Dana screamed. As she did, she looked at the bed and saw the bloody body of a middle-aged woman with a plastic bag tied around her head. Dana felt her flesh crawl.
Hysterical, she ran down the stairs of the apartment building.
He was standing at the window of an apartment in the building across the street, loading a thirty-shot rifle clip into an AR-7 rifle with a silencer. He was using a 3–6 powered scope, accurate up to sixty-five yards. He moved with the easy, calm grace of a professional. This was a simple job. The woman should be coming out of the building at any minute. He smiled at the thought of how she must have panicked when she found the two bloody bodies. Now it was her turn.
The door to the apartment building across the street flew open, and he carefully raised the rifle to his shoulder. Through the scope, he saw Dana’s face as she ran out onto the street, frantically looking around, trying to decide which way to go. He aimed carefully to make sure she was in the exact center of the scope and gently squeezed the trigger.
At that instant, a bus stopped in front of the building, and the spray of bullets hit the top of the bus and blew part of the roof off. The sniper looked down, unbelievingly. Some of the bullets had ricocheted into the bricks of the building, but the target was unharmed. People were pouring out of the bus, screaming. He knew he had to get out of there. The woman was running down the street. Not to worry. The others would deal with her.
The streets were icy and the wind was howling, but Dana never noticed. She was in a complete panic. Two blocks away she came to a hotel and ran into the lobby.
“Telephone?” she said to the clerk behind the desk.
He looked at her bloody hands and drew back.
“Telephone!” Dana was almost screaming.
Nervously, the clerk pointed to a phone booth in a corner of the lobby. Dana hurried into it. From her purse, she took out a phone card and, with trembling fingers, telephoned the operator.
“I want to place a call to America.” Her hands were shaking. Through chattering teeth, she gave the operator her card number and Roger Hudson’s number and waited. After what seemed to be an eternity, Dana heard Cesar’s voice.
“The Hudson residence.”
“Cesar! I need to talk to Mr. Hudson.” Her voice was choked.
“Miss Evans?”
“Hurry, Cesar, hurry!”
A minute later Dana heard Roger’s voice. “Dana?”
“Roger!” Tears were streaming down Dana’s face. “He’s—he’s dead. They m-murdered him and his friend.”
“What? My God, Dana. I don’t know what—are you hurt?”
“No…but they’re trying to kill me.”
“Now, listen carefully. There’s an Air France plane that leaves for Washington at midnight. I’ll get you a reservation on it. Make sure you’re not followed to the airport. Don’t take a taxi there. Go directly to the Hotel Metropol. The hotel has airport buses leaving regularly. Take one of them. Mingle with the crowds. I’ll be waiting for you in Washington when you arrive. For God’s sakes, watch yourself!”
“I will, Roger. Th—thank you.”
Dana hung up the phone. She stood there a moment, unable to move, filled with terror. She could not get the bloody images of Shdanoff and his friend out of her mind. She took a deep breath and walked out of the booth, past the suspicious clerk, out into the freezing-cold night.
A taxi pulled up to the curb next to her, and the driver said something to her in Russian.
“Nyet,” Dana said. She began to hurry down the street. She had to go back to her hotel first.
As Roger replaced the phone, he heard Pamela come in the front door.
“Dana’s telephoned twice from Moscow. She’s found out why the Winthrops were murdered.”
Pamela said, “Then we must take care of her right away.”
“I already tried. We sent a sniper, but something went wrong.”
Pamela looked at him with contempt. “You fool. Call them again. And, Roger…”
“Yes?”
“Tell them to make it look like an accident.”