caught in a snare that was breaking its back. A heartbreaking whimper came from deep inside her.
She collapsed in his arms.
Tomorrow, my love, my only love. Tomorrow comes with the sunlight, everyone knows that. And then the pain will pass, I promise you. And I promise you something else, my inopportune love so late in my life. Tomorrow, today, tonight... I will take the man who will bring this nightmare to a close.
Taleniekov is right. We will break him-as no man has ever been broken-and the world will listen to us. When it does, my love, my only adorable love, you and I are free. We will go far away where the night brings sleep and love, not death, not fear and loathing of the darkness. We will be free because Beowulf Agate will be gone. He will disappear-for he hasn't done much good. But he has one more thing to do. Tonight.
Scofield touched Antonia's cheek. She held his hand briefly, moving it to her lips, smiling, reassuring him with her eyes.
"How's the head?" asked Bray.
"The ache is barely a numbness now," she said. "I'm fine, really." Scofield released her hand and walked across the room where Taleniekov was bent over a table, studying a road map. Without having discussed it, both men were dressed nearly alike for their work. Sweaters and trousers of dark material, tightly strapped shoulder holsters with black leather belts laterally across the chest. Their shoes were also dark in color, but light in weight, with thick rubber soles that had been scraped with knives until they were coarse.
Taleniekov now glanced up as Bray approached the table. "Out of Great Dumnow, we'll head east toward Coggeshall on our way to Nayland.
Incidentally, there's an airfield capable of handling small jets south of Hadleigh. Such a field might be of value to us in a few days." "You may be right." "Too," added the KGB man with obvious reluctance, "this route passes the Blackwater River; the forests are dense in that area. It would be a... good place to drop off the package." "The dead man still hasn't got a name," said Scofield. "Give him his due.
He's Roger Symonds, honorable man, and I hate this fucking world." "At the risk of appearing fatuous, may I submit-forgive me, suggest-that what you do tonight will benefit that sad world we both have abused too well for too long." "I'd just as soon you didn't submit or suggest anything." Bray looked at his watch. "He'll be calling soon. When he does, Toni will go down to the lobby and pay Mr. Edmonton's bill-that's me. She'll come back up with a steward and take our bags and briefcases down to the car we've rented in Edmonton's name and drive directly to Colchester. She'll wait at a restaurant called Donner's until 11:30. If there are any changes of plans or we need her, we'll reach her there. If she doesn't hear from us, she'll go on to Nayland, to the Double Crown Inn where she has a room reserved in the name of Vickery." Taleniekov pushed himself up from the table. "My briefcase is not to be opened," he said. "It's tripped." "So's mine," replied Scofield. "Any more questions?" The telephone rang; all three looked at it-a moment suspended in time for the bell meant the time had come. Bray walked over to the desk, let the phone ring a second time, then picked it up.
Whatever the words be might have expected, whatever greetings, information, instructions or revelations that might have come, nothing on this earth could have prepared him for what he heard. Symond's voice was a cry from some inner space of torment, a pain of such extreme that is was beyond belief.
"They're all dead. It's a massacre! Waverly, his wife, children, three servants... dead. What in hell have you done?" "Oh, my God!" Scofield's mind raced, thoughts swiftly translated into carefully selected words. "Roger, listen to me. It's what I tried to prevent!" He cupped the phone, his eyes on Taleniekov. "Waverly's dead, everyone in the house killed." "Method?" shouted the Russian. "Marks on the bodies. Weapons. Get it alll" Bray shook his head. "We'll get it later." He took his band from the mouthpiece; Symonds was talking rapidly, close to hysterics.
"It's horrible. Oh, God, the most terrible thingl They've been slaughtered... like animals!" "Roger! Get hold of yourself! Now listen to me. It's part of a pattern.
Waverly knew about it. He knew too much; it's why he was killed.