Warren Murphy: Dangerous Games

"But he's not a CIA man," Sorkofsky said. "I just received a report from our central headquarters. They have means of checking personnel. He is not CIA. He is not FBI. He is not with any government agency."

"But still ... an American going to bomb American athletes? I find that hard to believe," said the German.

"Listen," Sorkofsky said. "You know America is strange. They seem to delight in attacking their own country. Who knows what kind of a fishhead this one may be?"

He looked at Bechenbauer, who thought for a few long seconds, before nodding his agreement.

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"I am going to have him picked up," Sorkofsky said.

As Sorkofsky reached for the phone, he was struck by the thought that he had promised to take his two daughters out for dinner that night in the city and then to the ballet. They would be bitterly disappointed, but once he had picked up this Remo Black, he would have to interrogate him to find out who he was working for. He would take the girls out to dinner tomorrow.

Bechenbauer found himself wishing that Remo Black was the head of the terrorists. He missed his wife and children, and he would be very happy to get home and see his family again.

Soon, he thought. Perhaps very soon,

Outside the security office, Mullin and his men had taken out the two Russian guards at the front door very smoothly and quietly, killing them with their knives. The door faced away from the heart of the Olympic village so there was little chance of their being spotted. Mullin posted one man as a lookout, while he worked on the locked door.

He felt the lock give and he turned to his men and whispered final instructions. "Remember. Quickly and quietly. I want no shooting, so hit them fast because as soon as they see us, they'll go for their guns. Understood?"

All of the men nodded. Then they heard the click of the lock as it opened.

Mullin could hear the blood pounding in his ears. This was what he lived for-action-and if action had to mean killing, so be it. He called to the lookout to join them. He held his knife in one hand and caressed the sharp blade with the other.

"All right, lads," he whispered. "In we go."

Sorkorfsky had just dialed the telephone when he saw the door fly open. Stunned, he watched as four

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black men and one white man flooded into the room and spread out in a fan shape. They were all armed with knives.

Bechenbauer saw the look on Sorkofsky's face and heard the door open behind him. He jumped out of his chair and turned to face whatever was coming. He did not have time to count the men who had entered the room and were charging them. He grabbed the chair he had been sitting in and threw it at one man, who ducked away from it. The chair struck him on the forearm and he heard the man cry out in pain or in anger.

With one hand frantically grabbing for his revolver, the West German felt the blade of the first knife cut into his flesh, below his belt, slicing his navel neatly in half. As that knife was pulled to the left, cutting him open at the belly, he felt a second blade rip into his throat and his cry of pain died there. He became very numb, very sleepy. His legs suddenly felt boneless and would not hold him. I should be falling, he thought, but instead he felt himself fading.

Soon, he thought, soon. Soon ...I... will . . . be . . . home . . .

Sorkofsky could see Bechenbauer's back, but could not see what happened to him. Yet as the German slumped to the floor, he recognized what he had seen so many times before: the look of death. Pushing back his chair, the Russian put his feet against the edge of his desk and with all the power of his massive legs behind it, pushed out. The flimsy desk slid across the room, striking the already dead Bechenbauer in the back as he fell, but also sweeping one of the terrorists off his feet. That left four to deal with.

With the desk no longer protecting him, Sorkofsky jumped from his chair, his hand grabbing for the gun in the holster at his side. He was surprised at how calm he felt and how calculated his moves were. He

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knew exactly what he wanted to do and knew that if he could execute what he was planning, he had a chance to stay alive.

He had his gun in his hand and was raising it when the first knife found its mark.

One of the black men slashed at his gun arm, slicing it open just below the elbow. The hand went numb and he dropped the gun to the floor. At the same time, he grabbed the terrorist by the throat with his other hand and lifted him, like a toy, and threw him across the room where he crashed into another one of the Africans. Both went down in a tangled heap.

He looked down for his gun, but he saw a booted foot kick it away, then looked up and saw the small white man standing in front of him.

"You are a big lummox, aren't you?" said Mullin.

Sorkofsky did not understand the language, but the sneer on the white man's face and his sudden glimpse of poor Bechenbauer's body, bleeding on the floor, touched some deep nerve inside the Russian and he roared, a holler of anguish and pain from deep hi his throat, and with his left hand he lashed out and grabbed the small Englishman's chin. He lifted him from the floor, with a strength born of pain and desperation, and charged across the floor, ready to slam the man's head into a wall. I might die, Sorkofsky thought but this bastard will go with me.

Mullin screamed and before Sorkofsky reached the far wall, two of the blacks tackled bom. As he fell to the floor, he released Mullin. When he shook his head and cleared it, he saw the Englishman standing in front of him.

"On your feet, ox," the Englishman said. "I won't even need a knife for you."

His one arm useless, Sorkofsky rose to his feet. As he did, Mullin reached out and kicked the hard toe of a pointed boot into the Russian's solar plexus.

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Sorkofsky, instead of going down, roared and charged at Mullin, but as he reached the small Englishman, Mullin twisted his knife upward into the Russian's stomach, and Dimitri Sorkofsky fell to the floor, his eyes already glazing over.

The room was as quiet as death.

"Well done, lads," Mullin said, although it was not as easy as he had anticipated or would have liked. The big Russian was a bloody bull and had made things more difficult than they should have been. Still, the terrorists' point had been made. The security officers for the Olympic Games were dead. The world would know the terrorists were not joking.

The telephone rang on the small phone ledge behind the spot where Sorkofsky's desk had stood.

Mullin said quickly, "All right, lads, let's go." As they went out the door, he added: "The American is next. This Remo Black."

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Josie Littlefeather approached the balance beam for her third performance in the preliminaries and the crowd in the big gymnasium hushed.

Already she had done something no other American gymnast had ever done before: she had scored two perfect scores of ten in the preliminary competitions.

Remo nodded to himself with satisfaction as he saw her mount the bar with obvious assurance, and then with a physical happiness that bordered on lust, he watched her go through the turns and jumps and twists and somersaults of her routine, before leaving the bar with a twisting one-and-a-half-somersault dismount, that brought the crowd to its feet, roaring cheers of approval for the little-known American gymnast.

Josie ran to Remo and hugged him tightly.

"You were great," he said.

"Thanks to you," she said. As he looked over her shoulder, he saw the scores posted on the far side of the gymnasium. The audience erupted into more applause and cheering.

"Another ten?" she asked.

"Better believe it," Remo said. "Get out there and take a bow. Your audience is calling you."