The Source Read Free Page B

into a dive to the left of the boulders, his right arm outstretched, ready to target his weapon. A man in a pure white parka was crouched behind the boulders, with a gun in his hand which he even now lifted to point at Simonov. In the instant before Simonov came down on his side in the snow he snapped off two shots; the first one struck the man in the shoulder, snatching him upright, and the second slammed into his chest, flinging him backwards and down onto the patchy snow.
    The dull phut, phut, of Simonov’s silenced weapon had caused no echoes, but he’d scarcely caught his breath when there came a hoarse, gasping grunt from close at hand and silver glinted in a sudden flood of moonlight. The snow on Simonov’s left-hand side, not eighteen inches away, erupted in a spray of frantic activity. “Bastard!” a voice snarled in Russian as a massive hand reached out to grasp Simonov’s hair and an ice-axe came arcing down, its spike impaling his gun-hand through the wrist and almost nailing it to the stony ground.
    The Russian had been lying in a snow-filled depression, waiting. Now he sprawled forward, trying to hurl his bulk on top of Simonov. The agent saw a dark face,
a white bar of snarling teeth framed in a beard and a ruff of white fur, and drove his left elbow into it with as much force as he could muster. Teeth and bone crunched and the Russian gave a gurgling shriek, but he didn’t release his grip on Simonov’s hair. Then, cursing through blood and snot, the massive Soviet drew back his ice-axe for a second swipe.
    Simonov tried to bring his gun to bear. Useless—there was no feeling in his hand, which flopped like a speared fish. The Russian hunched over him, dripped blood on him, changed his grip to Simonov’s throat and drew back his axe menacingly.
    â€œKarl!” came a voice from the shadows of other boulders. “We want him alive!”
    â€œHow much alive?” Karl choked the words out, spitting blood. But in the next moment he dropped the axe and instead drove a fist hard as iron to Simonov’s forehead. The spy went out like a light, almost gladly.
    A third Russian figure came out of the night, went to his knees beside Simonov’s prone form. He felt the unconscious man’s pulse, said: “Are you all right, Karl? If so, please see to Boris. I think this one put a couple of bullets into him!”
    â€œThink? Well, I was closer than you, and I can assure you he did!” Karl growled. Gingerly touching his broken face with trembling fingertips, he went to where Boris lay spreadeagled.
    â€œDead?” the man on his knees beside Simonov inquired, his voice low.
    â€œAs a side of beef,” Karl grunted. “Dead as that one should be,” he pointed an accusing finger at Simonov. “He’s killed Boris, messed up my face—you should let me twist his fucking head off!”
    â€œHardly original, Karl,” the other tut-tutted. He stood up.
    He was tall, this leader, but slender as a rod even in his bulky parka. His face was pale and thin-lipped, sardonic in the moonlight, but his sunken eyes were
bright as dark jewels. His name was Chingiz Khuv and he was a Major—but in his specialized branch of the KGB the wearing of uniforms and the use of titles and rank were to be avoided. Anonymity increased productivity, ensured longevity. Khuv forgot who’d said that, but he agreed wholeheartedly: anonymity did both of those things. But at the same time one must make sure it did not detract from authority.
    â€œHe’s an enemy, isn’t he?” Karl growled.
    â€œOh, yes, he’s that all right—but he’s only one and our enemies are many. I agree it would be very satisfying to squeeze his throat, and who knows but that you’ll get your chance—but not until I’ve squeezed his brain.”
    â€œI need attention.” Karl held snow tenderly to his face.
    â€œSo does he,” Khuv nodded