by Ed Ruggero
Sinnott slumped to the ground, his back against the cottage wall.
His plan to use Kerr as leverage was, he realized, now too far-fetched. Stowe was cooperating with Harkins, and soon the bastard cop would be able to confirm that Kerr was turned. Sinnott couldn’t use the knowledge about Kerr as leverage unless he was the only one who knew, or unless Harkins agreed to cooperate with him.
“Fat fucking chance of that,” he whispered.
And then a new plan came to him. It wasn’t Kerr who held Sinnott’s life in his bloody hands; it was Sechin. The Soviet was the threat; he was the one who had to be taken out.
Major Richard Sinnott swiped his hand over his forehead. It had stopped raining, but his face was damp with sweat. He wished he had his flask, but he’d left it in his jeep, hidden in the woods off the main road.
A short distance away he could see the lights slowly winking out in the dormitory windows as the students ended a day, probably with some good Church of England prayers. Just a few yards away, tucked in the trees, he could see the outline of a sedan, probably the car Sechin used to come from London. Then he spied something else, a pole maybe, about halfway between the headmaster’s cottage and the nearest corner of the dormitory building. There was something on top, but it was hidden in the darkness. He moved his head and line of sight to see the pole backlit by one of the windows. He had to get on his hands and knees to get a good angle, but finally it became clear what he was looking at.
It was a bell.
* * *
Eddie Harkins was a little woozy, but he managed to make it back to the gate. From there, he could look down on the headmaster’s cottage and the dormitory, now almost completely dark.
Why did Sinnott want him, Wickman, and the MPs out of the picture? Sinnott would get part of the credit if they arrested Kerr.
Why go to the trouble of poisoning us?
Harkins had just decided to move to the cottage when he heard a car crunching up the gravel road. He stepped into the woodline, where he could see without being seen, watched the tiny slits of blackout lights approach. When the sedan moved up to the gate he recognized a long scrape on the rear side door.
It was Lowell’s car. There was a passenger in the front seat, a man, judging by size.
Harkins stepped into the clearing and waved. Lowell put the car in park and she and Colonel Sergei Novikov got out.
“What the hell are you two doing here?” Harkins asked, trying to keep his voice low. He had no idea where Sinnott was, but he had a sharp mental picture of that sniper rifle.
“Lowell, I told you specifically to stay away. I ordered you.”
“I must take responsibility, Lieutenant,” Novikov said. “I needed to warn you, and Lowell was the only one who knew where you were.”
“If you came to warn me that Major Sinnott has gone crazy, you’re a little late. I think he slipped some kind of poison into the coffee he served us. Made us all sick.”
“Where is he now?”
“He and Wickman went around behind that house,” Harkins said, pointing. “We’re pretty sure that one or two people from the American mission are in there, most likely meeting with one of your colleagues from the Soviet mission.”
“Is Major Sinnott armed?”
“He’s got a sniper rifle. Why would he bring a sniper rifle to make a straightforward arrest?”
Novikov took a few steps forward of the car so that he could see the entire bowl of the school grounds.
“I suspect he wants to kill my colleague, who is in that meeting. Colonel Sechin.”
“Has this Sechin fellow been paying Sinnott? Because Sinnott is ripe for being recruited. He owes huge tabs at pubs all over central London.”
“Major Sinnott is trying to cover his tracks; his connection to our embassy,” Novikov said. “He killed Helen Batcheller.”
“Jesus Christ!” Harkins said. It took him a dizzying moment to process what Novikov had just told him.
“How do you know that?” Harkins managed.
“Colonel Sechin told me. Sinnott killed her on Sechin’s orders.”
Harkins stood quietly for a moment, taking it all in.
“Now Sinnott wants to get rid of everyone who knows that,” Harkins said.
“Possibly,” Novikov said.
Harkins looked at Novikov. It was too dark to make out his features, except for the eye patch set against his pale skin.
“Why should I believe you?” he asked. “Why would you tell me that?”
“I do not want you to walk into an ambush, for one thing.”
“And you need me to fulfill my end of the bargain. Get that report to Ike.”
“We are soldiers,” Novikov said. “We must put the mission first.”
Harkins looked down at the headmaster’s cottage, which was still peaceful.
“So Kerr is one of your assets.”
“I do not know who is inside that building,” Novikov said. “It’s possible that the Americans in there have been turned. There is one asset Sechin described as very valuable. I don’t know if this person is American or British, in the cottage or not, and Sechin only knows a code name, not the identity.”
“Let’s just drive down to the cottage, sir,” Lowell said, stepping around to the passenger side of the car. “Make everyone come out. We can sort things out on the lawn.”
Harkins looked at her. “Are you holding a pistol, Lowell?”
Lowell raised a big Webley revolver, which looked gigantic in her hand, and which was secured—as per regulation—by a cord clipped to her belt. Just so. “Yes, sir,” she said. “In my induction training I qualified as an expert, too.”
“You’ll need to rest that thing on the hood of the car to hold it steady.”
“What are you thinking, Lieutenant?” Novikov asked.
“Well, I came here to catch Kerr in a compromising position with one of your colleagues, and I thought Major Sinnott did, too. But now I’m thinking that Sinnott has something else in mind. Now that I know he’s a murderer, well, things just got a little more sporty out here. And I have to get Annie Stowe out of there. She volunteered to help us catch Kerr, but she didn’t bargain for this. Oh, and Wickman is out there somewhere with Sinnott.”
“And Major Sinnott might take a shot at you, too,” Lowell added.
Harkins looked at her.
“Well, he’s bound to figure that everything is going to come out in the open,” she said. “And you already have your suspicions about him.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Just considering all the possibilities, sir.”
Harkins looked out on the scene, wondered how his MPs were doing over by the vehicles. Tallent was young, but he seemed a competent sort. He could protect his buddies for a while longer.
Lowell stepped up beside Harkins. “Colonel Novikov is armed, too, sir. The three of us could drive right up to the cottage door. It would be like a raid. It would be a raid.”
Harkins looked at her, her eyes reflecting what little light reached them from the valley below. She was egging him on.
“Quick’s the word and sharp’s the action,” Lowell said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, I’m not really sure,” she said, a little sheepish. “I read it in a story about Royal Navy boarding parties and I’ve always wanted to say it.”
“Lowell,” Harkins began.
And that’s when the bell started ringing.
* * *
Sinnott gave six or seven sharp pulls on the bell cord, watched as lights came on in the dormitory. A small fire he’d set in the neat pile of kindling and firewood alongside one wall of the dorm was catching. Finally, it wasn’t so much the bell or even visible flames that caused panic; it was the fact that the kids in this country retreat had already been traumatized by the bombings they’d endured in London, by their separation from home and family, by the turmoil that—for the younger ones at least—had been part of their entire lives.
<
br /> They raced out in pajamas, in robes, wrapped in blankets, many of them barefoot and every single one of them screaming as if sheer volume could make them safe, could save them from this latest peril.
“Fucking perfect,” Sinnott told himself. He unslung the sniper rifle and moved into the woodline in the gap between the headmaster’s cottage and Sechin’s sedan, a spot that allowed him to see both the front and back doors of the house where the Soviet was meeting. He stretched out on the wet grass, laid the crosshairs of the sight on the front door, and used the bolt action to put a round in the chamber.
The bodyguard came out first, pistol in his right hand. He took one look at the big lawn filling rapidly with screaming children, then disappeared around the far side of the house.
Sweeping the area, Sinnott thought.
As expected, the bodyguard appeared again behind the house, where he opened the back door, which was closest to their car. The man made a come here motion with his hand, then turned to scan the area. Sechin came out next and the bodyguard took him by the arm, pulling the older man along, dodging running children, and headed straight at Sinnott.
Sinnott took a breath, exhaled halfway, squeezed the trigger.
The bodyguard’s head snapped back; a spray of blood and brains caught the light spilling from the open door.
Sinnott pulled the bolt back and shoved it forward, pressed his eye to the scope. Sechin was on his hands and knees, looking around, trying to determine where the shot had come from. The panic in his herky-jerky movements was almost comical, like a Charlie Chaplin movie. Sinnott laughed deep in his throat and aimed for Sechin’s head. Then the Soviet surprised him, leaping from a crouch and grabbing a child, a black-haired little girl whose legs kept moving even as the big man wrapped her in his arms, a squirming human shield.
“Stupid piece of shit,” Sinnott muttered. The bullet would pass right through her and into Sechin. He took a breath, let it halfway out, squeezed the trigger again.
* * *
Harkins was running toward the cottage when he heard the first shot. He ducked, yanked his pistol from its holster. He made it to the circular drive where a dozen or so children milled about, most of them crying.
Where are the goddamn adults?
“Move up toward the gate, kids,” he called, trying to sound reassuring, like he knew what he was doing.
He spotted a flickering light on the wall of the dormitory; there was a fire nearby. He ran to the corner of the headmaster’s cottage, stepped around and saw flames along the wall of the dormitory. It looked like a woodpile; the building was not on fire yet. He looked back over his shoulder and saw some kids heading toward the gate, a few taller ones helping little ones.
Then the second shot, very close. Definitely a rifle.
Harkins pivoted, crouched, his weapon held in a two-handed grip in front of him. There was movement in the nearby woods.
He took a step forward. “Sinnott!” he yelled.
Harkins took another step, and that’s when the girl crashed into him. She bounced off and hit the ground in a tangle of white nightgown and skinny legs, black hair loose and nearly covering her face. She was beyond terror, not making a sound other than her breathing. Harkins reached down to help her up, but she scrambled away from him, headed toward the other children who were making their way to the gate area.
“Harkins! Over here!”
Annie Stowe was crouched over a figure writhing on the ground. Harkins ran to her, squatted down. They were completely exposed here, lit by the flames from the nearby woodpile, and someone was out there beyond the light with a rifle. Sinnott, most likely.
“Stowe! Are you okay?” Harkins asked. He did a quick sweep of the area. Another figure crouched in the shrubs on the back wall of the house.
“That’s Kerr over there,” she said. “This is his contact. Name’s Sechin.”
“Who’s that?” Harkins asked, pointing at another figure sprawled nearby.
“Bodyguard.”
Harkins stayed low as he moved to check the bodyguard, who’d been shot in the forehead, a single neat entrance wound almost perfectly centered above his eyes. He picked up the man’s pistol, an unfamiliar automatic, and shoved it in his belt.
“He’s dead,” Harkins told Stowe when he moved back. Sechin had been shot in the neck, and Stowe held a kitchen towel over the gash. There was a lot of blood, but it didn’t look to be an arterial wound.
“Did you see the shooter?”
“No. Came from over there, though,” she said, tilting her head toward the nearby woodline. Her eyes were wide—adrenaline—but otherwise she was perfectly calm. “Whoever he is, he’s gone.”
Harkins heard footsteps behind him, spun around and raised his pistol.
“Don’t shoot! It’s me, Tallent.”
The MP ran up, pistol drawn. “I came down when I heard shooting.”
Good man, Harkins thought. “Where are the others?”
“They’re sick,” Tallent said, squatting beside Harkins. “Afraid I’m your only backup.”
“We’re going after him,” Harkins said. “After the shooter. We’ll stick together, head back to the main road, see if we can flush him out.”
“How do you know he came from the main road?” Stowe asked. “Couldn’t he have come the other way?”
“His vehicle is up on the road,” Harkins said. He looked at Stowe. “It’s Major Sinnott.”
“Oh,” Stowe said. She looked down at Sechin. “He was working for them, then. For the Soviets. For this guy.”
She looked up at Harkins, her voice leaden. “Did Sinnott kill Helen?”
“Yeah,” Harkins said. “Looks that way.”
A few yards away two teenage boys beat at the woodpile fire with shovels, pulling the burning logs loose, throwing dirt on the flames.
“Ready, Tallent?” Harkins asked. The GI nodded.
Harkins stood in a low crouch and started jogging for the woodline. He heard Stowe call after him, but he was already a few steps into the trees when he realized she was saying, “Leave me a gun!”
* * *
Sinnott backed away from the firelight, furious with himself. He had eluded dozens of Gestapo agents for months, had managed to escape even after the treachery of the turncoats, and now here he was, on the run from a goddamned street cop who should have been satisfied days ago when he arrested Cushing. A goddamn street cop that Sinnott had brought on board, a self-inflicted wound.
He backed up, his rifle held low in two hands, finger on the trigger guard. Harkins and that big MP were on their feet. They hadn’t spotted him, but would begin a search any second. He wondered if the other MPs had also recovered, if they were waiting for him at his jeep. His brain flashed with only one imperative: he had to get away.
Off to his left he saw the Soviet staff car, parked in the wood line behind the headmaster’s cottage. He ran to it, yanked open the door, shoved his rifle inside, and climbed in. The interior reeked of cigarettes and body odor. The black sedan was one of those built in a Ford-designed plant east of Moscow, and Sinnott recognized the controls. He searched with his foot for a starter switch; when he found it, the engine turned over, though it sounded tiny and ran rough.
Sechin and his driver had come in by a back road, but Sinnott figured that Harkins’ MPs had closed that off, so he steered the car between two of the small houses and headed for the circular driveway that ran in front of all the buildings. The gravel path that climbed toward the gate was filled with dozens of children, some moving away, some heading back toward the dorm, many just standing around, unsure of what to do. Sinnott pressed the horn, scattering some of the kids. He rolled down the driver’s window and leaned out.
“Clear out of the way, please! Watch out, now. Clear out.”
He climbed the slight grade toward the gate and passed between the stone pillars that marked the entrance to the grounds. He was about to accelerate when he saw at least a half-dozen children sitting in the middle of the drive.
He put the car in park and opened his door, one leg on the ground, the other still inside the car.
“I need you kids to move,” he said, trying for stern but not threatening.
A couple of the kids, the bigger ones, began to stand.
“That’s it,” Sinnott said. “Good. Help the little ones there.”
They’re so fucking slow.
Two children, maybe a boy and a girl, sat in the roadway, crying and resisting the help from the older kids. The little boy sucked his thumb and yanked his shoulder away every time one of the bigger ones tried to get him to stand.
Sinnott looked behind him. He could now see a couple of adults in front of the headmaster’s cottage. He couldn’t tell if Harkins was among them, but he knew the cop was looking for him. Harkins had even called his name when he approached the cottage.
“Get out of the goddamn road!” Sinnott shouted. He reached into the car and leaned on the horn.
That’s when he saw the staff car, a big Dodge sedan with a white star on the side.
It was off to his left, about thirty yards away, tucked among the trees, pointing toward him. It was too dark to see inside the sedan, but Sinnott heard the other car’s engine start up.
“Get out of the way!” he shouted again, then jumped into the driver’s seat. He put it in gear and began rolling forward. The little boy who’d been sucking his thumb was still in the road, legs splayed in front of him, his pajama pants dirty, one foot bare, the other wrapped in a sock. He turned his little moon face toward Sinnott and the dim blackout lights of the car. The road here was too narrow to go around, ditches on either side. Sinnott pressed the accelerator and told himself the car had enough ground clearance to roll over the boy.
The boy’s face was just about to disappear below the car’s hood when another kid snatched the little one out of his path. Sinnott looked to his right as he rolled past, saw the bigger boy—who was no more than ten—and the little guy stumble backward away from the road.
“That’s the way to do it, kid!” Sinnott shouted, suddenly elated. He stomped the accelerator. “That’s the way to move!”
