The cab and the Mercedes that had been here earlier were gone now, but the Toyota van with reflective film over its windows was still parked just down the street. A dim light shone from the second floor living room windows of his house. As he hung back by the corner, he thought he saw a shadow moving up there, but then it was gone. Would they expect him to come here like this now? Had they pulled away everyone except the Toyota van in an attempt to lure him in? It’s safe now. We’ve pulled our people out. But who was upstairs in his house? Gloria, or someone else? Someone with the orders from Moscow: A maniac is on the loose, kill him on sight. Hunching up his coat collar McAllister walked silently on the balls of his feet toward the van, never taking his eyes off the windscreen. The interior of the vehicle was in darkness, but as he got closer he could see that no one was sitting in the front. If anyone was inside, they were in the back, in the darkness.
He stopped twenty feet away and glanced up toward the living room windows of his house. Nothing had changed, the light still illuminated the curtains, but there was no movement.
Taking out the gun, he held it in his right hand, out of sight at his side, and cautiously approached the van. A half a block away traffic passed normally along 31st Street. But here nothing moved. It was one of the reasons they had bought this place. The neighborhood was quiet and safe.
This close he could see all the way inside the van, over the backs of the front seats. No one was inside. The van was empty. Nor did it seem now like the vehicle was used for surveillance. He could see no communications radio. Unless they used walkie-talkies they’d be out of touch here.
He tried the passenger door. It was locked. Even if it was a surveillance van, they’d never leave it locked like that. Seconds spent fumbling with keys, unlocking doors could be crucial seconds wasted in a developing situation. A message may have gone out from Highnote. McAllister is here in Arlington Heights. The search would have been shifted to the other side of the river. Plausible? Or was he chasing again after will-o’the-wisps?
Stepping around behind the van, he hesitated a moment longer, then walked across the street, mounting the steps to his front door. He listened at the frosted-glass pane, but could hear nothing inside. He tried the doorknob and it gave easily in his hand, the door opening a crack. Whoever was upstairs had not locked up. He and Gloria used to have bitter arguments about it. She always forgot to lock the door at night, and he would get angry with her over it.
This now was another of her lapses, or was it a trap? His internal warning system was in high gear. This was all wrong. Everything was wrong. No outward signs of a surveillance team. The Toyota van as what? A dummy, a decoy? The light in the upstairs window inviting him: everything is all right here, Mac. No trouble here. Only your good and patient wife waiting for you; your good and patient and forgetful wife waiting for you with the front door unlocked.
Standing there at the partially opened door he thumbed the Walther’s safety off, and then back on. Had he come to the point that he would fire on an Agency security officer, or a Bureau agent? Christ, had he been reduced to that?
He pushed the door the rest of the way open with his right foot, waited a moment longer, and then stepped into the dark stairhall.
He could hear music playing upstairs, softly. It sounded classical. Gloria had hated Moscow, but she’d always loved Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Prokofiev. She was upstairs waiting for him? Or was the message too clear?
The house was typical of most in the area; three stories, long and narrow. On the ground floor were storage rooms, a nursery for the child they’d never had, and a servants’ apartment for the servants they’d never hired. The second floor contained the living room, dining room, kitchen, and a bathroom. And the top floor contained two bedrooms and another bathroom. In back was a courtyard garden area and a garage in which his Peugeot was parked.
McAllister closed the door and moved silently to the foot of the stairs. The upper stairhall was in darkness, but now he could more clearly hear the music coming from above. It was definitely Tchaikovsky; the violin concerto, Gloria’s favorite.
He started up, his right foot on the first tread when a woman’s voice came to him from the darkness to his right. In the storeroom.
“Please stop right there, Mr. McAllister. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”
McAllister froze where he was. She sounded young and frightened. Frightened people made mistakes. But was she alone? “Who are you?”
“Albright. Office of Security. We’ve been waiting for you.” He carefully turned his head left and looked toward the sound of her voice. She had to be just within the storeroom which was in pitch blackness. He couldn’t see her. “The others must be in Arlington Heights.”
“We just got the word,” she said. “But no one thought you’d be coming back here.“McAllister stepped back and turned toward her. He didn’t think she’d seen the gun at his side. A lot of what had been happening suddenly became clear to him because of her presence here. The Company’s Office of Security usually handled background checks on prospective employees. Only rarely was it called in on this kind of a surveillance operation. They wanted to keep this contained. The FBI was most likely involved too, but it would not have been told the entire story. Agency security officers rarely carried weapons. They didn’t have the training for it.
“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 b
elow 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.
“Just a little longer. Then I’ll let you go, I promise.”
“No,” she moaned.
McAllister yanked the door open. “I won’t hurt you, I swear to God I won’t.”
“What do you want?”
“Just get me out of here, that’s all I ask.”
McAllister sat directly behind Stephanie Albright as she drove. They’d crossed the Key Bridge on his instructions and headed northwest up the Washington Parkway that paralleled the river.
Once they were away from the bright city lights, he laid the gun on the seat beside him, undid his shirt and probed the wound with the fingers of his right hand. The .38-caliber bullet had entered his chest at an oblique angle a couple of inches to the left of his left breast, nicking a rib, and emerging below his shoulder blade. It hadn’t done a lot of damage, and already the bleeding had slowed to an ooze, but his entire left side was numb from his shoulder all the way down to his hip, and he felt light-headed not only from his latest wound, but from the severe blow to the back of his skull. He stuffed his handkerchief under his shirt.
He needed medical help, he needed sleep and food, but more than that he desperately needed answers.“We can’t drive around all night,” Stephanie Albright said. “They’ve got to be searching for me and this van already.”
“Just hope they don’t find us too soon,” McAllister said. “Too soon for what?” she asked, looking in the rearview mirror at him. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Not if you do exactly as I tell you.”
“Then tell me something,” she said, her voice raising. “Keep driving,” he said tiredly. He picked up the gun, and holding it on his lap laid his head back on the seat. Robert Highnote and Gloria. The two people he most trusted in the world had turned against him. They had called him a traitor, a murderer. He couldn’t get the image of Gloria’s face twisted into a grimace of hate and revulsion from his mind. It hurt him more than his wounds. You can’t trust anybody in this business, boyo. The words came back to him again. He had never understood their real significance until this moment. Despite his dangerous occupation he had led a relatively safe life. There was always Gloria, and always Langley for him to turn to for help, for comfort, for understanding, and backing. Now the very people who had loved and trusted him, meant to hunt him down and kill him.
He could run, of course. He was an expert at hiding out. Somewhere in Europe, on a Greek island in the middle of nowhere, perhaps in the Caribbean. But how long could he stay hidden? Sooner or later they would catch up with him. If the Agency or the KGB wanted it badly enough they would find you. Too many people knew his habits, knew more importantly his failings. The old sage of the Company, Wallace Mahoney, had once lectured at the Farm that”.. by your tradecraft shall you be known.” Like so much in the Agency, the litany once learned dominated your life.
In Washington were the answers. But to whom could he turn now? In this business you can’t trust anybody… unless it’s someone without an axe to grind.
But he needed answers, which meant he needed someone who knew what?
He was drifting. His brain making associations, rejecting connections. Passing over names and places and dates.
Janos Sikorski. He was the
man with the answers. He sat forward. “We’re going to Reston.” She looked at him again in the rearview mirror. “Reston?”
“It’s on the way to Dulles.”
“I know where it is,” she said. “Why Reston? What’s there?”
“Answers,” he said. “I hope.”
“You’re crazy,” she snapped. Her fear was being replaced by anger. “Why don’t you let me take you to Langley?”
“Because someone is trying to kill me.”
“Your wife included.”
“Yes,” McAllister said softly, the pain intensifying. “Just drive me to Reston.”
“Then will you let me go?”
“We’ll see.”
Sikorski’s house was actually a large cabin at the end of a long dirt road outside of Sunset Hills southeast of the town of Reston. It took them nearly an hour in the darkness to find the place. McAllister had only been here twice before. Once with his father about fifteen years ago, and a second time six years ago when Sikorski had retired from the Agency and he’d had the crowd up for what he called a “go to hell” party.
He’d come out of Poland in the summer of 1939, a couple of weeks before the Nazi invasion, where he’d set up shop with some of the other emigres who were working with the British SIS. After the war he’d gone into semi-retirement-he’d had enough guns and fighting and killing to last ten lifetimes. But he’d been recruited in the late forties into the fledgling CIA by McAllister’s father. For twenty-five years he had run the Agency’s Records Section with an iron hand and a razor-sharp mind. It was said that whatever Sikorski didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. McAllister hoped it was true.
“What is this place?” Stephanie Albright asked nervously as they bumped slowly down the very dark, very narrow lane. The trees grew very close on both sides of the road here, forming a canopy overhead.
“Turn off your headlights,” McAllister ordered. He’d seen a flash of light at the end of the road. “What?”
The Zebra Network Page 8
