Varak walked casually down the asphalt towards the imposing entrance of the hangar. Both guards stepped forward, one crushing out a cigarette under his foot.
‘What’s your business here?’ asked the large man on the Czech’s right.
‘Business, I think,’ answered Varak pleasantly. ‘Rather confidential business, I believe.’
‘What does that mean?’ said the shorter guard on the left.
‘You’ll have to ask Mr. Grinell, I’m afraid. I’m merely a messenger and I was told to speak to only one person who should convey the information to Mr. Grinell when he arrives.’
‘More of that bullshit,’ added the shorter patrol to his companion. ‘If you got papers or cash, you gotta get ’em pre-cleared. They find somethin’ on the plane they don’t know about, it don’t head out, and Mr. Grinell will explode, you get me?’
‘Loud and clear, my friend. I have only words that must be repeated accurately. Do you get me?’
‘So talk.’
‘One person,’ said Varak. ‘And I choose him,’ continued Milos, pointing at the large man.
‘He’s dumb. Take me.’
‘I was told whom to choose.’
‘Shit!’
‘Please come with me,’ said the Czech, gesturing to the right behind the trip lights. ‘I’m to record our conversation but without anyone in earshot.’
‘Why don’t you tell the boss himself?’ objected the overlooked guard on the left. ‘He’ll be here in a couple of minutes.’
‘Because we’re never to meet face to face—anywhere. Would you care to ask him about it?’
‘More bullshit.’
Once around the corner of the hangar, Varak raised his cupped left hand. ‘Would you please speak directly into this?’ he said, again pleasantly.
‘Sure, mister.’
They were the last words the guard would remember. The Czech sent the hard flat base of his right hand into the man’s shoulder blade, following the blow with three chops to his throat and a final, two-knuckled assault on his upper eyelids. The guard collapsed, and Varak swiftly began to remove his clothes. A minute and twenty seconds later he was overdressed in the large man’s private security uniform; he cuffed the trouser legs and shoved up his sleeves, pulling the uniform over his wrists. He was ready.
Forty seconds later a black limousine drove down the street and stopped at the base of the asphalt entrance to the hangar. The Czech moved out of the shadows and walked slowly into the chiaroscuro light. A man emerged from the huge car, and although Milos had never seen him, he knew that man was Crayton Grinell.
‘Hi, boss!’ yelled the guard at the left of the hangar as the overcoated grey-faced figure walked quickly, angrily across the tarmac. ‘We got your message; Benny’s recording something—’
‘Why isn’t the goddamned plane out on the strip?’ roared Grinell. ‘Everything’s cleared, you idiots!’
‘Benny talked to them, boss, I didn’t! Five, ten minutes, they told him. It would have been different if I was on the phone! Shit, I don’t put up with no shit, you know what I mean? You should’a told that guy to speak to me, that Benny—’
‘Shut up! Get my driver and tell him to move this son of a bitch out! If they can’t fly it, he can!’
‘Sure, boss. Anything you say, boss!’
As the guard started shouting to the driver the Czech joined the rush of activity and began running towards the outsized car.
‘Thanks!’ cried the passing chauffeur, seeing Varak’s uniform. ‘He goes on at the last minute!’
Milos raced around the boot of the car to the street side, yanked open the back door, and leaped inside to a jump seat. He sat rigid, staring at the puffed face of the astonished Eric Sundstrom. ‘Hello, Professor,’ he said softly.
‘It was a trap—you set a trap for me!’ screamed the scientist in the dark shadows of the car. ‘But you don’t know what you’re doing, Varak! We’re on the edge of a breakthrough in space! So many wondrous things to learn! We were wrong—Inver Brass is wrong! We must go on!’
‘Even if we blow up half the planet?’
‘Don’t be an ass!’ cried Sundstrom, pleading. ‘Nobody’s going to blow up anything! We’re civilized people on both sides, civilized and frightened. The more we build, the more fear we instil—that’s the world’s ultimate protection, don’t you see?’
‘You call that civilized?’
‘I call it progress. Scientific progress! You wouldn’t understand, but the more we build the more we learn.’
‘Through weapons of destruction?’
‘Weapons…? You’re pitifully naive! “Weapons” is merely a label. Like “fish” or “vegetables”. It’s the excuse we employ to fund scientific advancement on a scale that would be otherwise prohibitive! The bigger bang for the buck theory is obsolete—we have all the bang we’ll ever need. It’s in the delivery systems—orbital guidance and hookups, directional lasers that can be refracted in space to pinpoint a manhole cover from thousands of miles above.’
‘And deliver a bomb?’
‘Only if someone tries to stop us,’ answered the scientist, his voice strained as if the mere prospect was enough to summon his fury. Then that fury broke. His cherubic features suddenly turned into the grotesque components of some monstrous gargoyle. ‘Research, research, research!’ he cried, his strident speech like the squeals of a furious pig. ‘Let no one dare stop us! We’re moving into a new world where science will rule all civilization! You’re meddling with a political faction that understands our needs. You can’t be tolerated! Kendrick is dangerous! You’ve seen him, heard him… he’d hold hearings, ask stupid questions, obstruct our progress!’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’ Varak slowly reached beneath the uniform to the fold of his jacket. ‘Do you know the universal penalty for treason, Professor?’
‘What are you talking about?’ His hands trembling, his heavy body shaking as the sweat rolled down his face, Sundstrom edged towards the door. ‘I’ve betrayed no one… I’m trying to stop a terrible wrong, a horrible mistake committed by misguided lunatics! You’ve got to be stopped, all of you! You cannot interfere with the greatest scientific machine the world has ever known!’
In the shadows Varak withdrew his automatic; a reflection of light beamed up from the barrel into Sundstrom’s eyes. ‘You’ve had months to say those things; instead you were silent while the others trusted you. Through your betrayal lives were lost, bodies mutilated… you’re filth, Professor.’
‘No!’ screamed Sundstrom, crashing into the door, his trembling fingers hitting the handle as the door swung out, the scientist’s rotund body following in frenzied panic. Milos fired; the bullet seared into Sundstrom’s lower spine as the traitor fell to the asphalt shrieking. ‘Help me, help me! He’s trying to kill me! Oh, my God, he shot me!… Kill him, kill him!’ Varak fired again, his aim now steady, the bullet accurate. The back of the scientist’s skull blew apart.
In seconds, amid screams of confusion, gunfire was returned from the hangar. The Czech was hit in the chest and left shoulder. He sprang out of the street side door, rolling on the ground, over and over again directly behind the limousine until he reached the opposite curb. In pain, he crawled above it, scrambling on his hands and knees into the darkness of the tall grass that was the border of an auxiliary airstrip. He almost did not make it; from all directions there were the sounds of sirens and racing engines. The entire security force was converging on Hangar Seven, as across the street the guard and Grinell’s chauffeur closed in on the limousine, firing repeatedly into the vehicle. Varak was hit again. An aimless ricochet, a wild shot, burned its way into his stomach. He had to get away! His business was not concluded!
He turned and started running through the tall grass, ripping first the uniformed jacket off, then stopping briefly to remove the trousers. Blood was spreading through his shirt, and his legs grew unsteady. He had to conserve his strength! He had to get across the field and reach a road, find a telephone. He had to!
Searchlights. From a tower behind him! He was back in Czechoslovakia, in prison, racing across the compound to a fence and freedom. A beam swung close, and as he had done in that prison outside Prague, he lurched to the ground and lay motionless until it passed. He struggled to his feet, knowing he was growing weaker but could not stop. In the distance there were other lights—streetlights! And another fence…! Freedom, freedom.
Straining every muscle, grip by grip, he scaled the fence only to confront coiled barbed wire at the top. It did not matter. With what seemed like his last vestige of strength, he propelled himself over, shredding his clothes and his flesh as he dropped to the ground. He lay there breathing deeply, alternately holding his stomach and his chest. Go on! Now!
He reached the road; it was one of those unkempt narrow thoroughfares that frequently surround airports, no real estate development because of the noise. Still, cars sped by, shortcuts known to natives. Awkwardly, unsteadily, he walked on to it, holding up his arms at an approaching vehicle. The driver, however, was having no part of him. He swung to the left and raced by. Moments later a second car approached from his right; he stood as straight as he could and raised one hand, a civilized signal of distress. The car slowed down; it stopped as the Czech reached into his holster for his gun.