Tugging at the ever-closing fingers was useless. Witherspoon was not only larger; he was stronger. Already Lang was desperately sucking at what little air his hungry lungs could ingest.
Lang groped for the gun in the man's belt and realized the effort was hopeless. Instead he used all of his remaining strength to arch his back into a wrestler's bridge that lifted his shoulders and shifted both his and Witherspoon's weight slightly forward.
The pressure eased slightly, allowing Lang to twist quickly to his right, free his left arm, and roll violently back, smashing the point of his elbow against the side of his adversary's head. As Witherspoon recoiled from the blow, Lang scrambled out from under him and began to stagger to his feet.
Witherspoon was on him before Lang was fully erect. This time, though, Lang was able to get his arms inside his enemy's outstretched hands, shunting them aside. With his arms spread for just an instant, Witherspoon was vulnerable.
Lang put every ounce of weight and strength into a strike not of his fist but of fingers cupped to fit just under Witherspoon's sternum, driving the wind from his opponent's diaphragm with the whoosh of a deflating balloon.
Lang had intended to snatch the automatic from Witherspoon's belt before the man could gasp his next breath. Instead the force of the contact had knocked the gun loose, sending it clattering across the floor.
Without hesitation Witherspoon reached into a pocket. As his hand swung forward there was a metallic snick. The long dagger of a switchblade glistened evilly. From the way he held it-blade up, arm bent-Lang guessed the man had had some experience in using it.
'You're not in your office, now, Reilly,' he sneered. 'You won't be ushering me out like some salesman.'
He was tossing the knife from one hand to the other and back again.
'Learn that at the FBI academy?' Lang asked, surprised he could now hear his own voice.
Witherspoon was moving in a semicircle, taking side steps so that he always maintained his balance. Lang was reminded of the dance of a fighter looking for an opportunity to deliver the knockout punch. 'All that matters to you, Reilly, is that I learned it.'
Lang was also moving to keep squarely in front of Witherspoon. 'There's no point in this, you know. You heard the helicopters. The Israeli police will be here in seconds. I wouldn't want to have a weapon in hand when they burst through that door.'
Witherspoon's lips curled back from his teeth in a cruel parody of a smile. 'So what? I didn't come all the way back to Israel to surrender, to let you undermine my people's right to their own land. If I die for that cause, I'll be happy.'
'Oh, come off it! Even your Muslim neighbors get multiple virgins in paradise for martyrdom.'
'Less talk, Reilly. It's time for you to die.'
Retreating a step, Lang groped behind him, his hand touching one of the chairs. He snatched it up by the back, holding it out like a circus performer confronting a ring full of snarling lions.
Witherspoon shoved it aside and feinted a stab to Lang's right before slashing at Lang's left.
The chair was too heavy to use as a weapon. Stepping back, Lang simultaneously slammed it against the floor. As he had hoped, the legs broke free. Still watching Witherspoon, he scooped one up. Now he at least had a club.
Witherspoon, still pacing, snorted. 'A piece of wood won't save you.'
The chair leg had snapped off, leaving a sharp point where it had been attached. Lang jabbed. 'Like the song says, Witherspoon, 'a little less talk and a lot more action.' Much as you'd like to, you can't talk me to death.'
Lang knew his best chance lay in either stalling until help arrived or forcing Witherspoon to commit himself. A broken chair leg was better than no weapon, but not by much.
Lang's eyes fastened onto those of his antagonist. He was aware that even the most experienced knife fighter must at least glance in the direction of attack.
Thrust and parry, thrust and parry. Lang blocked each jab with solid wood, retreating a step with each move. He felt the wall at his back, a fact Witherspoon must have noted, judging by the victorious smile on his face.
But the man had given himself away. His eyes shifted quickly to the opposite side before he feigned an attack. This time Lang was ready. Witherspoon's eyes darted to Lang's right as he jabbed futilely to the left. When he moved right, arm extended for what he anticipated would be the kill, Lang spun aside, bringing the chair leg crashing down across Witherspoon's wrist, smashing the ulna.
Witherspoon howled as the knife spun like a sparkling comet across the room. He bent over, cradling the shattered bones of his wrist. Lang was tempted to swing the chair leg down on the man's head. Too risky. Such blows reliably rendered only film villains unconscious. In real life the skull was frequently too thick to allow more than temporarily dazing an opponent.
That was one of the reasons the Agency had taught the seven kill spots on the human body.
Lang jabbed upward, stabbing the wooden point into the area just below the chin. Witherspoon's head snapped head back with sufficient force that Lang could hear the vertebrae snap.
Witherspoon dropped lifelessly to the floor.
'What a sodding mess!'
Whirling, Lang faced the source of the voice as he raised the chair leg for another blow.
Jacob stood in the doorway, surveying the carnage inside. 'Put that silly stick down and come outside.'
Lang grinned. 'Remind me not to let you near any weapon I own. What would have happened if it had been me instead of Zwelk pulling that trigger?'
'If you had had to shoot it out with two Uzis, what happened when you pulled the trigger would be sodding irrelevent.'
Lang held Alicia's hand as he followed Jacob. They had almost reached a place where neither the pale light of the fire's embers nor that from surrounding buildings could reach them when Lang heard an order in English to stop.
There was just enough illumination to make out four men. One, the oldest of the group, wore a rumpled suit and tie. Another was dressed in shirt and pants as though for the golf course; a third was in the uniform of the Israeli police. The fourth, in military uniform, held an Uzi at bay, not pointed at Lang but not far from it, either.
Jacob immediately stepped forward. 'Yosi, is that you? Yosi Gruber, the lad I knew was bright enough but never had the discipline to make the intelligence service?'
The one in the polo shirt stepped forward, grinning. 'Jacob Anueliwitz! What is a retired old goat like you doing here?'
' 'Old goat', is it?' Jacob laughed. 'Well, I'll be telling you youngsters something: While you were farting about, I've found an arsenal here.'
'So what?' the policeman said. 'It's not uncommon for these kibbutzes to be ready to defend themselves.'
'With rocket and grenade launchers?' Jacob asked, grinning evilly. 'I'd bet ten quid you'll find the last few attacks by the wogs on 'tother side of that wall started when some bloke lobbed explosives into their villages. A provocateur is what you have here.'
Rauch was at a total loss. He was expecting to make an arrest, and what he was witnessing more resembled a family reunion. He stepped forward, facing Lang. 'Mr. Langford Reilly?'
'Yes?'
'You are arrested.'
Lang looked quizzically at Jacob and then to Gruber. 'By whom and what in the hell for? Or is that a secret?'
'I am Chief Inspector Rauch of the Vienna police, and you are for questioning wanted in regard to the murder of Dr. Heimlich Shaffer.'
'Heimlich Shaffer?' Lang asked. 'The professor I had dinner with? He's been murdered? By whom?'
'That, Mr. Reilly, is what we hope you can tell us.'
'Then you're about to be seriously disappointed.'
A man. in an Israeli army uniform appeared out the darkness as though by a magician's trick. He spoke hurried Hebrew to Gruber.
In turn, the intelligence man turned to Rauch. 'I'd like to borrow your prisoner for a few moments, Inspector.'
