Page 174 of Cry Havoc
“Yes, that’s right,” the GRU man said. “I was there when Gaston DuBois was shot. I was there to make sure he died, to ensure his daughter was in charge. I may not have shot him, but I did shoot someone else that day.”
Tom stepped back, gathering his thoughts.
“You were a target of opportunity. Gaston was the primary, but if I had the chance, I was to take you out of the equation. You were getting too close to the girl.”
Tom took a deep breath.
“You should have finished me off when you had the chance,” Tom said.
“I won’t make that mistake again.”
“No, you won’t.”
Tom pulled the butterfly knife from his pocket and flicked it open in his right hand. He knelt back down, looked at Dvornikov tied to the pole on the other side of the room. The Soviet major’s eyes were wide in terror. Tom turned back to the security man, slammed his head against the pole, and stabbed the blade into the right side of his stomach. The Russian releaseda guttural scream. Tom clamped his hand around the man’s windpipe, cutting off the oxygen supply as he sliced across the abdomen.
He paused for a moment before letting go of the Soviet’s throat. He flipped the blade closed and put it back in his pocket, then grabbed a handful of the man’s hair, smashing his head back against the pole.
Tom then reached into the man’s stomach, groping through his bowels for the intestines. He felt the man’s breath on his face, deep and rapid as the anxiety and panic fueled his hyperventilation.
Tom tightened his grip around the slimy entrails and yanked, removing the gray tubular organs from his body cavity. He reached back in and pulled again, creating a pile on the deck next to the man who had killed his friend.
Tom stood and looked at Serrano, who made no attempt to stop him.
Tom then grabbed one of the kerosene lanterns and twisted its knob to the left, extinguishing the flame. He unscrewed the glass chimney that protected the wick and dropped it to the floor. He then removed the burner and poured kerosene over the Russian’s intestines.
“I saw what you did to my friend. His name was Frank Quinn. You had no reason to torture him.”
The Russian’s breath came faster as he tilted his head to eye his tormentor.
“And you? You and I, Thomas Reece,” he gasped. “We’re the same.”
“We’re not the same,” Tom said, pulling his Zippo with its MACV-SOG crest from his pocket. “I’m doing this for a reason. And you will never know what it is.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
“No, I don’t.”
Tom leaned down. He flicked open his Zippo, thumbed the flint wheel, and ignited the pile of guts.
He watched as the Russian man’s screams turned to whimpers before he went silent, his head falling forward against his chest.
Tom then turned to Dvornikov. In the red light of the one remaining glowing lamp, he reached into his right pocket, extracting the knife and flipping it open yet again. His other hand pulled the rosary from his left pocket. As the American approached through the smoke of the still smoldering intestines, a bloody blade in one hand, Croix de Lorraine rosary swinging from his other, fire in his eyes, Dvornikov started talking.
CHAPTER 64
GRU Headquarters
Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
MIKHAIL LAVRINENKO SAT INsilence. His caviar and spoon untouched before him on his desk.
Penkovsky was in his usual chair, waiting for the cue from his superior that it was appropriate to begin discussions.
Lavrinenko knew when to rely on wiser subordinates. It was one of the things that differentiated him from others in Moscow, those who surrounded themselves with intellectually inferior staff and executives as a way to protect their territory. That fact alone made Lavrinenko exceedingly dangerous.
“You were right, Anatoly, Major Dvornikov should have stayed in Hanoi where he belonged.”
“No, Director, he needed to meet with his asset, though perhaps he should have done so in Paris.”
