As the first tank rolled up catty-corner to the mansion, Frankie’s motorcycle skidded to the main gate.
The Saint leaped from the sidecar.
“Wait here, and keep the motor running.”
Two gunshots rang out from inside the mansion.
Templar and Frankie exchanged looks, and he was immediately sprinting for the front door. He was almost there when Vlad and Igor, eager to escape, erupted from the entrance.
The tank gunner opened fire. Vlad and Igor died in a hail of bullets, and another salvo of shells chased Templar into the vestibule. He slammed the massive door behind him as more bullets splintered the entrance frame, but he was already well inside.
He sidestepped Vereshagin’s body and ascended the stairs to the mezzanine. Resting atop an expensive antique end table was Ilya’s meth vial and the deadly walking stick.
Templar crept to Botvin’s office. The door ajar, he stole a silent glimpse.
Two men lay dead — Botvin and Tretiak.
Ilya was bent over his father’s corpse, straining to pry the diskette from Tretiak’s death grip — a grip so unrelenting that Ilya had to set down his precious gun and pull on the disk with both hands.
“C’mon Pop, give it up,” growled Ilya. “Even with a bullet in the brain, you still want the world.”
With a firm yank, he finally pulled the disk free.
“Sorry, Dad. You can’t be a billionaire and a Communist at the same time.”
“Or a rap star and Russian tsar,” commented the Saint, “Fine way for a son to talk to his departed father.”
Ilya’s face flushed with surprise. He turned, knowing he would dread the sight of Simon Templar alive, unforgiving, and armed with Ilya’s own gun.
“Hey, have pity on me,” said Ilya, smiling stupidly. “I’m an orphan.”
“That’s the only thing we have in common,” answered Templar coldly.
The arriving tanks’ low frequency rumble vibrated the mansion’s steel bones and timber sinews. No less taut was the tension between Ilya and Templar as Simon backed him out onto the beautifully appointed mezzanine.
The men could feel the artillery-generated vibrations increasing in intensity.
“You shouldn’t be messin’ with me. Templar,” Ilya spat as if he were in a position to make threats. The mad Russian then stood firm as if his boots were Super-Glued to the highly polished parquet floor. He threw back his head and laughed.
“I could be runnin’ this country by morning.”
“You’re standing on shaky ground. Sonny Boy,” drawled Templar casually. He pointed the massive Smith & Wesson at Ilya’s chest. “Simon says: ‘Give me the disk.’ ”
Ilya brayed like an ass and squared his shoulders.
“You’re good with those cute little Santa’s Workshop sort of gadgets, but that’s not one of your high-tech electronic toys, Templar, that’s my goddam Smith and Wesson — a man’s gun — no modems, no microchips. You can’t handle it.”
Simon understood he was in the presence of a lunatic.
Gunfire from the courtyard suddenly shattered the window, and both men dived to the floor. Glass shards shredded the velvet curtains as the bullets drilled smoking pockmarks into the wall.
When the shooting stopped, Ilya cautiously raised his eyes. Templar was aiming the weapon’s gleaming steel barrel directly at his forehead.
“I can handle this better than you can handle cold fusion,” insisted Templar evenly.
“They’re shooting at us, for God’s sake!” Ilya barked.
Templar’s grip tightened on the trigger.
“Perhaps killing scoundrels has replaced freezing to death as the national pastime.”
Ilya’s eyes banged back and forth in their sockets as if seeking some overlooked avenue of escape.
“The disk,” hissed Ilya through clenched teeth, his voice dripping with desperation. “I’ll slide you the damn disk, you slide me the gun, we’ll both get the hell out of here. A promise, a pact, a treaty.”
He held the blue plastic nervously between his fingers, placed it on the floor, and prepared to propel it toward Templar.
“On the count of three?” He was almost begging.
Templar nodded agreement
“One, two...”
The Smith & Wesson clattered across the floor as the disk did the same. Both men were on their feet in an instant.
Several more shots screamed in from outside, but Ilya ignored them. He pointed his weapon directly at the Saint.
“The disk, Templar. Give back the disk.”
All things considered. Templar shouldn’t have been surprised.
“But we traded,” he objected, “disk for gun. A treaty, a pact, a promise.”
“A Magnum outweighs promises,” insisted Ilya, “especially when I’m the one holding it.”
Templar shrugged and twirled the disk between his fingers. “An empty weapon makes for an equally empty threat,” he noted coolly. “You said that was a six-shooter. I may not be a college graduate, but my math skills are adequate. You fired four times in Red Square, two here.”
Ilya swore.
“I have cold fusion,” said Templar, tucking the blue disk into his shirt pocket. “Your future is all used up.”
A high-pitched wail sliced the air, and both men froze where they stood, disbelieving but decoding the sound’s source: the metallic scream of incoming artillery.
The massive concussion as the first missile broad-sided the steel dome rocked the mansion into a dizzying maelstrom of falling plaster and raining crystal. Molten shards splattered onto the freshly varnished parquet, transforming it into a lake of fire. Long sheets of flame swept greedily over the draperies while smaller flames leaped with fierce eagerness up the blackening banisters of the wide spiral staircase rising from the mezzanine toward the scaffolding above.
The second blast came quickly, accompanied by additional gunfire from the courtyard. The room shuddered with heat, chaos, and confusion.
Templar ran for the stairs, grabbing Ilya’s walking stick in the process. With the ground floor and mezzanine afire, there was no where to go but up. Templar took the stairs four at a time with Ilya directly behind him.
The third rocket blast rippled the staircase as if it were an amusement park ride, and the two men gripped the banisters, battling for balance.
At the top of the stairs Templar leaped to the scaffold as another shock wave shook the mansion. He stumbled, sprawled headlong, and the walking stick flew from this grip. Plaster showered down around him. Dust and debris were everywhere.
Ilya, armed and triumphant, mounted the scaffold and edged closer.
The two men locked eyes.
“Maybe I’m better at math than you,” mocked Ilya. “I shot three men in Red Square, not four.”
“I admit you’re a master of division,” offered Templar, his right hand searching under the plaster. His fingers found the tapered form of Ilya’s walking stick.
“You will give me the disk and I will shoot you,” stated Ilya flatly as he raised the weapon. “Or, if you prefer, I will shoot you and take the disk. Either way you are a failure and a fool.”
“Fool?” Templar hoped Ilya would move even closer. His hopes were not disappointed.
“You allowed yourself to be influenced by a woman. I, myself, have never allowed a woman to influence me.”
“I bet that broke her heart,” said Simon Templar, and he swung the stick with astonishing force into Ilya’s right wrist. The Russian screamed in pain, and the gun spat flame as it plummeted to the inferno below.
“You were right,” said Templar. “There was one bullet left.”
Another missile rocked the mansion’s foundation. Templar stood and steadied himself, brandishing the walking stick as if it were a sword.
Ilya’s eyes widened in shocked realization — the gun was gone, Simon had the disk, flames were rapidly mounting, and missiles were blasting the mansion to rubble.