Summit (45 page)

Arnie didn't sound entirely sure of himself. Good. He was probably alone, then. Sullivan pictured him on the other side of the thin wall, probably with his gun drawn too, a mirror image of his prey. Sullivan wasn't going to beat him by force. He thought for a moment, and then tossed his gun onto the floor. He stepped into the doorway, hands in the air.

"That's much better," Arnie said. He appeared in front of Sullivan in the doorway. He looked to be standard CIA issue: young, impeccably groomed, utterly forgettable. Sullivan had looked like that once. It occurred to him that Arnie could have been KGB. But if he were KGB, Sullivan would have been dead by now.

Arnie's gun was aimed at Sullivan's chest. He blew a bubble. "We want you to come in, Bill. It'll be better that way for everyone."

He sounded excited. He'd get a medal for this if he pulled it off. Sullivan had a lot more at stake.

Now.

He covered his face with his hands. "I don't know what came over me," he sobbed. "I've been drinking. My wife left me. It's all been too much."

"I understand," Arnie said. He took a step into the room and put a hand on Sullivan's shoulder.

Sullivan immediately reached down and grabbed the hand that held the gun. He slammed it against the open door. Arnie howled with pain, and the gun dropped to the floor.

"Fucking bas—" Arnie tried to say, but Sullivan slugged him in the jaw before he could get out the last syllable. Arnie staggered backwards. He tried a karate kick but didn't quite have his balance, and he missed. Sullivan had forgotten all his karate, so he punched Arnie again, as hard as he could. Arnie's chin snapped back, and his body toppled over. His head struck a metal comer of the bed frame.

Sullivan heard a sound like that of a hockey stick breaking through bone. Blood gushed from the back of Arnie's head. He twitched, and then lay still.

"Hey, keep it down in there, assholes!" someone shouted.

Sullivan checked Arnie's pulse. Nothing. He went over and picked up the guns, then shut the door and leaned back against it, his eyes closed. The knuckles of his right hand ached from where they had made contact with Arnie's jaw.

It had been easier this time. You get used to it, apparently.

"...for questioning in the brutal slaying of Colonel Thomas Poole..." he heard someone say.

Sullivan opened his eyes. He saw himself on television.

Nationwide manhunt,
the anchorman intoned.
Armed and should be considered dangerous.
Now the whole world was going to be after him. Oh Lord. He thought of his mother watching the news. And Danny.

But what could he do?

He couldn't stay here—even if there hadn't been a corpse on the floor. Arnie would be missed. They would come looking for him.

He had to do
something.

Sullivan found a pair of sunglasses in Arnie's pocket. Better than nothing. He took the money out of the dead man's wallet; Arnie wouldn't be needing it now. He stuck his gun back in his shoulder holster and put on his suit coat. Then he took a deep breath and left the hotel room without looking back.

On TV, the Dow Jones industrial average drifted lower in moderate trading.

* * *

Blue police barricades had been set up on both sides of the Soviet Mission on East Sixth-seventh Street. A large contingent of policemen was keeping an eye on a somewhat smaller number of demonstrators. The policemen were sipping coffee and chatting with one another, but they looked capable of handling anything the demonstrators decided to try.

Sullivan watched for a few moments before deciding that the policemen were capable of handling him too. He wasn't going to shoot his way into the place.

He was still wearing the sunglasses, although there was little sunlight left. He was also wearing a cloth cap and a pea jacket; his suit coat had disappeared into a dumpster. He walked quickly past the demonstrators and stationed himself on the corner of Sixty-seventh and Third; a little sign proclaimed it Sakharov-Bonner Corner to annoy the Russians. Any car coming to the Soviet Mission would have to turn in front of him.

It wasn't much of an idea, but it was the only one he had.

Time passed. He bought a newspaper and pretended to read it. He looked at his watch and pretended he was waiting for someone. After a while it became too dark for the sunglasses, and he had to take them off. He felt naked. Surely some of the people passing him on the busy corner had watched the evening news. Surely one of them would recognize him and go tell one of the cops down the street. And then it would be over—a final failure to go with all the others in his life. Damn it. He deserved a chance at salvation.

A car turned. One of the men in the backseat was wearing sunglasses.

Sullivan sighed with the relief of someone who has been saved. The man, indifferently disguised, was Daniel Fulton. Sullivan watched as the driver stopped the car at the police lines and presented his identification. The car then disappeared into the garage attached to the Mission.

It was a start, anyway. But he wouldn't get any further unless Fulton came back out.

If he did, Sullivan would be ready. He hurried over to Lexington Avenue and hailed a cab. He handed the driver fifty dollars. "A car is going to be pulling out of Sixty-seventh Street in a while," he said to the driver. "I want you to follow it for me."

The driver's face lit up. "No shit?"

"No shit."

"All right! I've been hackin' twelve years and never got to do this. Is there gonna be a chase or something?"

"I doubt it. But you've got to be inconspicuous."

"Don't worry, they won't know a thing. I'm the best there is. I hope there's a chase, though. That would be fuckin' unbelievable. Ever see
The French Connection?"

Sullivan ignored the guy. He sat in the backseat of the cab and stared at the corner where the car would appear—if it was going to appear. He hadn't prayed in a long time, but he was praying now.

Chapter 43

The fog swirls around her. It is night now, and she can see nothing. The tears burn her cheeks.

"Can you hear me?"

He is still breathing. Perhaps he'll regain consciousness. Perhaps he'll die. But in either case she can do nothing. She is too tired. Much too tired.

"It's Olga, darling. You must try to come back to us."

How? The fog, the darkness, the locked doors. The exhaustion. She cannot move. She cannot do anything.

"If you could just say something—let me know you're all right."

Why? If she speaks, her pain will only become more real. If she goes back, she will only have to return. She closes her eyes. The darkness does not change.

"Daniel Fulton will be here soon, Valentina. Try to come back for him."

Daniel. She has failed him. Winn lies beside her, unconquered, and that means Daniel will not be freed. She tried. If only she could have tried harder... The tears start in earnest.

"Valentina, it's all right. Just rest, darling. Just rest."

And then suddenly she said something through her tears. To Doctor Chukova, it sounded like the word "fog." Or perhaps it was just a groan torn from her ravaged soul.

* * *

Yevgeny and Viktor escorted Daniel Fulton from the garage through a short passageway to a guarded elevator. The guard examined their IDs and let them on. They took the elevator up to the seventh floor. Another guard greeted them when the doors opened.

Everything took place in silence. Fulton was almost trembling with fear and anticipation. They walked down a corridor and were confronted by two men. One was Lawrence Hill. Fulton did not recognize the other man, but he looked as if he was in charge. "Good evening, Mr. Fulton," the man said. He spoke in English with a Russian accent.

Fulton did not reply. He wasn't sure he was capable of replying.

"We must warn you that Valentina is quite weak. She is not to be excited. Your visit will be brief—only long enough to prove to her that you are still alive. It will be terminated immediately if you act improperly. Is that understood?"

Fulton managed to nod.

"She's all right, Daniel," Hill said. "But it's been a long day for her. She may seem a bit—well, vague."

"Where is she?" Fulton asked. His voice shook.

The Russian pointed at a door. Fulton walked over to it and went inside.

He was in a dimly lit bedroom. A stout Russian-looking woman in a white coat stared at him from across the room. He ignored her and knelt by the bed.

Valentina was lying there. He clasped her hand. Her white skin was even paler than usual; her lips were chapped and bloodless; her eyes were red from crying. They stared at him unseeing.
She is not all right,
he thought, his anger at Hill rising like bile. And then he thought absurdly of Mimi in the final act of
La Bohème.

She's dying,
he thought.

Corragio,
the Bohemians had said to Rodolfo. Where was Fulton's courage? "Valentina?"

Her eyes seemed to focus on him, and she said something unintelligible. Was it Russian?

"Are you all right, Valentina?" What a stupid thing to say.

She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it.

He buried his face on the bed beside her. He left his hand on her cheek. "Don't worry about anything, darling," he said when he finally raised his head. Did he see a faint smile pass over her face?

"Enough," the Russian said from the doorway behind him.

"I love you," Fulton whispered. And he wondered why he hadn't said those words to her before. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. She closed her eyes. He wanted to stay, but what good would it do to argue with the hard-eyed Russian? He got to his feet and walked out of the room.

Hill was still standing in the corridor. "You're killing her," Fulton said to him.

Hill shrugged. "She's survived this sort of thing many times before."

"It doesn't matter to you whether she survives or not, this time. Does it?"

Hill just stared at him.

Fulton turned away. Yevgeny and Viktor were waiting to take him back. He walked slowly down the corridor to join them.

* * *

Viktor was driving. Yevgeny stayed in the backseat with Fulton. Viktor was still a little upset with the American. He could understand Fulton not wanting to play for them, but he didn't have to be so nasty about it.

Viktor turned on the radio and twiddled the dial until he found some classical music. It was Chopin: the
Funeral March
from the B-flat minor sonata. "I adore Chopin," he said.

"Very gloomy," Yevgeny remarked from the backseat.

"But magnificent gloom," Viktor replied. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Fulton was staring out his window into the darkness. Maybe not the right sort of music for him just now. But Viktor couldn't stand to turn it off; his soul reveled in the dark, somber sounds. He wished he could play the piano. He had taken lessons once, but it was hopeless. Fulton didn't realize how lucky he was to have such a talent.

Viktor hummed along with the melody all the way back to the safe house.

Chapter 44