Page 120 of The Collector
The two Russian vehicles reached the crash site first, and nine men emerged. All were oblivious to the fact that Mikhail was bearing down on them with a Jericho .45-caliber pistol in his outstretched hand. He put two of the Russians on the ground from a distance of about thirty meters and killed two more at close range. Which left five for Gabriel. It was a bit like that morning in the woods of central Germany. One in each corner of the target, another in the pushpin. Five dead Russians in the blink of an eye.
Esko Nurmi never fired a shot. Instead, he opened the driver’s-side door of the Range Rover and extracted Magnus Larsen as though he were made of papier-mâché. Gabriel went to the opposite side of the vehicle and hauled open the passenger door. Ingrid was crumpled on the floorboard, semiconscious, drenched in blood. Gabriel searched for a bullet wound but couldn’t find one. The blood was Magnus’s.
Mikhail joined Gabriel next to the Range Ranger and looked inside. “What a fucking mess.”
“Help me get her out.”
They lifted Ingrid from the car and propped her upright in the snow. “The directive,” she murmured.
“Where is it?”
She gave him no answer.
“Where, Ingrid?”
“Attaché case.”
Mikhail found it resting on the floor of the backseat. The weight of the bag suggested it contained more than merely a Russian government document.
“What about the Genesis?” asked Gabriel.
“My handbag,” she said.
It was lying on the front floorboard next to the gun that Ingrid had used to fight for her life. The weapon was a Russian-made SR-1 Vektor.
“Where in the hell did she get that?” asked Mikhail.
“Gennady,” she answered.
Mikhail held up the attaché case. “And the half million in cash?”
She managed a half smile. “Seven in the corner pocket.”
Gabriel reached a hand into the Range Rover and removed Ingrid’s bag. The Genesis was inside. He slipped the device into his coat pocket and looked at Mikhail.
“Carry her up to the border.”
“No,” she said. “I can walk.”
Gabriel and Mikhail each threaded an arm around her waist, and they started up the slope of the hill. The Vaalimaa crossing point was awash in flashing blue emergency light. Esko Nurmi, with Magnus Larsen draped across his massive shoulders, was nearly across the border. Behind him stretched a trail of blood.
Mikhail carried the attaché case in his free hand. “You know,” he said, “in all the years I’ve worked for the Office, I have never once walked away from an operation with a half million dollars in cash.”
“Just make sure you’re still wearing your watch when we reach Finland.”
Ingrid laughed in spite of herself. “How can you make jokes at a time like this?”
“Practice,” replied Gabriel.
Ingrid’s step faltered. “Poor Magnus. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t taken the directive.”
“We were able to stop the attack. You saved tens of thousands of lives last night.”
“But the Russians are going to kill Gennady.” She looked down at her bloodstained hands. “He’s going to die a terrible death because of me.”
“Gennady knew the risks.”
Ingrid’s head fell against Gabriel’s shoulder. The toes of her suede boots were gouging parallel groves in the snow. “Am I still walking?” she asked.
