"I… was too afraid, Nick. I could not go back to… Moscow a complete failure. I really… am sorry. I liked you so much." Her head rolled to one side, and she was dead.
I knelt over her for a minute, remembering. Even in death, her face was beautiful. What a goddamn waste! I holstered the Luger, stood up, and went over to the cabinet where the technician had gotten his gun. I opened a couple of drawers and found records about my conditioning. Those, together with these machines, should just about tell the story. I'd make sure they sent press photographers here. The machinery alone would be headline material. I was as good as vindicated now. And it was the Kremlin, not Washington, that would be humiliated.
But where was Dimitrov? If he escaped now, this whole thing would leave a bad taste in my mouth. My job was a lot bigger than just embarrassing the Kremlin. I had to show the KGB they'd gone too far on this one. It was a matter of professional principle.
I heard footsteps in the corridor.
I slammed the cabinet drawer shut and drew Wilhelmina once more. I heard the sound in the corridor again. I went over to the door just as a man ran past in the hall. It was Kalinin, Tanya's colleague, running awkwardly with a heavy case in one hand. He was almost at the end of the corridor.
"Stop!" I yelled.
But he kept running. The rats were fast deserting the sinking ship. I fired the Luger and hit him in the right leg. He went sprawling onto the floor, just short of the exit leading to the stairway.
I heard a sound behind me. When I turned I saw another man, the short, stocky one with the Khrushchev face — the other KGB Mokri Dela man. He was aiming a revolver at me.
I flattened myself against the wall as he fired, and the shot chipped into the wall just a few inches from my head. Then I saw another man in the corridor beyond the gunman, a taller man with gray in his hair and a briefcase under his arm. It was Oleg Dimitrov, the resident operator in charge of the assassination mission. He was the one I really wanted, the one I had to settle with before the KGB would really understand they couldn't play games with AXE. He was running very fast down the corridor toward the far end, probably toward a second exit.
The Mokri Dela man fired again, and I crouched low just as the bullet whistled over my head. I shot back but missed. He aimed a third time, but I fired first and hit him in the groin. He screamed in pain and went down. But by then Dimitrov had disappeared at the other end of the hallway.
I ran to the fallen agent. He was writhing on the floor, sweat streaming down his face, ugly noises coming from his throat. He had forgotten all about the gun in his right hand. I kicked it out of his hand and ran down the corridor. He'd probably live to face trial. But I didn't think he'd be happy about it.
I followed Dimitrov into a room at the end of the corridor, but inside I saw an open window facing the alley. Dimitrov was gone.
I crawled painfully through the window into the dark alley just in time to see a black sedan roar out of the far end. I ran to the street and met the CIA man there.
"What the hell is going on, Carter?" he said.
I looked in the direction the black sedan had taken on the boulevard. I was sure it was headed for the airport. There was a flight to Rome within the hour. Dimitrov was probably planning to take it.
"There are some dead and injured Russians in there," I said. "Go see that the live ones stay put. I'm going to the airport to get their boss."
He looked at the blood running into my hand from my jacket sleeve. "My God, why didn't you take me in there with you?"
"Your job was just to watch me, not storm the fortress. Anyway, it would have taken too long to explain. See you at the debriefing."
I got into Tanya's car and drove away. If I was wrong and Dimitrov wasn't at the airport, I wouldn't have lost anything. I could put out a general alert for him and get the Venezuelan police in on the act. But I was pretty sure my hunch was right.
In twenty minutes I was at the airport. As I went into the terminal building, I remembered how large it was. It was built on several levels. Even if Dimitrov was there, I could very easily miss him. Unless I played my hunch on the Rome flight. It was a TWA flight, scheduled to leave in half an hour. I went to the ticket counter. Dimitrov was nowhere in sight, so I asked an agent about him, giving a full description.
"Why, yes. A man answering that description was here, except the man I saw had a mustache. He was here just a few minutes ago."
"Did he have any luggage?"
"He didn't check any, sir."
That figured. And the mustache would have been easy for Dimitrov.
"He gave the name of… Giorgio Carlotti, I think," the clerk said. "He had an Italian passport."
"And he just left?"
"Yes, sir."
I thanked him. Dimitrov was here, I was sure of it now. I could just go to the gate and wait for him to show, but that left quite a bit to luck. Besides, there would be a mob of travelers at the gate. It could get pretty messy there if Dimitrov decided to fight.
I looked around a nearby magazine shop, but Dimitrov wasn't there. Then I went to the currency-exchange window. I even went downstairs to the baggage checkroom and inquired. Dimitrov seemed to have disappeared.
I'd just turned a corner when I spotted him.
He was heading for the men's room, a briefcase under his arm. He hadn't seen me. The small gray mustache had changed his general appearance. It wasn't much of a disguise, but he hadn't had time for a better one.
Dimitrov went into the washroom, and the door swung shut behind him. This was it. I would have to hope that the washroom wasn't crowded.
I pulled out the Luger as I opened the door.
Inside, Dimitrov was just about to wash his hands at a sink across the small room. I looked around and was glad to see that there wasn't anyone else in the room. Dimitrov glanced in the mirror and saw my reflection in it. His face went gray with fear.
He spun to face me, reaching into his jacket as he turned. He was making a desperate try for his gun. I squeezed the trigger on the Luger and heard a dull click.
I glanced down at the gun. I knew the chamber was loaded. It had just misfired — a faulty cartridge, something that happened only once in a million times. I grabbed at the ejector with my bloody left hand.
But there was no time. Dimitrov had pulled a big Mauser Parabellum and was taking careful aim at my chest. He had dropped into a low crouch.
I dived for the tile floor. The slug hit tile beside my head and ricocheted around the room as I let Hugo slip down into my hand. I twisted sharply toward Dimitrov and let go with the stiletto. It sliced into his upper thigh.
I'd hoped for the torso, but I was probably lucky to have hit anything under the circumstances. Dimitrov yelled when the stiletto hit him, and his Mauser dropped to the floor. He pulled the long knife out of his leg and went for the lost gun.
In the meantime I'd ejected the bad cartridge from the Luger, and it clattered to the floor. I aimed at Dimitrov just as he was going for the Mauser. As he reached out toward it, he looked up and saw that he didn't stand a chance.
He put his hands up and backed away from the gun. Seeing the look on my face, he suddenly began talking. "All right, Mr. Carter. You win. I surrender to you."
I got to my feet, and he got up, too. We stood across the room from each other, our eyes locked in a hard stare. My left arm was beginning to ache terribly.
"You made a big mistake, Dimitrov," I said. "You picked AXE to humiliate."
"I demand to be turned over to the police," he said. "I have surrendered to…" He lowered his hands slowly, then suddenly reached into his pocket, and a tiny Derringer appeared in his hand.
I squeezed the trigger on the Luger, and this time the gun fired. The slug caught Dimitrov just above the heart and hurled him back against the basin. His eyes stared wide at me for a moment, and then he grabbed spasmodically at the towel dispenser beside him. As he fell, the cloth towel came out of the dispenser in a long sheet, half-covering his inert body.