But through the smoke Lyn could see he was still moving. She looked around desperately, picked up a large vase from a side table, swallowed hard and tried to stop her hands from shaking, and forced herself to move nearer. Sverenssen was half sitting up, one hand clutching at his head, a small trickle of blood oozing through his fingers. He braced a foot beneath himself, stretched out an arm to steady himself against the wall, and started to haul himself up. Lyn raised the vase high with both hands. But Sverenssen’s legs had turned to jelly. He swayed for a second, groaned aloud, and then collapsed back against the baseboard. Lyn was still standing paralyzed in the same position when the first figures wearing respirators and Army combat uniforms and carrying assault rifles materialized out of the fumes around her. One of them took the vase lightly from her hands. “We’ll take care of him,” a gruff voice told her. “Are you okay?” She nodded mutely while in front of her two Special Forces troopers lifted Sverenssen roughly to his feet.
“Bloody good show that,” an English voice commented from somewhere behind her. “You know, if you worked at it, you might even get a job with the S.A.S.” She turned and found Hunt look-
ing at her approvingly. Shearer stood next to him. Hunt moved beside her, slipped an arm around her waist, and squeezed reassuringly. She pressed the side of her head against his shoulder and clung tightly as the tension released itself in a spasm of trembling. Talking could wait until later.
Around them the noise had subsided, and the smoke was clearing to reveal Sverenssen’s domestic staff being brought into the corner room to be searched and relieved of their weapons before they were herded away into the guest annex. As the assault troops and the others already inside the house removed their respirators, a knot of American and Soviet officers came in through the wreckage. They were accompanied by men wearing civilian clothes beneath combat jackets. Sverenssen’s eyes bulged in disbelief as they refocused. “Hi,” Norman Pacey said, with a trace of deep satisfaction. “Remember us?”
“For you the war is over, my friend,” Sobroskin informed him. “In fact, everything is over. It’s a shame that you did not find Bruno up to your standards. It’s quite luxurious compared to where you will be going.” Sverenssen’s face writhed with anger, but he still seemed too dazed to make any reply.
A sergeant crossed the room, saluted, and reported to Shearer. “No casualties, sir. Just some cuts and bruises, mainly on the other side. None of them got away. The whole house is secured.”
Shearer nodded. “Start getting them out right away. Let’s get those landers away before they’re spotted by the surveillance. Where are Verikoff and the CIA people?” Even as he spoke, another group of figures pushed into the room. Sverenssen’s head jerked around, and his jaw dropped as he heard the name. Verikoff halted a few feet away from him and stood eying him defiantly.
“So, it’s you . . .” Sverenssen hissed. “You . . . traitor?’ He lunged forward instinctively and was promptly doubled over by a sharp blow delivered to the solar plexus by a rifle butt. As he sagged two of the troopers caught him and held him.
“He carries the key to the facility on him at all times,” Verikoff said. “It should be on a chain around his neck.” Shearer ripped open the front of Sverenssen’s shirt, found the key, removed it, and passed it to Verikoff.
“You’ll pay for these atrocities, Colonel,” Sverenssen wheezed weakly. “Mark my words. I’ve ruined bigger men than you.”
“Atrocities?” Shearer turned his head aside quizzically. “Do you know what he’s talking about, Sergeant?”
“I’ve no idea, sir.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Didn’t see a thing, sir.”
“Why do you think this man is holding his stomach?”
“Probably indigestion, sir.”
As Sverenssen was hustled away to join his staff, Shearer turned to Clifford Benson. “I’m pulling my men out right away, apart from ten that I’ll leave as guards for the house. I guess it’s ready for you to take over.”