Chapter 48

 

It was six o’clock, too early to go to Kalakov’s office. Even so, she would not remain in the house and face the possibility of another confrontation when her father returned. She feared that if she didn’t keep active her resolve might weaken. That was not a risk she was willing to take.

After almost an hour of aimless driving, Ilona found herself in front of the Art Museum. In the empty parking lot, she closed her eyes and remembered her visit there with Bart. For fifteen minutes she sat there, motor running, reliving that day. It had been wonderful, a moment of light in her otherwise desolate existence. In Bart she found the sensitivity and understanding missing in her father. She wondered if, under different circumstances, their lives might have grown together, but quickly dismissed the possibility. She must complete this one last task. When it was done, her life would be over. There would be no Bart in her future. There would be nothing in her future but prison and regret. She hoped a compassionate God would let her die soon.

It was still early when she crossed the river into Kentucky and stopped at a small restaurant, just over the bridge in Southgate. The two cups of tea were hot and aromatic, and calmed her a bit. The buttered roll remained half eaten on her plate. In the ladies room she wet a paper towel with cold water and held it against her forehead. When she left she retraced her route north, back to Cincinnati. The gun lay under her purse on the front seat. Her test would come soon. She prayed she would not fail.

At a quarter past nine Ilona parked the Oldsmobile across the street and half a block away from Kalakov’s building. A streetlight in front of the main entrance afforded her a clear view of the doorway and stairs leading to the street.

After turning off the headlights, she inserted a Mel Torme tape into the car’s player. She had always found Torme’s soft voice and smooth style calming and relaxing. Without looking, she slid her hand between the leather of her purse and the vinyl seat. Alhough the car was warm, the cold feel of the steel brought an involuntary shiver, and she brought her arms across her chest to steady herself.

The streets in the business district were disserted this time of night. Ilona was taken aback when two black Fords and a gray State Police cruiser sped past her and screeched to a stop in front of Kalakov’s building. At almost the same moment the front door opened and Kalakov appeared with several folders tucked under his arm.

When he spotted the uniformed trooper and a civilian emerge from the cruiser, he dashed diagonally down the stairs and across the sidewalk, away from where Ilona was parked.

She watched the tableau unfold but had no idea what was happening. The presence of the police frightened her. After a few seconds, she backed the Oldsmobile rapidly to the cross street, yanked the steering wheel hard right and stamped the accelerator to the floor. Her darkened car screeched around the corner as she headed toward the interstate, several blocks away. Escape was now her only objective. If she were arrested she could never complete her task.

Her route took her past the rear of Kalakov’s building. As she continued to accelerate, the Russian emerged from the side street, running. Preoccupied with eluding the police he dashed directly into the path of the unlighted black Oldsmobile. The car’s massive front end hit him squarely. His body flew twenty feet through the air and landed, face down, spread eagled, in the middle of the road.

At that same moment, the police cruiser emerged from the side street and was forced to swerve sharply and brake hard to avoid Kalikov’s body. The first FBI car was too closely to maneuver and smashed solidly into the rear of the stopped police cruiser. To avoid the two disabled cars, the second FBI vehicle mounted the sidewalk and sheared off a fire hydrant. A thirty foot geyser erupted from the severed water line, bathing the area in a torrential downpour. The scene was absolute chaos. The three damaged cars had three working headlights between them; the two on the police cruiser still pointing straight ahead. The one remaining light on the last FBI car was shining up at a forty-five degree angle. Small but growing streams ran along the curbs, flowing until they met in the middle of the intersection, forming a miniature lake. Kalakov’s papers were scattered and being swept along by the swiftly moving water. In the midst of what appeared to be a scene from a disaster movie, Bart, Harry Tallman and a uniformed state trooper, along with four coverall clad FBI agents, all of them completely soaked, their hair plastered to their heads, dashed around chasing papers on the verge of being swept into the storm sewers.

By the time the police backup arrived, Ilona was only a few miles from Loveland. Even with Torme’s soft crooning of “A Cottage for Sale” filling the car, she remained tense and frightened. At one point during the drive home, her tears so distorted her vision, she almost drove off the road. Fortunately, traffic was light and she arrived without further incident.

Her departure from the Loveland house had not been seen by the detective, who had been off station following Laszlo, but he observed her return. He noted her time of arrival and the car’s non-operating left headlight.