Summit (46 page)

"I told you I could do it, right?" the cabbie said. "No problem."

He double-parked the cab on the corner. Sullivan watched the three men walk up the steps into the town house.

"Want me to stick around? You might need to make a quick getaway or something, right?"

Sullivan shook his head as he tried to think.

"Who are these guys, anyway?"

"Russian spies," he murmured.

"Yeah. Right."

Sullivan gave the driver some more money and got out of the cab.

"Hey, thanks a lot. Have a nice evening, now."

Sullivan stayed where he was until the cab disappeared. He stared at the town house. The place undoubtedly had an alarm, so it would be difficult to break in. He was outnumbered, and that meant that no matter how much he managed to surprise them, they'd still have a chance to kill Fulton. But maybe Fulton was too valuable for them to kill. Could he assume that? Did he have a choice?

There were ways of getting in, he supposed. But one thing was common to all: They required someone who was willing to risk death.

Did he have a choice?

* * *

The melody of the
Funeral March
kept running through Viktor's head as he took up his post inside the front door:
Dum-dum-da-dum.
You had to be a genius to come up with a melody like that. Viktor wondered what it would be like to be a genius. Certainly you wouldn't have to sit by doors all night.
Da-da-
dum-
da-
dum-
da-
dum.

Eventually another melody intruded upon the
Funeral March.
A trite, annoying melody, coming from outside and getting louder:

~~~

"For Boston, for Boston

We sing our proud refrain

For Boston, for Boston

Till the echoes ring again."

~~~

It was a man singing—quite badly. The words were slurred; he was probably drunk. The singing became quite loud, and then the man started pounding on the door. "Maureen, you in there?" he shouted. "Come on outa there, you bitch. C'mon 'n have a li'l drink with me."

Yevgeny appeared in the hall. "Who is it?" he demanded.

"Sounds like a drunk," Viktor said. "He probably has the wrong address—all the houses look the same around here."

"Get rid of him."

Viktor nodded and got up from his chair. He opened the inner door and stood in the vestibule. "You have wrong address," he called out. "No Maureen here."

The man pounded some more. " 'For here men are men / And their hearts are true,'" he bellowed, "'And the towers on the Heights / Reach the heavens' own blue.' Can't fool me, Maureen. You got some guy in there with you, huh? Bitch."

"Is not here, I repeat!" Viktor shouted. "Go away, please."

"You got a fuckin Russian with you!" the man roared, sounding astonished and incensed. "You goddamn commie whore, when'd you start screwin' Russians? How many rubles they payin' you, huh, Maureen? Lemme in, you fuckin' traitor." And the man resumed his pounding.

Viktor turned back to Yevgeny, who threw his hands up. "We can't have the police coming," he said. "Bring him inside."

Viktor nodded. He opened the front door, and he saw a heavyset, red-faced man staring back at him.

That was the last thing he saw in this life.

* * *

When Abigail heard the commotion downstairs, she immediately rushed to Fulton's room to make sure he was not involved. He stared dully up at her from his bed. "What's going on?" he asked.

She didn't answer. And then the gunshots came. Should she go downstairs and help? No, better stay here with Fulton. She drew her own gun and aimed it at him. "Stay where you are," she said.

He didn't move.

"Fulton?" a voice called out from downstairs. The accent was American. Shit.

He wanted Fulton. Well, he wasn't going to get him. She would have liked to kill Fulton now, but those were not her orders. It was not easy following orders sometimes. She kept the gun aimed at him. "Help!" she shouted, sounding young and scared and very American. "We're in the bedroom. They got us tied up!"

There were hurried footsteps on the stairs. Abigail smiled and stepped back away from the door. She saw Fulton staring at her helplessly.

"Fulton?" The voice was in the hallway.

"We're in here," Abigail said. "Please help us."

"No!" Fulton shouted, and then he dived off the bed.

The stupid bastard. She shot at him, and then turned to face the American coming into the room. It took her a split second to find him, and that was a split second too long. He too had dived to the floor when Fulton shouted. He fired first from the hallway. She felt a searing pain, and there was a roaring in her ears, and suddenly she couldn't think what to do next. And then it occurred to her that there was nothing to do next.

At least I got Fulton,
she thought, and then all thought ceased.

* * *

Sullivan crawled into the room, his gun at the ready. The girl looked dead. He grabbed the gun out of her hand and looked around.

Fulton was on the floor, half under the bed, staring at him.

"Any more of them?" Sullivan asked.

Fulton shook his head.

"You all right?"

Fulton stared at his left arm. The sleeve was bloody. Sullivan crawled over and took a look at the wound. "Just a scratch," he said. "We'll bandage it up, and you'll be all right."

Fulton continued to stare at the blood, and Sullivan realized what the problem was: the guy was a pianist. His arm really mattered. "No permanent damage," he said. "I'm sure of it."

Fulton closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sullivan figured it was time he took a deep breath too.

He had done it. He was alive; the Russians were dead; Fulton was free. Sullivan had dived to the floor when he saw a glint of metal, but it was out of cunning, not fear. And now it was over.

He got to his feet, found the bathroom, and returned a few moments later with a basin of hot water and some bandages. There were things to be done, but he could take time to fix up Fulton, who still sat on the floor in a daze.

"It was brave of you to warn me like that," Sullivan remarked as he dressed the wound.

"I had to," Fulton said, speaking finally. "Do you know what's going on?"

"Yeah. I'm from the CIA, but I'm unofficial at the moment. No one believes me about Lawrence Hill and Borisova and the summit and everything. I staked out the Soviet Mission and followed you here."

"Thanks," Fulton said.

"You're welcome. The thing is, I can't convince anyone about anything just now, for reasons that aren't worth going into. But you can. So I think we should go straight to the
New York Times
and get the story out. What with dead KGB officers and you being kidnapped and all, I'm sure we can make enough of a case to get the rest of the summit canceled. Or, if it's too late to get it canceled, at least the Russians won't dare try anything during it."

Fulton shook his head. "We have to save Valentina."

"She'll be all right. Once we get some publicity, the Russians couldn't possibly—"

"She's
dying!"
Fulton cried. "We can't just hope everything works out and the Russians do what we want. Do you really think they'll hand her over to the United States and apologize for the inconvenience? We have to save her
now."

"But we can't. She's in the Soviet Mission, isn't she? How can we rescue her from there?"

Fulton stared at him. "Do you speak Russian?" he asked.

"Uh-huh."

"And Viktor is dead—the big Russian with the red face and the broken nose?"

"Yeah. The body's downstairs. Incidentally, the police'll probably be—"

"Don't worry, this is New York. You look a bit like Viktor. I think I can make you look a lot more like him. Enough to get us past the cameras and into the garage. And then we can do what's necessary to find Valentina and get back out."

Sullivan finished bandaging Fulton's arm and sat on the bed. This wasn't the idea at all. One burst of bravery, he had hoped, and it would all be over. Go to the press, get your name cleared, and turn from a traitor into a hero. But life wasn't that simple.
Do what's necessary.
So far, he had killed—what?—five people, and hadn't received a scratch in return. His luck was bound to run out soon. "I don't think our odds are very good," he murmured.

"Will you do it?" Fulton asked.

Sullivan shrugged. Maybe his luck was supposed to ran out. He couldn't turn back now. "I suppose I have to," he said.

"Thanks," Fulton said. "I don't even know your name," he added as he got to his feet.

Sullivan told him.

* * *

The theatrical supply store was just closing when they arrived. The clerk knew Fulton, however, and kept the place open while he picked out what he needed. Then they hurried back to Greenwich Village in the Russians' car.

It felt strange to return to the silent town house with the corpses inside, but it had to be done. They dragged Viktor's body into the kitchen and Fulton studied it as he worked on the wig and the false nose. Viktor's face showed a mixture of amazement and pain. It had been a quick death, but perhaps not an easy one.

Neither of them spoke much as Fulton prepared the disguise. There didn't seem to be much to say. In forty-five minutes Fulton pronounced the work completed. Sullivan went to look at the results in the hall mirror. The transformation was startling. "How did you get to be such an expert?" he asked Fulton.

"Fear," Fulton replied. "I didn't want to be recognized in public, so I learned a lot about makeup and disguises."

Fear. Good enough reason. Fulton got some cologne out of the medicine chest to cover the smell of the makeup. "Put his suit on," he instructed Sullivan next. "And then we should go."

Viktor was his size. The suit coat was bloodstained, but no one would notice until he got inside, and then other bloodstains might soon be added. He took out Viktor's wallet and looked at his KGB identity card. Big smile on the photo. He probably had a wife and kid back in Moscow. Maybe the kid played hockey.

"Let's go," Fulton said.

Sullivan checked Viktor's gun to make sure it was loaded. Fulton had already picked up Yevgeny's. Sullivan pocketed the gun and buttoned the suit coat. "Ready," he said.

Fulton hurried out to the car, and Sullivan walked slowly after him.

* * *

Sullivan drove. Fulton slouched in the front seat next to him, his hands fingering the gun. He had never touched a gun before. Its power frightened him. His arm still throbbed from that power. But he needed all the power he could get if he was going to rescue Valentina.

He glanced over at Sullivan as he sped through the Manhattan traffic. He didn't look like the kind of guy who could single-handedly defeat a bunch of Russian spies. Fulton thought of Lawrence Hill. Looks can be deceiving.

"I have a son named Daniel," Sullivan said. "Danny, we call him."

"No one ever called me Danny."

"Lives with his mother down in Florida. He's a good hockey player, but you don't get much chance to play hockey down in Florida."

Fulton considered. "I've never seen a hockey game," he said.

Sullivan appeared to consider in turn. "I've never heard you play the piano," he said.

They fell silent. Not far now.

"Oh," Sullivan said as they paused at a light. "In case—in case I don't have a chance to tell you later. I broke into your house looking for you. I listened to the messages on your answering machine. Your mother is going to have an operation. It sounds serious. Your father would like you to call."

Fulton closed his eyes as he felt the familiar tensions squeezing him. Was there no way he could leave them behind?

No, there wasn't. "Thanks," he whispered.

The light turned green. They passed Bloomingdale's on Third Avenue. The bravado Fulton had displayed in the safe house was slipping away from him as the true test approached. He remembered standing backstage in Moscow, too scared to move. He wished he had Hershohn around now to give him a push.

But that was the key, wasn't it? To pretend you're onstage. Instead of the dashing, romantic pianist, you are the dashing, romantic hero, come to rescue your beloved from the evil foreign spies. The fear is only the prelude to the glory.

Feel the audience with you. Together there is only greatness. Together you cannot fail.

So many people had cheered him in his lifetime, so many people shouting their adoration, begging for more of his genius. Would there be cheers after this performance?

Would there be cheers ever again?

"It's around the corner," Sullivan said. "What do you want me to do?"

Fulton told him.

Chapter 45