Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [116]
Pauling sprung, feet churning in the mud as he hurtled at Traxler, crouched low, closing the gap, only a second until contact. Traxler saw him but not in time to do anything with his weapon. Pauling’s head rammed into the FBI agent’s stomach, causing the revolver to pop from his hand as he went over backward. Pauling pounced on him and they rolled down a slippery slope to the river, clutching each other, over and over, until a tree stopped them. The jolt caused the Glock to slip from Pauling’s hand and land a few feet away.
Traxler twisted free of Pauling’s grip and reached for the gun, but Pauling grabbed his wrist. They struggled to their knees. Traxler made another try for the Glock but Pauling drove a fist into his face, felt his nose break. Traxler let out a tortured moan as he got to his feet. Pauling was on all fours, about to get up, when Traxler’s foot smashed into his side, sending him tumbling. Traxler desperately looked for the Glock, saw it, went to his knees and reached for it in the mud, found it, turned and pointed it at Pauling, who was up on his knees facing Traxler, a broad target. Pauling braced for what was sure to come. Jessica appeared from nowhere and flung herself at Traxler. He collapsed beneath the weight of her unexpected attack but held on to the Glock, twisted free, then slipped in the mud, his feet going out from under him and landing on his stomach.
Jessica jumped on him. So did Pauling, but not before frantically digging into the pocket of his vest and coming out with the ampule of prussic acid. He brought the device up to Traxler’s broken nose and activated the spring. The ampule shattered, releasing its deadly contents— into Jessica’s face.
She shrieked as the acid entered her nostrils and then fell away from them, rolling on the ground, her fingers at her nose as though she could tear the acid from it.
Pauling saw what had happened. He brought his fist back and pounded it against the side of Traxler’s skull, again and again, pounding him until he was limp. He jumped to his feet, ran to where Jessica lay on the ground, pulled the vial of nitro from his vest pocket, held it beneath Jessica’s nose, snapped it in two, and shouted, “Breathe, Jess. Breathe, damn it!”
She looked up at him with frightened eyes as the prussic acid began to act on her heart, constricting the arteries, shutting off blood supply. But the nitro took effect. Her hands, which had been clutched against the pain in her chest, relaxed, and her breathing became less labored.
“You okay?” Pauling asked.
“I think so.”
Pauling got up and returned to where Traxler was beginning to recover from the pummeling he’d received. He picked up the Glock, grabbed Traxler by the front of his shirt, and pulled him to his feet.
“Let’s get inside,” Pauling said as the rain began to come down hard again. He shoved Traxler down into a chair, brought the stool and aeronautical charts from the kitchen, and sat in front of him.
“So here’s the infamous Scope,” Pauling said, “FBI undercover hotshot. You don’t look so hot to me, buddy.”
Traxler glared at him.
“He told me what happened, Max,” Jessica said from where she stood behind him. “He said—”
Pauling cut her off. “These charts, Traxler. Boise, San Jose, and Westchester, where the three planes were shot down.”
Still no response.
Pauling waved the fourth chart in front of his face. “Tell me about this one,” he said.
Traxler wiped a rivulet of blood from beneath his nose and managed a grin. “Who the hell are you, anyway?” he asked.
“Somebody who’d enjoy putting a hole in the middle of your head,” Pauling said. “This Pittsburgh chart, is that where the fourth missile is going to be used?” He took Traxler’s lack of a reply to be affirmative. “When?” he asked. “These handwritten numbers on