The Nicholas Linnear Novels (132 page)

That was when the door to the hall burst open with a crack like a rifle shot.

Sato found his guest in the garden. In the rain.

“My dear friend,” he called from the dry sanctuary of his study, “you’ll catch your death of cold out there.”

Nicholas did not answer at once. His shoulders were slumped as he sat on the stone seat, facing the swaying branches of the boxwood. There was a fat gray plover strutting impatiently back and forth along a dry patch near the wide bole. Every so often it cocked its head upward, its glaring eye seeming to curse the foul elements.

As for Nicholas, he barely noticed the wetness. The kimono was soaked through and there was not a part of him that was dry. It did not matter. He knew now that Akiko and Yukio were two separate entities.

Deceit could only be taken so far. A face could lie, for instance, whispered words, even a knowing glance. But a body was different. Response to an intimate touch, the softening, the opening, all these were unique. They could not be counterfeited.

An unutterable sadness filled him at the thought that he had lost her all over again. Of course it had been an impossibility that she should be alive. Logic dictated that she had died by Saigō’s hand just as he had described it to Nicholas, savoring each word’s effect on his hated cousin.

Yet Nicholas, for the first time in his life perhaps, had not heeded logic. He had thrown a lifetime of training and understanding out for the possibility of one desperate hope. It was laughable and sad at the same time.

And he despised himself for the enjoyment he took from the adulterous joining. Though Akiko was not Yukio, still, he had made love to her with more than his body. Who she was and why she looked like his lost love became secondary to the knowledge that his heart was open to her. If she were not Yukio, could he love her anyway? By what magic was that possible? Or had some vital piece of Yukio’s somehow lodged in Akiko’s soul? In any case, he felt tainted, an outcast from himself. His misdeed had lost him his centricity, and without that he was powerless in a world gone mad.

“Linnear-san.” He could hear Sato’s voice raised above the racket of downpour. Then the older man was beside him, draping a clear plastic wrap across his shoulders. “Contemplation must conform to the elements which it honors,” he said softly. “I will leave you alone.”

“No, Sato-san. Please stay.” Abruptly, Nicholas did not want to be alone. He already felt too isolated, bereft almost. All his youthful dreams were gone. In the space of a thunderclap, wild hope had died. But what, he thought, is a human being without hope.

“This garden is most calming at all times of the day.” Sato moved beside him. He opened his mouth to continue, closed it as a crack of thunder rolled across the sky. “I’ve often thought that it is the shouting of the gods,” he said. “Thunder. I was awakened early this morning by the storm. I drowsed, listening to its cries. Almost human, don’t you think?”

“Very human, indeed,” Nicholas said. I must confess, he thought. I must return harmony to my spirit. “Sato-san—”

“The Chinese taught our forefathers geomancy,” Sato said, forestalling Nicholas, “so that we might forever remain in harmony with the forces of nature. We are not tigers, though we may strive to be. There is a perfection in that lesser state to which we human beings can only aspire.”

His eyes were liquid and soft as he looked down at Nicholas. And, quite startlingly, he put his hand on Nicholas’ shoulder. “Won’t you come inside now,” he said, “and allow me to brew you tea?”

Watching Russilov’s straight back disappear out the steel door, Protorov thought about how, after struggling for so many years to devote himself to the service of ideology, his life had taken on a personal cast. Not creating a family for himself he certainly saw as proof of his overriding dedication to the eventual worldwide triumph of Soviet ideals.

But now he had Russilov. How had that happened? His intense feeling for the young man caused him to feel vulnerable. And being vulnerable made him feel afraid.

Viktor Protorov had not been afraid for eight years. Not since the death of his older—and only—brother. At that time Protorov was head of the First Directorate, responsible for Russian internal security. Creating an unassailable kingdom for himself within the Ninth Directorate, a bastion from which to strike outward at the right time, to lead the motherland onward to global victory, was just dawning on him.

In the winter of that year—a particularly bitter one, filled with day after day of heavy snow—he had many missions running. All were important. In those days he lacked the internal clout to request more men for his understaffed directorate. He had learned to make do. But because of the acute manpower shortage and the inclemency of the weather he was forced to physically oversee more missions than he should have.

Consequently he had been outside Moscow, far to the north, when they had brought in Minck. Protorov had known of his presence inside Russia and had wanted him, badly. A fluke had landed him early, and he was inside Lubyanka when Protorov’s brother, of junior rank—a lieutenant—though he was three years older, learned of his presence.

Protorov had always done better than Lev, academically and socially. Protorov knew how to speak to people, knew how to take exams, knew in his own mind what he wanted to be. Lev was always the dreamer, unsure of which fork to take in a road, in which direction to turn his life. He had always been afraid of making a mistake.

He had made a mistake that dark, snowfilled afternoon. Even while notification of Minck’s capture was being relayed to Protorov by the despicably unreliable wire system, Lev went into Lubyanka to interrogate the spy himself. He wanted, no doubt, to prove to his younger brother that there was something he could do as well—and on his own.

He failed. Somehow Minck was able to overpower him and, using him as hostage, break free. Then he killed Lev, slaughtered him in the snow like a butcher.

They left him there in the storm, terrified to touch him before Protorov arrived. There was little blood for him to see when, hours later, he returned to Moscow; the cold had congealed it, cauterizing the wound. Still there was a gaping hole in Lev’s left temple where the bullet had torn through the skull. Protorov did not want to look at the damage inflicted on the back of the head, knowing that the devastation would be far worse at the egress point. Quite deliberately he turned Lev’s body over and stared at the carnage. Snowflakes caught on his lids making vision difficult. Still he persevered even as he ordered the manhunt for Minck and his fellow escapee, Tanya Vladimova.

Perhaps it was then that Protorov thought for the first time that there was too much pain to be borne in having a family. Perhaps it was at that moment that he decided not to have one of his own. For the sense of utter isolation, of a terrible vulnerability, was overwhelming. He found himself hating the American named Minck far more than he had ever thought he could hate another human being.

Six months later he had awakened an important sleeper in order to kill Minck’s wife, sleeping alone and vulnerable in their bed in rural Maryland. One shot from a pistol Protorov—and Minck—knew well at close range through the left temple.

Still it had not been enough. So the war went on. And on.

Protorov sighed now, alone in his inner sanctum. He pushed his glasses up onto the dome of his forehead, scrubbed at his face with a palm. He found that he had been sweating. Though Tengu, his second agent within the Tenshin Shoden Katori
ryu
, had been killed, his backup—the last agent Protorov had in that field—was making progress.

At that moment, the compact cipher machine began to buzz, preparatory to decoding an Alpha-three. His satellite was about to whisper in his ear once again.

Croaker grabbed Alix’s slim wrist and jerked hard, hearing her short, high scream of surprise and pain as he used his strength to roll her across to the far side of the bed and out of harm’s way.

At the same time, his hand snaked beneath the bed to where the gun lay and, without aiming fully, shot out the lamplight in the room.

Now only the oblong of illumination filtering in through the open doorway to the hall pushed back the darkness. And in its midst, the shadow rushed into the room.

He’s a goddamned bull, Croaker thought, as he pushed Alix’s inquisitive head down to the carpeting and rose at the instant he felt the shadow at its closest.

He lifted his arm, brought the muzzle of the pistol down in a vicious slash across the shadow’s cheekbone, felt the contact with pleasure, the split of skin, flesh, and the pressured scrape against bone.

But despite the blow, the shadow’s momentum was enough to keep him coming on. And such was his strength that he slammed full tilt into Croaker, knocking the pistol from his grip. It skidded across the floor in the darkness, lost.

Oh, Christ, Croaker thought, we’re in for it now. He felt a heavy blow land on his shoulder, twisting him, and blindly he kicked upward, missing once, his knee connecting with the shadow’s thigh bone, adjusting his aim accordingly and plowing into the shadow’s groin.

He heard the whoosh of air and a groan, and the weight and pressure on him eased sufficiently for him to squirm out from under.

“Come on!” he yelled at Alix, fumbling for her hand and half dragging her from the room, down the blindingly lit hallway to the exit door and the stairs.

Down the metal and concrete staircase they ran until at last they burst out into the soft-skinned night. The car would have been the best bet, but Croaker had left the keys back in the room.

He took a quick look around. There were few people about except at the entrance of the hotel where locals were drawing up as they went into the disco in the lobby, one of the only nightspots in the area. Croaker took them that way though they were certainly not dressed for the occasion. People in dinner dress watched their approach with more amusement than alarm. But he saw it was going to be no go right away. They stood out like beggars at a masked ball, so he veered them away, rushing down the sloped scimitar drive toward Highway 70, dodging the slowly approaching line of cars, pushing Alix out of the illumination of the headlights.

He did not turn his head to see if the Blue Monster was after them; he assumed the worst. If he had been dogged enough—and, Croaker had to admit to himself, smart enough—to follow them all the way from Key West, he wouldn’t be so stupid as to lose them now.

He rushed them across the six-lane highway on the amber with the traffic already beginning to pile up and move, jockeying for position for turns.

“Christ!” Alix breathed. “Where are we going?”

Croaker made no reply. He thought it wiser to let her believe that he knew what he was doing. Ahead of them loomed the darkened mass of the shopping mall, all angles and black shadows, a silent, deserted city in the heart of the darkness.

Croaker took them down an exit ramp and they were plunged into the wide, spotless avenues of the arcades. Their footfalls made no sound on the stone flooring and Croaker was grateful at least that he had his topsiders on. But Alix was barefoot and though from an aural point of view that was good, still with all the running they were doing he was fearful of sharp objects she might inadvertently step on. Well, he thought, there’s no help for it now. We have to go on.

Deep inside the mall he stopped them. Though they were both in reasonably good shape, a breather was nevertheless called for. Alix’s chest heaved with exertion and fear. She stared around her, wide-eyed. Shoe stores, clothing boutiques, a local Sears, endless rows of glass-paneled windows featuring a bewildering variety of wares crouched on either side of them, closed and unhelpful.

“What are we go—”

Croaker put his palm quickly over her mouth and said in her ear, “No, talking. The sound will carry and bring him to us like a beacon. Okay?” She nodded her head vigorously and he took his hand away.

He wiped the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve, straining his ears for some semblance of sound, but he heard nothing above the soft susurrus of the faraway traffic on Highway 70.

Dim light filtered across their shoulders in thick swatches from the interiors of the shops along the arcade. But patches of deep shadow remained all about them like impenetrable stands of trees. They were in a forest of metal and glass.

Alix grabbed his shoulder and leaned her lips against his ear. “What are we waiting here for?” she whispered. “Let’s go out of here before he finds us.”

Croaker debated with himself whether to tell her the truth. He knew it would probably be better to keep her in the dark as long as possible. But on the other hand she was in this as deeply as he was and it was unfair to keep her ignorant about such a thing. Besides, if she did not know, she might do something stupid at the last minute and screw things up.

He put his mouth to her ear and said softly, “I’ve got news for you. Your former keeper’s followed us this far, he’s not gonna stop now. Even assuming we could find a car and I could boost it, we wouldn’t lose him. Not now.”

Her large clear eyes stared into his for the moment it took her to put it together. “No!” she said. “There’s been one killing already.”

“Yeah,” Croaker sighed, “and there’ll be a lot more unless he’s stopped.” He looked at her. “It has to be done, Alix. You know it does.”

After a time her eyes slid away from him. Her cheeks were wet and he heard her whisper, “I wish now he’d never saved me. I wish I’d drowned that day in Key West.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said automatically.

“The hell I don’t!” she flared, her eyes bright. “What kind of life is this I’m living? Can you tell me th—”

Croaker shoved her hard, sending her spinning flat on her back across the cool stone flooring as the whine turned into the
spang!
of a ricochet. He saw the place where the bullet had gouged out chips of stone and dived after her, pulling her up onto her knees, then to her feet, dragging her after him down the arcade, turning right, then right again, pushing her into a darkened doorway where they both crouched. Alix was sweating and shivering all at once.