checked to — make sure his pistol was ready to fire, and brought it up, steadying it against the greasy damp brick wall.
For a long time nothing seemed to be happening. Once again in the distance McGarvey could hear a siren from the streets above. It would take Hunte a minute or so to get into position and start back. Kurshin had lied about wanting the helicopter and the gold, and he had almost certainly lied about the intended target. But where, if not Tripoli? The new Pershing had a range of more than two thousand miles. That covered a lot — of territory, all the way from the British Isles to parts of the Middle East, including some important oil fields. Was that Baranov’s game? Interrupt the industrial West’s major supply of crude? It was certainly possible. The radio in the transporter above blared. “Flybaby, Six-P-Two, this is Colonel Collingwood, do you copy” There was a movement in the tunnel to the left, as if someone had taken a step backward. McGarvey stiffened. “Flybaby Six-P-Two, this is Collingwood, talk to me, you sonofabitch” Whatever the Air Force colonel was or was not, if he was still in the square, McGarvey had to admire his guts.
“The chopper is ready and your gold is on its way” Collingwood’s voice boomed in the collection vault. Hunte was taking too long. McGarvey started to turn when he heard the distinctive soft plopping sound of a silenced pistol shot. There was a flash of movement from the collection vault. McGarvey turned back in time to see a large burly man leaping out of the left tunnel, a big pistol in his fight hand, a small black box in his left. McGarvey fired twice, the first shot catching Yegorov in the chest, the second in the side of his neck, bursting his carotid artery, the bullet deflecting off a bone, and finally destroying his throat. The big man crashed backward against the concrete wall, and the triggering device fell into the water. The tunnel was suddenly silent. McGarvey turned around and dropped to one knee, his pistol up, but the darkness behind him was absolute. Almost too late he realized that he was outlined by the light behind him, and he dove forward at the same moment something plucked at his sleeve and he heard another silenced shot. He fired twice down the tunnel. At this point he didn’t think there was much fear of hitting Hunte. The captain was probably dead. Again the tunnel was in silence. Even the sirens topside had stopped. McGarvey started to edge forward, keeping to the far left wall. Something moved ahead of him, and he fired two more shots into the darkness, quickly scrambling to the right side of the tunnel as two answering silenced shots were fired. McGarvey held his breath to listen. There were no sounds ahead. He concentrated on the darkness, his gun up, ready to fire the moment he spotted the pinpoint of a muzzle flash. “We’re running out of time, you and me” he called softly into the darkness. Another silenced shot was fired, the bullet ricocheting with a whine off the brick wall. The flash was to the right. McGarvey aimed slightly left and squeezed off a shot, then quickly shifted sides to the left and immediately back to the right. There was no answering fire. “Who are you” a voice came from the darkness, speaking English with a flat Midwestern accent. McGarvey could not pinpoint the voice. He turned his head left so that his own voice would bounce off the opposite wall of the tunnel. “Are you sure you want to know, Arkady Aleksandrovich”
“You have me at a disadvantage”
“Yes” McGarvey said. “You and Comrade KGB Chairman Baranov. He and I are old friends, you know” McGarvey thought he heard a splash of water straight down the tunnel, but then there was silence. He waited ten seconds and then started forward. “I’m coming for you, Arkady, he said.
Still there was silence.
Forty feet farther down the tunnel he came to a body. It was Jim Hunte.
McGarvey could tell from his uniform, and the tool kit slung over his shoulder. He felt the man’s body, his fingers discovering a small amount of blood and a bullet wound on his face just above the bridge of his nose. Christ! In the dark! McGarvey leapt to his feet. “Kurshin” he shouted, his voice echoing and reechoing off the tunnel walls and ceiling. “Kurshin, you sonofabitch, I’m coming for you” There was no answer. McGarvey turned on his heel and, mindless now of the noise he was making, raced down the tunnel toward the collection vault. There had been three of them. Two were accounted for. The last one was probably long gone by now. There probably was little or no time left before the launch. In the collection vault McGarvey snatched up the electronic trigger that Yegorov had dropped, and stuffing it in his pocket climbed the metal rungs up the side of the vault and pulled himself into the transporter. If need be, he told himself grimly, he would destroy the rocket if it actually started to lift off. A slightly built man dressed in civilian clothes, blood streaming down his face, was bunched up beside the bucket seat in front of the firing console. He rolled over and groaned. McGarvey nearly shot the man before he realized that he was no threat, and was probably very near death. Lights were flashing all over it fire control panel in a bewildering sequence of reds and greens and ambers. Whatever was happening was occurring at an increasingly rapid pace. “Answer me, you bastard” Collingwood’s voice boomed from the radio speaker. McGarvey found the radio console at the front right seat and yanked the microphone off its hook. “This is McGarvey. I’m in the transporter. The Russians are dead or gone, and so is Hunte. This thing looks like it’s ready to launch, get someone over here on the double” He threw down the microphone, undogged the main hatch, swung it open with a metallic clang, and turned back to Schey, gently turning the man over on his back and straightening out his legs. The man’s eyes fluttered open. “There isn’t much time” McGarvey said. “Do you understand” Schey’s eyes seemed to come into focus and he looked up at McGarvey. “Your friends are dead. How do I interrupt the firing sequence” The East German managed a tight little smile of triumph.
“It’s over” McGarvey said. “You’ve lost. How do we shut this goddamned thing down” Schey’s eyes closed and he gave a big shuddering gasp. At first McGarvey thought he was dead, but the man’s breathing steadied out. McGarvey got to his feet as the first of Collingwood’s people showed up at the hatch. “I don’t know what to do” he shouted. “This thing is on a countdown” The first technician through the hatch shoved McGarvey aside and quickly scanned the board. The second man came through and crowded in beside him. “They’ve got a timer on it” he snapped, pulling a screwdriver out of his pocket. The other man did the same and together they unfastened the dozen screws holding the firing control panel in place. The first man gingerly lifted the panel away from the console, stretching out the wires beneath. They both sucked air a second later. “Twelve seconds” one of them said. The other was pawing through the wires. He looked up. “It’s on a failsafe” he said.
“Impossible” the other man replied. “This sonofabitch is going to launch in another ten seconds, and there isn’t a fucking thing we can do about it” McGarvey had backed up to the hatch, other technicians and security people crowding around the transporter. The two technicians at the console leapt up and bodily shoved McGarvey out the door. “Clear the area, this sonofabitch is about to launch” one of them shouted.
Everyone scattered. McGarvey rushed around to the side of the transport trailer, the umbilical cords snaking out from the tractor to an electrical panel beneath the missile. Baranov had planned something.
Whatever it was, it would be brilliant and devastating. What? He had taken a huge risk not only by having Kurshin and the others steal the missile, but by so openly displaying the depth of his intelligence information. Whatever target they had programmed the missile to hit would be important. London? Paris? Where?
The technicians and security people were halfway across the square.
Someone was shouting. The delay circuitry was failsafe, the technician had shouted. McGarvey pulled out the trigger for the plastique. The seconds were ticking. No time. Christ, there was no time! He tossed the trigger to the pavement and stepped forward to the four umbilical cords.
Each was connected to the firing panel by a thick electrical plug.
McGarvey grabbed one of the large cables and yanked it out of its socket. There were a lot of sirens. He yanked the second plug and the third. His time had run out. Ten seconds had to have elapsed. He yanked the last plug out of its socket at the same moment a big spark jumped from the contacts to the side of the trailer, and nothing happened. For several long seconds McGarvey stood there, his knees weak, his heart hammering in his chest. But nothing had happened. Nothing!
“The sonofabitch just pulled the plug” Phil Carrara, deputy director of operations, said, his voice tinged with a bit of awe.
“At that point he didn’t have anything to lose” Trotter replied.
“Except his life”
The two of them had ridden up to the seventh floor and when they stepped off the elevator they crossed directly to the DCI’s conference room adjacent to his office. It was a few minutes before eight in the morning, but Trotter, who’d gotten no sleep on the military jet over, was still on European time where it was early afternoon yesterday. He was dead tired. They were met in the anteroom by the director’s security people. Trotter turned over his pistol before they were allowed inside.
The room was long and broad, big windows looking out over the new section of headquarters which had just
