CHAPTER 8

The interior of the warehouse was no more appealing than the exterior -- stuffy, dim and damp, with a pervasive stench of mold. Lee balanced on the edge of a broken crate, his arms behind him. When he leaned slightly to the left and extended his hands as far as possible, he could graze a rusted metal bin, and he scraped against the jagged rim in an effort to fray the rope binding his wrists. The awkward angle and jerky movement caused needles of pain to shoot through his biceps and shoulders. His hands were numb, his fingers and the rope slick with blood.

It had been pure bad luck that he had stumbled into one of the Soviets shortly after entering the building. He incapacitated the courier with a well-placed left to the jaw and a hard blow to the solar plexus. After dragging the unconscious man behind a stack of splintered lumber, he was about to continue his search when he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press against his temple.

It was his own fault . . . mostly. He broke one of the cardinal rules of the espionage game: he came alone. It was just that Amanda King had a way of getting under his skin, like a burr under a saddle, irritating and impossible to ignore. When she distracted him with her endless chatter and suggestions, years of training seemed to abandon him, and he reacted to her instead of thinking ahead.

He could almost see her brown eyes glaring accusingly at him, and he wondered whether she was still in the Porsche. If so, she should be relatively safe . . . at least for the moment . . . at least until the men in the warehouse began to disperse. Involuntarily, he glanced to the left and right, almost expecting her wraithlike form to appear in the shadows. No! She wouldn't foolish enough to charge to his rescue, alone and unarmed. Maybe, if he was lucky, she had taken the car and gone for help . . . .

He felt the ropes slip, and he glanced at his opponents, trying to decide on his next move. Four men, two Russians and two Americans, were in the warehouse office, a small cubicle separated from the main body of the warehouse by dirt-streaked glass and steel, less than twenty feet from where Lee was sitting.

There was one silver lining. He recognized both Russians from the Agency rundown of Dominic Gregornoff's known associates. At least, if worse came to worse, the agents on airport surveillance had a chance to intercept them and retrieve the HTK plans.

One of couriers, a short, stocky man who reminded Lee vaguely of one of his high school wrestling coaches, was sitting on the only available office chair, nursing a swollen lip and purplish jaw and shooting glowering looks in his direction. He didn't doubt the brute would relish the opportunity to repay him for those bruises, if given the opportunity.

The other Russian, a tall, slightly built man with wire-rimmed glasses and the innocuous look of a college professor, was pacing slowly back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. Halting to stare at an industrial-issue wall clock, he addressed his companion. "Gregornoff isn't coming. We should proceed."

The injured man nodded, and both turned toward the other two, who Lee presumed were the same miscreants who had masterminded the theft of the HTK plans.

The Americans were of medium height, with close-cropped blonde hair and clean-shaven faces, but there the resemblance ended. One appeared to be in his late twenties, a husky man with a self-confident air bordering on brashness. The other, at least a half-dozen years younger, was reed-thin, gangly and nervous, continuously rubbing his hands together and shooting near-panicked looks into the shadows. Lee would have been willing to bet that they were brothers and that the older had coerced his sibling into this scheme. He doubted either had any prior experience in treason; neither overconfidence nor timidity equated to longevity in international espionage.

A thick cardboard portfolio, probably holding the HTK plans, was sitting on a dusty, metallic desk beside a black telephone.

"We are prepared to arrange the transfer of funds as soon as we have confirmed the value of the merchandise," the tall Russian said, gesturing toward the portfolio.

Before the Americans had a chance to respond, a roar of engines broke the near silence. A large group of motorcycles . . . possibly Harleys . . . definitely not government issue . . . was approaching. The volume of the engines increased until the machines seemed on the verge of storming the building, then died quickly away.

The tall Russian's shoulders stiffened, and he directed a suspicious stare at the other two. "If you are planning to double-cross the KGB," he said, his words slow and succinct. "I suggest you reconsider. The result would be less than pleasant for you."

The older of the Americans shrugged his broad shoulders in a show of nonchalance. "That's nothing. There's a gang of hooligans who ride through here almost every night at dusk; they won't bother us."

The Russian seemed puzzled, his brow wrinkling as though he was mentally browsing an English dictionary. "Hooligan?"

"You know," the American replied, waving his hands in the air as if doing so might help with the translation. "Hooligans . . . hoodlums . . . young toughs . . . rebels without a cause. You Ruskies must have guys like that."

"Our young people, men and women, are tough, as you say, but rebels are not permissible. The government deals with any dissidents, swiftly and permanently."

This response seemed to make the younger American even more nervous. He wrung his hands together and then swiped them down his trouser legs. "They're just blowing off a little steam. There's not much traffic here, so the toughs can drag race without getting in anyone's way. The cops never come around unless the partying gets too loud."

"Then we should complete our transaction before someone calls your police," the Russian said sternly. "I would like to see the missile plans, if you please."

"You can look, but we verify the money's in our account before you walk out of here." The older American pushed the portfolio to the edge of the desk.

"Agreed." The Russian picked up the portfolio and shuffled through its contents, pausing periodically to study a document more thoroughly. Looking up, he gave a grim smile. "You have, as you Americans say, a deal."

Lee felt the final strands of twine snap just as pandemonium broke loose. What seemed like fifty motorcycles roared into the warehouse, belching exhaust fumes, circling and swerving as they bore down on the group in the office. The four men scattered, not even bothering to draw their weapons as they tried to avoid the motorized assault.

Zeroing in on the Russian carrying the portfolio, Lee leapt from the crate and dived, managing to catch the man around the knees. Both tumbled, face down, to the ground, sliding across the oil-stained cement floor.

Before he could scramble to his feet, something gripped Lee by the back of his jacket. He was lifted completely off the ground by a burly ruffian who appeared intent on removing his head from his shoulders. The man's arm was drawn back, the massive hand balled into a fist.

"Not that one!" a familiar voice screeched. "He's James Bond." As the hand fell away, Lee turned to see Amanda, grease-stained and windblown, clambering down from the back of a motorcycle.

"Sorry, dude," the biker said, turning to pick up the Russian Lee had tackled. Holding the courier by the back of the neck and the scruff of his pants, he shook the man like a bug. The Russian went limp, and the portfolio hit the floor with a firm thump.

As Lee reached down to pick up the HTK plans, Amanda rushed up to him, trying unsuccessfully to brush the dust and grime from her coat. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Lee glanced around. Both Russians and the two American traitors were firmly in the grasp of the leather-clad rescue squad. "Fine," he said, massaging one of his raw wrists. "I just hope you haven't let anything happen to my car."