began. He had held his tongue to save his parents. Even if the Americans held him prisoner, he could find his own comfort knowing his silence hadn't brought his parent's harm.
While Kamarov thought, Illya joined Gregory and began to laugh himself. "Poor Kamarov. Poor silent Kamarov. It is a pity, is it not Gregory?" Illya asked chuckling while he reached for the bottle again.
"A pity indeed," Gregory responded.
Their laughter unsettled Kamarov. He was perplexed by the fact they made light of his actions. He had to know what they found so amusing and moved closer to the opening to hear better. Gregory continued with his explanation. "A pity Kamarov didn't speak to the Americans about his mission. If he had, they probably would have allowed him to defect."
Illya joined the conversation, "and poor Kamarov didn't know any better. Instead he kept his mouth shut like a good little boy and for what? To protect himself. Ha! No, to protect his parents. Too bad his loyalty was misplaced."
Gregory nodded in agreement and added, "too bad indeed."
Andre could take no more. He loved his parents far more than his country. He had considered talking, but only for the briefest of moments. He burst into the room like a madman and slammed his fist down on the table, startling both guards.
"Why do you laugh?" he demanded. "I did keep quiet during the questioning! And why do you insist my loyalty is misplaced?"
Gregory looked at Illya to get some reassurance that it might be time to tell the young Soviet. Illya returned a knowing glance and shrugged his shoulders. "Go ahead, Gregory. Tell the boy! It makes no difference now."
Gregory reached down and put his strong hand on Andre's shoulder and with his other hand slid the bottle of vodka toward him. "What I am about to tell you is best heard in a chair. Sit and drink, comrade Kamarov," Gregory said as he sat down at the table.
Andre followed his lead and slowly pulled out a chair. He didn't drink. His anger wouldn't let him.
When Andre was comfortable, Gregory started to explain his comments. There was still a sardonic touch of laughter in his voice. He looked away and began. "We weren't laughing at you, really, comrade Kamarov. It is the irony, that's all. We found it funny."
"What irony?" Kamarov demanded while he fidgeted. He didn't like listening to riddles.
"You--no--we...we are all in the same situation. We have been found out by the Americans and there is nothing
you nor we can do to change that. Yet what Illya and I do is for the love of the Motherland. We would have it no other way."
Illya' eyes flashed agreement.
Gregory continued. "However, you, Comrade, are not here by choice. We know that. The State had your parents. That's what forced you here. Isn't that right?"
Andre was unsure where Gregory was leading, but shook his head up and down.
"And it was because you thought your parents were held prisoner that you held your tongue. Is that not so?"
Andre bristled. He didn't like the reminder that he was a pawn. It stung. He clinched his teeth and glared at Gregory who had now turned to face him. Gregory's stare was compassionless. In fact, Andre detected he was being toyed with by the slight upturn in the corner of Gregory's mouth which was hiding the beginning of a smile.
Gregory ignored Andre's apparent displeasure and like a bullfighter tormenting his ignorant opponent before plunging the lance home, he leaned forward and smiled broadly looking directly into his eyes and spoke. "And that is why your loyalty is misplaced, Comrade Kamarov."
Andre didn't understand.
Gregory took a deep breath and exhaled.
Andre could smell the vodka.
Then it became perfectly clear when Gregory explained. "Your parents have been dead for over a year," he said. His voice was as cold as the bitter wind which freezes Moscow each winter. Andre blanched.
Gregory drove the sword in deeper. "They were killed in a motor accident when they were being transferred between prisons. Had you known that curlier when the American was questioning you, you could have offered your help to them without fear. That's the irony. We should have told you, Illya and I. But we didn't." Gregory leaned back in his chair and folded his arms in front of his chest before finishing. He seemed proud. "It's funny. Is it not?" He asked as the half smile he had held back before crept over his face.
Andre grit his teeth while he let the agent finish. All the anger and hatred he had held in so long finally exploded. Tears welled up in his eyes and his face began to flush. His sorrow cut like a hot knife through butter as his soul was shredded and the realization his parents were gone hit him. But his sorrow was not nearly so strong as his rage at the country he held responsible for their deaths. It burned brighter and threatened to engulf him in flames, like the moth which flies too close.
He grabbed his temples and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to control the feelings within him, but it was as useless as trying to stop a bullet on its way out the barrel by using one's finger as a plug.
He knew it, and gave in. He let the power inside himself surge. It was almost a relief and far easier than fighting his urges.
Momentarily, he opened his eyes-- slowly at first, like awakening in the morning having slept until the light floods in, blinding. Then as if his eyes had finally adjusted to the light again, he let out a hollow warble of grief "Noooooo!!!!!!" which filled the room and struck terror in his two countrymen.
Each had seen tapes of Kamarov's incredible power and were specially cautioned before accompanying him to the U.S. that they should do everything in their power to ensure they did nothing to upset him, lest they be prepared for the consequences. Neither was.
Andre yelled a second time just before unleashing his pent up telekinetic energies.
The first victim of his directed hatred was the one called Gregory, his tormentor.
Andre stared directly at him as he sat at the table unable to move.
Instantly Gregory's smile froze to his face as Kamarov willed his head to twist a full one hundred eighty degrees in less than half a second while Gregory's body remained seated in the chair. There were a series of loud snaps as the bones in his neck ground against one another and then finally broke under the stress. His body jerked uncontrollably after that for perhaps five seconds, but then he slumped forward onto the table, simultaneously hitting his chest and the back of his head. His eyes were still open staring at the ceiling when he hit, and he looked like a life-sized rag doll whose recalcitrant owner had tired of him and twisted his head off. Frothy blood gurgled in his throat and bubbled out of his mouth as his last breath exited his lifeless form.
Illya saw his friend and knew far too well he was next but before he could plead his case to the enraged Kamarov, he was lifted from his chair and hurled across the room through the plate glass window head first while Kamarov stood in the center of the room and watched.
Shards of glass ripped jagged furrows in his forehead and raked down his cheeks as he passed through the opening. The skin on his neck, back and legs was laid open to the bone as he plummeted into the night air ten stories above the casino strip. He didn't fall to the pavement below instantly though, instead he was held there dangling in space by the invisible force of Kamarov's mind while his heart continued to pump. And with each further contraction, more of his blood gushed through the numerous wounds covering his body and then dripped in a rain of blood to the street below.
Kamarov moved to the window and watched as Illya bled to death in front of him before he let the lifeless form drop. Only when he heard the body hit, did he turn around only to see the same two Americans who had escorted him Parlier from the airport standing in the doorway.
Both men had heard the window shatter and Kamarov's scream. They entered only seconds before Kamarov released Illya's body and had watched it fall out of sight. Neither could believe what he had just witnessed and stood there temporarily stunned. Neither was ready for that or what was to happen next.
Kamarov had sensed their entry earlier before turning to face them. When he did, he saw they had their guns at their sides, and knew they would use them if he did nothing to stop them. He had no real fight with these American agents, but he had few choices. Before either could raise his weapon, he stared directly at them and mentally ripped their guns from their hands. Then with a quick jerk of his head, he telekinetically propelled the weapons through the gaping hole in the window through which he had disposed of Illya moments before.
Both agents didn't understand what made their guns disappear, but they knew one thing--without them, they were still highly trained in hand to hand combat and there were two of them and only one Kamarov. They had their orders and instantly lunged forward.
Kamarov didn't move. He simply watched as they came charging ahead. When they were just one step away, he closed his eyes again. Both men instantly doubled over in pain and grabbed their splintering shin bones as they fell, hitting the floor only inches from Kamarov's feet.
Kamarov ignored their agonized screams and opened his eyes. Then, carefully, he stepped over the two fallen agents and went into the hall. He had spared them this time. It would have been just as easy for him to have propelled them out the window to their deaths, but he felt leaving them behind to tell the others who would surely take up the chase would be wiser. It would make them think twice about following him.
Andre reached into his pocket before leaving and felt for his vile. It was still intact. When he got to a safe place he would inject himself to counteract the effects his telekinetic outburst brought with it. He couldn't do it now. The drug would make him sleep and he knew he had to get away. He was thankful he had not forgotten it and had kept the vile with him earlier. It would help him. He hated the personality changes he experienced afterwards almost as much as he hated using his power destructively.
When he got to the elevator, he turned quickly and looked to see if there were any more guards who might be following him.
The hallway was empty.
He was alone.
He could escape.
But where would he go?
He didn't know, but wherever it was, he would surely be hunted down, if not by his own people, then by the Americans. Of that, he was certain. He knew when the KGB men failed to check in, a backup team would be sent. In fact, they were probably on their way now. He had been held prisoner for far too long for a change of guard not to come.
Had it been eight-
--ten----hours? He had lost track of time.It was then the grief of his parents' death overcame him.
He lunged at the wall striking it again and again until his knuckles bled. Then he buried his head in his hands and wept. Tears mixed with blood ran down his wrists and spattered on the carpet.
Five minutes passed before he could control himself. He then punched the elevator button and waited for its arrival. When it finally came, he got in and punched the button which would take him to the main floor. There he would lose himself in the crowd until he had time to decide what his next move would be. He knew one more foreigner wouldn't be noticed on the gaming level.
CHAPTER 5
Huxley had been in the bathroom shaving when Kamarov launched Illya through the window and hadn't heard the glass breaking over the sound of the running water in spite of the fact he was only two rooms away. Because of the closed door, he didn't hear the US agents' muffled screams for help either. He did hear the ululant cry of the sirens on the ambulance that had been summoned to the hotel, though; brought to scrape what the ambulance drivers had been told was "just another jumper who had cashed in his last chips," off the pavement.
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