Peggy trained her pistol on Pogodin, who had been crouching at the top of the staircase, behind the ornate newel. She had seen him kill Volko and he deserved to die. But he seemed to read her thoughts, or perhaps saw the promise of death in her eyes, and broke suddenly from the staircase, running back toward the gallery. Peggy heard the distant clatter of running feet; whether it was security, panicked tourists, or even strikers itching for a fight, she had no idea. But as much as she wanted Volko's killer dead, there wasn't time to chase him.

Turning, Peggy tucked the gun inside her shirt and ran down the stairs screaming in Russian, "Help! The killer is up here! He's a madman!"

As security forces pushed past her, she hurried, still shrieking, through the main entrance. There, Peggy quieted as she lost herself among the strikers who had crowded inside, hoping that it wasn't one of their own-- or a government plant pretending to be one of their own-- who had gone berserk

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

Tuesday, 8:57 A.M.,

Washington, D.C.

"They're climbing to the roof of the engine!" Honda said, his lazing-in-the-sun calmness gone, replaced by what sounded to Rodgers like fear or horror. "The thing's going like a torpedo-- a runaway, it looks like."

"Can't they get off?" Rodgers asked.

"Negative, Sir. The trains' just starting over the bridge now, and there's nowhere to exit except straight down a couple hundred feet. I can see Grey-- shit! Sorry, sir. Newmeyer just laid him on the top of the cab and followed him up. The sergeant is moving but he seems to be hurt. "

"How hurt?" Rodgers asked urgently.

"I can't tell, sir. We're too low and he's lying down. Now I see-- I don't know who it is. A Russian soldier, it looks like. He's definitely hurt. There's a great deal of blood on his leg."

"What's the Russian doing?" Rodgers asked.

"Not much. Lieutenant Colonel Squires is handing him out to Newmeyer, holding him by the hair. Newmeyer is trying to get his hands under the Russian's arms. Looks like he's struggling. Hold on, sir."

There was talk in the helicopter, and Private Honda was quiet for several seconds. Rodgers couldn't make any of the conversation out. Then, near the radio, Rodgers heard Sondra say, "Then we'll jettison our clothes or weapons. We'll make up the weight."

Obviously, Squires was planning to bring the Russian onboard and the pilot was justifiably concerned. Rodgers's undershirt began to dampen along his spine.

Honda came back on. "The pilot's concerned about two hundred added pounds and about how long it's going to take us to get them aboard. If he doesn't try to get them, he's going to have a revolt on his hands."

"Private," said Rodgers, "this is the pilot's mission now and he's got a crew to worry about too. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."