Fausto had left the Maserati and was stretching his legs in the courtyard when the guard’s pipe caught his eye. Anyone could have dropped it, but Fausto had thought it curious no guard was on duty. He crossed to the gatehouse and saw little piles of ash on the ground outside where the guard often rapped the pipe to empty it. Something wasn’t right. He dialed an emergency number on a sticker affixed to the gatehouse wall.
In Borsa’s stables, the door on the staircase exploded open, and the hooded terrorist ran onto the landing, Andrew a few steps behind. He dove through the doorway at the hooded figure. They both tumbled down the stairs into the stable, the Ram-set skittering across the floor.
Melanie came through the door onto the landing, and watched terrified as they grappled below.
The terrorist came out on top, grabbed a handful of Andrew’s hair, slammed his head to the floor, and ran. Andrew got up and dove into the fleeing legs from behind. Again, the hooded figure went down, then, all in one motion, made a catlike swipe at the Ram-set, lunged upward, jammed the muzzle into Andrew’s chest, and pulled the trigger hastily — before the safety depressed. It clicked, but the charge and spike Silvio had loaded earlier to pin Borsa’s feet to the stone door, didn’t fire.
Now they stood face-to-face, hands wrapped around the deadly tool, fighting to control it. Andrew had come within a millimeter of having a sixteen-penny spike planted in the center of his chest, and the thought of it made him overpoweringly aggressive. He charged forward, shoving the Ram-set up and away, and drove his adversary backwards against a stall. The abrupt movement caused one of the terrorist’s gloved hands to slip. The opposing force suddenly removed, the Ram-set pivoted up and back in a rapid arc that slammed the muzzle flat against the balaclava above the sunglasses; the impact depressed the safety shoe, and jammed a finger against the trigger, causing it to fire.
The sixteen-penny spike ripped through the terrorist’s brain, boring a path between the halves of the cortex and shattering the limbic system beneath. Then exiting, it blew a piece of skull out the back of the head, and pinned it and the balaclava to the stall.
Melanie flinched and screamed in fright at the sharp report.
Andrew was frozen by the suddenness with which it all happened. He stood watching the terrorist slide downward against the stall, looking in growing horror at the head that pulled slowly out of the balaclava, at the anguished expression, and the tiny puncture in the forehead that caused it — just above where the brows grew together. The massive exit wound left a long bloody smear on the stall, and there, at the bottom of it, like the period beneath an exclamation mark, was Dominica Maresca’s oval face.
A short distance away, the Arabians that had been galloping into the ring when the massive stone door unexpectedly closed trapping them were still spooked, and their hooves were still trampling Silvio Festa’s broken body.
In the stables, Andrew was staring in shock at Dominica’s face when Melanie screamed again.
“No! No, look out! Look out!” she shrieked at him.
He whirled to see Kovlek, handgun drawn, charging into the stable, a terrifying, fast-moving blur leveling the weapon at him.
The operation had gone wrong, and Andrew was the cause of it. Kovlek had decided no witnesses would best insure the KGB came out clean as Zeitzev had ordered.
Andrew’s reaction was a mixture of fear and confusion. The KGB agent who had abducted Raina Maiskaya was going to kill him. He didn’t know why, and didn’t have a chance of stopping him. He was thinking McKendrick would be furious when he found out he had gotten himself killed when a shot rang out.
Kovlek stiffened and rocked back and forth for a moment. Then the life went out of him, and he collapsed where he stood, revealing Gorodin crouched behind him in the doorway, both hands on his Kalishnikov.
Andrew was too stunned to be relieved, and had no idea what to expect next. Gorodin holstered his weapon, and gestured with his head for them to go. Andrew put an arm around Melanie as she came off the stairs, and they ran from the stables, Gorodin right behind them.
Fausto was hurrying down the road toward Borsa’s stables after making the call from the gatehouse. He heard the shots, pulled his pistol, and leveled it at Gorodin, who appeared to be chasing them.
“No, Fausto! No!” Andrew shouted.
“Who is he?” Fausto asked as he turned and ran with Melanie and Andrew toward the Maserati.
“The Frenchman! He saved my hide!”
“What happened?”
“Terrorists! They crucified Minister Borsa in there,” he replied. “Literally.” He paused as they reached the Maserati, then with a weary nervousness added, “I killed one of ’em. Maybe two.”
“We must go,” Fausto said decisively.
Andrew nodded, yanked open the rear door, pushing Melanie in ahead of him. The surging scream of sirens began rising as Fausto started the engine. He slammed it in gear, and was starting to pull away when Gorodin yanked open the front passenger door and jumped in next to him. Fausto slammed his foot to the floor, and the big car ripped across the courtyard, past the gatehouse through the entrance, and accelerated down the street behind the amphitheater.
The sirens grew louder. Police vehicles, roof flashers strobing, came through the turn up ahead and screeched to sideways stops, blocking the street. Uniformed officers leaped out drawing guns. Fausto slammed on the brakes as they advanced toward the Maserati. An officer pushed a gun through the open window into his face. Fausto shoved his police identification under his nose in reply.
“Set up a checkpoint at the gatehouse,” he barked in Italian to the chagrined officer, adding, “Question everyone who comes out!”
The officer replied with a crisp affirmative, and ordered the police vehicles moved aside, allowing the Maserati to continue through onto the streets.
Melanie sat in the backseat hunched beneath Andrew’s arm, shaking, shocked by all she had seen.
Andrew was numb and woozy, heart pumping his blood so rapidly it was blurring his vision.
“You okay?” he asked, blinking to clear it.
“I think so,” she whimpered, looking up confused. “Who are you?” she asked. “Who’s he?” she indicated Gorodin, who was turned sideways in the front seat.
“Please, allow me,” Gorodin said in slightly accented English before Andrew could reply. “Andrew Churcher — he sells horses for my country. Melanie Winslow — she’s looking for her father there,” he said, introducing them; then gesturing to himself, added, “Valery Gorodin — KGB.” He loathed saying it, but knew it would instantly communicate.
Melanie looked at Andrew in stunned silence.
“I can help both of you get into Russia,” Gorodin concluded.
“I’m leaving for Moscow tonight,” Andrew said sharply. “I don’t need help.”
“Yes,” Gorodin said, matching Andrew’s tone. “Only because you’ve already had it.”
Andrew nodded pensively in acknowledgment. “Thank you,” he said in a subdued voice. Then he held Gorodin’s look, and asked, “Why?”
“Because it’s in the best interests of my country. Your business dealings are very high on the Politburo’s list of priorities.”
Indeed, choosing between Andrew and Kovlek was easy. Gorodin had no doubt whatsoever who was more valuable to the Soviet Union. At worst, Andrew would keep the hard currency coming. At best, he’d divert from business, and lead Gorodin to the source of the Kira drawings.
“And me?” Melanie asked, having regained some degree of composure.
“Because you’re here, and it’s within my power. Unless you’d rather wait six months for a visa, maybe a year. After what happened today — maybe never.”