Flight of the Raven (22 page)

A crack of thunder shook the parking lot. At least the impending storm would mask his return fire. Pulling out his Makarov, he dropped to a crouch and zigzagged his way through several lines of cars. As he rounded a fender, he was greeted with two flashes of gunfire in the dim light and the spit of two more bullets. One deflated the tire next to him. The other slammed into his upper arm. The pain was like a hot slash of lightning. For a moment his vision blurred, but he managed to get off three shots of his own and was rewarded with a gasp of agony from the direction in which the fire flashes had gone. Gritting his teeth against his own pain, he moved forward. His aim had been lucky. The fading light revealed a man writhing on the ground, his hands pressed to his abdomen. Between the fingers, dark blood oozed.

Kicking the assassin’s gun out of reach, the Raven turned back toward the car. The interior was still dark, but some sixth sense told him it was now empty. The other man must be in the parking lot. He heard a low whistle. Then silence except for the rising wind. The sound was repeated. Still there was no reply. If he interpreted correctedly, there were only two of them and he’d gotten one. Or maybe it was a trick to throw him off.

His left arm throbbed. It was like a foreign body, hanging uselessly at his side. The inside of his shirt felt wet and sticky. He wondered how much blood he had already lost.

Teeth still clamped together, he began to drag himself across the parking lot again. Lightning split the sky, spotlighting his position for an instant. The roll of thunder that followed masked the spit of three more bullets that spattered into the blacktop of the parking lot, sending chips of pavement flying. Instinctively he rolled, the pain in his arm multiplied a hundredfold by the pressure of the macadam surface. Hot fire skimmed against his body, this time over his hip. Holding his breath, he lay absolutely still on the ground between two cars. It was a calculated risk. But he knew that in his weakened condition he couldn’t keep up the battle much longer. His ears strained. At the barest crunch of leather on gravel, he rolled again and squeezed off four rapid shots. The man who had been coming forward to finish him off sagged to the pavement. He was dead before he hit the ground.

On a hunch the Raven felt through the man’s clothing. In the right front pocket was a set of car keys. Before turning away, he looked at the face. No one he knew. Perhaps the next one who came to try and kill him would be familiar.

After retrieving his flight bag, he staggered to the car. Once inside, he closed the door and took a damage assessment. The left arm was no surprise. He quickly made a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. He swore vehemently when he felt the skin over his right hip. That was where he had taped the vital Topaz film. The flat metal envelope had deflected a bullet. In the process, its contents had been destroyed. So now he no longer had the report. He would have to get the backup copy.

Chyort!
He knew where it was—in the last place on earth he’d pick to visit. He was going to have to get in and out of there fast, no matter what the personal cost.

In his flight bag was a bottle of capsules that contained a powerful stimulant. After choking two down he waited for several minutes. The drug made him feel better, but he knew the effects were only temporary, and that it would be dangerous to repeat the dosage again too soon.

While he was marshaling his strength, the airport bus discharged another group of passengers, and the rain picked up in earnest. Convenient, he thought, as he started the engine, flipped on the wipers, and maneuvered into the line of cars waiting to pay the attendant. A few minutes later he was heading down the Baltimore-Washington Parkway toward D.C., fervently giving thanks that he was familiar with the city.

* * *

J
ULIE SHIFTED
the heavy paper sack to her left hip and unlocked the inside door that connected the garage of her Georgetown town house to the kitchen. She was exhausted, but that seemed to be her natural condition these days. A good therapist could have told her that the physical symptom, along with her lack of appetite, was caused by depression. But she didn’t want to see a therapist. Her nerves were just too raw, her emotions too vulnerable to open herself up to any more strangers. She’d had enough of that recently to last a lifetime.

To the outside world she’d presented the image of a woman adjusting to past trauma. When she allowed herself to think about her mental state, she admitted privately that she felt as though she were existing inside a dead, gray cave. Somehow she was going to find a way out. She just didn’t have the strength to do it yet.

The couple who had been renting her house had vacated the month before, so she was able to move in as soon as some of her household belongings arrived. Instead of hiring a cleaning company to put the place back in order, she’d elected to do the polishing and scrubbing herself. The physical labor sent her to bed every night so tired that she was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. But that was what she wanted.

This evening she’d gone out to the Safeway to lay in a supply of scouring powder and bathroom cleaner so she could get started again first thing in the morning. In the bottom of the bag there was some canned soup and two of her favorite gourmet cheeses along with crackers. She gave herself two brownie points for that.

She walked into the dining room and stopped in horror. The box of dishes she’d left on the table was turned upside down, newspaper and broken crockery scattered about the room. But there was something else that made her heart stop and then leap into her throat. In the center of the gray rug were several small congealing red puddles. Blood.

She had started to back out the doorway when the glint of light on gray metal caught her eye. Her unwilling gaze lifted toward the archway that led to the living room, and she screamed.

Propped on the couch was a rumpled, desperate-looking man, his dark hair shaggy around his haggard, mustached face. The blood that had stained the dining room rug had made a little trail to the couch and soaked into the white velvet cushion beside his left arm. The gun in his other hand was pointed at her stomach.

“Don’t scream again.”

The face was contorted. The voice was the one she still heard in her troubled dreams. “Aleksei! My God! What—?”

“Just give me the wolfhound figurine and I’ll be on my way.”

The voice she remembered? No. A trick. A mistake. This voice was as cold as the dead of a Siberian winter.

“The wolfhound,” he snapped. Talking to her like this was tearing him apart. But he must leave quickly, for her sake.

“I—I don’t have it.”

“You’re lying.”

“No. It’s in the luggage that’s been delayed.”

“Sweet mother!” He tried to raise his left arm. The look of agony that crossed his features made her stomach lurch. Then he seemed to remember where he was. The gun leveled at her once more. At all cost he must keep her from sympathizing with him and just get the hell away from here.

She stared at his red-rimmed eyes, feeling something between despair and numbness. The void he’d left behind had almost destroyed her. Now here he was breaking into her life again, a wounded animal ready to strike out. Would this man who’d once held her so tenderly really shoot her? She honestly didn’t know. But if he were capable of that, maybe it was the best way to end her misery.

Slowly she began to advance across the carpet.

“Stay back.”

“No.” She reached his side and knelt. For a silent moment his blue gaze locked with her brown one. Then he muttered a curse and dropped the gun onto the sofa cushion.

Vitality seemed to seep out of him even as she watched. “I have to get out of here, Julie. If I could find you, others can too.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Oh, God. Aleksei, tell me what this is all about.”

“Anything I tell you puts you in more danger.”

“Dammit! I’ve heard that line before. You said Cal was using me. You’re using me too!”

“Yes.” He was so tired. He didn’t have the energy for any more pretense.

“What did you hide in the wolfhound?”

“Can’t tell you.” The words were slurred.

“Did you make love to me so I’d take it out of the country for you?”

It seemed to require a tremendous effort for him to make his eyes focus on her. Slowly, slowly the hand that had held the gun moved up so that the fingers could tenderly touch her lips. “No.” The hand fell back. His head slumped to the side. She realized that he had passed out.

Dear Lord, what was she going to do now? She slid up beside him on the sofa, cradling his head against her chest, stroking his face, his hair. Her fingers clutched his good hand, warming the chilly flesh. In a few moments she felt him stir.

“How long?” he whispered.

“How long were you unconscious?”

He nodded.

“Not long. Let me call a doctor.”

“No!” The syllable was edged with panic. It seemed to bring more adrenaline to his system. “No doctor. Have to get out of here.”

She eased him back against the cushions again. “You can’t. You must know that.”

“In my flight bag. Stimulant capsules.”

She looked at his gray skin. “A stimulant would probably kill you.”

“Julie...”

“Tell me. Give me some information. Aleksei, in the name of God, play fair with me just once.” He was so weak. The demand wrenched at her insides, but she had to make it. She had to know. Her fingers pressed over his. She needed to maintain the contact.

He closed his eyes, gathering his strength. Finally his voice rasped, “Dan and I were working together.”

Julie sucked in her breath. “You told me he wasn’t doing anything against the interests of his country.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Then...?”

“
I
was.”

She stared at him, her mind suddenly processing information in new ways. Aleksei Rozonov, a KGB agent giving away his country’s secrets. It still didn’t quite compute. “Why didn’t Cal know? He’s CIA, for God sakes.”

“Not the CIA. Another organization. More secret. Can’t...”

“You must have a code name. Tell me that.”

He hesitated, made a decision. “Raven.”

Dan’s calender. The
R
s. “Was he supposed to meet you the night he was killed?”

“Yes.”

“And the theater?”

“We always had...backup meeting.”

“Then that’s why the notations on the calendar came in pairs?”

“Yes.”

“What did you hide in the wolfhound?” she asked gently.

“Vital information...for your government.”

Her eyes swept over his ravaged appearance. He had gone through hell to get here. “You’re in the country illegally?”

He closed his eyes, not bothering to answer.

“Who shot you?”

“KGB.”

She had made her own decision. “Can you walk a little way if I help you?”

“Don’t know.”

“We’re getting out of here.”

* * *

A
MHERST
G
ORDON
tossed the FBI report he’d been scanning onto his desk. His thin lips were set in a grim line. “What do you think about this evening’s shoot-out at the OK Corral?” he asked his assistant.

“You mean the mysterious murders in the BWI satellite parking lot?”

“Um-hum.”

“Those two dead men aren’t from the Clayton gang. I’d say they were Soviet agents.”

“My thought exactly. And I’d be willing to bet that they were looking for the same person we are.”

Connie nodded. “The fact that
they’re
dead and he isn’t is a hopeful sign.”

“Marginally. We still have a lone agent on the loose whose chances of getting through to us are almost nil. We don’t know if he got out of Spain with the information we need, and we don’t know if he’s been wounded. The only thing we do know for sure is that Moscow is trying to kill him.” He paused and stroked his chin. “That does make it more likely that he has the Topaz material. Unfortunately, it also means that he’s better off shooting first and asking questions later—which certainly doesn’t make the job of contacting him any easier.”

“You forgot to mention that if the American authorities find out he’s here, they’re going to consider him a threat—and fair game.”

Gordon’s expression darkened. “Yes, we mustn’t leave out that little detail. So what would you do if you were in Aleksei Iliyanovich Rozonov’s shoes?”

“Find some help.”

“Too bad Conti is out of the country on that damn opera tour. If he weren’t, I’d bet on the Raven showing up at his New York apartment. I thought about trying to get him back—with a fake appendicitis or something. But by the time he’d get home, it would probably be too late.”

“So who else would the Raven trust with a secret that could change the balance of world power?”

Gordon laughed harshly. “No one I know of off the top of my head. That’s why I want you to start cross-checking our data bases.” He paused and looked thoughtful. “And get those McLean debriefing tapes from State. Dixon’s cockamamie operation threw her into contact with Aleksei several times. Maybe she learned something from him that will give us a clue.”

Connie looked doubtful.

“Dammit,” the Falcon rasped, “I know it’s a long shot. But long shots are all we have at the moment.”

“I’ll get right on it.” She turned back to her computer, a feeling of urgency making her usually steady fingers tremble slightly. There was not a doubt in her mind now that some operative of the KGB was going through the same kind of search she was about to initiate. It was just a question of who found Aleksei Rozonov first—the Falcon or the assassins.

* * *

J
ULIE DUMPED
the cleaning products out of the bag onto the kitchen floor and opened the kitchen cabinets. Into the bag and another one went some food. It took her only a few minutes more to throw a few changes of clothes into a suitcase. The gun she stuffed gingerly back into the flight bag.

After loading the few supplies in the car, she cranked the right front seat down so that it was in full reclining position. If only she could make Aleksei more comfortable. But it was the best she could do with a Toyota.