I didn't bring the map, he thought next. He'd destroyed it because of all the markings on it. In fact, the car held no maps at all. Maps were dangerous things to have, and besides, he knew how to memorize all the information he needed for his missions. But he hadn't been here long enough to learn the area, and knew only one route back to the safe house.
Goddamn these "immediate-priority" operations!
He took a left at the first crossroads, onto a curving street into a residential development. It took several minutes for him to realize that the land here was so hilly that all the roads curved back and forth upon themselves to the point where he didn't know which direction he was heading. For the first time, he began to lose his composure, but only for an instant. One mental curse in his native language reminded him that he couldn't even think in Russian. Bob lit another cigarette and drove slowly as he tried to orient himself. The tears in his eyes didn't help.
He's lost, Gregory realized after a moment. He'd read enough spy novels to know that they were taking him to a safe house-or a clandestine airfield? — or another vehicle that would carry him where? — but as soon as he recognized the same car that they'd passed a few minutes before, he had to stop himself from smiling. They'd actually done something wrong. The next turn they took went downhill, and Gregory confirmed his suspicion when he again saw the rotating lights at the car wreck. He noted the curses as the driver pulled into a driveway and had to back up before they could climb the hill again.
Everything Russians hated about America flooded back into Bob's consciousness. Too many roads, too many cars-some damned fool of an American had run a stop sign and-I hope he's dead! the driver raged at the parked cars on the residential street. I hope he died screaming in agony. It felt better to get that thought out from the back of his mind, Now what?
He continued on a different route, taking the road over the crest of the hill, where he was able to look down and see another highway. Perhaps if he went south on this one, it might connect with the road he'd been on It was worth a try, he thought. To his right, Bill gave him a questioning look, but Lenny in the back was too busy with the prisoner to know that anything was badly wrong. As they picked up speed, at least the air through the windows allowed his eyes to clear. There was a traffic light at the bottom of the hill-but there was also a sign that said NO LEFT TURN.
Govno! Bob thought to himself as he turned right. This four-lane road was divided by a concrete barrier.
You should have spent more time studying the map. You should have taken a few hours to drive around the area. But it was too late for that now, and he knew that he hadn't had the time. That left them heading back north. Bob checked his watch, forgetting that there was a clock on the dashboard. He'd already lost fifteen minutes. He was out in the open and vulnerable, on enemy ground. What if someone had seen them in the parking lot? What if the policeman at the wreck had taken down their number?
Bob didn't panic. He was too well trained for that. He commanded himself to take a deep breath and mentally examined all the maps he'd seen of the area. He was west of the interstate highway. If he could find that, he still remembered the exit he'd used earlier in the day-was it still the same day? — and get to the safe house blindfolded. If he were west of the interstate, all he had to do was find a road that went east. Which way was east-right. Another deep breath. He'd head north until he saw what looked like a major east-west road, and he'd turn right. Okay.
It took nearly five minutes, but he found an east-west highway-he didn't bother to look for the name. Five minutes after that he was grateful to see the red, white, and blue shield that informed him the interstate was half a mile ahead. Now he breathed easier.
"What's the trouble?' Lenny finally asked from the back. Bob replied in Russian.
"Had to change routes," he said in a tone far more relaxed than he'd felt only a few minutes earlier. In turning to reply, he missed a sign.
There was the overpass. The green signs announced that he could go north or south. He wanted to go south, and the exit ramp would be-
In the wrong place. He was in the right lane, but the exit went to the left, and was only fifty meters ahead. He swerved across the highway without looking. Immediately behind him, an Audi driver stood on his brakes and jammed his hand on the horn. Bob ignored the irrelevancy as he took the left turn onto the ramp. He was on the upward, sweeping curve and was looking at the traffic on the interstate when he saw lights flashing in the grille of the black car behind him. The headlights blinked at him, and he knew what would come next.
Don't panic, he told himself. He didn't have to say anything to his comrades. Bob didn't even consider making a run for it. They'd been briefed on this, too. American police are courteous and professional. They didn't demand payment on the spot, as the Moscow traffic police did. He also knew that American cops were armed with Magnum revolvers.
Bob pulled his Plymouth over just beyond the overpass and waited. As he watched his mirror, the police car stopped behind his, slightly more to the left. He could see the officer getting out, carrying a clipboard in his left hand. That left the right one free, Bob knew, and that was the gun hand. In the back, Lenny told the prisoner what would happen if he made a noise.
"Good evening, sir," the police officer said. "I don't know what the rules are in Oklahoma, but here we prefer that you don't change lanes like that. Could I have your driver's license and registration, please?" His black uniform and silver trim made Leonid think of the SS, but this wasn't the time for such thoughts. Just be polite, he told himself calmly, take the ticket and move on. He handed over the proper cards and waited as the police officer started filling out the ticket blank. Perhaps an apology was due now ? "Sorry, officer, I thought the exit was on the right side, and-"
"That's why we spend all that money on signs, Mr. Taylor. Is this your correct address?"
"Yes, sir. Like I said, I'm sorry. If you have to give me a ticket, I guess I deserve it."
"I wish everybody was that cooperative," the officer observed. Not everyone was, and he decided to see what this polite fellow looked like. He looked at the photograph on the license and bent down to make sure it was the right person. He shined the light in Bob's face. It was the same face, but "What the hell is that smell?"
Mace, the officer knew an instant later. The light swiveled The people in the car looked normal enough, two in the frond two in the back, and one of the people in the back wearing what looked like a uniform jacket
Gregory wondered if his life was really on the line. He decided that he'd find out, and prayed the policeman was alert.
In back, the one on the left side-the one in the jacket-mouthed a single word: Help. That merely made the policeman more curious, but the one in the right-front seat saw him do it and stirred. The cop's instincts all lit off at once. His right hand slid down to his service revolver, flipping the safe-strap off the hammer. "Out of the car, one at a time, and right now!"