Summit (48 page)

And maybe he had saved his country.

The concrete was cold, but not as cold as ice. It would do. A face swam into view. Hallucination? No, it was real enough. Sullivan would have smiled if the pain hadn't been so fierce. Lawrence Hill was with him at the end too.

But the funny thing was, Hill didn't recognize his old friend. They were both different men now. Hill had a new mind, courtesy of Valentina. And Sullivan had a new face, courtesy of Daniel Fulton.

Too bad he couldn't have this one final victory—of seeing Hill understand that his ex-partner was not a coward after all.

You can't have everything.

Then Hill raised his gun, and it was over.

* * *

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Fulton wished he knew how to drive a car.

Valentina knew, but she was barely able to get in the passenger side and slump down in the seat. It was up to him.

He tried to remember something from the lessons he had always failed so miserably. It was the most difficult thing he had ever done, with gunshots roaring through the garage and his arm throbbing and people dying all around him.

Put the key in the ignition.

It didn't fit, goddamn it!

Try it the other way.

Okay.

Turn.

The engine roared to life, and immediately made an unfamiliar screeching noise. He let go of the key, and the screeching stopped. He tried to move the automatic shift lever next to him, but it wouldn't go. There was a button on the lever; he pushed it in. Success. He moved the lever to "D". That was right, wasn't it?

The car started to move.

Which pedal was the brake?

The other one.

He looked up and saw Lawrence Hill running toward him.
Oh shit.
He moved his foot to the accelerator, and the car jumped forward. He turned the steering wheel; the car turned too much and banged into the side of the ramp. He turned the wheel the other way, and the car banged into the other side of the ramp.

Why hadn't he paid attention during the goddamn lessons?

The guy who had waved to Sullivan from the booth was running toward the car from the other direction. He was right in Fulton's path. Fulton wasn't stopping now. At the last second the guy figured that out and leaped aside.

And then Fulton realized there was going to be a problem.

The garage door was shut tight. He looked over at Valentina. "Hold on," he said, and he pressed the accelerator to the floor.

He raised a hand to shield his face as the car hit the door. There was a terrible noise of breaking glass and twisting steel. The car's engine whined in protest. Fulton looked over his shoulder. There were bullet holes in his rear window. They'd been shooting at him, apparently, and he hadn't noticed. Hill had jumped into a car and was preparing to follow him.
Oh shit.
The door gave way, and Fulton was out in the street
—free!
—and then he was on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, scattering people and protest signs.
Shit!
He turned the wheel frantically and got the car back under control. A policeman was running at him. Hill was coming out of the garage. A horn blared; someone shouted obscenities. Fulton accelerated.

Luckily he had the light crossing Lexington. How did people keep track of lights and one-way signs and street names while they drove? He was not so lucky at Park, but he kept going anyway, to the astonishment and rage of about a thousand cab drivers, who swerved and screeched and ran into each other but miraculously missed him. He prayed that they wouldn't miss Hill. He kept going across Madison, and then his luck ran out at Fifth Avenue, where a limousine a block long sideswiped them. He totally lost control of the car, and it ended up on top of a hydrant, which started gushing water fifteen feet into the air.

Fulton looked at Valentina. "You okay?"

She managed to nod.

He climbed down from the car, went around to the other side, and helped her out, getting soaked in the process. He looked around for Hill, but couldn't see him in the mess of traffic he had created. He did, however, see a lot of angry people headed for them. "Let's go," he said.

They disappeared into Central Park.

He tried to think as he dragged Valentina along, but his brain wouldn't function. His arm hurt; he was shivering in his wet clothes; for all he knew, Hill was waiting for them just around the next curve in the path. And Valentina looked like she was about to collapse. "I—can't—" she gasped, clinging to him, and he realized that he couldn't either.

"All right," he said. "Just let me—" They stopped, and his mind whirled dizzily.
What now
? But nothing came.
Had to get away from Hill. Had to let Valentina rest.
And then he looked up at the buildings surrounding the park, their lights twinkling in the cold night air, and suddenly he had the answer. "Just a little farther," he murmured to her.

"Will we be safe?"

"Yes. We'll be safe."

She smiled weakly at him, and he kissed her forehead. Then he put his arm around her, and together they stumbled through the park to safety.

Chapter 46

The doorman did not like the looks of the couple who came staggering in off the street. The man was unshaven and soaking wet; the woman was wearing a nightgown and could barely stand up. Drugs, he thought. "Yes?" he demanded.

"Dmitri Khorashev," the man said.

"Mr. Khorashev did not leave word he was expecting anyone," the doorman replied. "It is much too late to—"

"It is much too late to argue," the man said, and he produced a gun that he aimed at the doorman's chest. "Tell Khorashev that Daniel Fulton wants to see him."

The doorman stared at the gun and decided he was going back to graduate school in Iowa. New York City was just plain crazy. He called Khorashev, who sounded delighted by the news that he had guests.

* * *

"You look like cat is dragging you in," Khorashev said by way of greeting. He was wearing a silk robe the color of his gray hair.

Fulton smiled wearily. "I need help."

"You have come to the right place. Enter, please. My home is your castle."

Khorashev helped him bring Valentina into the guest room, where she collapsed on the bed and immediately fell asleep. Fulton stared at her for a moment, wondering what he could do for her, then kissed her and turned to Khorashev. He tried to form a coherent sentence. "I'm sorry to barge in on you this way, but—"

Khorashev waved him silent. "You are wet," he pointed out. "And you have bloody shirt."

Fulton looked down at his arm. It would be all right-—Sullivan had told him so.
And now Sullivan must be dead.
He would have to think about that later. "Doesn't matter," he said.

"At least change your clothes," Khorashev insisted.

"No time. You've got to listen."

"I'll listen while you change."

So Fulton tried to tell his story while changing out of his wet clothes into some of Khorashev's. The story didn't seem to come out very well, but Khorashev kept nodding his head in understanding, so something must have gotten through. "We've got to get some reporters over here, Dmitri," he explained finally. "Publicity is the only thing that can protect us. The Soviets can't drag off Valentina if the whole world is watching."

"They are animals," Khorashev said. He brought Fulton a glass of brandy. Fulton swallowed some, and the warmth felt wonderful as it spread through his weary body. "I have a friend at the
Times,"
Khorashev went on. "I will ask him exactly how to handle it."

"I'd appreciate that," Fulton said. "I don't think I'm good for much of anything at this point."

"Rest then, and I will take care of it. When the press arrives, I will rouse you, and you can say again what you said to me."

Fulton smiled. "Thank you, Dmitri."

Khorashev smiled back. "Do not mention it, Daniel. A friend in need is certainly a friend."

Fulton finished his brandy and returned to the guest room. He lay down beside Valentina, who snuggled close to him. He held her in his arms and closed his eyes, and for the first time in months he started to relax. It had been horrible, but now it was going to be all right.

* * *

Khorashev made his call. Afterwards, he stood for a moment looking at the phone. Then he went and sat down at his piano. His hands moved silently, automatically over the keys, and then settled into some Chopin. Fulton and his friend would not mind, he was sure.

And as he played, his eyes wandered over the knick-knacks on his bookshelves and the posters on his walls. He looked at everything around him but the
matryoshka
doll. She was staring at him, he knew, with her dark, knowing, Russian eyes, and he did not want to meet that gaze.

He played the piano for a long time.

* * *

The
Tristesse
etude. The sounds barely reached Fulton's fading consciousness. But they brought with them an image of his recital in Moscow—and then of his parents, and the message Sullivan had given him, forgotten amid the fear and death. His mother loved him very much, he thought.

And he supposed he loved her, too.

He was asleep before he could think anything more.

Chapter 47

Fulton opened his eyes.

Daylight.

He had survived the night, then. And Valentina was still by his side. He leaned over and kissed her. She stirred and opened her eyes. She smiled. "Shall we get up?" she asked.

"Rest, darling. There'll be plenty of time to—"

Daylight.
Where were the reporters? He looked at his watch: eight-thirty.

Khorashev had said he would take care of it.

"Stay here," Fulton murmured. He got out of bed and went looking for Khorashev. "Dmitri?"

"Here, Daniel," Khorashev called out.

Fulton went down the corridor to the music room. The Russian was sitting at the piano. "Dmitri, why didn't you—"

He saw why. Sitting in a corner of the room, wearing a rumpled brown suit, was Lawrence Hill. He was pointing a gun at Fulton. "Good morning, Daniel," he said. "I was just coming to wake the two of you up."

Fulton turned immediately to go warn Valentina, but it was too late—she was standing behind him, looking beautiful but vulnerable in her nightgown.

"Come in, Valentina," Hill called out. "I've been letting you rest up, but now it's time to go back to work."

Valentina clutched Fulton's arm. "How did he find us?" she asked.

Hill looked at Khorashev. Khorashev was gazing down at his hands clasped in his lap. "You've got to understand, Daniel," he said, not looking up. "I am Russian. I cannot turn my back on the motherland."

Fulton gestured at the Americana that surrounded them.
See the USA in Your Chevrolet. Nixon's the One. Snap! Crackle! Pop!
Currier and Ives; Simon and Garfunkel; Moe, Larry, and Curly. "But you've been an American for over thirty years, Dmitri."