pavement to the first unlighted storefront, then he spun into the darkness of the doorway and waited.
Through the right-angled glass he had a clear view of the corner. The man following him would have to come into the overlapping circles of light now; they could not be avoided. A quarry was getting away; there was no time to look for shadows.
It happened. The overcoated figure came dashing across the avenue. His face came into the light.
His face came into the light.
Scofield froze. His eyes ached; blood rushed to his head. His whole body trembled, and what remained of his mind tried desperately to control the rage and the anguish that welled up and swept through him. The man at the corner was not from the State Department, the face under the light did not belong to anyone remotely connected to American intelligence.
It belonged to the KGB. To KGB-East Berlin!
It was a face on one of the half-dozen photographs he had studied—studied until he knew every blemish, every strand of hair—in Berlin ten years ago.
Death on the Unter den Linden. His beautiful Karine. his adorable Karine. Trapped by a team across the checkpoint, a unit set up by the filthiest killer in the Soviet. V. Taleniekov. Animal.
This was one of those men. That unit. One of Taleniekov’s hangmen.
Here! In Washington! Within minutes after his termination from State!
So KGB had found out. And someone in Moscow had decided to bring a stunning conclusion to the finish of Beowulf Agate. Only one man could think with such dramatic precision. V. Taleniekov. Animal.
As Bray stared through the glass, he knew what he was going to do, what he had to do. He would send a last message to Moscow; it would be a fitting capstone, a final gesture to mark the end of one life and the beginning of another—whatever it might be.
He would trap the killer from KGB. He would kill him.
Scofield stepped out of the doorway and ran down the sidewalk, racing in a zigzag pattern across the deserted street. He could hear running footsteps behind him.
6
Aeroflot’s night flight from Moscow approached the sea of Azov northeast of Crimea. It would arrive in Sevastopol by one o’clock in the morning, something over an hour. The aircraft was crowded, the passengers by and large jubilant, on winter holiday leaves from their offices and factories. A scattering of military personnel—soldiers and sailors—were less exuberant; for them the Black Sea signified not a vacation, but a return to work at the naval and air bases. They’d had their leaves in Moscow.
In one of the rear seats sat a man with a dark leather violin case held firmly between his knees. His clothes were rumpled, undistinguished, somehow in conflict with the strong face and the sharp, clear eyes that seemed to belong above other apparel. His papers identified him as Pietre Rydukov, musician. His flight pass explained curtly that he was on his way to join the Sevastopol Symphony as third-chair violinist.
Both items were false. The man was Vasili Taleniekov, master strategist, Soviet Intelligence.
Former master strategist. Former director of KOB operations—East Berlin, Warsaw, Prague, Riga and the Southwest Sectors, which consisted of Sevastopol, the Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles. It was this last post that dictated the papers that put him on board the Sevastopol plane. It was the beginning of his flight from Russia.
There were scores of escape routes out of the Soviet Union, and in his professional capacity he had exposed them as he had found them. Ruthlessly, more often than not killing the agents of the West who kept them open, enticing malcontents to betray Russia with lies and promises of money. Always money. He had never wavered in his opposition to the liars and the proselytizers of greed; noescape route was too insignificant to warrant his ention.
Except one. A minor network-route through the Bosporus and the Sea of Marmara into the Dardanelles. He had uncovered it several months
Through the right-angled glass he had a clear view of the corner. The man following him would have to come into the overlapping circles of light now; they could not be avoided. A quarry was getting away; there was no time to look for shadows.
It happened. The overcoated figure came dashing across the avenue. His face came into the light.
His face came into the light.
Scofield froze. His eyes ached; blood rushed to his head. His whole body trembled, and what remained of his mind tried desperately to control the rage and the anguish that welled up and swept through him. The man at the corner was not from the State Department, the face under the light did not belong to anyone remotely connected to American intelligence.
It belonged to the KGB. To KGB-East Berlin!
It was a face on one of the half-dozen photographs he had studied—studied until he knew every blemish, every strand of hair—in Berlin ten years ago.
Death on the Unter den Linden. His beautiful Karine. his adorable Karine. Trapped by a team across the checkpoint, a unit set up by the filthiest killer in the Soviet. V. Taleniekov. Animal.
This was one of those men. That unit. One of Taleniekov’s hangmen.
Here! In Washington! Within minutes after his termination from State!
So KGB had found out. And someone in Moscow had decided to bring a stunning conclusion to the finish of Beowulf Agate. Only one man could think with such dramatic precision. V. Taleniekov. Animal.
As Bray stared through the glass, he knew what he was going to do, what he had to do. He would send a last message to Moscow; it would be a fitting capstone, a final gesture to mark the end of one life and the beginning of another—whatever it might be.
He would trap the killer from KGB. He would kill him.
Scofield stepped out of the doorway and ran down the sidewalk, racing in a zigzag pattern across the deserted street. He could hear running footsteps behind him.
6
Aeroflot’s night flight from Moscow approached the sea of Azov northeast of Crimea. It would arrive in Sevastopol by one o’clock in the morning, something over an hour. The aircraft was crowded, the passengers by and large jubilant, on winter holiday leaves from their offices and factories. A scattering of military personnel—soldiers and sailors—were less exuberant; for them the Black Sea signified not a vacation, but a return to work at the naval and air bases. They’d had their leaves in Moscow.
In one of the rear seats sat a man with a dark leather violin case held firmly between his knees. His clothes were rumpled, undistinguished, somehow in conflict with the strong face and the sharp, clear eyes that seemed to belong above other apparel. His papers identified him as Pietre Rydukov, musician. His flight pass explained curtly that he was on his way to join the Sevastopol Symphony as third-chair violinist.
Both items were false. The man was Vasili Taleniekov, master strategist, Soviet Intelligence.
Former master strategist. Former director of KOB operations—East Berlin, Warsaw, Prague, Riga and the Southwest Sectors, which consisted of Sevastopol, the Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles. It was this last post that dictated the papers that put him on board the Sevastopol plane. It was the beginning of his flight from Russia.
There were scores of escape routes out of the Soviet Union, and in his professional capacity he had exposed them as he had found them. Ruthlessly, more often than not killing the agents of the West who kept them open, enticing malcontents to betray Russia with lies and promises of money. Always money. He had never wavered in his opposition to the liars and the proselytizers of greed; noescape route was too insignificant to warrant his ention.
Except one. A minor network-route through the Bosporus and the Sea of Marmara into the Dardanelles. He had uncovered it several months
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