“Huh?” Templar couldn’t articulate too well with a light in his teeth.
“I should market that penknife of yours and retire.”
At least Emma was loosening up.
“I hate to think what you do with that thing when you’re alone,” she muttered.
The two fugitives crawled as quickly as they could along the cold pathway of pipe. Progress was tedious but constant.
Templar shone his penknife light at an exit hatch above them.
“ ‘Hatch Number Two,’ ” he read the attached tag. “Novinsky Street. I figure we have two more minutes, unless our plus is a minus.”
Plus or minus. Emma shuddered at the implications.
Soon his penlight found the embassy exit hatch. No hatchwheel; no exit.
“Oh, my God...” Emma gasped. “We’ve got to go all the way back! We’ve been three minutes, ten seconds...”
Templar gaped at the sight of his watch.
“You stole that back from her?”
“No. I’m not a thief,” snapped Emma testily. “She returned it.”
Templar, astounded, grabbed the watch back and strapped it on.
“Crawl backward,” he commanded, “till we get to that second hatch. Hurry!”
In the distance the sound of whooshing water signaled the oncoming rush of wet death.
They scurried for their lives, scraping their hands and knees on the pipe’s rough metal. Soon they reached the Novinsky Street hatch. Simon attempted spinning the hatchwheel. It wouldn’t budge.
The whooshing increased in volume, and the pipe began to vibrate. Simon put his ear to the hatchwheel.
“What are you doing?” demanded Emma.
“Pretending I’m George Sanders,” he murmured.
He listened, he felt, he hauled off and whacked the hatchwheel as hard as he could. It spun beneath his grip.
The hatch opened and he pulled himself up into the service vent, then he reached down for Emma. She grasped his strong grip and he yanked her up just as water roared through the pipe below. It geysered through the hatch, soaking them both.
Templar slammed the hatch shut, but the pressure was too intense. The water erupted into the vent, rising rapidly to waist level.
“Help me!” he shouted. “Stand on it!”
Emma added her efforts to his, forcing the hatch against the mounting pressure. It closed, and he spun the wheel shut
They stood there, stressed but safe, wet and momentarily silent.
At length, perhaps it was a few seconds, Emma spoke.
“I’d have heart failure, but it would take too much effort.”
Templar kissed her cheek impulsively, gestured for her to stay put, and clambered up the ladder to the manhole lid.
He popped his head up, and out of the darkness came the headlights of Ilya’s Range Rover searing straight toward him. He ducked back down as the 4X4 parked directly over the manhole cover.
The Saint, flashing an optimistic grin, scurried down the ladder.
“Uh-oh,” remarked Emma. “When a man smiles in a sewer, I get worried.”
“They’re right above us,” announced Templar pleasantly.
Emma coughed out a jittery laugh.
Templar began tapping a pipe running through the service vent.
“You know why it’s not cold in the American Embassy?” he asked.
She looked at the pipe and understood. It was a gas line. A gas line into which Simon Templar was plunging the blade of his versatile penknife. When he pulled it free, she heard the distinctive hiss of escaping gas.
Emma blinked in disbelief.
“For a suicide pact, you need my permission.” Her voice trembled.
“Not suicide,” explained Simon, “survival.”
He started up the ladder, motioning her to follow. She balked.
“Would you rather suffocate?”
It was an easy decision. In the next second they were both hurrying up the ladder. He lifted the manhole cover again, and they slithered out under Ilya’s vehicle.
They lay there gulping fresh air, as a pair of black paraboots jumped down to the pavement. Soon several pair of loafers and Nikes appeared.
The American Embassy was one hundred yards away, and with the foot soldiers right above them, it felt like a hundred miles.
Emma was in despair; the Saint was in control.
“Trust me on this,” he whispered. “They’ll open the gate when they see you coming.”
“They’ll open fire when they see you coming,” said Emma, referring to Ilya and the thugs.
“It will take less than ten seconds for you to get to safety,” insisted Templar.
“Me? What about you?” Emma was starting to panic. She popped another little pill.
“Consider me one of life’s little distractions,” he said, and before she could protest, he rolled out from under the vehicle. Simon sprang to his feet and strolled pleasantly past Ilya as if trying to brazen his way to freedom.
Stunned by this gambit, Ilya yelped like a wounded Pomeranian. Vlad and Igor jumped for Templar, and he allowed them to take him down.
Emma realized that she would never have a better moment to break cover, took a breath, and ran like hell for the embassy gates.
Ilya immediately realized what was happening and took off furiously after her.
The on-duty Marines behind the embassy gate helplessly watched as Ilya gained on Emma.
“American!” yelled Emma. “Open up!”
She was almost at the gate; Ilya was almost at her back.
The Marines did all they were allowed to do. They swung open the gate.
Emma’s legs pumped furiously as she ran fast, then faster, but Ilya’s outstretched arm was on her. He clutched her coat, pulling her back.
And Emma threw herself forward, arms back like an Olympic diver, and the coat peeled off in his grasp. She passed through the gate as if it were the finish line, triumphantly ringed by Marines.
“I’m an American citizen,” panted Emma breathlessly.
The Marines assured her of full protection and threw malevolent glares at Ilya.
“Back off from the gate — now!”
Ilya obeyed, but his eyes bored holes through the Marines’ uniform.
Emma had escaped, but Ilya had a consolation prize — the Saint.
Igor and Vlad held the battered, bruised, but exultant captive. Templar was about to prick Ilya with a witty insult, but a quick gun butt to the head canceled the remark and sent him sprawling to the pavement.
The trip was worth the pain — from this vantage point he could see the escaping gas cause visible ripples in the air as it billowed out of the open manhole beneath the Range Rover.
Ilya straddled him triumphantly. Concealing his gun with the flap of his open coat, he pressed the barrel to Templar’s temple and leaned down into his face.
“One shot left,” stated Ilya, his foul breath stinging Simon’s nostrils. “You can’t come all the way to Russia and not play Russian roulette.”
Templar felt the cold steel pressing against his head as he looked Ilya in the eye. Without knowing how quick the other was on the trigger, he estimated that he had a sporting chance of knocking the gun aside and landing an iron fist where it would obliterate Ilya’s nose. But there were still the other men to reckon with.
That moment’s swift and instinctive reckoning of his chances was probably what helped to save him. And in that time he also forced himself to realize that the fleeting pleasure of pushing Ilya’s front teeth through the back of his neck would ring down the curtain on his only hope of getaway. Besides, he had already initiated his preferred plan of escape. All he needed was a little more time.
Emma, safe but helpless behind the embassy gate, watched through a veil of tears.
As Ilya spun the cylinder. Templar’s hand moved slowly toward his bootheel.