The Kremlin File

The word “shadow” gave Noah an idea. At least that’s what he told me. He lit a candle, the glow dim in the large room. The light fell on an open box filled with small wooden dolls. Noah picked out one, pierced its chest with a long thin needle he’d also found in the box, then held it high in the air. His lips moved in silent prayer.

Good lord — all this while Mitzy stood outside with a nervous soldier aiming a gun at her neck.

The old man presented his prize for approval to me, walked around in a circle, and padded toward the stairs.

I had a glance at Tara’s wide eyes and open mouth and of Fleming’s expressionless face. I trailed along after Noah. This I had to see. Besides, I had to free Mitzy and she was where the old man was heading.

Mitzy and the soldier were standing in the gloom just behind the door, both of them in shadow. Noah and I stopped far enough down the steps to be out of sight. I watched the Russian’s head turn from the stairwell to the outer door. Mitzy was angled between them, easy to pivot toward one or the other. I groaned without sound. No way. No way at all to take that sharpie by surprise.

The old man tossed the doll. It landed with a tiny click on the stone in the beam of sunlight. The man’s head snapped toward the sound. I expected a shot right then to break the girl’s spine. There was none. There was a frozen moment while I cursed Noah under my breath. No trick, the Russian’d warned. Without any doubt, that doll on its back, propped up by the needle point through its back, was the trick of the century.

There was a sudden violent movement in the shade. Both the man’s arms were flung wide, his fingers spread as though an electric current had slammed through him. The gun clattered to the floor. He staggered back, made a convulsive grab at his chest with both hands, twisted, then curled down into a limp heap and didn’t move again.

Mitzy had scooped up the gun before I got there. She stood with it hanging at her side, looking from the soldier to the doll. I rolled the man over. He was dead. His face a grimace of pain, eyes bulging. The classic look of a massive heart attack.

Here was a man on a new edge of nerves, killed by fear. I knew it. I was positive of it. Of course I was. A soldier who’d seen four friends killed in an ancient pirate stronghold reeking of legend. A man all alone with enemies. Tense to the breaking point. And out of nowhere flies a symbol of death, landing at his feet. Why wouldn’t his heart stop?

It couldn’t but did it? I looked at Noah.

The old man was busy with the bodies. He dragged the five dead soldiers over by the parachutes. Two lay against the pile of cloth, ankles crossed, arms folded behind their heads. The third was propped against the wall, knees folded, arms crossed, his head resting on his hands. The fourth was arranged the same way, and the officer sat in the woven chair Fleming had used. They presented the picture of a group that had successfully completed its mission and was now resting, waiting.

I got the message. If Fleming had been taken prisoner, he’d have to be taken away. The detail would have to be picked up too. There would be a helicopter along soon. Very good. Let it come. Let it put down here. The pilot would be alone since all available room would be needed for the passengers. I could handle him and we’d have wings. All I needed was the walkie-talkie on the officer’s belt.

I went for it. Noah finished working, straightened and studied the sky. He drew a deep breath. He made a full turn, sniffing, then smiled.

“Wind is coming. It may help us later if we should need it.”

He passed with a sidelong look that dared me to challenge his voodoo performance. Then he headed for the catacomb. Mitzy and I waited for the plane.

It was a half hour before we heard the flap of the chopper. It came over, circled, shredding air, and a rattle of Russian spat out of the microphone. He wanted to know if the doctor was in hand. I didn’t have to lie in answering. I said Fleming was alive and we had him. The pilot laughed, broke contact and began to come down.

Tilting, tipping, tail swinging a little as he maneuvered the air drafts, the bird sank to the ground. Then the unforeseen happened. The prop wash blasted against the floor, ballooned out and blew the sitting bodies over on their sides.

The motor revved up. The ship lifted. It was over my head when I stepped out of the doorway, the pilot out of sight behind the belly. I couldn’t get a shot at him. Even if I could, at that height he would wreck the plane. I let go a burst anyway, drawing a line the length of the underside. It didn’t kill the pilot. He peeled up over the wall, disappearing behind it. I ran to look through the gun slots and saw the chopper drop into the cove in flames.

Beside me Mitzy taught me words I’d never heard.

We went downstairs. A candle was burning, reflected in all the anxious eyes. I shook my head.

“He got wise. We should’ve anchored those decoys. Noah, I guess your wind is about our last friend.”