"What in hell . . ." he began, then fell silent. Something had not been right. His instincts prickled, as if to alert him. Something about their uniforms . . .
He reacted quickly, turning to shoot the first of them as they came through the far door, but they were moving fast and the second had aimed his knife before Tolonen could bring him down.
He fell to his knees, crumpled against the right-hand wall, blood oozing from his left arm, his gun arm, his weapon fallen to the floor. He could hear shooting from below, from back the way he'd come, but there was no time to work out what it meant. As he pulled the knife from his arm and straightened up, another of the assassins appeared at the far end of the corridor.
Grabbing up the gun, he opened fire right-handed, hitting the man almost as he was on him. The assassin jerked backward, then lay there, twitching, his face shot away, the long knife still trembling in his hand.
He understood. They had instructions to take him alive. If not, he would have been dead already. But who was it wanted him?
He barely had time to consider the question when he heard the door slide open down below and footsteps on the stairs. He swung around, a hot stab of pain shooting up his arm as he aimed his gun down into the stairwell.
It was Haavikko. Tolonen felt a surge of anger wash through him. "You bastard!" he hissed, pointing his gun at him.
"No!" Haavikko said urgently, putting his hands out at his sides, the big automatic he carried pointing away from the Marshal. "You don't understand! The honor guard. Their chest patches. Think, Marshal! Think!"
Tolonen lowered his gun. That was right. The recognition band on their chest patches had been the wrong color. It had been the green of an African banner, not the orange of a European one.
Haavikko started up the steps again. "Quick! We've got to get inside."
Tolonen nodded, then turned, covering the corridor as Haavikko came alongside.
"I'll check the first room out," Axel said into his ear. "We can hole up there until help comes. It'll be easier to defend than this."
The old man nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm. "Right. Go. I'll cover you."
He moved out to the right, covering the doorway and the corridor beyond as Haavikko tugged the door open and stepped inside. Then Haavikko turned back, signaling for him to come.
Inside, the room was a mess. This whole section was supposed to be a safe area— a heavily guarded resting place for visiting Security staff—but someone had taken it apart. The mattresses were ripped, the standing lockers kicked over, papers littered the floor.
Haavikko pointed across the room. "Get behind there—between the locker and the bed. I'll take up a position by the door."
Tolonen didn't argue. His arm was throbbing painfully now and he was beginning to feel faint. He crossed the room as quickly as he could and slumped against the wall, a wave of nausea sweeping over him.
It was not a moment too soon. Tolonen heard the door slam further down the corridor and the sound of running men. Then Haavikko's big gun opened up, deafening in that confined space.
Haavikko turned, looking back at him. "There are more of them coming. Down below. Wait there. I'll deal with them."
Through darkening vision, Tolonen saw him draw the grenade from his belt and move out into the corridor. It was a big thing; the kind they used to blast their way through a blocked Seal. He closed his eyes, hearing the grenade clatter on the steps.
And then nothing.
AXEL CROSSED the room swiftly, throwing himself on top of the locker, shielding the Marshal with his body. It was not a moment too soon. An instant later the blast shook the air, ripping at his back, rocking the whole room.
He pulled himself upright. There was a stinging pain in his right shoulder and a sudden warmth at his ear and neck. He looked down. Tolonen was unconscious now and the wound in his arm was still seeping blood, but the blast seemed not to have harmed him any further.
Axel turned. The room was slowly filling with smoke and dust. Coughing, he half-lifted the old man, then dragged him across the room and out into the corridor. He stopped a moment, listening, then hauled the old man up onto his shoulder, grunting with the effort, his own pain forgotten. Half-crouching, the gun strangely heavy in his left hand, he made his way along the corridor, stepping between the fallen bodies. At the far end he kicked the door open, praying there were no more of them.
The room was empty, the door on the far side open. Taking a breath he moved on, hauling the old man through the doorway. He could hear running feet and shouts from all sides now, but distant, muted, as if on another level.
Ping Tiaol If so, he had to get the Marshal as far away as possible.
The Marshal was breathing awkwardly now, erratically. The wound in his arm was bad, his uniform soaked with blood.
He carried the old man to the far side of the room then set him down gently, loosening his collar. He cut a strip of cloth from his own tunic and twisted it into a cord, then bound it tightly about the Marshal's arm, just above the wound. The old man hadn't been thinking. Pulling the knife out had been the worst thing he could have done. He should have left it in. Now it would be touch and go.
He squatted there on his haunches, breathing slowly, calming himself, the gun balanced across his knee, one hand combing back his thick blond hair. Waiting ...
Seconds passed. A minute ... He had almost relaxed when he saw it.
The thing scuttled along the ceiling at the far end of the corridor. Something new. Something he had never seen before. A probe of some kind. Slender, camouflaged, it showed itself only in movement, in the tiny shadows it cast.
It came a few steps closer and stopped, focusing on them. Its tiny camera eye rotated with the smallest of movements of the lens.
He understood at once. This was the assassin's "eyes." The man himself would be watching, out of sight, ready to strike as soon as he knew how things stood.
Axel threw himself forward, rolling, coming up just as the assassin came around the corner.
The tactic worked. It gave him the fraction of a second that he needed. He was not where the man thought he'd be, and in that split second of uncertainty the assassin was undone.
Axel stood over the dead man, looking down at him. His limbs shook badly now, adrenaline changed to a kind of naked fear, realizing how close it had been.
He turned away, returning to Tolonen. The bleeding had stopped, but the old man was still unconscious, his breathing slow, laborious. His face had an unhealthy pallor.
Axel knelt astride the Marshal, tilting his head backward, lifting his neck. Then, pinching his nostrils closed, he breathed into his mouth.
Where was the backup? Where was the regular squad? Or had the Ping Tiao taken out the entire deck?
He shuddered and bent down again, pushing his breath into the old man, knowing he was fighting for his life.
And then there was help. People were milling about behind him in the room— special elite Security and medics. Someone touched his arm, taking over for him. Another drew him aside, pulling him away.
"The Marshal will be all right now. We've regularized his breathing."
Haavikko laughed. Then it had failed! The assassination attempt had failed! He started to turn, to go over to Tolonen and tell him, but as he moved a huge wave of blackness hit him.
Hands grabbed for him as he keeled over, cushioning his fall, then settled him gently against the wall.
"Kuan Yin!" said one of them, seeing the extent of his burns. "We'd better get him to a special unit fast. It's a wonder he got this far."
TEN THOUSAND li away, on the far side of the Atlantic, DeVore was sitting down to breakfast at the Lever Mansion. The Levers—father and son—had come straight from Archimedes' Kitchen. DeVore had got up early to greet them, impressed by the old man's energy. He seemed as fresh after a night of wining and dining as he had when he'd first greeted DeVore more than thirty hours before. While servants hurried to prepare things, they went into the Empire Room. It was a big, inelegant room, its furnishings rather too heavy, too overbearing for DeVore's taste. Even so, there was something impressive about it, from the massive pillars that reached up into the darkness overhead to the gallery that overlooked it on all four sides. The table about which they sat was huge—large enough to sit several dozen in comfort—yet it had been set for the three of them alone. DeVore sat back in the tall-backed chair, his hands resting on the polished oak of the arms, looking down the full length of the table at Lever.