The Domino Game (46 page)

Their last touch.

Keep this for
me.

His last words to her, and hers to him.

I will. I promise. Always. I love you, Niko.

Then a movement from the side caught his eye and the window to the past slammed shut as abruptly as it had opened and he swung away.

At the edge of the room Hartman’s daughter was trying to pull herself upright, groaning urgently from behind her gag, tossing her head, trying to fling her hair back from her face again, her eyes desperate and imploring, tracing wildly between Nikolai and something beyond. By the time he turned it was already too late. The lighter must have spun from his pocket when he grabbed the torch. On the floor behind him the woman had it closed in her grasp. Her thumb had already worked back the lid and struck the flame and now it was poised in her shaking hand. She struggled up to one elbow, her body convulsing with shock and pain, her eyes fixed on Nikolai, one dark and gleaming, the other a bloodied black hole, staring at him with sightless indictment. Beside him he heard Hartman’s voice low and even in his ear.

“It’s over, Gina. Put it down.”

The woman pulled herself aside from Yuri and dragged herself upright, the weight of her body propped against her free arm. Her head turned slowly towards Hartman and when she spoke it seemed to Nikolai almost as though she knew him. As though they may have been friends or something more.

‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do, Jack.” Her lips bent in a brittle smile. “I’m going to put it down.”

36

Seeking the refuge
of his study had become a habit for Malcolm Powell: another pre-programmed opportunity to avoid the tense and unproductive confrontations with his wife that had become the more or less sole basis of their communication these days. When he was at home in Manhattan with no other commitments, these were the hours he spent here, doors closed, with the three television sets mounted in the mahogany shelving opposite his desk playing on mute in the background, standing by to provide an instant connection to the world and its events. As a rule one was kept tuned to the markets, a second to CNN, the third to WABC, New York. That way he had it all covered. Money, politics and passion and everything in between.

It was the
Breaking News
banner on the third set that caught his attention partway through the nine o’clock news. When he saw the map of Westchester flick up to the screen with a red circle marking Pocantico Hills he dragged his reading glasses down his nose and reached for the remote, clicking in the sound and leaning forward to listen and watch.

And just repeating,
the male presenter looked up at the camera.

In news just received, a fire in Westchester County tonight in an incident that is thought to have claimed the life of Jack Hartman, one of the country’s foremost authorities on organized crime. Hartman, a former CIA officer turned author and respected commentator, was scheduled to give evidence tomorrow to a special Senate Committee Hearing at which it’s understood he was intending to release new information concerning links between Russian criminal interests and American business. Hartman’s house at Pocantico Hills, north-east of Tarrytown, was razed to the ground earlier this evening in the fire which, according to police sources, appears to have been deliberately lit. Two bodies were found in the basement, one of which is understood to be Hartman’s. State Police and the FBI are investigating. More news on that as it comes to hand. And now, moving
along…

Whatever came next it was lost beneath Powell’s astonishment. His thumb hit the volume button and ran it back down until the last green bar disappeared from the screen.

He’d done it!

Powell tossed his head, as if it needed clearing. Ivankov had delivered just as he had promised and by remote control from Moscow, no less. Not just dealing with Hartman but torching his house as well, which was presumably where all Hartman’s records would have been kept. A surprised smile glided across Powell’s face and his head turned slowly in silent admiration. So, before long now he could expect the calls from the media to start streaming in. It would take them a while, of course, to establish the identity of the second body, and a while after that to work out who Nikolai Aven actually was. Then the journalists, if not the police or the FBI, would fit it all together and the phone would ring and it would be someone from FOX or NBC or ABC asking for his comment, and when they did he would be gracious as Ivankov had suggested. Magnanimous in his retrospective, and why not? Jack Hartman was beyond hurting him now.

“Over here! He’s coming around.”

The words swam through Nikolai’s head as if they were part of the soundtrack of a dream but there was no character to speak them, just an empty dark landscape that seemed to stretch on forever. Then something touched his arm and a surge of white hot pain seared through him, starbursts of electric color exploding through his brain. He flinched and his limbs and chest drew tight, the breath bursting back from his lungs in a racking fit of coughing that shocked his system awake in its instinctive struggle for air and life. His eyes came open with the shock and he rolled aside, hunching over, rasping, spitting up bile and smoke-stained air. The stink of the fire and fumes was trapped in his nostrils, drawn in again with each ragged breath.

He tried to see but his eyes were blurred with burning tears. He closed them, pressing them tight until the coughing subsided, then rolled across to his back, gasping for breath, flinging his right arm back across his face. A touch settled on his shoulder. The same voice again, steady and reassuring, reaching towards him from beyond the flare-patterned blackness.

“Take it easy buddy, okay? I think you’re all right. Just lie still a moment. Get your breath.”

He felt himself nodding. Coughed again. Held his eyes closed and forced himself to relax, taking one shallow breath after another until he could feel the rhythm of his lungs start to settle. When it did he lowered his hand to his side and opened his eyes again, blinking them clear, his vision gradually sliding into a clouded focus. Above him a lined face peered down – a face he had never seen before – the watchful eyes flickering between his. The man had silver hair and rimless glasses that danced with the reflected glow of the fire. Nikolai felt his senses falling back into balance. From somewhere behind he could hear the snapping spark of burning timber rising above the low crushing roar of the flames. His right hand moved aside, tracing the grass beneath his fingers. He started to lift himself from the waist but his left arm came into contact with something again and the pain ricocheted back from his brain. The face above him grimaced and loomed closer.

“Your left arm’s badly burnt, son. Just leave it where it is. I’ve called the ambulance. They’re on their way.”

Nikolai nodded limply and fell back to the ground, his brain swirling with the exertion. From somewhere in the distance he thought he could make out the wail of sirens. The sky was now a sweeping hemisphere of darkening blue, pierced with stars that glistened and faded through the smoke. Fragments of sparking breeze-borne ash floated by above him. He stared at them, watching them pass, trying to remember what had happened.

He had tried to stop her. Tried to lunge for the lighter but by then it was already too late. He watched as it arced backwards across her shoulder towards the bookcases that lined the end wall, igniting them in a crumpling burst of explosion. A sheet of dense black smoke erupted against the ceiling and rolled forward like a thunderhead across the room, blasting a wave of scorched air before it. The woman’s arm collapsed as Nikolai fell across her. He pushed her aside and struggled upright, letting instinct take over, clawing for the knife in his pocket and pulling it open as he reeled back to the desk. The gasoline the woman had poured across the floor had settled to the lowest points of the perimeter forming a trench of fire along two sides of the room. Hartman’s wrists were struggling against the bindings that locked them to the arm of the chair. He saw Nikolai coming towards him with the knife in his hand and tossed his head.

“Leave me!” He threw a desperate look across his shoulder. “Get my daughter!”

Nikolai had forgotten the bound woman on the floor. He spun towards her and saw her struggling sideways, wriggling her feet away from the advancing flames. He swung back to Hartman, compromising on his protest, slicing the knife through the cords that laced his right wrist then moving on, stumbling behind him towards the woman on the floor.

He fell across her, swinging her feet back towards him, dragging them away from the flames, striking up with the blade, hacking through one turn of binding then the next, bringing the knife up to her wrists as she kicked out, thrashing the cords away from her feet. His eyes locked on hers as he worked.

“Listen to me!” He threw a glance towards the entry. The opening to the stairwell was ablaze in a wall of fire, the flames licking backwards across the clothing of the dead man sprawled across the floor. “Stay here! Don’t try to get out!” She nodded urgently as her wrists broke free, her hands lifting to the nape of her neck, struggling with the knot at the back of the gag.

Nikolai rolled aside again, clambering to his feet. Behind the desk Hartman was still flailing at the cord that wrapped his left arm. The flames were closing in on him now, eating their way across the rug, coursing along the wall behind the steel shelving. He saw Nikolai coming and tossed his head again. “I’ll get it. Don’t worry!” He threw his head towards the wall beside the entry. “Extinguisher! Over there!”

Nikolai spun around, staring wildly through the veil of fire that licked the cork-covered wall. The papers were alight, floating on the scorched air, the photographs curling and shrinking up to nothing like burnt film. To the left, beside the door, he could just make out the canisters fixed to the wall.

“The red one,” he heard Hartman call from behind.

He cast around, looking for something to protect his arm but there was nothing. Nothing else to do.

He thrust his left hand through the sheet of fire, turning his face away, his fingers grappling at the mounting, breaking the canister free, dragging it backwards through the blistering heat. Behind him Hartman was free now, ripping the cord away from his wrist, pushing his chair back and stumbling towards his daughter, wrapping her in his arms. Around the edges of the room the flames had almost joined, locking them in a square of fire. Hartman led Kelly forward, his glance registering the melted skin of Nikolai’s arm, their eyes meeting, holding for a moment in a silent acknowledgment. His gaze travelled on to the sheet of fire that blocked the entry. He grimaced and let his daughter go, pushing her towards Nikolai, grabbing the extinguisher from his hand.

“Look after her,” he said quietly.

Nikolai nodded. Took the woman and folded her to his side.

Hartman broke the seal on the canister and studied the blazing doorway, his eyes glancing back to Nikolai again. Beside him the woman was staring back at him, her eyes wild with fear. Hartman turned to her.

“Go with him, Kel. He’ll look after you.” He forced a smile.

“I’ll be fine.” He swung back to the fire and hit the trigger and a sheet of foam sprayed into the flames. “Now! Go!”

Nikolai closed his arm around Hartman’s daughter and pulled her with him through the storm of fire and foam. Fingertips of flame struggled towards them from either side as they passed, then closed behind them again as they stumbled from one foyer to the next, into the stairwell. Behind them Nikolai could hear the ceiling lights exploding in the heat. They reached the bottom of the staircase but the woman pulled back, struggling against him, trying to break away. He grabbed her by the shoulders and held her rigid, staring into her eyes.

“Listen to me!” he gasped. The heat was unbearable. The air scalded by fire and smoke. Despite it he drew a breath. “Go upstairs. Get out of here. Call someone. Get help!” He snared a glance across his shoulder. Behind him the flames were edging forward into the foyer, trickling along the wall. They would reach the staircase soon and that would be the end. Her eyes swung wildly, searching his. He nodded his answer. “I’ll go back.” He turned aside as she clambered up the stairs, calling into the room through the roar of the flames.

“Hartman? Can you hear me? Give me the extinguisher! Roll it out and I’ll work it from this side.”

The voice came back again, stretched with exertion. “Okay. I’ve just got to get something. Twenty seconds!”

Nikolai pulled back behind the second doorway into the cover of the stairwell, cupping his hand across his face to try to filter the air. Eventually he heard the roll of steel against tile as Hartman lobbed the red canister through the flames. Nikolai leapt forward, grabbed it and aimed, calling back through the searing curtain of fire. “Ready?”

From somewhere behind it he heard Hartman coughing, choking on the smoke. Finally his voice called back. “Yeah! Ready. Let’s go!”

The sound of the sirens was coming closer now. Not one tone but two; the second crossing the first, then a third, rising behind them. When Nikolai opened his eyes this time the man with the glasses was gone. Hartman’s daughter was standing in his place, staring down at him with a strange, searching look. What was left of her shirt was smeared and stained with smoke and dirt. So was her face but even so, now, without the gag, he could see the beauty of her features. Her eyes swept back to his, studying him again and she reached out gently and touched a hand to the side of his face.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you so much, whoever you are.”

Then Hartman was standing beside her, one hand settling on her shoulder the other extending towards him, a tight, narrow smile setting his lips.

“You okay to get up?”

Nikolai nodded. Swung his right hand across, pulling himself upright against Hartman’s strong grasp. His head swam for a moment with the sudden movement and Hartman steadied him. They were on the grass slope perhaps fifty yards back from the house. What little was left of it was still burning, the crews from two fire tenders working without urgency, their defeat already accepted. Of the cars out the front only the Jaguar had survived. Someone had managed to roll it away from the entry so that it now lay skewed at an angle, further down the slope. Further on, at the edge of the drive, a police cruiser was pulling to a stop, an ambulance not far behind. Hartman studied Nikolai’s arm, ignoring the house.

“Let’s get that seen to, okay?” He took a long look at the younger man. “Then, if you’re up to it, I think you and I better have a talk.”

A second police cruiser had arrived, a tall, suited man unwinding himself from the passenger seat and studying the scene. Hartman excused himself. Left Nikolai at the back of the ambulance and moved across to the new arrival – someone he knew, it seemed – drawing him aside. After a few minutes of mainly one-sided conversation the man in the suit nodded and walked away, back to the two uniformed officers from the first car. He spoke a few words to them then returned to Hartman and they watched together as the uniforms made their way across to the figure lying on the grass.

The guy was conscious now. He’d scared the hell out of Hartman, coming awake writhing and gagging behind him as Hartman was trying to get to the safe. Faced with the sudden choice between trying to save his Senate evidence and another life, he’d gone with the life. Knowing who the guy was now he was beginning to think he’d made a mistake. One of the paramedics was crouched beside him, dressing the wound in his gut. He finished what he was doing and made way for a couple of the cops. Someone had already pulled the duct tape aside from the guy’s mouth. They finished the job by ripping it away, then unwound the rest from his ankles and wrists, dragged him to his feet, cuffed him and led him away. Further across the grass Kelly was standing beside the man with the glasses – Hartman’s nearest neighbor – silently watching the flames. He’d been heading home from a trip to the village when he’d seen the smoke. Found the four of them already outside, looking like they’d just stumbled out of a war zone.