"When you drove through the park, did you check to see if anyone followed you?" "Sure did and no way. I keep one eye on the rear view mirror. I always do, especially when we're meeting someone at night.... Did you see the light up there? Was it your man?" "Yes. He was telling me someone else was here." "Impossible," said Winthrop emphatically. "If there is, it's no concern of ours. This is, after all, a public park." "I don't want to alarm you, sir, but Taleniekov's experienced. There are no headlights, no cars in the road. Whoever's out there doesn't want us to know it, and it's not a night for a casual walk. I'm afraid it does concern us." Bray opened the door. "Stan, I'm going to grab my briefcase from my car. When I get back, drive out of here. Stop briefly at the north end of the lot by the road." "What about the Russian?" asked Winthrop.
"That's why we're stopping. He'll know enough to jump in. He'd better." "Wait a minutc," said Stanley, no deference in his voice. "If there's any trouble, I'm not stopping for anyone. I've only got one job. To get him Gut of here. Not you or anybody else." "We don't have time to argue. Start the engine." Bray ran to the rented car, the keys in his hand. He unlocked the door, removed his attach6 case from the front seat, and started back toward the limousine.
He never reached it. A beam of powerful light pierced through the darkness, aimed at Robert Winthrop's huge automobile. Stanley was behind the wheel, gunning the motor, prepared to bolt out of the area. Whoever held the light was not going to allow that to happen. He wanted that car... and whoever was in that car The limousine's wheels spun, screeching on the pavement, as the huge car surged forward. A staccato spray of gunfire erupted; windows shattered, bullets crunched into metal. The limousine weaved back and forth in abrupt half-circles, seemingly out of control.
Two loud reports came from the woods beyond; the searchlight exploded, a scream of pain followed. Winthrop's car straightened out briefly, then lurched into a sharp left turn. Caught in the headlights were two men, weapons drawn, a third on the ground.
Bray's gun was in his hand; he dropped to the pavement and fired. One of the two men fell The limousine completed the turn and roared out of the parking lot into the southbound road.
Scofield rolled to his right; two shots were fired, the bullets singing off the pavement where he had been seconds ago. Bray got to his feet and ran in the darkness toward the railing that fronted the ravine.
He lunged over the top rail, his attach6 case slamming
into the wood post, the sound distinct. The next gunshot was expected; it came as he hugged the earth and the rocks.
Lights. Headlightsl Two beams shooting overhead, accompanied by the sound of a racing car. The smashing of glass came hard upon tires screeching to a sudden stop. A shout-unclear, hysterical... cut off by a loud explosion-preceded silence.
The engine had stalled, the headlights still on, revealing curls of smoke and two immobile bodies on the ground, a third on his knees, looking around in panic. The man heard something; he spun and raised his gun.
A weapon was fired from the woods. It was final; the would-be killer fell.
"Scofield!" Taleniekov shouted.
"Over here!" Bray lunged up over the railing and ran toward the source of the Russian's voice. Taleniekov walked out of the woods; he was no more than ten feet from the stalled automobile. Both men approached the car warily; the driver's window had been shattered, blown apart by a single shot from the KGB man's automatic. The head beyond the fragmented glass was, bloodied but recognizable. The right hand was wrapped in a tight bandage-still wrapped from an injured thumb broken on a bridge in Amsterdam at three o'clock in the morning by an angry, tired older man.
It was the aggressive young agent, Harry, who had killed so needlessly in the rain that night.
"I don't believe it," said Scofield.
"You know him?" asked Taleniekov, a curious note in his voice.
"His name was Harry. He worked for me in Amsterdam." The Russian was silent for a moment, then spoke. "He was with you in Amsterdam, but he did not work for you, and his name was not 'Harry.' That young man is a Soviet intelligence officer, trained since the age of nine at