by Gar Wilson
Calvin James held up his hand in a warning. "Wait," he said, and his precaution pulled the Cuban up short.
Their team members would not knock on the door. From the start of the tour, those who had been assigned the actual surveillance job had kept their distance from the others. Brognola had been specific about that. Although the security-minded Russians would suspect five single male tourists regardless, the goal was to make every effort to keep the two detachments apart.
"They're just supposed to pass the door laughing and joking if the mission went well," James reminded his friend.
Encizo dampened his anticipation and took a glass of brandy on the rocks from the built-in bar and downed a hearty swig.
He did not drink to steady his nerves but wanted the alcohol on his breath when he answered the knock. Two men still in their room would look more ordinary if they appeared to be having a drink before a late dinner.
He wished, though, that he had a weapon. He had taken private lessons in karate and kung fu and was fully capable of killing with his bare hands, but he also knew that in certain cases a gun was usually decisive.
Calvin James picked up the ice bucket before he opened the door. The bucket was not much of a defensive weapon, but at least it was a solid and fairly hefty object. He called out jovially, "Yes, who is it?"
"Maria, your guide," said a familiar voice.
Encizo opened the door immediately. Deliberately he did not look beyond her to see if there was anyone else in the hall. Nor did they close the door behind her when she stepped into the room. Their objective was to avoid arousing the least suspicion.
"Come in, Maria. Have a drink. Tell us about tomorrow's itinerary," James told her.
"Nyet, "she said, as though she wanted to make sure she lived up to a cartoonist's impression of a rulebound Intourist guide. She wore a dark two-piece suit with pockets like those on a man's jacket. Her white blouse was so stiff and prim that the collar could have held her head in place.
From a shoulder strap hung the large purse in which she kept maps, a notebook listing the foreigners in her charge, and inner files that she guarded with the devotion due to the codes of the Russian Star Wars defense system.
Brusquely she brushed past both of them, opened the closet and stuck her head into the bathroom.
Encizo resorted to some quick thinking. "Oh, you came to see if we have fresh towels. How nice of you, Maria."
James said, "Everything is perfect. Almost up to American standards."
"A bar of soap would be nice, though," Encizo added.
She looked at them huffily. "That is not why I come." She stooped as if to look under the beds.
"Go ahead. Look. No women. None of them have given in to our charms yet."
Encizo laughed. "I didn't know you Russians were so… so…"
"Puritanical," James finished for him.
"Where are they?" she asked abruptly.
Encizo nodded. "Under the beds, of course."
She stooped, lifted the quilts and looked carefully under each bed.
"There is no one there. You lie."
"Wishful thinking on my part."
"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "I do not understand."
"Girls," James said. "We wished we had a girl under there."
"I have no time for nonsense. Where are the others?"
"What others?"
"The other three men travelling together. They are with you? No?"
"On the same tour, yeah."
"You know them from before."
"Not me." Encizo then looked inquiringly at his companion. "How about you, buddy?"
James shook his head with a disinterested look, but internally he tensed. Trouble was pressing in upon them, and he slowly inched his way between the guide and the door while he spoke to her in soothing tones. "Actually, we didn't know each other until we met on the tour. Guaranteed share, you know. Costs nearly twice as much if you want a single room."
He was behind her now and able to look both ways, up and down the corridor. There was no one except an old woman drowsing in a chair near the elevators. Many Russian hotels and public establishments still had the grandmotherly women who helped guests with fresh towels or assisted them with other minor attentions needed for their comfort. But mostly they were the last rung in the Communist hierarchy of KGB surveillance.
The guide whirled around when James closed the door as quietly as he could.
Her angry eyes and gestapo mouth betrayed her. She was not going to stop with a simple check of the room. She thought she was onto something suspicious.
She tried to step around Encizo to reach the telephone, but he moved to block her path. Then she spun around to face Calvin James. "Open the door. What are you doing?" She was not certain whether they were enemy agents or rapists.
"Now, what about the other three men?" James asked.
"They have disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"They are not in their rooms."
"Maybe they went down to the bar."
"No. They appear to have left the hotel." Her gaze darted about as if she was seeking an escape route or a weapon with which to protect herself.
Encizo raised his hands. "So they went for a walk. That is not forbidden, is it?"
"Nothing is forbidden for regular tourists. This is a free country. But they are different, and you are different."
She sidled away, trying to reach the telephone between the beds.
Calvin James knew the situation was deteriorating rapidly. If she called in her superiors, he and Encizo might be detained. The same was true of the other three when they returned. While their cover had been well documented, an in-depth inquiry could possibly disclose their true identity.
He thought that maybe he could save the situation by using charm on her.
"Hey, lady," he called, advancing toward her with a smile, his right hand still holding the ice bucket. "I don't know those three guys from Adam." She scowled at him. "I guess you don't know who Adam is, seeing as how you folks are atheists and all, but what I mean…"
"I know Adam. We are not fools just because we do not believe in fairy tales."
"We'll find the others," Encizo volunteered. "You don't want to spoil their vacation."
"That's bad PR," James added.
"I must call my superiors."
They could no longer maneuver her away from the phone, so they advanced on her. "Let's talk this over."
She touched the phone, and Encizo put his hand over hers. "It's too late, guy."
She glanced from one to the other, and there was growing fear in her eyes.
Something about the woman reminded Calvin James of his sister. Maybe it was the sudden vulnerable expression on her face that brought back to memory the better times, before she died of a heroin overdose.
He knew he ought to neutralize the angry-eyed guide, but he perspired just thinking of her dying in his hands.
She spared him from further dilemma when she took the initiative.
She jabbed one hand down into the enormous handbag, and the Phoenix Force warriors grabbed for her. James caught her wrist while it was still inside the purse. Encizo got hold of her around the neck, choking off her scream with one hand and covering her mouth with the other.
Only when he felt the jab of pain in his thigh did Calvin James recognize that they had made a mistake.
Her right hand had come out of the purse empty, but the other hand had dug a knife from the mannish pocket of her jacket.
Instinct saved him.
He had pinned her down over the nightstand and crushed her with his bulk. She had no space in which to build up momentum for plunging the knife through his clothes and deep into the hard muscles of his leg. The wound was superficial.
Grunting in pain, he got hold of her wrist with a lightning-fast motion and twisted until the knife fell free. He retrieved it and placed the point to her throat.
"Don't," Encizo cautioned. "She will boil in
her own juices when this gets heard higher up."
"So what do we do now? She'll turn us in to the police or the KGB."
The woman shook her head negatively to convince them that she would do nothing if they set her free.
"We tie her up and go to the American embassy."
"That's in Moscow. Maybe there's a consulate here."
"Good. You cut up the sheets. I'll hold our Maria."
James bathed the woman in a wide, cheery smile, and they set to work quickly, gagging and tying her to the commode in the bathroom.
Then James bandaged his leg, donned clean trousers, then pocketed her knife.
They had just left the room when they nearly collided with the old woman from the end of the hall. Her arms were loaded with fresh towels.
She added urgency to their problems. Unless they could divert her and thus prevent her from sounding an alarm, they were not going to get the hour or two of head start that they had expected.
Encizo tried what he could. "No, no, senora. No more towels."
She twisted around them, intent on entering the room. Calvin, however, put a friendly, though firm, arm across her shoulders and urged her to walk with them to the elevator.
We ought to get rid of her, he thought. We ought to get rid of both of the women.
But the mission had a low priority and didn't justify drastic measures at this point.
He could not harm the old woman. Instead he held her affectionately, talking reassuringly to her until the elevator doors opened. When Calvin and Encizo had entered and the doors began to close, he could see her rushing in the direction of their room.
"Damn," he said.
"So what do we do now?" Encizo asked.
As one of the youngest members of the team, James usually deferred to others when it came to important decisions. Now Encizo was asking him.
"We could head for the wharf. Try to get aboard a ship with a western registration."
"And what about Katz? Manning? McCarter? They're just about overdue."
"We can head north, but we could miss them if they're on their way here. Oh, hell, we can't do anything else. But we don't even know how they'll be coming back, whether by car or truck. They might have taken a bus."
"Doesn't matter," Encizo said. "We've got to try."
"Yeah. I know."
But as they stepped into the huge, echoing lobby, Calvin James had no confidence that they would leave Russia alive.
A mission that was supposed to be a cakewalk had just fallen into a deep, dark abyss. And there was no seeing to the bottom.
7
At the lobby desk, an assistant manager held a telephone to his ear. His face was a mask of dread. Horrified by what he was hearing, he curled his free hand into a nervous, shaking fist.
He raised his head, searching frantically for help.
For an instant the worried Calvin James thought the man was looking for him, and when the Russian made a motioning sign, the black American nearly pointed a finger at his own chest as if to say, "Who, me?"
Encizo stopped him from carrying out the gesture and said, "Keep walking. And smile."
"Yeah, but…"
Then James saw to whom the manager was beckoning. Two men in identical dark suits had been standing near one of the huge stainless-steel pillars that reached three stories to the mosaic ceiling of the lobby.
Security men, James guessed. Maybe KGB.
They had been lazily sweeping their gaze across the milling crowd of foreigners. Their boredom showed, but when they saw the man at the desk summon them, they restricted themselves to a brisk but circumspect walk.
The security men reached the counter just as the two Phoenix Force men, easily agitated because they were rushing without trying to show it, pushed open the glass exterior doors.
A doorman in full uniform was leaning against the wall, yawning. Officially tips were verboten in Russia. Although few workers were ever fired, without incentives, service personnel worked in a slow-motion daze.
"Can you get us a cab?" Encizo asked, hiding his anxiety while inwardly fuming at the doorman's indifference.
The Russian pointed with a limp thumb at the lead taxi that headed up a row of four.
"Hey, taxi!" James called. He was accustomed to the legendary drivers of New York, but he could see this one laugh at the summons, put his head back on the headrest and close his eyes.
Without a word the two Americans split and approached the cab from either side.
Encizo opened the front passenger door, slid in and reached across to turn on the engine. The Russian said something vulgar and grabbed for the key.
He didn't manage to accomplish his objective as Calvin James opened the driver's door thrust in both hands and caught the cabbie by his belt and his neck. Before the Russian could understand what was happening he was ejected from the vehicle. He fell on his back and had not regained his footing when James took his place behind the wheel and jerked the car into gear, leaping ahead.
Every Russian in the area came alive.
The doorman courageously scrambled to impose himself in front of the fleeing vehicle, but luckily for him the front of the car had passed before he could do that. Instead of being crushed, the straight fender sent him spinning like a top.
Behind the Americans the lined-up cabs lurched forward in pursuit.
By then the two security guards from inside dashed out to the curb, pistols in hand. They fired wildly up the hotel driveway, and tourists and residents scurried for cover.
Encizo cursed, "Aw, hell. I should have known Brognola would never send us on a real vacation."
"And now how do we get out of this mess?" his partner asked of no one in particular.
At the end of the hotel drive, the taxi swerved into an obstacle course of Russian vacationers strolling in the streets as well as filling both sidewalks.
James held his hand to the horn.
People scattered like a flock of birds at the sound of a shotgun.
As the Phoenix duo sped on, cars slid to a stop, took unexpected turns into alleys, and jumped the curbs and stopped, their front ends showered with glass from blasted storefronts.
"Now we're in the muck," James said. "We should have let the guide call her superiors."
"Should-haves will buy you zilch," Encizo said, bracing himself in the churning vehicle. A parade of angry pursuers jockeyed for position behind the escaping car. Over his shoulder Encizo saw the other taxi drivers heading up the chase. No doubt the KGB pair were bringing up the tail.
Six blocks from the hotel a siren wailed. Amber lights flashed threateningly from a cross street and from straight ahead. Like a kamikaze pilot, one driver roared toward the Phoenix Force car. Taking the center of the street, he was intent on a head-on collision.
"Watch him!" the Cuban warned.
"Hold on, we're taking a hard right."
"No!" the Cuban said persuasively, knowing what lay ahead.
Their taxi went into a tire-screaming skid and spun into the turn precariously relying on two wheels.
The side street they had entered was not a wide boulevard, and the stands of an outdoor vegetable market overflowed the curbs. The space left open for traffic was barely enough for a carefully driven car. For an instant James was tempted to play out a hackney scene from a hundred old movies. The flying vegetables and the ones squashing against the car might make a funny epitaph for his brief career. And at the moment he expected that at the best the odds were in favor of a short retirement as the guest of their Russian hosts.
"Don't do it," Encizo advised.
"Okay, but there are no guarantees."
One stand lost a leg and sent a train of squash into the street. At another outdoor shop, the awning fell like a funeral shroud over the head of the irate vendor.
If he had dared, the American would have slowed to see how his pursuers managed the route through the market. Instead he saw a chance to gain a few more yards, and swung to the right to straddle the sidew
alk. He was determined to lengthen or at least maintain his and Encizo's life expectancies, which right now he estimated at ten minutes.
By the time they had cleared the shopping district and entered a neighborhood of four- to six-story apartments, drab in design and poorly constructed, the trailing caravan had added at least two more police vehicles. Some of the taxis had dropped from the race and left it to the professionals.
"Health spas," Encizo observed, trying to lessen the tension. He pointed at the surroundings like a guide. "Factories all over the Soviet Union own baths here for their workers. If you fill the quota, talk the Party line, and maybe pay a little under the table — Calvin!"
James saw the narrowing road and swerved off the pavement, barely missing a pair of sturdy trees. Then bullets punched through the rear window, showering them with slivered glass.
"Oh, great," James said flatly. They were out of the city now, and projectiles continued to thump the body of the taxi and chip the pavement as the pursuers tried for the tires.
Encizo was remarkably calm and optimistic. "We're going to rescue the other three guys," Encizo said calmly. "This road should take us close enough that we won't have more than a ten-minute run through the woods."
He took a map from the glove compartment and unfolded it as the taxi took desperate twists and curves in an effort to avoid bullets that finally hit the windshield and turned it into a spiderweb of cracks.
"There's a town ahead," Encizo said, tapping a point on the map.
James worked the wheel with furious and creative determination. The taxi sliced into one ditch, then climbed out and dipped into the other. He tapped his brakes to flash the taillights and force his pursuers to pump their own brakes. They learned quickly not to trust his signals.
"How far is the town?" James shouted.
"We're coming up on it now."
"The guys behind us have had time to radio ahead."
"Yeah, there will be a block this side of town. They won't want us to get a lot of streets to choose from."
"Damn," James said as he peered at headlights ahead. They appeared to be at right angles to the road.
"They're using a car for the block, just like I figured," Encizo intoned over the noise. "That's just what we wanted."