knuckles crack on cartilage and
bone. The face fell away from him. A curse ripped through the dark air. The
second man leaped for him, a thin sprawling figure, arms wide, body
unprotected. Durell ripped him with a left in the stomach and as he folded
over, chopped at his neck with a judo stroke. The second man hit the floor,
got in the way of his first assailant.
Durell went for the door.
The slim figure in the doorway lifted the gun and
could have killed him. but for some reason the gun was not fired. He went
spinning into the armed figure and discovered with a jolt of surprise
that it was not a man but a slim, dark-haired woman with a face that was as
cold and beautiful as a face of marble. He checked his bone-crushing blow at
her head just in time, diverting his strength in a sweep of his arm at the gun.
It clattered to the floor. The first man landed on his back in a flying
leap that drove him to his knees just short of the threshold. Furniture crashed
and shattered under his weight. A gun caught him behind the head in a short,
chopping blow. His head rang. He felt his strength ebb away, then flood
hack again. He came up, throwing off the massive weight of the man on his back,
caught at a wildly swinging arm. twisted it, rammed the man in a running push
at the woman in the doorway. The woman screamed with a high, tight sound. The
man grunted and collapsed and Durell crashed through the doorway toward
freedom.
An arm swung around his throat as he plunged into the open
air toward the dim shape of a small sedan parked in the road. Something pricked
through his clothes to inflict a sharp Stinging pain just under his left
shoulder blade.
“Enough, snakomi ,” a voice said quickly. “If you would live,
friend."
Durell stood still. The knife was pointed upward at his
heart, requiring only a little pressure to slip through muscle and lung. It was
more effective than a gun. He breathed deeply, the sound of it harsh in the
chill gray air of dawn.
“Hello, Mikhail.”
“Turn around. Slowly.”
He turned around. A quick hand took the P.38 from his
pocket. He could not see where it went. The pressure of the knife in his back
was unrelenting. He was pushed through the doorway, back into the dacha . The black-haired woman faced him,
holding a narrow hand spread over her stomach. She wore a dark blue cloth coat
with a squirrel collar and fur-topped boots. Her face was momentarily
malevolent, a narrow face with a sharply defined widow’s peak. Her eyes
were intelligent, but there Was a bitter set to her mouth that must have been
of long standing. She looked hard, competent, beautiful and utterly ruthless.
“Very good, Mikhail. Be careful. He is dangerous.”
The burly man who had first wakened Durell pushed her
aside and said: “I have never seen anything like it. The way he woke up fighting
us. Not even during the war did I see anything like it. Another moment and he
would have escaped altogether.”
“Is Valya all right?" the woman asked.
“We would not hurt her, Elena.”
“See to that. Come in, American.“
There were two guns pointing at him now—the P.38 in the big
man’s fist and the woman’s gun which she had retrieved. Mikhail released
the pressure of the ‘knife in his back. They watched him warily, with expectant
interest, as if he were an animal they were totally unsure of. Mikhail closed
the door against the chill, foggy dawn. The dancer looked slim and dandified,
but there were sharply etched lines around his sensitive mouth; his face was
chalky white, and a faint tremor kept going and coming through his body.
“I need a drink," rumbled the burly man.
“You will not get drunk, Gregori,” snapped the woman. She
snapped a finger against her neck in the traditional Russian gesture that
meant drunkenness. “We have had enough trouble with those who get piani .”
“Does one teacup make an ocean? Does one drink mean I am
senseless? Let me find the vodka.” The burly man grinned at Durell
bone. The face fell away from him. A curse ripped through the dark air. The
second man leaped for him, a thin sprawling figure, arms wide, body
unprotected. Durell ripped him with a left in the stomach and as he folded
over, chopped at his neck with a judo stroke. The second man hit the floor,
got in the way of his first assailant.
Durell went for the door.
The slim figure in the doorway lifted the gun and
could have killed him. but for some reason the gun was not fired. He went
spinning into the armed figure and discovered with a jolt of surprise
that it was not a man but a slim, dark-haired woman with a face that was as
cold and beautiful as a face of marble. He checked his bone-crushing blow at
her head just in time, diverting his strength in a sweep of his arm at the gun.
It clattered to the floor. The first man landed on his back in a flying
leap that drove him to his knees just short of the threshold. Furniture crashed
and shattered under his weight. A gun caught him behind the head in a short,
chopping blow. His head rang. He felt his strength ebb away, then flood
hack again. He came up, throwing off the massive weight of the man on his back,
caught at a wildly swinging arm. twisted it, rammed the man in a running push
at the woman in the doorway. The woman screamed with a high, tight sound. The
man grunted and collapsed and Durell crashed through the doorway toward
freedom.
An arm swung around his throat as he plunged into the open
air toward the dim shape of a small sedan parked in the road. Something pricked
through his clothes to inflict a sharp Stinging pain just under his left
shoulder blade.
“Enough, snakomi ,” a voice said quickly. “If you would live,
friend."
Durell stood still. The knife was pointed upward at his
heart, requiring only a little pressure to slip through muscle and lung. It was
more effective than a gun. He breathed deeply, the sound of it harsh in the
chill gray air of dawn.
“Hello, Mikhail.”
“Turn around. Slowly.”
He turned around. A quick hand took the P.38 from his
pocket. He could not see where it went. The pressure of the knife in his back
was unrelenting. He was pushed through the doorway, back into the dacha . The black-haired woman faced him,
holding a narrow hand spread over her stomach. She wore a dark blue cloth coat
with a squirrel collar and fur-topped boots. Her face was momentarily
malevolent, a narrow face with a sharply defined widow’s peak. Her eyes
were intelligent, but there Was a bitter set to her mouth that must have been
of long standing. She looked hard, competent, beautiful and utterly ruthless.
“Very good, Mikhail. Be careful. He is dangerous.”
The burly man who had first wakened Durell pushed her
aside and said: “I have never seen anything like it. The way he woke up fighting
us. Not even during the war did I see anything like it. Another moment and he
would have escaped altogether.”
“Is Valya all right?" the woman asked.
“We would not hurt her, Elena.”
“See to that. Come in, American.“
There were two guns pointing at him now—the P.38 in the big
man’s fist and the woman’s gun which she had retrieved. Mikhail released
the pressure of the ‘knife in his back. They watched him warily, with expectant
interest, as if he were an animal they were totally unsure of. Mikhail closed
the door against the chill, foggy dawn. The dancer looked slim and dandified,
but there were sharply etched lines around his sensitive mouth; his face was
chalky white, and a faint tremor kept going and coming through his body.
“I need a drink," rumbled the burly man.
“You will not get drunk, Gregori,” snapped the woman. She
snapped a finger against her neck in the traditional Russian gesture that
meant drunkenness. “We have had enough trouble with those who get piani .”
“Does one teacup make an ocean? Does one drink mean I am
senseless? Let me find the vodka.” The burly man grinned at Durell
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