The Second Saladin

55

A sheen of images rose to fill the screen. Numbers.

Service Level Directory

3839857495………2094875903

2884110485………0594847324

And on and on and on.

He hit the scroll button and the numbers rolled up, a rising tide of integers that climbed to the top of the screen and then disappeared.

He kept the button down until the numbers didn’t move.

MO, it said. More.

He commanded more:

Fe Mo

Yes, more, more. I want MO. Give me MO.

He descended through a sea of green numbers.

He felt he had to hold his breath. He dreamed he was swimming in math.

Am I going insane?

The marine imagery continued to dominate his imagination as the numbers gurgled past, and he had to FE MO into three more segments of the Service Directory.

And then it began to slow on him.

The numbers rolled sluggishly. The system was going to crash on him. The warning light would flash on, high on the wall: sorry, brain temporarily out of order. And it would all be over for Lanahan; he’d never find his way down here again.

Move, you bastards, move, come on, damn you. His finger on the scroll button was white-knuckled and taut with pain as he pressed. The numbers moved more slowly. They moved so slow he thought he’d die. He’d never make it.

No Mo

Touch down. Sea bottom. He was way, way down and he saw nothing.

Nothing, he’d gone too far. He’d missed a line, the last line from the bottom.

784092731………Shu

The shoe fits.

Miles stared elationlessly at it. A tremor raced through him.

FE he instructed, and sent the line and the screen blanked out.

He waited for what seemed the longest time. Had he lost it? Had he fucked up, blown it? Had the Security people been alerted? Yet all was silent. No, it wasn’t. It seemed silent because he was breathing so hard, was so exhausted. Yet now, concentrating, he heard the tapping of other operators on their terminals, the whine of their fans. Nobody stirred.

Words rose from the bottom of the screen, a slugline and then the message.

PAUL YOU BASTARD, said Frenchy Short, horribly dead these seven years.

I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU TO THE RUSSIANS. BUT THEN YOU ALREADY KNOW THAT IF YOU’RE READING THIS BECAUSE IT’LL MEAN I’M DEAD AND YOU GOT BACK AND YOU’RE TRYING TO PUT THE PIECES TOGETHER.

PAUL, Frenchy continued (and Miles could see him: hunched over a terminal, typing quickly, typing desperately, watching his own words traipse across the screen; he’d be terrified; he’d be almost shaking with fear, the discovery could happen so easily), HE’S OFFERED ME A DEAL. IT’S EVERYTHING. THE UPPER FLOORS. SECURITY. EASY STREET. PAUL I’M SO TIRED AND THEY’RE GOING TO GET RID OF ME. SO I’VE GOT THIS JOB AND I’M HOME FREE.

PAUL HE EVEN SAYS IT’S FOR THE BEST. BEST FOR THE AGENCY BEST FOR HIM BEST FOR ME. HE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT YOU. HE SAYS THE COWBOY DAYS ARE ALL OVER.

Miles read on, to the punchline, and found out who ordered Frenchy Short to blow Saladin II and why.

Miles stood, clearing the screen, sending Frenchy’s message back to the serene depths where it would be safe forever. He knew he had to reach Chardy now — and fast.

Danzig thought he saw something move.

His heart jumped.

“Chardy! Chardy, I’m here!”

He ran through a set of pillars, through a shadow — to nothing.

“Chardy! Chardy! Where are you, Chardy?”

His echo boomed around the chamber and back at him. His breathing was rushed and hard. The pillars offered a hundred crazy perspectives, each yielding a wall, a far-off duct, a doorway, a ramp, a shadow. Yet no human form stirred. The smell of combustion was rich and rancid and the atmosphere seemed to burn his skin. He fought for more oxygen.

“Chardy! Chardy!”

Then Danzig saw a figure half-emerge — freeze — pull back into a shadow.

At that moment the scope of his betrayal became evident. A great hate filled him — the urge to kill. Kill with his hands. But kill whom? He didn’t know. Then came the terror. It was total and almost annihilating. And next: a suffocating self-pity. He had so much to do, to give, to contribute. If only he could tell the man, make him see, reason with him.

But Ulu Beg stepped fully out of the darkness. He wore jeans and was fair and tall and seemed — strong. Danzig had no other word. The man stared at him. He had his pistol.

Danzig began to run. He ran crazily from pillar to pillar, back into the chamber, through terrific heat.

“Help me,” he screamed.

He looked back once and could see no one, but he knew the man was there. Ahead the world tipped precariously, spun out of clarity as tears or sweat filled his eyes. He sobbed for breath and the air would not come. He ran for the door and knew he’d never make it. But he did.

He was there. The door was locked. Danzig slid weeping to the floor, clinging to the warm handle, pulling weakly, and the man came out of the shadows and stood not far off. He stood straight and pulled the bolt of his gun.

“No, please, no,” Danzig cried.

Then the lights vanished. Danzig cowered in the darkness. A thousand red EXITS glowed.

“Ulu Beg,” cried Paul Chardy.

Ulu Beg answered with a burst of gunfire.

Bluestein looked at him sullenly.

“All right,” he said. “Now get out of here.”

Miles didn’t even see him.

He rushed down the corridor, and turned in his necklace to the guards. He had to wait a century for the elevator. Finally it arrived and he stepped in. The trip up was swift and silent.

He headed down the last hall, moving swiftly, keeping his eyes down, passing guards. But just before a turn, he heard footsteps He recoiled in panic, backing, testing knobs. One gave — there was always some careless bastard, you could count on it — and Miles slid in. A dark room, some kind of office anteroom encased him.

Outside, the steps grew to a clatter. He recognized the voices — men from his own operation. Now what the hell were they doing here? What was going on? He knew he could not face them, and let them pass, hearing their excited jabber. When they’d gone he bolted, raced through Badge Control, signed out, and bounded into the parking lot. The air was cooler now. He shivered, looking for the van. It was supposed to be right here. What the —

The van was gone.

Oh, Christ, he thought.

But a car wheeled up to him and a door flew open and he recognized some of the Bureau people.

“Where’s Chardy?”

“Get in, for Christ’s sake,” somebody commanded.

“Where’s Chardy?”

“Get in, goddammit. Danzig’s flown. There’s a flap.”

The news staggered him. He could see Danzig having finally broken; he knew he should be there. Danzig alone, confused, walking the streets. There’d be a huge mess-up at Operations.

He jumped in.

“I’ve got to reach Chardy. Is he on a radio net or something?”

“Everybody’s on the net tonight,” somebody up front said, and reached back to hand him a microphone. “You’re Hosepipe Three. Chardy’s Hosepipe One. Our headquarters is Candelabra.”

Miles snorted. The Bureau’s idiotic games. He pressed the mike button and, feeling silly, said, “Hosepipe One, this is Hosepipe Three. Do you read? Are you there? Paul, are you—”

The response was instantaneous and furious.

“Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra, get the hell off the air, we need this channel!”

“Screw you, Candelabra. Hosepipe One, this is Hosepipe Three. Chardy. Chardy, it’s Miles, goddammit!”

But there was no answer.

Ulu Beg waited for his eyes to adjust to a dark that was less than total. Signs glowed on pillars; one far door was ajar, throwing a long slash of light through the chamber. Shadows fell away from this streak of light across the cement and he knew that to step into it would be to die.

But he did not care. Only Danzig mattered.

“Ulu Beg, listen to me.” The voice rang through the low space.

But Ulu Beg did not listen. Instead, lying flat on his stomach, the silenced Skorpion in the crook of his arm, he slithered ahead like a lizard.

Had Danzig moved? Ulu Beg guessed not. He wasn’t a man for much motion, no matter what the circumstances. He looked for a sign of the man but could pick nothing out in the dark.

“Ulu Beg,” Chardy shouted, “it’s a Russian game. This fat man means nothing.”

Ulu Beg slithered ahead.

“Ulu Beg. The Russian, Speshnev, killed your sons.”

Ulu Beg crawled ahead. He would not listen. But a memory of his sons came over him again, now at this ultimate instant. His sons: their smell, which he had loved so, gone. Their delicate lashes, their perfect fingers, their soft breathing, their quickness and boundless energy — gone. The memory convulsed him. He heard Speshnev instructing him in Libya: “Danzig killed your sons, betrayed them, made them die.” He’d had a photograph of the bodies. “Look. From an office in America ten thousand miles away he decreed death to the troublesome Kurds, death to your boys.”

Let me be strong just another minute, he thought. Then kill me, Chardy. Kill me.

“Ulu Beg. Don’t make me kill you,” Chardy called.

“For God’s sake” — Danzig, sobbing from nearby — “save me, Chardy, oh, God, save me, please.”

With a scream that was a sob, Ulu Beg rose and fired a clip at the voice. The hot shells poured from the breech and the stench of powder rose and he could see sparks where the bullets struck. Ricochets whined about. Then the bolt locked back: he was out of ammunition.

He jammed in a new magazine.

He searched around in the darkness and could see nothing. He looked back and heard sobbing ahead. He swung the metal stock over the piece, locking it in place. He rose and walked to Danzig. He found the fat man next to the door, weeping softly.

“Naman,” he said.

“Don’t!”

It was Chardy, so close behind him he could almost feel the breath. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

The van pulled up.

“Colonel, are you sure?”

“Oh, yes,” said Speshnev. “It’s quite necessary.”

“We have technicians,” said the younger man. “Men of great skill and experience.”

“Stepanovich, you always think of me, don’t you? I’m touched. But I’ve some experience myself. And I’ve been looking forward for some time to this.”

“I wish you’d let me send some backup people along.”

“Oh, no. Too cumbersome. Wouldn’t think of it.”

“You’re sure, Colonel?”

“No, I’m quite fine,” Speshnev said. He smiled. The damp warm air had somewhat disarranged his hair. He turned in the cab, opened the door, and stepped out.

“You’ve got the device?”

“Of course,” Speshnev said. “Right in here.” He tapped himself just under the arm, and the young man knew it to be a standard KGB silent killing device, a tiny CO₂ pistol that fired small pellets of a traceless microtoxin.

“And just in case?”

“Of course, Stepanovich. The Luger.”

He smiled, and the younger man marveled at his calmness. His whole operation hung in the balance and the old man himself was going to push it the final step. The younger man, by temperament a sentimentalist, wanted to weep in admiration. But he controlled himself as he watched the colonel head for the building.

“Don’t! Please don’t,” Chardy heard himself urge with insane civility. He had the Ingram trained on the Kurd from a range of about fifteen yards. It seemed, in the passion of the second, immensely heavy. It was hot to his touch. He could feel his fingers on it, sense its weight, its warmth, its cruel details.

“Don’t,” he cried again. He could feel his voice quaver, grow phlegmy. It was so dark; the seconds seemed to be rushing past.

The Kurd was absolutely still, frozen against a pillar, his own weapon before him.

“It’s a trick,” Chardy began to argue. If he could just explain it all. “It’s a Russian trick. It goes way back, it—”

He wished he could breathe. He could feel the perspiration forming on his body. It was so hot down here; it smelled of cars, of gas.

“Speshnev,” he thought to say. If he could get that part out, make him see that part of it. “It’s Speshnev—”

“CHARDY KILL HIM!” Danzig screamed. “CHARDY STOP HIM!” The voice echoed in the chamber.

Ulu Beg’s head moved just an inch in the darkness.

“CHARDY! OH CHARDY SAVE ME JESUS!”

“Speshnev killed—”

“CHARDY KILL HIM KILL HIM JESUS!”

“It’s the Russian, it’s Speshnev, it’s—”

“CHARDY GODDAM—”

Ulu Beg brought the Skorpion to his shoulder and Chardy heard a weapon fire a long burst. The Kurd fell to the pavement, the machine pistol clattering away. Blood ran from his mouth and out his nose and his eyes were open.

Chardy looked down at the Ingram and pretended to be amazed that he’d fired. It had just happened, almost accidentally: a twitch, the slightest, faintest tremor of nerve running from a secret part of his brain down his spine and arm to the finger, and the weapon, its orchestration of springs and latches and chambers and pins set in motion, had fired eleven times in less than two seconds.

No.

You did it, Chardy thought.

You did it.

Chardy walked to the man. He searched for a pulse, found none. He reached and closed the two eyes and the mouth. He set the Ingram down and tried to roll the Kurd to his right side. But it would not work; the man kept slipping forward sloppily. Chardy was trying to get it right.

“My God,” said Danzig, suddenly just behind him. “He could have killed me. You stood there for an hour. Chardy, you bastard. Do you think this is some kind of a game? My God, Chardy, you bastard.”

Chardy at last stood, gripping the Ingram. He put it on safety. A terrible grief and rage filled his head. He swung and hit Danzig across the face, under the eye, with the heavy silencer, driving him down. The man lay on the floor among spent shells. It occurred to Chardy that he might have killed him and it occurred to him he didn’t care.

He looked back at the Kurd, who lay untidily, half on his side, half flat, legs twisted, face blank.

He explained to the corpse:

See, they have this way of putting you in a jam where you have to do the only thing in the world you don’t want to, but you have to. It always works out that way. That’s how it worked with Frenchy and Johanna and with …

At last he backed away. He could smell the burnt powder from his last burst. It clung in his nose and seemed to work through his capillaries as it climbed into his head.

He tried to figure out what to do next and after some effort remembered he’d taken a radio unit. He fished into his jacket, pulled it out and snapped it on.

“Candelabra,” he said without emotion, “this is Hosepipe One.”

The unit crackled. It wasn’t receiving down here. He looked at it with disgust and almost threw it against the wall.

Do your fucking job. I did mine.

But then it spoke in a burst of grating energy.

“—dy! Chardy! Chardy!”

Another voice cut in.

“Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra. I said get the hell off the air.”

Chardy spoke quickly.

“Hosepipe Three, this is One. It’s Chardy Do you read?”

“Paul? It’s Miles.”

“Hosepipe One, this is Candelabra. Request position. Can you give your position. Chardy, where the fuck are you?”

“Paul, listen. Listen, Jesus—”

“Is he there?” the man in front said.

Miles tried again. “Hosepipe One? Hosepipe One? Goddammit, Paul?” He turned to them. “I can’t raise him. He’s off the net.”

“Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra. Did you get a fix on Chardy?”

Somebody grabbed the mike from Lanahan. “Candelabra, we’ve lost him.”

“Did you get an acknowledgment?”

“He was there,” Miles said. “He heard me.”

“Candelabra, this is Three,” said the man up front next to the driver. “We didn’t get a fix either. We were barely receiving him. He must have been under something.”

They drove on in silence.

“What’s he up to?” Miles asked nobody in particular as the car raced down the parkway toward Key Bridge and Washington.

Nobody answered him.

Yost Ver Steeg was the first to arrive. He walked from the elevator across the cement, coming out of the light, his feet snapping on the pavement.

Chardy, leaning wearily against the pillar with his headache and his grief, watched him come.

“Hello, Paul. My people are on their way.”

“Hello, Yost. I expected Sam.”

“Sam can’t make it, Paul. Well, you tried. But you couldn’t quite bring it off.”

“No. No, goddammit.”

“It’s a pity too. Because the Soviet operation had already come apart.”

“I know it had.”

“I figured you did, Paul. I thought something was going on in that head of yours. I wish you’d come to me, Paul. I wish you’d trusted me. It would have saved a lot of trouble.”

“It’s Sam, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Paul. Sam has been working for the Russians since nineteen seventy-four. One of the consequences of the Kurdistan thing. Sam is an insanely ambitious man, Paul. He was terrified that Saladin Two would be a big success and Bill Speight would become the next Deputy Director for Operations. So he sent old Frenchy to Vienna to blow the op. But Speshnev was too smart, too fast. Speshnev is very good, you know, Paul. He’s just about their best. He nailed Frenchy and he broke him, broke him wide open fast. And then he owned Sam. He just had Sam so tight there was no getting out of it. I guess it wasn’t long before they saw how their interests coincided. They’ve been helping each other along all these years.”

“Jesus,” said Chardy.

“I guess there’s some good news here for you, Paul. You didn’t betray the Kurds. You really didn’t.”

“That’s just a technicality, Yost,” Chardy said. “A minor trick of timing. If I’m off the hook, it’s not because they knew one day before I told them or one week or one year. It’s because there was no hook. I tried; I failed. I did my best. I can’t ask much more from myself and nobody else has the right to, either.”

“Now that’s a healthy attitude, Paul. That’s very healthy. I’m glad you see it that way. We knew all this some time ago, and believe me, the temptation was enormous to let you in on it. But I’m glad you worked it out on your own, Paul. We were just getting closer and closer and we couldn’t risk anything. And when it turned out Danzig had duplicates on the Saladin Two files, we knew Sam and Speshnev would have to cook something up. We used it: we thought we could get Speshnev as well as Sam. Now that would be a catch, wouldn’t it? A Soviet double and his Russian case officer? Damn, that would have been something!”

Chardy lay back against the pillar. This headache would not go away.

“The poor Kurd,” said Yost. “He’s the tragic figure in all this. He’s the most innocent of all. He was used and used and used. The poor bastard.”

Chardy shook his head in pain.

“And Danzig. Oh, I wish we’d been a little smarter, a little sooner. It’s such a dirty business, Paul. People just keep getting in the way. Sometimes you have to wonder about it all.”

“Did you get them? Did you at least get Sam and the Russian?”

“We arrested Sam an hour ago. When Danzig escaped. It was finally time. I wish you could have been there. He had no idea we were onto him. But there’s no evidence Speshnev ever came into this country. Sam will tell us, though. Eventually.”

“I’m quitting, Yost. I’m getting out of it. Everything I tried to do I fucked up.”

Joseph Danzig moaned. He rolled over and put his hand to his face.

“My God,” said Yost. “He’s still alive. We better get some medical people here, Paul—”

“Oh, he’s fine. He’s not shot. I hit him. I have a terrible, terrible temper. Did I ever tell you about the time I punched Cy Brasher? It was like that: I just let go. Oh, Christ, I’m in trouble. Jesus, he could have me sent to jail. It was so stupid of me. Why do I do these stupid things?”

Chardy looked over.

Yost had picked up the Skorpion.

“Be careful, Yost. It’s loaded; it’s cocked. Those things are very dangerous.”

“I know about guns, Paul. I was in the Delta during Tet.” He pulled the bolt back a hair and looked into the breech. “I can see the gleam of the brass cartridge in there.”

“Put it down. You could hurt somebody. Jesus, I hope Danzig doesn’t press charges. Do you think you could put in a good word for me when he comes to? I’d really appreciate it.”

Yost had the Skorpion pointed toward Chardy.

“Sorry, Paul,” he said.

“Hosepipe Three, this is Hosepipe Nine — do you read?”

The man in front picked up the mike.

“I’m reading, Hosepipe Nine.”

“Who the hell is Hosepipe Nine?” Lanahan asked.

“One of our other cars, out looking for Danzig,” somebody said.

“Three, I’m on Rock Creek Parkway by the Roosevelt Bridge, and I received that transmission loud and clear. From Hosepipe One, I mean.”

“Thank you, Hosepipe Nine. We copy.”

“What’s that near?” Lanahan asked.

“State Department. Lincoln Memorial. Watergate. Kennedy Center. It’s right in the middle of—”

“Kennedy Center!” shrieked Miles. “It’s an Agency safe-house — the lower floor of the parking garage. You got a siren on this thing? Come on, hit it.”

The siren began to wail and a portable flasher was clamped atop the sedan as it began to accelerate down M Street.

“Come on, hurry,” Lanahan urged them again, and licked his lips out of fear. For now he knew what Chardy was up to.

“He’s playing cowboy again,” he told them.

Chardy looked at Yost. Yost wore his pinstripe suit and glasses. He was about fifty. He had sandy thin hair. As always he was controlled, quiet, calm. He betrayed no unsteadiness.

“It was just like you said, Yost,” Chardy said. “Sam’s ambition, Frenchy’s betrayal, Speshnev’s fast footwork. Except all the way there was one other character. It was you. You were Sam’s brains.”

“He’s not very bright, Paul. He doesn’t have a first-class mind. He’s very smooth and charming, but he’s just not very bright.”

“You sold him on blowing Saladin Two. And you went to Frenchy. And you sold Frenchy, offered him the big upstairs job. And when Speshnev cracked Frenchy, it was your name he coughed up. And it was you Speshnev nailed.”

“What could I do, Paul? He had me.”

“And when I’m in the cell and Speshnev can’t break me and he’s getting desperate until he tells me he knows about Johanna and he’ll lay her head on the table, it’s you he learned it from. And when Sam crucifies Bill Speight and me at the hearing, it’s because you’ve done his staffwork for him. And up he goes, and up you go. And all those years you’ve been working for him and everything he knew you knew and it went straight to Speshnev. And when you set Danzig up in Boston and everybody thinks you’ve fucked up, he finds you a new job in Satellites. But Satellites are ten times more important than anything in Operations. You’re right in the center. And if Sam should make DCI, he’ll take you along. And if something goes wrong, if somebody thinks there’s a double, and they begin to backtrack, the trail leads straight — to Sam. Sam takes the heat. Everybody watches Sam, not you. And during all this, it’s Sam I hate, Sam I’m trying to screw, Sam who drives me crazy. Not you. I don’t even know you. I never even heard of you.”

“Paul, it’s time. Speshnev had planned to do this himself. It’s time to end it. Sorry.”

He held the machine pistol in both hands and fired.

The bolt jammed halfway forward.

“I turned the first shell around in the clip,” Chardy said. “You should have looked more carefully.”

Chardy took the Ingram out from under his coat.

“This is how you fucked up. Because you underestimated everybody. Each step of the way, and by only a little bit, you underestimated everybody. You thought we were such losers. Old Speight did pretty good down in Mexico. That dreamy kid Trewitt did even better. And Miles, even little Miles came through when we needed him. Everybody was there when we needed them, Yost. And Frenchy: Frenchy was there too. You underestimated Frenchy the most. Frenchy left me a message, buried in an old computer disc, because he didn’t trust you. Miles bluffed his way into the pit this evening and dug it out. A minute before you arrived he reached me on this” — he pulled out the radio unit — “with your name.”

He paused.

“Yost, I ought to blow you the fuck in half for all you’ve cost me.”

At the far end of the garage, a vehicle careened down the ramp and sped to thm. Before it had even halted, tiny Miles was out.

“Good work, Paul,” he called. “We’ll take him now.”

Another car arrived in the next second, and then several others.

A team of medics had taken Danzig off, bleeding, his face swollen. He had not looked at Chardy. The body of Ulu Beg, too, had been removed, after a ritual of crime-site photography that Chardy could not watch.

Miles meanwhile moved among the various groups of officials who’d arrived at the scene and took it upon himself to represent the Agency’s interests until a higher-ranking officer was located. A Deputy Director was due shortly — Chardy guessed it would not be Sam Melman — and the DCI himself had been awakened and briefed and was now on his way to Langley for an emergency session. It was also said that the President had been awakened, as had members of the National Security Council and the Senate and House Intelligence Oversight committees, each of which had dispatched a man or men to the fourth level.

Chardy stood apart from all this. He drew on a cigarette deeply — he had not smoked for years and at first he coughed. But now he had it down again. He finished the cigarette, tossed it away.

“Got another, Leo?”

Leo Bennis handed him another.

Miles was suddenly there, and as Chardy lit up, Miles whispered to him, “Paul, we can really run with this. You and I, if we play it right. All right?”

“Sure, Miles. We’ll be big heroes. I’ll tell ’em you were in on it from the beginning; you were calling the shots. I’ll tell ’em you were the guy who caught the double.”

“Paul, I’d really appreciate—”

“Forget it.”

“Right.”

Miles bobbed away, disappearing among a group of men in suits who were asking questions.

They were about to lead Yost off. He had been weeping. His face was ruined, his hair messy, his eyes swollen. He could not control himself and nobody had thought to give him a handkerchief. Yet now, sensing Chardy’s gaze on him, he looked over.

It was hard for Chardy to feel anything. He thought he’d see Sam being led off; he’d hated Sam all those years. Yost. Who was Yost? He felt he’d been denied something he’d earned. Ulu Beg was dead. Johanna was dead. And somebody he’d never heard of, or really even known, was behind it all.

They took Yost to a van, surrounded by FBI personnel. Miles had tried to get him released to the Agency for debriefing, but the FBI pulled rank. Still Miles insisted on knowing exactly where they were taking him, who was in charge, and began to establish groundwork for the future.

“Maybe you’ll be big in the Agency now,” said Leo.

“No,” Chardy replied. “I never wanted that sort of thing. I just wanted—”

He stopped suddenly.

“I know where Speshnev is,” he said.

“What?”

“Yost said, ‘Speshnev had planned to kill you himself.’ He did. Leo, get a car, get it fast. Clear these people out of here. Where’s that Ingram? Come on, Leo.”

“Paul!”

Chardy found his weapon — it had been impounded by the FBI and Chardy unimpounded it with a quick threat of violence — and ran for the car, inserting a new magazine as he ran.

He leaped in and turned to Leo as the car peeled out of the garage.

“There’s a last wrinkle. There has to be. To bury Saladin Two forever, to seal it off from living memory.”

“Paul—”

“At the hospital. Speshnev. He has to go for me.”

The car squealed as it accelerated up the ramp, up four levels, and turned onto the parkway, siren wailing.

“He’ll get in too. He’ll find the wing, the room.”

“All our people are gone now,” said Leo. “They all hit the street after Danzig.”

“God help him,” said Chardy, for now he saw what must happen. “God help Ramirez.”