What the hell’s this?”
Tucker rose quickly as Dajkovic pushed Gideon into the study, hands cuffed. The general stepped around from behind his desk, pulling a .45 and training it on Gideon.
For the first time, Gideon came face-to-face with his nemesis. In person, Chamblee Tucker looked even more well fed and well watered than in the dozens of pictures he had studied over the years. His neck bulged slightly over a starched collar; his cheeks were so closely shaved that they shone; his hair was trimmed to crew-cut perfection. His skin bore a spiderweb of veins marking the face of a drinking man. His outfit was pure Washington: power tie, blue suit, four-hundred-dollar shoes. The soulless study was of a piece with the man — wood paneling, interior-? decorator antiques, Persian rugs, power wall plastered with photos and citations.
“Are you crazy?” Tucker said. “I didn’t tell you to bring him here. My God, Dajkovic, I thought you could handle this on your own!”
“I brought him here,” Dajkovic replied, “because he told me something completely different from what you said. And damned if it didn’t sound plausible.”
Tucker stared hard at Dajkovic. “You’d believe this scumbag over me?”
“General, I just want to know what’s going on. I’ve covered your back for years. I’ve done your work, clean and dirty, and I’ll continue to do it. But a funny thing happened on the side of that mountain — I began to believe this guy.”
“What the hell are you trying to tell me?”
“I’m beginning to have doubts, and the minute that happens, I’m no longer an effective soldier. You want me to get rid of this man? No problem. I’ll follow your orders. But I need to know what’s going on before I put a bullet into his head.”
Tucker stared at him for a long time, then broke eye contact and passed a hand over his bristly scalp. He stepped over to a well-polished cabinet, slid open a drawer, pulled out a glass and a bottle of Paddy, slammed them on the mahogany, and poured himself a few fingers. He swallowed it in one gulp. Then he glanced back at Dajkovic.
“Anyone see you come in?”
“No, sir.”
Tucker looked from Dajkovic to Gideon and back again. “What did he tell you, exactly?”
“That his father wasn’t a traitor. And that he isn’t a terrorist, or in league with them.”
Tucker carefully set down his glass. “All right. Truth is, I did tell you a bit of a story. His father didn’t pass secrets to the Soviets.”
“What did he do?”
“You got to remember, Dajkovic, we were in a war, a Cold War. In war, ugly things happen. You get collateral damage. We had a problem: an error was made. We rolled out a flawed code and some operatives died as a result. If that had come out, it would have taken down the entire cryptology section at a time when we desperately needed a new set of codes. His father had to be sacrificed for the greater good. You remember what it was like: them or us.”
Dajkovic nodded. “Yes, sir. I remember.”
“So now this fellow here, Gideon, more than twenty years later, is threatening me. Blackmailing me. Trying to tear down everything we’ve built, to destroy not only my reputation but the reputation of an entire group of dedicated, patriotic Americans. That’s why he has to be eliminated. You understand?”
“I get it,” said Dajkovic, with a slow smile. “You don’t have to work around the facts to get me to do something for you. I’m with you one hundred percent, whatever you need.”
“Are we clear what needs to be done?”
“Absolutely.”
Gideon said nothing and waited.
Tucker glanced down at the bottle and glass. “Drink on it?”
“No, thanks.”
Tucker poured himself another, slugged it back. “Trust me that this is for the best. You’re earning my eternal gratitude. Take him out through the garage and make sure no one sees you.”
Dajkovic nodded and gave Gideon a little push. “Let’s go.”
Gideon turned and headed toward the door, Dajkovic following. They passed into the front hall and headed toward the kitchen, walked to the back where a door evidently led out into the garage.
Gideon placed one handcuffed hand on the knob, realized it was locked. At the same moment he saw a quick movement out of the corner of his eye and instantly realized what was happening. Throwing himself sideways, he pitched himself into Dajkovic’s shoulder just as Tucker’s gun went off, but the round still caught Dajkovic in the back, slamming him forward into the closed door, the gun knocked from his hand. He sank to the floor with a grunt.
As Gideon spun and dove, he caught a glimpse of Tucker in the kitchen doorway, isosceles stance, pistol in hand. The gun barked again, this time aimed at him, blasting a hole in the Mexican tiled floor mere inches from his face. Gideon leapt to his feet, making a feint toward the general as if to charge.
The third shot came just as he made a ninety-degree lunge, throwing himself atop Dajkovic and grasping the .45 that lay against the far wall. He swung it around just as a fourth shot whistled past his ear. He raised the .45 but Tucker ducked back through the doorway.
Wasting no time, Gideon seized Dajkovic’s shirt and pulled him to cover behind the washing machine, then took cover there himself. He thought furiously. What would Tucker do? He couldn’t let them live; couldn’t call the cops; couldn’t run.
This was a fight to the finish.
He peered out at the empty doorway where Tucker had been. It led into the dining room, large and dark. Tucker was waiting for them there.
He heard a cough; Dajkovic suddenly grunted and rose. Almost simultaneously, rapid shots sounded from the doorway; Gideon ducked and two more rounds punched through the washing machine, water suddenly spraying from a cut hose.
Gideon got off a shot but Tucker had already disappeared back into the dining room.
“Give me the sidearm,” Dajkovic gasped, but without waiting for a reply his massive fist closed over the .45 in Gideon’s hand and took it. He struggled to rise.
“Wait,” said Gideon. “I’ll run across the room to the kitchen table, there. He’ll move to the doorway to get off a shot at me. That’ll put him right behind the door frame. Fire through the wall.”
Dajkovic nodded. Gideon took a deep breath, then jumped from behind the washing machine and darted over behind the table, realizing too late how badly exposed he really was.
With an inarticulate roar Dajkovic staggered forward like a wounded bear. Blood suddenly came streaming from his mouth, his eyes wild, and he charged the doorway, firing through the wall to the right of the door. He pulled up short in the middle of the kitchen, swaying, still roaring, emptying the magazine into the wall.
For a moment, there was no movement from the darkened dining room. Then the heavy figure of Tucker, spurting blood from half a dozen gunshot wounds, tumbled across the threshold, landing on the floor like a carcass of meat. And only then did Dajkovic sag to his knees, coughing, and roll to one side.
Gideon scrambled to his feet and kicked Tucker’s handgun away from his inert form. Then he knelt over Dajkovic. Fumbling in the man’s pockets, he fished out the handcuff key and unlocked the cuffs. “Take it easy,” he said, examining the wound. The bullet had gone through his back, low, evidently piercing a lung but, he hoped, missing other vital organs.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, Dajkovic smiled, bloody lips stretching into a ghastly grimace. “You get it on tape?”
Gideon patted his pocket. “All of it.”
“Great,” Dajkovic gasped. He passed out with a smile on his face.
Gideon snapped off the digital recorder. He felt faint and the room began to spin as he heard sirens in the distance.
