The Moscow Vector

by Robert Ludlum

  While she held her pistol aimed at his head with one hand, she felt for a pulse with the other. Nothing. And his skin was already growing cold. There, lying on the concrete beside him, Randi saw an empty syringe. Her mouth tightened in disgust. That had undoubtedly contained an overdose of morphine or some other fatal drug. Renke’s men must be under orders not to leave any wounded behind them—not even their own.

  Then she saw something else, a black angular shape, set on the hard ground next to the dead man. It was his submachine gun. His comrades must have left the weapon beside him, waiting for the lethal drug with which they had injected him to take effect.

  Scarcely daring to believe her luck, Randi unscrewed the silencer from her Beretta and shoved the pistol back into her shoulder holster. Then she reached across the corpse and snagged the abandoned submachine gun. Moving quickly and confidently, she examined the weapon, a Heckler & Koch MP5SD, found a nearly full thirty-round magazine, yanked back on the cocking handle to chamber a 9mm round, and set the firing selector for three-round bursts.

  Pleased, she patted the weapon with one hand. At least now she had firepower parity with the bad guys. Of course, that still left her outnumbered by at least three-to-one, Randi reminded herself coolly—by trained killers. Trained killers wearing body armor.

  Then she shrugged. Waiting longer was not going to make this any easier. She took one more deep breath, counting down inside her own head. Three. Two. One. Now!

  Randi jumped to her feet and dashed for the side of Kessler’s villa, half-expecting a sudden burst of gunfire from one of the lighted upstairs windows. Instead, there was only silence. She reached the house and flattened her back against the wall, listening hard for the startled shouts that would tell her that she had been spotted.

  Still nothing.

  With the MP5SD tucked firmly against her shoulder, Randi glided forward again, edging around the corner until she had a view of the front door. She kept going, caught up in an adrenaline rush that made her intensely aware of every nerve ending, and of even the smallest movements around her. Every sense seemed magnified. All the pain from the cuts, scrapes, and bruises she had taken earlier seemed to fade away. She could hear even the tiniest sounds—the crunch of her boots on snow, the faint tick of one of the car engines as it cooled, contracting slowly in the freezing air, and the distant wail of fire, ambulance, and police vehicles speeding toward the carnage on Clayallee.

  She reached the front of the house.

  The front door was already starting to open. Bright interior light spilled through the rapidly widening crack. For a fraction of a second, time seemed to come to a full stop. What should she do? Then, equally abruptly, the world spun back into motion. She only had time to act, not to think.

  Furiously, Randi hurtled forward and hit the door with her right shoulder, slamming it all the way open with enormous force. The heavy door jarred back against her as it crashed into someone on the other side. There was a sudden, loud, surprised grunt as the powerful impact knocked whoever it was backward into the villa’s broad entry foyer. Her shoulder went numb for a brief moment and then flared into white-hot agony. Moving too fast to stop easily, she skidded across the tiled floor, rebounded off a wall, and spun around to cover the corridor.

  One of Renke’s gunmen—lean, dark-eyed, and with dark blond hair—was sprawled just a couple of meters away. Still dazed by the unexpected blow he had taken, the man pushed himself up onto his knees. His submachine gun lay on the floor beside him. Blearily, he glanced up and saw her staring back at him. His mouth fell open in astonishment, and he grabbed for his weapon, trying frantically to aim it in her direction.

  Randi shot him first, squeezing off a quick, three-round burst at point-blank range.

  Two rounds slammed into the gunman’s torso. Unable to penetrate his armor, the copper-jacketed slugs splattered across the bulky vest instead, smashing vital internal organs with enormous impacts that threw the dark-eyed man back against the nearest wall. Her third bullet hit him right in the face and tore his head apart.

  “Karic?” a startled voice called out from above.

  Caught equally off-guard, Randi swung round and looked up the great curving staircase that led to the villa’s upper floor. A second black-clad gunman loomed there, peering over the railing. He raised his weapon first, taking rapid aim.

  She threw herself backward just as the submachine gun stuttered. Rounds cracked through air all around her, blowing huge craters in the floor. Pieces of broken tile flew in all directions. Ricochets tumbled wickedly across the corridor.

  Desperately, Randi rolled away across the foyer, trying to get out of the line of fire without being hit. A sharp-edged sliver of tile sliced across her cheek, drawing blood. Another burst from the staircase smashed two antique chairs on either side of a gold-framed mirror, turning them into heaps of splintered wood and torn fabric. The mirror itself exploded, sending broken glass flying. More gunfire knocked one of Ulrich Kessler’s ill-gotten pieces of art, a Diebenkorn, off the wall and sent the tangled wreckage skidding across the foyer. It had been reduced to a few tattered shreds of stained canvas clinging to a bullet-mangled frame.

  “Damn,” she muttered grimly. While the gunman above her kept shooting, this wide-open entrance to Kessler’s home was quickly becoming a death trap. She had to do something to change the situation, and she had to do it fast.

  Abruptly, Randi stopped rolling. Ignoring the bullets lashing the corridor around her, she brought her submachine gun on line, aiming straight up at the large chandelier hanging above the foyer. Frowning in concentration, she squeezed the trigger. The MP5SD hammered back against her shoulder.

  The chandelier exploded, smashed into a thousand glittering shards by her burst. Fragments of shattered glass and crystal spiraled away through the air and cascaded down across the tiles. Immediately, the lights went out, plunging the foyer into darkness.

  Right away, the gunman at the top of the stairs stopped shooting, holding his fire to avoid giving away his position.

  Randi grimaced. This guy was too good. She had been hoping to draw a bead on his muzzle flashes in the dark. Instead, the gunman seemed perfectly content to hold his ground in silence, waiting for her to make the fatal mistake of trying to charge up that staircase.

  It was a Mexican standoff, she thought coolly. She could not get up those stairs without getting killed, and Renke’s hired killers could not come down without suffering the same fate. Well, maybe she could hold them here long enough for the German police to arrive.

  Then Randi shook her head, angry with herself for being overconfident. There were at least two of the gunmen left alive. While one kept her pinned down, the other could easily sneak up behind her. After all, this grand, sweeping staircase was not the only way down from the upper floor.

  She sat up cautiously, thinking hard about that.

  When Randi had broken into Kessler’s house the day before, she had spent more than an hour combing through it from top to bottom, exploring every room and corridor while looking for incriminating evidence against the corrupt BKA official and planting an array of hidden listening devices. In the process, she had come across another staircase toward the back, a much smaller and drabber piece of construction.

  These stairs, concealed behind a nondescript door near the kitchen, had originally been intended for use by the servants employed by every upper-class family in the early 1900s. In those days, household staff were expected to go about their daily labors unobtrusively, staying out of the grand public spaces reserved for their masters and their guests whenever possible.

  In the darkness, she grinned suddenly. The odds were that Renke’s men had not yet found those back stairs. Their whole attention would be fixed here, at the front of the villa.

  Randi flipped the firing selector on her submachine gun to safe and slung the weapon across her back. Then she rolled back onto her stomach and crawled quietly away down the pitch-black hallway that led toward the rear of the ho
use. As she glided away across the floor, she carefully brushed the debris of spent shell casings and bits of broken tile and glass out of her path. If her plan was going to work, it was absolutely essential that she avoid making any noise that could betray her movements to that unseen gunman lurking at the top of the stairs.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Upstairs, in Ulrich Kessler’s study, Gerhard Lange scowled. “Mueller,” he hissed into his radio. “Come in!”

  But only static crackled through the small receiver set in his ear. “Mueller,” the former Stasi officer said tersely, repeating his attempt to contact the man he had left on guard outside. “Reply!”

  Again, there was no answer.

  Angrily, Lange abandoned the futile effort. Mueller was either dead, a prisoner, or already fleeing the scene as fast as his fat legs would carry him. In any case, he and Stepanovic were very much on their own.

  He glanced across the room to where Kessler’s body lay twisted and contorted on the carpet next to an ornate, intricately carved desk. His lips curled in contempt. Against all logic, the weak, cowardly fool had actually imagined that they had come to rescue him.

  What now, though? Lange bleakly considered his own options. His orders from Brandt had been explicit. Destroy the CIA team spying on Kessler. Kill Kessler himself and, after that, destroy the house itself. Leave only ashes for the German police to sift, Brandt had said, destroying any evidence that might link the dead man to Wulf Renke. Everything had seemed to be going according to plan, at least until that maniac crashed through the front door into the foyer, killed Karic, and then managed to survive Stepanovic’s return fire.

  The former Stasi officer cursed softly. Mueller must have missed one of the American agents watching the perimeter of Kessler’s property. Now this unknown American had them trapped up here, trapped with a corpse and a room full of incriminating evidence. But waiting meekly for the police to come and arrest them was not an acceptable option. Erich Brandt had a very long arm and any man who failed him so miserably would not live long enough to regret it, even in the supposed security of a Berlin jail cell.

  No, Lange decided coldly, he and Stepanovic would have to break out past this lone American, trusting that their weapons and body armor would help them survive a headlong rush down those stairs. But first he would carry out Brandt’s orders to the fullest possible extent. If nothing else, setting the villa on fire should provide a useful distraction when they made their escape. Shrugging, he picked up the heavy petrol can again and continued sloshing the flammable liquid across the carpet, drapes, and desk as he backed out through the open door and into the upstairs corridor. He had already thoroughly drenched Kessler’s corpse with petrol. A single match would set the whole room ablaze.

  Striding upward through the darkness on cat-quiet feet, Randi Russell reached the top of the servants’ staircase. She went prone on a small landing and peered down the barrel of her submachine gun, poised and ready to open fire. The door out into the main second floor corridor was just ahead of her. It was closed, but light glimmered faintly through a narrow gap at the bottom.

  Randi frowned. Some of the upstairs lights were still on. That was bad. It meant that once she went through that door, she would be out in the open, lit up and left without any real cover—a sitting duck for anyone who happened to be looking in her direction.

  A faint smell eddied under the door, growing stronger with every second. Her nose wrinkled at the familiar, cloying reek. Gasoline fumes? Inside the house? Her eyes widened as understanding dawned. Renke’s men must be planning to burn Kessler’s villa to the ground to cover their tracks!

  Frowning, Randi jumped back to her feet. Whatever she was going to do, she had better do now. Her only chance would be to move fast and keep moving. Still holding the MP5SD’s pistol grip with her right hand, she reached out for the doorknob with her left. It turned easily. The latch clicked and the door began slowly swinging open, creaking loudly on hinges that had not been oiled for far too long.

  Go! She took a short, sharp breath, kicked the door open all the way, and immediately threw herself out into the hallway. She rolled on her shoulder to get well away from the open door and came up on one knee, already sighting down the long corridor toward the top of the staircase.

  There, in the faint glow filtering out into the hall from several of the adjoining rooms, she spotted movement—a squat black shape silhouetted against the deeper black of the unlit foyer. It was a dark-haired man, bulky in body armor, and he was already spinning round to face her. He had a weapon in his hands.

  Too late, you son of a bitch, Randi thought icily. She pulled the trigger of her submachine gun, firing a series of rapid, three-round bursts. The MP5SD chattered, bucking hard against her grip as it punched 9mm rounds toward the gunman.

  Near misses tore sections of the railing behind him to pieces, sending jagged, flame-bright sparks flying as bullets ripped through brass and shattered marble. Other bullets struck the dangling remains of the ruined chandelier. More fragments of glass and crystal broke away to smash onto the tile floor far below.

  Hit repeatedly by several rounds that splattered across his Kevlar vest with bone-crushing force, the dark-haired gunman stumbled back, hunched over in agony. He crashed into the weakened section of railing and then screamed in sudden terror as it bent and gave way under his weight.

  Randi kept shooting, grimly holding the submachine gun on target as it kicked higher with each burst.

  With his arms flailing wildly in a vain effort to regain his balance, the wounded man toppled through the gap, hammered backward by more hits on his armor. Still screaming shrilly, he vanished into the darkness. His eerie, horrified wail ended abruptly in a dull, meaty thud.

  Breathing out, Randi eased off on the trigger. Her submachine gun fell silent.

  “Scheisse!” a voice growled behind her.

  Oh, hell.

  She twisted in place, urgently trying to bring the MP5SD around far enough to bear on the slender, thin-lipped man she saw framed in the open door to Kessler’s study. Like the others, he wore black clothing and Kevlar armor. His submachine gun, though, was slung across his back, freeing his hands to carry a large, rectangular metal gasoline can. They were less than ten meters apart.

  Snarling, the man dropped the can. Gasoline splashed out across his legs and dripped onto the hall carpet as it crashed down. He yanked a Walther semiautomatic pistol out of the holster at his side.

  At such close range, the pistol looked enormous. White flame spurted out of its muzzle as the gunman fired.

  Randi felt the bullet rip past her head, so close that the hot gases trailing behind it slapped her hard in the face. Her ears rang. The salty-sweet taste of fresh blood filled her mouth. Desperate now, she shot back without aiming, just trying to spray enough rounds in the right direction to drive this new enemy into cover.

  One slug hit the gasoline can.

  The container rocked under the powerful impact and toppled over. More fuel sprayed high through the air. A spark leaped from the torn metal.

  With a soft whoosh, the gasoline ignited. Rivulets of fire raced outward in every direction, feeding on every drop of spilled fuel, setting everything in their wake ablaze.

  The thin-lipped man looked down in horror as his gasoline-soaked pants burst into flame. His face twisted in panic as he dropped the Walther to swat wildly at the roaring blaze. But then a mad, inhuman shriek ripped from his throat as the flames seared his fuel-stained hands and flashed up his arms, reaching for his face. In less than a second, he turned into a human torch, wreathed from head-to-foot in fire. Shrieking and screaming in torment, the dying man blindly staggered forward toward her. The flames were consuming him alive.

  Sickened, Randi took careful aim and shot him through the head. The burning man tumbled to the floor and lay still. The flames roared higher, spreading up the walls and across the carpet. Thick, choking smoke boiled upward.

  Through the open door, she could see
Kessler’s study was already fully engulfed in fire. Through the swirling smoke and flame, she could see another blazing corpse—this one lying twisted near the big antique desk. No doubt that was Kessler himself, she thought darkly, fighting down the urge to be sick. And with him went the faint, flickering clues she had hoped might lead her to Professor Wulf Renke’s new lair.

  Abruptly, Randi tossed the submachine gun aside and scrambled to her feet. She needed a closer look at the man she had just killed. She turned and sprinted back down the hall. Without slowing down, she skidded into one of the villa’s guestrooms, snatched a heavy wool blanket off the bed, and dashed back the way she had come.

  The flames and smoke were even thicker now.

  Still running, Randi draped the blanket over her head, shut her eyes tight, and leaped straight through the curtain of fire. For just a split-second, she felt a wave of intense, scorching heat. Then she landed heavily on the floor and crouched down beside the dead man. Staying low to keep below the dense pall of lung-searing smoke rolling through the hallway, she whipped the heavy blanket off her head and swiftly smothered the flames that were charring his clothing and flesh.

  Wincing in pain, she ran her hands over the still-smoldering corpse, ransacking pockets and pouches in a desperate hurry. She found what looked like a cell phone, strangely twisted and blackened by the fire, and shoved it into one of her jacket pockets. Then she did the same with a set of scorched papers, a passport, and a wallet.

  The flames roared louder. Large flakes of burning paint broke loose from the ceiling and drifted down around her, tumbling end over end in the boiling currents of superheated air. The carpet, walls, and ceiling were a solid sheet of fire.

  It was time to leave.

  Hurriedly, Randi wrapped the charred wool blanket around her head and shoulders and hands. Coughing now as the raw, acrid smoke bit deep into her lungs, she staggered upright and plunged back into the flames, sprinting fast toward the main staircase.