The Tristan Betrayal - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,139

the stalls, and in the last one he saw Hilliard.

Hilliard's shoes and trousers, to be more precise. There was no mistaking the diplomat's tweed pants and brown leather brogues; they unquestionably belonged to Amos Hilliard and not to a Russian.

Strange, he thought. Why was Hilliard on the can rather than waiting out here by the sinks, as he had last time?

"Amos!" he called out, but there was no reply. "Amos," he said again, more concerned.

He pulled at the stall door, which swung slowly open.

Jesus Christ! What he saw sickened him, stunned him, caused him to sink to the floor. No, not again! Amos Hilliard sat on the toilet, his head slumped back, his darkly bloodshot eyes staring at the ceiling, a bloody discharge coming from his nose and mouth. His throat had been nearly severed just below the larynx. The ligature mark, a razor-thin furrow, was scarlet and pronounced; it indicated that the weapon had been some kind of thin, strong wire. The diplomat had been strangled, garroted in exactly the same way as Scoop Martin and the members of the Paris station.

No! Hilliard must have just been killed, minutes ago he could not have been here long. Five minutes? Even less, maybe?

Metcalfe touched Hilliard's crimson face. It was at a normal body temperature.

The killer had to be nearby.

Metcalfe raced out to the door, then hesitated. The murderer might be waiting for him on the other side of the door, the deserted restaurant affording him temporary shelter, enabling him to stand there, ready to pounce.

Metcalfe crashed his foot against the door, causing it to swing open. He hung back, crouched to the side of the doorjamb, watching to see if any figure jumped from the shadows, garrote in hand. No one did. He leaped into the hall, torquing his body from side to side, ready to jump if he had to. But no one was there. Still, the killer could not have been gone for much more than a minute or two.

He ran down the nearest staircase, bounding down the steps two and three at a time, nearly crashing into a waiter bearing a tray. Metcalfe glanced at the slight, uniformed waiter, sizing him up quickly, rejecting him as the possible killer.

A gust of cold air in the hall told him that the exit to the street had just opened, moments ago. Someone had either come in or gone out, though this was not the way Metcalfe had entered the restaurant. The killer. It was possible, in any case. Had he left through this door?

Stealthily he pushed the steel door open a crack, taking care not to make a sound. If the killer had left this way and was walking so as not to appear suspicious to others on the street not running, then he could not be far. He would be within sight. If there was even the possibility of an element of surprise, Metcalfe wanted to preserve it. He slipped through the narrow opening, gently pushing the door closed behind him, satisfied that he had not made a noise.

He was at the rear of the building. Large steel trash bins overflowed with malodorous food garbage. He looked around, but there was no one here.

Whoever it was who had murdered Amos Hilliard had vanished.

Metcalfe knew he had to leave at once, but to go where? He couldn't return to the Metropole. The fact was, he'd been burnt. He'd been observed servicing a dead drop; the NKVD knew he was engaged in clandestine activities. He had to get the hell out of Moscow as soon as possible. But that was far easier said than done. In this totalitarian state, where everyone was watched and borders were heavily guarded, it was as difficult to leave as it was to enter. Among his papers at the Metropole had been several sets of passports and other bogus identification, but they had surely been seized by the NKVD by now. By far the most prudent, most logical course was to contact Corky and have him proceed with the exfiltration Hilliard had mentioned. To do it right required coordination, horse-trading at a high level. The sort of thing that Corky, who worked in mysterious ways, was expert at arranging. An exfiltration was not something that was done by a lone agent, except in the direst emergencies.

He wanted to take Lana with him. It wasn't safe for her here any longer, given her involvement. He had promised himself that he would protect her; now, he needed