How did she—
His hand on the rifle twitched—he couldn’t shoot her; the report would ruin everything—and in that instant’s hesitation she moved shadow-fast. Not away, running for safety. Toward him. He lunged to meet her, and the two snipers collided under the gibbous moon.
IN THAT SPLIT instant I saw the skull under the face: William Jonson without the darkened hair, the eager gaze, the supplicant stoop in his shoulders. A coat hanger of a man considerably taller than Jonson, bony-shouldered, scoop-faced, with eyes like mud. And at his side, the long, glinting, unmistakable shape of a rifle’s barrel and telescopic sights, aimed through the bushes toward the White House like a half-hidden snake poised to strike. A Mosin-Nagant.
One glance, and then we were grappling.
I got out a piercing, wordless shout before his fingers clamped over my mouth. I bit as hard as I could and heard his strangled curse. I nearly lost my grip on the paring knife in my hand; before I could bring it up in a fast stab between his ribs or into his throat, he flung himself sideways to shake me off. He didn’t wrench free, but I lost my footing and went to my knees in the grass. He kicked once, twice, and I felt something in my side go white-hot. I gasped for breath, and then the inside of my head filled with sparks as he clubbed me across my bad ear.
Dimly, I felt him hauling me up by one arm. I fumbled inside my coat, feeling instinctively for the eight-shot Tula-Tokarev that hung at my belt in case I ever fell into enemy hands, the weapon I’d jam to my own temple before I ever let myself be taken alive. But I wasn’t wearing the TT; I was in cocktail-party satin and diamonds halfway around the world from my battleground, and I wasn’t supposed to be among enemies—yet I was. Here in the velvet heart of America’s capital, Lady Death had finally fallen into enemy hands.
And President Roosevelt was sitting just a bullet shot away. Eleanor’s husband, who had gripped my hand and said, Keep fighting, and tell your friends that America is coming.
Get him off the balcony, Eleanor. Get him off the balcony—
I felt the man lock his arm around my throat from behind, grip tightening like a steel band. My sight darkened. My lips parted but I didn’t have enough air to scream.
I fumbled the paring knife in my numbing hand, and stabbed down hard and straight into the meat of his calf.
He shouted, arm loosening around my throat, and his shout disappeared into a chorus of whoops: Krasavchenko and Pchelintsev and the rest of the delegation, kicking off the round of heartily bawled patriotic songs without which no evening with Russians present can conclude. I managed to tear myself out of the slackening choke hold, gagging for breath, ripping the knife out of his leg with another savage twist. My enemy scrambled backward with a hiss of agony, head jerking toward the sound of Russian voices—they were loud, close, coming closer—and then he wavered another split second, eyes whipping back toward me as I struggled up to my knees with the little bloody knife still gripped in my hand.
My gaze flickered toward the White House portico. So did the marksman’s. In the same split second we saw it was empty. Or rather, it was rustling with swiftly moving dark suits, but no seated figure with a cigarette holder. Thank you, Eleanor, I thought disjointedly, gripping the knife even as another verse from the half-drunk delegation roared skyward.
“Mila?” Even closer than Krasavchenko and the others, I heard Alexei’s irritated voice. The bushes rustled, and I saw the decision pass through my enemy’s mud-colored eyes. He scooped up his rifle and its case in one swift movement and half a heartbeat later was running jerk-legged and stumbling in the opposite direction.
I tried to stand and nearly collapsed. My side was on fire from where he’d kicked me—cracked rib, I could hear Lena diagnosing, maybe two—and my throat was ablaze with pain from his half-throttling. Worse was the dizziness from his blow across my head; the world wouldn’t stop spinning. But I lurched to my feet and went reeling after the man who’d attacked me: my suitor William Jonson, who had given me diamonds; the man who had aimed a rifle exactly like mine at the American president on the grounds of the White House. Nothing made sense.