The Istanbul Decision (12 page)

As they sped toward the camp's front gate, she transferred the gun to the driver, lodging it firmly against his temple. The Soviet embassy and stop for nothing. Nothing, do you understand?"

"Anything you say, lady."

They shot through the gate and out onto the open road. A column of motorcycle-riding military police fell into line behind them, sirens blaring and lights flashing. They followed at a discreet distance until the cab turned north on the highway, then a few of them passed so there were motorcycles fore and aft.

The speedometer needle rose to sixty and stayed there. The driver was a big black man, and behind his thick beard his face revealed a grim determination not to be afraid. As he drove, Tatiana kept the big revolver close against his head.

"Think you could point that thing the other way, lady?" he asked finally. "It's a little hard to drive with that thing in my face like that."

Without saying a word, Tatiana pulled the hammer back until it clicked into a cocked position.

"I get the picture," he said.

Dilsey stared with empty eyes out the window. The life seemed to have drained out of her.

The cab swung onto the on-ramp of the highway. The two lead motorcycles' flashing taillights turned to solid red as brakes were applied.

"They want us to slow down," said the driver.

"No slowing!" shouted Tatiana nervously.

"I got to, lady. They're holding me back."

Tatiana hit the horn in a long blast that made Dilsey jump. The big Harleys shot forward, widening the gap between them and the cab.

"Keep moving!"

As they pulled onto the highway, the nation's capital became visible in the distance. "Almost there," said the driver.

The radio spit. "Tatiana," said a voice. "Tatiana Kobelev, can you hear me?"

In her highly excited state, Tatiana flinched at the sound of her name. She grabbed the cabby s shoulder, digging the gun even more firmly into the side of his head.

"Easy, lady," he said. "It's just the radio. Somebody wants to talk."

Her eyes wildly searched the dashboard until she saw the microphone. She picked it up with her free hand and keyed the microphone. This is Tatiana Kobelev. Who is this?"

"Special Agent Parks, FBI. We've been in contact with the Soviet embassy, and they say you are not welcome. Repeat, not welcome. We have the charge d'affaires on his way here to talk to you now."

"Turn it off," Tatiana told the driver. He reached over and flipped the switch, and they rode the rest of the way downtown in silence.

In a large office on Pennsylvania Avenue, across the city from the speeding taxicab, Undersecretary of State Paul Lathrop was reading a file spread out on his desk. John Mills, National Security Advisor to President Manning, watched attentively from an easy chair a few feet away, his expression haggard, his fingers nervously twisting a ballpoint pen. Standing behind him, hands in pockets, David Hawk stared out the window at the east face of the White House, which was just up the street, a cigar clenched tightly in his teeth.

Undersecretary Lathrop finished his reading, closed the file jacket, and cleared his throat, breaking a silence that had lasted several minutes.

"Gentlemen," he said, "am I being led to believe that Millicent Stone — who attempted an assassination of President Manning and who eventually committed suicide by hanging herself in her cell and whose diary we have all read in the national media — did not in fact pull the trigger?"

"That's right, Paul. A hoax," said Mills, squinting his eyes and fluttering his lashes as though the truth spoken aloud caused him no small measure of physical pain.

"And that the real assassin, some Russian girl who's been illegally detained in a base hospital somewhere…"

"Camp Peary."

"Yes, Camp Peary, has kidnapped a cab driver and a nurse and right now is on her way to the Soviet embassy here in Washington to seek asylum?"

"That's the long and short of it, yes."

"I'm finding all this rather difficult to believe. The thought that the American government would deliberately suppress information of such a grave nature…"

"Spare us the speech, Paul. The girl will beat the embassy door in a few minutes. Just sign the order."

"I'm afraid my conscience won't allow me to let a woman like this off scot-free."

"We don't have much choice. If the Secretary himself were here, I'd have him order you to sign, but Bill's out of the country, so I'm asking you as a friend. Sign it and do it quickly."

"I still don't know why you come to me. Why don't you sign it? Or better yet, let Manning handle it."

"It'll look more attractive this way, on down the line, if it comes from the lowest possible level."

"They don't want to get their hands dirty," Hawk growled, turning around. "Nobody wants the responsibility."

"Then I'm not sure I do either, said Lathrop, pushing the file onto Mills's side of the desk.

"Listen to me," said Mills, rising. "We can't detain her, because legally she doesn't exist. And now that she's out in the open, she's becoming an embarrassment. I talked to the President not twenty minutes ago, and the decision has been made. We're going to just let her go with as little stink as possible, even if the Russians don't want her, which I have just been informed they don't. Now dammit, Paul, if the President can forgive and forget, why can't you? After all, he was the one she was shooting at."

Lathrop stared belligerently up at Mills. "I don't take kindly to being coerced."

Mills sank back into his chair with a sigh. Then he took off his glasses and made a production of cleaning them. "Let me put it this way," he said, examining the lenses carefully. "The President would consider it a great personal favor if you would sign."

Lathrop looked down pensively at the typewritten sheet sticking out from the bottom cover of the file jacket. "The President told you to tell me that?"

"He did."

Then it was Lathrop s turn to sigh. "Where's a pen?"

Mills quickly handed him the one in his hand. As Lathrop scratched his signature, Hawk tapped Mills's shoulder and drew him across the room.

"I have to be going," he said.

"I understand. Thanks for coming. Your being here added a lot of necessary weight."

"You know this isn't how I wanted the Kobelev woman handled," Hawk said.

Mills nodded. "The President tells me we have an agent in Europe who may be seriously compromised if the girl is loose. But you have to understand our position, too. For the safety of the nation, we covered up a rather serious crime. Someday it will ail come out in the wash, but can you imagine what would happen right now if the American public were to find out the KGB itself ran an operation in this country to kill the President? With tensions between our two countries on the rise of late? This agent of ours, he's a pretty good man?"

"The best. He's also a personal friend."

"He'll be all right, you think?"

Hawk shook his head doubtfully. "He's gotten himself out of some rough scrapes before, but this time he's up against some pretty stiff competition. We'll just have to wait and see."

Carter's heavy Luger thudded to the floor of the salon car, and was quickly scooped up by one of Kobelev's guards and placed on the bar. He squeezed through the small vent, hung for a moment, then dropped to his feet. The guard immediately grabbed his shoulder and shoved him into a swivel chair. Then the second guard, who had waylaid Carter on the roof, dropped into the car and took up a position by the back door.

Kobelev set his vodka glass on the bar and picked up the Luger. He ejected the clip from the butt, then turned and fired into the wall, the bullet in the firing chamber making a
chunk
sound as it splintered the paneling.

"You
did
mean business," he said.

Cynthia sat in front of the bar, her head slumped forward, seemingly unconscious. She was held into her wheelchair with sashes of bedsheet.

"Really, Carter, I 'm rather disappointed. You've taken all this entirely too personally," he went on.

"What have you done to Cynthia?" Carter asked harshly.

"Cynthia?" Kobelev looked over, eyebrows arched, as though he'd forgotten completely she was there. "Is that her name? We hadn't time to administer the usual injections to get any information out of her."

"What did you do to her?"

"No reason to become alarmed, dear boy. She's simply asleep. We find she's a bit easier to handle this way. No need to worry, though. Gregor here is an expert at such things. Isn't that right, Gregor?"

The guard by the door smiled broadly. His hair had been shaved into a brown stubble, as was that of the guard who watched attentively by the bar.

"Do you like my little family?" asked Kobelev. "I found them in a monastery in the Urals. Their order has been fighting Cossacks for centuries. Natural-born assassins, each of them."

"Including…"

"Including Shurin? Yes." Kobelev suddenly switched on what looked to be a shortwave radio that rested on the bar. Immediately sounds of struggle emanated from the speaker, grunts of effort and loud scraping noises, then silence and the voice of the assistant chef: "
Mon Dieu,monsieur!
We did not think you would live!" Kobelev switched it off. "I always wire each of my men. It allows me to be in many places at the same time. Show him, Gregor."

The guard pulled up his thick turtleneck sweater to reveal a tiny microphone taped to his brawny chest.

"I am a difficult man to surprise."

"I see that," said Carter.

"But there is no reason to steal in here like a thief, Mr. Carter," Kobelev continued, taking his drink and sitting himself across the low cocktail table from Carter. "I've been looking forward to seeing you again. As I said before, you're taking this business entirely too personally. I do my job, you do yours, but there is no reason we can't remain friends. We are alike, you and I, men of action, inclined to be a little ruthless when it comes to something we want."

"You're crazy. Sending your own daughter to kill the President of the United States. What on earth did you hope to accomplish besides World War III?"

"Power, to put it simply. One has to think boldly, act boldly. Have you read Napoleon's memoirs?"

"No."

"You should. He has a wealth of advice for men like us. But you mentioned my daughter."

"We still have her," said Carter, brightening.

"Yes. She's well, I trust?"

"Afraid not. Had to put a bullet in her to keep her from killing the President. Lodged against her spine. Doctors say she'll never walk again."

Kobelev stared darkly into the bottom of his vodka. "That's bitter news," he said. "Bitter news, indeed. I hate the sight of a cripple. I truly do." He abruptly threw down the rest of the clear liquid and set the glass with a sharp
clack
on the tabletop. "Is that why the wheelchair for the decoy? " he asked.

"We thought it lent a touch of authenticity. We couldn't be sure how much you knew."

"I see. I want her back, Carter. Immediately! If Tatiana is not returned to me, I shall have to torture our little decoy here until she tells me where my daughter is being kept and I will mount a rescue operation of my own."

"What if I told you Cynthia doesn't know where Tatiana is?"

"That would be most unfortunate. Most likely, then, she will not survive the interrogation." Kobelev took up his glass and headed back to the bar. "There will have to be some sort of time limit, of course," he said. "Shall we say, then, that Tatiana must be returned here to me before the train reaches Istanbul, or I cannot be responsible for this young lady's safety?"

The eyes of each of the guards followed Kobelev as he went behind the bar to get the vodka bottle. Carter reached up and yanked the emergency-brake cord that ran through grommets just over the window. There was an ear-piercing screech of metal. Everything pitched forward. Kobelev smashed headlong into the liquor cabinet behind the bar, and the two guards sprawled on the floor. Cynthia, her wheelchair unlocked, rolled against the bar, tipped forward, then came down hard, her head lolling back and forth from the impact.

Carter snatched up his Luger and charged the door. He pulled it open just as a bullet whined off the metal jamb inches from his head. Another shot was fired as he ducked into the passageway between cars.

Two windows took the place of the double Dutch doors he'd found behind the dining car, and although the frames were old, the glass looked new, double plated and heavily insulated. He pulled up one frantically, but it was bolted shut. For a fleeting instant, he considered smashing it, but the thought of jumping through a hole surrounded by jagged pieces of glass held no appeal for him, and he threw open the door into the next car instead.

Everything in here was pandemonium. Most of the passengers had been catapulted from their seats. Several held their heads, and there seemed to be a great deal of blood.

Carter glanced quickly around, trying to find the guard he'd been told was stationed here. A knot of people stood over a figure stretched out in the middle of the aisle. Through the crowd he caught a glimpse of the telltale blue turtleneck and the shaved head. Apparently the guard had been the only one standing when the brakes locked.

Without waiting to find out if the man was seriously injured, Carter mounted the backs of two seats, pushed off the lid of the vent hole, and was in the process of wriggling his way out when someone yelled "Halt!" in Russian. A shot sounded and something solid hit the edge of his shoe.

He pulled out of the hole just as another bullet creased his trouser leg, then he scrambled to his feet, took two quick steps and was over the side, falling for what seemed an eternity. He landed hard, fell forward, and rumbled.