Her expression told him he didn’t have to ask if she wanted to see them. He led the way from the gallery, turned off the lights, closed the door, and inserted the key into the lock. But it wouldn’t turn. He removed it, checking that he had the right one.
As Andrew had planned, the key had pushed the spitball to the rear of the keyhole. The speck of paper was only a few millimeters thick, and the key appeared to be fully inserted despite the fact that it wasn’t. Nevertheless, the offset was enough to keep the key’s ridges from properly engaging the pin tumblers — just enough to prevent the lock from turning.
Deschin inserted the key again, with the same result. He shrugged, assuming something in the mechanism had broken, and headed off with Melanie.
Andrew heard them pass the utility room. He waited a few moments, then slipped into the corridor and entered the gallery.
Melanie and Deschin returned to the study. He went to a desk and pressed a button on the phone, then removed a photo album from the book shelves behind him, and brought it to Melanie. They settled side by side on a sofa and began looking through the pictures.
A few moments later, Uzykin came from his quarters in response to the buzz. He opened the door to the study, waiting until Deschin beckoned before entering.
“I couldn’t lock the gallery,” Deschin said, giving him his keys. “See what you can do with it.”
Andrew had made his way to the gallery workroom and found the package and mailing tube on the table. Heart pounding, fingers shaking, he unscrewed the cap, slipped the drawings from the tube, and flattened them on the table. He was reaching to his pocket for the camera when the lights in the gallery came on. His head snapped around at the brightness. He hurried to the workroom door and peered into the gallery.
Uzykin had opened the door, stabbed the key into the lock, and was trying to turn it. He stood on the far side of the door, which opened inward and blocked his view of the gallery. He pushed the key in and out of the lock repeatedly, twisting and jiggling it to get it to turn — and then all of a sudden it did. His machinations had mashed the spitball against the metal back plate, mushrooming the paper out, around the tip of the key; thereby allowing him to push it all the way into the cylinder, and turn it.
Andrew heard it; heard the unmistakable rotation of the tumbler and thrust of the deadbolt. He realized he was about to be locked in and was starting to feel panicky when he heard the sound again, and then again.
Uzykin was turning the key back and forth repeatedly now, watching the deadbolt go in and out to make certain it was working properly.
Andrew took the package of drawings addressed to Boulton, slipped it into his waistband against the small of his back, and hurried into the gallery. He slid along the wall, timing his steps to the sound of the lock to cover any noise.
Uzykin stopped working the key.
Andrew froze a distance from the door. The Riffian warrior of Matisse’s “Moroccan In Green” stared impassively over his shoulder. Uzykin was about to close the door, and lock it. Three fast strides put Andrew directly behind it. On the fourth, he smashed the sole of his shoe into the hardwood frame. It caught Uzykin square in the face with a loud thud. He let out a groan, and went sprawling across the floor.
Andrew scooted around the door, into the corridor.
Uzykin got to his feet and staggered after him.
Andrew was hurrying down the corridor in search of the alcove where the door that led to the rear patio was located, when he heard Uzykin shouting for help.
Deschin and Melanie were in the study, looking through the photo album, when they heard the sound and exchanged uncertain glances. The gallery was in the maintenance wing at the opposite end of the dacha, and the distance and heavy wooden doors on the study had muffled Uzykin’s shout.
Gorodin, however, was in the kitchen getting something to eat. He heard it clearly, and headed for the corridor.
Andrew had almost reached the alcove when he heard Gorodin opening the kitchen door up ahead. He reversed direction, and bounded up a flight of stairs.
Gorodin had just entered the corridor when Uzykin stumbled around the corner. “The gallery!” he gasped. “Someone was in the gallery!”
Andrew was hurrying down a second-floor corridor, opening doors in search of Melanie’s room. When he saw her travel bag on the bed he knew that he’d found it. He slipped inside, took the package from his waistband, and scribbled a message across the label beneath Boulton’s address.
He figured his chances of getting out of the dacha with the package were fifty-fifty, but had no hope of getting out of the country with it. His father’s score with Deschin would have to go unsettled. The game in Geneva, on the other hand, could still be won — if he could get the package to the U.S. Embassy. But the KGB would have every street and entrance blanketed with agents by the time he got there. He’d never get near the place, let alone inside. Melanie would have a far better chance.
He put the package of drawings into her travel bag, pushing it down beneath the clothes, then zipped it and left the room, hurrying down the corridor.
Gorodin realized Andrew had to have taken the stairs. “Stay here,” he ordered, stationing Uzykin at the base of the staircase. The only way Andrew could get out of the dacha now was by going out a window onto the roof, and Gorodin would be outside waiting for him. He ran down the corridor toward the entry hall.
Curiosity had gotten the best of Deschin. He left Melanie in the study and was crossing the entry hall, when Gorodin arrived.
“Andrew Churcher,” Gorodin said sharply as he hurried past him. And that’s all he had to say. Deschin blanched and took off for the gallery.
Gorodin charged out the front door into the night, calling out for the two KGB guards. The one who had been working on the fire was coming to the door to inform Deschin he had it going. Gorodin almost ran right past him. “The roof!” he said. “Look for someone on the roof!”
Andrew had slipped out a window, and was crouching behind the dormers. He spotted them, scurried across the slate surface in the opposite direction to the edge, and made the long jump to the ground in the darkness. He landed with a loud, jarring thump.
Gorodin heard it and ran toward the sound.
Andrew was coming around the corner of the dacha to the front of the grounds. Gorodin and the guard were running right toward him. He stopped suddenly, feet skidding in the gravel, and reversed direction.
The patrolling guard had been at the opposite end of the grounds when Gorodin called out. He was heading for the front of the dacha when he saw Andrew running toward the rear. He pulled his gun and settled into a two-handed stance, tracking him.
Andrew charged down the gravel driveway, legs churning, arms pumping, lungs gasping for air. He glanced back to see Gorodin and the other guard coming around the corner of the dacha behind him. There was a blaze in the fireplace now. He yanked a piece of kindling from it as he ran past.
The patrolling guard squeezed off a shot. The round whistled past Andrew’s head and shattered one of the stones in the fireplace.
Andrew whirled, on the run, and tossed the flaming stick in the direction of his pursuers. It pinwheeled through the air, and landed right on target — right on the long snowy drift of cottonwood pookh that had blown against the rocks which edged the drive. The volatile fuzz ignited right in front of Gorodin and the two guards in an explosive whoosh. They recoiled at the brilliant flash. It had the effect of a thousand strobes, so tightly constricting their pupils that they couldn’t see, and went stumbling about in the dark.