Circle in the Square - CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Darkness came swiftly, and with it silence and the cold, chill smell of the dank earth. Michael moved cautiously backward away from the armed man, deeper into the tangled area of statues and tombstones and empty graves. He knew that he had to move not only silently but very carefully, for the sides of the empty graves were brick-lined and sheer. If he fell into one of those he could break his legs. In the distance, beyond the walls, there was a glow of lights against the sky and the subdued traffic roar of Los Angeles.

The cemetery, after nightfall, held at first an uncanny silence, a stillness, as if it were a world apart from the surrounding city, with nothing stirring---everything dead. Then came a sound, a human whistle, one of the tags attracting the other's attention. "Did you see him?" the tag whispered hoarsely and either the sound of his voice traveled well after dark or he was very close to Michael.

"No," came the reply. "But he didn't leave by the exit, he must still be in here."

Michael noticed the Irish accent but didn't have time to reflect on it, because the men were moving towards him, circling the sepulchers, methodically clearing each sector. Michael moved back, looking for a place to hide. There was a beat of wings, then a screech---an owl passed overhead. It screamed a piercing cry that sounded like a lost soul tumbling down into a bottomless pit.

"Jesus Christ!" came a startled exclamation from one of the tags. "Siobhan, did you hear that?!"

"Shut your bloody mouth!" came the hoarse reply. "Or you'll still be talking when we're on him."

Michael tried the door to the mausoleum: it was rusted half-open. When he put pressure on it, it gave with a rasp of grating hinges. The tags moved toward the sound and Michael backed quickly away into the darkness. It was cold in there, but he was sweating, panting, so filled with terror that it was all he could do not to cry out. And now after the silence---the total stillness that came with nightfall----the cemetery was coming to life, filled with the sounds of dogs and cats and owls and rats. A guttural, hoarse cry was followed by snorts and wheezes, hawking, gasping, choking, and sobbing. Then suddenly there came the shrill cry of some animal in awful pain, the beat of wings, and the scream of an owl again.

The cemetery occupied an area of 106 acres. It was too dark to see the direction signs. Michael knew that if he left the black silhouette of the wall he would lose his way completely. He kept moving back. He tried the door to another mausoleum which opened with a minimum of noise. He made enough space to get his head and shoulders around and was met by the most terrible stench of festering, unwashed humanity. The snoring changed to a choking wheeze as the bum, swathed in sacks, came awake and kicked at the door to close it.

"Hey, get outta here!" he shouted. "This is my spot, you hear? Mine!"

The sudden movement from the darkness, the shout when he least expected it, had nearly stopped Michael's heart from beating. He sank against the base of the mausoleum with his face in his frozen hands, ready to surrender. He had been hunted long enough. The cold and fear had sapped all his willpower; he felt he couldn't go on. The tags had heard the sound: they were trying to establish which mausoleum it had come from. They were coming closer but Michael no longer had the strength to move. Beside him was a wrought-iron railing and then a cobbled path. On the other side of the path was a small arched tombstone and there was a gap about half a meter wide between the roof of the tombstone and the ground: a narrow tunnel leading to an underground burial vault. The entrance to the tomb was almost invisible in the darkness.

The tags were nearly on him when the sense of survival took hold of Michael again. He crossed the pathway, fell on his stomach, wormed over the half-frozen mud into the entrance, put out his hand, and felt nothing. Nothing was below, just the weak, sickly smell of death and darkness. He felt around and found the top of a rusted ladder. He shook it and it creaked but seemed as if it would bear his weight. He squeezed the rest of his body through the narrow archway, wrapped his hands and feet around the rungs of the ladder, and began to descend, not knowing if the ladder would hold or how deep was the void below him. He went cautiously down and down, a rung at a time. He put his hand out in the pitch dark and felt a stone shelf running along the wall. His fingers moved on and found the crumbling wood of some ancient coffin. He felt age-polished bones and a skull and withdrew his hand. His head was well below the level of the street; he decided he had gone down far enough. He heard the sound of dripping moisture and then high-pitched squeaks from a shelf close beside him. He moved his arm to avoid them, heard a low spitting hiss, and then the mother cat went for him in the protection of her littler, sinking her claws and teeth deep into his hand. He shook her off and fled up the ladder with the cat screeching abuse after him.

Michael's head came level with the pavement. He heard the sound of footsteps. The tag had moved down the alley until he was standing almost above Michael. The other tag, gun in hand, was cautiously opening the door of the mausoleum that Michael had last entered. The bum was awake now, trying, while still in an alcoholic stupor, to light his pipe. He had had enough interference for one night and when the door began to open and a man's head appeared he screamed a curse and tried to kick it shut. At the sound of the first curse, more as a reflex action than anything else, the tag shot the old bum straight through the head. The gun was fitted with a silencer. It made no more noise than a low "phut" but the bullet killed the tramp instantly. He pitched forward, his bottle of booze crashing onto the stone floor beside him. His body sprawled in the spreading pool of liquid. When the booze met the burning embers of his pipe, the sacking that he used for his bed, his hair, his clothes, everything went up in a searing whoosh of flame. The stained-glass windows of the mausoleum filled with raging, fiery light.

"What have you done?" shouted the thoroughly alarmed tag beside Michael. "You'll alert the guards. Was that him?"

"I don't know. I fired before I could get decent sight of him," came the answer. "C'mon, let's get our asses out of here. I can't take this place anymore, we could search here all night and not find our man. Let's go back, Seamus Flynn will be waiting." The light had been noticed. Even as the tag spoke a shrill whistle sounded at the far end of the cemetery.

Michael gave the tags five minutes to move away, then he came up from the underground burial vault and made his way into the Jewish part of the cemetery where he remembered some grave headstones that lay hard against the wall. He scrambled up one of them and swung himself up to the top of the wall from there. The street below was clear. He waited, hugging the wall, until he saw a taxi pass, then her dropped down, ran across the street and stopped it. He gave the driver directions. As the taxi pulled away Michael stared out of the back window, assuring himself that there was nobody following.

Only after he had made the taxi driver change direction three or four times did he relax back into his seat. He realized that his clothes were wet and streaked with mud, his face and hair full of sweat and grime. He was half-frozen and so relieved to be free of pursuit that he couldn't stop shaking. With an effort he made himself look at his watch. It was almost 10:30 p.m. He had been on the run for nearly five hours: surely he must have pulled Kazakov's men off long enough to enable Dragov to contact Kathy.425Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUdtzqHoNwK
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Kathy arrived at Dorothy Harrington's house in the Hancock Park neighborhood. However, upon arrival, she learned that Dorothy had an accident. According to her neighbor, Dorothy slipped on the stairs and hit her head. While she was survived that fall, she had to be taken to the hospital for observation. The prognosis seemed relatively positive, but she'll likely need some time to recover fully. Kathy had gone to visit her but was late getting back to her apartment due to the unexpected turn of events.

After arriving at her apartment, Kathy picked up the phone and dialed Michael's hotel room number. As she listened to the ringing tone, she paced around the room, feeling a sense of urgency. However, after several rings, there was still no answer. Kathy's worry started to grow as she considered possible reasons for Michael's lack of response. Was hes busy or was something might wrong? As the phone continued ringing, Kathy's concern deepened, and she began to wonder if she should try calling again later or if she should take more immediate action.

She noticed that a piece of paper had been left on the kitchen counter, standing out against the otherwise tidy space. As she approached, she saw that the paper is folded neatly, with a slight crease along the center. Nearby, she spotted a pen lying askew, suggesting that someone had hastily written the note before leaving in a hurry. The evidence of the note's presence, combined with the pen's positioning, indicated that someone had been in the apartment while she was out.

The apartment, Kathy suddenly noticed, appeared slightly disheveled, with a few items out of place—a cushion on the couch askew, a magazine left open on the coffee table. As she moved into the living room, she spotted an article of men's clothing lying on the floor near the entrance—a dark jacket, crumpled slightly as if it had been hastily discarded.

"Zoltan?" she called out again uncertainly, thinking that he was playing games with her again. "Is that you? Has Michael been here?"

There was no answer. She was uneasy now. There was a strange feeling about her apartment; she had a chilling sense of something wrong. The bedroom door was half-open. Kathy remembered the note on the kitchen counter. Yes, Michael had been here. He'd scribbled: "They're looking for us. Stay away from your apartment until I can call you up at Dorothy's." She sensed the urgency in the hurried scrawl of his normally disciplined writing. Seized with panic, she turned, ready to run out of the door when a hand came down over her mouth and pulled her head back while another arm pinned her hands to her side.

"Hold her steady," a voice ordered.

She caught sight of the hollow glittering eyes and the pale wasted face of the man she knew was Blake Kazakov. She couldn't turn her head to see who was holding her. Her sleeve was pulled up. She felt the needle sink into the vein of her forearm and then darkness as the walls of the apartment seemed to fall in on her.

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Michael had the taxi drop him by a phone booth. He phoned Dorothy Harrington's. There was no reply. He dialed the number Dragov had given him in Harborview. A voice answered.

"Dragov," Michael said urgently.

"No," the voice answered. "I'll get him. Call this number back in twenty minutes."

Michael waited and rang again. Dragov answered.

"Did you reach Kathy in time?" Michael said.

"No," Dragov said. Michael sensed a great weariness in his voice.

Dragov had phoned Kathy's apartment again and again until someone had lifted the receiver. When they heard his voice the person at the other end had just put down the receiver.

"I'm sorry, but it looks like they've taken her," Dragov told Michael.

Michael was almost crying with rage and frustration over worry for his sister. Had he come all this way from Paris to see her killed?

"You Russian bastard!" he shouted. "How could you let this happen? You're supposed to know about these things. Why didn't you protect her?"

Dragov ignored his outburst.

"They won't hurt her as long as they need her. I'm waiting for them to contact me now," he said.

"What do you want me to do?" Michael asked helplessly.

Dragov knew that no matter how much he had wanted to avoid it before, he had to bring Michael in now so that he and Zoltan could protect him.

"Do you have any money?"

"Some and some credit cards."

"Alright, don't try and go to Kathy's apartment, leave everything there as it is. Take a bus to Riverview, and meet the Trailways bus that comes in from Phoenix in the afternoon. Two of my men will be on it. Stand by the exit gate. They'll be looking for you and they'll take you with them to Harborview."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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