Then from the stairway above them, the urgent voices of strangers filled the stairway above. More voices in Russian signaled an ambush. Stratton hesitated just an instant.

“Here!” He thrust a Mini-Uzi into her hands. “Safety’s off. Hunker down and blast anybody who comes up the steps.” Then he pulled an automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and leaped up the steps two at a time. Stratton gained the top of the stairs and instants later the air was filled with more gunshots, long sustained jackhammerings from two or three different-sounding guns, Zoe couldn’t tell how many. Then, suddenly, it was silent save for the low desperate cries of wounded men in mortal pain.

Fear choked off the words in Zoe’s throat Who had died up there? If it was Stratton, she was again all alone. She felt herself tremble.

“Back in your room or I’ll blow your head off too!” Zoe recognized Molotov’s voice from the corridor below, obviously barking at a curious hotel guest A door slammed, followed by loud locking sounds. An instant later, Molotov stepped so quickly into her view that he stunned Zoe into a moment of indecision. Stratton’s Mini-Uzi hung loosely in her hand next to her thigh, hidden in the shadows and the folds of her coat.

“Don’t move,” he said in English.

“You!” Zoe said bitterly. Her heart quickened as, in the dimness of the hallway, she made out the features of one of the men from the warehouse. Damn! She was too slow, she cursed silently as her hand closed tightly on the Mini-Uzi, her finger loosely curled around the trigger. Zoe made eye contact and tried to hold his gaze while she raised the gun’s muzzle ever so slowly.

Molotov smiled as his eyes locked on hers. “Yes. Me. I’ve come to collect you.”

He walked casually toward her, his pistol hanging loosely in his hand.

At the top of the stairs, Zoe heard more footfalls. Would it be George? Or would it be one of this man’s associates? Molotov gained another step while Zoe slowly raised the Mini-Uzi’s muzzle, millimeter by slow millimeter.

“You will come with me,” Molotov said. Then her movement caught his eye and he spotted the gun. He began to raise his own weapon.

God, please help me, she prayed.

Zoe brought the muzzle up swiftly and squeezed the trigger. The Mini-Uzi exploded into a full-automatic death dance. It bucked and danced and rattled. In front of her, Molotov’s torso split open like a smashed melon, disgorging blood and entrails and the smell of fresh warm meat. He collapsed. Instants later, a shadow crawled down the stairwell and reached out for her. Zoe whirled with the gun. George Stratton flattened himself on one side of the stairs.

“Don’t,” he shouted. “It’s me.” There was a red stain at the thigh of his trousers. She rushed up the stairs.

“You’ve been hurt,” she said, as she watched him struggle to his feet.

“Nothing serious.” He stood for a moment then began to climb the stairs.