“Your training and your observations will be very helpful in filling out my report on this tragic incident, Mr. Martin,” the other man said calmly. He nodded at Fiona Devin. “That is why I must ask you and this charming companion of yours to accompany us to the hospital.”
Fiona frowned.
“Don’t worry, this is only a matter of routine,” the doctor said, holding up a hand to stifle any protests. “I assure you that any inconvenience will be temporary.”
The two paramedics finished strapping the dead woman onto their stretcher and heaved her up between them. “Watch out for her left leg,” Smith heard one of them mutter brusquely to the other. “You don’t want to get any of that stuff on your hands.”
Stuff? Jon felt his blood run ice-cold. He remembered the young “drunk” who had collided with Vedenskaya, “accidentally” jabbing her with the tip of his rolled-up umbrella. Suddenly all the damning symptoms he had cataloged fell into place: respiratory collapse, convulsions, her constricted pupils, and finally, complete heart failure.
Jesus, he thought grimly. She must have been injected with some kind of deadly, fast-acting nerve agent, probably a variant of Sarin or VX. Even a drop of either toxic compound on bare skin could kill. Pumping VX or Sarin directly into the bloodstream would be even more lethal. He looked up quickly and saw the sallow-faced doctor watching him with a cold, calculat-ing expression.
Smith took a step back.
With a slight smile, the white-coated man pulled a small, compact pistol out of his white coat?a Makarov PSM, a Russian-made knockoff of the Walther PPK. He held the weapon down low at his side, aiming straight at the American’s heart. Slowly he shook his head. “I hope that you will resist the temptation to act unwisely, Colonel Smith. Otherwise, we will be forced to kill both von and the lovely Ms. Devin. And that would be a terrible shame, would it not?”
Bitterly angry with himself for missing the warning signs of this ambush.
Smith grimaced. The other man was just outside his reach. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the ambulance driver, as big and hard-eved as the others, had climbed down out of the cab. This man now stood close behind Fiona Devin, holding a pistol pressed hard into the small of her back.
Her face had gone pale, either with anger or fear or a mixture of both emotions.
Smith forced himself to stand verv still. Carefullv, he showed his open, empty hands. “I’m unarmed,” he said tightly.
“A rational decision, Colonel,” the doctor said approvingly. “No one would benefit from any useless heroics.”
The first two paramedics roughly slid Elena Vedenskaya’s blanket-wrapped bodv into the back of the ambulance. They swung away and stood waiting for further orders.
“Into the vehicle, please,” the sallow-laced man said quietly. “Ms. Devin first.”
Numbly, Fiona climbed into the ambulance. The stretcher occupied the central aisle, leaving two narrow benches, one on either side. She scooted down the left-hand bench, going all the way to the end. One of the burly paramedics crowded in after her, dropping heavily onto the bench on the far side. Once seated, he drew his own pistol to keep her covered.
“And now you, Colonel.” The white-coated man nodded inside. “Sit next to Ms. Devin. But make sure you keep your hands in sight at all times. Otherwise, I fear Dmitri might get jumpy and then, sadly, you would end up as dead as poor Dr. Vedenskaya there.”
Still coldly furious with himself, Jon obeyed. He slid down the bench toward Fiona. The dark-haired woman glanced at him with an unreadable expression in her blue-green eyes. She still held the binder containing Vedenskaya’s notes.
“No talking,” the paramedic growled in thickly accented English, emphasizing his order with the muzzle of his pistol.
She shrugged slightly and looked away, saying nothing further.
Smith winced inwardly. Their predicament was largely his fault. If he had not stayed so long in his futile effort to save Elena Vedenskaya’s life, they might have been able to evade this trap before it snapped shut on them.
The slender, sallow-faced doctor scrambled up into the cramped interior and sat down facing the two Americans, squashed up next to his much bigger subordinate. With a slight, cynical smile, he kept his own pistol aimed at Jon’s chest.
The second paramedic and the big, hard-eyed driver slammed the doors shut, sealing the four of them inside.
Moments later, the ambulance lurched into motion. They were pulling out from the curb. The siren and flashing blue light came on again, clearing a path through the light evening traffic. Slowly, the emergency vehicle swung through a wide U-turn, evidently heading back toward the much-busier Sadovaya Ring road.
Smith could feel ice-cold sweat trickling down his ribs. Somehow he had to find a way to break them out of this moving prison ?and soon. He had no illusions about their fate if he failed. Once they arrived wherever they were being taken, he and Fiona Devin were as good as dead.
Chapter Eighteen
Not far down Povarskaya Street, the tall, silver-haired man sitting hunched over behind the wheel of a boxy dark blue Russian-made Niva 4x4 utility vehicle cursed softly as he watched the two Americans being bundled uncere-moniously into the back of the ambulance. His jaw tightened.
Sighing, he made sure his shoulder belt was tightly fastened, and then reached down to turn on the ignition. There were said to be patron saints for fools and madmen. If so, he earnestly hoped they would look down with favor on him, because there was certainly no time left to do anything subtle or sensible.
The Niva’s powerful engine roared to life. Without hesitating any longer, he shoved the vehicle into gear, stamped down on the gas pedal, and accelerated away from the curb, aiming straight for the front side of the ambulance just as it turned across Povorskaya Street.
Inside the ambulance, Smith sat rigidly still, carefully eying the pistol aimed in his direction. His mind raced, rapidly concocting and then discarding a series of wild-eyed schemes to escape from their captors. Unfortunately, every plan he came up with only seemed likely to get them killed sooner rather than later.
Suddenly the driver up front shouted something in alarm. Jon felt Fiona Devm tense up.
An engine roared close by, growing ever louder. Brakes squealed piercingly. Car and truck horns blared out panicked warnings. And then Smith felt an enormous, |oltmg hang as some other vehicle slammed into the ambulance at high speed. The impact hurled him right off the bench. He fell forward across Vedenskaya’s body. There were more startled shouts from the others around him.
Hit broadside, they were sliding across the road, spinning out of control amid an earsplitting shriek of tearing metal and the tinkling crash of shattering glass. First-aid kits and other medical gear tumbled out of storage compartments. sharp, stinging reek of spilled gasoline and the acrid stench of torn and burning rubber rolled through the cramped interior.
Still spinning, the ambulance crashed into the side of an old, rust-eaten Volga sedan parked along the street and rocked to a stop, lying canted over at an odd angle with its blown front tires propped up high on the curb. The deafening noise died away.
Smith looked up.
The first sudden impact had tossed the doctor backward, smashing his head hard against the metal interior. He looked dazed. Rivulets of blood dripped clown the side of his lean, pale face. But he still held onto his Makarov PSM.
Reacting fast, Jon shoved himself upright onto his knees.
The doctor’s eyes widened. Snarling, he raised the pistol. His fingers curled around the trigger, already starting to squeeze it.
