staircase. He had created the envelope and story to distract her, keep her from causing trouble as long as possible because someone else really was coming—but not to terminate him.
She kept her voice calm. “Dmitri Garnitsky, I assume.”
Olenkov pulled a 9mm Smith & Wesson from between his back and the chair. Neither it nor her Glock was equipped with a sound suppressor, which told her he had no intention of trying to hide what he planned.
“You think you’ll walk away from this,” she realized. “I’ll bet the sheriff’s department will find my place was tossed, too, so you can tell them that I was carrying my Glock for protection. That I’d found out somehow that Oleg Olenkov was hunting me because he couldn’t get revenge on my father.” She was beginning to have a sense the envelope and story were a test of her, too.
He chuckled, pleased with the results of his operation. “You have given me my answer—the daughter is confirmed as a worthy substitute for the father. Naturally you must defend yourself. In the end, sadly, you and Dmitri will have wiped each other. I’ll be very convincing when I talk to the authorities.”
A trickle of sweat slid down her spine. “But what you’re angry about happened long ago. No one cares anymore!”
“I care! I nearly died. I spent two years in hospital! Then when I was finally able to go back to work, they demoted me because of Garnitsky’s escape. My career was over. My life was ruined. They laughed at me!”
The most powerful psychological cause of violent behavior was the feeling of being slighted, rejected, insulted, humiliated—any of which could convey the ultimate provocation: the person was inferior, insignificant, a nobody. Olenkov was a venomous and volatile man, probably with an inferiority complex, who could easily act irrationally and against his own interests—including relating tonight’s tale, in which he appeared to be both arrogant and incompetent.
“You have no reason to feel ashamed,” Liz tried.
“I did nothing wrong. It was all your goddamn father’s—”
There was a knock on the door. It sounded like a jackhammer in the small apartment.
Olenkov rose lithely and walked sideways away, never moving the aim of the Glock from her. He lowered the S&W and unlocked the door, then retraced his steps. He sat again, pointing the S&W at her now, while he trained the Glock on the doorway.
“Come in!” he called.
The door opened, and fresh salt-tinged air gusted inside. A man stood on the threshold, the drab night sky and distant stars framing him.
“Liz Sansborough?” He had a Russian accent. “I got a note to come—” He saw the pistols. His soft blue eyes darkened with fear. His boxy shoulders twitched as if he was preparing to bolt.
Liz recognized him. He was a historian from the University of Iowa, not using the name Dmitri Garnitsky. He had a flat, tired face and large hands. Dressed in chinos and a tan corduroy sports jacket, he was probably in his late forties.
“Don’t try it,” Olenkov warned. “I’ll shoot before you finish your first step away. Come in and close the door.”
Dmitri hesitated, then moved warily inside. Gazing at Olenkov, he shoved the door shut with the heel of a tennis shoe. For a moment, puzzlement replaced his fear.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Dmitri peered quickly at Liz.
“You don’t recognize me?” Olenkov asked.
“Your voice maybe.”
Olenkov laughed loudly. “I didn’t recognize you either until I saw you walk. It’s a rule—never forget how a person moves.” He looked him over carefully. “The CIA has taken good care of you. I had plastic surgery, too.”
Olenkov’s reaction was a classic example of the compelling nature of deep shame. It not only inflamed, it consumed. He was engrossed in Dmitri, hanging on every word, milking pleasure from every shock, every surprise—which was the distraction she needed. She gazed swiftly around, searching for a weapon, a way to disarm him. She checked the cast-iron floor lamp just behind the little table between Olenkov and her.
Dmitri seemed to shrink. “Oleg Olenkov.” His voice rose. “You bastard. Where’s Nina? You’ve done nothing to Nina!”
Olenkov laughed again. “I have something more important for you—this is the Carnivore’s daughter, Liz Sansborough. You remember the Carnivore—your savior?”
Liz leaned toward the tall lamp, hoping Dmitri would recognize what she had in mind. She rested her right elbow on the arm of her chair. From here, she would be able to reach up and back with both hands and pull the lamp’s heavy pole down onto Olenkov’s skull.
But Dmitri gave no indication he understood. He returned his focus to Olenkov and announced, “The Carnivore didn’t save me. Your stupidness did!”
Everything happened in seconds. Olenkov jerked erect as if someone had just stretched his spine. Without a word, he glanced at each of them and leveled the guns.
As Liz’s hands shot up and yanked down the lamp, Olenkov saw her. He ducked and squeezed the triggers. The noise was explosive, rocking the walls. The iron pole struck the left side of his head hard. Blood streamed down his cheek as the lampshade cartwheeled and the pole landed and bounced.
Liz’s side erupted in pain. She had been hit. As the assassin shook his head once, clearing it, she snatched the closer gun. And hesitated, dizzy. She collapsed back against the other arm of the chair, taking deep breaths.
Across the room, Dmitri slumped against the wall. A red tide spread across his tan jacket from a bloody shoulder wound. His eyes were large and overbright, strangely excited, as if he had awakened from a long nightmare. Swearing a long stream of Russian oaths, he peeled away and hurled himself at Olenkov.
But Olenkov raised the Glock again. Liz kicked, ramming her foot into his fingers. The pistol flew. His arm swung wide.
Dmitri slammed the heels of both hands into Olenkov’s shoulders. The chair crashed backward. As they fell with it, Dmitri dropped his knees onto Olenkov’s chest, pinning him. Like a vise, his big hands snapped shut around Olenkov’s neck.
Olenkov swung up a fist, but Dmitri dodged and squeezed harder. Olenkov clawed at the hands that crushed his throat. He gasped. He flushed pink, then red. Sweat popped out on his face.
Liz exhaled, fighting the pain in her side. With effort, she focused on Dmitri, a man fueled by years of rage and fear, by terror for Nina’s safety. His mouth twisting, he glared down into Olenkov’s eyes, cursing him loudly again, his iron grip tightening. He shook the throat, and Olenkov’s head rocked. He laughed as Olenkov’s eyes bulged.
Liz forced herself up. Resting the pistol on her chair’s arm, she pointed it at Dmitri’s temple. “Stop! Let him go. He can’t hurt us now!”
Dmitri gave no sign he heard. He continued to strangle Olenkov, while Olenkov’s chest heaved.
“Dammit, stop, Dmitri! The sheriff’s department will arrest him. You’ll be able to fly to Moscow. You can be with Nina!”
At
