She was mistaken. It couldn’t be.
Suddenly Liese was there, above him, concern written all over her face. “We must get out of here now, Ernst,” she told him. “There are others coming.”
“Get the detonator,” Spranger croaked, blood slobbering down his chin and the front of his tattered jumpsuit.
“What are you talking about?” she cried, glancing nervously up the stairs.
“I want to blow the tower.”
“They’re gone, you fool!”
“No,” Spranger growled, the single word torn in anguish from the back of his throat.
“I won’t allow it.” He looked up into her eyes. “Liese, please. It’s all I ask. We’ll push the button and then we’ll get out of here. Together. We’ll regroup and finish the Japanese project. It’s all still possible, but you must help me.”
“I’ll help you,” Liese said, resignedly. She got the detonator and then helped him to his feet. “We’ll go overland, and hide in the mountains until it’s safe.”
“Do it, Liese. Do it!”
McGarvey huddled behind the overturned pews, the breath knocked out of him. He had taken two hits from behind, one in the left shoulder, the bullet exiting cleanly just below his collarbone, and the other, much more painful wound, in the meat of his right thigh.
Once again he understood that Spranger had outthought him, although he was certain that he’d hit the East German general at least once.
The ringing was back in his ears, and between that and his ragged breath whistling in his throat, it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything.
He wanted simply to close his eyes and sleep. He wanted peace, something he’d not had for a very long time.
As he went down he’d managed to get off a second burst before his weapon either jammed or ran out of ammunition. He was too tired to find out which. But he’d got the impression of Spranger falling back. At least that’s what he thought it had been, but lying here in the darkness he wasn’t sure of what he’d seen; or, in fact, if he’d seen anything.
He’d heard a woman’s voice. But just now it was difficult to recall exactly what she’d said.
“McGarvey,” someone shouted from below, on the floor of the nave. Spranger? It was a man’s voice.
McGarvey struggled to sit up. He pulled the Kalashnikov over to him. The ejector slide was locked in the open position, the breech empty.
“Mr. McGarvey?” someone else called from below. This time it was a woman. Her English had British intonations, but the accent was definitely German.
“Bastards,” McGarvey shouted, the effort causing a shooting pain in his side.
“Listen,” the man called. “Sagen Sle, aufwiedersehen.”
“Bastards,” McGarvey shouted again, when a huge explosion a long way off shook the very foundation of the church. Kathleen and Elizabeth. McGarvey was galvanized.
Dropping the Kalashnikov, he clawed the Walther from his holster, switched the safety off, cocked the hammer and clambered to his feet.
“Come back,” he shouted, lurching toward the balustrade.
Something crashed into one of the pews behind him, and he swung around, getting off a snap shot with his last round at a black figure rising up, as it fired its assault rifle on full automatic.
Chapter 61
A thirty-foot section of the residence building’s outer wall was simply gone, the upper floors of the tower, including the area in which the women had been held, gone also.
Lipton and Tyrell huddled behind a pile of smoking debris just off the great hall waiting for Wasley to report back. He’d gone down to the dock to make sure that no one had been hurt in the blast, and see if that avenue of escape was still open to them.
The gunfire they’d heard just after the explosion had stopped, and the only sounds now were the wind howling through the jagged opening and the sea crashing against the rocks five hundred feet below.
“I don’t like it,” Tyrell said. “McGarvey has to understand the significance of the explosion, if he heard it. But there’s been no response.”
“Don’t write him off yet, Frank,” Lipton replied. “You didn’t see his file. I did, and it’s damned impressive. Bob is no slouch either.”
“They’re only two.”
Wasley came through the corridor door and hurried across the great hall, crouching down beside them. He was winded from the climb. “A section of the dock was buried, but they’re okay,” he said. “Joslow said he’s going to hold up there, unless you tell him differently. He’s called Ops for help.”
“Good,” Lipton said. They’d decided against using walkie-talkies because they’d not counted on being separated, and they’d wanted to keep unsecured communications to an absolute minimum. He could see that it had been a mistake. “How are the women holding up?”
“Joslow and Reid have got their hands full, sir. The younger one says she’s not leaving the island until she finds out about her father.”
“What’s Ops’ ETA over the dock?”
“Unknown. Joslow thinks they’re waiting for authorization. Word from Athens is that the Greek authorities are beginning to stir.”
“Then we’d better get the hell out of here on the double,” Lipton said.
They crawled over the pile of debris, their weapons at the ready, and ducked into the corridor that ran the length of the monastery complex toward the courtyard and the desconsecrated church at the front.
Leapfrogging, Lipton first, Wasley second and Tyrell taking up the rear, they hurriedly worked their way forward. Every doorway, every corner, every set of stairs were places of possible ambush and had to be approached with extreme caution.
But nothing moved. There was no gunfire, no signs, except for the lingering stench of the burning chopper, that the monastery was anything but a abandoned center of study and worship.
Lipton held up at the final junction, the corridor ending in a T, the intersecting hallway much narrower. Directly across from where they crouched, a window looking onto the courtyard had blown out. The last of the flames were dying down, nothing identifiable left of the helicopter except for a section of the tail and tail rotor.
The heat had been so intense that lead holding the window panes in place had melted and formed small gray pools on the floor. Even the stone walls inside the corridor had been blackened, and the thick framing timbers in the walls and ceilings had caught fire and were still smoldering in places.
To the right the narrower hallway ended at a door that opened into the nave of the main church.
Lipton pointed that way, then keeping low, darted across the corridor, to a spot just beneath the window, and motioned for Wasley to follow.
Tyrell was the first at the doorway, and he held up until Lipton joined him, this time with Wasley acting as backup.
On signal the two of them rolled into the nave, left and right, Wasley immediately taking up a position to cover them from the corridor.
But nothing moved here either, except for the wind and rain that came through an open door at the front of the church.
Crouching in the darkness Lipton stared at the open door for a moment or two. Someone had left the church? In a hurry?
Turning back, he spotted the three bodies just beneath the balcony; one in the middle and one at the foot of the stairs on either side. It was obvious even from a distance of twenty-five or thirty feet that they were dead.
Lipton zigzagged to the east stairway. When he was in place he motioned for Tyrell to take the west
