Jake Grafton merely glanced at her. “Go find Dalworth,” he told her patiently.
If there were any security men scrutinizing the crowd, Jake didn’t see them. The three Americans went through the station unaccosted, found the exit with Dalworth’s help, and walked out onto the sidewalk. There were taxis. Jake and Rita climbed into the backseat of one while Dalworth negotiated the fare.
The streets looked normal to Jake’s eye with the usual traffic and strolling pedestrians, here and there a policeman. At ten o’clock in the evening the sunlight, diffused by a thin layer of cirrus, came in at a very low angle and gave the city a soft, almost inviting look.
Dalworth sat in the front seat chatting with the taxi driver, and in a few moments he turned around and said to Jake, “This fellow says that troops have road blocks around the embassy. They’re checking everyone’s papers.”
The taxi proceeded for several blocks before Jake spoke. “We need to find something else to ride in.”
“Like a tank,” Rita said gloomily.
About a quarter mile from the embassy they passed a line of armored personnel carriers parked by the curb. “One of these might do,” Jake said. “Could you drive one, Rita?”
“It doesn’t have wings,” she pointed out.
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Spiro, tell the driver to pull over.”
He dropped them at the head of the line. One soldier with a rifle stood on the curb. There were at least a dozen APCs in the line and another soldier lounged at the far end, almost two hundred feet away. Apparently the concept of vehicle theft hadn’t caught on here yet.
“Walk by this guy,” Jake told his companions, and the three moved. Jake kept talking. “Rita will drive. Dalworth will take the soldier’s rifle and I’ll assist him into the vehicle.”
The Russian soldier remained relaxed as they approached, his rifle held in the crook of his left arm. He watched them disinterestedly. As the trio passed him Jake drew his revolver and stuck it into the Russian’s ribs as Dalworth neatly seized the rifle. The door to the APC stood open, so Rita merely climbed in.
Jake nodded toward the vehicle and the soldier, wearing a look of uncertainty and fear, went willingly enough. Jake glanced toward the other sentry. He was facing in the other direction. Really, these kids shouldn’t be guarding anything more valuable than a garbage dump!
When everyone was inside, Dalworth closed the door and dogged it down.
“Any time, Rita.”
“Give me a minute, sir.” She was looking at the controls.
The seconds dragged by. Finally she adjusted a lever and pushed a button. The engine turned over but didn’t catch.
More fiddling.
“Maybe our guy here knows how to drive,” Dalworth suggested.
“Ask him.”
Dalworth did so. The soldier’s eyes got big, but he held his tongue. He was young, about twenty. Not a trace of beard showed on his face.
Rita ground some more with the starter. Then the diesel caught. She wrestled with the shift lever, ground the gears, then engaged the clutch. The thing lurched, then got under way.
“Empty his rifle,” Jake told Dalworth, “and throw it in the back.”
Dalworth popped out the magazine and handed it to Jake, who tossed it into the back of the vehicle. The rifle followed.
The APC lumbered along at a stately pace. Rita steered it toward the center of the street. Two blocks later they saw a line of cars waiting in front of a roadblock with several dozen soldiers milling about.
“Drive right through,” Jake told his pilot. “And don’t run over anybody.”
“Admiral!”
“They’ll get out of your way.”
She floored it and the soldiers ahead scattered. Amazingly, no shots were fired.
“Maybe they would have let us through,” Dalworth remarked.
“Maybe,” Rita agreed.
Jake kept his maybes to himself.
The APC rumbled the two blocks to the embassy along an empty street. She turned the corner from the boulevard and dropped down the street to the main entrance of the embassy, where she braked to a stop.
At least the stars and stripes were still flying.
The Russian soldier sat glued to his seat staring dumbfounded as the trio walked past four armed U.S. marines in battle dress and entered the little brick reception building.
The marine on duty behind the desk punched the button to let them in and spoke through the window. “The ambassador wants to see you, sir, and so does Captain Collins. And welcome back!”
He was rewarded with a grin from Rita.
The security door hadn’t even closed behind the trio as the sergeant at the desk dialed Toad’s telephone number. Lieutenant Commander Tarkington had been down here three times this evening — the sergeant was delighted that he had some good news to deliver for a change.
Toad came thundering down the stairs as Rita started up.
“Hey, Babe!”
“Hello, Toad-man,” she said as she was lifted from her feet in a fierce bear hug.
21
General Shmarov is dead,” Tom Collins told Jake.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Apparently had a heart attack last night. Died in bed. At least that’s what I hear from the Defense Ministry and Yeltsin’s office. Of course, someone might have taken him for a ride last night and pumped a lead slug into his chest. Lead poisoning is a leading cause of heart attacks among the upper echelons in this neck of the woods.”
“Humph,” Jake Grafton replied, trying to visualize how Shmarov’s demise fitted in. “So what is CIA up to today?”
“Nothing, as near as I can tell. Toad escorted Herb Tenney upstairs right after breakfast this morning. Harley McCann”—McCann was the ranking resident CIA officer—“went to his office and did the usual. I think he’s still there.”
“At nine-thirty at night? He’s got to know we have Tenney under lock and key.”
“Well, even if he’s the worst spy we have, you’d think he’d find an event like that hard to miss. We’ve had armed marines guarding your apartment all day.”
“Shmarov had a heart attack.” Jake Grafton shook his head. “What’s the ambassador want?”
“He’s been on the phone to Washington all day. Probably has some instructions, wants to know what happened at Petrovsk…”
“I’ll have a little visit with Herb first. Then you and I will go see the ambassador.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the meantime get the marine, Captain McElroy, and have him stand by outside my apartment. Have him wear his sidearm.”
Herb Tenney’s color wasn’t good when Jake entered the apartment. His shirt was wet with sweat and his forehead was shiny. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days.
“Where’s Toad?” Jake asked Jack Yocke.
“In the bedroom with Rita.”
“Ask them to come out here, will you please?” Jake pulled a chair around to face Tenney, who was still on the couch.
While the reporter knocked on the bedroom door, Jake ripped the tape from Herb’s mouth, wadded the strip up and tossed it toward a wastepaper basket. He missed. Rita and Toad came out of the bedroom holding hands.
“I want to go to the bathroom,” Herb said belligerently.
Jake weighed it for two seconds, then nodded. Toad and Jack hoisted him to his feet and carried him. When they got their guest settled on the throne with his pants down, Toad came out and shut the door.
“It went okay today. He hasn’t said a word, we haven’t questioned him. He’s eaten a little and had a couple naps. Maybe I misread him, but I thought he looked slightly stunned when the gate guard called and said you and Rita were back. I told Yocke, and Herb had trouble controlling his face. I thought.”