7 Steps to Midnight (37 page)

He gasped as the two men grabbed him beneath the arms and
hauled him to his feet. He tried to resist but couldn’t. There was no strength left in him.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, he felt himself being half walked, half dragged from the tomb and along a corridor, up a curving staircase of stone and out into gloomy daylight.

He tried to struggle again but couldn’t, hissing as one of the men twisted back his right arm. Darkness pulsed across him once more. He tried to think, to be aware, but there was no way. He stared at a line of pines that seemed to stretch into infinity.
The Pines of Rome
, his mind thought dully.

Then he was being dragged toward a towering brick structure, through its open doorway and up a long, curving flight of wooden steps. “Who
are
you?” he muttered dazedly.

The men said nothing. He could hear their heavy breathing as they dragged him up the steps. The climb seemed to take hours.

Then he was being pulled into a darkened room with narrow lancet windows. The two men let go of his arms and he felt himself falling. He cried out as his knees hit the hard wood floor, then strained to keep from falling any farther, wavering in the dimly lit room, sucking fitfully at the air, which smelled of old dust.

“So this is our genius,” said a man’s voice, sounding icily amused.

Chris raised his head and blinked laboriously. As the cloudiness lifted from his sight, he saw a heavy man looming over him. He couldn’t make out the man’s features because it was too shadowy in the room. He could only see a bulky form, a dark suit and a white shirt, a fez on the man’s head.

“I’m glad to meet you finally,” the man told Chris. “You have been no end of trouble to me.”

Chris swallowed with effort, coughing weakly. “What d’you want?” he mumbled.

“Primarily your death,” the man replied. Chris shuddered at the casual sound in his voice.

“Why? What have I—?”

Chris broke off as the man gestured. He felt himself being abruptly grabbed beneath the arms again and roughly yanked up
to his feet. He groaned at the pain in his right arm, his vision clouding again.

“That hurts, I suppose,” the man said. “Your own fault for resisting in Venice.”

“What d’you—?”

“Be still,” the man told him. “As I said, my primary desire where you’re concerned is to see you dead. If you are dead, you can no longer do your work. That’s clear to you, of course.”

Chris stared at the man. In the gray light from the windows, he could see the man’s face now.

It was broad and pockmarked, with heavy-lidded eyes, and lips as thin as knife blades; across the man’s forehead was a long white scar. It was the most inhuman face Chris had ever seen.

“My advisers tell me it would be more profitable, however, if I possessed the information locked up in that singular skull of yours.” The man smiled coldly. “Unless, of course, this strenuous activity has knocked it from your mind. Has it, Mr. Barton?”

He knows who I am
was all Chris could think.

“Let us see what still remains,” the man said.

Chris saw him reach down and noticed that the man was holding a cassette recorder in his hand. There was a clicking sound on the recorder and a small red light blinked on.

“Now,” the man said, “I would like you to explain your project. Do not hesitate to enumerate mathematical details which none of us here—except you, of course—will understand. I have people working for me who
will
understand.”

Chris stared at the man in stricken silence.
I’m going to die
, he thought.

“Please. Don’t hesitate,” the man instructed him. “If I can get the information on this problem—what do you call it… turbulence?—I can sell that information for enormous sums of money. There are many buyers, many governments who would be happy to acquire such information. Please. Begin.”

Chris stared at the man dumbly, trying to think. Was there any way at all of getting out of this?

“
I do not enjoy waiting
,” the heavy man told him.

Chris swallowed. His throat felt completely dry. “I—” He
cleared his throat. “My work is written down on papers. I hid them in my hotel room in Venice.”

He broke off with a cry of pain as the heavy man slapped him so violently across the cheek that his head snapped sideways, a pain shooting up his neck like an electric shock.

“If you insist on lying, we will kill you straightaway,” the man informed him.

“I—”

“We know about your comprehensive memory.” The man cut him off. “You would leave nothing on paper, you are not that stupid. Now, begin to speak into this recorder. My last warning.”

“But it’s too complicated to just dictate—” Chris began.

His voice stopped and he drew in a long, gasping breath as the two men shoved him to one of the lancet windows and began to cram him through the opening.

“Wait!” he cried.

He felt the two men grab his legs and lift his feet from the floor.

“No!” Chris froze in their grip, his features distended by terror.

Then he was hanging head-down, staring in shock at the ground far below.

Chris drew in rasping breath, his heartbeat quickening.

“Is your heart beginning to beat quite rapidly?” the man’s voice drifted down to him. “That is called
chamade
, Mr. Barton—the drumbeat which signals the moment of surrender. Are you ready to surrender yet? Or would you prefer to plummet down and crack your skull like egg?”

“If I die, you have no formula!” Chris yelled at him, appalled to hear fury in his voice, knowing it was madness.

“And no one else has it either,” the man said; he actually sounded amused. “Least of all, your filthy government. And I shall have to find some other worthy formula to sell. Perhaps a finer nerve gas.”

God
, Chris thought.

“One more opportunity,” he heard the man say. The calmness of his tone made Chris’s skin grow cold.

Suddenly, there was a muffled voice inside. He couldn’t hear
what it said. He kept staring in horror at the long fall beneath him.

“Drop him,” the heavy man ordered.

The muffled voice spoke again as Chris closed his eyes abruptly, preparing to die.

“I said—!”

The heavy man’s voice was cut off by a crashing pistol shot. Chris tried to grip at the rough brick siding of the tower but couldn’t get hold of anything. He drew in a hissing breath, still convinced that he was going to die.

Then, to his amazement, he felt himself being hauled back up. His right arm raked across the brick wall, making him cry out at the flare of pain.

Now he was being pulled back into the tower room, the grip on him released as he reached a standing position.

He fell back against the wall, breathing hard, and stared at the man across the room who held a pistol in his hand.

“A good thing that I came no later,” Modi observed with a faint smile.

Chris stared at him incredulously, then glanced down at the floor.

The heavy man was lying there, a pool of blood slowly expanding around him.

“Go down the stairs, Mr. Barton,” Modi instructed quietly. “I will follow.”

Chris said nothing, but crossed the room and walked past Modi. As he did, he glanced back and saw the two men in black regarding Modi with hatred.

“Mr. Barton,” Modi said.

Chris stopped and looked around. Modi was holding a ring of ignition keys in his raised left hand. He tossed them backward and they jingled to the floor in front of Chris.

“My car is a gray Mercedes coupe,” Modi told him. “Unlock it and get inside. I will be with you momentarily.”

Chris gulped and, bending over, scooped up the keys with his left hand. Turning abruptly, he left the room and started to descend the winding wooden steps.

He was halfway down when there was a sudden crashing noise above, a single pistol report, then another crashing.

“Run!” he heard Modi shout.

Chris bit his teeth together hard and started down the steps as quickly as he could, shoes clattering on the wood.

He had reached the bottom and was lunging out the door when something dark came hurtling down from above and hit the ground violently, making him recoil with a breathless cry.

He froze, mutely gaping down at Modi’s dead face, the East Indian’s expression one of dazed surprise.

Then he heard the two men rushing down the steps and, catching his breath, he broke into a run along the entry path to the tower. Glancing around, he saw a gray Mercedes coupe parked about thirty yards down the tree-lined road. Another car, a black Jaguar, was parked behind it.

His right arm began to throb as he sprinted along the road, shoes pounding on the hard dirt surface. He looked across his shoulder just as the two men came running from the tower, eyes searching for him. One of them pointed at Chris as they dashed for the road.

Turning back, his teeth still clenched, panting, Chris tried to run faster despite the pain in his arm.

Now he was at the Mercedes, fumbling with the keys.
Jesus, why did he lock it?!
he thought in a panic. His hand was shaking badly as he tried to slip the correct key into the door lock. He glanced aside. The men were getting closer. One began to raise his right arm, pointing a pistol.

Suddenly, the key slid into its slot. Chris twisted it and jerked open the door. Bending over, he practically flung himself into the driver’s seat, expecting, at any second, to hear the back window exploding inward from the impact of a bullet.

He cried out as he automatically used his right hand to slide the ignition key in and turn it. The motor started instantly and, throwing the transmission into gear, Chris jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The Mercedes leaped forward so abruptly that he almost lost control of the steering wheel.

Then he held it tightly with his left hand, his right hand barely
gripping the rim as the coupe picked up speed, roaring down the road. He glanced up at the rearview mirror. The men had tried to catch him on foot. Now, seeing him drive off, they were turning back to the Jaguar.

Where am I supposed to
go
?
he thought. He had no idea whatsoever where he was except that he felt certain it was Rome. He looked ahead. In the distance, he saw a cluster of low brick buildings built around a courtyard. He couldn’t go that way! he thought in sudden dread. He’d be trapped.

There was a side road just ahead. He began to brake, then downshifted quickly, and raked around the corner, shifting up again. He shot a glance to his right. The Jaguar was close behind. Could he possibly outrun them? He wished to God Alexsandra was driving—

The thought evaporated. Alexsandra was a ghost, a heap of bone and dust. He snarled without a sound.
It’s all insane!
he thought.
None of it makes any sense!

“
No
,” he muttered. Ahead was another building with a covered gateway leading into its courtyard. He looked around desperately. Was that a right turn up ahead? It had to be or he was finished.

Again, he had to brake. The Jaguar was only twenty yards behind him now. He downshifted again and turned the corner of the high-walled building, tires squealing loudly.

“Oh, my God!” He gaped at the heavy metal gate just ahead, blocking the narrow road he was on. In seconds, the Mercedes would crash into it.

He had no idea what made the page appear in front of his frightened mental gaze, but suddenly it was there, as clear as if it were hanging in the air directly before his eyes—
Ninja 1990
was the book (he’d read it a while back), page 65.

His feet and hands became a blur of movement as he followed its instruction. Throwing the transmission into neutral, he turned the steering wheel sharply to the left, at the same instant jerking the emergency brake into place, locking the rear wheels.

Instantly, the car began to rotate, quickly, its rear wheels leading. Chris waited a second, then released the emergency brake, threw the transmission into low gear and jammed the gas pedal to
the floor. By now, the Mercedes had spun around 180 degrees and was leaping forward in the opposite direction. The maneuver—which had totally astonished him—had taken less than five seconds.

He saw the Jaguar flying past him, the sides of the two cars almost scraping as they passed each other. A moment later, he heard the grinding impact of the Jaguar as it hit the gate, then exploded. He looked into the rearview mirror to see a ball of fire enveloping the wrecked car. He winced at the sight.

Then he was turning left again, heading for the tree-lined road. Reaching it in seconds, he turned left and started back toward the tower.

At first, he didn’t know what was causing the noise above—a spasmodic, roaring sound. He pressed down on the accelerator and the Mercedes picked up speed.

He started in shock as the helicopter roared across the tree tops, passing him. It wheeled around and hovered just above the road. Chris thought he heard a voice. He lowered the window.

“Pull over, Chris. It’s finished now,” the voice instructed him through a loudspeaker.

He didn’t know what to do. Was he to meekly surrender now, after all he’d been through? But then, the helicopter might be armed with machine guns, it occurred to him.

“Pull over now,” the voice said firmly.

Chris slowed the car down and steered over to the shoulder of the road. He braked the car and waited, suddenly feeling very tired and very beaten.

He watched as the helicopter settled down in the field to his right like a gigantic insect. There was a white star on the helicopter’s side. It was an American military vehicle.

The blades slowed down. The door of the helicopter opened and a man jumped out. As he approached the car, Chris stared at him incredulously. He had to blink hard to make sure his eyes were working right.

The man was Wilson.

The helicopter had flown directly to Heathrow Airport where they’d helped Chris across the tarmac to a private waiting room. There, Wilson had left him with a nurse and doctor who had attended to his arm, cleaning and bandaging the wound. It had started to become infected and the doctor gave him an injection which he said was an antibiotic. Chris hadn’t questioned him—he was even too dazed to speak—though he was immediately convinced that the injection was a drug and that, after a period of unconsciousness, he’d wake up somewhere in Africa, Russia, the Far East.