a major cog in the machinery. One of the Nazis' favorite turncoats. If you're killed, it's a big loss for the fascist world isn't that right?"
The violinist stepped silently through the thick white haze. He could see nothing. Worst of all, he could smell nothing. The acrid smoke burned his delicate nasal membranes, blunting his olfactory sense, his finest weapon.
Without it, he felt lost. He felt a curious disorientation verging on panic. He wandered cautiously through the fog, his hands outstretched, his left hand clutching the violin string.
He thought he heard something.
Rattlesnake-fast, he struck. Grabbing the other end of the violin string to form a loop, he lashed out, drew it tight around his victim's neck
And then he realized that he was garroting something hard, something wooden.
A mannequin.
In disgust, he loosened the string and forged ahead through the cloud.
Without his olfactory weapon, the violinist knew, he was disabled. But that would not stop him, he vowed, from completing his assignment.
The smoke had reached their shoulders already. It was an eerie sensation, as if they were standing immersed in a cloud, just their heads sticking up. The smoke, denser and more opaque than any naturally occurring fog, stung Metcalfe's eyes. Where was the second man, the one Nolan had called Herr Kleist? Must be alert must not let the other one sneak up on me while I'm engaged in this standoff with Chip.
"Actually, I don't plan to be killed. You, on the other hand ..." Chip hesitated, lowered his gaze to the weapon in Metcalfe's hand. "I didn't give you a Luger," he said.
Metcalfe shrugged. "You're not my only source of armaments."
"A German gun, huh?"
"Strange thing," Metcalfe said glibly. "The Jerrys only seem to have Jerry guns. Can you beat that?"
"It's an antique!"
"You take what you're offered. Wartime privation, and all that."
"That's. Jesus, that's... that's a goddamned fake! The goddamn borehole's plugged !"
Metcalfe did not wait for Chip to react. He lunged, slamming himself against Chip with all his weight, knocking him backward onto the dirt, the two of them enveloped by the oily smoke. Metcalfe's eyes burned as he wrestled with Chip for the gun.
His body was wracked with pain, which diminished his strength markedly. But Chip seemed equally weakened. Still, he reared up with enormous strength, roaring in anger, unwilling to relinquish his grip on the weapon, even as Metcalfe gradually forced it backward so that it was pointing back toward Chip himself.
"Hey, Yale boy it'll be skull and bones at last!" Chip Nolan panted, a sneer on his lips, his right hand and arm trembling with muscular exertion as Metcalfe forced the other man's hand back toward himself. It was some grim variant of arm wrestling. "Your skull and bones." The gun, firmly in the FBI agent's grip, pointed first toward Metcalfe, then back at Chip, back and forth like a child's toy. With a sudden furious surge of strength, Chip shoved the gun toward Metcalfe as he began to squeeze the trigger. His hand spasmed; the gun shook violently. Yet Chip had overestimated his own strength, and he could not withstand Metcalfe's counterforce. At the very instant that Chip's finger squeezed the trigger, the FBI man's wrist gave way, snapping backward, the gun pointing up at Chip's eyes, which widened in terror as the realization dawned of what was about to happen.
The explosion filled Metcalfe's ears as he saw the horrifying sight of the back of Chip's head coming off. Blood spattered his face. He collapsed, sinking back to the ground, utterly spent.
Acrid white fog surrounded him entirely; he was blind, immobilized by the pain of his wound, gasping for breath.
He heard a scuffing noise.
A whispering, slithering sound, like a snake in the sand.
Some vestigial instinct made him reach a hand behind him. He felt something touch his neck, his wrist, something cold and metallic, and suddenly draw tight around his neck, constricting it with immense force. He was being strangled and with a ferocity ten times greater than before! He lurched upward, whipping his body to one side and then the other, summoning reserves of strength he didn't know he still possessed. He roared, but all that came out was a gurgle.
A few fingers of his right hand were trapped against his neck by the wire, or whatever it was, rendering his right hand useless. He thrust out his left hand, balled into a fist, swinging around until he connected with his attacker.
They have people who do the... housecleaning.
This was the man who did the housecleaning.
The