me a helicopter” he asked the cop.
“Now”
“Yes, sir. On the hospital roof. Five minutes”
“Do it” McGarvey snapped and he jumped out of the car.
Potok had heard the entire exchange. “He made his contact, took care of Schey, and now he’s after Dr. Abbott”
“Looks like it” McGarvey said. “We just might have the bastard after all.
Arka(ty Kurshin lowered his police-band walkie-talkie, a thin smile coming to his lips. From where he stood on the roof of the hospital building he had a clear sight line down into the parking lot. The game he was playing was dangerous, and he knew it. If he lost now, his life would be forfeit. Baranov would see to it. The entire project rested on his decision and his ability to carry it out. But the timing was tight.
It depended upon who would show up first, McGarvey or the helicopter.
Kurshin was still dressed in his blue hospital scrubs. He moved away from the roof edge and in the shadows pulled off the bloodstained clothes, bundled them up and stuffed them behind an airconditioning vent. Beneath, he wore a short-sleeved khaki jacket, khaki trousers, and soft boots. He had reloaded his automatic on the way up to the roof, and he checked its action as he moved directly across to the helicopter pad on the north side of the building, low red lights outlining the landing circle. From where he crouched in the darkness behind the main airconditioning equipment house he could see the elevator door to his left, and the helicopter pad directly ahead. Trotter was assistant deputy director of operations for the Agency, and a longtime friend of McGarvey’s. Baranov had described him as a capable administrator and more than a fair cop. Something had spooked him into going out to Falmouth. Kurshin figured it was probably the helicopter overflight this afternoon. Antipov was probably right, the Americans had discovered the true nature of Xavier Enterprises. Again, Kurshin had the thought that he was backing himself into a trap. He had the data they needed, so why hadn’t he turned and left the hospital when he’d had the chance? By now he would have been long gone. On his way back to Rome where his team would be gathering. McGarvey. He had eyes now only for that man. He could still hear the American’s voice clearly in his mind from the sewer tunnel beneath the streets of Kaiserslautern. He could still see McGarvey disarming the missile. And he could still feel the incredible surprise and anger that had overcome him at that moment. The bile then as now tasted bitter at the back of his throat. He had been staring at the elevator indicator-the car was still on the ground floor-when he suddenly could hear the distant sound of an incoming helicopter. He looked up and searched the sky, finally finding it coming fast from the northeast. He glanced at the elevator indicator again; still the car remained downstairs. Time. It always was just a matter of timing. The helicopter, with police markings on its tail, quickly loomed large overhead as it slowly came in for a landing, centering on the pad and swinging around in a tight little circle before settling in. Hiding his gun behind his right leg, Kurshin ran across to the helicopter, keeping low. The pilot was alone in his machine. As Kurshin approached he popped open the door. “Mr. McGarvey” he shouted over the noise of the rotors.
“No” Kurshin said. He raised his pistol and shot the cop in the face, careful to aim above the microphone in front of his lips, and below the rim of his helmet. The cop’s body was shoved to the side against his restraints, and then slumped forward. Kurshin looked over his shoulder.
The elevator indicator was on the second floor and starting up now!
Shoving his pistol in his belt, he quickly unharnessed the cop’s body, manhandled it out of the helicopter, and dragged it across the roof, dumping it in the darkness behind the airconditioning house. He unstrapped the helmet and pulled it off the cop’s head. Only a small amount of blood had spattered the inside of the helmet which Kurshin quickly wiped off with his handkerchief, and as he raced back to the helicopter he pulled the helmet on. He scrambled into the machine, strapped himself in, and plugged in his headset. A split second later the elevator door opened, and two men stepped out, one of them McGarvey.
They rushed across the roof to the helicopter as Kurshin reached over and popped open the rear door, then turned back to his instruments and control column. This machine, he decided, wasn’t much different from the larger Hind trainers he had learned on. “We have to get down to Falmouth in a hurry” McGarvey said, climbing into the rear seat. “Yes, sir”
Kurshin replied. “Exactly where do you want to go”
“I’ll tell you on the run. Now get us out of here”
It had taken Yuri Deryugin a full fifteen minutes to make his way through the dark woods to the edge of the clearing. He had sent Lakomsky across the dirt road to approach the house from the east. Between them they would be able to cover the entire clearing and three sides of the large farmhouse. Standing behind the hole of a large tree, the Russian raised his rifle, activated the infrared scope, and slowly scanned the clearing left to right. Images appeared pale gray and ghostly, but nobody could hide in the darkness. A very bright light bloomed in his scope from the edge of the woods about fifty yards to Deryugin’s left, momentarily overpowering his scope and blinding him.
For a second or two he wasn’t sure what he had seen. Gunfire, an explosion? But there had been no sound. The light breeze was blowing in his face, and the images in his scope cleared about the same moment he smelled cigarette smoke. One of the FBI agents had actually lit a cigarette. In Deryugin’s mind the action was extremely stupid, unprofessional. They were expecting trouble, and yet this man could not control his petty vice. The agent’s body was partially hidden behind brush and small trees, but Deryugin had a clear sight line on his head.
At this distance he would have preferred a torso shot, and under normal conditions he would have moved in closer to get it. But there were others coming. He had heard the other agent tell Trotter so. There was no time. Deryugin settled the rifle’s crosshairs on the FBI agent’s ear, then raised his aim slightly to compensate for the effect the Kevlar silencer would have on the path of the bullet and squeezed off a shot, the noise audible perhaps for as far as twenty yards. The agent disappeared, his body crashing into the brush. For just an instant Deryugin thought he might have missed, but there were no other sounds in the woods, and he knew that he had not. The agent was down and dead.
Again the Russian carefully scanned the clearing and the house, left to right. He caught a movement in the woods across the driveway, lost it, then picked it up again, a dark figure moving silently. It was Lakomsky getting into position. From the helicopter they had spotted a man on the east side of the house. Lakomsky would be in position to see him at any moment now. The walkie-talkie he had taken from Sills’s body crackled to life. “Hank”
Deryugin pulled it from his pocket and put it to his ear. “Hank, for Christ’s sake, was that you making all that goddamned noise over there”
Apparently he had heard the body crashing into the brush, but had not heard the silenced shot. “Tom, you copy”
“What the hell is going on out there” another voice radioed. “Is that Bert”
“Yeah, I’m in the front hallway. Now what the hell is going on out there”
“I heard a noise in the woods, and now I can’t raise Hank or.” The agent’s voice was abruptly cut off in midsentence by a distinctive short, sharp sound and the radio was silent. Deryugin knew what he had heard. Lakomsky had shot him. The sound was that of a high-powered rifle bullet hitting a human skull. “Mays, you were cut off” the agent from inside the house answered. Deryugin keyed the walkie-talkie. “Christ, I think Mays and Hank are both down. We’ve got troubles out here”
” Who is this”
“Tom” Deryugin replied, muffling his voice a little. “Goddamnit, Sills, where the hell are you”
“I’m coming up the road from the truck. Should be to you in a couple of minutes, maybe less”
“Are we under attack”
“I think so Deryugin radioed, cutting himself off before finishing the sentence. He dropped the walkie-talkie to the ground and raised his rifle, aiming at the front door of the farmhouse.
“Sills” the agent in the house radioed urgently. “Sills, goddamit”
At this point, his first objective accomplished, Lakomsky would have moved farther south so that he could cover the rear exits from the house. Sixty seconds. Deryugin was going to give the agent inside the house that long. No more. Less than ten seconds later the front door of the house opened. Deryugin could see the figure of a man just inside. He waited patiently. The FBI agent came out of the house a moment later in a dead run, momentarily catching Deryugin off guard. But the Russian was a professional and extremely well trained. He led the man off the
