Twenty feet down they found themselves on a catwalk spanning a huge brick-lined tunnel. A dark watercourse gurgled lazily below them. A weak light at the far end showed a series of metal rungs leading down to a ledge built out from the tunnel wall.
Bolan reached into one of the pouches on his combat harness and fished out a compact but powerful light of his own. The small inspection lamps, and the occasional ventilation shaft that led to the surface, provided only dim patches of twilight in an otherwise pitch-black world.
Bolan directed the pencil-thin beam at the water. It was murky with grit, but otherwise quite clean. Some twigs and a sodden newspaper floated past.
"About three feet deep. Maybe less. As a courier, I have to know these things," Radic said.
"Which way are we heading?"
"Downstream. Toward the river. It's about a mile."
The squeaking hinges of the entrance plate gave an amplified warning that their pursuers were determined to follow them.
"Get going!"
Radic started off at a trot; it was as fast as he dared. From experience Radic knew that if they could just reach the junction where this tunnel met up with those that drained the lower slopes of the Old Citadel, they could lose the police in the complicated network of filtration pools and overspill chutes. But still they had to exercise caution. To slip and break a leg now would kill any chance of escape. "Watch out, there's a step coming up."
The flagstone shelf had single steps at about fifty-yard intervals to compensate for the downhill gradient. Bolan glanced back over his shoulder. He thought he saw a moving silhouette partially block the catwalk light above and behind them.
A guttural order bounced off the walls in a spiraling echo. The American did not have to speak the language to know he was being ordered to halt.
Gunshots! Two muzzle-flashes. Bolan heard the angry whine of bullets ricocheting within the confines of the storm drain. The police were firing blindly into the darkness.
Their flashlights now switched off, the two men hugged the wall. Bolan had the Beretta in his hand, but firing from this range would only waste ammunition. And tip off their hunters that the quarry was armed.
"It's about four hundred yards to the next major junction," Radic whispered. "Do you think we can make it?"
They could hear the policemen climbing down the metal rungs.
Bolan reached into a pouch and extracted the thin plastic tube to be used in emergencies as a water-purifying straw. Today it would have to serve double duty as a breathing device.
"You go on," instructed Bolan, whispering in Radic's ear. "When you reach the next step, flick your light on for just a second. Then duck out the way."
He patted the photographer on the shoulder to send him on his way. The policemen were arguing. As soon as Radic took off, one of the cops shouted, and Bolan could hear their footsteps slapping against the stone shelf.
He lowered himself under the water. It was not as cold as he'd imagined. With hardly a ripple, Bolan submerged himself completely. He gripped the plastic stem between his teeth. He kept himself in position with one hand stretched out to grasp the weed-choked retaining wall.
As the dark waters swirled over his face, they carried with them memories of another battlefield in this unending war, of night patrols to harass the VC supply lines. Bolan could recall lying in a fetid jungle stream — just like this, but breathing through a length of bamboo — to get the drop on Charlie.
He felt the vibration of pounding feet through the stones; had the walkways been better lit, the police might have spotted him.
As Bolan surfaced, the leading policeman was firing a burst at the momentary flicker of Radic's light.
The night warrior rose from the water like a demon from the netherworld.
The muzzle-flash of the second burst lit up both cops against the curving wall. The Beretta barked in reply.
Two slugs tore through the side of one of the policemen, smashing him against the bricks. He bounced off, took one faltering step on the flagstone and fell headlong into the murky stream.
The other official thug was hit, too. He went down with a scream. The howl of pain and rage was prolonged by echoes. The weapon, a Skorpion, had clattered on the stone floor.
Crouching beneath the edge of the walkway, Bolan could hear the man's labored breathing and the desperate scuffing of his fingers searching for the fallen gun. Then, with a small grunt of relief, he gave away the fact that he'd found it.
Bolan vaulted back onto the path, rolled to tuck himself against the wall. The policeman fired at the sound of the splash.
There was no time to be surprised at how close they were. In a single reflexive impulse Bolan had homed in and pulled the trigger. Three times he fired. And the hollow acoustics turned his attack into a ragged fusillade.
No more breathing.
No more furtive fumbling in the darkness.
No answering fire.
Bolan risked his flashlight, holding it forward and well away from his body. The man lay supine, staring at him with three eyes: the third one glistened blankly in his forehead.
"Mr. Bailey, is that you? Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm okay, George. How about you?"
The photographer switched on his light and retraced his steps along the tunnel. His jacket had been sprayed with brick dust gouged out of the wall by the police bullets. Radic brushed off the dirt while Bolan removed the dead man's wallet with its official id.
"Never know if this may come in handy," Bolan said. He rolled the body over with his foot and shoved it into the drainage canal.
Radic played the beam of his flashlight on the bobbing corpse, but within moments it looked like just a sodden log drifting through the sewers.
* * *
It sounded like a battle of mechanical monsters out there. Bolan stared through the heavy grille at the boxcars slamming into each other as the locomotives steamed and groaned to assemble another long freight train.
The military crackdown cleared the civilian population from the city streets but did not hamper the vital work of the railroad yard.
Bolan gave an involuntary shudder. His clothes were beginning to feel cold and clammy.
It had taken Radic half an hour to lead them through the main tunnel complex, over a bridge across an underground waterfall, and then up a smaller side channel to this barred opening. Near the banks of the river stood the main marshaling yard of Zubrovna's extensive railway system.
Radic used his fingernails to scrape away the mud plastered around the end of one of the iron bars, revealing the neat incision of a hacksaw. He grinned at the American and began to clean off the next cut. The seemingly secure metal grille was held in place by dried mud!
Bolan wiped down the Beretta as best he could while the Unity courier loosened the bars.
"Ready? We'll sneak down to the back of that track-walker's shack." Radic pointed to the tar-papered hut at the edge of the tracks. "I've been watching it. Nobody's in there."
A concrete ditch provided cover to the halfway point. Then they waited a few minutes for a long line of grain carriers to shunt slowly by on the nearside track. It screened them from the rest of the yard as they crossed the open ground to the hut.
When the train had passed, Radic began to scan the other wagons for likely transportation. "South. That's no good. We've got to head north for the border." Many of the freight cars had their destinations chalked on the side. "Kremac... Alexsova... both in the wrong direction. There, got it! To our right. Three tracks over. See it?"
"Northbound?"
Radic nodded. "Several of the wagons are taking sugar beets and sunflower seeds to the processing plant at Mokravina."
"There's a flatcar in the middle that we should be able to... Keep down!''
A workman in a blue cotton jacket walked slowly along the length of the train, checking off each wagon on the clipboard he carried. He paused at an empty boxcar, peered inside and rolled the door shut.
; "It must be almost ready to leave," Radic whispered. He looked around the other end of the hut to make sure the inspector had moved on.
"The signal's just gone up," said Bolan.
The big diesel strained forward. A tremor of movement rattled through the freight cars as the wheels slowly began to turn.
Bolan took a long last look at the distant control tower. They would have to risk it. Hopefully the signalmen were already concentrating on the next task at hand.
They ran across the tracks, turning to race parallel with the departing train. Bolan caught up with the flatcar, leaped up onto the step and scrambled aboard.
Radic charged alongside, reaching out for Bolan's hands. With the American's aid, he hauled himself onto the wooden platform.
They sat there catching their breath as the train followed the bend of the river, heading out of Zubrovna toward the forested hills to the north.
22
Belikov carried a circular tray into the major general's office. He placed the envelope that had been delivered from Mozhenko's department on the blotter. Then he set down the steaming glass of tea and the saucer of lemon slices.
"Thank you, comrade."
"Colonel Vichinsky has just arrived."
"Good." Strakhov checked his watch. "Tell him I want to see him immediately."
Belikov withdrew from the room.
Strakhov picked up a lemon wedge and crossed to the window. The gloom of dusk had settled over the square. The sky was clear, but the glare of the city lights dimmed the first display of stars. He chewed on the tart fruit, wishing he could get away to his dacha on the Black Sea coast. Instead, within the hour, he had to attend a very secret meeting inside the Kremlin.
The funeral for his son had been a grueling round of formal condolences and military courtesies. Strakhov had read the preliminary report that detailed the events at the Sharuf air base. He knew others had studied it, too. And yet no one had made any mention of the American invader or his theft of the M-36.
The official version of Kyril's death, full of self-serving heroics, was acknowledged as the truth even by the men who had the facts at their disposal. Greb Strakhov accepted that. It had happened so many times over the years. He would settle the score with this Colonel Phoenix. But it was a private war.
How he would have liked to be strolling through the low hills behind his dacha at Dnestropol. Spring would already be in full bloom. There, he would have the peace needed to further ponder the mystery of the Romanovs.
Strakhov sucked the last pulpy flesh from the lemon rind.
Vichinsky coughed to announce his arrival. Strakhov turned away from the window. "How was your visit to Zubrovna? It appears you stirred up quite a hornet's nest."
Vichinsky looked tired from the exhausting return journey, but a sense of accomplishment glittered in his gray eyes. "I am pleased to report that the first phase of the operation has been a complete success."
Strakhov seated himself behind the desk. He cupped his hands around the tea glass.
"Damien Macek killed in a 'senseless act of provocation.'" Strakhov quoted from the official statement he himself had helped prepare. "The games will continue, of course. We will not be intimidated by the reckless ambition of an international terrorist."
Vichinsky's lip curled in a tight smile at Strakhov's straight-faced recitation of the party line.
"Did Janus perform as expected?"
"He fulfilled his role, Comrade General. But Lednev made the kill."
"And where is he now?"
"They have both returned to Akinova. I have them under close watch. Boldin can be disposed of as soon as the real Phoenix is apprehended."
"They haven't caught him yet?"
"The whole country is alerted. All exits are being guarded. I am confident we will have him within twenty-four hours."
"Let us hope the security forces will get Phoenix for us quickly." Strakhov paused for a moment, then made a sweeping dismissive gesture. "If not, the package we shall have delivered will make certain that he has nowhere left to flee, no place to hide. He will be a dead man on the run. It only remains for us to convince the Americans that their own man has turned."
"I bring you indisputable evidence of that." Vichinsky opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder of photographs.
"Good work, comrade. Let us review the material." Strakhov checked his watch again. "I have to be at a briefing in forty minutes."
He picked up the earlier photographs first. He wanted to examine the evidence they had contrived in its chronological order.
The picture he held beneath the lamp showed Phoenix talking with a Soviet agent.
"Taken in Munich," commented Vichinsky. "One of our men there stopped him in the street supposedly to ask for directions."
"Do the Americans know this man works for us?" mused Strakhov. Then he answered his own question. "They'll find out quickly enough."
A second shot clearly depicted Phoenix sitting at a cafe table. A swarthy man on the left was placing a folded newspaper on the empty chair between them. "There was nothing in it, of course, but it looks like an exchange is taking place. That one was taken in Central America."
Strakhov slit open the packet from Mozhenko. It contained copies of two bank slips. Both were receipts for monies paid into a private Swiss bank account. It had been opened in Zurich under the name of John Phoenix.
"One hundred thousand dollars was paid into the account yesterday morning." Strakhov examined the other slip. "This shows he has received a total of nearly a quarter of a million dollars. But now it will be obvious what services he has rendered to justify this generous payoff."
"And here are the prints from Zubrovna," said Vichinsky. "Grainy and amateurish, but clear enough. Just as if a tourist had caught the assassin on film by chance."
Strakhov looked at the photos taken by Fatman in Revolution Square. John Phoenix was sighting down a sniper rifle from a window overlooking the Unity rally.
"Conclusive proof," said Strakhov, gathering together the "evidence" and putting it all in a fresh envelope. "Everything is ready for the delivery?"
"The air force has a plane standing by for immediate takeoff. It will be handed over in Berlin tonight."
"Excellent work, Comrade Vichinsky," Strakhov approved. He closed up the package and laughed. Vichinsky was startled. It was not the earthy bellow he had overheard before, but a dry death-rattling chuckle that chilled him to the bone. "This should seal the fate of Colonel John Phoenix."
* * *
It was very late. But the soft drizzle did little to dampen the sounds of celebration coming from the city streets behind him. Paul Kaplan could hear the raucous farewells of partygoers taking their leave of each other.
The other sector of the city, lying beyond that somber wall, was quieter, but neither side was sleeping.
Kaplan turned up his collar and lit another cigarette as he watched the East German checkpoint. Guards with submachine guns slung on their shoulders prowled restlessly behind the barricade.
A small group was being let through. A young man pushing a bike was quickly in the lead. Next, a couple sauntered across. In between walked a tall man, wearing a fur hat that was really too warm for that time of year but afforded him protection from the rain.
The man caught sight of Kaplan standing by the phone kiosk and strode confidently toward the waiting contact.
"Erich," Kaplan greeted the visitor. He gestured to his Porsche. "Shall we use my car?"
"It's not necessary. I have the package." Erich reached inside his coat and produced a large square envelope. It was secured with red blobs of old-fashioned sealing wax.
Kaplan walked back to his car and climbed in. He didn't start up immediately. He sat there for a moment watching the East German courier walk off into the misty rain.
* * *
"How else would you interpret it?"
Farnsworth's question was a direct challenge to Hal Brognola. The pictures and papers laid out along t
he conference table told their own story.
The five members of the special presidential commission were summoned as soon as the package had been delivered. Webb and Knopfler had been working all night digesting intelligence reports, trying to piece together what might have happened in Zubrovna, when they got the call.
Andrew Webb, uncomfortable at feeling so rumpled, cut in before Brognola could respond. "It looks very much as if John Phoenix has sold out to the KGB. And they're making damn sure we know it. Somebody over there must be gloating!"
"What if we went public with some of this material? It could be carefully leaked to the media. Then Moscow would be implicated in the assassination of Damien Macek," suggested Brognola.
"That would reveal a whole lot more about the Stony Man operation," said Farnsworth, tapping the thick top-secret folder that lay open in front of him, "and blow Colonel Phoenix's cover wide open."
"They'll stonewall it," added Knopfler. "Those bastards will brazen it out just as they have been doing with the Bulgarian connection behind the attempt on the Pope's life."
"It's a setup, I tell you," Brognola grunted. "They've framed him."
"I'd like to agree," Knopfler ventured cautiously. "But I'm not sure anyone in Moscow Center has that much imagination."
"Maybe you've been underestimating them," snapped Brognola.
Crawford remained silent. In the past twenty-four hours he had in turn been frightened, angry, and now for the first time in his life the general felt truly indecisive. Bolan had deserted his daughter, broken his word... but a phone call from Kelly had at least set his mind to rest about her safety, even while it magnified the mystery around the man he had chosen as her bodyguard.
But the sequence of photographs stretched out on the table offered a comprehensible scenario of what had happened. Even Hal Brognola could not deny that it was one explanation of what might have transpired in Zubrovna.
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