wound in his side.
General Borodin was here. Waiting for him. The answers were here. All of them.
McAllister lurched forward a few steps, but then stopped dead in his tracks.
The road had been booby-trapped. General Borodin had planted a land mine. Were there others?
He stepped back a pace, searching the trees along both sides of the road, trying to decide, trying to think what to do, trying to think what Borodin might have done.
Finally he stepped off the road and plunged into the woods angling immediately toward the right so that he could still follow the track of the driveway.
Slowly his vision and hearing began to clear, but this time he was harmed.
He stopped again and looked back the way he had come. Already the flames from the explosion had begun to die down. A few of the rees and some of the brush at the side of the road had caught fire, but it didn’t seem as if it would spread. The wind was blowing the flames back toward the driveway. But Miroshnikov’s gun had been beside him on the front seat. There was no possibility of finding it now. None.
He turned back. There was no more running. General Borodin wanted him, and the general was going to have him.
McAllister started forward again and twenty feet later he lurched and stumbled, falling forward over a thin wire stretched across the snow.
The Kalashnikov rifle strapped to the hole of a tree ten yards away, erupted on full automatic, one slug tearing into McAllister’s side as he went down, and a second smashing into the side of his head, just grazing his skull, but shoving him bodily against a fallen tree, ten billion stars bursting in his brain.
When the land mine exploded, General Borodin had jumped up, grabbed his rifle and had run out into the night, staying within the darker shadows at the edge of the house.
Minutes later he’d heard the Kalashnikov on the left side of the driveway fire its full load, and then the night fell silent.
He stood now watching, waiting, his breath white in the intense cold. McAllister was lucky. Somehow he had managed to survive the first explosion and get clear of the car before its gas tank had gone. But he hadn’t been thinking straight, and he had left the road, stumbling into the second trap… one that he could not possibly have survived.
Nothing moved in the night so far as General Borodin could tell. The flames which had been clearly visible from here, had died down and finally disappeared.
There would be questions, of course. But with McAllister’s body as an offering, he could come up with the answers. After a full five minutes he went back into the house, pulled on his parka stuffing the pistol in his pocket, and with the heavy assault rifle under his arm, once again stepped outside and headed up the driveway.
It was time to get out now. Time to finally step down. After the furor this incident was going to cause died off, he would accept his retirement. He had done his part, after all. He had lived thelife of lies, of deceit. The life of fear, of always wondering when a man such as McAllister would be coming after him; or, when he would finally get his nine ounces. He thought of an old Stalinist era proverb: In Moscow they ring the bells often, but not for dinner. But when he died he didn’t think the bells would ring. Not for him.
A few hundred meters away from the house, General Borodin stepped off the road and headed directly to where he had set up the trap. He would drag McAllister’s body back down to the driveway and lay it out a few meters from the wreckage of the car where had he gotten a vehicle in the first place?). When he called the militia out here it would look as if McAllister’s car exploded, and that the general had shot him down while he was trying to escape. At least the militia wouldn’t question the word of a KGB general, no matter how it looked. And whoever had sent McAllister would know enough to keep his mouth shut. He would know that he had lost.
At first General Borodin thought he had gotten confused in the darkness, and had missed the spot where he’d set up the rifle.
But then his gut tightened and a cold chill ran through his body. The strap he’d used to hold the rifle in place lay in the snow. But the Kalashnikov was gone!
Ten yards away he found a depression in the snow, blood all over the place. McAllister had been hurt in the explosion… he must have been… and he had probably been hit by at least one bullet from the rifle, and yet somehow he had gotten back on his feet, had removed the rifle from the tree and had escaped.
General Borodin stood stock-still, listening. But there was nothing. McAllister’s tracks led from where he had fallen, straight to the tree, and then disappeared.
Where?
General Borodin stepped back all of a sudden and looked up into the branches of the tree, bringing the rifle up, his heart thumping in his chest. But there was no one there.
Where had he gone?
Back on his own tracks, of course! General Borodin stepped forward again and he could see where McAllister’s footprints led back toward the driveway. The sonofabitch, he thought with the beginnings of fear tinged with a grudging admiration. But why take an empty rifle? For a moment or two it made no sense, but then he understood that as well. McAllister had stumbled across the first two traps and somehow managed to survive. He had finally gotten smart, realizing that another rifle would have to be set up on the opposite side of the driveway. He’d taken this gun and he was going after the clip of ammunition in the other.
McAllister had had a head start. He was hurt, but he was armed now. Only he didn’t know these woods. He’d have no real idea how far away the dacha was located. General Borodin turned and raced back through the woods, keeping well clear of the driveway. He had to reach the house before McAllister did.
McAllister stood wavering just within the clearing below the driveway, the Russian assault rifle impossibly heavy in his hands. This time he didn’t think he was going to make it. His head was pounding, his vision seemed to drift in and out of focus, and for one long terrible moment he had no idea where he was, or even if he was standing or sitting.
“Come on you bastard,” he tried to shout, but the words got tangled up on his thick tongue. He had seen the glint of the television camera over the back door of the house, and he had stepped out of the woods into clear view, willing the general to see him and come out.
Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two. He had to know for sure who they were. He had to find out now, soon, before he bled to death, or before he simply collapsed and froze.
He took a few steps forward and sank to one knee. It seemed difficult to catch his breath. His feet were an impossibly long distance away, and there was little or no feeling in his hands and arms at times, yet he stood up again by shear force of will.
“Borodin,” he shouted, this time managing to get the words past his lips. He stumbled a few steps farther. “I’ve come here for you goddamnit…” Was he speaking English or Russian? He didn’t know.
“Who are you?” someone shouted from the left, in the woods above the driveway.
McAllister turned in the direction of the voice, bringing the rifle up, but he couldn’t see anybody up there.
“What do you want?” the voice called from the woods. General Borodin? It had to be. “You,” McAllister shouted. “Why? What are you doing here? Who sent you?”
“Zebra One, Zebra Two. Voronin told me. I know everything.” The woods were ominously silent. McAllister took another couple of steps forward. The rifle had become too heavy to lift. It had become, like so much else in his life, an impossibly heavy burden to carry, and he felt it slipping from his hands.
“Come on, you bastard,” he shouted with the last of his strength, and he sat down in the snow, his fingers reaching for the rifle, but not finding it.
All of the insanities that he had endured swirled around him now as if he were a boulder lodged in the middle of a swiftly raging river. He had finally lost his grip on the bottom and he felt himself being propelled downstream.
After a while he looked up into General Borodin’s eyes. The man was large, his face not unkind, but very puzzled. He was shaking his head.
“Who sent you?” the general asked, his voice coming as if from down a long, dark tunnel.
“Voronin.
“Yes, my former secretary. A drunk, an idiot,” Borodin said impatiently. “What did he tell you?”
“Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two.” McAllister’s own voice seemed far
