crowded with passengers, was not moving. The public address system was announcing that because of technical difficulties the metro was temporarily shut down, but to have patience.
The platform was a hundred yards long, and by the time he reached the far end, a buzz of excitement was growing behind him, spreading like a tidal wave. The Militia were clearing a path down the middle by shoving the people to one side or the other, and it was obvious that it would take them only a minute or so to reach the end of the platform.
With nowhere else to go, McGarvey jumped down to the track level, and raced into the black maw of the tunnel. People on the platform shouted for him to come back, and before he got twenty yards the beams of several flashlights appeared behind him.
The next stop would be two or three hundred yards away, and by now the Militia would be heading down the tunnel from that end meaning to catch him in the middle.
His suspicions were confirmed in the next minute when he spotted the pinpoints of several flashlights in the distance ahead. But at that moment he also spotted his way out, a low steel door set in a recess in the tunnel wall, and secured by an old-fashioned iron padlock.
Standing to the side to protect himself from bullet fragments, he fired three shots into the padlock, the third finally springing it.
The Militia at either end of the tunnel, thinking they were being fired upon, opened fire with automatic weapons, bullets and sparks and stone chips flying off the tunnel walls, ceiling and tracks.
McGarvey pulled the ruined padlock away and forced the heavy steel door open on rusty hinges. In what little light there was he could see narrow concrete stairs leading down into the absolute darkness. A cold breeze wafted up from below, bringing with it the damp smells of water and sewage.
He” stepped through the door as something hot and very sharp slammed into his left armpit, shoving up against the open door, and nearly dropping him to his knees. But then he straightened up and raced headlong down the stairs.
Chernov shined the beam of his flashlight on the few drops of blood in the doorway off the metro tunnel. The trains were still being held, and the tunnel was busy with Militia cops searching the tracks centimeter by centimeter.
“At least one of your men got lucky,” Chernov said to Petrovsky. “Why didn’t anyone follow him?”
“Do you know what’s down there, Colonel?”
“Yes, I do.”
“With a man of his caliber I think we need reinforcements before I send any of my people into that maze. There are thousands of places where he could wait in ambush.”
“He only has so many bullets.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel, but I won’t give that order until the Army shows up. They’ll be here within a half-hour, and we’ll have a good chance of flushing him out.”
“In the meantime he could be anywhere.”
“He won’t get very far in the condition he’s in,” Petrovsky said. He shined his flashlight down the trail of blood droplets finally lost in the darkness. “If he keeps losing blood he’ll probably pass out or become too weak to- fight back.” Petrovsky looked into Chernov’s eyes. “The sewers aren’t such a healthy place to be for a wounded man.”
“Neither is Lefortovo for a healthy man,” Chernov said. “Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chernov walked back out to the tunnel, and up on the street General Yuryn beckoned him over to the limousine. He climbed in back and they took off.
“Tarankov will be at the rally in Red Square tomorrow and yet with all the resources at your command you have failed to stop one man,” Yuryn said coolly. “Are you going to merely stand by and let him succeed?”
“He’s wandering around in the dark sewers, wounded and losing a lot of blood,” Chernov said indifferently, although he was seething inside, and he was beginning to have his doubts that they’d ever had a true measure of the man.
“But I’m told he still has that shoulder bag. And we all know what that might contain.”
“The Army will be here in a few minutes, and they’ll make a systematic search of every hiding place down there.”
“That would seem an impossible task given the time remaining.”
“It might flush him out if he’s not already dead.”
Yuryn laughed humorlessly. “Maybe Tarankov should postpone his appearance.”
“He won’t do that,” Chernov said. “Neither will he send a double.”
“I didn’t think so,” Yuryn said. “So tomorrow it’ll come down to you versus Mr. McGarvey. I wonder who the better man is?”
THREE
MAY
FORTY
Chernov mounted the stairs to the reviewing stand atop Lenin’s Mausoleum as the bells inside the Kremlin finished tolling midnight.
Workmen were busy putting the final touches on the platform for President Kabatov and the several dozen dignitaries who were expected to show up. Lights, banners, and a sound system were being installed here, as well as across the vast square that had been blocked off from all normal pedestrian traffic.
Soldiers and Militia officers manned the barricades and checked the papers of everyone entering or leaving, in part because McGarvey still had not been flushed out of hiding, but also because such precautions were normal for these kinds of events. This May Day parade and celebration was supposed to be the biggest in twenty years because Kabatov had made his conciliatory gesture to the Communists by assuming the party chairmanship.
But the carnival would backfire on them when Tarankov swept into Red Square at the head of his column of commandoes and announced to his people that he was returning the Rodina to them, the same message he’d been repeating for nearly five years. This time everybody would believe it.
Unless McGarvey killed him.
Chernov stood at the parapet and let his eyes drift across the periphery of the square, which tomorrow afternoon would be crammed with a million people. Special riot police and anti-terrorism squads would be dispersed throughout the crowd, but even Chernov had to admit to himself that spotting one man in that mob would be next to impossible.
“Let’s see your identification,” a gruff voice demanded.
Chernov turned to face an older man dressed in the special Militia uniform worn by guards detailed to Lenin’s Mausoleum. He handed his identification book over, then glanced up at the Kremlin walls towering over the rear of the mausoleum.
“Pardon me, Colonel,” the guard said, handing the booklet back. “But we can’t be too careful.”
“Who are you looking for?” Chernov asked.
“Anyone who doesn’t belong up here,0 the guard said.
“Aren’t you aware that we’re looking for someone specific? Weren’t you briefed before you came on duty?”
“No, sir. When we closed up downstairs I was ordered to help check everyone who came up here.”
“You weren’t shown a photograph?”
“No, sir,”
