After listening for a minute, the bureau chief set down the phone.
He turned to the priest and shot him.
"Are you sure?" the CIA director blurted into the phone. "Completely," the KGB director answered on the emergency long-distance line. He spoke in English since his counterpart did not speak Russian. "Understand-I didn't call to ask permission. Since the rogue is yours, I'm merely following protocol by informing you of my intention."
"I guarantee he wasn't acting on my orders."
"Even if he were, it wouldn't matter. I've already sent the cables. At this moment, your communications room should be receiving yours. Under the terms of the Abelard sanction, I've alerted every network. I'll read the last three sentences. "Find Remus. Universal contract. Terminate at your discretion.' I assume since your agency has been embarrassed, you'll go after him more zealously than all the other networks."
"Yes... you have my word." The CIA director swallowed, setting down the phone.
He pressed a button on his intercom, demanding the file on Christopher Patrick Kilmoonie.
Thirty minutes later, he learned that Kilmoonie was assigned to the paramilitary branch of Covert Operations, a GS-13, among the highest-ranking operatives in the agency.
The director groaned. It was bad enough to be embarrassed by a rogue, but worse when the rogue turned out to be a world class killer. Protocol-and prudence- required that to execute this man the director would have to use a team of other GS-13s.
the file on Remus told the director something else. He stood in anger, stalking from his office.
Eliot was Remus's control.
"I don't know anything about it," Eliot said.
- "Well, you're responsible for him! You find him!" the director said, completing the argument, storming from Eliot's office.
Eliot smiled at the open door. He lit a cigarette, discovered ashes on his black suit, and brushed them off. His ancient eyes gleamed with delight that the director had come to him instead of demanding that Eliot go to the director. The angry visit was one more sign of the director's weakness, of the power Eliot enjoyed.
He swung his chair toward the window, letting sunlight warm his face. Below, a massive parking lot stretched to the fence and the trees that buffered the agency from the highway at Langley, Virginia. From his perspective, he saw just a portion of the ten thousand cars surrounding the huge, tall, 14shaped building.
His smile dissolved. Already preoccupied by the hunt for Saul, he'd been troubled yesterday when told that Chris, Saul's foster brother, had arrived at the Abelard safe house in Bangkok. Eliot hadn't instructed him to go there. For the past several weeks, since Chris had abandoned his station in Rome, he hadn't been reporting in. Assumption: Chris had been killed.
But now he'd suddenly reappeared. Had he been on the run for all that time, finally able to reach asylum? Surely he could have found a way to contact Eliot before then, or at least have got in touch with him when he arrived at the Church of the Moon. It didn't make sense. To ask for a dentist not affiliated with the agency. To violate the sanction by killing the Russian. What the hell was going on? Chris knew the rule. The best assassins from every network would be hunting him. Why had he been so foolish?
Eliot pursed his wrinkled lips. Two surrogate brothers, both on the run. The symmetry appealed to him. As sunlight glared off the cars in the lot, his smile returned. He found the answer to his problem.
Saul and Chris. Saul had to be killed before he guessed the reason he was being hunted. So who knew where he would hide better than his counterpart?
But the dentist... Eliot shivered. Something troubled him about that detail. Why, before he killed the Russian, would Chris have wanted the name of a dentist?
Eliot's spine felt cold.
"Mexico City," Chris said. "The soonest flight." Behind the airline's ticket counter, the Hawaiian woman tapped on a computer keyboard. "Sir, how many?"
"One," he answered. "First class or coach?"
"It doesn't matter."
The woman studied the screen on the console. Voices droned from speakers in the noisy crowded terminal. Behind him, Chris felt other customers waiting. "Sir, Flight 211 has room in coach. It leaves in fifteen minutes. If we hurry, we can get you aboard. Your name?"
Chris told her the false name on his passport, paying cash when she asked for his credit card, avoiding a paper trail as much as possible. "Any luggage?"
"Just this carry-on."
"I'll phone the boarding attendant and ask him to hold the flight. Enjoy your trip, sir."
"Thank you."
Though he smiled as he turned to hurry through the terminal, his muscles hardened. Carefully he scanned the crowd for anyone watching him. He reached the metal detector, a Sky Policeman studying him, but Chris had dropped his Mauser down a Bangkok sewer, knowing he'd be caught trying to carry the pistol on board a plane. He could have put it in a suitcase and arranged for the case to be stored beneath the plane. That luggage wasn't searched. But he couldn't risk waiting for it to be returned. He had to keep moving. He grabbed his overnight bag after it came through the scanning machine and rushed down the corridor toward the boarding dock.
A stewardess watched from the plane's open door as he ran down the passenger tunnel. His footsteps echoed. "Thanks for waiting," he told her. "No problem. They're late getting food on board." She took his ticket.
He passed the first-class passengers, going through the bulkhead toward the seats in back. Several were empty. The boarding attendant had asked him if he wanted smoking or nonsmoking. Chris didn't smoke, but since the smokers' section was in the rear, he'd chosen the seat that was farthest back. He needed to watch as many passengers as he could, the aisle, and especially the door.
His seat was between an overweight man and an elderly woman, near the washrooms. Squeezing past the man, he sat in the middle, smiling to the woman, sliding his compact bag beneath the forward seat. He buckled himself in and, looking bored, peered along the aisle.
He had to assume the worst-that the needle hole in Malenov's body had been discovered and a universal contract issued against him. Though his intention remained the same-to find a dentist-he couldn't go to the one the priest had recommended. The address the priest had given him was in Guatemala, but the priest would have told the KGB's investigators where he was going. In turn, the investigators would have radioed their people in Guatemala to watch for him. He had to choose another country, one he knew well, in which he could disappear and use his own resources to find a trustworthy dentist. Mexico appealed to him. But leaving Bangkok and then Singapore, he hadn't been able to get on flights as quickly as he needed them. The plane to Honolulu had landed forty minutes behind schedule. He'd missed the next flight to Mexico City and been forced to wait for this one. At the start, he'd hoped for a twelve-hour lead, but it was now sixteen hours since he'd killed the Russian.
He waited tensely. In Bangkok, it would be night, but eight thousand miles to the east, it was morning in Honolulu. The sun glared through the windows, making him sweat as he listened to the hiss of the cabin's air conditioning. He felt the vibration of the idling engines through the fuselage. A hatch thumped beneath him, probably last-minute baggage being stowed. Through the window, he watched two loading carts drive awayhe peered along the aisle. A stewardess pulled the passenger door shut, reaching to secure the locking bolt. In a minute, the jet would taxi toward the runway.
Breathing out, he relaxed. Abruptly his stomach burned; he stiffened. The stewardess opened the door. Two men stepped in. As she locked the door, the men came down the aisle.
He studied them. Midtwenties. Muscular yet lithe. Shirts and pants of muted colors. They seemed determined not to glance at the other passengers, concentrating on their ticket folders, then the numbers and letters above the rows of seats. They split up, ten rows apart, ahead of Chris.
He'd waited as long as he could before he'd bought his ticket, hoping to be the last passenger on board the plane. From the back, he'
d been watching for anyone who hurried to get on even later than he had.
As they turned to take their seats, he leaned across the man beside him, staring down the aisle. Their shoes. He wasn't looking for extra-thick soles or reinforced caps that would make the shoes a weapon. Despite the myth of karate, an operative seldom struck with his feet. A kick was too slow. He looked for a more important characteristic. These men wore highbacked shoes snug above their ankles. Preferred by operatives, the high fit supplied the primary function of preventing them from slipping off in a chase or a fight. Chris wore the same design.
He'd been spotted, no way to tell by whom-the Russians, the English, the French, maybe even his own people. At this moment, someone was making urgent calls to Mexico City. When he landed, a team of assassins-maybe several teams would be waiting for him.
The jet moved, backing from the dock. It turned, its engines roaring louder as it taxied past the terminal.
A bell rang in the cabin. A stewardess came along the aisle, checking that everyone's seatbelt was fastened.
He gripped the arms of his seat, swallowing hard, turning to the woman beside him. "Excuse me. Do you have any Kleenex?"
She seemed annoyed. Groping in her purse, she.handed him several pieces. "Thanks," He tore the Kleenex, shoving wads of it in his ears. The woman blinked in astonishment.
The sounds in the cabin were muffled. Across the aisle, he saw two men talking to each other, their lips moving, words indistinct.
The jet stopped. Through the window, he saw the takeoff strip. A plane streaked out of sight. Another plane took its place. There were only two more planes in front of this one.
He shut his eyes, feeling the plane's vibrations. His chest tightened.
The jet moved forward again. When he opened his eyes, he saw only one plane between this jet and the runway Suddenly he yanked his seatbelt. He jerked up, squeezing past the man next to him toward the aisle. A stewardess lunged to grab him. "Sir! You have to stay in your seat! Fasten your belt!"
He pushed her away. Passengers turned, startled. He heard a muffled scream.
The two men stared back, surprised. One scrambled to stand.
Chris grabbed the handle of the emergency door across from him, pulling.
The door flew open. Wind rushed in. He felt the deeper rumble of the jets.
The plane approached the runway. As the stewardess lunged again, he clutched the lower edge of the door frame, swinging out into space. He dangled, peering toward the cabin, the frantic passengers, the killer who darted toward him.
Chris let go of the moving plane. He hit the tarmac, rolling, his knees bent, his elbows tucked, the way he'd learned in jump school. Despite the Kleenex in his ears, he winced from the shriek of the engines. Exhaust roared over him, heat smothering. Another jet loomed close to him.
He ran.
The room was massive, antiseptic, temperature-controlled. Computer terminals lined the walls. Fluorescent lights hummed, glaring.
Eliot's wizened forehead narrowed in concentration. "Airline passengers," he told a clerk. "Which city?"
"Bangkok. Departures. The last sixteen hours."
The agency clerk nodded, tapping on a keyboard. Eliot lit another cigarette, listening to the clatter of printouts. The problem stimulated him. There was always the chance that Chris had stayed in Thailand, hiding somewhere. Eliot doubted it, however. He'd trained his operatives to leave the danger zone as soon as possible. Before the Russian's body was discovered, Chris would have wanted a good head start. He'd have used a cover name, possibly an independently acquired passport. Probably not, though. Freelance forgers were a security risk. More likely, Chris would have used a passport Eliot had supplied to him, hoping to go to ground before his trail was spotted.
When the clerk came back with several sheets of paper, Eliot leaned across the counter, drawing his bony finger down the list. He straightened excitedly when he found one of Chris's cover names on a United flight out of Bangkok to Singapore. He told the clerk, "Departures from Singapore. The last thirteen hours." Again he waited.
When the clerk brought the second list, Eliot lit another cigarette and concentrated. Chris would have used the same passport. After all, he couldn't risk a customs agent's discovery of other passports with different names in his luggage. He exhaled sharply. There-the same alias on a Trans World flight from Singapore to Honolulu. "Departures from Honolulu," he told the clerk. "The last five hours."
As the clerk brought the third list of names, Eliot heard the computer room's door hiss shut. Turning, he saw his assistant walking toward him.
The assistant was a Yale man, class of '70-button-down collar, club ring and tie, a black suit and vest in imitation of Eliot. His eyes crinkled with amusement. "MI-6 just called. They think they found Remus. The Honolulu airport."
Eliot turned to the new list of names. He found the alias on a Hawaiian Airlines flight. "He's on his way to Mexico City."
"Not anymore," the assistant said. "He must have noticed his babysitters on the plane. A half minute before takeoff, he popped an emergency door and jumped."
"On the runway?"
The assistant nodded. ,'my, my, my-"
"Surveillance couldn't catch him."
"I'd be, surprised if they had. He's one of the best. After all, I trained him." Eliot smiled. "So he's on the run in Honolulu. The question is, what would I do if I were Remus? An island's a poor place to hide. I think I'd want to get out of there. Fast."
"But how? And to where? At least we know where he won't go. He'd be crazy to try for Guatemala or Mexico. He has to figure we'll be waiting for him there."
"Or maybe he'll figure we won't be waiting since those countries are so damned obvious," Eliot said. "It's check and countercheck. A fascinating problem. In Chris's place, how would I get out of Hawaii? A teacher ought to be able to out-guess his student."
His smile died as he thought, then why haven't I out-guessed Saul?
In Atlanta, the azaleas were in bloom, though the only view Saul had of them was from glaring headlights as the truck zoomed past a park, heading into the city. Their pink flowers, mixed with the white of dogwood, seemed like eyes along the road. His bleeding had stopped, though his chest still throbbed from the bullet wound. His fever remained. "As far as you go," the driver said, stopping beneath an overpass, the semi's air brakes hissing. -"My depot's a mile away. I can't let 'em see you. Like I said, taking riders I'd lose my job."
"This is far enough." Saul opened his door. "And thanks."
The driver shook his head. "Not good enough. You're forgetting something."
Saul frowned as he stepped to the road. "No, I don't think so. "Think again. The money. Remember? Half at the start, and half when we got here. You owe me another two hundred bucks."
Saul nodded. Preoccupied with the problem of why his father was hunting him, he'd forgotten his deal with the driver. It hadn't seemed important.
The driver slid his hand beneath the seat. "Relax," Saul told him. He needed all his money. But the driver had kept his bargain. Shrugging, Saul gave it to him. "For a minute there." The driver brought his hand from under the seat. "You've been'on the road too long. Your nerves are shot."
"It's the speed limit."
"Buy your wife a fur coat."
"Sure. And go to Mcdonald's with the change." The driver grinned, putting the money in his pocket.
The air brakes hissed. The semi pulled from the curb. In the dark beneath the overpass, Saul watched the taillights disappear. Hearing traffic roar above him, he started along the shadowy road.
The last time he'd been to Atlanta, he'd checked on several hotels in case he ever needed them. His wound required attention. He wanted a bath. A change of clothes. He couldn't risk a place where they cared about the quality of the guests, as long as the bill was paid in advance. It had to be far from the luxury of Peachtree Street. He knew exactly where to go.
A train wailed in the distance. Old buildings flanked him. He hunched, eas
ing the pressure in his wound, sensing them converge. Four, if his fever hadn't weakened his hearing.
Just after he crossed a river bridge, The current whispered below him. Past a burnt-out building, at a vacant lot, he braced himself. With blood on his clothes, hunched the way he was, he must have looked like an easy mark.
They came from the dark, surrounding him. For a moment, they reminded him of a gang who'd beaten Chris and himself outside the orphanage years ago. "I'm not in the mood," he said.
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