"That's much better," Arnie said. He appeared in front of Sullivan in the doorway. He looked to be standard CIA issue: young, impeccably groomed, utterly forgettable. Sullivan had looked like that once. It occurred to him that Arnie could have been KGB. But if he were KGB, Sullivan would have been dead by now.
Arnie's gun was aimed at Sullivan's chest. He blew a bubble. "We want you to come in, Bill. It'll be better that way for everyone."
He sounded excited. He'd get a medal for this if he pulled it off. Sullivan had a lot more at stake.
Now.
He covered his face with his hands. "I don't know what came over me," he sobbed. "I've been drinking. My wife left me. It's all been too much."
"I understand," Arnie said. He took a step into the room and put a hand on Sullivan's shoulder.
Sullivan immediately reached down and grabbed the hand that held the gun. He slammed it against the open door. Arnie howled with pain, and the gun dropped to the floor.
"Fucking bas—" Arnie tried to say, but Sullivan slugged him in the jaw before he could get out the last syllable. Arnie staggered backwards. He tried a karate kick but didn't quite have his balance, and he missed. Sullivan had forgotten all his karate, so he punched Arnie again, as hard as he could. Arnie's chin snapped back, and his body toppled over. His head struck a metal comer of the bed frame.
Sullivan heard a sound like that of a hockey stick breaking through bone. Blood gushed from the back of Arnie's head. He twitched, and then lay still.
"Hey, keep it down in there, assholes!" someone shouted.
Sullivan checked Arnie's pulse. Nothing. He went over and picked up the guns, then shut the door and leaned back against it, his eyes closed. The knuckles of his right hand ached from where they had made contact with Arnie's jaw.
It had been easier this time. You get used to it, apparently.
"...for questioning in the brutal slaying of Colonel Thomas Poole..." he heard someone say.
Sullivan opened his eyes. He saw himself on television.
Nationwide manhunt, the anchorman intoned. Armed and should be considered dangerous. Now the whole world was going to be after him. Oh Lord. He thought of his mother watching the news. And Danny.
But what could he do?
He couldn't stay here—even if there hadn't been a corpse on the floor. Arnie would be missed. They would come looking for him.
He had to do something.
Sullivan found a pair of sunglasses in Arnie's pocket. Better than nothing. He took the money out of the dead man's wallet; Arnie wouldn't be needing it now. He stuck his gun back in his shoulder holster and put on his suit coat. Then he took a deep breath and left the hotel room without looking back.
On TV, the Dow Jones industrial average drifted lower in moderate trading.
* * *
Blue police barricades had been set up on both sides of the Soviet Mission on East Sixth-seventh Street. A large contingent of policemen was keeping an eye on a somewhat smaller number of demonstrators. The policemen were sipping coffee and chatting with one another, but they looked capable of handling anything the demonstrators decided to try.
Sullivan watched for a few moments before deciding that the policemen were capable of handling him too. He wasn't going to shoot his way into the place.
He was still wearing the sunglasses, although there was little sunlight left. He was also wearing a cloth cap and a pea jacket; his suit coat had disappeared into a dumpster. He walked quickly past the demonstrators and stationed himself on the corner of Sixty-seventh and Third; a little sign proclaimed it Sakharov-Bonner Corner to annoy the Russians. Any car coming to the Soviet Mission would have to turn in front of him.
It wasn't much of an idea, but it was the only one he had.
Time passed. He bought a newspaper and pretended to read it. He looked at his watch and pretended he was waiting for someone. After a while it became too dark for the sunglasses, and he had to take them off. He felt naked. Surely some of the people passing him on the busy corner had watched the evening news. Surely one of them would recognize him and go tell one of the cops down the street. And then it would be over—a final failure to go with all the others in his life. Damn it. He deserved a chance at salvation.
A car turned. One of the men in the backseat was wearing sunglasses.
Sullivan sighed with the relief of someone who has been saved. The man, indifferently disguised, was Daniel Fulton. Sullivan watched as the driver stopped the car at the police lines and presented his identification. The car then disappeared into the garage attached to the Mission.
It was a start, anyway. But he wouldn't get any further unless Fulton came back out.
If he did, Sullivan would be ready. He hurried over to Lexington Avenue and hailed a cab. He handed the driver fifty dollars. "A car is going to be pulling out of Sixty-seventh Street in a while," he said to the driver. "I want you to follow it for me."
The driver's face lit up. "No shit?"
"No shit."
"All right! I've been hackin' twelve years and never got to do this. Is there gonna be a chase or something?"
"I doubt it. But you've got to be inconspicuous."
"Don't worry, they won't know a thing. I'm the best there is. I hope there's a chase, though. That would be fuckin' unbelievable. Ever see The French Connection?"
Sullivan ignored the guy. He sat in the backseat of the cab and stared at the corner where the car would appear—if it was going to appear. He hadn't prayed in a long time, but he was praying now.
Chapter 43
The fog swirls around her. It is night now, and she can see nothing. The tears burn her cheeks.
"Can you hear me?"
He is still breathing. Perhaps he'll regain consciousness. Perhaps he'll die. But in either case she can do nothing. She is too tired. Much too tired.
"It's Olga, darling. You must try to come back to us."
How? The fog, the darkness, the locked doors. The exhaustion. She cannot move. She cannot do anything.
"If you could just say something—let me know you're all right."
Why? If she speaks, her pain will only become more real. If she goes back, she will only have to return. She closes her eyes. The darkness does not change.
"Daniel Fulton will be here soon, Valentina. Try to come back for him."
Daniel. She has failed him. Winn lies beside her, unconquered, and that means Daniel will not be freed. She tried. If only she could have tried harder... The tears start in earnest.
"Valentina, it's all right. Just rest, darling. Just rest."
And then suddenly she said something through her tears. To Doctor Chukova, it sounded like the word "fog." Or perhaps it was just a groan torn from her ravaged soul.
* * *
Yevgeny and Viktor escorted Daniel Fulton from the garage through a short passageway to a guarded elevator. The guard examined their IDs and let them on. They took the elevator up to the seventh floor. Another guard greeted them when the doors opened.
Everything took place in silence. Fulton was almost trembling with fear and anticipation. They walked down a corridor and were confronted by two men. One was Lawrence Hill. Fulton did not recognize the other man, but he looked as if he was in charge. "Good evening, Mr. Fulton," the man said. He spoke in English with a Russian accent.
Fulton did not reply. He wasn't sure he was capable of replying.
"We must warn you that Valentina is quite weak. She is not to be excited. Your visit will be brief—only long enough to prove to her that you are still alive. It will be terminated immediately if you act improperly. Is that understood?"
Fulton managed to nod.
"She's all right, Daniel," Hill said. "But it's been a long day for her. She may seem a bit—well, vague."
"Where is she?" Fulton asked. His voice shook.
The Russian pointed at a door. Fulton walked over to it and went inside.
He was in a dimly lit bedroom. A stout Russian-looking woman in a white coat s
tared at him from across the room. He ignored her and knelt by the bed.
Valentina was lying there. He clasped her hand. Her white skin was even paler than usual; her lips were chapped and bloodless; her eyes were red from crying. They stared at him unseeing. She is not all right, he thought, his anger at Hill rising like bile. And then he thought absurdly of Mimi in the final act of La Bohème.
She's dying, he thought.
Corragio, the Bohemians had said to Rodolfo. Where was Fulton's courage? "Valentina?"
Her eyes seemed to focus on him, and she said something unintelligible. Was it Russian?
"Are you all right, Valentina?" What a stupid thing to say.
She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it.
He buried his face on the bed beside her. He left his hand on her cheek. "Don't worry about anything, darling," he said when he finally raised his head. Did he see a faint smile pass over her face?
"Enough," the Russian said from the doorway behind him.
"I love you," Fulton whispered. And he wondered why he hadn't said those words to her before. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. She closed her eyes. He wanted to stay, but what good would it do to argue with the hard-eyed Russian? He got to his feet and walked out of the room.
Hill was still standing in the corridor. "You're killing her," Fulton said to him.
Hill shrugged. "She's survived this sort of thing many times before."
"It doesn't matter to you whether she survives or not, this time. Does it?"
Hill just stared at him.
Fulton turned away. Yevgeny and Viktor were waiting to take him back. He walked slowly down the corridor to join them.
* * *
Viktor was driving. Yevgeny stayed in the backseat with Fulton. Viktor was still a little upset with the American. He could understand Fulton not wanting to play for them, but he didn't have to be so nasty about it.
Viktor turned on the radio and twiddled the dial until he found some classical music. It was Chopin: the Funeral March from the B-flat minor sonata. "I adore Chopin," he said.
"Very gloomy," Yevgeny remarked from the backseat.
"But magnificent gloom," Viktor replied. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Fulton was staring out his window into the darkness. Maybe not the right sort of music for him just now. But Viktor couldn't stand to turn it off; his soul reveled in the dark, somber sounds. He wished he could play the piano. He had taken lessons once, but it was hopeless. Fulton didn't realize how lucky he was to have such a talent.
Viktor hummed along with the melody all the way back to the safe house.
Chapter 44
"I told you I could do it, right?" the cabbie said. "No problem."
He double-parked the cab on the corner. Sullivan watched the three men walk up the steps into the town house.
"Want me to stick around? You might need to make a quick getaway or something, right?"
Sullivan shook his head as he tried to think.
"Who are these guys, anyway?"
"Russian spies," he murmured.
"Yeah. Right."
Sullivan gave the driver some more money and got out of the cab.
"Hey, thanks a lot. Have a nice evening, now."
Sullivan stayed where he was until the cab disappeared. He stared at the town house. The place undoubtedly had an alarm, so it would be difficult to break in. He was outnumbered, and that meant that no matter how much he managed to surprise them, they'd still have a chance to kill Fulton. But maybe Fulton was too valuable for them to kill. Could he assume that? Did he have a choice?
There were ways of getting in, he supposed. But one thing was common to all: They required someone who was willing to risk death.
Did he have a choice?
* * *
The melody of the Funeral March kept running through Viktor's head as he took up his post inside the front door: Dum-dum-da-dum. You had to be a genius to come up with a melody like that. Viktor wondered what it would be like to be a genius. Certainly you wouldn't have to sit by doors all night. Da-da-dum-da-dum-da-dum.
Eventually another melody intruded upon the Funeral March. A trite, annoying melody, coming from outside and getting louder:
~~~
"For Boston, for Boston
We sing our proud refrain
For Boston, for Boston
Till the echoes ring again."
~~~
It was a man singing—quite badly. The words were slurred; he was probably drunk. The singing became quite loud, and then the man started pounding on the door. "Maureen, you in there?" he shouted. "Come on outa there, you bitch. C'mon 'n have a li'l drink with me."
Yevgeny appeared in the hall. "Who is it?" he demanded.
"Sounds like a drunk," Viktor said. "He probably has the wrong address—all the houses look the same around here."
"Get rid of him."
Viktor nodded and got up from his chair. He opened the inner door and stood in the vestibule. "You have wrong address," he called out. "No Maureen here."
The man pounded some more. " 'For here men are men / And their hearts are true,'" he bellowed, "'And the towers on the Heights / Reach the heavens' own blue.' Can't fool me, Maureen. You got some guy in there with you, huh? Bitch."
"Is not here, I repeat!" Viktor shouted. "Go away, please."
"You got a fuckin Russian with you!" the man roared, sounding astonished and incensed. "You goddamn commie whore, when'd you start screwin' Russians? How many rubles they payin' you, huh, Maureen? Lemme in, you fuckin' traitor." And the man resumed his pounding.
Viktor turned back to Yevgeny, who threw his hands up. "We can't have the police coming," he said. "Bring him inside."
Viktor nodded. He opened the front door, and he saw a heavyset, red-faced man staring back at him.
That was the last thing he saw in this life.
* * *
When Abigail heard the commotion downstairs, she immediately rushed to Fulton's room to make sure he was not involved. He stared dully up at her from his bed. "What's going on?" he asked.
She didn't answer. And then the gunshots came. Should she go downstairs and help? No, better stay here with Fulton. She drew her own gun and aimed it at him. "Stay where you are," she said.
He didn't move.
"Fulton?" a voice called out from downstairs. The accent was American. Shit.
He wanted Fulton. Well, he wasn't going to get him. She would have liked to kill Fulton now, but those were not her orders. It was not easy following orders sometimes. She kept the gun aimed at him. "Help!" she shouted, sounding young and scared and very American. "We're in the bedroom. They got us tied up!"
There were hurried footsteps on the stairs. Abigail smiled and stepped back away from the door. She saw Fulton staring at her helplessly.
"Fulton?" The voice was in the hallway.
"We're in here," Abigail said. "Please help us."
"No!" Fulton shouted, and then he dived off the bed.
The stupid bastard. She shot at him, and then turned to face the American coming into the room. It took her a split second to find him, and that was a split second too long. He too had dived to the floor when Fulton shouted. He fired first from the hallway. She felt a searing pain, and there was a roaring in her ears, and suddenly she couldn't think what to do next. And then it occurred to her that there was nothing to do next.
At least I got Fulton, she thought, and then all thought ceased.
* * *
Sullivan crawled into the room, his gun at the ready. The girl looked dead. He grabbed the gun out of her hand and looked around.
Fulton was on the floor, half under the bed, staring at him.
"Any more of them?" Sullivan asked.
Fulton shook his head.
"You all right?"
Fulton stared at his left arm. The sleeve was bloody. Sullivan crawled over and took a look at the wound. "Just a scratch," he said. "We'll bandage it up, and you'll be all right."
Fu
lton continued to stare at the blood, and Sullivan realized what the problem was: the guy was a pianist. His arm really mattered. "No permanent damage," he said. "I'm sure of it."
Fulton closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sullivan figured it was time he took a deep breath too.
He had done it. He was alive; the Russians were dead; Fulton was free. Sullivan had dived to the floor when he saw a glint of metal, but it was out of cunning, not fear. And now it was over.
He got to his feet, found the bathroom, and returned a few moments later with a basin of hot water and some bandages. There were things to be done, but he could take time to fix up Fulton, who still sat on the floor in a daze.
"It was brave of you to warn me like that," Sullivan remarked as he dressed the wound.
"I had to," Fulton said, speaking finally. "Do you know what's going on?"
"Yeah. I'm from the CIA, but I'm unofficial at the moment. No one believes me about Lawrence Hill and Borisova and the summit and everything. I staked out the Soviet Mission and followed you here."
"Thanks," Fulton said.
"You're welcome. The thing is, I can't convince anyone about anything just now, for reasons that aren't worth going into. But you can. So I think we should go straight to the New York Times and get the story out. What with dead KGB officers and you being kidnapped and all, I'm sure we can make enough of a case to get the rest of the summit canceled. Or, if it's too late to get it canceled, at least the Russians won't dare try anything during it."
Fulton shook his head. "We have to save Valentina."
"She'll be all right. Once we get some publicity, the Russians couldn't possibly—"
"She's dying!" Fulton cried. "We can't just hope everything works out and the Russians do what we want. Do you really think they'll hand her over to the United States and apologize for the inconvenience? We have to save her now."
"But we can't. She's in the Soviet Mission, isn't she? How can we rescue her from there?"
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