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Quinn was staring beyond her, over the top of her head. She felt him stiffen.
“Who did you bring?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, silly of me ...” She turned. “You remember Duncan McCrea? He was the one who got me to Mr. Weintraub.”
McCrea was standing ten yards away, having approached from the truck. He wore his shy smile.
“Hello, Mr. Quinn.” The greeting was diffident, deferential as always. There was nothing diffident about the Colt .45 automatic in his right hand. It pointed unwaveringly at Sam and Quinn.
From the side door of the Ram the second man descended. He carried the folding-stock rifle he had taken from his suitcase, just after passing McCrea the Colt.
“Who’s he?” asked Quinn.
Sam’s voice was very small and very frightened.
“David Weintraub,” she said. “Oh, God, Quinn, what have I done?”
“You’ve been tricked, darling.”
It was his own fault, he realized. He could have kicked himself. Talking to her on the phone, it had not occurred to him to ask whether she had ever seen the Deputy Director of Operations of the CIA. She had twice been summoned to the White House committee to report. He assumed David Weintraub had been present on both, or at least one, of those occasions. In fact the secretive DDO, doing one of the most covert jobs in America, disliked coming into Washington very often and had been away on both occasions. In combat, as Quinn well knew, assuming things can present a serious hazard to health.
The short, chunky man with the rifle, made to look even plumper by his heavy clothes, walked up to take his place beside McCrea.
“So, Sergeant Quinn, we meet again. Remember me?”
Quinn shook his head. The man tapped the bridge of his flattened nose.
“You gave me this, you bastard. Now that’s going to cost you, Quinn.”
Quinn squinted in recollection, saw once again a clearing in Vietnam, a long time ago: a Vietnamese peasant, or what was left of him, still alive, pegged to the ground.
“I remember,” he said.
“Good,” said Moss. “Now, let’s get moving. Where you been living?”
“Log cabin, up in the hills.”
“Writing a little manuscript, I understand. That, I think, we have to have a look at. No tricks, Quinn. Duncan’s handgun might miss you, but then the girl gets it. And as for you, you’ll never outrun this.”
He jerked the barrel of the rifle to indicate there was no chance of making ten yards toward the trees before being cut down.
“Go screw yourself,” said Quinn. In answer Moss chuckled, his breath wheezing through the distorted nose.
“Cold must have frozen your brain, Quinn. Tell you what I have in mind. We take you and the girl down to the riverbank. No one to disturb us—no one within miles. You, we tie to a tree, and you watch, Quinn, you watch. I swear it will take two hours for that girl to die, and every second of it she’ll be praying for death. Now, you want to drive?”
Quinn thought of the clearing in the jungle, the peasant with wrist, elbow, knee, and ankle joints shattered by the soft lead slugs, whimpering that he was just a peasant, knew nothing. It was when Quinn realized that the dumpy interrogator knew that already, had known it for hours, that he had turned and knocked him into the orthopedic ward.
Alone, he would have tried to fight it out, against all the odds, died cleanly with a bullet in the heart. But with Sam ... He nodded.
McCrea separated them, handcuffed Quinn’s wrists behind his back, Sam’s also. McCrea drove the Renegade with Quinn beside him. Moss followed behind in the Ram, Sam lying in the back.
In West Danville, people were stirring but no one thought anything of two off-road vehicles heading toward St. Johnsbury. One man raised a hand in greeting, the salutation of fellow survivors of the bitter cold. McCrea responded, flashing his friendly grin, and turned north at Danville toward Lost Ridge. At Pope Cemetery, Quinn signaled another left turn, in the direction of Bear Mountain. Behind them the Ram, without snow chains, was having trouble.
Where the paved road ran out, Moss abandoned the Ram and clambered into the back of the Renegade, pushing Sam ahead of him. She was white-faced and shaking with fear.
“You sure wanted to get lost,” said Moss when they arrived at the log cabin.
Outside, it was thirty below zero, but the interior of the cabin was still snug and warm, as Quinn had left it. He and Sam were forced to sit several feet apart on a bunk bed at one end of the open-plan living area that formed the principal room of the cabin. McCrea still kept them covered while Moss made a quick check of the other rooms to ensure they were alone.
