Deep Six

Two men stood about ten feet away, engaged in conversation, waiting for Lugovoy to make his scheduled progress report. They turned and peered questioningly into the darkened elevator. One of them held an attaché case. The only other detail Suvorov noted before he shot them each twice in the chest was the Oriental fold of their eyes.

He slung his free arm under Moran’s waist and hauled him across what seemed like a rusting iron floor. He kicked Larimer ahead of him as he would a remorseful dog that had run away from home. The senator reeled like a drunk, too sick to speak, too stu

Suvorov cursed as he stumbled over a large chain. Then he stopped and peered down an enclosed ramp that stretched into the dark. He felt as if he were inside a sauna; his clothes were turning damp with sweat and his hair was plastered down his forehead and temples. He tripped and almost fell, regaining his balance just before he was about to sprawl on the cross slats of the ramp.

Moran’s dead weight was becoming increasingly burdensome, and Suvorov realized his strength was ebbing. He doubted whether he could lug the congressman another fifty yards.

At last they left the tu

He froze into immobility, rigid against the shadowless landscape, and listened. The engine was ru

Silent as a cat, he crouched and moved in closer, keeping low and out of any reflection in the sideview mirror on the door. The inside was too dark to make out more than one vague form behind the wheel. If there were others, Suvorov’s only ally was the element of surprise.

The car was a stretch-bodied limousine, and to Suvorov it seemed as long as a city block. From the raised letters on the rear of the trunk, he identified it as a Cadillac. He’d never driven one and hoped he would have no trouble finding the right switches and controls.

His groping fingers found the door handle. He took a deep breath and tore open the door. The interior light flicked on and the man in the front seat twisted his head around, his mouth opening to shout. Suvorov shot him twice, the silver-tip hollow-point bullets tearing through the rib cage under the armpit.

Almost before the blood began to spurt, Suvorov jerked the driver’s body out of the car and rolled it away from the wheels. Then he roughly crowded Larimer and Moran into the back seat. Both men had lost their blankets, but they were too deeply gripped by shock to even notice or care. No longer the power brokers of Capitol Hill, they were as helpless as children lost in the forest.

Suvorov dropped the shift lever into drive and jammed the accelerator to the floor mat so fiercely, the rear tires spun and sprayed gravel for fifty yards before finally gaining traction. Only then did Suvorov’s fumbling hand find the headlight switch and pull it on. He sagged in relief at discovering the big car was hurtling down the precise middle of a rutted country road.

As he threw the heavy, softly sprung limousine over three miles of choppy washboard, he began to take stock of his surroundings. Cypress trees bordering the road had great tentacles of moss hanging from their limbs. This and the heavy atmosphere suggested they were somewhere in the Southern United States. He spotted a narrow paved crossroad ahead and slid to a stop in a swirling cloud of dust. On the corner stood a deserted building, more of a shack actually, with a decrepit sign illuminated by the headlights: GLOVER CULPEPPER, GAS & GROCERIES. Apparently Glover had packed up and moved on many years before.

The intersection had no marker, so he mentally flipped a coin and turned left. The cypress gave way to groves of pine and soon he began passing an occasional farmhouse. Traffic was scarce at this hour of morning. Only one car and a pickup truck passed him, both going in the opposite direction. He came to a wider road and spotted a bent sign on a leaning post designating it as State Highway 700. The number meant nothing to him, so he made another left turn and continued on.

Throughout the drive, Suvorov’s mind remained cold and rigidly alert. Larimer and Moran sat silently watchful, blindly putting their faith in the man at the wheel.

Suvorov relaxed and eased his foot from the gas pedal. No following headlights showed in the rearview mirror, and as long as he maintained the posted speed limit his chances of being stopped by a local sheriff were remote. He wondered what state he was in. Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana? It could be any one of a dozen. He watched for some clue as the roadside became more heavily populated; darkened buildings and houses squatted under increasing numbers of overhead floodlights.

After another half-hour he came to a bridge spa

“Charleston!” Suvorov said aloud in a sudden burst of jubilation, sifting through his knowledge of American geography. “I’m in Charleston, South Carolina.”

Two miles farther he found an all-night drugstore with a public telephone. Keeping a wary eye on Larimer and Moran, he dialed the long-distance operator and made a collect call.

40

A lone cloud was drifting overhead, scattering a few drops of moisture when Pitt slipped the Talbot beside the passenger departure doors of Washington’s Dulles International Airport. The morning sun roasted the capital city, and the rain steamed and evaporated almost as soon as it struck the ground. He lifted Loren’s suitcase out of the car and passed it to a waiting porter.

Loren unwound her long legs from the cramped sports car, demurely keeping her knees together, and climbed out.

The porter stapled the luggage claim check to the flight ticket and Pitt handed it to her.

“I’ll park the car and baby-sit you until boarding time.”

“No need,” she said, standing close. “I’ve some pending legislation to scan. You head back to the office.”

He nodded at the briefcase clamped in her left hand. “Your crutch. You’d be lost without it.”

“I’ve noticed you never carry one.”

“Not the type.”

“Afraid you might be taken for a business executive?”

“This is Washington; you mean bureaucrat.”

“You are one, you know. The government pays your salary, same as me.”

Pitt laughed. “We all carry a curse.”

She set the briefcase on the ground and pressed her hands against his chest. “I’ll miss you.”

He circled his arms around her waist and gave a gentle squeeze. “Beware of dashing Russian officers, bugged staterooms and vodka hangovers.”

“I will,” she said, smiling. “You’ll be here when I return?”

“Your flight and arrival time are duly memorized.”

She tilted her head up and kissed him. He seemed to want to say something more, but finally he released her and stood back. She slowly entered the terminal through the automatic sliding glass doors. A few steps into the lobby she turned to wave, but the blue Talbot was pulling away.