Three, four.
Counting.
The light swung, spreading the black-and-white crossword in front of me.
The only sound was of traffic to the northeast along Treptower Park. To the west there was the deep silence of the Wall, where nothing moved but the guards, who made no sound.
Five, six.
It had taken the light six seconds to sweep from this vehicle to the next and that was the amount of time I had available to make the crossing and it would have to be done at a fast run so I pulled my shoes off, reverting to the primitive animal in order to deal with this primitive situation: the need to survive. Without shoes I could run faster and although they were black they were polished leather and could pick up light, barely a glimmer but possibly all he'd need, the sniper, to pick me out of the dark.
Waiting.
The next vehicle wasn't immediately in front; there was one each side of the gap between them and I chose the one to the left because the right leg is stronger in the right-handed and it would give me extra thrust as I pushed off, by however small a degree.
Waiting.
The light swung, brightening the zone in front of me and then leaving it dark and I hadn't been ready, hadn't wanted to be ready: I needed the rhythm of the light's movement to establish itself in my mind.
Waiting as it swept and then I took a breath and blocked it and went for it, going through the sprint starting position and driving with my feet and plunging through the dark with the bright beam swinging towards me from the left and the area becoming deadly with each passing second as I ran, feeling the touch of the terror I'd known I'd feel because of the inexorability of that moving light, because of the knowledge that whatever happened it wouldn't stop, if I stumbled or lost my speed or veered too far to the left or lost my nerve it wouldn't stop, it would find me, flooding across the ground and drowning me in its glare and reaching the retina of the eye of the man who would fire the gun, shadow down, the terror alone driving me now, run run run with the adrenalin alone keeping me mobile, keeping me alive but the shot came and I heard the shell striking the tarmac on my right side, run run run as if nothing had happened but there were chips of tar and stone flying up as the light swept nearer, nearer, faster than I'd believed it would as I ran headlong and he fired again and the impact was closer and I'd heard the windrush of the shell as it had flashed past my head on the left side, the side where the light was coming, strengthening as it came, filling the receptors at the edge of the vision field as the darkness in front of me grew to a lightening grey as I ran ran ran with the terror still with me, with the scalp crawling as the nerves waited for the hit, for the bursting open of the skull as the last thought sprang there — over now — flashing across the synapses before it was blown into oblivion.
Dive.
Dived as the light came flooding and my hands went forward to break the fall and I dropped flat in the shadow of the vehicle and the next shot smashed into the bodywork with a scream of metal against metal and I lay with my face on my spread hands and my breath coming in shock waves from the lungs, letting my eyes close and feeling the inevitability of the next shot.
It didn't come.
Rest, rest now. It's over for a time.
Cone:
Immediate plans?
I'm going to see if I can get them interested.
The ground cold under my hot body, grit under my hands, the smell of oil, the smell of rubber, nothing natural here in this civic hunting-ground, no tree, no leaf, nothing but hard surfaces and the inhospitable furnishings of stone and metal and concrete, the habitat of man.
Holding his fire.
I don't suppose for a moment he'd run short of ammunition: there'd been planning done. They may not have known I'd head in this direction, though I'd been moving south from the cafe, east and then south, but they'd assumed I'd reach some area where I'd be trapped and couldn't get out again. This site wasn't ideal because of the light's movement but at least I was cut off from the street behind me and on both sides by the buildings, and the man with the gun could bring me down before I could find effective cover and make an escape.
Light washing across the ground where I lay but not reaching me, the vehicle above my head and its shadow shifting from right to left as the light swung left to right.
Get them interested, yes. Signal to London: the executive has managed to get the interest of the opposition, which was his intention. Brief report on success; interim objective achieved, so forth.
Not really.
More realistically: doubts as to the executive's survival for more than another ten minutes are such that I advise replacement if possible or termination of mission.
Alas, poor Yasolev.
Move. Move now. We've got to do it again.
Silent night, unholy night, with only the faint sound of the late traffic along Treptow and the harsh sawing of my breath as the organism drew in oxygen for the muscles. I wasn't ready yet. I would wait.
Or termination of mission, yes, with Holmes over there in the signals room getting some more coffee with his eyes on no one because the news wasn't good on the board for Quickstep, not terribly good. Where's Mr Shepley? Pick up a phone. You think we should get him? The last signal on the board: executive attempting to trap opposition agent and interrogate. Or words to that effect; I couldn't be at all sure, not knowing Cone enough to get into his mind. He might have been talking to Yasolev the whole evening for all I knew. I'm sorry, but my agent has virtually gone to ground and thrown off my support people and at the moment I don't know where he is, though I do know he's in danger, so forth. They could be in signals with London in the hope that somewhere they could find a shadow willing to work with Yasolev, someone Yasolev could approve of.
Or Cone might be tougher than I knew, with enough nervous stamina to go on working with an executive who had so far run wild at every turn and deliberately gone solo. Anything was possible; even that Shepley knew I'd have to work like this and had told Cone to put up token protests but let me run and put smoke out if I needed it or get me to a hospital if I needed it, just keep Quickstep running and by the millionth chance bring it home and bring me home with it.
Academic, yes: this is entirely academic, my good friend, you're absolutely right. Thing is to move on, isn't it, put up a show, go out with the blood hot and one small ray of hope shining in the night before the winds of chance blow it away.
Move, then. It is necessary.
Countdown: six, five, four as the light came sweeping from the left. I let its rhythm move into my mind again on the subconscious level while I reached up and wiped more oil from the crankcase and smeared it over my face and hands again, this stuff stinks, but only because the stomach is queasy, only because you'd rather smell roses, wouldn't you, in your last few minutes on earth.
Three, two, one.
Crawl forward, crouch in front of the vehicle, wait. Its shadow had begun darkening on the right as the searchlight flooded the buildings on the left of the car park and then reached the ground, sweeping towards me. Wait. Sweeping nearer, creating shadows to the right of the vehicles in front of me, brightening their bodywork, reflecting from the windows. Sweeping nearer — starting position — nearer, flooding over the vehicles and moving on — go for it.