He gestured to a layby beyond the gate.
If they were Russians, their American accents were extremely convincing, but his suggestion told me everything. They knew as well as I did that with its enhanced security my best chance was to stay in the airport. They needed to get me into Moscow proper.
“Just pull over and I’ll have a look now,” I suggested.
The guard was outside the gatehouse and had activated the mechanism that opened the barrier. I could see the gates swinging toward me, exposing the road, which felt like a dark and ominous place.
“Just pull over here, by the gatehouse,” I said.
“That isn’t going to happen,” “William” said, producing a pistol and training it on me.
I kicked out immediately and the gun went off, shooting a hole in the Landcruiser’s roof.
“Mark” accelerated rapidly. I launched myself forward and beat the man calling himself William, lashing out with my fists and catching him repeatedly around the head. I glimpsed the gate guard, who looked shocked to see the mayhem in the vehicle as we raced past him.
“William” tried to get the gun on me, but I grabbed his arm and twisted it round. We were locked in a struggle, each trying to make the other the target, but I was stronger and the barrel of the gun was inching toward his face.
“Mark” swung the wheel and we bounced onto the airport access road. We raced toward an intersection as “William” and I fought, but I could feel the vehicle slowing. If we stopped, the other man could get involved in the fight, and then I’d be facing two adversaries instead of one.
I put everything into defeating “William,” watched him grimace as the airport perimeter fence flashed by in a blur.
Then, from the other side of the road, I heard a roaring engine as we went through the intersection, and a huge black pick-up truck bore down on us and hit the driver’s door at speed.
There was the crashing, crunching, grinding sound of a serious collision, and we were flung about violently. The airbags deployed and I was hurled against the one that shielded the passenger-side rear door. The Landcruiser spun wildly out of control and finally came to a halt when it hit the perimeter fence.
Groggy and disoriented, I awaited certain death.
Chapter 84
The passenger door opened and I felt hands grab me under my arms and haul me out. I tried to resist but was dazed and weak. I became vaguely aware of words beneath the ringing that filled my head.
Then I understood them.
“Jack! Come on! We’ve got to get out of here.”
I thought I recognized the voice, but my memory couldn’t place it. When I looked up I saw a face I definitely recognized.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Marlon West.
The lean, muscular Marine was in civilian clothes — a dark hooded top and black jeans — and pulled me clear as the driver and his passenger started to come to their senses.
I tried to make my legs work and found some purchase.
West half carried, half dragged me to his pick-up truck, a large Ford F-350. By the time we reached the vehicle, I was able to haul myself into the passenger seat. He ran round to the driver’s seat and started the engine, which growled reassuringly beneath the crumpled hood.
I saw a dazed “Mark” reaching for his phone as West put the truck in reverse and stepped on the gas. When we cleared the intersection he pulled a sharp U-turn and raced north, scanning the road, which was empty in both directions.
“Sorry about that, Mr. Morgan,” he said. He was talking fast, his adrenaline high, but I was having difficulty focusing and took a moment to process his words. “Erin sent me to meet you, but when I arrived those two goons were already there so I had to improvise. You okay?”
I nodded and the world swam.
“We don’t have long,” he said. “If they want you as badly as I think they do, they’re going to set half of Moscow against us.”
West and I had worked together during my investigation into Karl Parker’s murder. My old friend had been assassinated as part of an attempt to cover up a massive Russian Intelligence operation. West had successfully smuggled me out of the US Embassy when the Russians had been tearing Moscow apart looking for me. I knew him to be smart, dependable, and fiercely brave.
“We need to get you to the embassy, sir,” he said.
I tried to reply, but my words were mumbled and indistinct.
“Excuse me, sir,” he replied. “I didn’t catch that.”
I took a breath and composed myself.
“I said, call me Jack.”
“Will do, sir — I mean Jack.”
He smiled and I tried to smile back, but I had a horrible feeling it was a grimace. My chest and back were aching with the pain of the impact.
I took a moment to get my bearings and realized that rather than taking us away from the airport, West was following the approach road to the main terminal building.
He must have sensed my concern.
“We need to ditch the pick-up,” he explained. “They will be looking for it. A taxi will be better.”
I nodded, relieved the gesture didn’t spark another explosion of pain. My muscle control and nerves started to feel as though they were returning to normal. Hopefully there hadn’t been any serious damage from the impact.
West steered the F-350 into one of the airport parking lots and we hurried out to catch a taxi from the deserted rank.
The driver, a taciturn middle-aged man with a perpetual scowl and a cigarette hanging from his lip, nodded when West told him our destination and we set off for home turf.
Chapter 85
“We’ve got a problem,” West said as we made our way into the city. “Over there.” He pointed beyond the taxi driver.
Through the windshield I saw a line of traffic, red tail lights flaring as the drivers slowed. Their vehicles crawled toward a Moscow Police checkpoint.
“We’re two blocks from the embassy,” he said.
The Russians were nothing if not predictable. This was exactly what they’d done when I was last in Moscow. They’d encircled the embassy and used checkpoints to try and catch me.
“I’m going to tell him to pull over so we can walk from here,” West said.
I nodded and he spoke to the driver in Russian. The man’s scowl deepened and he tutted as he signaled and pulled out of the line of traffic.
He stopped by the sidewalk, which ran in front of some apartment blocks, and West paid him. We clambered out of the bright yellow Skoda Octavia, and I was grateful my injuries seemed to have downgraded from intense pain to dull aches.
“Foot patrols,” West said, nodding toward a trio of uniformed Moscow police officers who were milling around near the vehicle checkpoint. “We need to be careful.”
“Hey!” I heard the taxi driver yell, and turned to see him leaning out of his window, addressing the trio of cops.
He said something in Russian and West cursed under his breath.
“He just told them we’re Americans and wanted out when we saw the checkpoint.”
“Hey!” one of the officers yelled in English. “Stop!”
“Can you run?” West asked me.
I nodded. “I think so.”
“Well, let’s go then,” he said, starting off at a sprint.
I raced to catch up, hearing yells and barked commands aimed in our direction.
“We’re going to take the rat run,” West said.
He set a cracking pace that left me struggling to keep up. Every part of me screamed with pain and I was already out of breath. The collision had taken a greater toll than I’d realized.
I heard tires screech and saw the three vehicles that had formed the checkpoint racing toward us. The trio of officers on foot ran in our direction, yelling instructions and giving hurried commands into their radios.