Maybe that wasn’t really very surprising. Decades of life under dictatorship had taught Muscovites when to look the other way. Especially when they saw a foreign-looking woman being chased by men who were obviously Chekists, secret policemen of some kind.
Erin lengthened her stride again, running faster now as she neared the river. Should she turn north or south once she reached the quay? South would take her closer to where she’d last seen Banich and the others. But north would take her back toward the bulk of Gorky Park, the Crimea Bridge, the giant Hotel Warsaw, and, most important of all, a Metro stop. That cinched it. She would go north. Moscow’s intricate subway system offered her the best chance to evade pursuit and make her way to safety.
Still sprinting at top speed, she broke out of the woods and saw the sunlight sparkling on the river. Tall apartment buildings, the Frunze Quay housing complex, lined the opposite shore. She slanted north, flying down a gentle grassy slope to the edge of the road. An angry shout, more a bull roar than a human cry, told her that the three Frenchmen, breathing hard now, were falling behind.
She was outrunning them!
Her own labored breathing steadied as new energy surged through her body — the same burst of strength and endurance she’d always relied on to win distance races. As she opened the gap, pulling away from her pursuers, Erin felt the exhilaration she always experienced in victory.
And then her euphoria turned to despair.
A black sedan zoomed past her, braked wildly, and skidded sideways to a stop right in her path.
Erin tried to twist away, but she was running too fast and the car was just too close. Her ankle gave way when she tried to turn. She stumbled, lost her balance, and slammed into the side of the sedan while still moving flat out.
Pain flared red and the world went away for several seconds.
When the pain receded slightly, she found herself firmly held, her arms pinioned behind her back. Her captor, a short, narrow-faced man with pale blue eyes and a reptilian gaze, wasn’t taking any chances. From the sound of the short-tempered orders he snapped out to the three sheepish men who’d been chasing her on foot, he was in charge of this whole operation.
Operation, Erin thought numbly. Now, there was a ridiculously neutral term to describe her own kidnapping. Her escape attempt had failed. She was a French prisoner.
The sound of another engine snapped her head back up in time to see a battered gray delivery van pull up beside the black sedan. The van’s side door slid open and Alex Banich jumped down onto the grass, his face carefully blank. Hennessy and another CIA agent named Phil Teppler appeared over his shoulder.
Banich stepped forward, addressing the man who held her in slurred, uneducated, working-class Russian. “Is there a problem here, friend? Don’t you think you should let go of that poor lady’s arms?”
Duroc watched the three men climb down out of the van with increasing irritation. First that ridiculous, comic-opera chase through the park, and now this interference by a few grubby Russian passersby — workmen by the look of their filthy coveralls. He scowled. What should have been a smooth, professional snatch was rapidly deteriorating into a bloody farce.
The first one out of the van, a short, brown-haired man about his own height, said something in Russian — something that sounded hard-edged and menacing despite his soft tone.
“He wants you to let the lady go, Major,” rat-faced Foret translated.
“Does he now?” Duroc sneered. Then he shook his head angrily. They didn’t have time for this chivalrous nonsense. By now, even Moscow’s sleepy militia must be on their way here.
The DGSE agent transferred his grip to the woman’s neck, reached inside his jacket, and pulled the 9mm Makarov automatic out of his shoulder holster. Then he pointed the pistol at the man, sighting on his midriff. “Tell this goddamned peasant to back off, Foret. Tell him this is official business.”
Incredibly, despite the warning and the pistol pointing in his direction, the man took another step forward. His hands hovered near his side.
Exasperated, Duroc flipped the Makarov’s safety catch off and raised his aim. Maybe the sight of death staring him right in the face would knock some sense into this pig-ignorant Russian’s thick skull. “He’s got three seconds to live, Foret. One… two…”
Suddenly the red-haired woman writhed out of his grasp, trying desperately to grab his gun hand.
“Bitch!” Furious, Duroc yanked her back by the hair and then cuffed her out of the way with a single backhanded blow.
“Look out, Major!” big Michel Woerner shouted suddenly.
Alarmed, Duroc whirled around.
Too late. He felt something cold and sharp lancing into his own stomach, ripping up under his ribs. Then the pain hit — a tearing, flaming wall of agony that darkened the whole world around him. His lungs were on fire. Major Paul Duroc stared down in appalled astonishment as the brown-haired man stepped back a pace, still holding a wide-bladed workman’s knife stained red to the hilt.
Knife held ready to strike again if the Frenchman tried to use his pistol, Alex Banich watched the man he’d stabbed sag, slump to his knees, and then pitch over onto his side. The DGSE agent twitched a few times, coughed wetly, and died. Rich, red, arterial blood pooled on the grass beneath his gaping, slack-jawed mouth. The pistol fell out of his unclenched hand and lay at Banich’s feet.
Without thinking further, he knelt down and scooped the Makarov up. Just in time.
The tallest of the four surviving Frenchmen snarled something guttural and ugly, clawing for his own holstered weapon. Banich saw the pistol come clear and turn toward him.
“Alex!” Erin screamed.
Damn it. He squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession, firing at point-blank range. The first 9mm round caught the Frenchman in the chest and threw him backward. The second blew the top of the man’s head off. The third missed.
Banich swiveled rapidly, bringing the rest of the DGSE operatives into his sights. Stunned by the sudden carnage and their leaders’ deaths, they paled and carefully raised empty hands.
“Watch ‘em!” At his command, Hennessy and Teppler moved closer to frisk the captive Frenchmen, holding their own unsheathed knives at the ready. Their choice of weapons made sense for agents working under cover. If they were stopped and searched by the Moscow militia or security services, carrying firearms would sign their death warrants, but many Russian workers carried knives.
The French, all fight beaten out of them by the unexpected turn of events, willingly submitted to being searched. One by one, three more pistols were found and confiscated.
“That’s it, they’re clean,” Hennessy said over his shoulder.
Banich nodded. “Good. Okay, here’s what we’ll do…”
“Hold it! Hands up! Get your hands up!” The shout came from higher up the slope, near the edge of the woods.
Banich turned slowly and saw a group of very young-looking Russian militiamen cautiously advancing toward them — emerging from the trees with their weapons out and aimed. Red and blue lights flashed in the distance. Militia squad cars were closing in from both sides of the quay, sealing off any hope of escape.
“Do as they say,” Banich said quietly. He dropped the pistol and raised his hands in surrender. He saw the horrified look on Erin McKenna’s face and felt sick. He’d killed two men to save her from captivity and he’d still failed. Now he couldn’t save any of them.
CHAPTER 33
Preemptive Strike
Moscow’s militia, the city’s police force, had its main headquarters in a large yellow-brick building on Petrovka Street, several blocks north of the Kremlin and the Bolshoi Theater. The six floors aboveground contained offices for the militia’s investigators and administrators, forensic labs, an armory, and evidence storage rooms. Drunks and other petty criminals were dealt with by the district stations scattered across the capital and its outlying suburbs, but dangerous or politically important prisoners awaiting interrogation or trial were held in small cells buried deep in the building’s subbasement, below an underground parking garage.