Thorpe let out a long breath, then said, “Okay, but you can’t in good conscience leave me here to be killed by them.”
She didn’t reply.
He went on imploringly, “Just let me out of here. You have the gun. I’m naked and defenseless. For God’s sake, Joan, just leave the door unbolted for me.” He hung his head and added, “I wouldn’t be in this room unless I was their enemy.”
Joan made a decision. She said, “I’m leaving, Peter, and I’m locking the door. But I’ll be right back with a few of Pembroke’s men.”
She watched him carefully and thought she detected a glimmer of fear in his eyes.
He said, “They’ll kill me.”
“Why?”
“They don’t know I’m a CIA triple.”
“Tell them.”
“They won’t believe me.”
“They won’t kill you either. They’ll check with your superiors in the CIA.”
“No… don’t call them. Just leave.”
Joan backed toward the door, her pistol aimed at Thorpe about ten feet away. “Good-bye, Peter. I’ll be back shortly.” She reached behind with her free hand and grabbed the door handle, pulling it inward against its springs and working herself into the opening. She glanced quickly over her shoulder into the darkness outside — as Thorpe knew she would.
Thorpe sprang forward. Joan’s reflexes were good, but playing tennis and shooting a charging man were quite different, and she froze for a fraction of a second. Thorpe’s hands lunged out, one hand going for the pistol, the other for her throat. Joan fired and the bullet smashed into a far wall. The gun was suddenly on the floor, and she saw in a split second that the bullet had passed through Thorpe’s palm. She felt his other hand closing around her throat, then he yanked her into the room by her neck, as though she were no heavier than a child, and threw her across the floor.
Thorpe took two long steps toward her and delivered a kick, heel first, to her groin. Joan cried out and brought her knees to her chest. Thorpe turned and bent over to retrieve the pistol.
Joan stood immediately, thinking vaguely that Thorpe had made two mistakes: kicking her in the groin as though she were a man, and turning his back on her because she was a woman. She drew her long, thin knife from an elastic pouch on her thigh and plunged it deep into Thorpe’s back as he straightened up.
Thorpe took two quick steps forward, the knife still in his back, and swung around, the pistol held in his hand, pointing at her.
Joan screamed, turned, and ran to the far corner, diving behind the gurney as a bullet cracked into the tile above her head.
Thorpe stepped toward her. His punctured lung was filling with blood, and white frothy specks formed on his lips with every labored breath. He stopped, then turned in a zombielike movement and walked toward the door.
Joan watched him, and the only thing her panic-stricken mind could think of was that the black knife handle sticking out of his back looked like a movie prop.
Thorpe pulled open the door and slid through it into the corridor. The door snapped shut behind him and Joan heard him fumbling with the bolt. She got to her feet and ran to the door.
67
Tom Grenville felt the high antenna brush his foot as he drifted over the roof.
Stewart shouted, “Release!” and pulled his quick-release hook, freeing himself from the chute. He dropped straight down, nearly twenty feet, and crashed to the roof. Johnson and Hallis quickly did the same and the three chutes blew away in the wind.
Grenville hesitated a fraction of a second, then decided he’d rather break his neck on the roof than be shot on the ground. He pulled his release hook and found himself falling, feet first, onto the flat roof. He hit hard, bent his knees, and shoulder-rolled, nearly toppling off the edge of the roof where it sloped down to the south terrace below. He carefully edged back and stood unsteadily. He looked around and spotted Stewart lying near a satellite dish, and moved stiffly toward him.
Stewart sat up and glanced at Grenville. “Broke my fucking leg.”
“Well, that’s a hazard of jumping on a cluttered roof at night,” Grenville observed.
Stewart stared at him.
Grenville added, “I’m fine.”
“Fuck off, Tom.” Stewart saw Johnson approaching quickly.
Johnson knelt beside him and said, “Hallis went off the south edge onto the terrace. I think he’s dead.”
Stewart gritted his teeth. “Shit.” He looked at the old general and said, “Well, whoever that other bastard was, he’s blowing the whistle on us. May as well carry on, though.” As he spoke, the roof lights went off and the floodlights on the north lawn lit up again.
Grenville and Johnson carried Stewart to the north edge of the roof, then took their positions.
Grenville knelt at the low coping stone of the south edge, staring down at the terrace, pool, and teahouse below. Hallis’ body was sprawled on the flagstones and Grenville could see he was dead. He could also see four Russian guards running across the lawn toward the terrace. He glanced back at Johnson, who knelt at the west end of the roof overlooking the porch. Then he looked back at Stewart covering the north. He thought, A cripple, a seventy-year-old man, and a lame-brained attorney. An estimated twenty armed guards around the estate, an unknown number of armed civilians, plus a KGB contingent of unknown strength. And nobody but him thought this was crazy. Ergo, he was crazy.
Grenville looked back at the four Russians, who were on the path beside the pool now. He moved the selector switch on his M-16 to full automatic and waited until the guards converged on Hallis’ body. Two of the guards looked up and pointed their rifles at the roof.
Grenville fired a full magazine of twenty rounds, the M-16 jerking silently in his hands. He reloaded quickly, but saw there was no reason to fire again. He had killed all four men. He waited for the shock to hit him, but he felt nothing.
Stewart called to him softly, “What the hell is going on there, Grenville?”
Grenville looked over his shoulder, “I just nailed four.”
“Who authorized you to fire, man? Well, never mind.”
Well, fuck you. Grenville thought suddenly of Joan and looked toward the YMCA tennis building. He saw that it was partly lit. She should be back there by now, he thought. He turned and looked to the north and saw Van Dorn’s house brightly lit in the far distance. The pyrotechnicians had resumed but were firing aerial torpedos now, and loud-bursting explosions rocked the night air. Grenville knew that whatever sounds of mayhem and murder emanated from these lonely acres, no one in the village or on Dosoris Lane would think anything of it. Just crazy George giving it to the Russkies again.
Claudia Lepescu opened the door of Viktor Androv’s study and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She held the pistol behind her back.
Androv looked up from the telephone, his face white in the glare of the lamp. He said into the phone, “I’ll call you back.” He hung up and looked at her. “Well, what an unexpected surprise. Is Kalin through with you?”
She said nothing. The room was dark except for the area around his desk, but the stained-glass window behind him glowed from the lights outside.
Androv said, “I have no time for you now.”
She replied in Russian, “This won’t take long.”
He pursed his lips, then said, “Did you give Roth the poison?”
“No, I gave him vegetable oil.”
He stared at her, then nodded. “I see.”
She said, “Do you think I’m a mass murderer like you and your filthy Nazis?”