The Tristan Betrayal - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,195

a wounded animal, and he saw the sphere of flames moving toward him.

The pain was incalculable, extraordinary, even exquisite. The violinist knew he was being burned alive. He screamed with every fiber of his being, as if screaming would diminish the agony, though in fact the agony was unbearable.

It was not as unbearable, however, as the knowledge that he was not going to complete his assignment that the American would not be killed.

He screamed until his vocal cords gave out, as the flames engulfed his body. He knew he was going to die; he was unable to snuff out the flames by rolling in the dirt. The fire was too great, too consuming, and he could no longer move, in any case.

But then he was pleased to notice that his sense of smell had returned. His nostrils were filled with a distinctive overpowering odor, which he identified at once. It was, he realized, the smell of burning flesh.

His own burning flesh.

Through the penumbra of the fireball, Metcalfe saw the man's limbs flailing. The scream was shrill, weirdly high, a horrible keening, an animal noise. In another couple of seconds, the fireball had stopped moving; it roared, shooting flames high into the air, licking against the wooden frame of the decoy structure, which immediately caught fire as well. Metcalfe turned back around and ran, just as the entire building burst into flames.

He did not stop running until he had reached the pavement, and then he sank to the ground. The plywood-and-canvas structure was now a massive, roaring fire. He could feel the heat, even a hundred feet away.

The killer was dead.

Both killers were dead. But where was Lana? Where was Kundrov? He looked at his watch. The plane was scheduled to touch down momentarily, and he hadn't even set up the flares. If the pilot saw no flares, he would assume the rendezvous had been scrapped and he would not land.

As Metcalfe headed toward the field, which was now illuminated by the orange light of the burning structure, he heard the screech of brakes. He turned and saw Kundrov behind the wheel of a black automobile. The door was flung open, and Kundrov jumped out.

"Bozhe moil" the Russian shouted. "Pozhar the fire!" He ran closer. "You you've been shot! What happened?"

"Where is she?" Metcalfe said

Kundrov, grim-faced, shook his head.

Metcalfe grabbed him by the shoulders. "Where is she?" he repeated. Kundrov's eyes were red-rimmed. "You were supposed to pick her up at the schloss what happened? What have you done with her?"

Kundrov shook his head again. "She wasn't there."

"What do you mean she wasn't there?"

"Von Schiissler was there. She was gone."

"Gone? What the hell do you mean, gone? The NKVD came early, is that what happened? God damn you, did they come for her early? How could this happen?"

"No!" Kundrov shouted. "She told von Schiissler that there was an emergency in Moscow, that she had to return at once. She asked to be taken at once to the railroad station."

"But that was the ruse, she understood that!"

Kundrov spoke in a feeble monotone as if he'd been hypnotized. He shook his head slowly. "Von Schiissler was distraught, but he said she insisted on being taken to the station immediately. He agreed to have his chauffeur take her to the Ostbahnhof. The chauffeur found that the Daimler was missing I can see where it went and took her in another vehicle."

"Did they kidnap her?"

"I seriously doubt it. She went voluntarily."

"But why?" Metcalfe cried. "Why did she do this?"

"Let me tell you something. I have amassed probably two thousand dossier pages on this woman. My observations of her have been more extensive than any other surveillance ever conducted on a Soviet citizen. I have watched her closely, intimately, for years. Yet I cannot say that I understand the woman."

Metcalfe looked up at the moonlit sky. A faint high-pitched whine in the distance, which he'd been vaguely aware of for the last minute or so, had become the distinctive buzz-saw drone of a Lysander. It appeared just over the horizon.

"The flares!" Metcalfe shouted.

"For what?" Kundrov called back. "Without her, what's the point?"

"Jesus Christ!" The two men stood there frozen, staring up into the sky as the Lysander made a slow loop above the field. In a moment it was gone.

Metcalfe glanced at his watch again. "In less than half an hour, the train stops at the Ostbahnhof. If we drive at top speed, we can just make it there."

They arrived at the Gothic cathedral-like railroad station,