way across the huge parking lot toward his car.
Waller checked to make sure the papers were still in his inside pocket and searched for moments before he found the little
Colt next to a burst tire. Keeping down so he wouldn’t be seen, he ran back toward his own car.
He had a fit of dizziness just before he reached it and sank to his knees. Then, just as suddenly, his head cleared and he
got to his feet again. He made it to the car, got in and started the engine. His vision was a little strange, and he figured
he was suffering from a mild concussion. The bad nosebleed had probably made him a little light-headed. But now he had to
think.
The Russian would probably head back for Manhattan and the safety of his consulate. But Ivan would be edgy, watching for tails
and for more attacks. And Ivan was a professional, Harvey granted him that. Couldn’t deny it, since Ivan had beaten him to
the draw. Ivan’s only mistake was he hadn’t waited to finish him off.
Harvey Waller made for the nearest exit and pushed out into the traffic. His driving was a little erratic at first, almost
as if his car had very loose steering. He headed forthe turnpike and kept his speed down. Already a few miles north on the turnpike, traveling in the slow lane and beginning
to wonder if he had made a mistake, Harvey spotted the Russian in the center lane. He picked up speed a little and let the
Russian pass him after a while—and was glad he did so, because Ivan headed for the Holland Tunnel exit rather than staying
on for the Lincoln Tunnel to bring him to downtown Manhattan and closer to his consulate. The Holland Tunnel would bring him
into downtown Manhattan, not far from the financial district. Harvey wondered for a while who he might be going to see there
and whether it was worth following him, but then decided that Ivan was simply changing his usual route after his strike-out
in the Jersey parking lot.
The turnpike spur to the Holland Tunnel rose on giant concrete stilts for a couple of miles over the brown salt-marsh grass
and beat-up factories of the Jersey Meadowlands. The Pulaski Skyway. Polish name. Harvey had always classified Poles in the
same bag as Russians until recently. Now that he knew they hated the Reds too, Harvey was a friend to every Polack in town,
he said. Be fitting, he thought, to take care of the Russki right here on the Pulaski Skyway. One for Solidarity. Whoever
the hell Pulaski was. Probably a crooked Democrat pol who made a million in kickbacks off this fucking swamp gangplank as
well as having it named after him.
Harvey’s vision started to pitch and waver again. His car almost struck the retaining wall of the raised roadway. He shook
his head violently and took a deep breath and steered into the center lane, away from the wall. Another of these dizzy attacks
and he could hit someone. He had to get off the road, out from behind the steering wheel.
The Russian’s car was directly in front of him, a green, late-model Dodge Dart. Harvey drove up behind him, close, so there
was not more than six feet between the cars. Traffic was light, and he could have passed on either side. The Russian pulled
into the slow lane. Harveydropped back a little. Soon the Russian came up behind a slower-traveling car in the slow lane and braked behind it, since
Harvey’s Buick was too close behind him in the center lane for him to pull out.
Harvey saw the Russian scrutinizing him over his shoulder. He accelerated and swung to the right so that his right front bumper
caught the left rear bumper of the Dodge. Harvey put his foot on the gas and banged into him hard. The Dodge’s front end jerked
toward the retaining wall of the Skyway, but Ivan swung hard to the left on the steering wheel and managed to avoid contact
and stay in his lane with some fishtailing.
It took Waller almost as long to get his car back under control. The Russian’s Dodge was now almost on top of the slow
Waller checked to make sure the papers were still in his inside pocket and searched for moments before he found the little
Colt next to a burst tire. Keeping down so he wouldn’t be seen, he ran back toward his own car.
He had a fit of dizziness just before he reached it and sank to his knees. Then, just as suddenly, his head cleared and he
got to his feet again. He made it to the car, got in and started the engine. His vision was a little strange, and he figured
he was suffering from a mild concussion. The bad nosebleed had probably made him a little light-headed. But now he had to
think.
The Russian would probably head back for Manhattan and the safety of his consulate. But Ivan would be edgy, watching for tails
and for more attacks. And Ivan was a professional, Harvey granted him that. Couldn’t deny it, since Ivan had beaten him to
the draw. Ivan’s only mistake was he hadn’t waited to finish him off.
Harvey Waller made for the nearest exit and pushed out into the traffic. His driving was a little erratic at first, almost
as if his car had very loose steering. He headed forthe turnpike and kept his speed down. Already a few miles north on the turnpike, traveling in the slow lane and beginning
to wonder if he had made a mistake, Harvey spotted the Russian in the center lane. He picked up speed a little and let the
Russian pass him after a while—and was glad he did so, because Ivan headed for the Holland Tunnel exit rather than staying
on for the Lincoln Tunnel to bring him to downtown Manhattan and closer to his consulate. The Holland Tunnel would bring him
into downtown Manhattan, not far from the financial district. Harvey wondered for a while who he might be going to see there
and whether it was worth following him, but then decided that Ivan was simply changing his usual route after his strike-out
in the Jersey parking lot.
The turnpike spur to the Holland Tunnel rose on giant concrete stilts for a couple of miles over the brown salt-marsh grass
and beat-up factories of the Jersey Meadowlands. The Pulaski Skyway. Polish name. Harvey had always classified Poles in the
same bag as Russians until recently. Now that he knew they hated the Reds too, Harvey was a friend to every Polack in town,
he said. Be fitting, he thought, to take care of the Russki right here on the Pulaski Skyway. One for Solidarity. Whoever
the hell Pulaski was. Probably a crooked Democrat pol who made a million in kickbacks off this fucking swamp gangplank as
well as having it named after him.
Harvey’s vision started to pitch and waver again. His car almost struck the retaining wall of the raised roadway. He shook
his head violently and took a deep breath and steered into the center lane, away from the wall. Another of these dizzy attacks
and he could hit someone. He had to get off the road, out from behind the steering wheel.
The Russian’s car was directly in front of him, a green, late-model Dodge Dart. Harvey drove up behind him, close, so there
was not more than six feet between the cars. Traffic was light, and he could have passed on either side. The Russian pulled
into the slow lane. Harveydropped back a little. Soon the Russian came up behind a slower-traveling car in the slow lane and braked behind it, since
Harvey’s Buick was too close behind him in the center lane for him to pull out.
Harvey saw the Russian scrutinizing him over his shoulder. He accelerated and swung to the right so that his right front bumper
caught the left rear bumper of the Dodge. Harvey put his foot on the gas and banged into him hard. The Dodge’s front end jerked
toward the retaining wall of the Skyway, but Ivan swung hard to the left on the steering wheel and managed to avoid contact
and stay in his lane with some fishtailing.
It took Waller almost as long to get his car back under control. The Russian’s Dodge was now almost on top of the slow
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