* * *
Grebeshkov rested against the wall, wheelchair long since abandoned with no-one spare to push it. They were just four now, including Anderson, their future more one of hope than expectation. The Presidential Library might have served them well as a temporary refuge but Grebeshkov had grown tired of hiding and with the odds now more evenly stacked, he was determined to take the fight to Valentin.
Ahead was the President’s office, a naïve arrogance convincing Grebeshkov that Valentin would still be there, but there were no guards, nothing to suggest Valentin had been so obvious, or indeed so vain. A shake of the head from Markova and Grebeshkov hobbled forward, walking slowly to the central desk and easing himself into the President’s leather chair, flanked by the Presidential Standard and the flag of the Russian Federation.
Valentin deserves it more, he thought dispiritedly. Grebeshkov knew he was far too old for such games and now even his intuition was playing him false. Idly, he picked up one of the phones to his left but there was no tone, only silence, and no response when Grebeshkov demanded an answer. He smiled at his own foolishness, saddened that others had to die because of his mistakes.
From beyond the door came the sound of automatic gunfire, growing in intensity, a harbinger of Valentin’s final victory.