When Mr. Nikiel was subdued, Hadar lifted him out of the way, arms around his waist, taking him into the hall. The old man was whimpering in his throat.
Alone, Mr. Smith dumped his load on the bed and stripped off the black covering. Inside was one very dead old man of approximately the same age and size as Anatoli Nikiel. The corpse was awkward and the smell and feel unpleasant, but Mr. Smith had done worse things. He tossed the blanket over the corpse. Then he removed a bottle from his pocket and squirted a harsh-smelling liquid on the blanket, the corpse’s face and hands, the floor, the bedside table. The highly flammable liquid would dissipate within minutes, so there was no time to linger. He struck a match.
The bed, table, floor, and corpse burst into flame. He went into the hall and took Nikiel from Hadar, wrapped him loosely in the black covering, and hoisted the living weight over his right shoulder. Hadar was already down the hall.
In the kitchen, she had the attaché case in hand, moving it to the table. He gave her a quick hand signal to meet at the rendezvous point—unnecessary but reassuring—and slipped with his burden out the door and toward the woods.
Hadar was alone in the house. She had very little time. She opened the case and grabbed everything inside—not much, as it turned out, just a folder of papers—and stuck it into her black backpack. Then she took a plastic bag from her pocket and deposited into the case an amount of paper ashes that approximated the size and contents of the folder.
The case was shut and put back against the wall where she’d found it. She had a bottle of liquid in her pocket similar to the one Mr. Smith had and she distributed it around the kitchen, particularly on the case and the wall behind it.
The house was already filling with smoke from the fire down the hall when she lit this one. As the flames licked the cabinets she picked up the bottle of vodka from the counter and smashed it on the floor to make sure its contents could not be retrieved and tested. It only fueled the fire. Then, with one last look at the case—it was burning nicely—she went out the back door, careful to lock it.
Aharon was crouched on the far side of the house and he watched the second figure in black dart into the trees. He looked over his shoulder at Hannah. She was at the far end of the wall watching the road. She signaled him, then ran at a crouch to join him. He heard the engine at the same instant—the U.S. agents had recovered the car and were returning.
“Let’s go!” she said as she reached him, pushing his back to get him moving. His heart was pumping so hard he had no breath to speak, but his legs obeyed her command. He was way too old for this craziness.
As they went around the back of the house, Aharon heard the crackle of fire and saw the flames leap up. He patted the papers inside his coat to reassure himself that they were still there—the papers that he had taken from the attaché case while the Mossad agents were in Anatoli’s room. Then Hannah grabbed his hand and they ran.
He felt a surge of victory as they entered the woods, despite all the huffing and puffing. Hannah’s trick with the glass had worked after all. And what would the Mossad think, he wondered, when they found that what the U.S. agents had kept in that attaché was a folder filled with old Polish folk tunes?
Mr. Smith had left his car on a deserted maintenance road through the woods that was more of a dirt rut than anything else. When he stepped out of the woods with Anatoli over his shoulder, Denton and Nate were waiting for him.
Denton’s breath was visible coming in puffs through the woolen ski mask. He felt a rush of fear and anticipation. Calder Farris’s gun was steady in his hand. Smith froze at the sight of them.
“Don’t move,” Denton said.
Nate slipped around the car and relieved Mr. Smith of his burden, cradling the black sack carefully and setting it on the ground.
“Now hands up.” Denton motioned with the gun.
Mr. Smith slowly, almost sarcastically, raised his hands. His eyes glittered pure murder.
Nate fought with the black covering for a few minutes before finding the opening and pushing it down, away from Anatoli’s face. Mr. Smith only had eyes for Denton, waiting for him to be distracted by the fumbling. Denton stared straight at him, not distracted at all.
Nate got the black shroud down to Anatoli’s feet. The old man looked wild. Denton could hear Nate murmuring to him reassuringly. He loosened the gag, trying to ease the bloated pain on the old man’s face.
“Get him into the car and then search Santa Claus here for a weapon,” Denton said, trying to disguise his voice. He wanted Nate to hurry. He could see from the tension in Mr. Smith’s body that he was going to try something. Smith’s eyes said no way was he going to let them get away with this. They said death before capitulation.
Not that Denton was all that worried, but the suspense was killing him.
Nate tried to move Anatoli to the car, unsuccessfully. He kept trying before figuring out that the old man’s ankles were bound.
The philosophy-slash-physics student was not very proficient at this, Denton surmised. Nate’s movements were nervous and unwise. He should have moved Anatoli farther from Mr. Smith before doing anything more, picking him up and carrying him if necessary. Instead, Nate seemed fixated on getting Anatoli to walk. He crouched down, trying to undo the binding at Anatoli’s feet.
“Nate!” Denton called in warning.
Too late. Mr. Smith’s foot came out, kicking Nate squarely in the chin with furious force. Denton let off a shot, a shot that came not from panic but from anger. It might even have hit Mr. Smith, except that the man tucked and rolled, disappearing around the front of the car.
The situation, at that instant, was very bad. Nate was sprawled on his back on the ground, out cold. Anatoli was standing bound, black sack at his feet, his mouth open and screeching. And Mr. Smith was out of sight on the other side of the car, no doubt with a gun. They hadn’t disarmed him. That had been a mistake.
Denton chuckled.
He felt a bizarre sense of ease. It was as if he could see all of the possibilities laid out before him, stretching away from this moment like shining cords of light. He might overcome Mr. Smith, and if he did one band of light would brighten, the rest flickering out, and life would proceed in a certain direction. And if he did not, another path would quicken and spread. He might, within minutes, be lying dead on the ground. Or… not. Life, unstoppable, immutable life, would go on either way. It was not concerned with how the pattern turned out any more than it had to deliberate on the design of an individual snowflake.
Denton, however, wanted very much to win.
He did not hear so much as sense Smith approaching, crouching around the right side of the car. Denton shifted, down and to his left, moving around from the trunk to the left side of the car. He was alert, calm but electrified as a live wire. He thought quickly. He could continue to circle the car, risking his life on his power of stealth, hoping that he might be able to sneak up behind Smith even as Smith was trying to sneak up on him.
Or he could do as he was doing now—slip off his shoes and climb up onto the hood.
It was crazy. From his position on top of the car he would be vulnerable. If his feet made a noise, if the metal of the car gave a little, making a tinny denting sound, Smith would know where he was and Denton would be an open, visible target. But if not…
Luck was with him. He seemed light as a feather as he mounted the hood. The car took his weight without a sound. As he bellied onto the roof, he got a clear view of Mr. Smith. The man who had beaten him in LA so coldly was crouched near the trunk, gun raised high in his hand, his attention focused as he peered, cautiously, around the end of the car.