“What is this?” he said, starting to run past the tables where the juice was being given out. He saw that some of the buses had crashed into each other, and into a truck — two trucks.
There were gunshots.
Hamid looked up, and saw a wedge-shaped shadow in the sky. It was hard to see in the dusk, and at first he didn’t know what it was. Then he saw another, and another.
Parachutes.
He turned and ran toward the lab building.
Watch it!” yelled Rankin, spotting one of the camp guards running toward them with a rifle. Rankin fired his pistol at the man, who threw himself down. Before the guard could bring his rifle around to fire, Rankin fired again. This time he hit the guard square in the head.
About time I hit something, Rankin thought to himself.
“Parachutes!” said Guns. “Van’s here.”
“We should find the lab,” said Rankin, starting forward.
Guns grabbed him. “They’re full of poison, remember? We can’t touch them.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I wasn’t thinking.”
One of the cottages blew up in a tremendous explosion.
“Trying to destroy the evidence,” said Guns.
“Too late for that,” said Rankin, looking at the people standing forty yards away in the dim light near the wrecked buses.
37
Ferguson threw himself into Nathaniel Hamilton’s midsection as the MI6 agent fired. The two fell backward, rolling against one of the half walls that separated the bar area from the tables. Hamilton, shocked that he had missed, tried to push his gun closer to fire again. But Ferguson was too close to him.
Rostislawitch saw the gun in Hamilton’s hand and froze. Ferguson and the British agent wrestled themselves against the half wall, each man trying to pummel the other as the smoke curled around them. A piece of the ceiling dropped down, burning. It just missed them.
The rocks that lined the club’s wall were not actual rocks, but rather Styrofoam imitations. The fire had reached a point where they began to incinerate. When the flames first touched them, they caught with a fizzle, the painted skin literally boiling. Then the interior of the “stone” would burst with a pop. Finally, the mastic that held them in place caught on fire and blue flames consumed the wooden structure of the wall.
Rostislawitch shook off his shock. He had to do something, he knew, or he and the American would be killed. Rostislawitch saw the gun in Hamilton’s hand and thought he could pull it away. Jumping up, he grabbed the man’s arm, wrestling it away from Ferguson’s body. But the British agent was considerably stronger than the scientist had thought, and continued flailing at Ferguson.
“I hate you, Ferguson, you bastard,” said Hamilton, pushing against him. Hamilton fired the gun again, though something was clamped to his arm.
The gun’s loud report shook Rostislawitch, and once more he froze, petrified, his arm hooked around Hamilton’s forearm.
For Ferguson, the second shot was a catalyst, a call for the last reserves of his strength. He pivoted his right leg down and drove himself harder into Hamilton, pushed his weight against the Brit’s arm. Then Ferguson saw Hamilton’s jaw a few inches from his head. He tried to bring his right arm up to smash it, but Hamilton had it pinned to his side. So Ferguson did the next best thing — he tucked his head down and then butted full force into the not- so-solid English jaw.
Hamilton felt a shock of pain run from his chin through his molars to his tongue and skull. The side of his tongue had gotten caught between his teeth and began bleeding. He tried to fire another shot, but before he could the wall behind him gave way and his whole body felt as if it were on fire. He tried to wriggle from Ferguson’s grip. To Hamilton’s surprise, it worked; he rolled to his stomach to crawl away.
Instead, he felt himself being dragged backward. Ferguson had grabbed him by the legs.
“You bastard,” Hamilton shouted. He twisted to fire at Ferguson, then realized the scientist was still wrapped around his arm.
Ferguson saw Hamilton’s arm starting to move and let go of his legs. He leapt up into the smoke and fire, aiming his heels toward the Brit’s wrist. Ferguson’s left heel missed in the smoke, but his right snapped five bones in the Englishman’s hand. Hamilton’s yowl was louder than the sirens outside.
“Side stairs,” Ferguson told Rostislawitch. He grabbed Hamilton’s feet again. The fumes from the fire were a putrid, toxic mix that took his breath away, and he began coughing so badly his stomach turned.
Rolling on the floor, Rostislawitch saw Ferguson and Hamilton moving toward a small blue square. The scientist started crawling after them, swimming on his hands and knees in the haze. They went through the bar into a service area. A whiff of fresh air revived him, and he began scrambling forward.
Ferguson pulled Hamilton, still shrieking, up the four steps to a small patio area at the side of the building. He let go of the renegade MI6 agent and collapsed against a chain-link fence, gulped the fresh air. He was about to go back inside when Rostislawitch came crawling up the steps.
Writhing in pain, Hamilton cursed Ferguson. “You’re a cool son of a bitch, aren’t you, Ferguson?” he said over and over.
“Who paid you to kill me?” said Ferguson, still trying to clear his head.
“Three million pounds, Bob Ferguson, for screwing the Syrians out of their nuclear material. Three million fuckin’ pounds.”
“I would have thought more,” said Ferguson.
One of the waiters from inside had been trapped by the flames. Ferguson heard him calling for help near the door. He looked at Hamilton, curled into a ball, then leapt back down the stairs. A large piece of the bar, fortunately not on fire, had collapsed on the man’s legs as he tried to crawl out. Ferguson wrenched it away, then picked the man up and took him out over his shoulder. He was so woozy when he hit the stairs that he began to trip. He pirouetted around, managing a semi-soft landing with the man against the chain-link fence surrounding the patio.
Ferguson looked up and saw Hamilton pointing a cell phone at him.
“What are you going to do, quick-dial me to death?” said Ferguson.
“Hardly. You bastard.” Hamilton pulled himself to his feet. He extended the disguised gun toward Ferguson. He was unsteady; he’d have to shoot for the heart.
But it would feel good, very, very good, killing him.
“I’d do this for free,” Hamilton told Ferguson. He looked down at the cell phone’s number pad, moving his thumb to the space button to fire.
Before he could, a bullet from a Baikal MP-445 compact struck him in the side of the temple. Fired at close range, the bullet not only shattered his skull but pushed him over, sending him crashing into the fence next to Ferguson.
Kiska stood behind him. She moved her pistol in Ferguson’s direction.
“I want the scientist, Bobby,” she said.
“He gets to make that decision, Kiska.”
“I can just shoot you and take him.” She pointed her gun at Ferguson’s head.
“You could,” he said.
Rostislawitch, remembering the pistol in his pocket, started to reach for it.
“I can shoot you as well,” she told him, pointing her gun down at him.
“Actually, I don’t think you should shoot anybody,” said Ferguson. He moved his right hand out from behind his back, making the.45 more conspicuous. It was pointed at her head.
“Is it a standoff, Bobby? You kill me and I kill you?”
