'Stay where you are!' Ustinov snapped. 'You can't help him now. He's a dead man. You're 
all dead men.'
  'You'll never carry it off,' Borowitz said, but the colour was draining from his face 
and his voice was little more than a dry rustle.
  'Of course I will,' Ustinov sneered. 'In all this mayhem, this madness? Oh, I'll tell a 
good tale, be sure-of you, a raving lunatic, and of the worse than crazy people you 
employ-and who will there be to say any different?' He stepped forward, the ugly weapon 
in his hands making a harsh ch-ching as he cocked it.
  On the floor at his feet, Boris Dragosani was not unconscious. His collapse had simply 
been a ploy to put him within reach of a weapon. Now his fingers closed on the bone 
handle of the small, scythe-like surgical knife where it had fallen. Ustinov stepped 
closer, grinned as he quickly reversed his weapon, slamming its butt into Borowitz's 
unsuspecting face. As the Head of ESP Branch flew backwards, blood smearing his crushed 
mouth, so Ustinov adjusted his grip on the gun and squeezed the trigger.
  The first burst caught Borowitz high on the right shoulder, spun him like a top and 
tossed him down. It also lifted Gerkhov off his feet, drove him across the room and 
slammed him into the wall. He hung there for a second like a man crucified, then took a 
single step forward, spat out a stream of blood and fell face down. The wall was scarlet 
where his back had pressed against it.
  Borowitz scrambled backwards, trailing his right arm along the floor, until his 
shoulders brought up against the wall. Unable to go any farther, he hunched himself up 
and sat there, waiting for it to happen. Ustinov drew his lips back from his teeth like a 
great shark before it strikes. He aimed at Borowitz's belly, closing his finger on the 
trigger. At the same time Dragosani lunged upward, his knife not quite hamstringing 
Ustinov behind his left knee. Ustinov screamed, Borowitz too, as bullets chewed up the 
wall just over his head.
  Hanging onto Ustinov's coat, Dragosani hauled himself to his knees, sliced blindly 
upward a second time. His sickle blade cut through overcoat, jacket, shirt and flesh. It 
carved Ustinov's upper right arm to the bone and his useless fingers dropped the gun. 
Almost as a reflex action, he kneed Dragosani in the face.
  Gasping his pain and terror, knowing he was badly cut, Andrei Ustinov, traitor, hobbled 
out of the door and slammed it shut. Another moment saw him pass through a tiny anteroom 
and out into the corridor. There he closed the soundproof door more quietly behind him, 
stepped over the body of the KGB man where it lay with lolling tongue and caved-in skull. 
The killing of this one was unfortunate, but it had been necessary.
  Cursing and gasping his pain, Ustinov hobbled down the corridor leaving a trail of 
blood. He had almost reached the door to the courtyard when a sound behind him brought 
him up short. Turning, he brought out a compact fragmentation grenade from his inside 
pocket, pulled the pin. He saw Dragosani step out into the corridor, stumble over the 
body sprawled there and go to his knees. Then, as their eyes met, he lobbed the grenade. 
After that there was nothing to do but get out of there. With the grenade's bouncing 
ringing in his ears, and Dragosani's hiss of snatched breath, he opened the steel door to 
the courtyard, stepped through it and pulled it firmly shut behind him.
  Out in the night, Ustinov mentally ticked off the seconds as he limped towards the two 
white-coated attendants at the rear of the ambulance. 'Help!' he croaked. 'I'm cut-badly! 
It's Dragosani, one of our special operatives. He's gone mad, killed Borowitz, Gerkhov, 
and a KGB man.'
  From behind him, lending his words definition, there came a muffled detonation. The 
steel door gonged as if someone had struck it with a sledgehammer; it bowed outward a 
little and broke a hinge, then was sucked back and open to slam against the corridor 
wall. Smoke, heat and a lick of red flame billowed out, all bearing the heavy stench of 
high explosives.
  'Quick!' Ustinov shouted over the frantic questioning of the attendants and the yelling 
of security guards as they came clattering over the cobbles. 'You, driver, get us away 
from here at once, before the whole place goes up!' There was little fear of that 
happening, but it would guarantee some action. And it would get Ustinov out of harm's 
way, for the moment anyway. The hell of it was that he couldn't be sure any of them back 
there were dead. If they were he would have plenty of time to construct his story; if not 
he was done for. Only time would tell.
  He flopped into the back of the ambulance as its engine roared into life, followed by 
the attendants who at once began to peel off his outer garments. Doors flapping, the 
vehicle pulled away across the courtyard, passed under a high stone archway and onto a 
track leading to the perimeter wall.
  'Keep going,' Ustinov yelled. 'Get us away!' The driver hunched down over the wheel and 
put his foot down.
  Back in the courtyard the security men and the helicopter pilot hopped and skittered on 
the cobbles, coughing in the streamers of acrid smoke from the hanging door. The fire, 
what little of it there had been, had died in the smoke. And now, out from behind that 
dense, reeking wall of smoke staggered an ashen nightmare figure: Dragosani, naked still, 
black-streaked over grey and gore-spattered flesh, carried a bellowing Gregor Borowitz 
draped in a fireman's lift across his shoulders.
  'What?' the General shouted between coughs and splutters. 'What? Where's that 
treacherous dog Ustinov? Did you let him get away? Where's the ambulance? What are you 
bloody fools doing?'
  As the security men lifted Borowitz down from Dragosani's bowed back, one of them 
breathlessly told him: 'Comrade Ustinov was wounded, sir. He went off in the ambulance.'
  'Comrade? Comrade?'
  ' Borowitz howled. 'No comrade, that one! And "wounded", you say? Wounded, you 
arsehole? / want him dead!'
  He turned his wolfs face up to the tower, yelled: 'You there-do you see the ambulance?'
  'Yes, Comrade General. It approaches the outer wall.'
  'Stop it!' Borowitz screamed, clutching at his shattered shoulder.
  'But -'
  'Blow it to hell!' the General raged.
  The marksman in the tower slid his night-sight binoculars into a groove in the butt of 
the Kalashnikov, slapped home a mixed clip of tracers and explosive bullets. Kneeling, he 
picked up the vehicle again in the crosshairs of the night-sights, aimed at the cab and 
bonnet. The ambulance was slowing down as it approached one of the archways through the 
perimeter wall, but the marksman knew it would never get there. Jamming his weapon 
between his shoulder and the parapet wall, he squeezed the trigger and kept it squeezed. 
The hosepipe of fire reached out from the tower, fell short of the vehicle by a few 
yards, then jumped the gap and struck the target.
  The front end of the ambulance burst into white fire, exploded and hurled blazing 
petrol in all directions. Blown off the track, turned on its side, the vehicle ploughed 
to a halt in torn-up turf. Someone in white crawled away from it on hands and knees as it 
burned; someone else, wearing an open, flapping shirt and carrying a dark overcoat, 
cowered back from the flames and limped in the direction of the covered exit.
  Unable to see out of the courtyard from where he stood supported by the security men, 
Borowitz eagerly shouted up to the tower, 'Did you stop it?'
  'Yes, sir. Two men at least are alive. One is ambulance crew, and I think the other is-'