XXIII
IN RAVEN HILL, a red NO TRESPASSING sign and high iron fence excluded the world from the wooded acres of the headquarters the FRA had established in England. Behind the closely guarded base, a series of satellite-tracking dishes monitored international cable and microwave communications passing through Britain. In a concrete house in the center of the compound, four men were watching a large screen.
“Beam her up, Scotty.”
They watched the television picture shift away from a flat in Brighton as the satellite moved. A moment later an image of Dana came up on the large screen as she entered her room at the Soyuz Hotel.
“She’s back.” They watched as Dana hurriedly washed the blood off her hands and started to undress.
“Hey, here we go again.” One of the men grinned.
They watched as Dana stripped.
“Man, I’d sure like to bonk that.”
Another man hurried into the room. “Not unless you’re into necrophilia, Charlie.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We just got orders to see that she has a fatal accident.”
Dana finished dressing and looked at her watch. There was still plenty of time to catch the Metropol bus to the airport. With growing anxiety, she hurried downstairs to the lobby. The fat woman was nowhere in sight.
Dana walked out onto the street. Impossibly, it had gotten colder. The wind was a relentless, howling banshee. A taxi stopped in front of Dana.
“Taksi?”
Don’t take a taxi. Go directly to the Hotel Metropol. The hotel has airport buses leaving regularly.
“Nyet.”
Dana started walking along the icy street. Crowds were pushing past her, hurrying to the warmth of homes or offices. As Dana reached a busy corner, waiting to cross, she felt a violent shove from behind and she went flying into the street in front of an oncoming truck. She slipped on a patch of ice and fell on her back, looking up in horror as the huge truck sped toward her.
At the last second, the white-faced driver managed to turn his wheel so that the truck passed directly over Dana. For a moment, she lay in darkness, her ears filled with the roar of the engine and the clanking chains flapping against the huge tires.
Suddenly she could see the sky again. The truck was gone. Dana groggily sat up. People were helping her to her feet. She looked around for the person who had pushed her, but it could have been anyone in the crowd. Dana took several deep breaths and tried to regain her composure. The people surrounding her were shouting at her in Russian. The crowd was beginning to press in on Dana, making her panicky.
“Hotel Metropol?” Dana said hopefully.
A group of young boys had approached. “Sure. We take you.”
The lobby of the Hotel Metropol was blessedly warm, crowded with tourists and businessmen. Mingle with the crowds. I’ll be waiting for you in Washington when you arrive.
Dana said to a bellman, “What time does the next bus leave for the airport?”
“In thirty minutes, gaspazha.”
“Thank you.”
She sat in a chair, breathing hard, trying to wipe the unspeakable horror from her mind. She was filled with dread. Who was trying to kill her and why? And was Kemal safe?
The bellman came up to Dana. “The airport bus is here.”
Dana was the first one on the bus. She took a seat at the rear and studied the faces of the passengers. There were tourists from half a dozen countries: Europeans, Asians, Africans, and a few Americans. A man across the aisle was staring at her.
He looks familiar, Dana thought. Has he been following me? She found herself hyperventilating.
One hour later, when the bus stopped at Sheremetyevo II airport, Dana was the last one to disembark. She hurried into the terminal building and over to the Air France desk.
“May I help you?”
“Do you have a reservation for Dana Evans?” Dana was holding her breath. Say yes, say yes, say yes…
The clerk sorted through some papers. “Yes. Here’s your ticket. It’s paid for.”
Bless Roger. “Thank you.”
“The plane is on schedule. That’s flight two-twenty. It will be leaving in one hour and ten minutes.”