Zara wedged the blade between the frame and the door and popped it open, wondering why the stores even bothered with such poor locks. A safety on the tool prevented her from snapping the blade closed. Rather than waste precious seconds, she stuck it in her shoulder holster, still open. She slinked to the curtain separating the sales space from the storage room, wishing she had a god to whom she could pray for success. If they were too late, not only would Gorbachev die; they would be put to death. A fresh breeze alerted her that the sniper had already opened the window.
Faith watched the plate-glass windows of the shops for signs it was all over. Then she saw them. Two men were crossing the bridge toward the stores where the assassins were positioned. They didn’t have any guns visible—yet. A cleanup crew. Assassins to eliminate the assassins. They’ll kill Zara and Summer.
Summer saw the sniper look at his watch and then raise the rifle to his shoulder. He heard gunshots, pulled the trigger and fired two shots into the sniper’s brainstem. He hoped Zara had had similar success.
Zara pushed back the divider and saw the sniper in position, the barrel of the rifle barely sticking out the window. Dust sparkled in the ruby-red of the laser sight. The assassin’s finger squeezed the trigger and Zara fired into her head, but at that moment she heard the spit of the silenced rifle. Smoke curled from the barrel and the spent case dropped to the floor. The woman had gotten off a shot. Zara prayed it wasn’t a clean one as she hurried out the door.
As Faith rushed to the door, she flipped off the safety and pushed back the hammer. She cracked open the door, aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. Again. And again. The cleanup crew fired back, shattering the plate-glass window. Faith dived behind the doorframe and lowered herself to the floor.
Summer watched the assassin’s body slump to the floor. Another gun discharged, but it wasn’t from Zara’s direction.
Oh, my God, Faith.
The sound of gunfire echoed from the arcade. Summer bolted to the door, kicked it and took aim at one of the gunmen. He emptied his weapon, drawing their fire away from Faith, and hit the ground. Bullets whizzed over him. He reached for the second magazine. It wasn’t there. He glanced around for cover, but found none. He inched backwards to the shop. Just then gunfire rang out from down the promenade.
Faith crawled toward the storefront to look out to the promenade, clasping the gun as hard as she could. Broken glass slit her right palm. Blood dripped down her wrist. She peeked through the smelly curtain. Summer and Zara lay on the floor, bullets ricocheting around them. The gunmen crouched on the bridge, firing as they inched their way toward them.
Zara shot as she took cover, crouching behind a wide post in the promenade railing. Her gun was empty. She pulled the extra magazine from her pocket. A glass window behind her shattered.
Zara pushed the magazine release back until the empty magazine dropped. She held the loaded one in her left hand. Before she could shove it into the gun, pain seared her forearm and her hand released its grip on the magazine. It plummeted over the edge of the promenade, down three stories and splashed into the fountain below. Zara pointed her empty gun in the direction of the killers, all the while cursing the weakness of her left hand. She glanced at Summer. He signaled that he, too, had spent his ammo. Bullets pinged around them. They both had to cross at least five exposed meters before any hope of cover. She knew they couldn’t make it. Then across the arcade she saw the velvet drapes of the dress shop move and the barrel of the CZ-52 poke through.
That instant, Faith leaped through the drapes of the shattered storefront. She spotted a head through the railing. She aimed the way Summer had taught her so long ago. She fired. Blood spattered on the dingy white rail. A bullet flew by her. She saw another clean shot and took it. Then silence.
Faith approached the bodies, her gun poised to fire at the slightest motion. Blood drizzled from a round dark hole in a man’s neck. Fixed eyes stared toward the skylights. One hand touched his neck, while the other remained loosely wrapped around the gun.
“Clear!” Faith said as she kicked away their firearms.
Summer and Zara ran to her. Summer searched the bodies for weapons and felt for vital signs. He shook his head, looking up at Faith. “I’ll be damned.”
Zara picked up a gun with her left hand, her right hand applying pressure to her left forearm. “KGB issue. Why am I not surprised?”
Faith pulled Summer to his feet and squeezed him tightly. She kissed him as if the years hadn’t come between them. She still held the gun at her side. Blood was smeared on the Bakelite handle.
“There’s no time for celebration right now. We’ve got another problem.” Zara took the gun and flipped on the safety. “And always assume a gun’s loaded.”
Summer pulled away from Faith.
“My sniper got off a shot the same time I hit her. I pray to whatever god will listen that I ruined her aim. Any moment now, some trigger-happy bodyguards will burst in and we definitely do not want to be standing here as easy targets. I think you know how these teams work. I suggest we get back into the dress shop and do our best to surrender.”
They sprinted toward the store.
Summer turned on the lights and set his guns on the counter. “We don’t want any shadows.”
“If we succeed in surrendering, they’ll be rough and split us up for questioning,” Zara said.
“What do you mean, if we succeed?” Faith jerked her head around toward Zara.
“The assumption will be that we were the ones who murdered or attempted to murder Gorbachev.”
They exchanged silent glances.
“Your arm okay?” Summer finally spoke.
“I’m getting used to bullet wounds. This one’s rather superficial, but a bleeder.” She pressed on it. “They’ll be here any minute. Don’t resist or insist on counsel or someone from your embassy or it’ll get rough. Tell them exactly what happened, but leave out Mrs. Whitney’s landmines. Leave her out all together if you can. They don’t need to know. Say I got them from a Soviet Army contact and Mrs. Whitney only gave us shelter and clothes upstairs at the orphanage. I have my recordings and film I lifted from Kosyk from last night, but it’ll take several hours to get them analyzed and to get an initial forensic analysis of this mess here, so don’t expect a quick resolution.”
“Lovely,” Summer said.
A loud crash came from below. Boots smacked against the steps and heels clicked on the promenade.
“KGB. Don’t shoot,” Zara shouted in Russian. “Over here. Do not shoot! KGB.” She held her KGB identification as high as she could with her left hand, still applying pressure with her right.
“Vot!” someone shouted. “Von tam!”
A dozen nervous KGB troops pointed their Kalashnikovs at them.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHT
The main difference in the history of the world
if I had been shot rather than Kennedy is that
Onassis probably wouldn’t have married Mrs. Khrushchev.
—KHRUSHCHEV
CNN CENTER, ATLANTA, GEORGIA
8:30 P.M. EDT
Bernard Shaw crossed off a sentence on his copy and looked into the camera. “We’re back. For those of you who have joined us from Europe and the Mideast, recapping the top stories. The traditional May Day military parade in Moscow was disrupted today by a mad gunman. The Soviet news agency TASS reports that a recently discharged psychiatric patient fired a single shot toward the dignitary viewing stand atop the Lenin mausoleum before turning the gun on himself. General Secretary Gorbachev was evacuated as a precautionary measure. After a short suspension, the parade resumed without further incident.
“TASS also reported that several high-ranking KGB and Soviet Army officials were killed last night when a propane leak caused the explosion of a country home during an early May Day celebration. Western analysts pointed out that several of the deceased were known to have privately opposed Gorbachev’s reforms. Ramsey Jackson of the Heritage
Institute speculated that Gorbachev may be resorting to Stalinist tactics to eliminate potential enemies and consolidate his hold on power. Dr. Jackson added, ’I believe it’s going to become evident over the next few months that Gorbachev’s policies of glasnost and perestroika have been ruses to get the West to let its guard down.’
“In other news from the region, NTSB investigators on-site in Moscow have all but ruled out a bomb as the cause of Saturday’s accident on Pan Am 1072 in which four flight attendants and three passengers were sucked from the aircraft. An NTSB spokesman stated, ’Everything we’ve seen appears to be consistent with metal fatigue.’ The final report is not expected until the end of the year.
“Moving west, passengers on a Pan American flight to Berlin were surprised to find themselves landing in communist East Germany. A Pan Am plane made an emergency landing in Leipzig, East Germany, last night after a near miss with an East German fighter. Air traffic control systems and backups responsible for planes in the Berlin corridors went down for several hours, creating havoc in the skies. All other civilian flights were redirected back to West Germany or West Berlin without further incident, but sources tell us that several East German military aircraft weren’t so fortunate. The air traffic control blackout resulted in several midair collisions during a routine National People’s Army training exercise.
“In other news, the CNN Moscow bureau was broken into last night. Nothing was taken, but a Russian policeman was killed. Sources close to the police investigation speculated that rebels from southern Russia broke in with the intent to use broadcasting equipment to spread their message worldwide, but found themselves lacking the technical skills to operate it and fled.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-NINE
Comrades, do not be concerned about all you hear about
Glasnost and Perestroika and democracy in the coming years.
They are primarily for outward consumption. There will be
no significant internal changes in the Soviet Union,
other than for cosmetic purposes.
—GORBACHEV
LUBYANKA (KGB HEADQUARTERS), MOSCOW
TUESDAY, MAY 2
Six. Five. Faith counted down the footsteps, moving toward where she lay exhausted on the urine-caked floor, trying to stretch out whatever rest she could get. Four. She pushed herself to her hands and knees. Three. She put her arms around the stool. Two. She pulled herself up and draped her body over the stool. One. The interrogator grabbed her hair and yanked her upright.
“If you cooperate with us like your friends, you’ll have a nice bed. They told us everything, so we know you’re lying. How long have you worked for the CIA?”
“Never. I cooperated with the KGB. Talk to Bogdanov.”
“We had a long, satisfying conversation with the colonel.” The interrogator cracked his knuckles. “Why did you kill the General Secretary?”
“I told you, we tried everything to stop it. Guess we were too late,” Faith mumbled.
“When did you first meet Bogdanov?”
The lock turned and the metal door opened. A uniformed KGB officer and a neatly groomed man in a Western-style business suit walked into the room. With the flick of an arm, the officer signaled the interrogator to leave. Faith swallowed hard, but her mouth was dry and she only gulped air.
“Doctor Whitney, I’m Colonel Kusnetsov.” He held out his manicured hand.
Faith flinched.
“You don’t have to be afraid. And this is Viktor Petrov, special assistant to General Secretary Gorbachev. We’re here to offer our sincerest apologies for any inconvenience. We’ve completed our initial forensics and you’re no longer a suspect in the attempted assassination of the General Secretary.”
“Attempted?” Faith opened her eyes and looked up at the colonel. “We did it? He’s not dead?”
“We’re in your debt.”
Tears pooled up in her eyes. “Can you get me out of here?”
Petrov helped Faith to her feet. “We’re taking you to clinic seventeen, a special restricted-access facility that you’ll find more like a spa than a hospital. You’ll receive medical attention and rest as our guest while some official matters are sorted out. In due course, we’ll arrange contact with your embassy, since it seems you’re without proper travel documents.”
“Where are Summer and Zara?” Faith stood, wobbling.
“The commander is right now on his way to the clinic. Colonel Bogdanov is undergoing surgery to have bullets removed. You’ll be able to see them both shortly.”
“And Berlin? Moscow is still here, so I take it there was no war?”
“We came very close,” Petrov said, his voice raspy from years of smoking. “I would say closer than we ever have, but your messages got through to the right people. General Ivanovski’s troops prevented a full-scale invasion of West Berlin. The Americans understood we weren’t behind it and quietly stopped the first wave of infiltrators. We’ll officially deny this, but after all you did for us, you deserve to know. What made it clear to the Americans that we weren’t invading West Berlin was when our MIG-29s cleared the skies of the GDR fighters. It was a regrettable loss of several fine Warsaw Treaty pilots, but it was the only way.”
“I don’t want to know, but I have to ask. At the dacha, did Kosyk make it?”
“We couldn’t find him.”
“We left him on the riverbank.”
“The search was extensive, including the river itself. We have little doubt General Kosyk is alive.”
Summer was surprised at the almost-VIP treatment, given the KGB’s reputation. They slapped him around, but seemed careful not to break any bones. He was more worried about how Faith was holding up. He guessed he had been there nearly twenty-four hours when the interrogators were summoned away.
An Amazon ill at ease in her polyester businesswoman’s suit and a man in a US Army uniform entered the room. A guard accompanied them and unlocked the handcuffs that were eating into Summer’s flesh.
“I’m Colonel Holton Wilson, military attaché to the American embassy.” The colonel spoke with a nondescript Midwestern accent. His skin was pasty white. “Chris Goldfarb is our deputy consul and legal eagle. We’d like to talk to you about what happened. We’ve heard the Russian version, but we want to get it from you straight. Chris will do everything she can to get you out of here and home as soon as possible.”
An hour later, a squat nurse dressed in a white smock and hat that would have been more at home on a French chef escorted Faith into her lavish Soviet suite. The two rooms had furniture that would have made an American roadside motel proud. Although the plaid fabrics of the overstuffed love seat didn’t match the swirls of the boxy sofa, the reds almost didn’t clash. Clusters of tinted glass globes hung from the ceiling like a lost high school science project. Obligatory pictures of Lenin adorned the walls, reminding the guest who was really footing the bill.
“Put these on and Doctor Rukovsky will be with you soon.” The nurse tossed a hospital gown and worn terry-cloth robe at Faith with the hallmark courtesy of the Soviet service industry.
“I don’t need a doctor, just a shower, some sleep and Commander Summer.” Faith dropped the clothes on the bed, grateful it was a regular double mattress and not a hospital bed with rails. She walked into the bathroom, hoping to lose the nurse, but she followed her.
The edge of the dry wall was a good half-inch shy of the corner. The rod of the shower curtain was higher on one side, but it did nicely parallel the slope in the bathroom tiles. The finest of Soviet toiletries were arranged on the bathroom vanity. Faith was happy for anything resembling a toothbrush.
“You’re not allowed to have visitors, not even other patients.”
“So Summer—Commander Summer—is here now?”
“You should be honored that Doctor Rukovsky is admitting you herself. The last time I remember the head of the clinic doing an intake exam was when we had Brezhnev’s wife here and the chief was trying to get a new wing
written into the next five-year plan.” The nurse picked her nose and rubbed her hand on her smock. “We’ve never had an American here before. From the looks of you, you need a thorough workup. Those circles under your eyes tell me you need a vitamin B injection.”
“Keep your needles away from me. Now if you don’t mind . . .”
“Get undressed now. Put on the gown and I’ll bring the doctor in to see you.” The nurse stood in the bathroom doorway, gawking at Faith like a zookeeper observing a new arrival.
The pipes clanked when Faith turned on the shower. She pulled off her shirt, dropping it to the floor. “You can either leave me in peace or make yourself useful and scrub my back. If you decide to stay, make sure you wash your hands first.”
Faith caught herself on the shower wall as she nearly collapsed from fatigue. She washed off the last patch of soap from her forearm and turned off the water. She wrapped herself in a towel, staggered to the bed and collapsed. Within moments of her head finding its way to the pillow, Dr. Rukovsky entered the room.
The gentle middle-aged woman examined Faith as quickly as she could and prescribed fluids, food and rest. She agreed the X-ray of her ribs could wait until after she had gotten some sleep. When Faith asked about Zara and Summer, she was ordered to rest—she could socialize later. The doctor instructed the nurse to dress the cut on her hand. By the time she finished cleaning the glass slivers from the cut, Faith was too wired to sleep.
When the nurse left the room, she waited long enough for her to return to her station and pulled on the gown and robe. She stood and the blood drained from her head. Light-headed or not, she was going to find Summer. She pushed down on the door latch. It was locked.
Faith stumbled back to the bed and flopped onto it in defeat. Her eyes drifted shut.
Rift Zone Page 35
