THE LIGHTS in the house were out. Baranov stood in the mostly dark stairhall, well away from the open front door, listening to the night sounds. McGarvey was out there somewhere, he told himself as he stared down toward the lake.
He was coming. The great destroyer was coming. But he was late.
Baranov glanced at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Nemchin, standing across the hall at the window, glanced over at him.
“Perhaps he will not be coming after all, Comrade Colonel.”
It was well after midnight. Baranov looked up, a tight little smile on his features. “Oh, he will be here, Sergei Sergeevich.”
“How can you be certain?”
Baranov's smile deepened. “Because he and I have had this appointment with each other for a number of years now. He won't fail to keep it.”
“Perhaps he's drowned in the lake, Comrade Colonel. We won't know until morning when we can send a boat out.”
Baranov had considered that possibility. But the more he thought about it, and about McGarvey, the more he was certain that the American would not be destroyed so easily. He is like a fox, that one. Sly. More clever than a Russian.
There was an old peasant proverb: The Russian is clever, but it comes slowlyâall the way from the back of his head.
McGarvey wasn't like that. He was a man of action. A man who well understood and accepted his destiny. In that way he was much like Arkasha. Only better.
He was coming all right.
“Keep a sharp watch,” Baranov said. “I'll be down in a minute.”
Nemchin nodded as Baranov turned and went upstairs to Lorraine Abbott's bedroom. The upstairs hall was in deeper darkness, but when he opened the bedroom door he could see her pale figure in the dim light filtering in from outside.
She was nude, and she lay spread-eagle on the bed, her ankles and wrists tied to the bedposts. He had taped her mouth so that she could not cry out, and he had patiently calmed her down, giving her the instructions, he'd told her, that would save her life.
“Move so much as a muscle, Doctor Abbott, and you will die,” Baranov had said.
He remained at the doorway, not wishing to approach any closer. It was possible, the thought had crossed his mind, that she might wish to kill herself in an effort to kill him.
Working patiently and very carefully, he had strapped ten ounces of plastique explosives to her thighs, the edge of the gray, puttylike material just touching her pubis. The plastique
was wired to a small battery through a simple contact switch that he had taped to the small of her long, slender back.
If she moved, the plastique would explode, blowing the entire bottom half of her torso away.
If McGarvey got this far, he would want to help her. But the moment he did so the woman would certainly die, and he would at least be severely injured, if not completely incapacitated.
“I trust that you're comfortable, Doctor,” Baranov said softly.
She looked at him, her eyes wide, her body held rigidly still. She was a believer.
“It shouldn't be long now. He will be here soon. And I sincerely hope that he will be able to see you like this.”
Her eyes blinked and Baranov had to laugh.
“Be careful, little one, unless you mean to kill yourself this soon.” She was a good-looking woman, he decided. McGarvey had very good taste.
She was blinking her eyes rapidly.
“Do you want to talk to me, is that it?” Baranov asked gently.
She blinked her eyes again.
“I think not. The time for talking is past. Now it's time for dying.”
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It had taken McGarvey thirty-five minutes to circle the lake, keeping to the narrow forest-service tracks through the woods. Only when he had to cross the Spree River did he risk driving on the main highway, and he got off it at the first possible chance.
He sat now in the Renault, its lights out, its engine ticking over softly. The dirt track ended in a rough-hewn log barrier beyond which was only darkness. Three times he had tried to head back down toward the lake, but each time the road he had used had ended in such a barrier.
Baranov was here, though. He could almost feel the man's presence in the night air.
“I'm coming,” he said to himself. “And you damned well know it, you bastard.”
Farther in the distance he thought he could make out the bulk of a dark hill rising up. Evidently a ridge separated the lakeshore from the approaches to this side. Only the single road which led directly east from the main highway cut down toward
the lake giving access to Baranov's house. And that road would be guarded.
But it didn't matter. None of that mattered now. McGarvey's hate burned brightly within him, like the terrible fire of an open-hearth furnace; unquenchable.
From where he sat, the house would be almost straight across the ridge, perhaps half a mile away. The night was pitch-black. He could see no lights anywhere, not even the glow from Berlin or from Schönefeld Airport just a few miles to the south.
Switching off the car's engine he got out, careful to make no noise as he closed the door. He stood there sniffing the air and listening for sounds. But the night was still, the air heavy and damp.
There was no other way. He would have to make his approach from this side.
He took off his jacket and laid it on the hood of the car, then calmly checked his pistol. It was fully loaded, and he had an extra clip of ammunition in his pocket, along with the stiletto strapped to his left forearm.
How many people did Baranov have with him? Four, six, perhaps eight or ten? They would have night-spotting scopes and assault rifles. But they would not be expecting him to come this way. They would be watching the lake.
He smiled grimly as he reholstered the automatic at the small of his back and climbed over the log barrier. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time. And he suspected Baranov had been waiting for it too. The final confrontation.
The ground sloped sharply downward for about five feet, and at the bottom McGarvey stumbled into icy water over his knees. At first he thought it was a drainage ditch, but as he slogged through the underbrush he soon began to realize that he was in a swamp. This part of the terrain was probably lower than the level of the surface of the lake, so it could never be properly drained.
Sharp brambles tore at his hands and face, and mud sucked at his feet, making it nearly impossible to continue in some spots. Several times he had to backtrack or go left or right around dense thickets or much deeper water.
It was possible, he thought at one point, that there would be
no way for him to reach the house from here. It was even possible that he would get himself lost out here and wander around until dawn.
Twice he tripped and fell headlong into the water, but gradually the land began to rise up and become less wet so that he was able to make much faster progress, finally pulling himself up out of the swamp, muddy and bleeding, forty-five minutes after leaving the car.
One thing was certain, he told himself as he held up for a few moments to catch his breath, he would not be able to take Lorraine back this way, no matter what condition she was in.
He pulled the pistol out of its holster, ejected the clip, and cycled the slide back and forth several times. The gun was wet and muddy, but it would still function. Replacing the clip, he levered a round into the firing chamber and then started up the steep hill toward the crest about a hundred feet above.
Near the top he dropped down and crawled the rest of the way on all fours.
The house was large, broad balconies wrapped around both sides to the front. It stood on a flat spot against the side of the hill about fifty yards below where McGarvey lay in the darkness. He could see the driveway leading back toward the highway to the west, and below, the lake and in the distance the opposite shore.
No lights shone from the house, nor could he detect any movement, anything that would indicate someone was down there.
But there would be one or two men somewhere on the driveway, and certainly a couple down by the lake waiting for him to come across. Which left the house. Baranov was there, but how many others were with him? There was no way of knowing.
Crawling on his stomach, he worked his way down the hill toward the back of the house.
Once he thought he heard the squawk from a walkie-talkie, and he held up. But the noise wasn't repeated, and he continued.
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Baranov saw him.
He had gone into the breakfast room at the back of the house on some instinct, and he spotted a movement on the hill. Turning,
he hurried back to Nemchin in the stairhall and grabbed one of the AK74s.
“I think he's coming from over the hill. Radio Yevgeni and Rotislav, tell them to get up here on the double. But no noise.”
“Yes, Comrade,” Nemchin started to say, but Baranov had spun on his heel and was racing back to the breakfast room.
Keeping well back away from the window, Baranov raised the assault rifle to his shoulder and keyed the image intensifier. At first he could see nothing other than the gray shapes of the trees.
But then he had him! It was McGarvey. There was absolutely no doubt of it in his mind.
“You sonofabitch,” he mumbled half under his breath. “You magnificent sonofabitch.” What he wouldn't give to have such a man working for him. Kurshin had been good, but this one was the very best, bar none.
“Is it him, Comrade?” Nemchin asked softly at his shoulder.
“Yes. Did you get Yevgeni and Rotislav?”
“They are on their way. Do you have him in the scope?”
Baranov keyed the image intensifier again. McGarvey had disappeared. For a frantic second or two he scanned the hillside, finally picking the American out again nearly at the bottom of the hill, barely twenty yards from the back of the house. There was no possibility that he could see inside, and yet Baranov instinctively stepped back a pace.
“I have him.”
“Then fire, Comrade Chairman. Kill him now. Get it over with.”
“Not yet.”
“This is a dangerous game we are playing. With all respect, Comrade ⦔
“No,” Baranov hissed, turning around. “He's here to kill me, but he's also come for the woman. I mean to give him both.”
“Then I can no longer be responsible for your safety.”
“You never were.”
“I don't understand, Comrade.”
“I want to talk to him, Sergei Sergeevich. Before I kill him and his whore. That is all you must understand.”
“Do you mean to allow him here, inside the house?”
“Of course,” Baranov said, brushing past Nemchin and heading for the stairs. “But he will never get out of here alive. I promise you.”
Nemchin remained in the breakfast room for just a moment, but then he followed Baranov.
“Believe in me, that's all I ask,” Baranov's words floated back to him. “That's all I've ever asked.”
At the base of the stairs he watched as Baranov reached the top and disappeared. He raised the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Yevgeni, you'd better get up here on the double. McGarvey has arrived, and I think Baranov has lost his mind.”
“Hold on,” his walkie-talkie squawked. “We'll be there in a minute.”
Nemchin suddenly felt a presence above him, and he turned. Baranov had come back to the head of the stairs. In the very dim light Nemchin thought that the man's face looked like a death's head.
“Comrade ⦔ he started to say when Baranov raised his pistol and fired one shot, a sudden starburst exploding inside of his head.
“Believe in me,” Baranov whispered, but Nemchin was dead.