THE ODOR THAT HAD BEGUN to permeate the
Indianapolis
had gotten to all of them. No one had eaten very much, nor had they slept. Makayev had ordered the boat's heating system turned low, but it hadn't helped.
At sunset their sonarman, Lieutenant Raina, reported that activity on the surface had dropped off sharply. An hour later nothing moved above.
Everyone else had gravitated forward to the control center. The orders Kurshin had given them had only taken them this far. They all wanted off the submarine now.
Kurshin hit the comms button. “Lieutenant Raina?”
“Sonar, aye.”
“Still quiet above?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
Kurshin checked his watch. It was coming up on 11:00 P.M. local. “Keep your ears open. A twin screw vessel will be approaching our position within the next few minutes.”
“From what direction?”
“Landward.”
“What is her size?”
“Two hundred eighty feet,” Kurshin said.
The others were looking at him. “Our rescue ship?” Makayev asked.
Kurshin nodded. “The
Stephos
out of Athens.”
“Her crew?”
“Our people,” Kurshin said. “They'll send divers over to put a collar around the missile and bring her aboard. Once that's done we'll go topside.”
“That's a lot of water,” Makayev said.
“Yes it is.”
The captain looked around the control room. “What about this boat? Do you mean to leave her here? Sooner or later she will be discovered.”
Kurshin stepped across the control room to the navigator's table. The others crowded around him. He stabbed a blunt finger at a spot about thirty miles to their south.
“The bottom drops rapidly here,” he said. “More than three thousand meters. Well below what this boat's pressure hull can stand. Before we get off, you will set the boat to head to sea at a slow speed, diving at a shallow angle. This can be done?”
Makayev nodded.
“Within a couple of hours there will be very little left of her.”
“They will find her hull, nevertheless,” Makayev said. “They have the equipment and the technology. And now they certainly have the will.”
“That will take time,” Kurshin said. “By then we will be long gone.”
“What about us?” the captain asked. “I don't think we're returning to Moscow just yet.”
“No,” Kurshin said. “Not just yet.”
The comms speaker squawked. “Captain, I'm picking up that twin screw vessel.”
McGarvey was dressed in black. Outside of the city, he had pulled off the secondary highway where he had blackened his face and pulled on a black watchcap. The clothing and equipment Trotter had supplied were first class. Strapped to his left forearm beneath his shirtsleeve was a nine-inch, razor-sharp stiletto, and strapped to his chest was a suppressed .22 Magnum automaticâthe same weapon the Army's Delta Force used. It was a very good weapon for head shots, reliable and almost completely noiseless. The gun could be fired inside a house, and people in the next room would not hear it.
He had spent the afternoon memorizing the maps, layouts, and photographs Trotter had supplied him with, and in the early evening he had managed to get a couple more hours rest.
He circled the town to the south, the Tiber River on his left, keeping off the main highways. It was nearly midnight and there was no other traffic. There was no moon, and a light cloud cover made the night very dark.
Nikandrov's place was situated at the edge of a good-sized public park just outside the city limits. McGarvey drove slowly past the gated driveway, catching a brief glimpse of the house through the trees. A few lights illuminated the front of the two-story building, but no lights had shone from the windows. The KGB officer and his bodyguard had apparently settled down for the night.
Or had they? McGarvey wondered, turning back toward the park. If Nikandrov had had a hand in Baranov's plan to take the
Indianapolis
he would have to be getting very nervous about now. He had sent his wife and children away. Was that merely coincidence? Or had it been the move of a man who expected trouble would be coming his way? McGarvey thought the latter was likely.
He left the car a half block from the park entrance and hurried back on foot, plunging into the dark woods that were crisscrossed with footpaths. During the day this would be a pleasant place to spend an afternoon. Peaceful, so different from the bustle of Rome just a few miles to the north. It was probably why the Nikandrovs had picked the place.
An ancient stuccoed stone wall, at least eight feet tall, topped with broken glass, separated the Russian's property from the park. Where the trees had grown close to the wall their branches had been trimmed back. Foreign agents, especially men as important as Nikandrov, always tried to maintain a low-key lifestyle. They wanted no attention brought to themselves. They were always torn between security measures that would be obvious, and openness that could be dangerous. Nikandrov had his bodyguard, but was the perimeter of his property alarmed? McGarvey decided he would have to find out before going over.
Keeping well within the relative darkness of the woods, McGarvey followed the wall for nearly a hundred yards before it turned west. From his vantage point he had been unable to detect any wires, or any sign that the wall was being monitored by closed-circuit television cameras.
Just here it was very dark. The glow of the lights at the front of the house was only faintly visible. This was the back of the property. The most vulnerable.
He followed the wall for another twenty yards, finally finding what he had been looking for: a second gate. A narrow dirt road ran through the woods up to the gate. It was mostly overgrown with weeds and looked as if it hadn't been used in a long time.
Keeping low, he emerged from the woods and studied the hinges and locking mechanism on the old iron gate for a couple of minutes. Again he found no evidence that any type of alarm system had been installed.
Nikandrov was relying on the wall, and on his bodyguard, Andrei Zalenin.
Pulling on a pair of leather gloves, McGarvey quickly climbed up the gate, and at the top angled over to the wall, stepping carefully across the jagged broken glass and jumping lightly into the deep grass on the inside, rolling once and then quickly scrambling into the bushes.
He waited a full five minutes for any sign that his entry had been detected. Somewhere in the distance to the south he thought he heard the whistle of a riverboat, but it wasn't repeated, and except for the insect noises the night was quiet.
The rear of the property had been badly neglected and was heavily overgrown with weeds and brush. McGarvey reached the house in under two minutes, stopping at the edge of the driveway where Nikandrov's big Mercedes sedan was parked.
Taking off his gloves and stuffing them in his pocket, he studied the back of the house. No lights shone in any of the windows. It was believed that Nikandrov's bedroom was on the second floor. His bodyguard would most likely be very near. Perhaps in an adjoining room.
Emerging from the brush he raced across the driveway, held up for a couple of seconds, and then went silently up on the low veranda, flattening himself against the wall beside the back door.
Still there were no signs that his presence was known.
There were two locks on the door. Using a slender case-hardened steel pick, he had the first open in ten seconds. The second lock took a little longer, but at length he felt the bolt slip free.
Pulling the gun from its holster, he cycled a round into the firing chamber, switched the safety to the off position, and tried the door. It opened inward, silently on well-oiled hinges.
The darkened house smelled of cigarette smoke. McGarvey remained outside for several long beats. Someone had been just inside smoking a cigarette. Within the last minute or so.
Had they seen him coming up from the back? Had they heard him picking the lock? Suddenly everything seemed wrong. His internal warning system was in high gear. A trap?
He had started to turn away from the door when a large-caliber silenced shot was fired from behind him, the bullet just missing his head, knocking a big chunk off the masonry.
Instantly he swiveled back on his left foot, diving inside the house just as a second shot was fired, this one ricocheting off the door frame an inch behind him.
They had obviously seen him coming. Zalenin must have circled around from the front of the house once he realized that
McGarvey would be coming through the back door, hoping to catch him from the rear, as he had very nearly done.
By now they would have called for help. Time was running out. But they had to have been expecting him. How?
Zalenin's bulky form appeared for an instant in the doorway, and disappeared.
McGarvey, standing in the shadows across the room, held his fire. The Russian was a professional. He had provided a brief target, and when there had been no shot he would have to believe that McGarvey was either down, or was elsewhere in the house.
It was a mistake.
Zalenin appeared again at the doorway, hesitated for just a moment, then came in.
McGarvey fired two shots, the first catching the Russian in the face just below his left eye, the second hitting him in the throat, destroying his windpipe.
Still, the Russian managed to get off a shot as he fell backward, but it went wide, and he crashed back against the open door with a tremendous racket.
Any reason for stealth now gone, McGarvey turned and raced up the dark corridor to the foot of the stairs. Something crashed above as he took the stairs two at a time. At the top he paused for just a second. Nikandrov would probably be armed. He would know by now that something had gone wrong and would be panicking.
There were four doors at the far end of the corridor. One of them was open. From an adjacent door McGarvey could hear the soft but urgent tones of someone talking. Nikandrov was on the telephone calling for help. His eyes would be on the corridor door.
Turning, McGarvey stepped silently through the open doorway into what he suspected was Zalenin's room. The door into Nikandrov's suite was ajar.
In the very dim light filtering in from outside, McGarvey could see Nikandrov's bulky form, his back hunched, the telephone in his left hand, a big pistol in his right trained on the corridor door.
Moving silently on the balls of his feet, McGarvey made it
across the room in three steps, pressing the barrel of his weapon against the base of Nikandrov's skull.
The Russian's words stopped, and he stiffened.
“Put the telephone down,” McGarvey said softly.
Someone shouted something in the phone, but Nikandrov carefully replaced the handset on its cradle.
McGarvey reached around and took the Russian's gun, and tossed it onto the bed. “Zalenin is dead, and we do not have much time, Comrade Nikandrov.”
“The police are on their way,” Nikandrov said, his voice steady.
“So you will give me the answers I need very quickly or I will kill you.”
“You are here to kill me anyway.”
“That's possible,” McGarvey said. “You rented the cruiser
Zenzero
from a leasing firm in Naples. Who was the boat for, besides Arkady Kurshin?”
Nikandrov said nothing.
McGarvey jammed the gun hard against the man's neck. “Valentin Baranov will not mourn at your funeral.”
“Nor yours.”
“Yours will come first, I can guarantee it. We have the boat, and we have two of the nerve gas canisters. We know that one of our nuclear submarines is missing. I'm telling you this because I want you to know how important this business is to us.”
“I don't know anything.”
“How many men besides Kurshin?” McGarvey said. “Five seconds. Four ⦠three ⦠two ⦔ He began to squeeze the trigger.
“Six,” Nikandrov suddenly blurted.
“Who were they?”
“I don't know their names. They came into Rome on Monday night. I put them up at a small hotel ⦔
“Navy?”
“Yes. But one of them was a doctor, I think. An alcoholic.”
“Where are they headed?”
“I don't know. In this you must believe me. There is nothing else. I was told nothing else.”
“But you knew about the nerve gas and about the submarine?”
“The gas, yes. One of our people brought it over nearly a year ago. But I swear to you I know nothing about any submarines.”
“What else was put aboard the
Zenzero
, besides the gas and the Morse code transmitter?”
“Food,” Nikandrov said. “Weapons.”
“Nautical charts?”
“Yes, for the coast off Naples. No others.”
In the distance they could hear sirens. It was time to get out. McGarvey stepped back away from the Russian. “When you talk to Baranov tonight, give him greetings from McGarvey. He'll know who I am.”
“Fuck you,” Nikandrov swore.
McGarvey stepped back into Zalenin's room, then turned and rushed out into the corridor and down the stairs. He should have killed Nikandrov. But the man had cooperated, and he wanted the message to get back to Baranov. The KGB chairman would understand exactly what he meant.
Besides, he had never killed a man in cold blood. Nor would he ever do so ⦠except for Baranov. With that one, there were no rules. None whatsoever.