IT DIDN'T TAKE LONG FOR the heavyset mole to emerge from the garage, driving the Lincoln that Cachencko had guessed he would take. Fat Cat exited the driveway and turned east on Duke Street, which would take him to Highway 241 South. From there, he would drive the ten miles to State Road 644, then head down the twelve curvy and twisting miles to the safe house in Wilton Woods. There were several hairpin turns along that particular stretch of road that would more than accommodate the desired end to one of the most noto- rious turncoats in the history of the U.S. intelligence community.
Cachencko kept his rented Chevy Caprice at a reasonable pace back, but wasn't overly concerned with being spotted. The deputy director of operations of the CIA was amateurish at best. A tinge of empathy came over the Soviet spy as he realized the American was in way over his head. There was an old Russian proverb that read "Never try to negotiate with the devil." Yuri Cachencko knew what Fat Cat didn't: that Vladimir Urianov was the devil himself. The poor bastard never stood a chance. There were those in the KGB who referred to Urianov as Little Joe Stalin. Once you had exceeded your usefulness to him, your life expectancy was that of a bug hitting a windshield.