“Raise your hands please,” the woman said. “look, before this gets out of control, why don’t you call Bob Highnote. He’ll explain everything to you.”
“Put your hands up…
“No,” McAllister said, keeping his tone reasonable. “I think you’d better call someone, or shoot me, but don’t let’s just stand here.” She was an amateur. He was waiting for the mistake.
She stepped out of the storeroom into the dim light filtering through the frosted-glass window in the front door. She was young, perhaps thirty, about five-feet-six, very slightly built, with a thin face, a round but slightly crooked nose, and medium-length brown hair. She held a small.32 automatic in her right hand and a walkie-talkie in her left. She seemed extremely nervous.
“I came here to talk to my wife,” McAllister said. “Have your people get in touch with Highnote. Tell him that I’m here and won’t give anybody any trouble. Can you do that much for me?”
The young woman glanced up the stairs. “My wife is up there, isn’t she? Waiting for me?”
“Yes,” the young woman said.
“Good,” McAllister replied. “Call your team leader. I’ll just go upstairs now.” He turned again and made as if he were going to start up the stairs. “Wait,” she said, moving toward him. It was the mistake he’d been waiting for.
McAllister started to raise his hands, the sudden motion confusing her, then he stepped directly into her, swiveling on his left foot so that his body was inside her extended gun hand. She tried to step back, to get away from him, but it was too late. He grabbed her gunhand with his left, twisted it sharply outward, and he had the little automatic.
She let out a cry and started to bring the walkie-talkie to her lips. McAllister raised his pistol so that the barrel was inches from her face.
“Key that thing and I’ll kill you.” He spoke softly, but with urgency. “My God…”
“I don’t want to hurt you, and I won’t if you do exactly as I say. I have to talk to my wife, and then I’ll be getting out of here. Once I’m clear I’ll release you. But for the moment you’re going to have to stay with me.”
“Don’t do this…
“I won’t hurt you, I promise,” McAllister said. He pocketed her gun, then took the walkie-talkie from her and stepped back away from the stairs. He motioned for her to go up first.
She was terrified, but she did as she was told, stepping past him and starting up the stairs. He quickly unscrewed the walkie-talkie’s antenna, pocketed it, and then laid the unit on the hall table. Above, the music got louder. The woman stopped. The upper landing was suddenly bathed in light.
McAllister was just below the woman when his wife appeared at the head of the stairs. She was dressed in slacks and a light sweater. Her feet were bare.
“Who is that?” she called down. “Stephanie?” Her voice was husky.
It sounded as if she’d been crying. McAllister moved aside so that he was in the light spilling down from above. “It’s me,” he said.
Gloria’s reaction was sudden and startling. She stepped back a pace as if she had just received a stunning blow, her face screwed up in a grimace, her teeth bared. “You,” she hissed. “Gloria…?” he said, confused. This wasn’t making any sense. “You bastard! Why did you come here?” his wife shrieked. Her words were like battering rams, the blows physical. “You’re a traitor! Murderer! What do you want? There’s nothing here for you!”
“Listen to me..”
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out… traitor! Go back to your Russian friends! Get out before I kill you myself!”
This was impossible. It could not be happening. Not like this. His vision was blurred again, and the pain in his head caused him to reel backward, almost losing his balance on the stairs.
“I’ll kill you myself…” Gloria was screeching. She’d turned away and was fumbling at the small table on the landing.
Stephanie Albright had stepped back a pace too. “Mrs. McAllister…?”
It was the gun. They’d kept a .38 revolver in the table drawer. She was actually going to try to kill him. He simply could not believe what he was seeing, what he was hearing. His entire world had suddenly been turned upside down.
Gloria’s body filled the landing, the pistol held in both outstretched hands, and she fired, the shot going wide and high, shattering the mirror on the wall halfway up the stairs.
Stephanie Albright was scrambling back down the stairs, trying to get out of the line of fire. On instinct alone, McAllister stepped to the side and backward, trying to place himself in the shadows, twisting his body sideways so that he would present less of a target.
Gloria fired a second time, and a third, this shot catching McAllister high on his left side, just beneath his armpit, the pain exploding in his chest.
He lurched away from the stairs as Stephanie reached the front door, tore it open with a crash and disappeared into the night. Gloria fired two more shots, one of them shattering the frosted-glass pane in the door and ricocheting off the pavement outside with a high-pitched whine. McAllister stood in the darkness holding his left arm tightly against his side to staunch the flow of blood. He could see his wife’s legs halfway up the stairs. She’d stopped. He stepped out of the shadows.
“Gloria?” he said.
Her eyes widened at the sight of him. She raised the pistol so that it was pointing directly at his face and without hesitation pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty cylinder. For safety he’d never loaded more than five bullets into the gun. She’d forgotten or had miscounted. Either way it was of no matter; she definitely wanted him dead.
“Why?” he asked softly. His heart was pounding. “Bastard!” she screamed, spittle flying from her lips. She spun around and raced back up the stairs. For a second he thought about going after her. But everything was changed now. The skids had been knocked out from under him. He was no longer sure of anything, including himself.
He stepped back, turned and looked outside. Stephanie Albright was clawing open the Toyota’s door. It had been a mistake on her part, locking the van. The thought registered automatically in McAllister’s brain. But it seemed impossible that he could or even should do anything other than wait right here to be taken. She would get help. They would come for him, and it would be over. He wouldn’t have to fight any longer. He was confused and hurt; it was even worse now than it had been at the Lubyanka when he’d lain, strapped to the steel table in the torture chamber, listening to his heart stopping.
The vision of Miroshnikov standing over him, smiling, telling him that they had come so far together, that he was so proud of their work came to him and he shuddered. If he gave up now they would have won… whoever they were, and whatever they wanted. He wasn’t built that way. He’d never been that way, not from the beginning.
Stephanie Albright was just climbing behind the wheel of the Toyota van when McAllister finally roused himself out of his daze, spun on his heel and without a backward glance raced out the door, down the stairs and across the street.
The van’s engine came to life. He jammed his gun against the window, aiming directly at her head.
She looked up, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift lever.
“I need your help,” he shouted.
She was shaking. Her mouth was opening and closing but no sounds were coming out. Traffic was passing normally on 31st Street. It was unreal.