Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (99 page)

 
          
“No
gun?” the Air Force soldier asked. “Doesn’t the DIA carry guns?”

 
          
“I
don’t chase bad guys,” Scorcelli told him. “I wait until they’re in custody,
surrounded by blue-shirts. What do I need a gun for?”

 
          
“He
checks,” another guard said. The pat-search revealed a few pens—the guards even
pushed the plungers on them and scribbled circles on a sheet of paper to make
sure they worked—a small notebook, an appointment book with a credit-card-sized
computer inside, wallet with seven dollars in it and a set of car keys from a
rental car agency. “He’s okay.”

 
          
“What
are you doing here this late?” the second guard asked, taking a sip of coffee
as Scorcelli retrieved his belongings.

 
          
“First
opportunity the DIA’s had to interview him,” Scorcelli said. The first guard
consulted his log to double-check that fact—he was the first DIA representative
here today. “This is the CIA’s and the Air Force’s ballgame. We just want to
see what the guy has to say. I understand he wants to make a deal.”

 
          
“Go
ahead,” the guard said. “Twenty minutes, max. Doctor’s orders.”

           
Scorcelli entered Maraklov’s room
and closed the door—and was immediately grabbed from behind by another guard.
“You scared the crap out of me,” Scorcelli said.

 
          
“Sorry,”
was all the guard said, but he didn’t loosen his grip. Scorcelli then heard two
beeps on a walkie-talkie the guard carried on his belt, and the guard replied
with two beeps of his own. Finally the guard released him. “Go ahead, sir.”

 
          
“Man,
with all these searches I forgot what I was going to ask this guy,” Scorcelli
said. The guard smiled and walked back to his seat on the far side of the room.

 
          
“Where’s
our friend?”

 
          
“Taking
a leak,” the guard said. He got up and knocked on the door to the adjacent bathroom.
“Someone to see you.”

           
“I’ll be out in a minute,” Maraklov
called from inside the bathroom.

           
“He doesn’t sound like a Russian to
me,” Scorcelli said.

           
“He’s a Russian, all right. He says
he’s been trained to act like an American. Can you believe it?”

           
“Sounds weird.” Scorcelli unbuttoned
his jacket, then pulled out the small notebook and a pen. He was about to write
something when he looked up at the floor beside a sofa near the wall. “You got
rats in here.”

 
          
When
the guard walked in front of Scorcelli to check for rats, Scorcelli jabbed the
point of the pen into his neck. The guard was conscious just long enough to
reach up to his neck, then instantly fell asleep. Scorcelli lowered him to the
floor, dragged him out of sight, then took his sidearm from his holster. Hiding
behind the bathroom door, Scorcelli took the second pen from his shirt pocket,
twisted the cap and pressed the pocket-clip.

 
          
When
Maraklov emerged from the bathroom, Scorcelli reached around behind him,
grabbed his chin with his left hand, pulled his head over to the left to expose
his neck and pressed in the point of the pen. When he depressed a plunger, a
one-inch long needle shot out and injected its contents directly into Maraklov’s
carotid artery.

 
          
Maraklov
managed to push Scorcelli away, but the poison was already starting to take
effect. He sagged to his knees, trying but unable to call for help. He strained
to focus his eyes on Scorcelli. “What . . . who are you?”

 
          
“Don’t
you remember, buddy?” Scorcelli said. “C’mon, you remember.”

 
          
Maraklov
shook his head.

 
          
“You’re
a smart guy,
Ken.
You remember. I’ll
give you a hint. We went to school together.” Maraklov’s eyes suddenly opened,
and he struggled to get to his feet. Scorcelli put a hand on his shoulder, and
in Maraklov’s weakened conditipn it was easy to hold him steady.

 
          
“I’m
your old buddy, Tony Scorcelli,” the DIA “agent” said. “Remember? We played
softball together. I’ll never forget that last game we played,
Ken,
the one we played just before you
went to
Hawaii
. You got me busted back after that little
scuffle, did you know that? I wanted to go to law school in the
United States
. But after that fight, Roberts busted me
back and I ended up in a nowhere little job in the DIA pushing papers.”

 
          
Maraklov
tried to rise again but was too weak. “But I got an interesting call from my
handler the other day, and guess what? The KGB wants my old buddy Ken James
dead. It seems he began spilling his guts to the Americans. Actually wanted to
defect or something like that. Fell in love with an airplane, can you beat it?
There was word that he was responsible for killing that nympho secretary back
at the Academy. When I heard all this I just had to run right over from
Washington
, get myself clearance to enter your little
condo here ...”

 
          
Scorcelli
pulled Maraklov up and sat him on the chair. “Sorry I can’t stay and shoot the
breeze, old buddy, as us Americans say, but you’ve got a date in hell and I’m
on my way back to my
Black
Sea
condo. It’s
beautiful there this time of year.”

 
          
Just
then the door opened behind Scorcelli and McLanahan and Briggs walked in.
“Hey,” McLanahan called out when he saw Scorcelli standing over Maraklov. “What
the hell are you doing?”

 
          
Briggs
drew his sidearm just as Scorcelli reached for the gun he had taken from the
drugged guard. He pushed McLanahan aside, fired one shot into Scorcelli’s chest
and dropped him. Briggs checked over Scorcelli and the Air Force guard as more
security agents ran into the room. McLanahan went over to Maraklov.

 
          
“Ammonium
cyanide,” Maraklov got out, barely strong enough to draw breath. “Standard KGB
issue. Scorcelli’s KGB. Deep cover, like me ...”

 
          
McLanahan
found the doctor’s call button and pressed it. “Easy . . .”

           
“No, listen. Wall safe in my
apartment. . . behind the bookcase. Careful... I wired it. Names of KGB
handlers and Academy grads. Not many but it’ll help . . .” Dying, he looked as
if he was falling asleep.