General Borovsky hesitated as if debating his options. "I would have to get Latishev's approval to take action against General Nikolsky. As for Prosecutor Perchik, I'm sure the Chairman would believe anything about him. That son of a bitch has been giving both of us hell lately. He practically accused me of assisting in your escape." His voice lightened a bit as he added, "I'll be interested in hearing how you managed that, Shumakov. But this attack you say he's planning there, have you warned the Americans about it?"
"Unfortunately, I am hardly in a position to make any official contacts. As you probably know, I'm on the Interpol wanted list. But I have two American friends who are working on it right now. There isn't much time for them, or us. I urge you—"
The blast of a gunshot nearby reached his ears simultaneously with an explosion of pain. The bullet struck a rib, created havoc with a vital artery and pierced a lung before burying itself in the hard surface of the desk. Yuri dropped the phone, momentarily paralyzed. He squeezed his eyelids shut against the pain. He heard General Borovsky shouting his name but was powerless to reply. It seemed to take all of his effort just to breathe. He had fallen forward with one arm against his chest and he felt the blood flowing warm and sticky over his hand. The sensation triggered an odd quirk of memory. He was suddenly transported back to his mother's kitchen as a boy, poking his fingers into the bowl where she was mixing medivnyk, a Ukrainian spiced honey cake, warm, thick and sweet. Then everything went black.
Romashchuk grabbed the phone and demanded in Russian, "Who is this?"
There was a pause, then a voice said, "Major Romashchuk?"
He dropped the instrument onto its cradle with an angry curse. While freeing his hands after regaining consciousness, he had heard Shumakov talking in Russian. Apparently the investigator was attempting to convince someone of what was about to happen. Was it someone at the Belarus Embassy in Washington, he wondered? Would anyone believe a fugitive murderer? Not likely, he thought. But they had obviously been given his name.
Regardless of what Yuri Shumakov had done, he needed to get to Maryland Avenue as quickly as possible. He had to make certain the attack went off as planned. The whole elaborate scheme General Zakharov and his colleagues had worked on for so long hung in the balance.
The blow from the wrench had left the Major with a damnable headache. If it was Rodman who had struck him, he was obviously gone now. A check of the monitors showed the gate wide open and the car missing. He looked at Yuri Shumakov lying face down, blood spreading in a crimson pool across the surface of the desk. He was still breathing, but from the sound of it, he couldn't last long.
"Sweet dreams, Shumakov," he said in a mocking voice. "You should have known I'd carry more than one gun. You have nearly made me late for the 1812 Overture. I'll dedicate the cannon fire to you. It will hide the mortars, but not their sting."
This time Nikolai Romashchuk would leave nothing to chance. He took the pistol and fired another round into the investigator's back.
After locking the disabled Blazer, Hill started walking in the direction he hoped would provide the gas station and telephone he badly needed. The first few blocks brought him through a residential area, with nothing more than a small store that was closed. Since it was not yet dark, people still strolled along the sidewalks. He encountered a Chinese couple and asked directions to a service station. After considerable head-scratching and consultation in Chinese, they confessed they were only visiting. They could not agree on where they might have seen gas available nearby. He finally came across a Jamaican who knew exactly where it was, Mon.
He located the gas pump at a convenience store nearly a mile from where he had left the Blazer. There was a pay phone inside. He consulted the little black notebook in his shirt pocket for the White House switchboard number and the special extension used for National Security Council emergency calls.
"This is Burke Hill," he told the NSC duty staffer. "I worked with Dr. Wharton two years ago in the wrap-up of Operation Hangover. I have a damned urgent message for him."
"I'm not familiar with Hang—"
"It was highly classified," Burke said.
"Most of what we deal with is highly classified. I was going to say I've heard your name. However. Dr. Wharton is out of town. Where could he reach you?"
"I'm at a pay phone near Virginia Avenue. Please tell him it's vital that I talk to him in the next few minutes. I'm trying to avoid a catastrophe."
"Give me your number and I'll see what I can do," the man said, though he didn't sound totally convinced.
Burke had anticipated the National Security Adviser would be out of town, most likely with the Foreign Affairs Roundtable in Colorado. But it was Wharton's job to be on call constantly should the President need him. Surely, he thought, the former college professor wouldn't be in the loop for Romashchuk's operation.
He walked over to the cashier and explained that he had run out of fuel.
"We have plastic gas cans at the end of Aisle 2," the short, chubby woman with frilly blonde hair said, pointing. "They're ten dollars."
Burke would have paid fifty if necessary. He grabbed the can and tossed her a twenty. "I'm going out to fill it up. I'm expecting an important call on that phone over there. Would you answer it for me, please, if it rings before I get back inside?"
She gave him a disapproving frown. "Do I look like a secretary?"
He threw another twenty onto the counter. "Is that enough for five minutes of secretarial time?"
She picked up the bill and shrugged.
The can held a little over two gallons. Burke was back in a minute. The cashier advised him that the phone hadn't rung. But she eyed him curiously as she handed over his change. He hurried over to the telephone and started to take out the small radio to listen for any word from Roddy and Yuri. But when he noticed the cashier still watching with a wary look, he changed his mind. He realized she already harbored grave doubts about him. A radio would likely convince her that he was involved in a drug deal, probably cause her to call the police.
After five interminable minutes, he flinched when the telephone finally rang.
"This is Burke Hill," he said.
"What the hell is going on, Mr. Hill?" Dr. Wharton had a gruff, demanding voice. He was still the same tough taskmaster who could easily intimidate a roomful of political science students. He rarely relaxed and just as rarely spoke in gentle terms.
"I don't have time to go into a lengthy explanation," Burke said, his voice coming in a rush. "Suffice it to say I've encountered an operation run by a former Soviet KGB major. He has a team of terrorists somewhere near the Capitol. They're ready to fire nerve gas mortar shells into the symphony audience. You're the only person I could think of with the power to act quickly enough to stop them."
"Mortar shells with nerve gas? That's damned imaginative, Hill. What have you been drinking?"
"I'm not drunk, doctor. I'm deadly serious and—"
"Why haven't you called the FBI or the Metropolitan Police?"
"I was afraid they wouldn't believe me. I didn't feel I had time to establish my credibility. But I thought you knew me well enough to trust me."
Wharton grunted. "Where did you hear about this supposed attack?"
"From a retired Air Force officer, Colonel Warren Rodman. He saw them train in Mexico and—"
"Do you know who Rodman is?" Wharton asked. "He's the bastard who screwed up Operation Easy Street in Iran. He got himself court-martialed for that. The man suffered a concussion that must have scrambled his brain. He's an alcoholic and now he's wanted for murdering a woman in Guadalajara."