THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Borodine shrugged.

  "You bastards," Carrington said in a low voice.

  "I suppose we could set you up in a country where there is no extradition. Cuba? Libya? Bulgaria, perhaps. We're not sure, yet."

  Renkin squared his shoulders. "I can still deliver a V-22."

  Borodine smiled. "I hope so, Dr. Renkin. That would be nice. In any case, they'll do all that is necessary to make you comfort­able. After all, we do recognize your long career, your forty years of dedicated service."

  "Yes." Renkin nodded slowly.

  "I'd like to see Dobrynyn, now. I'll follow in my car."

  Renkin looked around the suite. An ancient Tiffany clock was perched on a highly polished side table. Next to it, a Lalique owl glass carving caught his eye. He'd had dinner sent up this evening, his table had been set on the same ornate coffee table that stood before him with china, silver utensils, and linens. The hotel had provided a fine French Burgundy. He'd watched San Diego's lights twinkle as the stereo played a Beethoven piano sonata. His gaze wandered across San Diego Bay to the naval station's mothball fleet. Two amber sodium vapor street lights marked the Trade Winds Tuna Cannery.

  I'm not through with these people yet, Renkin thought. Especially after I have the videotape.

  Dobrynyn's hands, waist, and upper legs were tied securely to the chair. They'd left his feet undone so he could hobble to the bathroom, where they would untie his lower bindings, shift the chair aside, and yank his pants down. His left eye remained blackened and closed. Ugly red welts ran down his neck, chin, and forehead. A fresh compress was stuck on his cheek, other bandages covered smaller gashes. Under close guard, he'd been allowed a shower and they had given him clean baggy slacks, a dark-brown work shirt and tennis shoes.

  A man, the one they called Vito, sat on the counter and swung a foot loosely. "Ready for more chili, Ivan? Good stuff. Huh?"

  It was good up to a point. At three, they'd spoon fed half a bowl to him before Vito poured in large dollops of tabasco sauce. Dobrynyn's throat and mouth burned terribly, and without water, he'd choked and wheezed while Vito and two other guards laughed. Dobrynyn gave up after two more fiery mouthfuls. Still, he felt better.

  "Hey, Ivan. I'm talkin' to you, man. It's past your dinnertime and Ted gave orders for you to eat." Vito slid off the counter and walked toward him. He stopped when they heard voices in the hall. They eyed each other as the door clicked open.

  Carrington walked in leading Felix Renkin and a short, thin, dark-haired man who walked with a limp.

  Renkin walked up and waved a hand. "Lieutenant Colonel Anton Pavel Dobrynyn."

  Borodine stooped and looked into Dobrynyn's unblemished eye. "That's not Dobrynyn."

  "It is. He shaved his beard," said Renkin.

  "I see."

  Carrington said, "Sorry he's not in mint condition. He put up a fight."

  Dobrynyn tracked Borodine with his good eye as he circled the chair.

  Borodine said, "How can I be sure this is our Spetsnaz?" The man rubbed his thigh and gazed back to Dobrynyn. "He may be your Mr. Lofton." He sighed. "Forgive me. They'll need assurances that some sort of elaborate counter-switch is not taking place."

  "Mr. Hatch. What would I have to gain? You're going to eventually shoot this man whether it's Lofton or Dobrynyn. And if it was Lofton, I would have had him shot by now. As I said, this one is yours. All you have to do is check fingerprints. I assure you, they do vary."

  "Yes. I read your report. But I don't have the time or equipment available for verification, do I?" He casually stepped behind Dobrynyn and stooped. Borodine bent closer, running his index finger over a signet ring with a gold "U" on Dobrynyn's right hand.

  "I would like to talk to him, alone, please."

  Renkin paused and looked out the window. "All right. Carring­ton. You better check his bindings, too. Just to make sure."

  Carrington walked over and yanked on Dobrynyn's bindings. "He's not going anywhere."

  "It's getting late, Mr. Hatch. How long do you need?" Renkin asked.

  "A half hour, perhaps." He raised an eyebrow to the three men.

  "All right. Ah, we'll leave Mr. Calabra here just in case Dobrynyn becomes violent."

  Borodine put his hands on his hips.

  "Don't worry, Mr. Hatch," said Renkin. "Vito doesn't under­stand Russian. You'll have complete privacy."

  Renkin opened the door and paused. "Oh, and Mr. Hatch?"

  "Yes?"

  "Carrington tells me you're armed. Is this true?"

  Borodine had hidden the nine-millimeter Beretta seven-shot automatic in the small of his back. "Yes."

  Vito folded his arms and stared at Borodine.

  Renkin nodded to Dobrynyn. "We wouldn't like you to use it here."

  Borodine flushed slightly. "I never intended to."

  Renkin glanced at Vito. "Fine. You won't mind giving it to Calabra for the time being?"

  Vito walked over, his palm outstretched.

  Borodine reluctantly drew the pistol and dropped it into the man's hand. He eyed Renkin. "I want it back."

  "As soon as we leave." Renkin said.

  Just as well, Borodine sighed to himself. Wait a day or two. Confirm the order Belousov was sure to issue to have Dobrynyn killed as soon as possible. The Spetsnaz represented an interna­tional stink that would be laid at the Pacific fleet admiral's doorstep.

  "We'll get some coffee," Renkin said. "Do you care for any?"

  "No, thank you."

  Renkin walked out. Carrington followed and shut the door.

  Vito sat on the counter, glanced at Borodine, then picked up a magazine.

  Borodine waited until the footsteps faded. He pulled up a chair, sat, and spoke in Russian. "Sergeant Ullanov is dead, isn't he?"

  Silence.

  "I'm sorry to learn of it, Colonel. The file said Ullanov served with you for the past eighteen years. You must have been close."

  Dobrynyn lifted his head.

  "It's all right." Borodine reached over and patted Dobrynyn on the shoulder. "Please relax. Now, there are rules. I can't tell you my real name. I do know your superiors, some intimately. Also, I know a lot about you, more than even you know, I suspect."

  Dobrynyn exhaled. So I just found out.

  Borodine looked down, wondering how many of the Lofton-connected disasters, from the sinking of the Kunashiri Maru to the hideous inferno in the Petropavlovsk KGB naval basin, he would take the blame for. Investigators in Moscow could charge that coaxing Renkin to bring in Lofton had triggered the whole predicament, one with serious international implications.

  Momentarily, he squeezed his eyes closed. There must be a way to mitigate the situation. Delivering, or at least liquidating Lieutenant Colonel Dobrynyn, would help. And perhaps Jet StreamC­Belousov's disinformation program over the Okhotsk oceanbed cables--was salvageable. That could return things to a status quo.

  Borodine rubbed his jaw. "We can help each other."

  Dobrynyn looked up. Damnit.

  "What do you or Lofton know about an operation called Jet Stream?"

  Dobrynyn stared at the man's slicked-back hair, sunken cheeks, and full lips. Look at his eyes. They darted every half-second with a new thought. It swelled over Dobrynyn. Hatch knows everything about me and he's agitated, perhaps scared.

  Borodine rubbed his hands together and looked down. "Colonel," he said softly. "Dr. Renkin will have you killed. Tonight probably. Your only chance is with me. I can take you home. You will have a chance there. Things have slackened. There will be a fair trial. They would understand the circumstances with you and your brother. They would be lenient."

  Get moving. Buy time. Dobrynyn spat, "How do you plan to do it, Zamp?"

  "Please don't call me that, Colonel. Zampolits wouldn't survive five minutes in the U.S." He paused. "We have a Canadian pipeline. You could be home within, um, three to five days. Leningrad. How would you like that?" He slapped Dobrynyn's shoulder again and checked Vito from the corner o
f his eye. The man sat all the way against the counter, his magazine folded over as he concentrated.

  "What are you? GRU?"

  Borodine eyed the door and said softly, "Fifth Division."

  "Fleet Intelligence?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "Pacific. I don't have time to parley with you, Colonel. This is how it must work. You do me a favor and I will save you from Dr. Renkin. In fact," Borodine sat back and pointed a long, bony finger, "I will tell you something very interesting about that man out there who wants you and your brother killed."

  "Dr. Renkin? What about him?"

  Borodine kneaded his leg. "Cooperate and I'll tell you." They stared at one another. "Now, I must know what either of you learned about Jet Stream. It affects some very serious work we are doing. If Lofton knows too much, we can simply shut the operation down. It will save us a lot of time and expense--"

  "And embarrassment."

  "Possibly. What happens to Lofton is not our concern. He is here. Fine. He's resourceful and may remain free, or perhaps escape to..." Borodine waved a hand, "...to South America. Possibly, you can someday be reunited." Borodine leaned forward and spread his palms. "It's just the fact that knowledge of Jet Stream may be out. That's what concerns us."

  Dobrynyn looked at the man and considered his options. Hatch seemed almost plaintive. He really needed to know. That was it. Give him enough to buy time. But what did he know about Renkin? "You're worried about Ivy Bells?"

  "Where did you hear that?" Borodine stood.

  "They had to brief me for the switch. But--"

  A loud "whump" shook the building. Reds and yellows flashed through grated windows.

  Dobrynyn shook his head and was surprised to see Hatch rise from his knees.

  Vito jumped off the counter, ran to the door, and yanked it open.

  "Wait!" Borodine said sharply.

  Vito paused and turned.

  "My pistol. You can't leave me without it."

  Vito's lips worked. "Dr. Renkin said--"

  A second, smaller explosion, yet with a pronounced "crack," rattled the building.

  "Give it to me, you idiot!" Borodine yelled. "We don't know who is behind the assault. You'll need all the help you can get."

  Vito nodded, ran over, and handed the Beretta to Borodine. "You better stay here 'til I find out what's goin' down." He ran out and slammed the door.

  Borodine's eyes jerked to the window. A deep amber washed over the heavily smudged glass, something crackled outside, people yelled, footsteps pounded on the stairs. He stepped over and looked out. Flames leaped up the building's side near the front. He saw charred wreckage that looked as if it once had been a fuel truck of some sort.

  "Police will come," Borodine muttered. He turned to see Dobrynyn struggle against his bindings. Only one thing to do before he ran. He pulled out the Beretta and worked the action while Dobrynyn thumped in his chair, moving toward him.

  Borodine's thumb found the safety and flicked it off. He aimed at a wildly gyrating Dobrynyn and fired.

  Dobrynyn spun. The chair seemed to twirl beneath him. It teetered and stayed upright. "Filthy zamp!" he roared. His shoulder felt numb. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He drew quick breaths and swallowed back the nausea. Hot wetness ran down his arm.

  Borodine held his Beretta with both hands and steadied his aim on Dobrynyn's head.

  "Hatch!" A voice shouted from the doorway.

  Borodine heard and at the same time felt an enormous explo­sion. A fist, no, something much bigger slammed him against the window. He looked up, then slid down until he was sitting on the floor. Thick wetness ran over his crotch, his legs. His stomach. It throbbed. Ahhhhh, it burned. Pain...he looked down, his eyes blinked at a darkness oozing between his legs. His legs! He couldn't move them.

  He raised his head. Felix Renkin stood in the doorway, a pistol dangling at his side. Borodine looked to his left. The Beretta lay with reach. But he felt tired. His arm wouldn't obey the command. He blinked and looked back at a perplexed Dob­rynyn...tired...

  Dobrynyn looked from the gasping Borodine to the doorway. Renkin stood with pressed lips. They locked eyes.

  Renkin croaked, "What did he tell you?" Was there--"

  "Dr. Renkin." Carrington's head popped over Renkin's shoulder. He shouted, "We're out of here. Now. Lofton is pinned down outside. We can get out the back before the fire department shows up, they'll call the police."

  Renkin whirled. "The front gate. Is it locked?"

  "Yes. Come on."

  Renkin looked over his shoulder to Dobrynyn.

  Carrington cocked an ear, an Ingram sputtered. Voices shouted toward the front stairway. "Please, sir. I've already lost three men!" He nodded to Borodine. "Don't worry about him. Gut wound. He'll be dead, soon. I'll take care of the other one."

  "No," Renkin said. "I need him on videotape."

  "Videotape? What are--"

  "Protection, Carrington. Come on. He'll keep for a minute. I want to check downstairs."

  "Yessir." Their footsteps clumped down the hall.

  Dobrynyn rested momentarily and caught his breath. The zamp gurgled and looked at him. His mouth worked.

  He yanked at his ropes. Go! Only minutes to get out, maybe less. How? Wildly, he looked around. There. Those drawers under the counter. Something to cut with.

  Dobrynyn heaved against his ropes. The chair lurched and pain clamped over his shoulder.

  Leading with his left shoulder, he bounced forward again. It helped. The pain wasn't as bad. Twenty centimeters a thump: The counter was over two meters away, it would take ten to fifteen thumps. He lurched, sweat ran down his brow. His shoulder thudded and surged as bones ground together. He growled at his ropes. He had to catch himself as he almost pitched forward. Head whirling, he paused and took deep breaths.

  Four thumps to go--three. As he reached the cabinet, the windows glowed again, redder this time.

  An Ingram sputtered. Closer. Someone screamed, a loud, prolonged sound.

  Dobrynyn thumped in a half circle and twisted himself to fumble at a drawer. There had to be something to cut with, maybe a knife. He rose slightly, grasping at the chrome handle; his hands finally found it and he arced forward to pull it out. He couldn't stop his pitch. He fell, but he kept his grip, and the drawer came with him. They crashed on the floor. The drawer's contents spilled about him as he rolled to his side. He gagged with pain as torn nerves sent outraged messages to his brain.

  Another Ingram sputtered. It sounded as if it was near the lobby. His vision focused.

  The zamp watched him with a thin, pale smile. His lips moved. He gurgled, "Renkin..."

  Dobrynyn groaned and shook his head. A handful of paper clips spilled down his shirt. He shook them off and looked to his knees. A pencil jabbed him as saw a letter opener. He grabbed the handle and ran its blade over the rope.

  Carrington was yelling "Vito" from the machine shop.

  He worked the letter opener violently. The blade was dull and the ropes were still shiny and strong.

  This would take hours. He rested his head on the floor. Something hard lay under his ear. A pair of scissors.

  He picked them up and began to cut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Lofton spotted the heavy-set man a millisecond before he plowed into him at full tilt. Lofton had seen him a millisecond earlier. He spun the man and slammed a forearm against his windpipe. The man jerked and fell but not before his spasming hand fired his pistol, pumping two rounds into the asphalt.

  "Dick!" someone yelled from behind.

  A bullet whizzed over Lofton's head. He ran around the corner, diving behind a dumpster.

  Lofton swore. He needed Ullanov's ghost. Why hadn't the other two cars exploded? The fuel truck, still empty of JP-5, had detonated on fumes, but not violently enough. The car--a white Chrysler--had also gone up. But those fires on the other side of the building had been subdued. And the exterior walls of the Trade Winds Tuna Compan
y were merely scorched. He wanted the building alight so the fire department would have to go inside. He listened. No sirens, yet. Carrington's problem had become manageable.

  They knew where he was. At least two other men plus Carring­ton. And Renkin. He'd heard the man's shrill voice. How many guards? He guessed six or seven. When Lofton had left Brutus bottomed just outside he'd swum under the gate, surfaced inside the sub-pen, and silently knocked out and tied one drowsy man who languished near the launching basin. Outside, near the fuel truck, two more fell to rabbit punches, and he'd tied them, too.

  That left two or three more. But without those two cars blowing up, he would need--

  --Get inside. Now! Quickly, he checked both directions and ran across the pavement. He crouched beside a heat pumping unit just under an office widow.

  The window would be locked, but it offered his only chance for entrance. Around the corner, the front door was on the latch but someone was in the lobby or at least near it. No way.

  He knelt, palmed his Ingram, and slowly shook his head. What a hashed‑up assault--the desperate run in Brutus to San Diego had absorbed all his attention. No time to plan, no weapons; Ullanov's AK‑74 was hopelessly corroded with salt water and the damned Ingram had only half a magazine. And surprise and confusion would soon wear off. Carrington and his soldiers would methodically ease him into a corner.

  A shadow flicked over the heat pump's rusty housing and remained stationary. Someone inside peered out the window, examining the side driveway. The two cars that should have exploded sat happily within the man's view. Damnit!

  The hell with it. Now! Lofton flipped the Ingram to full automatic and stood. A surprised face jerked down toward him.

  Realizing he was too late, the guard screamed as his weapon, another Ingram, rose.

  Lofton squeezed a quick burst into the man's chest. The window shattered and the guard flew backward.

  Lofton reached in, unlocked the window, and jerked it open. He scrambled onto the ledge and was almost through when feet pounded down the driveway. Whoever it was shouted, "Lofton!" A shotgun blast erupted over Lofton's head. The glass blew out as he hit the floor and rolled into a desk, banging his head. The feet thudded closer, a shadow whipped past the window. Footsteps dashed around the corner toward the front door.