Minutes passed. The figures of the men began to swim in front of her eyes, causing Tatiana to grip the gun tighter and press it more firmly into Dilsey's scalp. Dilsey gradually regained some of her composure and began to talk to the girl.
"I need help," she said. "This cut has to be stitched. If it isn't closed soon, I'll lose too much blood. I'll pass out."
"Stop crying, old woman. If I can stand, you can stand. Remember, if you go down. I go down with you, and you'll get the first bullet."
Tatiana's legs felt like overcooked strands of spaghetti, and she tasted sweat at the comer of her mouth in spite of the balmy October breeze.
Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. The lieutenant pulled back his coat sleeve and checked his watch. Hadn't he just done that a few seconds ago? And weren't they drawing closer, all of them? Did they sense she was on the verge of letting go completely, falling down, not caring any longer what happened to her, just to be able to ease the pain in her legs for a few minutes?
A cab jerked to a halt in front of the hospital, a big yellow Plymouth with CAPITAL CAB and a logo on the door. With the last of her strength she pushed Dilsey toward its passenger side, but Dilsey balked.
"I'm not getting in there. I'll never get out," she said with finality.
Tatiana put her mouth close to Dilsey's ear. Her only hope lay in frightening the old woman into submission. "Dilsey!" she whispered. This is the voice of your death, woman. Listen! You are nothing to me. Less than nothing. You have pained me. And for weeks I swore I would kill you when I got the chance. I killed my first man when I was twelve, a soldier who tried to rape me. Since then I've killed others. Many others. If it weren't for more pressing matters, I would kill you now just for the pleasure of watching you die. And let them hang me! Do you understand? Take my advice, you dried-up old bitch, and don't tempt me."
The old woman's head shook with terror and her eyes stared dumbly forward.
"Now, move!" Tatiana pushed her haltingly toward the car. "The door! Open it!" The passenger door swung open and scraped against the sidewalk. Then, still gripping the old nurse tightly, Tatiana sat down and pulled Dilsey in with her. "Drive!" she ordered. The driver hit the accelerator, and the door slammed shut with the momentum.
As they sped toward the camp's front gate, she transferred the gun to the driver, lodging it firmly against his temple. The Soviet embassy and stop for nothing. Nothing, do you understand?"
"Anything you say, lady."
They shot through the gate and out onto the open road. A column of motorcycle-riding military police fell into line behind them, sirens blaring and lights flashing. They followed at a discreet distance until the cab turned north on the highway, then a few of them passed so there were motorcycles fore and aft.
The speedometer needle rose to sixty and stayed there. The driver was a big black man, and behind his thick beard his face revealed a grim determination not to be afraid. As he drove, Tatiana kept the big revolver close against his head.
"Think you could point that thing the other way, lady?" he asked finally. "It's a little hard to drive with that thing in my face like that."
Without saying a word, Tatiana pulled the hammer back until it clicked into a cocked position.
"I get the picture," he said.
Dilsey stared with empty eyes out the window. The life seemed to have drained out of her.
The cab swung onto the on-ramp of the highway. The two lead motorcycles' flashing taillights turned to solid red as brakes were applied.
"They want us to slow down," said the driver.
"No slowing!" shouted Tatiana nervously.
"I got to, lady. They're holding me back."
Tatiana hit the horn in a long blast that made Dilsey jump. The big Harleys shot forward, widening the gap between them and the cab.
"Keep moving!"
As they pulled onto the highway, the nation's capital became visible in the distance. "Almost there," said the driver.
The radio spit. "Tatiana," said a voice. "Tatiana Kobelev, can you hear me?"
In her highly excited state, Tatiana flinched at the sound of her name. She grabbed the cabby s shoulder, digging the gun even more firmly into the side of his head.
"Easy, lady," he said. "It's just the radio. Somebody wants to talk."
Her eyes wildly searched the dashboard until she saw the microphone. She picked it up with her free hand and keyed the microphone. This is Tatiana Kobelev. Who is this?"
"Special Agent Parks, FBI. We've been in contact with the Soviet embassy, and they say you are not welcome. Repeat, not welcome. We have the charge d'affaires on his way here to talk to you now."
"Turn it off," Tatiana told the driver. He reached over and flipped the switch, and they rode the rest of the way downtown in silence.
In a large office on Pennsylvania Avenue, across the city from the speeding taxicab, Undersecretary of State Paul Lathrop was reading a file spread out on his desk. John Mills, National Security Advisor to President Manning, watched attentively from an easy chair a few feet away, his expression haggard, his fingers nervously twisting a ballpoint pen. Standing behind him, hands in pockets, David Hawk stared out the window at the east face of the White House, which was just up the street, a cigar clenched tightly in his teeth.
Undersecretary Lathrop finished his reading, closed the file jacket, and cleared his throat, breaking a silence that had lasted several minutes.
"Gentlemen," he said, "am I being led to believe that Millicent Stone — who attempted an assassination of President Manning and who eventually committed suicide by hanging herself in her cell and whose diary we have all read in the national media — did not in fact pull the trigger?"
"That's right, Paul. A hoax," said Mills, squinting his eyes and fluttering his lashes as though the truth spoken aloud caused him no small measure of physical pain.
"And that the real assassin, some Russian girl who's been illegally detained in a base hospital somewhere…"
"Camp Peary."
"Yes, Camp Peary, has kidnapped a cab driver and a nurse and right now is on her way to the Soviet embassy here in Washington to seek asylum?"
"That's the long and short of it, yes."
"I'm finding all this rather difficult to believe. The thought that the American government would deliberately suppress information of such a grave nature…"
"Spare us the speech, Paul. The girl will beat the embassy door in a few minutes. Just sign the order."
"I'm afraid my conscience won't allow me to let a woman like this off scot-free."
"We don't have much choice. If the Secretary himself were here, I'd have him order you to sign, but Bill's out of the country, so I'm asking you as a friend. Sign it and do it quickly."
"I still don't know why you come to me. Why don't you sign it? Or better yet, let Manning handle it."
"It'll look more attractive this way, on down the line, if it comes from the lowest possible level."
"They don't want to get their hands dirty," Hawk growled, turning around. "Nobody wants the responsibility."
"Then I'm not sure I do either, said Lathrop, pushing the file onto Mills's side of the desk.
"Listen to me," said Mills, rising. "We can't detain her, because legally she doesn't exist. And now that she's out in the open, she's becoming an embarrassment. I talked to the President not twenty minutes ago, and the decision has been made. We're going to just let her go with as little stink as possible, even if the Russians don't want her, which I have just been informed they don't. Now dammit, Paul, if the President can forgive and forget, why can't you? After all, he was the one she was shooting at."
Lathrop stared belligerently up at Mills. "I don't take kindly to being coerced."
Mills sank back into his chair with a sigh. Then he took off his glasses and made a production of cleaning them. "Let me put it this way," he said, examining the lenses carefully. "The President would consider it a great personal favor if you would sign."