the proof of duplicity confirmed. The lesson had to be taught.
A short, sharp whine came from the transmitter in his hand. It was repeated three seconds later; Scofield acknowledged receipt with the press of a button. He put the radio in his pocket and waited.
Less than a minute passed; he saw the figure of the old man coming through the blanket of fog and rain, a street- light beyond creating an eerie silhouette. The target's gait was hesitant but somehow painfully determined, as if he were about to keep a rendezvous both desired and loathed. It did not make sense.
Bray glanced to his right. As he expected, there was no one in the street, no one anywhere to be seen in this deserted section of the city at this hour. He turned to his left and started up the ramp toward the midpoint of the bridge, the old Russian on the opposite side. He kept in the shadows; it was easy to do as the first three lights above the left railing had been shorted out.
Rain pounded the ancient cobblestones. Across the bridge proper, the old man stood facing the water below, his hands on the railing. Scofield stepped off the walkway and approached from behind, the sound of the downpour obscuring his footsteps. In his left raincoat pocket, his hand now gripped a round, flatcase two inches in diameter and less than an inch thick. It was coated in waterproof plastic, the sides possessing a chemical that when immersed in liquid for thirty seconds became an instant adhesive; under such conditions it would remain where it was placed until cut free.
In the case was the evidence: a reel of film and a reel of magnetic tape.
Both could be studied by KGB-Amsterdam.
"Plakhaya noch, stary p7iyatyel," said Bray to the Russian's back, while taking the automatic from his pocket.
The old man turned, startled. "Why did you contact me?" he asked in Russian. "Has anything happened?..." He saw the gun and stopped. Then he went on, an odd calm in his voice suddenly replacing the fear. "I see it has, and I'm no longer of value. Go ahead, comrade. You'll do me an enormous favor." Scofield stared at the old man; at the penetrating eyes that were no longer frightened. He had seen that look before. Bray answered in English.
"You've spent an active six years. Unfortunately, you haven't done us any favors at all. You weren't as grateful as we thought you might be." The Russian nodded. "American," he said, "I wondered. A hastily called conference in Amsterdam over problems as easily analyzed in Houston. My being allowed out of the country, albeit covertly, and guarded-that protection something less than complete once here. But you had all
the codes, you said all the right words. And your Russian is flawless, priyatyel." "That's my job. What was yours?" "You know the answer. It's why you're here-P "I want to know why." The old man smiled grimly. "Oh, no. You'll get nothing but what you've learned. You see, I meant what I said. You'll do me a favor. You're my listok." "Solution to what?" "Sorry.,, Bray raised the automatic; its small barrel glistened in the rain. The Russian looked at it and breathed deeply. The fear returned to his eyes, but he did not waver or say a word. Suddenly, deliberately, Scofield thrust the gun up beneath the old man's left eye, steel and flesh making contact.
The Russian trembled but remained silent.
Bray felt sick.
What difierence does it make?
None, Harry. Not at all. Not any longer.
A lesson had to be taught.
Scofield lowered the gun. "Get out of here," he said.
"What?..." "You heard me. Get out of here. The KGB operates out of the diamond exchange on the Tolstraat. It's cover is a firm of Hasidim, Diamant Bruusteen. Beat it." "I don't understand," said the Russian, his voice barely audible. "Is this another trick?" "Godarrin it!" yelled Bray, now trembling. "Get out of here!" Momentarily, the old man staggered, then grabbed the railing to steady himself. He backed away awkwardly, then started running through the rain.
"Scofield!" The shout came from Harry. He was at the west entrance of the bridge, directly in the path of the Russian. "Scofield, for God's sakel" "Let him go!" screamed Bray.
He was either too late or his words were lost in the pounding rain; he did not know which. He heard three muted, sharp reports and watched in disgust as the old man held his head and fell against the railing.