Summit

by Richard Bowker

  Fulton stared at him. "Do you speak Russian?" he asked.

  "Uh-huh."

  "And Viktor is dead—the big Russian with the red face and the broken nose?"

  "Yeah. The body's downstairs. Incidentally, the police'll probably be—"

  "Don't worry, this is New York. You look a bit like Viktor. I think I can make you look a lot more like him. Enough to get us past the cameras and into the garage. And then we can do what's necessary to find Valentina and get back out."

  Sullivan finished bandaging Fulton's arm and sat on the bed. This wasn't the idea at all. One burst of bravery, he had hoped, and it would all be over. Go to the press, get your name cleared, and turn from a traitor into a hero. But life wasn't that simple. Do what's necessary. So far, he had killed—what?—five people, and hadn't received a scratch in return. His luck was bound to run out soon. "I don't think our odds are very good," he murmured.

  "Will you do it?" Fulton asked.

  Sullivan shrugged. Maybe his luck was supposed to ran out. He couldn't turn back now. "I suppose I have to," he said.

  "Thanks," Fulton said. "I don't even know your name," he added as he got to his feet.

  Sullivan told him.

  * * *

  The theatrical supply store was just closing when they arrived. The clerk knew Fulton, however, and kept the place open while he picked out what he needed. Then they hurried back to Greenwich Village in the Russians' car.

  It felt strange to return to the silent town house with the corpses inside, but it had to be done. They dragged Viktor's body into the kitchen and Fulton studied it as he worked on the wig and the false nose. Viktor's face showed a mixture of amazement and pain. It had been a quick death, but perhaps not an easy one.

  Neither of them spoke much as Fulton prepared the disguise. There didn't seem to be much to say. In forty-five minutes Fulton pronounced the work completed. Sullivan went to look at the results in the hall mirror. The transformation was startling. "How did you get to be such an expert?" he asked Fulton.

  "Fear," Fulton replied. "I didn't want to be recognized in public, so I learned a lot about makeup and disguises."

  Fear. Good enough reason. Fulton got some cologne out of the medicine chest to cover the smell of the makeup. "Put his suit on," he instructed Sullivan next. "And then we should go."

  Viktor was his size. The suit coat was bloodstained, but no one would notice until he got inside, and then other bloodstains might soon be added. He took out Viktor's wallet and looked at his KGB identity card. Big smile on the photo. He probably had a wife and kid back in Moscow. Maybe the kid played hockey.

  "Let's go," Fulton said.

  Sullivan checked Viktor's gun to make sure it was loaded. Fulton had already picked up Yevgeny's. Sullivan pocketed the gun and buttoned the suit coat. "Ready," he said.

  Fulton hurried out to the car, and Sullivan walked slowly after him.

  * * *

  Sullivan drove. Fulton slouched in the front seat next to him, his hands fingering the gun. He had never touched a gun before. Its power frightened him. His arm still throbbed from that power. But he needed all the power he could get if he was going to rescue Valentina.

  He glanced over at Sullivan as he sped through the Manhattan traffic. He didn't look like the kind of guy who could single-handedly defeat a bunch of Russian spies. Fulton thought of Lawrence Hill. Looks can be deceiving.

  "I have a son named Daniel," Sullivan said. "Danny, we call him."

  "No one ever called me Danny."

  "Lives with his mother down in Florida. He's a good hockey player, but you don't get much chance to play hockey down in Florida."

  Fulton considered. "I've never seen a hockey game," he said.

  Sullivan appeared to consider in turn. "I've never heard you play the piano," he said.

  They fell silent. Not far now.

  "Oh," Sullivan said as they paused at a light. "In case—in case I don't have a chance to tell you later. I broke into your house looking for you. I listened to the messages on your answering machine. Your mother is going to have an operation. It sounds serious. Your father would like you to call."

  Fulton closed his eyes as he felt the familiar tensions squeezing him. Was there no way he could leave them behind?

  No, there wasn't. "Thanks," he whispered.

  The light turned green. They passed Bloomingdale's on Third Avenue. The bravado Fulton had displayed in the safe house was slipping away from him as the true test approached. He remembered standing backstage in Moscow, too scared to move. He wished he had Hershohn around now to give him a push.

  But that was the key, wasn't it? To pretend you're onstage. Instead of the dashing, romantic pianist, you are the dashing, romantic hero, come to rescue your beloved from the evil foreign spies. The fear is only the prelude to the glory.

  Feel the audience with you. Together there is only greatness. Together you cannot fail.

  So many people had cheered him in his lifetime, so many people shouting their adoration, begging for more of his genius. Would there be cheers after this performance?

  Would there be cheers ever again?

  "It's around the corner," Sullivan said. "What do you want me to do?"

  Fulton told him.

  Chapter 45

  The policeman recognized the car, and simply waved Sullivan on. He pulled up in front of the garage door next to the Soviet Mission and inserted the card in the slot beneath the speaker.

  "Why are you back so soon?" a voice crackled over the speaker.

  "Orders," Sullivan replied in Russian. The all-purpose answer. He hoped his accent was okay; it had been perfect once. You have to hold your mouth in a different position to speak Russian—pretend it's full of rocks or something. In a Russian's clothes, with a Russian's face, maybe he could find the inspiration to pull it off.

  "Where's Yevgeny?"

  "Back at the house. Didn't need him this time."

  Sullivan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He could feel himself start to sweat. Would it ruin his disguise? The card finally came back to him and the metal door rolled up. He drove the car into the garage, and the door rolled closed behind it.

  "Over there," Fulton whispered. Sullivan went down a ramp and pulled in next to a black Mercedes. They got out.

  Someone waved to him from a booth on the other side of the ramp. He waved back. "Through here," Fulton said.

  They opened a door and walked into a brightly lit corridor. At the end of the corridor a soldier stood guard over an elevator; he looked sleepy. Sullivan held out his ID as they approached. "Seventh floor," he said.

  The soldier glanced incuriously at the ID, nodded, and turned a key to open the elevator. They stepped inside. Sullivan pressed the number of the floor, and the doors hissed shut on them.

  They didn't look at each other as the elevator rose. Sullivan fingered his gun. The elevator came to a stop, and the doors opened.

  Another guard faced them, this one looking considerably more alert than the one in the basement. He ignored Sullivan's proffered ID. "What's going on?" he demanded.

  "Rylev," Sullivan said with a shrug. Fulton hadn't told him the name of the Russian in charge, but it couldn't have been anyone but Rylev.

  "Why don't they tell me anything?" the guard complained. "New people come in and take the place over, total strangers start wandering the corridors, and they expect me to do my job better than ever."

  "Sorry," Sullivan murmured.

  "Not your fault, I suppose. I just hope they don't blame me if anything screws up around here. But of course they will. The new people are too important to be blamed. Go ahead."

  The guard stepped aside, and they got off the elevator. Fulton gestured to a door down the corridor on the left. They walked toward it. Sullivan could feel the guard watching them. Out of idle curiosity—or a sudden suspicion that was headed for certainty? Fulton hurried ahead of him—too fast—and opened the door.

  Sullivan was two steps behind, his ha
nd ready on his gun. He closed the door and took in the scene. Fulton was already kneeling beside Valentina's bed. A woman in a white coat was rising from an armchair near the bed. She stared at him. There was no else in the room. Sullivan knew who the woman was. "Doctor Chukova," he whispered.

  She continued to stare at him and nodded warily.

  "Would you be interested by any chance in defecting?"

  * * *

  She was interested indeed. At first she thought it was a dream, and then she was sure it was another KGB trick, but neither explanation made sense. The American seemed to know everything, and he hastily provided a better explanation—one that was almost too good to be true. He had come with Fulton to free Valentina. She would help them, and win her own freedom at the same time. What more could she ask for?

  There was a major problem, however. "Valentina can't make it," she said. "She hasn't recovered yet."

  They looked over at the bed. Fulton was speaking to her. Could she understand?

  * * *

  "We've come to take you out of here, darling, but you have to help. Can you get up? Can you walk? You've got to try."

  Through the darkness and the fog, a voice, a face, a hand touching hers. It had touched her hand, her face before, only to disappear. She couldn't let it disappear again. "Daniel?"

  "Yes, yes. It's me. You can leave your dream-world behind, Valentina. You don't ever have to go there again. But you have to get up and walk."

  A face, a hand—a room. A real room. Real?

  "Daniel?"

  "Yes! Please try, darling. We don't have much time."

  There was still fog, yes, it might never go away. And Winn was still unconscious beside her; he was real too. But there was something more, and somehow she knew how to reach it now. She slowly got to her feet, and the gravel on the roof turned to something softer, and she was leaning against a warm, firm chest, and she could hear the heart inside beating its soothing, regular beat. And suddenly she knew she was going to be safe. This heart would never let her down.

  * * *

  Doctor Chukova checked Valentina quickly. She was weak and groggy, but otherwise seemed all right. Could they do it, then? She and the American tried to work out a plan while Fulton tended to Valentina. The American explained how they had bluffed their way in; it seemed at least possible that they could bluff their way out. The streets of New York weren't so very far away, really. And when they had reached those streets, she would have defeated Rylev and lifted the guilt she felt over what she had done to Valentina. She would be free.

  When the plan was settled, she opened the door and led the way back down the corridor to the elevator. Valentina shuffled along behind, leaning heavily on Fulton.

  "We're going to a meeting downstairs with the ambassador," she said to the guard.

  The guard looked puzzled and annoyed. "Meeting? No one told me about any meeting." He gestured at Valentina. "That woman's in her nightgown," he added, as if that proved the idiocy of the whole situation.

  Doctor Chukova put on an exasperated expression. "Of course she's in her nightgown. She's ill, and I'm her doctor. And of course there's a meeting. Didn't Rylev inform you?"

  "No, he didn't. No one tells me anything. I'll ask him now." And he went to pick up the phone next to the elevator.

  "Well, wake him up if you want to," she said. "Just don't say I told you to call."

  The guard hesitated. "Why isn't he going to the meeting, then? I thought he was supposed to be in charge of all this—whatever it is."

  Doctor Chukova was about to respond when she saw something that made her heart sink.

  Professor Trofimov was walking down the corridor toward them. He was staring at Valentina.

  * * *

  It was her, Trofimov realized. With the pianist. Hadn't someone told him that the pianist had been here earlier and left? And next to Chukova was a nervous-looking fellow he didn't recognize—KGB, probably. But since when were the KGB nervous? "What's going on?" he demanded. "Why isn't she in bed?"

  "We have a meeting with the ambassador," Chukova explained.

  "That's nonsense. I heard he was at the other place—Riverdale, is it?—with Secretary Grigoriev. Valentina should be in bed."

  The guard turned and picked up his phone, and then something awful happened. The nervous-looking fellow had a gun in his hand, and he fired one shot into the guard's head, which exploded with blood. The report was astonishingly loud. And then the man turned and looked as if he were going to aim at him, and that was all Trofimov stayed to see. He dived into a room across the hall and locked the door, panting with terror.

  He was a scientist. He was not paid to be brave.

  * * *

  Rylev and Hill were toasting the success of the day's events when they heard the shot. They dropped the vodka and picked up their guns, and they were out the door before the shot finished echoing.

  * * *

  The elevator wouldn't work without the guard's key. But which key was it? "No time," the American said, fumbling with the dead guard's large key chain. "We'll have to take the stairs."

  Doctor Chukova heard the footsteps and the shouted questions, and she knew they would never make it down seven flights. She pried the guard's automatic weapon loose from his hands. "Go," she said. "I'll hold them back."

  The American paused for just a moment, and then nodded. He shot away the lock on the door to the stairs, and the three of them headed down.

  Doctor Chukova stepped back into the doorway. She tried firing the weapon once to make sure she knew how. The bullet went wildly off somewhere and the recoil drove her back a step. All right. Then they started coming. She hit the first one in the shoulder. He screamed with pain, fell to the floor, and fired back. He missed. Then there was someone else coming from the other direction. She fired and missed, but he took the hint and retreated around the corner.

  Then she saw Rylev and his American friend, and Doctor Chukova knew why she had volunteered to stay behind. Rylev's gun was out, and he was already firing at her, but it didn't matter. She took careful aim, bracing herself against the door-jamb, and squeezed the trigger. He staggered and reached down to his chest. She fired again, and he fell to the floor.

  Freedom.

  Doctor Chukova smiled. She didn't even notice the other man take aim at her. She didn't even feel the bullet enter her body and free her forever.

  * * *

  Down. Valentina was so tired of stairs. They went on forever, and they never set her free.

  "Come on. Please, darling."

  She would keep on going for him. But it seemed so useless and so hard. So hard.

  * * *

  She was clinging to his left arm as they careened down the stairs. Fulton could feel the wound bleeding again, but he couldn't worry about that. He held the gun in his right hand, and he was ready to kill.

  Someone opened a door and poked his head into the stairwell. Sullivan aimed his gun at him, and the door closed immediately. What floor? A shot from above splintered the banister next to Fulton's hand. Oh sweet Jesus. He pulled Valentina over closer to the wall. More faces, more shots. Someone loomed in front of him, and one of the shots was Fulton's. The man fell at his feet. Valentina screamed.

  What floor?

  * * *

  Suddenly there were no more stairs, just a locked door. What was waiting for them on the other side? Didn't matter; there was nowhere else to go. Sullivan shot away the lock and opened the door. The only person in the corridor was the same sleepy guard who had let them onto the elevator a lifetime ago. He was on the phone, and he looked very unhappy when he saw them. Sullivan shot him in the chest.

  "To the car," he shouted to Valentina and Fulton as they came panting after him. He started off down the corridor.

  "The other way," Fulton shouted back.

  Oh God. Sullivan looked around. Fulton was right; the stairs were on the opposite side of the corridor from the elevator, and that had confused him. He ran back down the corridor an
d caught up with Fulton and Valentina as they went through the door into the garage.

  The bullet hit him in the leg as he closed the door behind him. He took a step, and the pain was a sheet of lightning passing through his body. He stopped.

  Well, that was that.

  Try to think clearly.

  He reached into his pocket and got out the car keys. He handed them to Fulton, who had come back and was trying futilely to help. "Go without me," Sullivan said.

  "But I can't—"

  "Go!" It was bad enough he had to die. At least he should have something to show for his death. Fulton didn't need encouraging; he was in love. He and Valentina disappeared. Sullivan turned to face the door.

  The first man through got it in the stomach and fell backward inside. Another one peeked out and Sullivan put a bullet within an inch of his nose.

  And then there was another sheet of lightning, and Sullivan fell. He looked around. He hadn't noticed that door at the far end of the garage, damn it, and now they had hit his other leg.

  He had never been cut out for this job.

  But he had been brave, hadn't he? Can't blame a man for lying on the ground when he has bullets in both his legs. Right, Maureen? Right, Danny?

  And maybe he had saved his country.

  The concrete was cold, but not as cold as ice. It would do. A face swam into view. Hallucination? No, it was real enough. Sullivan would have smiled if the pain hadn't been so fierce. Lawrence Hill was with him at the end too.

  But the funny thing was, Hill didn't recognize his old friend. They were both different men now. Hill had a new mind, courtesy of Valentina. And Sullivan had a new face, courtesy of Daniel Fulton.

  Too bad he couldn't have this one final victory—of seeing Hill understand that his ex-partner was not a coward after all.

  You can't have everything.

  Then Hill raised his gun, and it was over.

  * * *

  Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

  Fulton wished he knew how to drive a car.

  Valentina knew, but she was barely able to get in the passenger side and slump down in the seat. It was up to him.