making for another car, each pushing a loaded
cart. No one else was around. Waller eased his head higher. The Russian was almost there! The bulky man in his heavy gray
coat and gray hat passed between two cars, crossed the space to the next row, passed through, and looked with a puzzled expression
at the blue Honda. Perhaps he was waiting for an all-clear signal …
The Russian’s right hand dived into his overcoat pocket; he looked about him carefully and walked briskly toward the Honda.
He looked inside only a moment, then looked about in a full circle with an expressionless face. He turned about and walked
rapidly back the way he had come.
“Ivan is a cool one,” Waller muttered, and took a tiny Colt .22 automatic from his pocket. He released the catch and slid
a bullet from the ten-round magazine into the firing chamber. Then he went after the Russian.
“Ivan!” he called after him.
He needn’t have shouted, for as soon as the Russian heard footsteps behind him he had already begun to turn about. His right
hand was still in his coat pocket.
Waller was giving him a sporting chance. The Americantraitor had deserved to die the way he had. Waller despised him more than he did the Russian. The Russian was simply doing
for his country what Waller was willing to do for America. Fight for her tooth and nail … The Russian had a more than even
chance. Waller’s little automatic was deadly at close range, but only a few yards and the Russian’s heavy coat would make
a lot of difference—especially if, as Waller expected, that right hand emerged from the overcoat pocket holding a 9-mm Makarov
automatic, which despite its heavier caliber had two shots less than his own gun. Or these agents sometimes carried the 9-mm
Stechkin, which could be switched on full automatic. His own Colt and a Makarov, in spite of being called automatic, were
only semiautomatic, meaning the trigger had to be pulled separately for each shot, no matter how rapid the rate of fire. The
Stechkin on full automatic could blow out all twenty of its 9-mm projectiles in one steady stream with a single press of the
trigger. The Russian pulled his right hand from his overcoat pocket.
It was not holding a gun. The thick fingers were clutching a short, thick cardboard tube, only a few inches long, with metal
ends and a key ring near the top. The Russian pulled the key ring loose, lifted a metal lever, and threw the tube at Waller.
Harvey had no time to shoot. When he saw the lever lifted, he knew he had about four and a half seconds. Since the mini-grenade
was an offensive grenade, it had the shock-killing and stunning effects without the lethal metal fragments, and so the thrower
did not have to take cover. The blast of TNT flakes did all the work. Harvey threw himself on the asphalt and rolled under
the nearest car.
The projectile exploded just before it hit the ground, causing the cars on each side of it to buck and rear like frightened
horses. The blast shattered windshields and car windows all about and caused people all over the parkinglot to look in amazement in that direction. There was no smoke. No fire. They went back to their immediate concerns.
Harvey Waller’s head lay in a pool of blood beneath the oil-caked transmission of a car. He moved slowly—first his arms, then
his legs, his neck, then his back. He looked at the pool of blood on the ground next to him and rolled from beneath the car.
He reached for a door handle and pulled himself upright. No one coming. Good. He looked in a sideview mirror. Only a bloody
nose. He grinned and wiped it. But he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. Minutes? An hour? He remembered everything.
Steadying himself against the side of the car, avoiding the tiny shards of the broken safety glass of the side windows, he
craned his neck over the roofs of the parked cars. He had been out for only less than a minute! The Russian was still making
his
cart. No one else was around. Waller eased his head higher. The Russian was almost there! The bulky man in his heavy gray
coat and gray hat passed between two cars, crossed the space to the next row, passed through, and looked with a puzzled expression
at the blue Honda. Perhaps he was waiting for an all-clear signal …
The Russian’s right hand dived into his overcoat pocket; he looked about him carefully and walked briskly toward the Honda.
He looked inside only a moment, then looked about in a full circle with an expressionless face. He turned about and walked
rapidly back the way he had come.
“Ivan is a cool one,” Waller muttered, and took a tiny Colt .22 automatic from his pocket. He released the catch and slid
a bullet from the ten-round magazine into the firing chamber. Then he went after the Russian.
“Ivan!” he called after him.
He needn’t have shouted, for as soon as the Russian heard footsteps behind him he had already begun to turn about. His right
hand was still in his coat pocket.
Waller was giving him a sporting chance. The Americantraitor had deserved to die the way he had. Waller despised him more than he did the Russian. The Russian was simply doing
for his country what Waller was willing to do for America. Fight for her tooth and nail … The Russian had a more than even
chance. Waller’s little automatic was deadly at close range, but only a few yards and the Russian’s heavy coat would make
a lot of difference—especially if, as Waller expected, that right hand emerged from the overcoat pocket holding a 9-mm Makarov
automatic, which despite its heavier caliber had two shots less than his own gun. Or these agents sometimes carried the 9-mm
Stechkin, which could be switched on full automatic. His own Colt and a Makarov, in spite of being called automatic, were
only semiautomatic, meaning the trigger had to be pulled separately for each shot, no matter how rapid the rate of fire. The
Stechkin on full automatic could blow out all twenty of its 9-mm projectiles in one steady stream with a single press of the
trigger. The Russian pulled his right hand from his overcoat pocket.
It was not holding a gun. The thick fingers were clutching a short, thick cardboard tube, only a few inches long, with metal
ends and a key ring near the top. The Russian pulled the key ring loose, lifted a metal lever, and threw the tube at Waller.
Harvey had no time to shoot. When he saw the lever lifted, he knew he had about four and a half seconds. Since the mini-grenade
was an offensive grenade, it had the shock-killing and stunning effects without the lethal metal fragments, and so the thrower
did not have to take cover. The blast of TNT flakes did all the work. Harvey threw himself on the asphalt and rolled under
the nearest car.
The projectile exploded just before it hit the ground, causing the cars on each side of it to buck and rear like frightened
horses. The blast shattered windshields and car windows all about and caused people all over the parkinglot to look in amazement in that direction. There was no smoke. No fire. They went back to their immediate concerns.
Harvey Waller’s head lay in a pool of blood beneath the oil-caked transmission of a car. He moved slowly—first his arms, then
his legs, his neck, then his back. He looked at the pool of blood on the ground next to him and rolled from beneath the car.
He reached for a door handle and pulled himself upright. No one coming. Good. He looked in a sideview mirror. Only a bloody
nose. He grinned and wiped it. But he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. Minutes? An hour? He remembered everything.
Steadying himself against the side of the car, avoiding the tiny shards of the broken safety glass of the side windows, he
craned his neck over the roofs of the parked cars. He had been out for only less than a minute! The Russian was still making
his
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