the Soviets would know he was out-of-strategy. He had wanted to spend some time in the Grenadines; why not now? In the morning he would.
The figure was reflected in the glass-tiny, obscure, in the background across the wide avenue, barely noticeable. In fact, Bray would not have noticed had the man not walked around the spill of a streetlamp. Whoever it was wanted the protection of the shadows in the street; whoever it was was following him. And he was good. There were no abrupt movements, no sudden jumping away from the light. The walk was casual, unobtrusive. He wondered if it was anyone he had trained.
Scofield appreciated professionalism; he would commend the man and wish him a lesser subject for surveillance next time. The State Department was not wasting a moment. Congdon wanted the reports to begin at once. Bray smiled; he would give the undersecretary his initial report. Not the one he wanted, but one he should have.
The amusement began, a short-lived pavane between professionals. Scofield walked away from the storefront window, gathering speed until he reached the corner, where the circles of light from the four opposing streetlamps overlapped each other. He turned abruptly left, as if to head back to the other side of the street, then halfway through the intersection stopped. He paused in the middle of the traffic lane and looked up at the street sign-a man confused, not sure of where he was. Then he turned and walked rapidly back to the comer, his pace quickening until he was practically running when he reached the curb. He continued down the 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 BerlinI 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 WashingtonI 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.
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