He was horrified to see a gun. It appeared as though by magic from the guy in the right-rear, and before he could get his own revolver out-
Gregory's right hand didn't get there in time, but his elbow did, spoiling Lenny's aim.
The officer was surprised that he didn't hear anything except a shout in a language he couldn't understand, but by the time that occurred to him, his jaw had already exploded in a puff of white more heard than felt. He fell backward, his gun out now and shooting of its own accord.
Bob cringed and dropped the car into gear. The front wheels spun on the loose gravel, but caught, hauling the Plymouth all too slowly away from the noise of the gun. In the back, Lenny, who'd gotten off the one shot, slammed the butt of his automatic on Gregory's head. His perfectly aimed shot should have gone straight through the policeman's heart, but he'd gotten the face instead, and he didn't know how good the shot had been. He shouted something that Bob didn't bother listening to.
Three minutes later the Plymouth went off the interstate. Below the accident that still blocked the highway, the road was nearly clear. Bob took the dirt road off it, lights out, and was at the trailer before the prisoner regained consciousness.
Behind them, a passing motorist saw the policeman on the shoulder and pulled over to assist him. The man was in agony, with a bloody wound to his face and nine missing teeth. The motorist ran to the police car and put out a radio call. It took a minute before the dispatcher got things straight, but three minutes after that a second radio car was there, then five more in as many minutes. The wounded officer was unable to speak, but handed up his clipboard, which had the car's description and tag number written down. He also still had "Bob Taylor's" driver's license. That was message enough for the other officers. An immediate call was put out over all local police frequencies. Someone had shot a police officer. The actual crime that had been committed was far more serious than that, but the police did not know, nor would they have cared.
Candi was surprised to see that Al wasn't home. Her jaw was still numb from the Xylocaine shots, and she decided on soup. But where's Al? Maybe he had to stay late for something. She knew that she could call, but it wasn't that big a deal and with the way her mouth felt, there wasn't much in way of talking she could have done anyway.
At police headquarters on Cerrillos Road, the computers were already humming. A telex was dispatched at once to Oklahoma, where brother police officers took immediate note of the magnitude of the crime and punched up their own computer records. They learned at once that there was no license for Robert J. Taylor of 1353 N.W. 108th Street, Oklahoma City, OK 73210, nor was there a Plymouth Reliant will tag number XSW-498. The tag number, in fact, did not exist. The sergeant who ran the computer section was more than surprised. To be told that there was no record of a tag wasn't all that unusual, but to get a no-hit on a tag and a license, and in a case with an officer-involved shooting was pushing the laws of probability too hard. He lifted the phone for senior watch officer. "Captain, we have something really crazy here on the Mendez shooting."
The state of New Mexico is filled with areas belonging to the federal government, and has a long history of highly sensitive activities. The Captain didn't know what had happend but he knew at once that this wasn't a traffic incident. A minute after that, he was on the phone to the local FBI offiot,
Jennings and Perkins were there before Officer Mendez came out of surgery. The waiting room was so crowded
policemen that it was fortunate the hospital had no surgical patients at the moment. The Captain running investigation was there, as were the state police chaplain half a dozen other officers who worked the same ward as Mendez, plus Mrs. Mendez, who was seven months pregnant. Presently the doctor came out and announced that he'll be fine. The only major blood vessel damaged had been repaired. The officer's jaw and teeth had taken most of damage, and a maxillary surgeon would start repairing damage in a day or two. The officer's wife cried a bit and was taken to see her husband before two of his fellows drove her home. Then it was time for everyone to get to work.
"He must have had the gun in the poor bastard's back." Mendez said slowly, his words distorted by the wires holding his jaw together. He'd already refused a pain medication. He wanted to get the information out quickly, and was willing to suffer a little to do it. The state police officer was a very angry man. "Only way he coulda got it out so fast."
"The photo on the license, is it accurate?" Agent Jennings asked.
"Yes, ma'am." Pete Mendez was a young officer, and managed to make Jennings feel her age with that remark. He next got out rough descriptions of the other two. Then came the victim; "Maybe thirty, skinny, glasses. He was wearing a jacket-like a uniform jacket. I didn't see any insignia, but I didn't get much of a look. He had his hair cut like he was in the service, too. Don't know the eye color, either, but there was something funny his eyes were shiny, like-oh, the Mace smell. Maybe that was it. Maybe they Maced him. He didn't say anything, but, like, he mouthed the words, you know? I thought that was funny, but the guy in the right-front reacted real strong to that. I was slow. I shoulda reacted faster. Too damned slow."
"You said that one of them said something?" Perkins asked.
"The bastard who shot me. I don't know what it was. Not English, not Spanish. I just remember the last word maht, something like that."
"Yob' tvoyu mat'!" Jennings said at once.
"Yeah, that's it." Mendez nodded. "What's it mean?"
"It means 'fuck your mother.' Excuse me," Perkins said, his Mormon face fairly glowing scarlet. Mendez went rigid on his bed. One doesn't say such things to an angry man with a Hispanic name.
"What?" the state police Captain asked.
"It's Russian, one of their favorite curses." Perkins looked at Jennings.
"Oh, boy," she breathed, scarcely able to believe it. "We're calling Washington right now."
| "We have to identify the-wait a minute! — Gregory?" Perkins said. "God almighty. You call Washington. I'll call the Project office."
It turned out that the state police could move the fastest. Candi answered a knock on the door and was surprised to
( )
for a beat. "I'll get you out of here."
"The American woman, she knows you by sight-"
"Obviously. I suppose you want her eliminated? After all, we've broken one rule, why not another? What fucking madman ordered this operation?"
"The orders came from very high," Leonid replied.
"How high?" she demanded, and got only a raised eyebrow that spoke volumes. "You're joking."
"The nature of the order, the 'immediate action' prefix-what do you think?"
"I think all of our careers are ruined, and that assumes that we-well, we will. But I will not agree to the murder of my agent. We have as yet not killed anyone, and I do not think that our orders contemplated-"
"That is correct," Bob said aloud, while his head shook emphatically from side to side. Bisyarina's mouth dropped open.
"This could start a war," she said quietly, in Russian. She didn't mean a real war, but rather something almost as bad, open conflict between KGB and CIA officers, something that almost never happened, even in third-world countries, where it usually involved surrogates killing other surrogates, and for the most part never knowing why-and even that was rare enough. The business of intelligence services was to gather information. Violence, both sides tacitly agreed, got in the way of the real mission. But if both sides began killing the strategic assets of their opponents
"You should have refused the order," she said after a moment.
"Certainly," Bob observed. "I understand that the Kolyma camps are lovely this time of year, all glistening white with their blanket of snow." The odd thing-at least it would seem so to a Westerner-was that neither officer bothered considering surrendering with a request of political asylum. Though it would have ended their personal dangers, it would mean betraying their country.