The woman paused in front of a Veronese. There was no playacting. She stopped abruptly, obviously, wanting Peggy to know that she was being followed. Perhaps, Peggy thought, the woman was hoping she would panic.
Concentration put two little creases above her nose. Peggy considered and rejected a number of options, from taking a painting hostage to starting a fire. Counterattacks like those invariably brought more forces to the scene and made escape less likely. She even contemplated trying to reach the TV studio and surrender to General Orlov. But she quickly rejected that idea: even if he was willing to arrange a spy swap, Orlov wouldn't be able to ensure her safety. Besides, the first lesson fifth columnists learned was never to box themselves in, and that basement was more than just a box, it was an already-buried coffin.
Peggy knew, though, that she wouldn't be allowed to run for long: now that she and George had been spotted, exits would be closed to them, then corridors, and finally galleries. And then they would be boxed in. Peggy'd be damned if she was going to let the Russians control the time and place of their confrontation.
The thing to do was to blind them until she could get out of here, or at the very least draw their attention away from Private George. And the best way to do that was to start with the art connoisseur on her tail.
Peggy wondered what would happen if she offered herself to the woman in a way that was just too inviting to refuse— before the Russians were all in place and ready to receive her.
Turning suddenly from the Tintoretto, Peggy began walking briskly, nearly jogging, toward the State Staircase.
The woman followed, keeping pace with her quarry.
Peggy hurriedly rounded the corner of the gallery and reached the magnificent staircase, with its walls of yellow marble and two first-floor rows of ten columns each. Starting down the steps, the Englishwoman knit her way through the sparse late afternoon crowd, headed toward the ground floor.
And then, halfway down, she slipped and fell.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
It had been two minutes before Squires had planned to stop the train when the Russian officer said, 'Cigaryet?'
The Strikers had been standing in the cab of the train, securing their gear, when Squires looked down.
'We don't smoke,' the Striker commander had said. 'It's the new army. You got any on you?'
The Russian didn't understand. 'Cigaryet?' he said. He used his chin to point to his left breast.
Squires had looked back out the window as the train went into a gentle curve. He slipped down his night vision goggles. 'Newmeyer,' he'd said, 'see if you can help the man.'
'Yes, sir,' the Private had replied.
Leaving the wounded Sergeant Grey in the corner, Newmeyer had bent over the Russian. He'd reached into the officer's jacket and withdrawn a worn leather packet of tobacco with a thick rubber band holding it closed. A steel lighter with Cyrillic initials and an engraved portrait of Stalin was tucked under the rubber band.
'Must be an heirloom,' Newmeyer had said, glancing at the engraving in the ruddy light of the cab.
Newmeyer had then opened the pouch, found several rolled cigarettes inside, and removed one. Nikita had extended his tongue and Newmeyer placed it on the end. The Russian pulled the smoke between his lips and accepted a light.
Newmeyer had closed the top of the lighter and put everything back together with the rubber band.
Nikita blew twin clouds of smoke from his nostrils.
Newmeyer bent close to replace the tobacco pouch. As the Striker had leaned over their prisoner, Nikita suddenly bent forward at the waist, butting his forehead into Newmeyer's head.
With a moan, Newmeyer fell back and dropped the pouch. Sitting up and grabbing it, the Russian used the heel of his hand to cram the pouch and lighter into the gears of the throttle. Then, as Newmeyer made a belated lunge for him, Nikita quickly pushed the iron lever away from him.
The train had sped up as the gears chewed down on the pouch and on the lighter his father had given him. Strips of leather and chucks of steel infused the gears, bending the teeth, locking them in a disfigured embrace.
'Shit!' Squires had said as Newmeyer fell back, holding his hand.
The officer had gone to the throttle and tried to push it in the opposite direction, but it refused to yield.
'Shit!' he'd repeated.
Squires had glanced, then, from the Russian's untriumphant expression with eyes that seemed distant, out of focus, to Newmeyer. The Private wasn't even rubbing his head, which showed the beginnings of a nasty bruise. He was crouched with a knee on the Russian's chest and a look of self loathing.
'I'm very sorry, sir,' had been all he could think to say.
Well. hell. Squires had thought. The sonuvabitch Russian was only doing what we'd have done, and he did it right.
And now the train was a runaway, building speed as it cleared the curve and headed toward the trestle. There was no time to gather up Grey and the Russian and jump off before they reached the gorge. And they had just about two minutes before the locomotive ceased to exist.
Squires jumped back to the window and peered down the track. On the horizon, he saw what looked like a cloud of locusts in the green glow of the goggles. It was the extraction craft— though it wasn't like any chopper he'd ever seen. From the smooth lines and color he knew at once that it was a low-observable. He was flattered. Even Muammar Gadhafi hadn't rated the debut of a Stealth aircraft, though they'd all been on alert, when Reagan and Weinberger crossed his 'line of death' in the Gulf of Sidra and blackened the eyes of Tripoli back in 1986.
The helicopter was coming at them fast and low. The snow had stopped completely, visibility was good, and it probably wouldn't take long for the pilot to figure out that the train couldn't he stopped. The question was, was there enough time for them to be extracted some other way?
'Newmeyer,' Squires said, 'help Grey to the roof. We're getting out of here.'
'Yes, sir,' the crestfallen Striker replied.
Rising from the Russian, Newmeyer avoided his oddly detached gaze as he went over to Grey, bent beside him, and carefully hefted the Sergeant onto his shoulder. The barely conscious noncom did his best to hold on as Newmeyer rose. Then the Private watched, more alert now, as Squires twisted the Russian onto his chest.
'Go!' Squires said to Newmeyer, pointing to the door with his forehead. 'I'll be okay.'
Reluctantly, Newmeyer kicked the door open, pulled himself up onto the bottom of the window, and gently eased Grey to the flat roof of the cab.
Grabbing a fistful of the Russian's hair, Squires reached back, undid the rappelling belt that had kept him on the floor, tied it tightly around his wrists, and walked him toward the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
When she first saw the spy's surprising twist on the stairs, Valya thought that she intended to shoot her and her instinct was to duck. The Russian started to go down, but when she realized that the spy was falling, Valya checked herself and darted after her. It was always surprising what one could get from a wounded or dying individual. Often their guard was down or they were so dazed that they said things, sometimes important things.
Guests gasped but stood aside as the woman rode down the twenty or so steps on her shoulder, appearing not to hit her head, then reaching the landing with an awkward somersault over one shoulder onto her side. She lay moaning in a fetal position, her legs moving weakly, as visitors gathered around. One called to a guard for assistance, while two others knelt, one of them doffing his jacket and slipping it under her head.
'Don't touch her!' Valya yelled. 'Get away!'
