His presence in New York could have been supplied by air traffic control at Moscow and in Paris. But here in Washington? Would they have figured that he would run first to his old friend and mentor Bob Highnote? It was logical. The question was, how many other people were looking for him at this moment? And what other places would they be watching?
Still, he told himself, he was going to have to take this risk now, no matter what the odds. He was going to have to see his wife; tell her his side of the story. She would understand and believe him. She, of any person on this earth, would have to believe in him. I’m on your side, Mac. So is Gloria. I talked to her again this morning. She told me that no matter what happens, no matter how it turns out, she’ll stick with you, if you’ll just turn yourself in.
Instead of turning up 31st Street, McAllister drove another block, turning left on 30th, and a half a block later left again on Cambridge Place which was a narrow lane that led back over to Avon. It was the back way to his house. There was no traffic here at this hour, though there were a lot of cars parked on the upper side of the street. He stopped, backed into a driveway and then pulled out again, parking twenty yards down the lane, the car now facing back out toward 30th.
He checked the Walther’s clip. There were five bullets left, including the one in the breach. Too late he realized that he should have taken one of the Russians’ weapons; the Makarov was a much heavier weapon, with far more stopping power than the lightweight Walther. The Russians’ weapons had also been silenced.
Mistakes. He was making too many of them. One piled on top of the other. Sooner or later they would cost him his life.
Getting out of the car, he pocketed the gun, crossed the street and keeping to the shadows as much as possible, hurried up to Avon Place. This was an area of smart brownstone homes, some of which had window boxes on the second story windows that in summer were alive with flowers, but were now barren. A chill, damp wind was blowing up from the Potomac with odors of river mud, diesel fumes and city. Familiar smells. Home smells. But very strange now for him, coming here like this.
The cab and the Mercedes that had been here earlier were gone now, but the Toyota van with reflective film over its windows was still parked just down the street. A dim light shone from the second floor living room windows of his house. As he hung back by the corner, he thought he saw a shadow moving up there, but then it was gone. Would they expect him to come here like this now? Had they pulled away everyone except the Toyota van in an attempt to lure him in? It’s safe now. We’ve pulled our people out. But who was upstairs in his house? Gloria, or someone else? Someone with the orders from Moscow: A maniac is on the loose, kill him on sight. Hunching up his coat collar McAllister walked silently on the balls of his feet toward the van, never taking his eyes off the windscreen. The interior of the vehicle was in darkness, but as he got closer he could see that no one was sitting in the front. If anyone was inside, they were in the back, in the darkness.
He stopped twenty feet away and glanced up toward the living room windows of his house. Nothing had changed, the light still illuminated the curtains, but there was no movement.
Taking out the gun, he held it in his right hand, out of sight at his side, and cautiously approached the van. A half a block away traffic passed normally along 31st Street. But here nothing moved. It was one of the reasons they had bought this place. The neighborhood was quiet and safe.
This close he could see all the way inside the van, over the backs of the front seats. No one was inside. The van was empty. Nor did it seem now like the vehicle was used for surveillance. He could see no communications radio. Unless they used walkie-talkies they’d be out of touch here.
He tried the passenger door. It was locked. Even if it was a surveillance van, they’d never leave it locked like that. Seconds spent fumbling with keys, unlocking doors could be crucial seconds wasted in a developing situation. A message may have gone out from Highnote. McAllister is here in Arlington Heights. The search would have been shifted to the other side of the river. Plausible? Or was he chasing again after will-o’the-wisps?
Stepping around behind the van, he hesitated a moment longer, then walked across the street, mounting the steps to his front door. He listened at the frosted-glass pane, but could hear nothing inside. He tried the doorknob and it gave easily in his hand, the door opening a crack. Whoever was upstairs had not locked up. He and Gloria used to have bitter arguments about it. She always forgot to lock the door at night, and he would get angry with her over it.
This now was another of her lapses, or was it a trap? His internal warning system was in high gear. This was all wrong. Everything was wrong. No outward signs of a surveillance team. The Toyota van as what? A dummy, a decoy? The light in the upstairs window inviting him: everything is all right here, Mac. No trouble here. Only your good and patient wife waiting for you; your good and patient and forgetful wife waiting for you with the front door unlocked.
Standing there at the partially opened door he thumbed the Walther’s safety off, and then back on. Had he come to the point that he would fire on an Agency security officer, or a Bureau agent? Christ, had he been reduced to that?
He pushed the door the rest of the way open with his right foot, waited a moment longer, and then stepped into the dark stairhall.
He could hear music playing upstairs, softly. It sounded classical. Gloria had hated Moscow, but she’d always loved Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Prokofiev. She was upstairs waiting for him? Or was the message too clear?
The house was typical of most in the area; three stories, long and narrow. On the ground floor were storage rooms, a nursery for the child they’d never had, and a servants’ apartment for the servants they’d never hired. The second floor contained the living room, dining room, kitchen, and a bathroom. And the top floor contained two bedrooms and another bathroom. In back was a courtyard garden area and a garage in which his Peugeot was parked.
McAllister closed the door and moved silently to the foot of the stairs. The upper stairhall was in darkness, but now he could more clearly hear the music coming from above. It was definitely Tchaikovsky; the violin concerto, Gloria’s favorite.
He started up, his right foot on the first tread when a woman’s voice came to him from the darkness to his right. In the storeroom.
“Please stop right there, Mr. McAllister. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”
McAllister froze where he was. She sounded young and frightened. Frightened people made mistakes. But was she alone? “Who are you?”
“Albright. Office of Security. We’ve been waiting for you.” He carefully turned his head left and looked toward the sound of her voice. She had to be just within the storeroom which was in pitch blackness. He couldn’t see her. “The others must be in Arlington Heights.”
“We just got the word,” she said. “But no one thought you’d be coming back here.“McAllister stepped back and turned toward her. He didn’t think she’d seen the gun at his side. A lot of what had been happening suddenly became clear to him because of her presence here. The Company’s Office of Security usually handled background checks on prospective employees. Only rarely was it called in on this kind of a surveillance operation. They wanted to keep this contained. The FBI was most likely involved too, but it would not have been told the entire story. Agency security officers rarely carried weapons. They didn’t have the training for it.