Shift: A Novel

“Attempt to take me into custody. The commotion will bring Ivan into the fray, during which I’ll escape and Ivan, alas, will die. I’ll go for rep tie, but if I fail, he’ll at least report that you attempted to apprehend me.”

“So you’re saying I have to kill Ivan solely on the chance that you miss Andover? You’re a cold-blooded bastard.”

“Remember the bad singing.”

“Andover won’t be alone. Not after Rip.”

“Have you made his partner?”

“Not yet, but he’ll make a move during the fight. Keep your eyes peeled. Oh, and—”

“Yes?”

“This one’s for Song.”

Melchior drove his elbow into the side of Ivelitsch’s face. He wanted to surprise him to make it look real, in case the watchers did get away, and he also wanted to let him know who was going to run this partnership, should it survive its first test. There was a snap—probably not a broken jawbone, but maybe—and Ivelitsch rolled to the left. The two men fell to the floor, briefly out of sight of the KGB and CIA agents.

“We’ve got to switch guns,” Melchior hissed.

Ivelitsch had to pop his jaw before he could speak. “What?”

“Forensics needs to find Makarov slugs in both Americans.”

“Good point,” Ivelitsch said. He swapped guns with Melchior, but before he got up he grabbed Melchior’s arm.

“For this to work everyone who knows you has to die. Frank Wisdom and Drew Everton and—”

“I understand.”

“Everyone,” Ivelitsch said. And then: “Say it.”

“Say—”

“You know.”

Melchior rolled his eyes.

“Timor mortis exultat me.”

“If I were a girl I’d kiss you,” Ivelitsch said. “But since I’m a man …” He smashed his forehead into Melchior’s nose.

The Russian was up first, the magnum he’d taken from Melchior already level. A woman screamed before he fired the first shot, which only missed Melchior because he rolled behind the bench. He knew Ivelitsch would shoot him if he got the chance. This was a test, for both of them, and it was pass or die.

As Ivelitsch had predicted, Ivan was in motion. The second KGB man didn’t seem to realize that the two fighting men were aligning themselves so that—

Ivelitsch aimed, and Melchior threw himself to the floor. He heard the shots, turned to see Ivan falling backward with two dark holes in his chest, a last silent “Blyat!” passing his lips. Melchior jumped up a few yards to the right of his former position, gun already aimed. He could have sworn his shot grazed Ivelitsch’s back. It caught Andover in the meat of his left shoulder. He staggered backward, but he was also reaching into his jacket for his weapon.

Melchior took a second to aim. If he missed, if Andover got away, it was all over before it began. His second shot blew the fedora off what was left of the agent’s skull, but Melchior was already scanning the crowd before the hat hit the ground.

He saw what he was looking for halfway down the station: a man moving quickly but calmly amid the frenzied crowd, heading for the front exit. Something flashed in the man’s hand. Not a gun. Worse—car keys.

“Mashina?” he called out.

“Nyet,” Ivelitsch yelled back, still squeezing off shots as he made his way toward the gates, where, presumably, he’d hop a train as it pulled out of the station or escape through the tracks. The Russian was making this a little too real. Melchior had to duck and zigzag his way across the waiting room, all of which let the second Company man get farther away. When he’d finally put enough people between himself and Ivelitsch’s gun, he stood up straight and ran for the front exit. The Company man was already outside. Melchior spotted him getting into the driver’s seat of a taxi parked in the rank of livery vehicles on Massachusetts Avenue.

There were two tickets under the windshield wiper of Song’s bathtub Porsche. Melchior would’ve preferred a Catalina or a Fury or even a Corvette, but Song had assured him the 356 would get him where he needed to go. He’d had to leave the top down because the car was too damn small for him otherwise. He vaulted the door, slid his legs under the steering wheel, jerked the choke, pumped the gas, turned the key. The Porsche whined like a half- grown lion cub.

The agent didn’t seem to have seen Melchior leave the station. He pulled his taxi onto the semicircular road that would give him access to Columbus Circle and a half dozen streets. Melchior pulled into the one-way drive’s exit to cut him off, weaving in and out of the heavy afternoon traffic. The agent spotted him and jerked the taxi over the curb, tearing across the strip of park that separated the station’s access road from Columbus Circle. He barely slowed as he shot across eight lanes of traffic, heading straight for Delaware Avenue.

Melchior was acutely conscious of how tiny the Porsche was as he followed—not just because his left knee slammed into the underside of the console every time he shifted, but because all he could see were the enormous grilles of Fords and Chryslers and Chevies closing in on him like a pack of Saint Bernards. He shot onto Delaware, straight toward the Capitol, less than a hundred feet behind the bright yellow Crown Vic. At that point Melchior had to give the little car its due. He punched it and it sprang after the taxi as though a leash had snapped from its collar.