"A trash compactor." Lofton smiled to himself and checked the oven.
Dobrynyn stepped in shadows. "A clothes dryer?" He whistled. "So many buttons. Digital display. Does one have to go to school to learn how to use it?"
"Yeah. A four year-course. Almost ready."
"What is that? It smells good."
"Enchilada. A Mexican dish. Have a seat. I'll set the table."
Dobrynyn looked at his hands. "Bathroom first. Where is it?"
Lofton waved. "Through there and to your left."
As Dobrynyn disappeared down the hall Lofton pulled the silverware drawer open. A stack of flyers on the counter caught his eye. He hadn't noticed them while making dinner. His hands groped at the silverware as he read the page. It was a picture of Kirby's house. This house! Bold letters jumped out at him:
FOR SALE
CHARMING WATERFRONT CAPE COD
ONLY $8,799,000
Wha--what?
A knife dropped from his hand and clanked on the floor. He bent to pick it up, still reading.
Glass shattered over Lofton's back as he seized the knife. Crockery exploded, the kitchen lights blinked. Plaster dust rained and crashed over him. A heavy thudding, bullet holes stitched up the cabinets.
Instinctively he dove to the floor.
"Brad, what is it?"
Lofton heard the bathroom door yank open.
"Stay down, Anton, somebody--"
Another fusillade raked just above his head. Incredible. He couldn't hear the gunshots. Sparks jumped from the oven control panel, smoke gushed out. To Lofton, it sounded like a silenced Ingram as more bullets pounded the counter and cabinets.
"Brad, are we under attack?" Anton shouted from the bathroom.
"Yes. Kill the lights, then roll into the hall." Lofton reached for the wall switches as more glass shattered, a kitchen chair spun around and fell on its side. The switch panel took a hit, blew up, and shot sparks inches above Lofton's clawing fingers, plunging the kitchen into darkness.
Silence. "Brad, are you there?"
"Yes, I'm OK," he whispered loudly, "I'm pinned down. Somebody is out back. Sounds like a silenced Ingram--there are probably others. Kirby has a shotgun in his bedroom closet. That's through the hall to your left."
"Yes."
Lofton heard him scramble on the carpet. "Kill the lights as you go."
"OK." Dobrynyn's voice faded.
Thump! Something heavy cracked through the living room window, rolled to a stop and hissed. Then another rocklike object sailed above his head and crashed through a kitchen cabinet among metal cooking utensils. Then, Thump! Thump! Two rounds penetrated windows on the other side the house.
Tear gas! Sharp tentacles raked in his lungs. He ripped a hand towel off a hook. Dobrynyn's hacking and coughing in the living room told him there was little time to lose.
White smoke enveloped Lofton as he rose, dashed to the sink, and soaked a hand towel.
"Brad!" Dobrynyn's voice gurgled from the living room.
He slapped the wet towel over his face. His eyes seemed to burst from their sockets and his lungs raged with fire while he fumbled for another towel and soaked it.
"Hold on." His voice was muffled.
A loud crash. The front door, he thought. Feet stomped into the living room. It sounded like two, maybe three pair.
Smoke, white, opaque. His brain screamed to get out as he jammed the wet towel over his nose and mouth. He balled the other towel in his fist and started for the living room.
Glass crunched behind him. He stopped. The table scraped. The sounds came from the patio where the window had been blown out.
Get out of here! The hallway to the living room was somewhere to his left. If he went straight he could escape to the garage.
No. Anton! He started for the living room, tripped over the kitchen chair arm and fell heavily on the floor.
"Ughh--Brad."
They were fighting in the living room. Lofton rose to his hands and knees. A short burst erupted above him. Ricochets unleashed trails of sparks. Punctured pots and pans screeched. Silverware crashed on top of him.
"Toby, that's enough. There's too many of us in here." The muffled voice was near the window, Lofton calculated. Yes. A foot mashed glass in the roiling tear gas no more than five feet away.
"Knock off the shooting, you guys," another muffled voice drifted from the living room. "OK, cuff his hands and feet, Vito. Hit the sonofabitch again if he comes to."
Lofton recognized the inflections of Ted Carrington. Rage rose within him as he stifled the growl in his throat. He choked into his towel. Carrington. That bastard! Renkin!
The glass crunched nearer. He dropped to the floor and looked back, barely distinguishing the shape of two approaching shoes.
Lofton's eyes were almost swollen shut. He had to get out. They had gas masks--but where? There, almost at the man's feet--a ten-inch kitchen knife.
"See 'em yet, Toby?" The voice came from behind him.
"Uh‑uh."
The man's crotch came into view. He wore Levis, dark tennis shoes, and an unzipped leather jacket.
"Check to your left, but I think he went down the hall to the garage. We may have to put some gas in there."
Lofton reached out slowly and grabbed the knife. The man's upraised gun was a silenced Ingram. His belly...
"Time's wasting, Toby. In and out in two minutes."
"I think he's in the garage. He--"
Lofton rose to his knees and lunged up with the knife, throwing as much of his shoulder behind the awkward movement as he could. The blade penetrated the man's abdomen, glanced off a rib, and jammed to the handle.
Toby gurgled horribly behind his mask. Lofton caught the Ingram as it fell from the assassin's hands. The dying man took short, scraping steps as a thick, dark wetness gushed to the floor.
Toby's masked face dropped into view. Lofton raised the Ingram and pumped a quick burst into Toby's chest at point‑blank range. The man flew backward with a crash. Lofton followed.
Another canister‑masked face appeared before him, two feet away. "What the--"
Lofton put a short burst into the man's upper chest and neck. The canister erupted and the left side of his mask and face disappeared in a reddish‑white vapor. He fell with a thump.
"Anton!"
Lofton's cry was answered with a burst from the living room. He kicked open what remained of the French doors, scrambled through the patio, and rolled behind a brick tree planter. His eyes were on fire and he hacked loudly. He held his breath, trying to stifle the noise. Loud, wheezing chokes rasped from his throat and lungs. He rose to all fours. His eyes ran, watching white smoke gush from Kirby's shattered windows.
"Fred! Toby!" Carrington shouted through his mask. "Vito, you and Curt take Lofton to the car. The Russian made it to the patio. Tell Dick and Ed to flank him from the side yard and then you back 'em up."
"What about Fred and Toby?"
"Dunno. Hurry up with Lofton. Make sure the sonofabitch is tied securely. Tell Curt to move out. Come on. We're outta time."
"Back to the sub-pen?"
"Yeah."
In pain, Lofton squeezed his eyes shut. He coughed. Phlegm rose in his throat as he tried to clear his lungs.
"I hear him out there, Ted."
"Move!"
They scrapped and grunted in the house. Moments later, leaves and gravel crunched in the side yard. Lofton sat, debating. He could spray the living room with the silenced Ingram. Carrington was in there still, he was sure. But, where was Anton? The trigger lay against his forefinger, ready. A little pressure, maybe a pound or two, and Carrington would be filled with holes.
Gravel crunched twenty feet to his right.
Adrenaline raced through him. Carrington waited inside, maybe Anton was next to him. And two, possibly three killers approached down either side yard. Five men. He would be flanked soon.
No chance.
Lofton flipped th
e Ingram to safe and tucked it in the small of his back. Crouching on all fours, he weaved through Kirby's patio furniture. His hip caught a table, the umbrella fell with a crash. He paused where a thirty-foot section of lawn eased down to the quay wall.
The dock was to his left. But, where was?--Sonofabitch! Them Bones hung from its bow by a dock line. The rest of Kirby's skiff was underwater--sunk. Lofton grit his teeth.
A twig snapped behind him. They were being cautious. Cold, professional experts assembled by Carrington for a deadly, grisly job. Carrington knew the best, active and retired.
A car started out on the street, shifted into gear, and raced down Bayshore Drive. That would be Vito and maybe Curt, along with Anton.
Three or four men. Poor odds with no surprise or backup. Within seconds they would be ready for their frontal assault. Lofton took a halting, spasmed breath.
Reason now--revenge later.
He jumped to the lawn, landed on all fours and rolled toward the quay wall. Fully expecting to feel bullets slam into him, he gripped the cement quay wall and flopped into the cold, dark water with a splash. He rose once and quickly took as much air as his seared lungs could accept, then dove, deep. His hand squished on the bottom as he frantically counted his strokes. Ten: How far? Twelve: He guessed--hoped--eighteen would do it. Sixteen: Lights flashed in his brain. Seventeen: Images went dark. He pushed a hand overhead and kicked.
Eighteen: He rose and broke the surface with a loud gasp. Where?
The moon shone overhead. He spat salt water as his head clunked against something solid. He reached out. It was smooth, glassy, highly polished. Bandit's bow rose above him. Somehow, he'd made it under the dock and to the other side of the Santa Cruz 70.
Kicking lightly, he pushed himself aft along Bandit's sleek hull and reached the transom.
Two Ingrams sputtered and coughed in the patio. Furniture screeched and bounced across the brick. They would be here soon. Lofton looked across the channel toward a darkened Lido Isle 250 yards away. They'd had no trouble with Them Bones and they would have no trouble ripping Bandit apart, and him, too, if he remained. He checked the Ingram--it was secure in his waistband--and took a few experimental breaths. Embers still glowed in his lungs but he felt better.
One more deep breath. Lofton submerged and pushed away from Dr. Walter Kirby's dock into the dark, early morning channel. His head was clear now. He counted his strokes and silently surfaced after fifty yards. Two more deep breaths and he dove again.
Sergeant Roger T. Kilpatrick of the Newport Beach Police Department took the call at five-thirty‑six A.M. The tape ran, but he dutifully made notes while trying to calm the outraged young man.
"What's the address on Lido Isle, sir?"
The young man gave details while Kilpatrick scribbled. He finished. Kilpatrick sighed, sat back, and twirled the telephone cord.
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry about your sailboard. Was it in the truck, too? What is the vehicle's make?...yessir, an '83 Toyota pickup stolen from in front of 972 Via Lido Nord. Color, sir?... Red, yessir, I..."
He listened patiently as the victim sputtered.
"Can you describe him, sir? I know it was dark." Kilpatrick sat up and took notes again. "Dark hair, Caucasian, striped tee‑ shirt and dark trousers...yessir, that could help...No, sir, it's good you didn't try to stop him...
"Yes, sir, we'll send a patrol unit as soon as possible. We're dealing with an emergency on Bayshore Drive, a shooting... Yessir... If you could come in later today and fill out a report, sir, we'll make sure all units are alerted.
"...You say it was stolen about five‑fifteen?... Yessir, I'll put that out also. Sir...me? My name's Kilpatrick--K‑I‑L‑P‑A‑T‑ R‑I‑C‑K. Yessir, badge number 2436. Good day, sir."
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Ted Carrington pulled the white government pool car up to the Del Coronado Hotel's main portico.
A valet snapped the Chrysler's door open. "Checking in, sir?"
"Waiting. My party will be here in a minute." He gave the black-vested youth a sour look.
"Yes, sir." Closing the door, the valet walked to a cab next to Carrington and struggled with luggage.
Carrington checked his watch: 9:46. He'd barely had three hour's sleep at the Five Palms Hotel on the mainland when he'd been summoned. The trip over the Coronado Bridge in the bright morning light should have perked him up. Usually, one could see Point Loma to the west and, to the south, deep into Mexico. Not today. San Diego's weather matched his attitude. Although there was a warm Santa Ana in Newport Beach, the fringes of a humid tropical storm hovered over San Diego. It had hailed and rained yesterday. The lingering overcast obscured his panorama at the bridge's crest. San Diego Bay lay torpid beneath him, sludgy and full of runoff. Beyond, the Pacific Ocean, spent from the storm, rested flat and oily, reluctant to flush the harbor with its cleansing tide.
Carrington eyed his watch. 9:51. Activity on the portico was brisk, with guests checking in and out. Engines caught and growled, tires squealed on the pavement as cars worked their way around his Chrysler. Carrington blinked. Where the hell is he? Still languishing in the Presidential Suite with its view of Glorietta Bay. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he waved the valet over and pulled a ten dollar bill from his wallet. "Is there any chance I could get a traveler of coffee?"
The passenger door clicked open. Felix Renkin got in, saying, "Good morning, Carrington." He fastened his seat belt.
Carrington replaced the bill in his wallet, started the car, and drove off. Turning left on Orange Avenue he glanced at Dr. Renkin. He wore a gray herringbone suit, red bow tie, and patent leather loafers.
"I imagine you're tired," Renkin said.
"I'm fine, sir."
"You were successful last night?"
"Uh‑huh, except Dobrynyn escaped." Carrington told him about the raid. "I could have got both of them but our forces were divided between here and Newport Beach. He won't get far," he quickly added. "We monitored a report from the Newport Beach Police Department. It sounds like Dobrynyn stole a pickup truck. But he doesn't know the area. He has no money or clothes and I have my best men looking for him. I think we'll have him by the end of the day."
"And the Soviet sergeant, what's his name? Ullanov--what about him?"
"He wasn't there, sir. Probably stayed with the submarine. We'll nail him when we catch Lofton's brother."
Renkin propped his elbow on the window sill and stroked his chin. "Too bad about Adams and Perelli. Were you able to recover their bodies?"
"Yes, sir. We stashed narcotics around Kirby's place, just like his car. It will look like a mob problem."
"You're sure that's not too shallow a cover?"
"No, sir. Vito's an expert. He knows how to arrange things. The police are buying it. We even..."
Renkin's mind was elsewhere.
Carrington waited.
"And you are sure it's Lofton?"
"Reasonably so, sir. The one without the beard. We haven't been able to talk to him, though. He's--ah--sort of indisposed." Carrington turned right on Fourth Street to approach the Coronado Bridge. "He hasn't regained, uh, awakened yet."
Renkin's finger toyed with his lip. "There is something else."
"Yes sir?"
"Mr. Hatch."
"Who?"
"The art dealer. He's flying in this evening."
"What? How does he know we're here?"
Renkin leaned back. "It couldn't have been too much of a secret, especially with the president blabbing and grinning in Balboa Park last week. And, Hatch wants to see us badly."
"Do you know why? Is it the Petropavlovsk matter?"
"No, it's something else." Renkin paused. He absently flipped the electric door lock button up and down. "Senator John Phillips called a nationally televised press conference a half hour ago."
"Phillips! What's his problem?"
"Visibility, Carrington, visibility. He's hardly in office and already he's campaigning for votes five
years hence."
"I don't understand."
"The V‑22 Osprey buy for the NSC. Apparently Phillips has decided to blow the whistle to Congress."
"But you told him you were going to have the purchase rescinded."
Renkin nodded. "Phillips has learned something. I don't know what yet, but maybe he feels I don't intend to rescind the order. On the other hand, he could be pulling a William Proxmire with me as his target. I just don't know, yet.
"Somehow Mr. Hatch got wind of Senator Phillips's announcement over the weekend. He called this morning and said we have to meet today." Renkin looked out at San Diego Bay. "Tonight, actually."
Silence fell. Carrington picked up on it. "Is there something else?" He slowed at the Coronado Bridge toll booths, accelerated up the bridge, and waited for Renkin to speak.
Renkin took a deep breath. "I think he's going to pressure me."
"To do what?"
"Get out. Retire. They've brought it up before. I think they're nervous about what might happen if I'm drawn into a protracted investigation, especially if it's televised. They'd be embarrassed if my cover was blown."
"What are you going to do?"
"Don't know yet." Renkin looked at Carrington. "And don't worry. You'll be taken care of one way or another."
"I appreciate that, sir." Carrington rubbed his chin. "Where?"
"I think we'll meet in my suite. Hatch is to call back in two hours when his flight is confirmed. I want you to be present at the meeting."
"Yes, sir."
They crested the bridge and dipped toward San Diego. A DC-10 popped from the overcast, almost at their eye level, wallowing toward Lindbergh Field with its gear and flaps extended.
"And now Lofton."
Carrington said, "We may have to waken him. He could be tough to question."
Renkin looked at his watch. "I'm not interested in questioning him now. What do you suggest?"
"I see. Uh, a .44 magnum, hollow point will take care of him. His head will disappear. Would you like to do it?"
Renkin set his mouth; his fingers drummed. "I'll leave that up to you."
Carrington headed south on I-5 then took the offramp to Harbor Drive. Five minutes later, they turned on a narrow, potholed street, bumped over rail sidings, and eased into a small parking lot.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 36
