Endgame Read online

  “Where’s Kenney?” I ask.

  “He ran onto the river,” Boone says. “I wounded him.”

  He points, and I see a spattering of darkness against the snow. Blood.

  “I’ll go after him,” Boone says. “You stay here with Ott.”

  I nod. Boone gets up and goes off, following the trail of blood. I turn my attention to Ott. He’s holding his hand to his shoulder, and also appears to have been shot.

  “It was Kenney,” he says, although I have not asked.

  “He thought you were Boone,” I say as I pull his hand away from his shoulder. A quick check shows me that the wound is not serious. The bullet has just grazed him, slicing through his heavy wool coat but not entering his flesh.

  “No,” he says. “He knew who I was. He was trying to kill me.”

  “You sound surprised,” I say. “What did you think he would do?”

  Ott starts to stand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “We need to get to Brecht before Kenney does,” he says.

  “Kenney knows where Brecht is?”

  “Yes,” he says. “And Brecht does not know not to trust him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At the home of an ally,” he says.

  I can tell he’s hesitant to tell me any more than that. I don’t blame him, although he’s going to need to trust me if we’re going to get to Brecht.

  “Did Yuri or Oksana know where you took him?”

  “No. They knew nothing.”

  “All right,” I say. “But we can’t go without Boone. Besides, he might catch Kenney anyway.”

  “We cannot wait to find out,” Ott insists. “There is no time.”

  He’s right. But if we leave, Boone will have no idea where we’re going.

  “We must go,” Ott says. “If Brecht is lost to us, the weapon is useless.”

  This is not entirely true, as Kenney himself made clear earlier. Still, losing Brecht to Kenney would not be good. I don’t know who he is working for, but he’s already shown that he’s willing to kill anyone who gets in his way. It’s possible he’s even working for another line. Regardless, Brecht is a key player in what’s going on. We need to protect him.

  Again I think of Scylla and Charybdis. Do I help Brecht and risk losing Boone if something goes wrong? Or do I go after Boone and hope that we catch Kenney before he can reach Brecht? My heart wants to go to Boone.

  He’s a Player, I remind myself.

  He is. And although I no longer want the weapon for myself, for my own line, I don’t want to lose Brecht to someone else who might be able to use what he knows. I have to believe that the Fates will bring Boone and me back together. How, I don’t know.

  “Let’s go to the scientist,” I tell Ott.

  CHAPTER 14

  Boone

  Kenney has a head start on me, and the darkness makes it difficult to search for him. But he’s also wounded, and occasionally I spy spots of blood on the snow and ice that blanket the frozen river. As I expected, he’s running toward the fishing huts, probably hoping to cross the river and escape on the other side. If he’s as smart as he seems to be, he will soon stanch the wound, making it almost impossible to track him. I need to find him, and soon.

  I reach the first cluster of huts. As I run by each one, I peer inside, in case Kenney is trying to hide there. But all I see are the startled faces of fishermen who look up from staring down at the lines that descend through the holes they’ve drilled in the ice and into the waters of the river below. Several have caught fish, which lie on the ice beside them, gasping or already dead.

  Then I hear a shout, a man yelling. I run toward the commotion and find an old man standing outside his hut, shaking his fist at a retreating fighter.

  “He stole my skates!” he bellows.

  Many of the fishermen have pairs of skates hanging on the walls of their huts, simple blades that strap to their shoes and make traveling on the river easier. I’m certain that it’s Kenney who has taken the man’s pair. If so, he will now be much faster than I am.

  I leave the man yelling for the thief to go to the devil, and I look for my own pair of unguarded skates. I find them easily enough, and putting them on does not take long. I have skated for years, on frozen lakes and ponds and rivers, so I know how to balance, how to push with my thighs and let my weight propel me forward. As I shoot across the ice and into the night in pursuit of Kenney, I hope that he is less familiar with skating, and that I can catch him.

  Once the fisherman behind me stops shouting, the night is silent, the only sound the scraping of the skates’ blades on the ice and the in and out of my breathing. I concentrate on listening for the sound of Kenney skating somewhere ahead of me, hear it coming from my right, and correct my course to head for him.

  I wonder who this man is. I don’t believe he is Cahokian. There’s something about him that’s too calculating, too cruel, for someone from my line. Not that we are less determined than other lines, or want any less to win. But I have yet to meet a Cahokian who enjoys violence as much as Kenney seems to. Then again, maybe I’m being naïve.

  If he isn’t Cahokian, he has somehow intercepted my transmissions to the council. Shortwave radio channels are open, of course, so anyone could hear. But my messages were coded in such a way that they would be meaningless to anyone who didn’t understand what I was really saying. He did. Which means that he is an insider of some kind. He knows too much about Endgame, about me, about my family and the weapon, for this to be some kind of bizarre coincidence.

  I see him ahead of me, a black shape against the night, an almost imperceptible shifting of shadow back and forth. He has to know that I’m behind him, has to hear my skates against the ice. I try harder to listen to the pattern of his movement, to match mine to his so that he won’t hear me. He can’t risk turning his head to look for me, so sound is all he has to go on.

  We keep skating like this, him not slowing down and me not getting close enough to fire at him. I’d hoped his wound would cause some difficulty for him, but either he is stronger and more determined than I gave him credit for, or he has not been badly hurt. All I can do is keep going, trying to keep him in sight. Soon, though, if we keep going in this direction, we will come to the edge of the river. Then what? Will I be able to take him there?

  Then it occurs to me—maybe instead of trying to stop him, I should let him go and follow him. Killing him would obviously eliminate a major problem. However, there might be something more important to be gained by not killing him. Information. I don’t know who he really is or who he’s working for. If I kill him, I will never find out. If I leave him free to go where he wants to, though, he might lead me to answers.

  It’s a difficult decision. If I follow him, I’m leaving Ariadne behind with Ott. I know she can handle him. I’m not worried about that. But where will she go? How will I find her again? And what if Kenney just leads me on a wild-goose chase? He knows I’m following him, so he’ll try to lose me.

  Unless he’s trying to get somewhere before one of us does. Like to wherever Brecht is being kept. Kenney doesn’t have the weapon, so the only thing of value he has is Brecht. Maybe Lottie and Bernard, but I have a feeling that was just a bluff to get me to go along with him. He might very well know where they are, but something tells me he hasn’t yet taken them. He was most likely waiting to see what I would do first.

  I decide to let him go. My gut tells me that Ariadne will persuade Ott one way or another to tell her where Brecht is. If that’s also where Kenney is going, then we’re now in a race to see who gets there first, in which case it’s best for me to stay on his tail. Even if he knows, or suspects, that I’m following him, he still has little choice but to go wherever Brecht is. He can’t risk Ott or Ariadne getting there first.

  Now there are lights shining on the shore. We’re nearing the far edge of the river. I keep pace with Kenney as it gets closer, but I change my course slightly so that I approach the shore to
his right, rather than behind him. I see him scan the area as he stops to remove his skates, then hurries up a flight of steps. He doesn’t see me doing the same farther down the bank. But I can tell he knows I’m here, as several times he stops and looks around him.

  He walks quickly down the path that follows the river. I stay in the shadows behind him, not letting him out of my sight but not overtaking him. I suspect at some point he is going to need a vehicle, and I’m right. He stops beside a KIM 10-50 and does something to the door before pulling it open and slipping inside.

  I waste no time doing the same, using the butt of my pistol to shatter the window on an Opel and opening the door. After that, getting it started is easy, and when Kenney pulls away, I’m not far behind. I drive with my lights off, which presents few problems as the road is not busy at this time of night. But that also means that I have to be more careful about not letting Kenney see me.

  Fortunately, he seems far more interested in getting where he’s going in a hurry, and tailing him is not difficult. When he stops in front of an apartment building, I stop too. And when he dashes inside, I’m only steps behind him.

  Kenney races up the stairs, not bothering to look behind him, until he reaches the third floor. There he stops in front of an apartment. The door is already open. He steps inside, and a moment later I hear him curse loudly. He comes running back out, only to find me standing in the hallway, my pistol pointed at him.

  “Didn’t find what you were looking for?” I ask.

  “Killing me won’t help you,” Kenney says.

  “Did I say I was going to kill you?” I ask. “Besides, I don’t see how you’re in any position to try to bargain. I have the weapon.”

  “And I—we—still have Brecht’s daughter and grandchild,” Kenney says. “If he ever wants to see them alive, I need to live as well. If I fail to report in, my associates will be more than happy to make sure Brecht never gets the reunion he longs for.”

  “Maybe I don’t care about that,” I say.

  “Oh, but you do,” Kenney says. “After all, they are your brother’s family as well.”

  When I don’t answer, Kenney smiles. “Your love for your family is your greatest weakness, Samuel. And that includes your love for the Minoan. You think it’s what will save you, but in the end, it will be what causes your downfall.”

  “Who are you?” I ask. “You’re not Cahokian.”

  “No,” he says. “You’re correct about that. Nor am I Minoan, or Nabataean, or La Tène, or any of your other so-called lines. But I have been associated with many of them. I suppose you could say I am a free agent. I go where I’m needed.”

  “Or where you’re paid to go,” I suggest.

  “Money can be an excellent motivation, yes.”

  “If you have no line, what’s your interest in Endgame?”

  “Curiosity,” he says. “And, as you pointed out, the financial reward can be most agreeable.”

  “How did you find out about Endgame?”

  “You hear stories,” he says. “All kinds of stories. Most turn out to be nothing more than that. Occasionally you stumble upon something that turns out to be real. Well, you believe it to be real, which is all that matters to me.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “I’ve heard and seen a great number of strange things, many of which people would consider unbelievable. Do I think that you and the others are truly involved in a game to decide who survives the end of the world? No. But it doesn’t matter what I believe. It matters what you believe, and how I can profit from that belief.”

  “At least you’re honest,” I tell him.

  He smiles. “That’s not a word many have used to describe me.” There is a long pause; then he says, “So, Mr. Boone, what do we do now? I assume the Minoan or Ott has removed Brecht from here. Or perhaps he fled on his own, although I doubt that.”

  “Meaning I have everything I need,” I say.

  “Except, as I’ve mentioned before, Brecht’s daughter and grandson. And please don’t try to tell me that you don’t care what happens to them. As I’ve already pointed out, your devotion to family is a regrettable flaw in your character, at least as far as your position in this game is concerned.”

  “Maybe I’ll surprise you,” I say.

  “I would enjoy that,” Kenney says. “But before you decide, I should also tell you that you might not have as much as you think you do.”

  I don’t understand, and this must show on my face, because Kenney grins. But before I can ask him what he means, the door to the apartment across the hall from the one Kenney has exited opens and a man comes out carrying a bag of trash. The door and the man block Kenney from my view. The man, looking up and seeing me holding a gun, swears loudly in Russian and throws the bag at me as he turns and ducks back inside. I knock the bag aside, but now Kenney is running down the hallway away from me. He reaches a door and goes through it as I start to chase him.

  The doorway opens onto a stairwell. Steps go both up and down. I listen, and hear clanging above me. Kenney is headed up. I follow.

  I burst out the door at the top of the next flight of stairs, and find myself on the roof. Kenney is also there, standing on the edge and looking around, as if he’s hoping he can somehow escape from me. Hearing the door open, he turns and looks at me.

  “It must have occurred to you that you retrieved the weapon and the plans rather easily in Crete,” he says. “Have you asked yourself why?”

  It has occurred to me. Even though Ianthe followed us, it did seem unlike the Minoans to leave such an important thing unguarded.

  “The plans you have are fake,” Kenney says. “A reproduction. You were allowed to take them, and the pieces, because we wanted you to have them, so that you would feel confident locating Brecht and liberating him. Also, it was a test of their former Player, to see where her loyalties truly lie.”

  I think about the tube with the plans, which even now is sewn into the coat I’m wearing. Are they really fakes? I want to believe that he’s lying to me, but I don’t think he is. It all makes too much sense.

  “I’ll admit that Ott contacting me was an unexpected development,” Kenney says. “It would have saved a great deal of time had he done it earlier, or if I had been able to find him to suggest a partnership myself. Although admittedly it was easier to let you and his associates do the work of infiltrating Taganka. That was indeed impressive.”

  “If you knew the plans were fake, and you knew Brecht was here, then why come to the meeting in Gorky Park at all? Why not just take Brecht and deliver him to the Minoans?”

  Kenney sighs. “I’m afraid I let my pride get the best of me,” he says. “I wanted to get the girl as well. Oh, not for the same reasons that you want her. As I said, the Minoans allowed her to escape with you as a test. A test she failed. Now there’s a bounty on her head. I meant to collect it along with the reward for delivering Brecht to them.”

  I despise the way he’s speaking about people as if they’re just things to be bought and sold. I think about how he’s killed people who got in his way, or who couldn’t give him what he wanted. He might not be playing Endgame, but he’s playing a game nonetheless. However, his goal isn’t the salvation of a line; it’s money.

  “I will return to my original question,” he continues. “What do we do now? Assuming the girl has Brecht, which I think is entirely likely, that means you have one half of the puzzle while the Minoans have the other half. You also have something else they want very badly.”

  “Ariadne,” I say.

  “Indeed. I can see that what you would like most is to kill me. However, perhaps our interests would be better served if you allow me to broker a deal.”

  “Deal? What kind of deal?”

  “The girl’s life in exchange for the scientist.”

  “I give you Brecht, and the Minoans let Ariadne and me go?” I say.

  Kenney nods. “I’m sure I can convince them to agree to that.”

&nb
sp; “Maybe the weapon is more important to me than she is,” I say.

  He laughs. “Maybe,” he says. “But I don’t think so.”

  He’s right, but the way he seems so sure of himself makes me angry. “I’m a Player,” I say. “I’ll do whatever it takes to win.”

  He laughs again. “Yes, you’re a Player,” he says. “Just not a very good one.”

  I shoot him. When the bullet hits him, a look of surprise flashes across his face, but only for a second. He stumbles backward. At the edge of the roof, he teeters for a moment. Then he falls, disappearing into the night.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ariadne

  The body falls out of the sky, descending like an angel whose wings have been broken and are now useless. It hits the ground with a dull, flat sound. By the time I reach it, blood is already staining the snow around it.

  It’s Kenney.

  Although the fall itself would almost certainly have killed him, I see that he’s also been shot. I look up at the roof, and see someone looking down at me. Although I can’t see the face, I’m sure that it’s Boone. I wave, and he waves back.

  I kneel and search Kenney’s body. In the inside pocket of his coat I find a small leather-bound notebook. I slip it into my own pocket and continue looking, but find nothing else of interest, just some money and, curiously, a handkerchief with the initials JEK embroidered on it.

  Behind me, Ott and Oswald Brecht stand gazing over my shoulder at the body. I stand up and say, “Let’s go back to the apartment.”

  “What about the body?” Brecht asks.

  “Leave it,” I say. “This is Moscow. Nobody will notice one more body on the street.”

  We go inside and climb the stairs. When we reach the apartment, Boone is inside, waiting for us.

  “You got here before me,” Boone says, glancing at Brecht.

  Despite the situation, I smile. “You know I don’t like to lose a race,” I say.

  He grins. “I’m afraid our friend Kenney had a little accident.”