Rift Zone

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

TEGEL AIRPORT, WEST BERLIN

SATURDAY, APRIL 29

Faith handed the crumpled papers to the German flight attendant and boarded the Pan Am flight to Frankfurt, hoping that the Teutonic obsession with order would make the woman pay more attention to the crinkles than to the forged interline document. The flight attendant held the paper against the bulkhead and ironed the wrinkles from it with her hands. Faith ignored her, praying she didn’t get too picky with the documents. She eyed the last passenger to board, a gorgeous blond, probably some Scandinavian hockey star.

The flight attendant returned the papers to Faith. “The passengers are all seated. Take any seat you can find.”

Faith walked past her toward the open door of the cockpit.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

Faith ignored her and went onto the flight deck. “Permission to come aboard, Captain Ian?” She gave the captain a mock salute.

“Granted, my dear! Granted. I was starting to fear I’d have to leave without you. Take the jump seat.” Ian’s London accent was as strong as ever. Faith could never figure out how or why he became an American citizen, particularly since she didn’t think he’d ever lived in the States. He gestured toward the man in the right-hand seat. “Art Kivisto’s my first officer today. Frosty McGuire’s my flight engineer, best in the business. Gentlemen, this is-”

“Candace Adler. Pleased to meet you.” Faith bowed her head quickly.

Frosty shook Faith’s hand and spoke with a heavy southern drawl. “Heard a lot about you over the years. Listening to this guy, you’re almost a legend. Here, let me stow these for you.” Frosty wedged her plastic cooler and carry-on bag between his feet and a bulkhead.

Faith squeezed into the cramped jump seat behind the captain. She fumbled with the heavy shoulder straps of the seatbelt. The belts were wider and the metal clasp larger than those used for passengers. She fastened herself in and then released it to reassure herself she could get out. Time and painkillers had taken the edge off most of the ache, unless she moved in just the right way to send stabbing pain through her side. She wasn’t going to take any chances with the shoulder harness pressing too firmly on the wrong spot, so she loosened the belts. “Thanks for letting me join you up here. I always love the bird’s-eye view.”

“Think nothing of it, Candace.” Ian’s bad breath wafted over to her when he leaned toward her.

“With all due respect, sir, it’s a violation of FAA regs to have non-airline personnel traveling on the flight deck during operations,” the first officer said.

“Is that so? The tradition’s always been captain’s discretion with another pilot. She’s a Pan Am alum. Now flies interisland in Hawaii.”

Please, Ian, don’t do this to me again. “Somebody has to man the hardship outposts of the world,” Faith said.

“Art just rated on the 727. He’s been flying the little buggers for years for Pan Am Express.”

“So, you fly in Paradise? You weren’t the lady pilot who brought in that convertible Boeing, were you?” Kivisto said.

“As a matter of fact, she’s the very one.” Ian smiled, revealing his yellowed front teeth.

“You know I don’t like to talk about it.” Faith forced a smile when she really wanted to snarl at Ian.

“That’s not what Ian’s told me,” Frosty said with a conspiratorial grin.

The flight attendant stuck her head into the cockpit, much to Faith’s relief. “The final count is seventy-two and eighteen.” She glared at Faith. “And one non-revenue.”

“Almost a full house,” Ian said. “Let’s finish the checklist so we can get this bird in the air.”

“Bugs?” Frosty drew out the word, emphasizing his southern drawl.

“One-four-one and one-fifty-three,” the first officer said. He moved markers on one of the many indicators.

Ian repeated the settings.

“Pitot heat?” Frosty said.

“Pitot heat on.” First Officer Kivisto flipped two switches on the far right of the overhead panel.

They finished the checklist routine and within minutes the plane pushed back and taxied toward the runway. Ahead of them, an Air France Airbus lifted effortlessly into the sky. Faith noted that the first officer was flying the plane today. She would’ve preferred Ian and his years of experience. She was fascinated by aviation, but an uneasy passenger. She’d studied the numbers and she knew the odds were that she could fly every day for nineteen thousand years before being in a crash. Statistics aside, ever since she was a child, she’d known in her gut that it wasn’t going to take her that long to meet fate.

“Roger that. Clipper six-three-niner cleared for rolling takeoff eight-Romeo.” Ian repeated into his headset and then called out the increasing speed.

The first officer pulled back on the control column. Immediately after becoming airborne, the craft banked right and crossed the Wall into the East. Faith smiled at the West’s Cold War doggedness as the Pan Am Clipper asserted American rights to the skies over all of Berlin. An Allied flagship once again gave the Russians the bird as the jet banked high above the silver television tower at Alex. The plane climbed into the air corridor to cross the GDR to West Germany. Faith struggled to make out the last signs of the division, but the two Berlins blended into one.

“Berlin Centre, Clipper six-three-niner is out of nine thousand for ten,” Ian said into his headset.

The plane soon leveled out to cruising altitude for the corridor, and the first officer turned back toward Faith. “So tell me about that famous flight, Candace. It’s always fascinated me how someone could land that plane, the shape it was in.”

“That’s a beautiful dog.” Faith pointed to the picture of a chocolate Labrador stuck to the right of Frosty’s control panel.

“That’s old Clipper. He’s my best bud. I’d even take him over old Ian here-and that says a lot.”

“That was a 737-300 that lost its top, wasn’t it?” The first officer persisted.

You’ll pay for this, Ian. Faith racked her brains for everything she ever knew about the ill-fated flight. The photo of the open air cabin had etched itself into her mind and flashed into her consciousness every time she flew on an older plane, but the picture was about all she could remember. It happened last year, when she was in Burkina Faso, and the local media hadn’t given it much coverage. She looked at the flight engineer, her eyes pleading for help. He scribbled on his notepad and tipped it toward her. She strained to read the number. “No, it was a… 737-200.” She mouthed a thank-you to Frosty.

“What was your altitude when the decompression occurred?”

“Higher than I would’ve liked. Whoa!” The plane dropped several feet. Her stomach flipped, but she was grateful for the interruption. She stared at three vertical rows of five instruments each. The needles in each row moved in tandem with one another, but she had no idea what they meant. Everyone seemed calm, so she guessed they weren’t going down-yet.

“Sorry. Didn’t see the bump,” Ian said. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit choppy today through the corridor. You might want to keep yourself strapped in until we get to Western airspace and can climb out of it. Ten thousand feet doesn’t make sense now with pressurized cabins. The war’s been over for more than forty years. One would think they would have renegotiated a higher ceiling by now.”

“Come on, room to maneuver when we go over the Hartz mountains would take the sport out of it,” Frosty said.

Ian turned back toward Faith. “So, what’s your mother up to nowadays?” Ian exchanged his services as a Bible courier to Moscow for priceless icons Faith’s mother salvaged from rotting Soviet churches. Because Ian’s motivation was less than spiritual, Mama Whitney only used him as a last resort; she even suspected he might be Anglican.

“I have no idea what continent she’s weighing down at the moment. I haven’t had contact with her in years. You know better than to ask.”

“But I always do. She is your mother. She’s in Moscow arranging adoptions of orphans by Americans. I took in some CARE packages for the little ones a few days ago. Adorable little things-you want to take them all home with you.”

“I wonder what she’s really up to. She hates kids-believe me.”

“I don’t understand whatever happened between you.”

“Let’s just say it was one too many exorcisms for me-for her, one too few.”

“If we could only find a happy medium. If you do decide to look her up, it was Nadezhda orphanage somewhere near the Arbat. She’s been running that place for years. You know, there was one curious thing, now that you mention it. I’d always heard about how few caretakers the children have in Russian orphanages, but in your mother’s place there were almost more adults than children. And as I think about it, they all seemed Levantine to me-definitely not Russian.”

“As in one of the Turkic tribes in Central Asia, or do you mean they were Semite?”

“One of those.”

“She’s definitely up to something. So what did she really have you bring in?”

Ian turned to the first officer. “Art, Candace and I are old flames. Would you mind giving us a few minutes alone? Frosty here has heard everything. Don’t mind if he stays.”

“Oh, oh, so sorry. I didn’t realize it. Of course, of course. I’ll go back and talk to the stewardesses. I was hoping to get a chance to go over emergency evacuation procedures with the redhead.” He unfolded himself from the chair and left the cockpit.

“Old flames? Ian, you old dog. Dream on.”

“It brought us some privacy, didn’t it, Candace? And I was friendly with a Candace once, for that matter.”

Frosty swiveled his seat around and extended his hand. “And you must be Faith-the resourceful lady I’ve heard so much about.” He shook her hand again, this time with more vigor.

Ian reported their position and altitude to air traffic control, then returned to the conversation. “I knew you were incognito when I reviewed the manifest and couldn’t find you. Don’t worry about Frosty here. We go all the way back to my Royal Navy days, when I was on a training exchange at White Sands. Now, what is it we’re moving today that warrants an anonymous trip?”

Faith placed her finger in front of her lips and whispered, “Cockpit voice recorder.”

“A cockpit voice recorder? You want to take a CVR to Moscow?”

“No. We’re being recorded.”

“Jeez,” Frosty said as he put a headset over one ear. “Ian wasn’t joking that you’ve spent too long behind the Iron Curtain-the rust is rubbing off.”

“Hey, paranoia’s a lifestyle for me,” Faith said.

“And for me,” Ian said. “Don’t mind the CVR. There are privacy workarounds. Not particularly legal, but effective nonetheless.”

Frosty grinned. “I call it the Bill North maneuver, after the guy who taught it to me back when I was flying out of Miami. The 727s have an erase button that only works when you’re on the ground with the parking brake set. But pull the parking brake latch lever in the air and the plane thinks it’s at the terminal. Push the erase button at the same time, and presto. Butt is covered.” Frosty chuckled.

“So what’s so hush-hush? Stasi making an arse of itself again?” Ian said.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“You know, I once had a mechanical in Bucharest and had to overnight. Everywhere I went it was the same thing. Two men in the most horrendous leisure suits were attached to us like limpets.” Ian glanced at the instrument panels.

Faith ignored Ian and turned to Frosty. “All the spooks monitor who’s booked in and out of Berlin. The master here has taught me they don’t pay much attention to the comings and goings of airline personnel, so I used interline travel papers or whatever they’re called to get out of Dodge with as little of a trail as possible.”

“Why all of the cloak-and-dagger, my dear?” Ian said.

“I need you to do a rush delivery for me. It’s critical.”

“I gathered that when you rang me up yesterday. You were so out of breath, you sounded like you’d run a marathon. We both know that would never happen, now don’t we? So where are you headed?”

“I’ve been dreaming of a few days of R and R in Amsterdam.” She closed her eyes briefly and found herself admiring Van Gogh’s sunflowers, dodging bicycles, and gorging herself on nasi goreng.

“You had to slip out of Berlin posing as airline staff and you expect me to believe you did it to go on holiday?” Ian said.

“It’s never easy to get away, is it?”

Frosty spoke into his headset, “Roger that on the bogie, Berlin. Range twelve miles.” He turned toward the captain. “We got traffic, Ian. Five o’clock westbound. Coming up on our tail.”

“Take the right-hand seat and have a peek. I’m disengaging the autopilot. We won’t do anything unexpected. We’ll let him avoid us. He only wants to give us a cheap thrill-I hope.” Ian flipped a switch on the control yoke with his thumb.

Frosty slid into the co-pilot’s seat and leaned back to search the sky over the right wing while Ian searched port. “Got him. A MIG’s hanging off the starboard wing. Right at three o’clock.”

“Jesus.” Faith grabbed the seat and braced herself for a collision. No one spoke. A minute passed.

“Here he comes.”

A plump snubnosed fighter cut in front of them, rolled and flew straight up.

“Now let’s all wave at the commie.” Frosty gestured toward the window.

“I’d estimate the Faggot was within five hundred feet.”

“That was an awful close five hundred feet. I’d swear that guy needed a shave.” Frosty chuckled to himself.

“A faggot?” Faith eased herself back against the hard seat. Her palms were sweaty.

“MIG-15,” Ian said. “Faggot’s the NATO designation, I swear. I saw these all the time in Korea when I was flying the blockade. Dreadful buggers. We were in Sea Furies, piston-engine craft, and those jets would scream out of nowhere. Haven’t seen one of those in years. They must have taken it out of the mothballs for me.”

“This isn’t going to be like the Korean Air Lines over Sakhalin?”

“Nah, they’re just yanking our chain,” Frosty said.

“They’re not supposed to be in the corridors, but they do this all the time,” Ian said.

Suddenly the MIG reappeared ahead of them and flew a parallel course, slightly to their left. Faith guessed it was less than a thousand feet away. She strained to see over Ian’s shoulder. “Is it Russian?”

“Actually, I think that’s a Jerry. Can you tell, Frosty?”

“You know them commies all look the same to me.” He winked at Faith.

“The fifties, sixties, that’s when it was fun to fly this stretch of air. You never knew what was going to happen next. I was flying for BEA in those days-BAC one-elevens. A splendid plane. One time a MIG flew in front of me and all at once the sky filled with chaff and-”

“Isn’t this kind of dangerous?” Faith gasped as the MIG soared across their path to their starboard.

“Yes, extremely hazardous. As I was saying, I suppose the Russians were trying to block whatever dirty work they thought we were up to. They released the chaff and the entire sky filled with this glitter sparkling in the sun. Quite lovely, actually. Anyway, I radioed in to control, ‘Berlin Centre, Bealine six-eight-five-I can see the Iron Curtain!’ “

“Aren’t you worried about a midair?”

“Keenly. But without proper missiles, there isn’t much I can do, is there? Unless you prefer me hiding in the clouds. I’ll do that if he fires on us and misses, but until then I prefer we all stay in plain sight, where there’s less chance of bumping into one another. And the clouds only work if he hasn’t been retrofitted with modern equipment. Did I ever tell you the story about the Air France pilot flying the corridor in the fifties who really did have to take to the clouds after a MIG fired on him? Landed at Tempelhof with eighty-nine bullet holes in the fuselage.”

Faith was sure the gap between the two planes was narrowing.

In the main cabin, Vasily Resnick flipped through Clipper magazine, pausing to study an ad for Pan Am’s WorldPass frequent flyer program. He was pleased with himself that he figured out what FedEx was up to just in time to hop the same flight out of Berlin. He had contacted Titov from the gate. The general warned him that the Bonn residency knew about the shipment and was trying to find FedEx. Thus far he’d seen no signs of meddling from his former Bonn colleagues. The only unusual development was that FedEx had something going on with the cockpit crew. She hadn’t left there since she boarded. At least he knew whatever she was carrying was either checked in the belly of the plane or safely with her up front.

He set down the magazine and took the blue plastic sandwich box from the stewardess. From the way her gaze fondled him, he knew she wanted him. Too bad he was on assignment. He pulled the rubber band off the boxed meal. Salad, sandwich, water and cake. The Americans sure knew how to treat passengers well. Aeroflot could learn from them. He squirted mayonnaise and mustard on the ham and bit into the sandwich.

Then he saw him.

The Bonn residency did have someone on board. Resnick immediately turned his head away and reached for an imaginary object on the floor. He stayed bent over until the agent passed. Resnick glanced back to check for any sign the man had noticed him. Kivisto stood in the back, oblivious to anything other than the redheaded stewardess he was hitting on.

Art Kivisto. Artur Kivisto-son of Estonian immigrants. His grandmother was an easily intimidated Soviet citizen still residing in Tallinn. Back before Titov had rescued Resnick from the incompetence of the drunk Voronin at the Bonn residency, Resnick had recruited Kivisto as an informant. An informant for the Bonn residency’s network. He had come from the cockpit, where FedEx was. Kivisto was the type of snitch who would pass along any information he thought he had a remote chance of getting paid for. He had undoubtedly seen enough out of the ordinary to file a report with the residency as soon as he got to Frankfurt.

The Bonn residency couldn’t be allowed to learn that FedEx was on this flight. The greedy fool Kivisto was probably already adding up his new bank balance. Resnick fingered the fountain pen in his shirt pocket, pleased that his escort duty was turning into an interesting trip.

Sunlight streamed through the many flight deck windows and Faith wished she’d brought along sunglasses. The sun gleamed off the shiny MIG hanging in the air just ahead of them. She held up her hand to block the glare and squinted. The Faggot rocked its wings from side to side.

“No way, buddy,” Frosty said.

“What does he want?” she said.

“To play follow-the-leader.”

“Distance to West German airspace?” Ian said, watching the intercept.

“Seventy miles.”

“He’ll stand down soon. I’m not about to follow him out of the corridor. Faith, just try to relax and enjoy the flight.”

“Right.” Faith stared at the console’s dials. They didn’t seem to be moving much. Everything about the plane seemed normal and safe, save for the fighter off its nose-the fighter whose instructions they were ignoring. The sky had cleared and she no longer had hope of hiding in the clouds. She had to block out the MIG and focus on her objective. “You know Svetlana?”

“A most delightful soul. Don’t you remember? You introduced us two, three years ago. She keeps promising to take me on a tour of the Crimea, but the paperwork to travel privately is horrendous. I’m assigned to the Moscow run right now, but my crew visa is good for Moscow only. How strict are they?”

“The Sovs? Very. They even restrict movement of official visitors from other commie countries. I mean, you can sneak around if you blend in. I might have done it once or twice, but I usually cover myself with the right papers, dress the part and my Russian’s passable.”

“Are you implying I might not blend in?” Ian said.

“Buddy, she’s saying we might as well start forwarding your mail to Siberia.” Frosty returned to the engineer’s station and slipped off his shoes.

Faith pointed to her cooler. “This is a birthday surprise I have to get to her by tonight. A small gift and some Häagen-Dazs to mark the occasion.” Faith heard the tension in her own voice and struggled to sound more lively. “You know how Russians love ice cream. I’m betting she’s never even imagined chocolate cheesecake and chocolate raspberry tort flavors. All I’ve ever had there is…” Her voice trailed off. The MIG was again rocking its wings from side to side. “Vanilla.”

“I had no idea it was her birthday. I’m taking her out to dinner tonight and I suppose now we’ll make it a celebration. That might make the evening even better for me, if you know what I mean.” Ian smiled to himself.

“So will you take her my gifts?”

“Have you found anything interesting for me lately?”

“She’s holding some amazing Armenian glass icons for me. I’ve never seen such intricate work. They’re waiting until I can move them out.”

“These birds have all kinds of hiding places the authorities never think to look in.”

“The hitch is Soviet customs.” Faith was always fishing for new contacts and Ian had them. The man knew every corrupt or corruptible airport employee between Karachi and Sofia, but he rationed his contacts, doling them out one at a time. “Frosty, you want to hand me that cooler? I know how Ian always wants to do a visual on whatever he’s taking in for me.”

“Not that I don’t trust you. I do have a responsibility for my passengers’ safety and we all know I’m not taking something into Russia if I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to put this delicately, but I find it difficult to believe that you’re sending a mere present.”

“Come on. My mother smuggles things in. I’m the one who takes them out. That way we both stay out of each other’s way. It works for us.” She opened the lid and tilted it so he could look inside. She glanced ahead. The MIG was still there, waving away.

“Frosty, would you be so kind and inventory the container?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Frosty removed the lid and pulled out packets of dry ice, then the ice cream, two cartons of each flavor. “Whoa, there’s enough here for a little party right now.”

“Trust me, I didn’t overbuy. There’s always some shrinkage on the border.”

Frosty picked up a large brown dinner plate with crude blue, yellow and red flowers painted on it. He displayed it to Ian.

“Ghastly.”

“What can I say? Sveta wanted genuine Mexican hand-painted dinnerware. Guess you can’t get lovely plates like that in Moscow.”

“I should hope not.” Ian turned back to the instruments.

The MIG suddenly broke away to the left in a steep ninety-plus-degree turn. Ian responded by rocking the 727 from side to side, just as the MIG had done earlier. “He’s signaling me that we may proceed. I’m telling him I’ll comply this time.”

Frosty tilted his head as if listening to something in his headset; then he laughed. “The MIG just broke into the emergency frequency and wished us a safe flight. Didn’t know the Reds had a sense of humor.”

“Thank God he’s gone,” Faith said.

“I thought you played chicken with the commies all the time. You going yellow on us?” Frosty slipped his hand into the cooler beside the plates for a perfunctory check. “Just a Leatherman. Those things are great-beat the socks off a Swiss Army knife.” Frosty repacked the cooler and closed it. “Looks like you can trust the little lady.”

Faith was silent while Ian thanked the Berlin air controller and changed radio frequencies in the hand-off to the West Germans. He confirmed their position and the new flight level, then pulled back on the yoke and began the climb. Faith cleared her throat. “So you’ll have this to Sveta by tonight? I owe her big time and absolutely have to make sure she gets this on her birthday.” Without the delivery, Faith doubted she would ever leave the Soviet Union alive.

“As I told you when you rang me up, both Frosty and I are scheduled for the Frankfurt-Moscow run this afternoon. We’re only doing the Internal German Service twice a week. You got lucky today.” Ian flipped an overhead switch.

“Actually, I’m stepping out on you, buddy. I need the cash. I’m doing the IGS milk runs without you in a couple of days.” He turned to Faith. “The IGS is a bit short-handed this month and they’re letting a few of us sub for old time’s sake.”

“You don’t take this same plane to Moscow today, do you?”

“No, no. We have an equipment change in Frankfurt. IGS has its own fleet.”

“I take it the German flight attendants stay with the plane and don’t go on to Moscow?”

“We pick up a fresh crew in Frankfurt. Anything else you want to know, my dear?”

“Not at the moment.”

Ian turned back toward Faith and smiled. “It was cash.”

“Excuse me?”

“Cash. The shipment for your mother was cash. I haven’t a clue what she’s doing with it, but two days ago I ferried in-”

The cockpit door pushed open and First Officer Art Kivisto squeezed onto the cramped flight deck. His gaze paused for a second too long on the Moscow-bound cooler; then he intentionally averted his eyes away from Faith. He couldn’t be, she chided herself. Spooks don’t hang out on flight decks. Faith usually trusted her instincts, but maybe she really had spent too much time playing with the communists and was getting paranoid.

Kivisto slid into the co-pilot’s seat, strapped himself in and checked his radio. “Sorry, guys. Didn’t want you to think I’d bailed on you. Anything interesting happen?”

“Not a thing,” Ian said. “As I was saying, the shipment included over one hundred thousand quid and I don’t want to know what else-”

“How much longer until Frankfurt?” She flipped the back of his hairy neck.

He swung around and looked at her, knitting his eyebrows. “Not your typical Moscow CARE package.”

Faith made eye contact with Ian. As soon as she had his attention, she looked toward Kivisto, then the cooler.

Frosty shook his head and giggled to himself. “Slick.”

Ian reached to the center of the overhead panel and pressed a button while he slipped his other hand down to the rear of the power pedestal. He turned back toward Faith and whispered, “Rest assured, my dear, this conversation never happened.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

LUBYANKA (KGB HEADQUARTERS), MOSCOW

Colonel Bogdanov marched past Stukoi’s secretary and entered his office with only a cursory knock. Stukoi studied the urgency in her face and concluded his telephone call.

Mustering every ounce of discipline, Colonel Bogdanov shoved aside her anger and said firmly, “You didn’t trust me. I’m very disappointed.”

“We were working on a need-to-know basis, and you didn’t need to know.”

“You used me.” Her voice grew louder, slipping from her control.

“I saw to it you’re getting credit for your role.” He took a drag from his cigar.

“You set me up so I have little choice but to help this succeed.”

Stukoi opened an envelope, unfolded a letter and began reading it. “It wouldn’t be in your best interest for it to fail, now, would it?”

“Clearly not. Half the KGB and Soviet Army seems to know what’s going on. They believe I’m the lynchpin to all of it.”

“Do you have the final operational details from Kosyk?” He didn’t look up from the letter.

“Yes, but I don’t think his plan is going to work. He says we should expect to receive six kilos of the American plastic explosive C-4 containing microscopic markers linking it back to the American government. We’re to use the explosive to kill Gorbachev. The MfS plan is that we couple the forensic evidence with the fact that FedEx smuggled it into the Soviet Union to blame the Americans and justify political crackdowns here and in Eastern Europe. It might work, but it’s not a plan I want to risk my life on.”

Stukoi looked up from his mail. His glasses slid down to the end of his nose.

Bogdanov continued. “Would you buy it? We know the Americans never will. Kosyk’s aiming for public sentiment in Western Europe. He wants to split NATO enough to keep them from destabilizing the new regime, but I don’t think anyone will believe the Americans are behind it when the only body we can link is an expatriate smuggler. Europe will be outraged, and I think we can expect everyone will work against us to subvert our new regime.”

“Suggestions?”

“Yes, but I’ll have to return to Berlin at once. If all goes well, I’ll bring back a member of the US military’s elite special forces. He’s cross-trained as a Navy SEAL and an explosives expert. I’ve given him the designation Otter to protect our interest in him, even though he’s not an agent at this time. We have some surveillance pictures linking Otter and FedEx in West Berlin. We can make it look like he carried out the mission after receiving the explosives from the CIA operative FedEx. We’ll apprehend him trying to escape Moscow after murdering Gorbachev. He’s FedEx’s ex and our phone taps indicate he’s still smitten. We can use FedEx against him: her life for his confession. Then we have a swift show trial and you know the rest.”

“Excellent. Someday we’re going to have to have a talk about your choice in code names. We can always tell which agents are yours. Too much flair.”

“My style works for me,” Bogdanov said.

Stukoi shoved his glasses up and returned to reading his mail. “I’d feel more comfortable if you’d stick around in Moscow and have your staff pick up Otter and ship him here.”

“Too risky. I have to be the one to approach him personally. I know enough about his old girlfriend to enlist his cooperation initially. The last thing we want right now is problems with the Americans for the botched kidnapping of a Navy officer.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

FRANKFURT AM MAIN AIRPORT, WEST GERMANY

Resnick stood in front of the center seat in the coach cabin of the Pan Am 727, watching and waiting for the cockpit door to open. As the other passengers crowded the aisle, he smiled and motioned for them to go ahead of him. He was helping a grandmother remove her old-fashioned overnight case from the overhead compartment when he saw light coming from the front of the plane. “I carry it for you. Very heavy,” he said in accented German, certain this was the quickest way to move her along so she wouldn’t slow him down.

“That’s very sweet of you, young man. Is this your first time in Frankfurt?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a guest worker. Since fifteen years.” Resnick slowed as he entered the first-class cabin and saw his mark step from the flight deck. He kept his head and upper body bowed as he chatted with the woman.

“Where are you from, young man?”

“Poland-Krakow. Same as the pope.” Resnick followed the flight crew down the jetway. As soon as they were at the gate, he presented the woman with her case. He kissed her hand as he wished her a pleasant stay, allowing the flight crew to get a few more meters ahead of him.

The huge arrivals and departures board clicked and growled as the letters and numbers flipped around, updating the information. Resnick stalked the crew through the bustling Frankfurt airport, always careful to remain anonymous. One of the crew juggled FedEx’s cooler along with his own case. He noted that Kivisto’s head turned each time they passed a telephone. The snitch was probably repeating the contact number that Resnick himself had given him five years before.

The group stopped at the inconspicuous door to the Pan Am airport operations center. Resnick fell back. He spotted a newspaper on a bank of chairs, grabbed it and took up a position across from the entrance to the ops center. He pretended to read the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung.

One of the crew punched in a code for the door. Seven, two, seven, three-Resnick made a mental note. FedEx hugged and kissed two of the crew members good-bye, then nodded to Kivisto. She walked away, leaving the cooler in care of the crewman with the peppery white hair. The crew disappeared behind the security door into the restricted operations center and FedEx ducked into the ladies’ room. With tradecraft like that, no wonder Titov thought she needed a chaperone.

Resnick turned the page of the newspaper. He had run Kivisto for a year and hundreds of others like him over the last fifteen years. He knew his rats. Any moment Kivisto would tell his crewmates he needed to buy a present for a niece or go for a walk and he’d dash to the nearest pay phone to cash in on his information.

Before Resnick could finish reading about Bayer Leverkusen’s injured goalie, Kivisto emerged from the door. His rat was beginning to run the maze. Kivisto hurried to the first shop he passed, a pharmacy, and went inside, probably to get change for a phone call. The shops along that corridor had no other public exits, and Kivisto was not one to dare push his way into the back room to find a service exit. Trusting his mark would reappear, Resnick continued reading the soccer article, all the while monitoring the concourse. Then he saw something unexpected.

A Pan Am stewardess walked out of the WC. In all the time he had been sitting there, an attendant from Lufthansa and two from British Airways had gone inside, but no one from Pan Am. He studied her as she wheeled her flight bag in front of him. He raised his newspaper, but not before he saw the jolt of recognition in her eyes. She approached the Pan Am operations door and entered the security code. So FedEx’s tradecraft was better than he’d thought.

Resnick didn’t think the same of Kivisto. The target stepped from the pharmacy, counting his change. The first officer looked both ways, then darted to the nearest phone booth and went inside.

Resnick dropped the newspaper as he got up. He removed his fountain pen from his pocket and took off the cap, revealing the razor-sharp tip, ready to write Kivisto’s epitaph with its poisonous ink. As Resnick reached for the door of the phone booth, he felt a gentle tug on his arm. He swung around, prepared to strike.

The old lady from the plane jumped back. “Oh, my goodness. I didn’t mean to startle you. While you’re waiting for the phone, would you mind taking my picture with the planes in the background so I can show my grandson? He loves airplanes.”

Resnick glanced at the phone booth. Kivisto picked up the receiver and held it against his shoulder. He dropped a coin into the slot, but the phone didn’t register any value.

“It would mean so much, young man.”

Kivisto opened the change return, took out the mark piece and tried again.

The phone call could not be allowed, but Resnick didn’t want to take out the grandma in the middle of the concourse if he didn’t have to. Thanks to Kivisto’s incompetence, he had a few moments to spare. Resnick shoved the cap back on his pen and snatched the Instamatic from the lady. “Quickly. Stand here by the booth so I can get the planes in the background.” His German was now perfect and without accent. He nearly picked up the woman and planted her at the side of the phone booth. Kivisto had now given up on the bad coin and was trying to stuff the phone with a handful of change to get his call through to Bonn.

“Smile.” Resnick framed the picture so as to cut the woman out of it so that there would be no image of Kivisto for any authorities to pore over after they found his body. The snitch was now dialing.

“Have a nice stay in Frankfurt.” Resnick shoved the camera at the woman and put his large hand on her back and pointed her down the concourse. “Now go on to your family. They’ll be worried about you.”

Kivisto dropped the mark into the phone and dreamed of buying his own plane and retiring in the Med. Art Kivisto usually had shit for luck, but today was his lucky day-the big payday he’d been waiting for. The KGB was desperate for any information about an unusual package going to Moscow. Last night was the first time his handler had ever insisted on a rendezvous in the middle of the night. Now he had information Moscow craved. He didn’t fear betraying his country or anyone else, only that he might unknowingly do it for too low a price. The mark clinked as it plopped into the coin return. Damn! Nothing’s ever easy. He scooped it from the coin return and dropped it in again. And it fell through again.

He reached in his pocket and noticed a man outside the booth taking a picture of his elderly mother. Kivisto fiddled with his coins and jammed every German coin he had into the slot, and then dialed the number.

New Life Ministries answered, and he identified himself according to established protocol. “I found the lost dog you’re looking for.” He heard a click and thought they either transferred him or put him on hold. “You still there? I said I have the information about the lost dog, but first we have to talk money.” Kivisto watched the man return the camera to the old woman.

“How much do you want?”

“I was thinking twenty-five grand, then I realized you must want this really bad to wake a little fish like me up in the middle of the night, so let’s just double that.” Kivisto smiled and leaned against the side of the booth. Art, you are the man.

“Fine.”

“That was fast. Clearly I sold myself short; let’s double down again.” Art, the man. Double-0-727. Kivisto recognized something about the man with the old lady. Maybe he’d seen him in the movies or sports pages.

Resnick squeezed the shoulder of the grandmother. “Go to your family, now!”

She didn’t budge. “I was hoping you’d have coffee and kuchen with me. You’re the sweetest person I’ve talked to in days.”

Resnick saw the meter on the phone begin to count down Kivisto’s remaining money. The rat was now connected. Resnick reached for the pen and took off the cap with the same hand. “You don’t really have a family waiting on you, do you?”

“No. I’m all alone.”

He gingerly patted her on the arm. “Well, then, I’ll have kuchen with you and I’ll be your family now.”

Her eyes widened with joy. Then Resnick poked her with his pen. The cobra-venom derivative acted with only a few seconds’ delay. He gently lowered her to the ground and shouted, “Help! Call an ambulance! My mother’s having a stroke!”

Kivisto watched the younger man take a few steps with the elderly woman as he listened for the KGB’s response to his hundred-thousand-dollar proposition. He was lousy with faces, but he definitely knew that man from somewhere. His handler came back on the line. “Agreed. But no more. Now the details.”

“It’s going in on PA1072 today.” Kivisto witnessed the man quickly stabbing the old lady’s forearm with something; then she fell to the ground. “What the hell?”

“What’s coming in? Who’s behind it?” the handler screamed into the phone.

Then Kivisto recognized him. the man he once knew as Sasha.

“You’ve double-crossed me! You bastards!” he shouted into the phone, then reached for the door.

Resnick bolted for the phone booth, shouting in German, “I need to call an ambulance. My mother’s dying!” Resnick yanked open the door just as Kivisto scrambled to get out. Resnick plunged the deadly writing tip into the first officer’s neck.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

HOTEL HUGENOTTENHOF, FRANKFURT AM MAIN AIRPORT

Major Natalia Nariskii sat crammed into an airport hotel room with two other operatives and cases of equipment, temporarily coordinating all efforts of the Bonn KGB residency at the Frankfurt airport. Despite the importance of the operation, Voronin wouldn’t spring for a suite. She looked at the digital clock. Eleven-thirty in the morning. She and twenty-six operatives and informants on the ground at the Frankfurt airport had worked through the night and into the morning. Not a single good lead had been turned up. The CIA said it was going down within the next twenty-four hours-and that was thirteen hours ago. Time was running out.

The secure line rang and the communications officer answered. He cupped his hand over the receiver. “Major, it’s General Voronin.”

Nariskii picked up the phone. “Listening.”

“We’ve got it. Pan Am 1072 today.”

Nariskii pointed at a blue flight schedule and motioned for the assistant to toss it to her. She cupped her hand over the phone. “Not that one. Pan Am. Right there. It says ‘New daily nonstops between Chicago and Frankfurt.’ ” He found it and tossed it to her. She caught it and flipped through the pages as she continued to speak with Voronin. “Anything else to work with?”

“No, the informant started shouting something about being doublecrossed. We heard a commotion, then nothing.”

She ran her polished nail down the column of the flight schedule. “Not good. PA1072 is scheduled for a noon departure. That’s in half an hour. Do you at least know what we’re looking for?”

“A nuclear suitcase is a suitcase. Figure it out.”

“There’s no time to go through all checked luggage and cargo even if I could come up with a way to do it. I suppose we could call in a bomb threat.”

“No. If the Germans are behind it, they’ll let it pass through. Even if they aren’t and they find it, the terrorists will still be out there. There’s only one way.”

“I don’t like it. It’s a civilian craft.”

“Just make sure it happens over our territory so we can sanitize the crash site.”

Nariskii turned to her communications officer. “Get me Gudiashvili immediately!”

Moments later, the com officer handed her a two-way radio. She hated unsecured communications, but was pleased with herself she had the foresight to give all of the Moscow flights of the day a special designation and assign codes to various contingency plans. “I understand there is a problem with the plumbing. Do your best to take care of it until help arrives. I need forty-five minutes to an hour. Afterward, I’m taking everyone out to eat.”

“Understood. Problems with the plumbing and we’re going out to eat.”

Nariskii put down the radio and turned it off. “Belenko, get the car. We’re leaving in ten minutes. Have the insertion team ready to meet me and get me onto that plane.”

Nariskii hoisted a weathered leather suitcase onto the bed. She prayed she had tossed everything she needed into the case when she packed last night. She opened it and inventoried the contents: a jumble of wires, batteries, tools, an alarm clock and a slab of Semtex. The soldering iron would need a few minutes to heat up, so she grabbed it first and searched for an outlet where she could plug it in. The cord of the lamp on the nightstand disappeared behind the bed. Following its trail, she shoved the mattress away from the wall and then reached behind the bed until she found the plug. She tugged, yanking it from the wall. Then she plugged in the soldering iron and set it on the nightstand.

She arranged a battery, an electric blasting cap and wire on the bed and sketched out a diagram in her mind, opting for a basic time-bomb design, simple but reliable. She waved her hand over the soldering iron and felt the heat rising. Time to get to work.

Careful to make sure she had a solid contact between the back of the clock and the copper wire, she soldered one end of the wire to the clock and the other end to the battery. Now she needed a screw. She ran her hand through the suitcase, but found nothing. “Get me a short screw! But with no paint on it. Try taking one off the toilet paper holder.”

She removed a drill from the suitcase and tossed it to her com officer. “Plug this in somewhere-just don’t mess with my soldering iron.”

“I thought you wanted the screw.”

“What! You don’t have the screw yet? Plug this in and find me a screw now!”

She picked up her shiny metal travel alarm. As long as she kept it wound, it had served her well. Saving her government was a good cause for its donation, but she’d miss its little face waking her everywhere from Havana to Vladivostok. And she wished she had a more professional device, like her favorite MST-13 timer. MEBO’s Swiss timers were almost as accurate as an atomic clock and the precise day and hour could be programmed into them, but she hadn’t seen equipment like that in ages. She knew she should count her blessings that support services at the Bonn residency actually had a slab of Semtex and a blasting cap left over from an aborted mission years ago. No one could even remember what the operation had been, only that there was surplus Semtex. The lack of collective memory surprised her, since Bonn saw real action so rarely. Black operations for the Bonn residency usually meant sending a whore to seduce a foreign dignitary and doing the photographic work. West Germany was the Stasi’s turf, and they ran it well. And it was the Berlin KGB residency that ran the Stasi, so Bonn was a backwater and Nariskii was stuck using screws from toilet paper holders and her own travel alarm to save the Politburo.

“Where’s my screw? I need it now!” She selected a fine bit and drilled a starter hole in the clear plastic face of the clock.

The officer handed her two screws.

“I asked for one. Do you have a flashbulb or a bulb like from a penlight? I want to test this circuit.”

“I have, but I fear there is no time. It is better if you do it right and do not test.”

Nariskii glanced at her watch. Eleven forty-two. It was too late for testing. She had to do it right the first time. Her hand shook from stress as she threaded the screw through the plastic face above the Roman numeral twelve. The screw reached just far enough to make contact with the metal hands. “Hold this.” She picked up the blasting cap, spread its wires apart and soldered one wire to the battery. “It’s hot now. Whatever you do, don’t let the loose lead touch the clock or the battery. And turn that damn radio off before you blow us up!” Nariskii popped the plastic face from her alarm and snapped off the minute hand. “Sorry, old friend.” She took a knife and scraped off the luminescence from the side of the hour hand to ensure a good contact. “Help me here. It’s a three-hour flight to Moscow and we want to make sure it’s over our territory. I’m guessing two hours after takeoff would be safe. Problem is calculating how long it takes us to plant it and for them to get in the air.”

“Last time I flew out of Frankfurt, we taxied thirty, forty-five minutes before takeoff.”

“If I only had a barometer, we could start the timer when the cabin pressurized.”

“Hurry. Gudiashvili is good, but he cannot delay it forever.”

“How quickly did he say they’d get me onto the ramp?” Nariskii put her finger on the hour hand and pressed lightly.

“Ten to fifteen minutes.”

“He always underestimates. Half-hour to the plane, another fifteen minutes to plant it and for them to close the door. A lot of charters leave midday on a weekend, so I’ll add forty-five for taxi, then two hours into the flight. And I always add an extra ten minutes for the bombmaker. I’ll set it for three hours and forty-five minutes from now. It’s eleven forty-five, so it should go off at five-thirty, Moscow time.” She moved the hand to a quarter past the numeral eight. Her hands trembled as she took the lead from the blasting cap, vigilant not to allow it to touch the metal casing of the clock. She paused for a second to study the wiring before she dared complete what she hoped was a broken circuit-broken until it closed at five-thirty Moscow time. Nariskii soldered the lead to the screw.

The com officer held the bomb while Nariskii set aside the soldering iron and jerked the cord from the wall. She picked up the brick of Semtex and weighed it in her hand. Four hundred grams, she guessed-a little more than their Libyan friends had used on Pan Am 103. It would suffice. She shoved a pencil deep inside the orange, claylike substance, pushed the blasting cap into the hole and then bundled the parts together with electrical tape. Not her finest work, but probably her most important. She wrapped it in a hand towel to ensure it wouldn’t make contact with the metal container in which she was going to stow it.

“Let’s go. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

FRANKFURT AM MAIN AIRPORT

The passengers were boarding the Clipper Pocahontas for Pan American World Airways flight 1072 from Frankfurt to Moscow when Faith scurried down the jetway. Airline identification tags flapped against her chest. Her blue jacket was a size too small and the gold buttons were poised to pop off if she breathed too deeply. She was pleased to have found a new crew tag for her bag. The paper things wore out so fast, even from her infrequent usage, that she didn’t understand why they didn’t switch to something laminated. She wheeled her carry-on bag across the foot of a businessman. “Sorry. My first Moscow run and I’m late. I’m so nervous. I’ve never been behind the Iron Curtain before.”

“Please.” The man stepped aside and motioned for her to pass. He leaned over to his colleague and spoke in German. “Lufthansa’s first class was booked. At least it’s not Aeroflot.”

The thirty-something purser stood in the doorway, glaring at Faith as he watched her scattered approach. If he booted her off the plane, it would spoil the run, and she didn’t want to think about what the Stasi would do to her if she didn’t deliver. She greeted the purser and shoved the wadded papers into his hand. “I’m so sorry I missed the preflight. I’ll never do it again.” She unclipped the identification badge from her jacket and shoved it into her small black purse.

He glared at her.

“I couldn’t help it. Let’s just say, unexpected female problems.”

“Step inside the galley and wait for me. You’re blocking the passengers.” He waved for a flight attendant in the coach cabin to come to the front. He held his hand up to halt the German businessman. “One moment, sir. I do apologize for the delay.” He went into the galley and jerked the blue curtain closed with such force that Faith feared he might pull it off the metal hooks. “You will never do that to me again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” She looked down in deference. A coffee stirrer was stuck to the floor under a stowed galley cart. Definitely not Lufthansa.

“You’re not on the crew manifest, Reeves.”

“I was just assigned. I gave you the addendum.”

“I’ve never known of a last-minute assignment on a Moscow haul. The Russians require too much paper-”

“I was supposed to start Moscow service next month.” She opened her purse and removed her thick business-size passport with a light brown folded paper inside. She held Hakan’s forgeries out to him and almost didn’t recognize her own hand with its fake press-on nails hastily polished in crimson surprise.

“Why would they add someone at the last minute?”

“I don’t know. I just work here and do what I’m told. Maybe because of a heavy load or something?”

“We’re only expecting forty-seven and six.”

“Maybe the return’s heavy out of Moscow.”

Someone tapped on the galley service door from the outside. The purser looked through the porthole, then glanced down to make sure the emergency slide was not already armed. He opened the door. Three LSG Sky Chefs caterers stood on the elevated platform on the back of their truck.

Two men immediately jumped aboard and pushed their way in. The purser and Faith stepped back. They started to remove the metal bins with the hot in-flight meals, but the purser stepped in front of them and blocked their way. “What in the world are you doing? We just got those meal inserts.”

The swarthy supervisor crowded into the galley. “I apologize, sir. But these are the wrong meals. My staff brought you only low-sodium meals, and you know how bland those are. Pan Am passengers deserve the best and we can’t have our reputation for excellent cuisine damaged, either. We’ll have you a new set of meals here in no time.”

“You can’t swap them out right now?” the purser said.

“No, sir. But, rest assured, they’re being freshly prepared and we’ll have them here in no time.” He nodded to his crew to remove the metal bins.

The purser threw up his arms. “You are not taking these. Just give me some extra salt packets.”

The supervisor leaned over to the purser. “Sir, I didn’t want to have to tell you this. The truth is these meals are designated MM.”

“I’m losing my patience here. I want an on-time pushback. Is everyone here conspiring to hold up this plane?” He threw his arms into the air. “Get me the salt and get out of here.”

“Sir, I don’t think you understand. MM is short for Mickey Mouse.”

“I don’t care if it’s Donald Duck à l’orange in there. I want an on-time departure.”

The supervisor whispered, “This is a delicate matter. It’s a Mickey Mouse problem. As in mouse. As in rats got into the food. As in rat spit. Rat pellets. Get it?”

The purser crinkled his face. “That’s just gross. Get those out of here. How long will it be?”

“Just a few minutes, sir.”

The caterers left, promising to return in ten minutes. The purser turned back to Faith. “This is not a good day. Give me your passport. It’s in order, but you didn’t report for the preflight and you caused a bit of a stir with the firstclass passengers blundering down the jetway. I’m not able to allow you-”

A shout in Russian interrupted him.

“Ma’am, you can’t take this aboard the aircraft.” A flight attendant raised her voice.

The purser pushed back the galley curtain. A robust Russian woman hoisted a boxed Sanyo television onto a first-class seat. She dragged an overstuffed red, white and blue striped burlap bag behind her. It was larger than the television box. Her travel companion wedged two other bags into the cabin exit. The purser rushed through first class to the forward exit.

“We have to check these or you’ll have to disembark from the aircraft.” The purser held up both hands with outstretched palms as if he were pushing her back off the plane with each word.

The woman barked something in Russian, first wagging her finger at the purser, then pointing at the TV. He repeated his instructions in French, speaking more loudly in case it helped the woman better understand. She screeched at them. The German businessmen shook their heads and whispered to each other. Passengers filled the jetway, craning their necks to watch.

Faith tapped the purser on the shoulder. “Let me see what I can do.” He switched places with her. Faith transformed from flustered innocence into the tough-love charm of a jaded Aeroflot stewardess. She spoke in flawless Russian. “Look, lady, this isn’t the train to Nizhniy-Novgorod. You can’t bring aboard everything you can manage to pack onto your tree-stump legs. This is an American airline, and you’re violating American law.”

As she spoke with the woman, Faith glanced at the crowd in the jetway. And she recognized someone. The man with the newspaper in the concourse. He was the blond on the plane from Berlin. And now he was tailing her to Moscow. She pretended not to notice him and continued, “You have a choice, babushka: You can keep throwing a fit and we’ll toss you off the aircraft right now and turn you over to German authorities-and I’m sure they’ll notify Moscow-or you can cooperate with this nice woman and let her check your plunder. If you’re lucky, we won’t take anything for our troubles. Understand?”

“Da.” The woman lowered her head in submission.

Faith turned to the purser and said, “I explained how the FAA regs don’t allow such large carry-ons. She completely understands and agreed to cooperate fully. She’ll hand her things over for a gate check.” Faith then switched back into Russian. “Don’t think you just scammed your way into a couple hundred pounds of free excess baggage without us knowing what you’re up to. I’m letting you get away with it this one time, but if you cause me any problems on this flight, I’m personally informing Soviet customs you’re trafficking in Western goods. You might be able to bribe your way through alone, but they can’t turn a blind eye if an American airline reports you. Next time, take the train.”

“What’d you say?”

“I told her I know she has a choice when she flies and I hope next time she again chooses Pan American.”

“You’re on. Take the jump seat up front with me. Now, where are those damn caterers?”

Twenty minutes after the scheduled departure time, Nariskii arrived wearing an LSG Sky Chefs uniform. She was nearly out of breath, but she’d made it. Gudiashvili apologized to the purser for the longer-than-expected delay as he returned the same meal inserts his crew had earlier removed. Nariskii slid in a specially prepared bin, sealed in case anyone tried to open it within the next three hours.

At five-thirty Moscow time, the meal insert would open itself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

KGB SAFE HOUSE, BERLIN-WEST, DAHLEM DISTRICT

Colonel Bogdanov kicked off her East German penny loafers and pulled off her Soviet-tailored ladies’ suit and exchanged them for a black silk blouse, black Benetton slacks and a matching blazer. She picked up the ugliest piece of jewelry she’d ever seen, an avant-garde brooch with twisted silver icicles dripping from a polished oval of lapis. She flipped it over; a miniature microphone transmitter was mounted on the reverse. She set it on the dresser. After a few brushes of mascara, she put on a pair of blue designer frames with nonprescription glass lenses. As a finishing touch, she rolled up her right pant leg and strapped on her nine-millimeter Makarov service pistol.

Bogdanov walked into the living room. Her assistant, Ivashko, spoke into a radio, holding the receiver against his hairy ear. Did Ivashko believe he was working to save or assassinate Gorbachev? Was he working for her? Titov? Stukoi? She had been on several operations with him over the last decade, but she still didn’t know the man. In Pyongyang while evaluating North Korean nuclear capacities, he had praised the Stalinist regime’s tight social order. On a mission in Cuba, he couldn’t say enough negative things about Castro’s iron-fisted regime. The only thing she was certain about the man was that he resented any physical movement.

Ivashko twitched his bushy white eyebrows when he spoke. “Good. I want you to follow him wherever he goes, and that includes the john. If he starts to leave, figure out a way to stall him. I don’t care what you do-order him a round of beers, fake a heart attack-I don’t care. Whatever you do, prevent him from going onto a US base. If he goes there, it’s over. We can’t touch him.” Ivashko paused. “Think. Cause a minor traffic accident. If he’s on foot, stage an attack on one of our female crew. He’s a good boy. He’d stop to help her. You think you can handle it now? Good. Report back any change in status.” He set the microphone beside him on the sofa but continued to wear the earpiece. He looked up at Bogdanov. “That was a fast trip to Moscow. I thought we’d wrapped up the Berlin side of things and were done with Otter when FedEx left town this morning.”

“It was decided we need to tie up a few extra loose ends. I can’t say more. Any developments?”

“He just bought a third round of beers for the table. That is, the third round that we know about. They were already drinking when we caught up with them.”

“Any idea who his friends are? How many? Are they armed?”

“We know very little, only what we’ve picked up from surveillance. A major and a Negro captain-both US Army. They don’t seem to be carrying firearms.”

“Do you have papers for me in case something goes awry?” Bogdanov said.

“Already in your new purse. You’re now a subject of the Queen, complete with British driver’s license and a few assorted pound notes.”

“I told you I wanted to go as an American. Americans innately trust other Americans more than they do Europeans.”

“I had problems getting the papers together. I got the blank passports and collateral documents you requested, but we didn’t have time to create new ones for you. We had to use papers from an existing legend. I didn’t have the manpower to spare to search your embassy office for one of your American passports, but the residency did have this on file along with a Canadian set.”

“I told you not to use the residency.” Bogdanov raised her voice.

“The last orders I had from you were to use any means at my disposal to pull this off. You required some very specific things. The residency was the only way.”

She removed the British passport and skimmed through it. “Doesn’t look like Veronica gets around much except to Spain and Malta.”

“You’re a nurse from Brighton here visiting a German friend, Beate Hirschbein of Krumme Strasse eleven. You met her while vacationing last October on Majorca. Hirschbein’s a sleeper we’ll reactivate and brief if you’re held for questioning.”

“I don’t anticipate it. I expect he’ll come along with me willingly, particularly if I use that Canadian cover. Americans don’t consider Canadians foreigners-they’re not really sure what to think of them, but they’re definitely family. I want everything possible going for me. It’s also fast for Berlin authorities to get a check on a British national through the British occupying forces here. After three years at the San Francisco residency, my American is much better than my British, so I’m Canadian tonight.” She returned the British passport and driver’s license to Ivashko. Each time she worked with him, it became clearer to her why he had never advanced beyond the rank of major despite his three decades with the KGB.

Ivashko opened his scratched plastic briefcase and removed a manila envelope. He tore it open and let the Canadian documents drop out onto the ratty sofa. Bogdanov thumbed through them, committing the pertinent information to memory.

“I’m now a nurse from Toronto. Otherwise, the same legend.” The colonel slipped the passport and driver’s license into the purse and flicked the gold latch shut.

“I arranged for Kolvich and Valov to accompany Otter as guards on the flight with you to Moscow, unless you want someone else.”

“They’re adequate for the job, but I don’t need anyone,” Bogdanov said.

“Otter is a strong guy, well trained in hand-to-hand combat.”

“He’ll be cuffed and on a plane.”

“Violate protocol if you wish,” Ivashko said.

“Okay, I’ll take the muscle.”

“They’ll be waiting for you at the airport. We have two taxis on surveillance. Both are set up for you. You have to make sure he’s the one who touches the backseat’s door-handle-passenger side. It’s the one inside that you have to worry about. It has sharp edges coated with a chemical that should knock him out in two or three minutes. If he tries to get in on the other side, the driver knows to tell him the door’s broken and he needs to go around. If you absolutely have to get out through that door, roll the window down and use the outside latch.”

“Fast work.”

“I think it’s clear to you now that I had to get help from the residency.”

“No, it’s not. My standing orders were to avoid contact. And I have one last order-do not injure Otter. Make sure everyone understands that. The more bruises he has on him, the harder time I’ll have getting FedEx to cooperate. So when they transfer him to the trunk of my car for the ride East, I want them to be civil. I’ve seen what they do and I don’t want a lot of marks, and definitely no injuries.”

“Understood. The other items you requested will be loaded on your Yak by the time you’re there. Looks like you forgot the wire. It’s on the back of the silver pin in the bedroom. Given how cobbled together this operation is, I figured we’d better be listening in just in case something doesn’t go as planned.”

“Things will go as planned. No self-respecting Canadian would wear that piece of trash. I don’t want it.”

“You never know what’s going to happen.” Ivashko leaned forward in his chair, coaxing an extra boost from the inertia of his body. “I’ll get it for you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

IVANSKOE AIR CORRIDOR, MOSCOW ATC REGION

5:27 P.M., MOSCOW TIME

Faith picked up the last food tray, stowed it in her trolley and headed back to the galley. Serving meals and apologizing for a shortage of blankets and pillows was not her idea of a good time. At least the flight was going well. She’d been worried that they’d hit turbulence and her fear would give her away. No one seemed to suspect that she wasn’t a regular flight attendant.

The passengers were a typical mix of Russian expatriates and West European businessmen with an occasional Western student thrown in. Only one passenger intrigued her-the striking Nordic-looking operative whom she couldn’t place. When she delivered him the meal, she spoke with him in German and he sounded straight out of Saxony. They chitchatted in Russian when she picked up his empty tray. This time he commanded a perfect Leningrad accent. With her mind on the mystery agent, she wheeled the cart into the first-class cabin before she realized it. She rolled the awkward contraption backward and bumped into someone.

The purser shielded his mouth with one hand. “Let me through. Fast. Mickey Mouse.” He disappeared into the forward lavatory.

She wrestled the cart into the galley. Four flight attendants huddled inside, finishing up their meals. Faith rammed the cart into its dock and locked it into position.

An Asian flight attendant looked up at her. Her name tag read “Mae.” “Help yourself to lunch. From the looks of Jeff, I wouldn’t recommend the stuffed tennis balls today.”

“I need a drink.” Faith rummaged through the drawers of the beverage cart, searching for a tiny airline bottle of booze. She was sure Ian had a dutyfree bottle in his briefcase on the flight deck, but she hoped to make it to Moscow before he realized she was a stowaway.

“This is a Moscow flight. They wiped us out.”

“Guess I’ll eat something after all.” Faith tugged at the small aluminum handle of the meal insert, but the door didn’t budge.

“It’s jammed. We haven’t been able to get it open. Good thing it’s a light load today.” Mae pointed at the bin.

“Forget it.” She wasn’t that hungry and she didn’t want to hang with the attendants and give them a chance to realize she wasn’t really one of them, so she decided to go back and chat with secret agent man. What difference would it make? Her cover was blown with him. His cover was blown with her. And she was very, very bored. She took two spoons and an extra dessert from the presidential-class service and then entered the coach cabin. She glanced at her watch-five twenty-nine, local time. Not much longer.

The operative took up his space in 19A. The armrests of the two empty seats beside him were pushed up and magazines were spread out. Faith decided industry protocol didn’t matter a hell of a lot at that point in her short-lived Pan Am career. She approached him with the chocolate mousse and leaned over the empty 19C. “Compliments of the house. It’s part of our new World Spook Class service. Thought you might share it with me while we get-”

A brilliant flash. A thunderous clap. The plane lurched to port and shook violently.

Lockerbie.

The first row of coach passengers vanished. Faith dived onto the seats beside the agent. Her hand landed on a seatbelt. She grabbed onto the strap. A tornado engulfed what was left of the cabin, whipping purses, swizzle sticks and insulation into anything in its path. Overhead luggage compartments sprang open, their contents flying toward the open sky. She fought to hold on, but the force tore at her, pulling her away. She was being sucked into the air. She strained to hold on, but the strap slipped through her hands.

Frosty was ready to be on the ground and stretch his legs. It’s going to be Georgian food tonight, he decided. Shashlik. With lots of fresh cilantro. He could taste the chunks of marinated lamb as he glanced at his engineering console and the picture of his pooch. Everything was running beautifully and ol’ Clipper was happy as ever. At least they’d managed to pick up some time; they’d be starting their initial descent in about twenty minutes. He decided to go to the galley and see if he could find a snack to tide him over.

He reached to unfasten his seatbelt. An earsplitting explosion went off like a shotgun blast beside his ear. Dirt, charts, loose insulation and Clipper’s picture were sucked backward toward the passenger cabin. The force jerked Frosty’s head toward the door.

Lockerbie.

He snatched up his oxygen mask and donned his headset. The air fogged, then quickly cleared.

“Frosty, Jackson, you with me? Initiating emergency descent,” Ian said, his voice steady but barely audible through the mask mike.

“Affirmative. Initiating rapid decompression checklist.” Frosty’s ears popped like firecrackers and hurt like hell. Within seconds he confirmed that the air-bleed switches were open and that the pack switch was on. He closed the cargo heat outflow and attempted to restore cabin pressure manually, even though he knew it was hopeless. His stomach sank along with the plane.

He visualized the blue and white shell of the Maid of the Seas on the Scottish Highlands.

Lockerbie.

Faith fought to hold on, but the belt slipped through her fingers. She felt her body fly into the air. Then someone grabbed on to her. The operative wrapped his arm around hers. And he squeezed. She struggled to hang on.

Suddenly the sucking force subsided. A mist filled the air and then settled on everything. The roar of the wind and the engines filled the cabin. She could almost feel the sound hitting her body. Her ears throbbed with sharp pain. She moved her jaw back and forth to try to equalize the pressure, but the ringing in her ears wouldn’t stop. She breathed hard, gasping for the thin air.

The yellow oxygen masks dangled above some of the seats, but the ones above her failed to open. She stood and pried at it with her fingernails, feeling dizzier by the second. The operative whisked out a pocketknife and popped the panel open. They both grabbed the masks and inhaled deeply. The front of the plane pitched downward and they began rapidly losing altitude. Someone ahead of her began shrieking. Others joined in. And she wanted to cry out, too.

An icy gale battered her, but she could now stand. The plane’s interior panels had been ripped off and sucked away. A chunk of the ceiling was gone and she stared at the bare green skin of the plane. Overhead bins were open and one bank of them was missing. She looked toward the galley where all the flight attendants had been eating.

Blue sky. Nothing but blue sky.

Frosty flipped on the no-smoking and fasten-seatbelt signs. He felt vibrations and scanned his panel. The EPR on the number-three engine went to hell and the exhaust temp was plummeting. “Ian, number three has low EPR and EGT and no N₁ indication. Ate something it didn’t like.”

“Initiate emergency shut-”

The engine-fire warning bell went off, drowning everything out. I should’ve taken that early retirement. What was I thinking? The flight engineer’s console blinked like he’d won the jackpot in Vegas. But Frosty McGuire was never one to walk away with money in his pocket. Like water seeking its own level, he always stuck with something until his luck turned bad. Frosty silenced the bell, then began shutting down the number-three engine. He prayed the other two hadn’t also ingested more debris than they could handle.

Faith stared at the blue sky. An invisible force pulled her toward the hole. She grabbed the back of a seat. She knew she was going to slide out if she took a step and she also knew her fear was taking over. She was probably the only flight attendant on board-or at least the only one wearing the uniform. The galley was gone and the cabin crew with it. Already passengers were beginning to look toward her, their faces expectant. She had to pull herself together and do something. She sat down and took three deep breaths of oxygen. It was just like smuggling across a border, she told herself. Stay in character. You’re Sandy Reeves, Pan Am flight attendant, trained for emergencies. She fingered the wings on her uniform.

Sandy Reeves stood, blocking out Faith’s fears. She knew what she had to do. The first rule of triage: life support. She snatched the pocketknife from the operative and took a deep breath from her oxygen mask. She moved quickly to the next row of passengers, where masks hadn’t deployed. With a twist of the knife, the panel opened and the masks dropped down. Before the passengers could put them on, she tugged on one and took a couple of deep breaths. She worked her way from row to row, hanging on to the backs of seats as she went.

The plane continued to sink.

The closer Faith got to the former galley, the more the floor sagged. Broken electrical wires hung from the ceiling, buzzing and arcing as they whipped around. She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She filled her lungs with the thin cabin air. It was icy cold, but breathable. They’d lost a hell of a lot of altitude. Thank God the Russian countryside was flat. She hoped it was flat enough.

Frosty pulled the fire bottle for the number-three engine for the second time as he listened in on the first officer’s exchange with the ground.

“Moscow Centre, this is Clipper ten-seventy-two; we are declaring an emergency,” First Officer Jackson said.

“Here is Moscow Centre. Is that Clipper ten-seventeen on emergency?” the controller said with a heavy Russian accent.

“Clipper ten-seventy-two, ten-seven-two, declaring an emergency.”

“Moscow Centre, Clipper ten-seventy-two, on emergency.”

“Moscow Centre, Clipper ten-seventy-two, descending out of-” Jackson ran his finger down the metric conversion chart “-seven-five hundred meters for… four-two hundred meters. Request clearance to nearest airport.”

The controller struggled with the foreign words. “Clipper ten-seventy-two, this is Moscow Centre. Negative on request. Nearest airport is with military restriction. Proceed to Sheremetyevo.”

“Moscow Centre, Clipper ten-seventy-two, we’re experiencing emergency depressurization and failure on number-three engine. Repeat request for emergency clearance to nearest airfield.”

“Clipper ten-seventy-two, here is Moscow Centre. Repeat. Negative on request. Negative on request.”

“Captain,” Jackson said.

Ian visibly struggled with the sluggish controls. “I copied. Distance to Sheremetyevo?”

“One hundred eight nautical miles,” Frosty said. “Real neighborly folks, those Rooskies.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

WEST BERLIN, AMERICAN SECTOR

The Papagei Pub catering to GIs was packed with its usual crowd of servicemen, their German girlfriends and young working-class Berliners looking for American dates. The men at the bar watched a time-delayed broadcast of a baseball game on the Armed Forces Network. Each time a loud cheer shook the room, the mascot macaw perched at the end of the bar squawked, “Touchdown! Touchdown!” The bird then settled back into its routine of plucking out the feathers around its mangy neck.

The blues, pinks and greens of the blinking neon parrot in the pub’s window reflected on Summer’s face. Socializing with his old Army classmates from the joint-services Explosive Ordnance Disposal School was fun, but hardly distracted him from the nagging sense that he should have stopped Faith-even if her fury had meant the end of their friendship. He absentmindedly lifted his beer with his buddies in a toast to younger days and sipped the pilsner through the foam head.

Captain Leroy Walters reached for a handful of popcorn and threw a kernel into his mouth. “Man, I don’t know what’s with the Germans, why they don’t have good finger food. You’d think any people who know how to make beer this good would’ve come up with something to snack on while you’re drinking it. You know, this place only started serving popcorn a couple of months ago.”

“That right?” Summer said automatically.

“Come on, Summer, you ready to tell us now what you’re doing, coming all the way over here on a moment’s notice?”

“I told you, I was on a rescue mission for a damsel in distress.” He picked up a stack of cardboard beer coasters advertising Warsteiner Pilsner and shuffled them. He didn’t like the feeling lodged in his gut: Faith was in trouble.

“I’m sure you did the right thing.”

“She never would let me do that.” He dropped the coasters one by one from one hand into the other. He should’ve stopped her this morning, but she was so damn headstrong.

“What kind of trouble she in? You can get into a lot of trouble in this city.”

“The kind you don’t want to know about.”

“Well, that narrows it down to female troubles or problems with the communists.”

Summer stared at the neon bird.

“Oh, shit, man. You gotta be real careful in this town. You know, I used to use that same Turkish car mechanic-der Meister, we called him. He was the one they busted for helping that guy with the 513^th carry all those documents to East Berlin.”

“You don’t say?” Summer said. His thoughts were eight hundred miles east.

“Yeah, I used to take Francine’s Pontiac into his shop. All the guys used der Meister. He could fix anything. The nicest guy you’d ever meet. No one could believe he was a spy. They say he took microfilm to East Berlin through a hole in the fence the KGB showed him. You know, we do get them coming over here, taking pictures of what we’re doing. You can always spot ’em. It’s always one or two little guys in cheap suits. They pretend to walk dogs by you and they’d be taking your picture all the while. They won’t use the same guy twice because we’d be too suspicious, but they never thought to change the damn dog! I tell you, I can spot a KGB agent every time.” He turned his head toward a tall woman walking by. She had closely cropped dark curls that reminded him of an old girlfriend. She slowed her pace as she neared the pub. “Oh, she’s nice looking. Out for a night on the town. You boys might have to excuse me.”

The men turned their heads and watched the sexy woman pass the window. She wore the ugliest brooch Summer had ever seen. She glanced at him and then looked away.

“Her step’s too deliberate,” Summer said. “You might always be able to spot a KGB agent, but I can always tell when a lady is too complicated to mess with. That woman has a mind of her own. Trust me, you don’t want to get involved with that one.”

“Sounds like she reminds you of someone. Your damsel in distress, maybe?” Meriwether finally spoke.

The woman entered the pub and stood near the doorway, surveying the room. When her gaze fell upon their table, Walters smiled at her and motioned for her to join them.

“Control yourself, Leroy,” Summer said. “Don’t let your dick go busting up our reunion.”

“She looks like she’s looking for someone, and maybe I’m her man.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, guys,” she said in an American accent. “But I’m checking out all the military hangouts for a friend of a friend. I know this sounds pretty weird, but it’s real important for my friend Faith that I find him.”

Summer jerked his head up and stopped playing with the coasters. “You know Faith? Faith Whitney?”

“Yeah. I’m trying to find a guy named Max Summer.”

“She all right? What’s happened to her?”

“You’re Max? Thank God I found you. She got word to Hakan she needs you as soon as possible. He’s out looking for you, too.”

“She say anything else?”

“It didn’t mean much to us, but she said it has something to do with a package you helped her with.”

“Where is she?”

“Do you know Berlin?” the woman said.

“Barely.”

“I do,” Meriwether said.

“At an apartment in Steglitz. I can take you to her.”

“Let’s go.” Summer stood, reaching for his wallet.

“I got it, man.” Walters threw a blue hundred-mark bill onto the table.

“By the way, I’m Kathy,” she said as they left the bar. Kathy raised her arm in the air to hail a taxi. A tan Mercedes taxi turned its lights on and pulled up to the curb.

“You don’t need a cab,” Leroy said. “We can drive you wherever you need to go. I’ve got my wife’s Pontiac tonight. We can all pile in the cruiser.” He pointed at a blue Grand LeMans with Virginia license plates.

“The plates kind of give you away as a US serviceman. It could be dangerous for Faith. I think we’d better go for the cab,” Kathy said.

“Thanks again, but she’s got a point,” Summer said as he opened the door for Kathy. “We’ll follow you to the base to get my stuff. No telling what she needs help with. Wait at the gate for me and I’ll ride in with you. She can stay with the taxi.”

She slid across the leather seat, making room for Summer. He closed the door behind her and she rolled down the window. “Hey, aren’t you getting in?”

He pulled on the handle of the front passenger door and leaned over to the back window. “I’m kinda funny about riding in the back of cabs-particularly in foreign countries and New York City.” He hopped into the front seat and put on his seatbelt. He greeted the driver with a nod. “Wait a second, then follow that Pontiac.”

The driver shrugged his shoulders. “No English.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Kathy translated for the cabbie. He shook his head at first and then after a few more words seemed to understand. The driver waited for the Pontiac.

“Was that some weird dialect of German you were speaking with him? It sounded kind of funny,” Summer said as he took note of the off-duty cab behind them.

“Oh, I speak Swiss German. I was an exchange student in Zurich for a year. Swiss German is really different from what the Germans here speak. You know, when West German TV shows movies from Switzerland in Swiss German, they use subtitles because it’s so hard for Germans to understand. I keep wanting to learn High German, as they call it, and I’d hoped to pick it up in Berlin.”

“He seemed to understand you without subtitles. It sounded like you switched languages or something all of a sudden.”

“I think he’s an Ausländer, a foreigner. They usually only know Low German because that’s what the Germans speak with them when they work in the factories and stuff. But you did hear a shift. I switched from my stab at High German to my regular Swiss German, which is a sort of Low German. At least I got my point across.”

The cab sped up. Summer jerked his head around. “Hey, where’d they go?”

“I think they’re ahead of us. He’s speeding up to catch them.”

“They must’ve turned. Tell the cabbie to turn around.”

Kathy spoke to the driver, then to Summer. “He says he knows a shortcut to the base.”

How does he know which base we’re headed to? “How did you say you knew Faith?”

“She’s my nephew’s professor at Ozark U.”

“Ozark U., is that right?” A professor? Ozark U.? Bullshit. Summer discreetly unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the door handle.

Before he could jump out, Kathy pushed a gun against the back of his head.

“Put your hands on the dashboard. Now!” Kathy said, then immediately shouted orders in another language.

Now Summer recognized it. Roosky.

He wished he hadn’t had so much beer as he placed his hands on the dashboard and surveyed the front of the cab for potential weapons. Not even a stray pencil lay on the floorboard. A professional must have gone over the car. The taxi raced through the empty residential streets. It felt as if they were going south, but he knew that, in West Berlin, every direction led East.

“What do you want with me?”

“I told you, you’re going to help your friend.”

“Bullshit. You don’t need to kidnap me for that. You know the Allies will stop you before you can get me through the Iron Curtain.”

“Didn’t Faith explain to you that all of Berlin is behind the so-called Iron Curtain? No one checks cars leaving West Berlin. The cavalry isn’t going to come over the hill and save you, cowboy. You were on our turf as soon as you set foot here. The East Germans aren’t particularly keen on it, but it’s quite a convenient arrangement for us.”

“I’m happy for you. Would you mind not pushing that thing against my skull? I’m not giving you any resistance, and I’d sure hate for it to go off next time we bounce over a pothole.” In the rearview mirror Summer saw the Pontiac run the other taxi into a fire hydrant and speed past it. Come on, Leroy.

“Sorry, commander. I know about your training.”

The Pontiac was gaining on them. Punch it, Leroy! The driver turned onto a wide boulevard. Floodlights. Barbed wire. Watchtowers. I’m fucked.

Leroy’s car was closing the gap. Fifty feet. Thirty feet. Twenty feet. Five feet. The border was seconds away.

Now, Leroy!

The Pontiac rammed the Mercedes. Tires squealed. The car spun and the gun moved away from his head. He shoved the door open and sprang from the vehicle. Spotlights blinded him.

“Hände hoch!” A sentry butted a Kalashnikov against his chest.

Summer stared at the white line across the cobblestones. Ten feet. Ten fucking feet behind the Curtain. He threw up his arms.

Guards swarmed around the taxi and the Pontiac, weapons drawn. Steam poured from under the hood of the Pontiac. The engine growled, but wouldn’t turn over. Come on, start, damn it. Start. The engine let out another pathetic growl, but wouldn’t fire. You son of a bitch. The Pontiac straddled the boundary, the front half clearly in the East, the trunk in the Free World. Guards yanked the doors open and dragged Walters and Meriwether from the car. Soldiers poured from a bunker, firearms drawn.

A black Mercedes with red Cyrillic license plates sped across the border and screeched to a halt. At the same time, the driver and Kathy jumped from the taxi. The East Germans drew their weapons. Kathy shouted at them in German, then Russian. She grasped the handle of her weapon with two fingers and held it into the air. A guard stepped forward and snatched the weapon from her. Summer understood her when she cursed him in German.

“Oberst Bogdanov der KGB, du Arschloch. Don’t point your weapons at me.” She repeated herself in Russian, her voice rising in tandem with her anger as she struggled to salvage the botched operation. She gritted her teeth and shook her head as she watched the chaos unfold around her. Where was German order when you needed it? She looked in the eyes of the teenage sentry and saw fear. Not good. His rifle barrel trembled. So did his finger on the trigger. For more than a minute spotlights had been shining on her black operation. Anytime now the West Berlin and Allied military police would be there, photographing the melee. “Get your captain over here at once if you don’t want a tour of Siberia with me. Mach schnell!”

“Captain Holtzer, you’d better get over here. She says she’s a KGB colonel,” the kid shouted.

The captain strutted toward the colonel with slow Prussian arrogance. She yelled at him in German with a heavy Russian accent, hoping it would expedite the situation. “Colonel Bogdanov, KGB. I’m taking charge of the situation. Ivashko in the black Mercedes has my identification. You can verify it when we’re all safely away from Western eyes. Order your men at once to get these cars out of sight. If they’re not concealed within one minute, you fly with me to Lubyanka tonight. Davai! Davai!”

The captain barked orders to his troops. Three guards tossed their weapons over their shoulders and pushed Leroy’s car completely across the divide onto the sovereign territory of the German Democratic Republic.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

LUBYANKA (KGB HEADQUARTERS), MOSCOW

One of General Stukoi’s twelve phones began ringing. He moved his head over the phone bank and touched the third phone. He felt the vibrations of the ringer and picked it up with confidence. “Listening.”

“We’re fucked.” General Titov from the Berlin residency didn’t bother introducing himself. “That drunk, Voronin, just called me from Bonn. His people got a bomb onto the plane they believed FedEx was on.”

“Goddamn it! We’ve got to get that plane on the ground.” He yelled for his secretary without bothering to put his hand over the receiver. “Pyatiletka, get me the supervisor at Moscow Air Traffic Control at once.” He spoke into the phone. “Gennadi, what flight did you say your man followed FedEx onto?”

“I just had that fucking number in front of me,” Titov said, then continued to swear as Stukoi listened to him rustle through papers. “Wait a minute. Here it is: Pan Am 1072.”

Another phone rang. Stukoi dropped the one with Titov onto his desk and could hear him ranting. Pyatiletka introduced the new caller as the senior supervisor of Aeroflot’s Area Control Center.

“There might be a problem with an inbound Pan American flight,” Stukoi said.

“We’re working it right now.”

“Is it still in the air?”

“It’s up, proceeding to Sheremetyevo.”

“How long until it’s there?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes-if it makes it.”

“Make sure you get it there.” Stukoi hung up. “Or I’ll have your ass.”

Titov was still carrying on about the incompetence of the Bonn residency and hadn’t noticed Stukoi’s absence. Stukoi grabbed the other phone. “It’s all going to hell!” He threw down the receiver and shouted to Pyatiletka, “Get my car. Now!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

108 NAUTICAL MILES FROM SHEREMETYEVO

Faith worked her way toward the hole, not sure what to do next and hoping that the sagging floor held. She shivered. It had to be well below zero. Several passengers were bloody from the flying debris. The purser, who had apparently been in the lavatory, throwing his guts up during the explosion, sat, strapped into a jump seat, making the sign of the cross. Over and over. The two men seated behind the galley’s bulkhead were missing. So was their entire bank of seats. In the next row two women sat with their feet dangling over open air. One was screaming, the other staring straight ahead as if engrossed in an in-flight movie.

Faith turned toward the rear of the plane and pointed at the operative. She motioned for him to come. He got up and hurried to her, his gaze fixed on the hole.

She shouted into his ear. “Deutsch? Russkii?”

“Russkii.”

“Name?”

“Call me Igor.”

Faith screamed in Russian and pointed to the two women. “The floor’s collapsing. I’m not sure how long it’ll support the weight. Can you help me get them out?”

He nodded. Faith moved the passengers from row twelve to the rear of the plane. She and the operative slid into the row behind the women. Faith yelled to the one in the former window seat, first in English, then in German and Russian, “We’re getting you out. When we get a firm grip, I’ll tap you on the shoulder. That’s your signal to unbuckle the seatbelt.”

Igor slipped his powerful arms underneath those of the woman. Faith tapped her shoulder. The woman sat there frozen, staring straight ahead. Her face and left arm were bleeding. Faith hung over the seat, almost dizzy from the view to the ground. She reached to unbuckle the woman. The woman slapped her away. Faith tried again. The woman slugged her.

“This is nonsense,” Igor said.

He struck the woman on the back of her head, stunning her. He grabbed her under the arms while Faith unclasped the seatbelt. In a single movement, he hoisted her over the seats and plopped her down on the row behind them. The second woman stopped screaming and latched on to Igor’s arms. He and Faith hauled her over the seat. They walked the women down the aisle to the last row.

“You strap them in. I’ll be back.”

Faith went into the lavatory and grabbed a handful of paper towels. She returned to the injured woman. Blood streaked from her eyebrow to her chin. Faith wiped the blood from her face, but didn’t see a wound. She felt a wave of nausea when she realized what had happened. The blood must have spurted on the woman as an injured passenger was sucked from the plane.

The other woman’s arm was bleeding. Faith pressed the towels onto the wound. “Keep pressure on it until it stops.” She repeated herself in the two other languages. She turned to Igor and shouted into his ear, “You just got a field commission. You’re part of the crew now. I know the KGB’s trained you in first aid. Treat the worst first. Check the overheads. One should have a first-aid kit. Go.”

The plane was in stable flight at fourteen thousand feet, and the two remaining engines were hanging in there-for the moment. Frosty couldn’t raise the cabin crew on the intercom. The captain ordered him to go back and survey the damage. Ian had throttled back a little, so the sound had dropped a few decibels along with the airspeed. He took off his oxygen mask and was greeted by a lot of fresh air. He stepped from the flight deck, expecting a mess, but wasn’t prepared for what awaited him. The galley was missing-along with the last starboard row of first class and the first row of coach. The armrest of 10C was twisted so that he feared they’d lost at least one passenger on the port side as well. Mountings for a bank of overhead lockers were visible underneath the stringers and tattered insulation. He could see the fuselage frame, but didn’t like the distorted floor panels and support beams. Catastrophic structural failure wasn’t far away.

As he inched past the chasm, he felt the floor buckle a little under his weight. Not good. A stewardess was ripping a blanket into strips, he guessed for bandages. She seemed very familiar. Too familiar. He hoped to God he hadn’t slept with her.

“Frosty!” Faith turned around and hugged him.

“Alooo-ha.” The wind whipped around them. He stood close to Faith’s ear as he spoke over the din. He pointed to the galley. “What’d you do to my plane?”

“It was a bomb. I saw the flash.” She didn’t smile. “We lost at least two passengers and three are unconscious. Several have pretty bad lacerations.”

“The crew?”

“Eating in the galley when it happened. All except him.” She pointed to the purser. He sat in a jump seat, moving his lips and crossing himself. “You’re looking at your crew: me and KGB Igor over there.” She used her head to point out the operative.

“I don’t want to know.” He held up his hand. “I’m just glad you’re here. We’re limping toward Moscow. The paranoid SOBs won’t let us land anywhere else. We’re about eighty miles out. We’ll start the descent when I get back up front.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Can you get everyone ready for landing? I don’t like the looks of it over there. I could feel the floor move as I walked over it. Reseat anyone within three rows of the hull breach, including those to port. Spread them out. This isn’t the time to mess with our center of gravity.”

“Are we going to make it?”

“You betcha. You’re flying with the dynamic duo.” Frosty winked at her. “I don’t know about the landing. Get them prepared for a rough one. When we come to a full stop, evacuate them. Do you know what to do?”

“In theory. I always prep my covers.”

“There’s a megaphone stowed in an overhead up front. When it’s time, take the front jump seat by the Holy Father and pray along with him.” He hugged her. “You’ll do great.”

Back on the flight deck, Frosty reported the situation to Ian, but omitted the identity of the remaining crew. “I’d say you’ve got one shot to land it. I wouldn’t like to see the stress on the airframe from a go-around. If the floor collapses, God knows what might fly out and into those engines.”

The seasoned professionals concentrated on their landing preparations. Sheremetyevo reported visibility at six miles, a cloud ceiling of two thousand meters and a wind out of the north gusting up to twenty-five knots. Ian adjusted the heading to compensate for the crosswind. “Gear down.”

“You’ve got it. Gear down,” First Officer Jackson said. “I’ve got green on the main, but the nose isn’t budging.”

“Extend manually,” Ian said.

“I’m on it.” Frosty flipped a switch to depressurize the gear’s hydraulics.

“Landing gear lever off,” Jackson said.

“Ian, can you drop speed? I need two-seventy or lower.” Frosty grabbed the red crank mounted on the rear bulkhead beside the fire ax. He climbed onto the floor near his station. The metal ring that served as a handle on the access panel was missing, but he got it open. He inserted the shaft and cranked it clockwise three times, hoping the doors opened. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he wiped it with his forearm. He turned the crank three times counterclockwise. For good luck, he visualized the latch moving back and allowing the gear to go into a freefall. Frosty prayed his last three clockwise turns had locked the gear down.

He glanced over to the instrument panel in front of the first officer, but didn’t see the green light he wanted. Squinting, he looked through the view hole, but couldn’t see the red reference stripes. Oil and dirt caked the viewer. He slammed the panel shut. Those jerkoffs in maintenance.

“Ian, I can’t get a green light and shit’s smeared all over the view hole. I hope it’s not oil from hydraulics. Given the state of the back end, recommend we proceed with a couple of Hail Marys.”

“Jackson, advise the tower we don’t have a safe nosegear-down indication, but we’re coming in anyway. Make sure they have the equipment ready. Everything they’ve got.”

Ian aligned the craft with runway 25L. The first officer set the flaps to fifteen degrees and the aircraft slowed. Frosty noticed it yawing heavily to the right and rolling side-to-side. “Is it easier to control with the flaps up?”

“Put them back to five,” Ian said. “Engineer, give me a V speed for a flap-five landing.”

Frosty flipped through the flight manual and read, “V_ref forty plus thirty for flaps one through fifteen.”

“English, please, sir,” Ian said.

“Uh, V_ref forty is one-two-two knots… no, one-fifty-two knots.”

They broke through the clouds and Frosty could see the flashing lights of fire trucks racing to meet them. As Ian reduced the speed, the plane rocked and rolled. Ian struggled with the yoke.

Frosty was confident he could read Ian’s mind. He pulled out the letdown chart. “I just checked. The runway’s over twelve thousand feet-enough room to take it in at warp speed.”

“Then warp speed it is.” Ian pushed the power levers forward and the rocking decreased. Just let the gear be down and locked.

From the altitude and angle of attack, Faith knew the landing was only moments away. She had prepared the passengers to assume crash position at her signal. As the plane slowed, it began to toss like a boat in high seas. Then she felt the increase of speed. Please don’t do a go-around. The ground got closer and closer. She picked up the microphone and squeezed the button. “Brace, brace, brace.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

SHEREMETYEVO AIRPORT, MOSCOW

Man, I had a dreadful flight. I’m back in the USSR.

The plane kissed the tarmac in one of the gentlest landings Faith had ever experienced. Fast but smooth. Ian was good. Damn good. She looked through the opening. A fire engine on the parallel access road was speeding to catch up with them. As the craft rolled to a stop, some passengers applauded and cheered wildly. Others just sat there, staring straight ahead.

Faith sprang up, swung the lever on the emergency exit counterclockwise and pushed the door open. The yellow emergency slide inflated, a giant tongue hanging from the exhausted plane. KGB Igor stood, awaiting her instructions.

“Go to the bottom and help them as they come down.” Faith smelled jet exhaust, but didn’t notice any smoke. The engines seemed finally to be quieting down. She picked up the megaphone. “Proceed to your nearest exit. Don’t take anything with you. Go!” Passengers mobbed the front of the craft. “Jump. Jump. Don’t take anything with you.” She wrestled a package from the babushka with all the plunder and shoved her down the slide. “Jump. Jump. Don’t take anything with you.”

After the last passenger was evacuated, Igor caught Faith at the bottom of the slide and helped her onto the tarmac. He held Faith’s hand in a firm grasp and walked her away from the crowd. Ian, Frosty and the first officer were left to take care of their own escape.

“Thanks for the help,” Faith said. Hair wisped across her face. She didn’t bother to push it away. “Am I correct to assume it wasn’t your bomb? It sure as hell wasn’t mine.”

“You were a hero.” The operative continued to shake her hand. “You have my word that, if I have to kill you, it will be merciful.”

“Swell. Guess it’s back to our game. I can’t do this right. I’ve been through enough for today. Give me a second to regroup, will you?” She retracted her hand and stepped away, turning her back toward him. Ian was tallying passengers.

Igor followed her. “Did the package make it? My orders were to ensure that it did.”

“Those were your orders, huh?” Faith whirled around. “I tend to believe you. I don’t think you’d plant a bomb on board, then go along for the joyride. Who wants to stop delivery?”

“KGB politics are deadly. Do not concern yourself. Did the package make it?”

“You saw all that crap flying around up there.” She shrugged her shoulders. “All I can guarantee is that it’s definitely in Moscow oblast-either in that plane, on a debris field or it arrived last night through Helsinki.” She smiled. “You were my guardian angel in there, but pardon me if I don’t completely trust you.”

“The devil had angels, too, didn’t he?”

The glint in his eyes was chilling. Faith looked away and saw five gray GAZ jeeps speeding down the now-closed runway ahead of two fire engines and an ambulance. She knew the jeeps could only belong to the KPP-Soviet-style airport security and a directorate of the Committee for State Security.

The first wave of the KGB had arrived.

Faith watched the operative walk toward a jeep from the airport militia. How the hell was she going to get the C off a plane surrounded by the KGB? She looked up to the cockpit. It was a good two stories above her and there were no stairs. Then she sensed someone approaching her from behind. “I’d like to commend you for your gallant work, miss.” Faith recognized Ian’s voice and swung around.

“Faith?” Ian said. “Bloody Christ, what are you doing here?”

“Before you say anything, it wasn’t my bomb. I swear.” She put her hand over her heart. “This is an international emergency. Lives are at stake, including mine.”

His face turned bright red. “Young lady, you have gone too far.”

“Ian, I’m not doing anything you haven’t taught me.”

Frosty came running up to them. “Skipper! Hold on! If it hadn’t been for Faith, you wouldn’t have had a cabin crew. We’re damn lucky she was on board. She performed like a vet while our chief steward was strapped in, giving himself last rites. Faith’s a hero. You owe her, buddy.”

Ian exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize-”

“That’s all right. Just help me get that cooler off the plane and to Svetlana’s before morning.”

Frosty shook his head. “No can do, honey. That puppy’s a crime scene. No way will they let us back on there.”

“You’ve got to find a way. Ian, did I forget to tell you the rarest of the Armenian icon shipment at Svetlana’s are from the Nagorno region? They’re yours upon delivery to her.”

“Nagorno? How in heaven did you ever locate them? I’ve tried for years.” He placed his hand on her back. “Faith, I’m sorry. There’s no way.”

“There has to be. Convince them it was metal fatigue. Everyone saw what happened to that Aloha plane last year.”

“One look at it and a child would know it was a bomb.”

Frosty pointed at Faith as he spoke. “Maybe she’s on to something. They did think at first that United flight out of Honolulu was a bomb. Turned out the cargo-door latch blew.”

“No. There’s no way I can get you back in there.”

“You have to. That cooler on your flight deck.” Faith paused. “It’s packed with plastic explosives.”

“Did you take leave of your senses?” His face flushed.

“I had no choice. They’ll kill me if I don’t deliver it. I couldn’t bring it myself. They’re expecting me.”

“You’re telling me when the KGB starts to search for who planted the bomb, they’re going to find explosives on my flight deck? I’ll lose my license.”

“License, hell, I don’t want to be some commie’s bitch in a Siberian gulag. We’ve got to get that sucker off the plane.”

“I need my bag, too. I think it made it. It was stowed in the last overheard locker, port side,” Faith said.

“Anything else, my dear?” Ian said.

“I was kind of hoping one of you would be willing to let me use your hotel room to change and crash for the evening-no pun intended.”

“You know you can bunk with me anytime.” Frosty winked at her. “Even in Siberia.”

“Now we’d better find a way to get back on that plane, Candace.”

“And, by the way, Candace stayed in Frankfurt. I’m Sandy, Sandy Reeves.” She pointed to the name tag on her blue uniform jacket.

He squeezed her shoulder hard. “I sincerely hope the KGB doesn’t harm you, my dear, because after this is all over, I will kill you.”

Dazed passengers wandered around the tarmac in circles. Others sat on the runway in a stupor. Medics treated the injured, but no one seemed in a hurry to evacuate them. The KGB now stood guard over everything, Kalashnikovs in hand. Ian, Frosty and Faith approached a group of officials talking to one another, their long gray-green coats flapping in the wind. Igor spoke with a man in an ill-fitting suit near a group of airport personnel. Ian selected an airport militia officer whose uniform had the most fruit salad and started to speak: “Sir-”

Faith tapped him on the arm and whispered, “Wrong guy. You want the highest-ranking KGB officer and I’d say that’s him talking to Igor, your flight attendant.”

As soon as the Pan Am crew approached, Igor and the other man halted their conversation.

“Do you speak English?” Ian said.

“Little,” the plainclothes KGB officer said.

“How long are you going to leave my passengers here? Why aren’t the injured being taken to the hospital?”

“Not possible. They must pass immigration.”

“Station a guard on them if you have to, but get them to a hospital. A good one.”

“Not so simple.”

“And when can I get back on my plane? I want to go aboard and inspect it.”

“Cannot. It is crime scene.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s clearly metal fatigue. It happens all the time. Don’t you read the papers? Remember those planes in Hawaii?”

A shiny Zil limousine barreled down the tarmac. It was the type of government car Faith had seen crossing Red Square and driving through the gates of the Kremlin. It screeched to a halt. The driver climbed out, but before he could open the door for his passenger, a uniformed KGB general jumped out and stamped over to Igor. They moved out of earshot and talked briefly; then the general ignored the Pan Am crew and spoke to the airport KGB officer in Russian. Faith listened in.

“I want you to get the luggage off the plane as if nothing’s happened. Allow the crew to return on board and retrieve their personal belongings. These people have gone through enough. And take those injured to an infirmary.”

“But sir, this is a crime scene. It can’t be disturbed. The evidence-”

“There has been no crime. Take one look at it and any idiot can see that the plane came apart. Capitalist maintenance.”

“But, sir-”

“That’s an order, captain. Get that plane off the tarmac and out of sight in a hangar immediately. Also, see to it that one of your people escorts the captain and his crew to the front of the immigration line. No need for interviews today. They will be with us for a while.”

The general turned toward Ian and asked, “Vy kapitan?”

Ian nodded. The general flashed him a thumbs-up. He turned and walked back to his car. As Igor climbed into the staff car, he nodded to Faith.

As they drove off the tarmac, General Stukoi picked up his car phone and called Titov at the residency in Berlin. “We’re back on track, thanks to your man Resnick. Contact Voronin and get Bonn to stand down. Tell him I personally arrested the terrorists and we have his nuclear suitcase under our control. He’ll get the Medal for Irreproachable Service as long as he keeps this to himself. Tell him whatever you want. Just make sure he believes there’s no longer a threat to the leadership. I don’t want any more interference.”

An Aeroflot movable stairway was brought to the plane and the crew was allowed aboard just long enough to grab their personal belongings. Somehow most of their things survived the chaos. In the Aeroflot bus to the terminal, Faith saw Frosty grin as he looked at the salvaged snapshot of his dog. He stuffed it into his wallet.

Ian whispered to her, “It’s not really in the cooler, is it?”

“No. Forgive me, but I had to motivate you. I have the cargo.” She made eye contact with him and then looked at her carry-on.

“Did you understand what that general was saying? Why did he countermand the other chap’s orders and permit us on board?”

“KGB politics are deadly. Let it go.”

A Pan Am employee and a uniformed KGB lieutenant greeted the bus and escorted them to the crew passport-control line. He ordered the official to process them even though they lacked the requisite crew manifest. The border guard examined each passport and then stamped a separate loose document. Hakan’s handiwork on the document that Zara had provided passed scrutiny. She thanked the official in English and joined the others at customs.

A squat man with the cheeks of a chipmunk stopped the purser and asked him to open his bag. The official removed a Grundig shortwave radio and said something in Russian. The purser shrugged and looked toward Faith for help. She ignored him. As far as the Soviets were concerned, all American citizens were suspected spies and Americans fluent in Russian were spies. The first officer elbowed Faith and relayed the message. She moved ahead in line, guarding her ribs from any accidental bumps. “What’s up?”

“Something with my radio.” The purser was still pale and withdrawn.

“Says it’s radio,” Faith said in broken Russian with a heavy American accent. “BBC. Radio Moscow, you know.”

The guard handed the purser a customs-declaration form.

“What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know, but I think you have to declare it along with your currency and make damn well sure you export it when you go. Whatever you do, don’t leave with any extra cash beyond what you declare.” She maneuvered back to her place in line.

The purser whispered to Frosty, “What’s with her? In Frankfurt she was fluent-”

“Keep it quiet, son. Do your patriotic duty and play along.”

While waiting for him to complete the declaration form, the inspector motioned for Ian to place the cooler on the counter. The official removed the dry ice and ogled the ice cream, then took out one of the hand-painted plates. He ran his hands around the side of the cooler and paused at the Leatherman. He folded it back so that it became a pair of pliers and proceeded to pull out each blade. “Not bad,” he said to himself in Russian. He tried to fold it back, but the last knife blade wouldn’t move.

Ian took it and pushed, but the blade was locked into place.

“Gimme,” Frosty said. “Takes an engineer.” He closed all the tools. “Safety mechanism. You guys wouldn’t know about those.” He handed it back to the customs officer.

The official made eye contact with Ian, glanced at the Häagen-Dazs and then looked back at Ian. “I’m sorry. You cannot take weapons into the Soviet Union.”

“The tool? I can assure you, it’s no weapon. I’m certain we can arrive at some understanding.” Ian slowly reached for the plate and returned it to the cooler. Without breaking eye contact, he stowed two containers of ice cream, put back the dry ice package and closed the lid. Two cartons of Häagen-Dazs were left behind on the counter.

“I suppose it is but a pocketknife.” The Russian smiled, his eyes now making love to the chocolate-cheesecake ice cream. In a single swoop, he returned the Leatherman and whisked away his booty. “You may go.”

The inspector motioned for a subordinate to replace him and he disappeared into a restricted area with the ice cream. The crew shuffled on. Faith followed them in tight formation.

“Devushka! Girl! Not so fast. Let me have a look,” the subordinate officer said.

Faith stopped, placed her Travelpro on the low counter and unzipped the bulging main compartment. The inspector removed a leather attaché and a neatly folded brown leather jacket. He pulled a ballpoint pen from the bottom and read the advertising embossed on it promoting Froneberger Reisen, a Berlin travel bureau. Faith prayed he wouldn’t unscrew it to find a few inches of time fuse.

He dropped the pen back into the case and set the jacket aside. He patted down the clothing, stopping when he came to her underwear. At that moment, she wished she had packed some chocolate to speed things along. He carefully lifted the clothes from the bag and stacked them on the brown leather jacket. He glared at her. “What is this?”

The entire bottom was filled with rows of small yellow canisters. He pulled out a Play-Doh can that she had coaxed Summer to purchase for her at the Army PX in Berlin. He opened it and pinched off a small portion of the doughy white substance.

CHAPTER FORTY

SHEREMETYEVO AIRPORT, MOSCOW

The customs inspector wore the uniform of the KPP, the KGB border guards: greenish-gray with hunter green piping. He motioned for assistance. His supervisor came over and opened a Play-Doh can. Faith steeled herself for a long delay. Please, not a chemical analysis.

Faith faked broken Russian. “Play-Doh. Gift for children without mama and papa. For orphanage.”

The supervisor sank his fingers into the Play-Doh and felt for contraband stashed inside. He ordered the inspector to do the same. They poked and prodded. By the third can, the supervisor crafted a crude bowl, momentarily losing himself as his fingers worked to even the sides. When he noticed his subordinate watching his handiwork, he smashed it. He shoved the doughy substance back into the can and probed the next one.

Faith shifted her weight and thought she felt the wire of a blasting cap through the insole of her shoe. Thank goodness Play-Doh and C-₄ looked exactly alike. She reached over and plucked off a small portion, rolled it into a ball and took a small bite. She swallowed and hoped the nasty stuff wasn’t as toxic as it tasted. She switched to English. “It’s harmless. Won’t hurt the kids one bit if they eat it.” Faith stifled a gag.

The supervisor sniffed the Play-Doh and replaced the lid, running his fingers around the edges to make sure it was closed. “Kids prefer ice cream,” he said with a sigh.

A few hours later in downtown Moscow, Faith used a public phone and received drop instructions from Kosyk’s man. As agreed, she called Zara from another phone to pass along the information so that her KGB backup would be in place.

No answer.

She dialed again.

The phone rang. Faith wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing. Who the hell had planted that bomb? What if Zara was involved and had set her up? Kosyk had the real information about her father. Maybe she should cut out the KGB and deal directly with him. Just then the phone clicked as if the call were being rerouted. Someone picked up.

“Listening.”

Faith recognized Zara’s voice, but didn’t speak.

“Hello? Faith? Faith?”

Faith hung up the phone.

Five minutes later, in the cramped Intourist hotel room, Faith molded the white Play-Doh into a brick and wrapped it in cellophane. Frosty helped her.

“This really is Play-Doh, isn’t it?” Frosty said.

Faith nodded.

“That means inside the cooler?”

She nodded again. They finished the craft project and Faith lowered the last one into the leather attaché case. The Play-Doh bricks could pass for C-₄. She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she was confident that as soon as she handed over the C-₄, they wouldn’t need her anymore and she doubted they would want to keep her around. She had to leverage the whereabouts of the plastic explosives to keep herself alive.

“I don’t know what that phone call was about, but ever since then you don’t look too hot,” Frosty said. “I hate to say this, but you looked better when you got off that crippled plane.”

“Not here.” Faith held her index finger in front of her mouth.

“I don’t mess with other people’s business, but at least let me walk you to the Metro, Sandy.”

Frosty insisted upon carrying the attaché case with the faux plastique. She hated sexist chivalry, but she had a soft spot for Frosty’s old-fashioned manners. She inventoried the faces on the sidewalk, but no one seemed to be following them. “Frosty, you’re a sweetheart, but this is too dangerous.”

“I’m a friend. At least tell me what’s eating you about that phone call. You don’t have to go into details, or even make sense.”

“I got the drop site, but it’s sloppy. It’s in a KGB-controlled hotel bar and the guy I’m doing business with knows better.”

“A setup.”

“Afraid so. And I think my backup might have been the one who arranged for the bomb.”

“I always was a sucker for a gal in deep kimchee.”

An hour later, Faith walked down the long, raised concrete drive of the Hotel Cosmos-without the satchel packed with the imitation C-₄. The hotel was so imposing that Faith suspected those who designed it for the 1980 Olympics secretly had created another memorial to Stalin. Sputtering Intourist buses from the state-run travel monopoly were dwarfed alongside the shiny behemoth. The glass structure reflected the nearby memorial to the first Sputnik satellite, its grooved-metal exhaust fumes shimmering in the setting sun, as if sparks were trailing the plump rocket.

A man wearing Levi’s rushed toward her and walked alongside her. The last thing she needed right now was a black marketeer preying upon her and drawing undue attention to her as if she were another Western tourist looking for a cheap souvenir.

“What country are you from? Do you have anything you want to buy, sell or trade?” The bug-eyed man spoke in English.

“Not now.” She didn’t look at him and walked straight ahead.

“I have whatever you want-matrioshki, lacquer boxes, znachki.”

She ignored him.

“True Red Army Kommandirskie watch. Only sixty dollars American.” He rolled up his sleeve and stuck his wrist in front of her face, too close for her to focus.

Faith pushed his arm back. The clunky timepiece’s metallic face had a large red star and a parachute with two jet fighters zooming away from it. A cameo of the Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin decorated the leather band. “Thank you, Frosty” was written all over it. It would be a perfect token of her appreciation for his impromptu assistance, and buying the thing would be the most expedient way to get rid of a persistent black marketeer.

“I saw your eyes. You want,” the man said.

“My eyes say get lost, militia everywhere,” she said in Russian.

“No worry. I paid this week. You speak Russian. Then for you, special price. Thirty dollars.”

She reached in her pocket and rolled a twenty into her sweaty palm and flashed it to him. “You have two seconds. Decide now.”

He pressed the watch into her hand, snatched the bill and disappeared.

Faith dropped it into her pocket as she walked past a militiaman slumped against the glass lobby window. She never could figure out if the militia was the same as the local police, but their military uniforms were much more ominous than any other local police she had ever encountered.

A doorman stopped every Russian attempting to enter, but didn’t ask Faith for identification. She pushed the heavy revolving door, went inside and climbed to the mezzanine, where the hard-currency bar was located.

She paid far too many dollars for a Carlsbad and took a position on one of the bar’s gaudy couches. Five women with heavy makeup and expensive Western dresses sat alone on various sofas, each sipping a glass of water. Any one of them could have been a Paris model. Faith guessed that, in their profession, they might be asked to model from time to time. Alongside them Faith felt particularly dowdy; her sweater matched the carpet and a third of the paisley swirls in the sofa. Someone might mistake her as part of the furniture-not as a call girl from the KGB’s stable, even though she was whoring for them all the same.

She sipped the Danish beer. Her tastebuds already missed Germany.

A man with a trimmed beard and mustache sprinted up the stairs. As he approached her, he removed his aviator glasses and made eye contact. She assumed he was another European businessman looking for a good time. He ordered a martini from the bar and took a seat across from her.

When he opened his mouth, Faith expected a stale pickup line, but instead he said in German, “Although the apple is a Central Asian native, the pomegranate-”

“Shove it. I don’t have the item with me. Meet me in the small park in front of the Bolshoi during tonight’s intermission.” She dashed from the hotel to the metro.

No one tailed her to the columned rotunda of the VDNH metro station entrance, but a large crew could be assigned to her and could be passing her off along the way. She took a five-kopek piece from her pocket and shoved it in the turnstile. Four sets of escalators disappeared down a steep tunnel, running at an intimidating clip. She studied their rhythm and jumped on, clutching the rubber guide rail. Several dozen Soviets rode the escalator. She examined them, but couldn’t place any at the Cosmos. A metro veteran directly behind her read Pushkin as the long escalator ride carried him deep underground.

Air gusted up the long tunnel. A train was on its way. She walked down the escalator, weaving between people. When she stepped off onto the granite floor, inertia hurled her forward. She caught herself, then bounded onto the car as the recorded female voice blared on the loudspeaker.

She rode five stops and switched lines. When the train arrived at the Prospekt Marksa station, Faith remained in her seat. The automated voice announced, “Danger. Doors are closing…” She bolted out, twisting sideways to escape the guillotine of the doors. She turned back around and looked into the car. The man reading Pushkin leaped from his seat and slammed his body into the closed doors. He mouthed something. It wasn’t polite.

She navigated the underground passages, grateful for her year at Moscow State, when she learned her way around the labyrinth. She emerged from the metro beside the red brick Lenin history museum abutting Red Square. The fairy-tale onion domes of St. Basil’s glowed in front of her. Spotlights bathed the gaudy cupolas, towers and spires. The crowd of Soviet and Western tourists that she was counting on had already assembled for the hourly changing of the guard. She was late.

With military precision, the three honor guards goosestepped toward the red granite mausoleum. Each pointed his rifle straight up, the polished bayonet glistening in the camera flashes. Faith quickened her pace, racing them toward the tomb. Tonight several hundred people waited. She slipped into the crowd, but didn’t see Frosty with the leather case and Play-Doh bricks she needed for the hand-off at the Bolshoi. The sharp click of the guards’ heels against the brick came closer. Where was he? The guards approached the mausoleum. Two took their places on the inside of the ones they were relieving; the third stood in the center. Faith had only seconds until the clock sounded the hour.

Then she spotted him.

Frosty had positioned himself near the front, several dozen people away from her. She shoved her way to him, contorting her body between tourists. She pushed up against him. They didn’t acknowledge each other. All eyes were fixed upon the honor guards. The clock on the Kremlin tower struck. The guards swiftly maneuvered around one another with perfect choreography and Frosty fumbled the leather briefcase as he handed it to Faith. She dropped the watch in his pocket by way of a thank-you. The clock played the familiar chimes and then the crowd dispersed.

Faith was already gone.

She walked at a fast clip down the dusty back streets to the Bolshoi. She reached into the side pouch of the satchel. Frosty had come through as promised. She glanced at the Bolshoi ticket and shoved it in her jacket pocket. He had even managed to get her a decent seat-too bad she wouldn’t get a chance to enjoy it. She’d make the drop and weave through the intermission crowd to the theater. Ticket in hand, she could go inside and hide in the ladies’ room until the performance was over and then exit in the collective safety of the masses.

From the shadows of a doorway across the street, she surveyed the popular small plaza in front of the theater. Like wrinkled toothless bulldogs, two babushkas staked out their territories on separate benches, balancing their squat frames on the few intact slats. Several men wore sweaters tied around their shoulders and a few clutched keys in their hands as they paraded around the dry concrete fountain. A handful of women in low-cut cotton dresses intermingled with the sparse crowd. A black Volga sedan was parked on the far side of the square in a no-parking zone.

A company car.

The doors to the Bolshoi opened. Well-dressed Soviet couples and underdressed Western tourists poured out between the white columns. The man from the bar stepped out of the waiting Volga and strolled toward the fountain. When he turned back toward the Bolshoi to scan the crowd, Faith crossed the street. She approached him from behind and handed him the satchel.

He swung around and grabbed her arm. His other arm took away the case.

She swirled around, using her weight to try to break free. Pain radiated from her shoulder as it twisted, but he hardly moved. His fingers coiled so tightly around her wrist that she could feel the bones shift.

The man forced her toward the Volga, shouting in Russian, “If I ever catch you with another man again, you’ll pay for it.”

The Russians turned away from her, not wanting to get involved in a domestic dispute. The Westerners watched.

“Help! I’m not-” Faith shouted before he slapped his hand over her mouth. She bit him until she tasted blood. She kicked and squirmed. She bent over, then straightened up and slammed against him as hard as she could. Her ribs throbbed, but he laughed into her ear. She fell limp, but her weight meant nothing to him; he dragged her across the broken concrete.

“Let her go!” Frosty said as he pushed through the crowd and ran toward her. Frosty punched the kidnapper’s face, but someone took hold of his arm.

The kidnapper shouted in Russian, “My wife’s not your whore, you capitalist bastard!”

Frosty threw off his assailant and jumped the kidnapper. The man dropped Faith. Sharp pain slowed her as she pushed herself up to see two more pile out of the Volga. They seized her arms and hauled her into the car.

“Frosty, get out of here! Go!” she shouted just before they slammed the door.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

LYSENKO RESEARCH FACILITY, MOSCOW

SUNDAY, APRIL 30

Faith didn’t know if she had passed out from a blow or from fear. Either way, her head throbbed from the scuffle, the pain reaching down her neck until it met the twinge coming up from her ribs. She didn’t know how long she’d been out. She gagged from the stench; the room reeked of a high school biology lab. She was alone-at least they didn’t get Frosty. But she was alone. And scared.

As she pushed herself up from the cold tile floor, pain shot through her ribs and right shoulder. She stood in the dark room and slowly shuffled her feet as they blindly explored her confines. A band of light emanated from the bottom of a door. She inched her way to it and pawed for the latch. She pushed it, but knew it was locked.

Plaster fell off into her hands as she patted her way around the room. Then she hit something, a flat surface. A shelf. Grit coated her fingertips. She reached above it and found another. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were built into the wall. The back of her hand hit a smooth, cool cylinder. A glass jar. She ran her hand along it and estimated it held over a gallon. The entire shelf was filled with the containers; hundreds of them lined the walls. The strong chemical odor guarded them from the curious.

When they apprehended her, they had no way of knowing she had brought them Play-Doh. So if the Stasi thought they got what they wanted, why were they holding her? Shouldn’t she be free or dead? And where was Zara, along with her promised KGB assistance? KGB headquarters was close enough to the Bolshoi that they could’ve walked over to help her. Frosty had defied her instructions and had come to the theater to help her.

An electric hum came from overhead. Faith squinted as fluorescent lights glowed. No one appeared. A hunk of wrinkled flesh floated in each jar. Brains. Human brains. And she had almost reached inside one.

Each brain was labeled with initials, a last name and a reference number. She’d heard rumors that Hitler’s brain was pickled somewhere in Moscow. The Soviets did keep brains of gifted luminaries for research into the origins of their intelligence. For the last fifty years, their scientists had sliced away and stained brain specimens of their leading citizens in their quest to perfect the New Soviet Man. She recognized the names of a geneticist, a cosmonaut and a Politburo member.

My first Mensa meeting.

A lock turned and the door flung open. Zara and a guard entered the room and locked the door afterward. Faith rushed toward her, but stopped herself when she saw the woman’s steel eyes and unyielding face.

Now Faith understood.

Zara had used her, betrayed her, attempted to kill her. She told herself the pain in her chest was from breathing the formaldehyde, but she knew better.

“It’ll be easier for you if you’ll cooperate with us, Doctor Whitney.” Bogdanov looked away as she spoke.

“How can you do this to me?” Faith seethed.

“Who are your local accomplices?”

“You were the one who told me to go along with Schmidt or Kosyk or whatever his real name is. I’m here because of you, so I’d say you’re my accomplice and you were working on behalf of the KGB, so I’d say the whole KGB is involved. You do work for the KGB, don’t you? It was them you were working for when you tried to seduce me, wasn’t it?”

“How did you plant the bomb on the airplane?”

“Are you out of your mind? I was on that plane. You did it, didn’t you?”

“If I wanted to eliminate you, we wouldn’t be talking. Who made the bomb?”

“Not me. I’d guess someone from your organization who didn’t want me to make the delivery. You know, the delivery you were going to intercept and use to nail Kosyk and company? If you ask me, it seems not everyone at the KGB is on the same page with this one. Do you guys ever have staff meetings?”

“Turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

“Maybe there’s an empty wall here I’m not seeing. What’s the deal with this place? You guys running out of space in Lubyanka all of a sudden?”

“Then place your hands on the desk and lean over.”

“So you can fuck me some more?”

Bogdanov reached inside the breast pocket of Faith’s leather jacket and removed two pens, a wad of dollars and rubles, a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and some matches. She flipped through the banknotes and threw them onto the guard’s tray. She left the watch in Faith’s pocket. “Why the cigarettes?”

“You know I’m a chain-smoker. Besides, they’re a second currency around here,” Faith said.

She clicked the top of the pen, but no point popped out. She dropped it onto the tray. Bogdanov’s hand reached inside Faith’s jacket. Bogdanov ran her hands over her chest, violating her. Faith jumped from pain and Bogdanov lightened her touch.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” Faith said under her breath.

“Neither can I,” Bogdanov whispered in English as she ran her hands down Faith’s inner thighs. “Take your shoes off.”

Bogdanov reached inside the shoe. She paused and made brief eye contact with Faith for the first time since entering the room. Faith knew she had found the C, but Bogdanov set the shoe down and searched the other one.

Bogdanov turned to the guard. “She’s clean.”

“I demand to see a doctor,” Faith said.

“Trust me, you don’t want to. We need you to tell us what you’re planning. We have the plastic explosives you smuggled into the USSR.”

“What plastic explosives?”

“The C-₄ you gave to Lieutenant Alexandrov during your Bolshoi escapade.”

“You know I don’t deal in arms. I don’t know anything about explosives.”

“We have the bag and its contents and we’ve apprehended one of your co-conspirators. You’ll confess, or someone you care about is going to get hurt.” She turned toward the guard as she walked through the door. “Bring him in.”

Bogdanov spun around on her heels and left the room. The lights went out.

Faith sat alone in the darkness, too angry and too terrified to cry. The Play-Doh would buy her time, but not her freedom, nor her life. She racked her brains, but at that moment, brains weren’t much use to her.

Later the door opened and a body was shoved inside. Faith shuffled closer in the darkness, careful not to kick whoever it was. She heard a groan. “Frosty? It’s okay. It’s me. I’d hoped you got away.” She knelt down.

He mumbled something. She pulled off his blindfold and noticed his hair was gone. Why would they ever shave his head? She ran her fingers over the wide forehead and the bald head. Then she felt a very familiar ear. Summer. She found the edge of the duct tape and ripped it from his mouth with a single jerk.

“Faith?”

She threw her arms around him and put her head against him, careful not to put pressure on her ribs. Tears flowed down her face.

“You okay?” he said.

“I’m pretty bunged up, but nothing that won’t heal. They’re going to kill us.”

“Pull yourself together. We’re gonna make it, honey.”

“I know you’re just saying that.”

“Hell, yes. But you have to get it together and get my hands freed up before we can do anything.”

“What are you doing here? Did you come after me?” She tugged at the tape around his wrists.

“Not exactly. Where the heck is here?”

“Moscow. Some old KGB lab’s storage room.”

“Holy moly.” He wiggled his wrists, trying to get some slack into the tape handcuffs. “Moscow? I was afraid of that. They’ve kept me blindfolded, but I had a feeling we were flying east. Hell, I didn’t need a feeling to know they were taking me to Russia. Where are Walters and Meriwether? I couldn’t hear them on the plane, but I wasn’t totally sure they weren’t there.”

“I have no idea who they are.”

“The last I saw them, the East Germans had them,” he said.

“I’m not sure what’s going on, but something big. This isn’t working. I can’t get this stuff off.” The tape stuck to itself. Her short fingernails picked at it.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got anything sharp?”

“Hold on.” Faith unscrewed a lid from one of the jars.

He sniffed loudly. “Jeez, someone dissecting cadavers around here?”

“You don’t want to know.” She smacked the jar lip against the heavy metal desk. Her finger explored the jagged edge. Sharp enough. Her foot raked stray shards under the desk. “Where are you? Talk to me.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Over here. This way.”

She inched over to him and sat on the floor beside him. “I’m going to do my best not to cut you, but I can’t see a damn thing.”

“Just take it slow, nice and slow.”

She sawed through the tape a few frustrating millimeters at a time.

“How many of them are there?” Summer said. “Any idea what’s outside the door?”

“At least two. Three or four guys brought me here, but I don’t know if they’re still around.” She nicked herself with the makeshift knife. “I have no idea what’s outside, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t set up for prisoners. Summer, you need to know, I’ve got some C stuck in my shoes.”

“A cap?”

“I had a blasting cap and time fuse in two pens, but she took them. She also took my matches.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed, then glowed.

“They’re coming.” Faith stuffed the glass shard into her pocket and smashed the tape back to cover up her handiwork.

Summer looked around in the light. “What the heck is wrong with these people? Pickled brains?”

“They study brains of smart people to try to figure out the secrets of their success. Yuri Gagarin’s over there. From rumors I’ve heard about his drinking and the truth behind the plane crash that killed him, he probably came prepickled.”

Bogdanov walked in, carrying a white brick wrapped in clear plastic. The guard closed the door behind them and stood erect, his gun pointed at Summer’s chest.

“I see you’re making yourselves at home,” Bogdanov said in English, startling Faith. “You’re in the company of great minds.” Her face fell, her mood shifting like a wind shear. She threw the brick to Faith, who caught it. “What’s this?”

“Play-Doh. Personally, I prefer Silly Putty. I like to smash it on colored Sunday funnies and stretch-”

“I don’t have time for foolishness. Where’s the C-₄?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Guard, leave us alone for a few moments,” Bogdanov said. “I think I might be able to be more persuasive without a witness.”

“General Stukoi’s orders were very clear. No one is to be alone with the prisoners.”

Bogdanov snapped her head around toward Summer and raised her voice. “I’m talking about a CIA agent and a US Navy special forces commando who brought C-₄ into the Soviet Union on a secret mission to assassinate General Secretary Gorbachev to stop his reforms and save the budgets of their Cold War-dependent agencies. You’re here to save your militaryindustrial complex from the threat of peace and friendship with an open, democratic Soviet Union. I prepared your confessions. Sign at the bottom. It may even help you avert the death penalty.” Bogdanov handed them the papers and two pens, both from the same Berlin travel agency.

Faith fingered the pen. It was the same one Bogdanov had confiscated earlier. She studied Zara’s face, but it betrayed nothing. She skimmed the document. “This is dated May first. It’s not May first yet, is it? And it’s not a confession about an attempt on Gorbachev. It’s a murder confession.”

“Things will go much easier for you if you voluntarily confess. I only have you for another twenty minutes. I can’t wait any longer. You have only twenty minutes. If you don’t sign by then, I can’t be responsible for what happens to you. Up until now, I’ve seen that you were treated well. Commander Summer’s trained to hold up under torture, but Doctor Whitney isn’t. Others can be more persuasive. Once you’re outside this wall…” She made eye contact with Faith, then looked at the wall. “Once you’re outside this wall on your way to Lubyanka, I can’t help you. Trust me; you don’t want to be in here in twenty minutes when they come for you.”

“We’re not going to sign. Forget it.” Summer shook his head.

“I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to consider it. Would you like a cigarette while you’re thinking?”

Bogdanov tapped the Marlboro pack until a cigarette tip came out. “Go ahead.”

The guard objected in Russian.

She turned to him. “It can’t hurt. What are they going to do? Put burn marks on Stalin’s brain?”

The guard laughed.

Faith hesitated before she pulled the cigarette from the pack and put it in her mouth. Bogdanov tossed her the matchbox. Faith palmed two matches as she removed one for the light.

Summer leaned forward. “I’ll take one, too.”

Bogdanov put the cigarette in his mouth. Faith lit it for him and threw the matches to Bogdanov.

“You have less than twenty minutes. Think carefully about what I’ve said. Do the smart thing.”

They left the room, but the lights didn’t go out.

“She’s the bitch who kidnapped me. I don’t know what the deal is with her, but she made it pretty clear we’d better be out of here in twenty minutes.”

Faith extinguished her cigarette and cut at the tape on Summer’s wrists. “I’ll have you out in a minute now that I can see what I’m doing.”

“Don’t worry about cutting me; just get my hands free. And get this cancer stick outta my mouth, but don’t let it go out. We’re going to need it.”

“I got a couple of matches.” Faith removed the cigarette and crushed it out on the floor. “The pens she left us have time fuse and a cap in them. And I swear she knew it.”

“That KGB bitch is a slick devil. What kind of fuse did you get? How much?”

“About four inches.”

“Four inches of time fuse will give us fifteen seconds or so.”

“I don’t know if it makes any difference, but it’s Russian made.”

“Then we’ve got a problem. I used Russian fuse in Somalia once. Burns like greased lightning.”

“It’s all I could get on short notice.”

“You should’ve let me help you in Berlin. Guess we can use a cigarette as a timer if we have to.”

Faith dug the glass shard into the tape, jerking it back and forth.

“You’re doing this like a girl, Faith. I’m gonna pull my hands apart as far as possible-which isn’t much. Now you’re gonna poke it into the middle of the furnace tape. Don’t worry about what you’ll do to me long as you don’t get an artery. Pull it as hard as you can toward yourself. Do it.”

Faith plunged the crude knife into the tape and pulled back as hard as she could, rocking it so it sawed the tape. She tipped backward as the glass cut through the edge. The tape wasn’t completely severed, but Summer was able to pull his hands apart. A few drops of blood smeared onto it. He stretched his shoulders through a range of motions as he stripped off the last pieces of tape. Faith excavated the C-₄ from her shoes. It had become pliable from her body heat.

He unscrewed the pen and removed the short fuse. “I only had to walk up six steps, so I’m assuming we’re at ground level. You start moving brains from the shelves and pile them up over there. There’s a long crack in the mortar and I’m going for that weakness. The blast wave will go out toward the street, but that glass’ll go everywhere. The only protection we’ll have is that desk. I want it turned over. We’ll hunker down behind it. Get to it.”

Summer grabbed two jars, turned around and handed them to Faith with such force that she nearly lost her balance. The sweat from her palms instantly mingled with the thick dust, creating a grimy paste. She steadied the jars against her chest and set A. N. Tupolev in the corner and then wiped her hands on her slacks. She hurried back for L. P. Beria and T. D. Lysenko. She ferried the brains across the room, all the while dissociating her own mind from those she carried.

“Get a lid. I also need the tape. Hope it’s got enough stick-um left.” Summer pushed explosives into a crack. He rolled the rest into a ball, inserted the time fuse into the hollow end of the cap and crimped both together with his teeth.

Faith handed him a lid and the wad of tape.

“See what you can do with the tape. Pull enough pieces apart so I can use it to hold the lid against the wall.”

“Can’t you just stick the C to it?”

“Only in the movies.”

She plucked at the tape wad. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Okay, we’ve gotta do something else. You go back to moving jars.” He took the metal lid, placed it on the floor and stomped on one side of it. He wedged the flattened side between the shelf and the wall. Careful to keep the cap positioned correctly, he lodged the explosives between the wall and the lid. “Give me a cigarette and a match.”

He struck the match against a brick, held the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, inhaling deeply. “I’ve gotta smoke this down a bit. We don’t have enough time to wait for the whole thing to burn on its own time.”

“Can’t you just pinch off some of it?”

“Believe me, I need a smoke.”

“Summer, do you smell that? It’s not the cigarette. Look!” Faith pointed at smoke seeping through cracks in the door. “This place may be on fire.”

“Dandy. Let’s speed it up and get the desk into position.”

Faith struggled to lift the heavy metal desk with her hurt shoulder and cracked ribs, but Summer picked up his end with only one arm. They flipped it on its side, the top facing the explosives.

“Get behind it. It’s showtime.” He dashed behind the desk. “It could take a minute or two. Don’t think about looking up until after it’s gone off. It’s gonna be loud and messy, but fast. You might want your fingers in your ears. Just as soon as the sound stops, go out the hole. Go straight through it-don’t look around and don’t worry about the glass. Let’s hope there’s a hole there, because if something shifts, the wave might not go in the right direction. If it doesn’t, see if the bricks are loose enough to smash ’em outward. If you can get out, just go. I’ll catch up with you. If we can’t get out that way, say a quick prayer and we’re going out the way we came in. Stay right behind me.”

Summer picked up the glass shard Faith had used to cut him free. He wound duct tape around the narrow part, creating a crude handle. Then he took the knife and split the time fuse a half-inch down the middle, exposing the burning compound inside. He stuck the head of a match into the slit. He wedged the burning cigarette on top of it, careful not to press too hard and extinguish it. Working as quickly as he dared, he taped the two halves of the fuse together with duct tape, securing the match and cigarette in place.

Faith held her breath as she watched Summer blow on the cigarette to make it burn faster. He dashed over to her, pushed her flatter against the floor and wrapped his body over hers. Her side hurt from the pressure, but the comfort of his body compensated for it. Summer clutched the makeshift knife tightly.

“What’s that glass knife for?” Faith said.

“A contingency you’re not gonna like. Anytime now, any-”

The doorknob turned. Summer sprang up, gripping the knife. He glided to the door and plastered himself against the wall. Smoke poured into the room. Adrenaline flooded Faith’s body when she saw the guard step inside, his pistol drawn.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

LYSENKO RESEARCH FACILITY, MOSCOW

A FEW MINUTES EARLIER

Bogdanov left the temporary holding cell, the lingering formaldehyde smell sickening her. The second guard stood across the hall beside a glass display case crammed with a dusty assortment of books, scientific journals and plasticized human body parts. She already missed the German obsession with precision and order. She glanced at her watch. It was time.

“They require food and water. Go find something,” Bogdanov said to the guard who had accompanied her with the prisoners.

“Colonel, there are no facilities here that have prison rations.”

“Then get them something better. Go to the canteen and pick something up.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Davai!” the colonel shouted, then turned to the other jailer. “I have some things to take care of at headquarters. Make sure they don’t escape while I’m away.”

She walked through the musty corridor and down the main stairs. In the lobby she doubled back to a remote stairway and hurried into her temporary office.

She sat on the hard wooden desk chair, staring out the window. Every thirty seconds she glanced at her watch. She was pleased she had been able to arrange to take over a section of the second floor of the KGB’s biological research facility for temporary detention. Lubyanka would’ve afforded her far too little privacy. Her reputation as a key player in the operation had given her enough clout to make such a bad choice in holding facilities and guard complements without anyone second-guessing her. Stukoi had actually believed it was a good idea to keep them at such an obscure location to prevent knowledge of their imprisonment from becoming widely known. After three minutes had passed, she rose from her seat and stuck a handful of old copies of Pravda under her arm. Anyone who saw her would assume she was on her way to the water closet with her own supply of makeshift toilet paper. No one would suspect what she was about to do.

Just as she was about to walk out the door, Kosyk pushed his way into her office with two KGB guards.

“What are you doing here?” Bogdanov said. “They’re not supposed to be transferred for another ten minutes.”

“I’m here now.”

“This is a KGB operation. Why is the MfS involved?”

“To make sure it’s done correctly. I want my prisoners now.”

Bogdanov walked back over to her desk and scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Then you won’t mind signing for them. Let’s see. You received them at fourteen hundred twenty-six hours.” She shoved the receipt across the desk to him, certain that the Prussian respect for bureaucratic procedure was on her side.

Kosyk removed a fountain pen from his jacket and signed.

“Wait here. I’ll get the keys.”

She hurried down the corridor and stopped in front of a door. She looked around to make certain no one was watching her. Using a piece of cloth to prevent fingerprints, she opened the door and slipped into the janitor’s closet. She reached into a bag for a cigarette butt she’d lifted from Stukoi’s ashtray that morning. She struck the match, lit the cigarette and held its glowing tip against the newspaper. She hoped Faith understood her message and would make swift use of the distraction. The newspaper smoldered. She puffed on it. Burn, damn it. Burn.

It had to look like a closet smoker had set the fire; initial suspicions of arson could expose her. When the newspaper burst into flames, she dropped it and the cigarette into a wastepaper basket and shoved it under a shelf of flammable cleaning fluids. She crept from the closet and shut the door. Black smoke poured through the cracks. Maybe she’d overdone it.

She returned to her office and handed Kosyk the keys to the makeshift holding cell. “Prisoners are all yours. Try not to lose them.” Bogdanov then left the building, hoping Faith and the commander escaped before Kosyk got to them.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

LYSENKO RESEARCH FACILITY, MOSCOW

2:33 P.M.

“Shto sluchil…?” The guard’s words trailed off as Summer shoved the shard into his throat and twisted. Blood squirted onto Summer’s arm as he pulled the glass through the tough tissue. The guard crumpled to the floor. Summer grabbed his gun, lunged behind the desk and wrapped his body over Faith.

Faith could feel Summer’s heart pound. For a moment the smell of the guard’s fresh blood overpowered the smoke of the smoldering fuse. Then the C-₄ exploded. The deafening blast shook the room. A gust of air slapped her. Abruptly there was an eerie silence.

“Go, go, go, go, go.” Summer leaped up, pulling Faith with him through the cloud of smoke and dust.

Pools of formaldehyde mingled with broken glass, chunks of human brains and other debris, forming a macabre swamp. The guard’s blood swirled into the brew. Faith skidded, falling toward the floor. She held out her hand to catch herself and it smashed into a sliver of glass. Summer reached around her waist and caught her before the rest of her hit the ground.

A good portion of the wall was missing. She was grateful for the low-quality Soviet mortar and the high level of Summer’s expertise. She stepped over the rubble and lowered herself to the sidewalk. Sirens wailed in the distance as people poured from the building. A shriveled babushka leaned on her broom of lashed twigs and watched.

“This is your town. You lead the way,” Summer said.

“Hell, I don’t know where we are.”

“Then we’re going this way.” Summer broke into a sprint.

They reached the end of the tree-lined block. The drone of sirens was coming closer. They took a left and dashed onward. She looked around to get her orientation, but the four-story buildings could have been anywhere in downtown Moscow. They raced past a Gastronom grocery store with cans stacked in pyramids; it could have been any one of hundreds of such establishments in the city. The sirens screeched from directly ahead, but they were in the middle of a block, with nowhere to run.

Faith’s heart pounded so hard she thought her body was shaking with its beat. She gasped for air and held her aching side. “You go on. I can’t go much further. Let them get me. Save yourself.”

“I don’t leave team members behind-especially you. I’ll carry you if I have to. Come on.”

The sirens were almost upon them. She forced herself to continue, slowing with each step. A hundred meters ahead a driver closed the back door of a blue delivery truck.

“Punch it, Faith. Here’s our ride.”

She mustered every last bit of energy. About thirty feet away from the truck, she heard the engine start. Summer rolled up the cargo door and hopped in the back. Summer held out his hand for her and the truck started to move.

Just a little farther. Faster. Faster.

She grabbed at his hand and leaped just as a fire engine roared by. He grasped her by the wrist and yanked. Pain shot through her injured shoulder. Summer pulled her into the truck with the ease of a dog tossing a stuffed toy. The metal door protested with a loud squeak as he pulled it down, shutting out all light.

“Whew, this is one stinky country. You all right?” Summer said.

“I’m alive.”

The truck hit a pothole and something slimy raked against the side of her face, knocking her off balance. Summer caught her, his fingers pressing into her sore ribs.

She scraped at the thick substance as she stifled a gag. She pulled a disintegrating Kleenex from her pocket and wiped away what she could. “This is vile.”

Summer opened the door a crack for light. Decapitated pig carcasses swung like greasy pendulums from hooks on the roof.

“Oh, man. Couldn’t you have picked a bakery truck?” Faith said.

The truck fell into another pothole and a carcass swung toward her, but Summer pushed her down against the floor. The draft from the movement blew over her neck.

“We’ve got to make our way through these piggies to hide from the driver before the next stop,” Summer said.

Faith breathed through her blouse. “You’re kidding. It’s all I can do not to barf right now.”

“Buck up, Faith.”

“No, I’m drawing a line in the lard right here and now. When the truck stops, we jump out. We’ve gone far enough. If we get coated in lard, we’re sure not going to blend in with the locals very easily, and every mutt in this city is going to be after us.”

“We’ve got to get to the embassy. You know where it is?”

“That’s the last place we want to go. Soviet militia and the KGB patrols it to keep everyone from running in and asking for asylum. You can bet they’ll have our descriptions before we get there. Even if we could get in, I wouldn’t expect a whole lot of help.”

“I’m active-duty military. I was kidnapped by the KGB and brought here as part of some plot to kill Gorbachev and blame it on the US. Believe me, I’ll get their attention.”

“Even if we get in, there’s not much they can do for us. You think the KGB would let them drive us out to Finland in an embassy car? I can guarantee it’d have a bad accident before it could get past the Moscow ring road. The Americans would probably put us up in the basement with those Russian Baptists who’ve camped there for years. You think you’re frustrated now that you haven’t made full commander? Imagine what a few years in an embassy basement with friends of Jesus will do for your career.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

DZERZHINSKAIA METRO STATION, MOSCOW

3:15 P.M.

Bogdanov shoved through the crowds of Muscovites sneaking home early from work and wished deodorant supplies were a higher priority for the Party. Her nose was used to Germany. She slid a key into a door ostensibly restricted to metro personnel and entered an antechamber with a plainclothes KGB guard sitting at a metal desk that filled half the room. A colorful diagram of the metro was posted to his right and a painting of the metro station’s namesake and the founder of the Soviet secret police to his left. Felix Dzerzhinsky’s eyes always seemed a bit too glassy; she suspected miniature surveillance cameras were hidden inside as a fitting tribute to the brutal spymaster. Bogdanov flashed her KGB identification and stepped into the high-speed elevator to Lubyanka. Her stomach stayed on the ground floor while the West German-built elevator transported her nearly thirty stories to the surface.

She crept into her recently assigned office undetected and retrieved volumes three and four of the Faith Whitney file she had signed out from the central repository earlier in the day. Weeks before, as soon as she learned of Kosyk’s interest in Whitney, she had familiarized herself with the contents. From this analysis, she believed she could predict where Faith would turn for help.

Bogdanov flipped open the file to a report of Faith meeting with the well-connected antique collector Dr. Svetlana Nikolaevna Gorkovo. The files were stitched together at the top. She took a razor blade from her desk and excised the report, careful not to leave any marks on the page beneath it. She removed everything mentioning the doctor. When she finished, she folded the sheets and stuck them inside her inner jacket pocket. She didn’t want any shredded documents in her office.

A phone rang. Stukoi demanded her immediate presence in his office. She returned the edited files to the documents repository and braced herself for his fury. The general screamed at her before she could close his office door. She stood at attention in front of his desk and waited for the tirade to extinguish itself.

“I’m sorry, sir; what caught on fire?” Bogdanov said.

“The fucking facility where you were keeping the Americans, you idiot.”

“Did FedEx and Otter survive?”

“Not confirmed. Most of the guards abandoned their posts and ran out of the building. One guard stayed behind to get them out, but he hasn’t been accounted for. The fire department is on the scene.” Stukoi smashed his cigar into an ashtray. “How could you let this happen? They were in your charge, you fuckup.”

“They weren’t in my custody. Kosyk had already relieved me.” Bogdanov held out a paper to Stukoi. “I even had him be a good German and sign for them. He might really be a Slav, but you can always count on him to act Deutsch.”

“So the great Kosyk fucked up. That makes my day.”

“Any known loss of lives?” Bogdanov said.

“Does it matter?”

Bogdanov tapped on a pack of Aeroflot cigarettes until one came out. “Even if the Americans died, we can put on a show of searching for them. We have enough surveillance photos to put together anything we want. A nationwide manhunt might work better for us than catching them immediately. We can always corner them in some building they set on fire with their remaining explosives. We produce their charred remains as evidence. Trotting them in front of a camera would’ve been nice, but they wouldn’t have given us what we wanted, anyway.”

“You cover your ass well, Bogdanov. Going by the time on that receipt, you had just handed them over to Kosyk right around the time of the fire.”

“They were in his custody.”

“How could he be so stupid as to sign a receipt for prisoners we don’t want a paper trail on?”

Bogdanov nodded to Stukoi, indicating she wanted to use his lighter. He tossed it to her. “It’s standard MfS procedure. He even stood there like he was waiting for me to pull out a stamp to make it official.”

“What I don’t understand is why the hell you would do it if you didn’t already know they’d escaped.”

“Maybe I wanted to make him feel at home. He’s lost her before. I wanted to cover my ass, just in case.”

“You fucked him and the prick deserves it. Good work. Always did say you have balls. I still don’t like the fact that we lost them, but, hell, I like a good hunt as well as the next guy. We do have enough to pin it on them when we find them. And we will find them.”

Bogdanov lit the cigarette. “They started the fire?”

“We don’t know yet. There’s a hole in the wall of the room where they were held. Something exploded there. It’s a mess, but we found one body.”

“There were chemicals inside. I don’t know how volatile.”

“We have one report from a babushka who was sweeping the street. She claims a man and a woman climbed out of the hole after an explosion and ran. We can’t get a good description-bad eyesight.”

“Any chance Gorbachev’s people got word of the event, started the fire and helped them escape?” Bogdanov said.

“If his people knew, we wouldn’t be here right now. Because of the old lady, I want to work on the assumption they’re alive and on the run. We’ll have to find them.”

“As I see it, our hands are tied until tomorrow morning. We can’t start a full search for them until after the deed. If we look for them now, it’ll put Gorbachev’s bodyguards on a higher state of alert, and we’ll seem incompetent if police all over the union know we had foreknowledge but couldn’t stop two American assassins,” Bogdanov said.

“Agreed, but I’m going to have Popov’s investigative unit see if they can quietly pick up their trail from the building. They can search known associates.”

“Sir, I feel partially responsible for their loss, even if they were in Kosyk’s hands. I’d like to personally direct the investigation into known contacts.”

“You’re an excellent field operative abroad, but you’ve just proven you’re worthless on home soil. You’re perceived as too central to the operation to remove you at this point without too many questions, or I would. I don’t want you touching it or anything else right now. You’re expected at our final planning meeting tonight, so you’d better show up. Go home until then. Visit your father. I don’t want to see your face around here. Dismissed.” A phone rang and Stukoi lowered his ear to each one along the row.

Colonel Bogdanov walked from the office to see Stukoi’s secretary, Pyatiletka, disappear out the main door. A note on her desk informed the general she had gone home early for her granddaughter’s birthday. Thanks to her usual negligence, her computer terminal was still on. The colonel looked around the empty room and sat at the terminal. At the prompt she typed in KUSNV, then the password LATA₃₃, and she was logged into the SOUD system on the mainframe. She quickly navigated through the hierarchy of menus and searched for records with both Faith Whitney and Svetlana Gorkovo. Fourteen hits. She pressed the delete button and an error message popped onto the amber screen. Only a high-level systems administrator could delete a file.

She logged off and raced to Faith.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

MOSCOW

4:46 P.M.

Two hours after escaping from the brain trust, Faith knocked on Svetlana’s door as hard as she dared. A loud bark came from the flat.

“Reagan, good dog,” Faith said.

Svetlana’s many eccentricities included talking to her dog in English, but Faith spoke in Russian so as not to give any hint of her nationality to any eavesdropping neighbors. The dog ignored her and barked louder. The more Faith pleaded in Russian, the more Reagan barked. He pawed at the door.

“Quiet!” Summer said. The dog fell silent. “She’s not home or the dog would’ve had her here. Wait and I’ll be back in a second.” Summer went down the stairs, taking several steps at a time. In less than a minute he returned with a thin metal strip with a rivet lodged in one end. He fed the metal into the slit between the door and the frame just as a loud creak came from across the hall.

A shriveled face peeked through the crack. “What’s happening? Who’re you?”

“Zdravstvuite,” Faith greeted her. “I’m here with my husband to feed Reagan for Sveta, but forgot the key. Did she perhaps leave you a spare?”

“She said nothing to me about a trip. What’s that smell?” The woman’s accusing eyes darted between Faith and Summer.

“My apologies. I came from work and we had eleven bodies to embalm today. I don’t understand why people always die in clusters. Cousin Ludmilla went into early labor and Sveta doesn’t want to leave her alone.” Faith turned toward Summer and gestured to the door. Her voice became harsh and she shouted at him in Russian. “Haven’t you got that open yet? You forgot the key, so you go home and get it. And no drinking. Don’t you dare come back here with alcohol on your breath.”

Summer shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back to the door. The dog let out a deep bark. Faith hoped Reagan remembered her. Summer coaxed the metal strip into the lock and the door sprang open.

“Reagan!” Faith held her hands out to the dog, praying he didn’t attack and blow her cover. The husky reared up on his back legs and frantically licked her face, slurping up the remaining lard. She petted the back of his thick neck and turned toward the woman. “Poor Reagan had no walk since yesterday. I’m afraid he left us a present. If you want, you can come over, visit with us and help clean up after him.”

The woman let out a loud snort and slammed her door.

Summer grabbed Reagan’s collar and wrestled him back into the apartment.

“I don’t think she’s going to be calling the police. We should be safe here for a little while,” Faith said as she scratched the dog. “And thank you, Mr. Reagan, for getting that grease off my face.”

The translucent blue eyes of the Siberian husky followed Summer as he paced around the central Moscow apartment crammed with antiques. St. George slew an assortment of lumpy iconic dragons while the Virgin Mary looked on with serene disapproval. The creak of the floor echoed from the high ceiling as he stepped across the worn oriental carpets. Reagan leaped up on an analyst’s couch and curled up.

“What is this place? Are all Russian apartments like this?” Summer said as he looked around.

“Definitely not. You never find one person living in anything this spacious. She had political ties to Brezhnev through one of her husbands.”

“I meant all of this crap. And this place smells like an old lady’s face powder. I’m kind of glad the formaldehyde’s still on me.”

“I don’t like this room, either. I never could get into classic Russian art. But to answer your question, this isn’t normal-nothing about Svetlana is. Let’s go clean up.”

Faith patted the dining-room wall until she found the light switch. A kilim dominated one wall. Woven into the tapestry was the likeness of two Turkic women, their heads covered with bright yellow scarves. They wore matching baggy harem pants under blue and red flowered dresses and each one swung a sickle at wheat stalks.

“What a delight,” Faith whispered as she touched it, admiring the weave. She stepped backward for a better view. “Oh, I want this. You can’t imagine how rare it is.”

“Faith, focus. This isn’t the time to go shopping.”

“We’re safe for the time being. Give me just one moment of beauty.” Faith studied the design. “I can’t get the image of that dead guard’s bloody neck out of my mind. You’ve done it before, haven’t you?”

“I’m special forces. Sometimes my job means taking out the enemy. I’ve seen action in Grenada, Nicaragua and places no one’s supposed to know I’ve ever been. I’ve only done it when absolutely necessary. You work the clean side of the Cold War, smuggling pretty rugs across borders. The Cold War’s not all clean. It takes a lot to keep it from going hot. One of the ways both governments keep it from breaking out of control is by using guys like me and denying like hell they ever did it.”

“I’m not sure that justifies it.”

“Faith, we’ve been having this East-versus-West, hawk-and-dove debate since we were kids. Seems to me they just forced you onto my side.”

“I don’t take sides. I play the communist sympathizer with you, but that’s just to hassle you, since you’re such a dyed-in-the-wool American.” Faith spoke without taking her gaze off the kilim.

“You were always the communist sympathizer, but never a communist. You’re an American when you’re around the Germans and they’re bugging the shit out of you, but you’re never a patriot. It’s the same thing with relationships. You can’t settle down. Things get serious, you’re outta there.”

“I was too young.”

“You couldn’t make up your mind about what you wanted, kind of like now. You can’t take a stand on anything.”

“I think that abortion in Tulsa counts.”

“As a stand against your mama, but not for what you wanted. I haven’t seen you make a choice about something since then. You sit on every fence you can find.”

“Not fair.” Faith choked back tears. “I’ve had enough today without this.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bicker with you. It’s been a tough couple a days for both of us, and it’s not over yet.” He stood and put his arm around her waist. She pressed her head against him and closed her eyes.

“You know I love you,” Faith said.

“I know.” He stroked her hair. “But I don’t know what that means.”

“Neither do I.”

Reagan raised his head and his ears perked. He trotted from the room toward the door.

“Must be Svetlana,” Faith said. “You stay here so you don’t scare her. I’ll go.”

“Faith, what’s going on?” Svetlana said in Russian as she stepped over to Summer and took his right hand and turned it over. She pushed back the bloodied sleeve. Red muscle tissue was visible through a deep, six-inch-long laceration that zigzagged across his forearm. Blood seeped from the wound. She squinted as she examined the cut on his forehead.

“We need help,” Faith said.

“I see that.”

Faith switched to English: “This is Max Summer-the ex-fiancé I’ve told you about.” Only when she introduced Summer to Svetlana did Faith notice how wrecked they both looked. Summer had a two-inch gash over his swollen left eye. The skin around it was various shades of dark purple. Stubble covered his head and face, but didn’t quite conceal a long scratch on his left cheek. His clothes testified to his odyssey. His ripped shirt was coated in dirt and dried blood. Faith knew the blood wasn’t only his.

Faith continued, “We just escaped from the KGB. We haven’t done anything wrong-I’ll explain later. I’m so sorry about breaking into your home, but you weren’t here and I didn’t know where else to go or whom else I could trust.”

“I’ll do what I can.” Svetlana spoke English with a British accent. Svetlana turned to Summer. “Those wounds need to be cleaned up. Nothing urgent, but you need a couple layers of sutures. Faith, are you hurt?”

“The Stasi cracked some of my ribs a week ago. They’re really sore, but mending.”

“The Stasi? You two make friends everywhere you go. Faith, can you please grab my bag out of the hall closet? And, while you’re there, fetch some old towels for you to sit on. You’re both slightly soiled.” Svetlana held Summer’s arm and led him into the kitchen.

Faith set the old-fashioned doctor’s bag down on the table and spread towels over two chairs. Svetlana opened a waxed-paper envelope, shook out two curved needles and set them on the packet. She snipped off a strip of gauze and cut away his shirtsleeve.

“Faith, keep the pressure on this while you take him over to the sink and rinse out the wound with running water and alcohol. Before you do that, put on some water to boil for tea and to sterilize the needle. I’ll be back in a minute. Reagan, come along, dear.” Svetlana disappeared into the bathroom. Her dog sat outside the door.

Faith opened a cabinet, squatted and stared at the hodgepodge. Pots, pans and skillets of every size, material and color were stacked on top of one another, but nothing matched. She chose a white enamel pot, but couldn’t locate its lid. When she pushed the cabinet door shut, an avalanche roared inside the cabinet. She lit the gas stove.

Summer cut himself a fresh strip of gauze and pressed it against the wound. Red spots immediately appeared. “How sterile do you think all of this is?”

“I wouldn’t worry. It’s probably Reagan you’ll be sharing needles with, so I’d say your biggest risk is distemper.” Faith returned to the table. “This beats the average Soviet hospital. They’re something you don’t want to experience. I once heard a doctor here complain that American disposable needles broke after about a dozen uses.”

Reagan rushed ahead of Svetlana toward the sound of the whistling teakettle. Svetlana turned the burner off and stepped into an adjacent room. She retrieved a stack of handle-less cups and a teapot, steadying the teapot against her chest as she closed the china-cabinet door.

Summer leaned over to Faith and whispered, “Do we really have to have a tea party? Can’t we get on with this? We have to plan how to get out of here. I don’t want to stay in one place too long.”

“You’re from the Ozarks. Act like it. We have to do some small talk before we ask for help. We’re asking for big favors here, so play along. We’re safe for now.”

Svetlana set the cups in front of Faith. She recognized the tea set as Central Asian. She had seen countless Uzbek ones painted with the repeating white and indigo blue abstract in the shape of ripe cotton, but this set was extraordinary. Faith picked up a cup. A wreath of cotton blooms framed a painting of Lenin, but the Soviet hero’s skin was darker than usual and his eyes were small slits. His facial hair was more reminiscent of Genghis Khan’s Fu Manchu mustache than Lenin’s pointy Vandyke. Arabic script was scrawled above the portrait. “Exquisite. Where’s it from?”

“You tell me.” Svetlana started to place her hand on Faith’s lard-smudged shoulder, but leaned on the back of her chair instead. She turned toward Summer. “Of everyone I know, Faith has the most discriminating appreciation of these treasures.”

“I can see how it takes someone very special to get into this stuff,” Summer said. Reagan licked his pant leg.

“Reagan, where are your manners? Go to your rug. Now move along.” She pointed to the corner.

Reagan held his tail low as he climbed onto a Muslim prayer rug woven with a portrait of Stalin. Summer raised an eyebrow.

Svetlana noticed his reaction to Stalin’s image and said, “Don’t get me wrong. I hate the communists like everyone else-after all, I am a Soviet citizen-but it was such an exciting time in the household arts.”

Faith turned the cup in her hand. Dust coated the white interior. “Clearly Central Asia, most likely Uzbekistan. The Arab script dates it before the mid-twenties-Lenin after 1917. It could even be from one of the city-states after the communists took over, but before the USSR swallowed them. Bukhara? Samarkand?”

“Khiva is my educated guess. Most assuredly from the independent Khorezm Soviet People’s Republic, circa 1923, before Lenin annexed it to the Motherland. I have the entire set, including the serving platter.”

“I might be able to arrange for some chef’s-quality All-Clad pans in exchange for these.” Faith walked over to the sink and rinsed the cups. “You did get the Williams-Sonoma catalog I sent with Ian last month?”

“I loved it. I’ll never understand why, as one of the world’s most advanced countries, we can’t produce decent cookware.” Svetlana poured brewed tea into the antique teapot. “I’ve always wanted a set of the French Le Creuset pots-you know, the bright enameled ones.”

“Hey, I don’t mean to be rude here, but is this really the time to play Let’s Make a Deal? As it stands right now, we can’t get ourselves out of the country, let alone take some fancy cups out of it.”

“There’s always layaway.” Faith smiled and turned toward Svetlana. “Three-piece Le Creuset pot set for the complete tea ensemble. Deal?”

“Five-piece. Plus the five-quart stockpot.”

“Three pieces including the stockpot.”

“That will fetch you the set sans serving platter,” Svetlana said.

“You can’t break up a set like that and you know it. Okay, but only because I owe you for all of this. The five-piece set, including the stockpot.”

“Agreed.” Svetlana carried the silver teakettle to the table. She poured cold tea with her left hand and the hot water with her right, serving Summer first. She scooped red marmalade with a silver dessert spoon. Summer slid his hand over the cup to stop her, but was too late. Marmalade plopped onto his fingers.

Faith offered no resistance to the marmalade. She started to take a sip, but the cup burned her fingers, so she picked it up again by the rim. “We’re in trouble, Sveta. Bad trouble.”

“As bad as the time when you were detained in Omsk?”

“It was Tomsk, and that was nothing compared to this.” Faith fished the sterile needles from the pot with a hemostat. She gave Svetlana a brief overview of their predicament while Svetlana threaded the needle.

Svetlana turned to Summer. “Do you require something for the pain? I don’t have much, so I reserve it for those who really need it.”

“Your dog might need it someday. I’ll be fine.”

“Would you like a shot of vodka to take the edge off?”

“Thank you, but, all things considered, I need to stay alert.”

“Come on, tough guy. You’re allowed.” Faith found a bottle of vodka in the freezer and splashed some into his empty teacup. “Drink.”

Summer downed it. “Okay, now’s as good a time as any.”

Sveta cut away jagged dead skin, then grasped one of the needles with a needle driver and plunged it deep into the gash.

“Dammit, girl!” Summer gritted his teeth. “From the looks of this place, I thought you were an antique dealer. I wouldn’t have guessed you’re a doctor.”

“I’m chief of medical staff at the Moscow Zoo. Don’t worry. I stitch up big animals all the time.” Svetlana smiled, revealing a mouthful of tarnished silver crowns. She pierced a fat globule and Faith turned away.

“I was hoping you could pull off another one of your miracles and help us get out of here,” Faith said.

“On such short notice, I can probably get you as far as East Germany,” Svetlana said. “By the way, the ice cream was heavenly-better than the Mövenpick you brought two years ago. Now, I’m assuming you’ve got passports hidden somewhere in that container of frightening dinnerware Ian brought me.”

“No, we need papers. And the GDR’s no good. They know me.”

Summer’s voice was strained. “I thought you could get anyone and anything out of there. East Berlin’s at least Berlin. Let’s go there. I like your home-field advantage. There are even permanent American military missions there. American troop convoys pass through East Germany on their way to Berlin all the time.”

“Getting out’s not the problem. It’s getting in.” Faith swirled the tea in her glass, the fruit fragments circling in a tiny whirlpool. “We don’t have time to get Hakan to make papers for us, and I’ve never found a reliable local source for documents here that wasn’t hooked into the KGB.”

“He’s in Berlin. How would you ever get something from there?” Summer said.

“Clipper Class. I could have you a Big Mac here tomorrow afternoon from Rhein-Main if you wanted it, but that doesn’t help us get out.”

Svetlana tied off the first layer of sutures with a single hand.

“Given the circumstances,” Faith continued, “the only option I see is to cross weak points in the border. I know one along the Turkish frontier, but it’s grueling.”

“That’s NATO. I like it.” Summer bit his lip from the pain.

“I’ve done it and I didn’t like it. The mountain passes might still be closed by snow,” Faith said.

Svetlana batted her eyes, flashing the heavy orange eye shadow that matched her bright lipstick. “I could get you into Iran through a sturgeon boat on the Caspian Sea.”

“Caviar’s tempting,” Faith said. “But I can’t handle the chador. Head-to-toe black is definitely not my thing. I couldn’t bring myself to do it in Berlin where it’s at least chic. Iran would also mean a high-mountain crossing of the Turkish border to get away from the Ayatollah. I don’t like multiple borders.”

“Agreed we go direct into a friendly.”

“Too bad Gorbachev’s trashed the economy and they can’t afford to have the Finns do construction for them above the Arctic Circle anymore. When they were building projects like Kostamuksha and the Svetogorsk pulp plant, Mama loved to use commuting Finnish workers to smuggle us and her religious propaganda into the Soyuz. I’m sure we were the only females of the non-working girl variety who ever got through that way.”

Faith tilted her head and threw the last sip of tea into the back of her throat as if it were vodka. “I really hate the smell of fish, but heading to Finland via Estonia on a fishing co-op’s boat might be easiest. Last I heard, the Finnish mobile-phone network bleeds over into part of Estonia, and the Soviets aren’t jamming it. We might be able to get word out to someone.”

“And how would we ever get a Finnish mobile phone?” Summer said.

“Mug a drunk Finnish tourist. They flock to Tallinn for cheap booze and they all seem to have those phones. Personally, I think they’re a fad that will never catch on, but we might be able to call to the West with one. I don’t suppose you could arrange a pickup with your guys?” Faith asked, pouring herself more tea.

Summer watched Svetlana sink the needle into his forearm, then pull the thread through. “The Gulf of Finland is a Soviet lake, shallow and littered with ears. Don’t get me wrong. They could do it if they absolutely had to. The biggest problem would be getting Washington on board, and I don’t think we have the time for that.”

Reagan sprang from his bed with a bark and ran from the room, growling.

“He never does this,” Svetlana said.

Summer took the needle from her.

“I’m not finished,” Svetlana protested.

Rather than take time to tie or cut it off, he stuck the needle through his skin like a body piercing. He drew the gun that he had taken from the guard. “Give me two seconds, then get the lights out. Pull the fuses if you have to.”

Reagan’s bark echoed from the front room.

Then the barking stopped.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

MOSCOW

5:06 P.M.

“Freeze! Hands in the air.” Summer pointed the gun at the intruder. Reagan growled, baring his canines.

“I’m here to help you,” Bogdanov said in American English.

“Faith, check her for weapons. Don’t stand too close, and whatever you do, don’t block my shot.”

“I have a shoulder holster with a gun and there’s a knife strapped to my right leg.” Zara clasped her fingers together, rested her hands on her head and turned toward Faith. “I didn’t know they were going to kidnap you until after I returned to Moscow and discovered I’d been deceived. Only then did I find out you were walking into a show trial and execution. It was too late to warn you, but I wasn’t going to let them do it to you, so I flew back to Berlin and brought Commander Summer here to help you. I didn’t see any other way.”

“I’m touched,” Summer said. “What’d you do with Walters and Meriwether? Keep in mind the consequences if I don’t believe your answer.”

“I ordered them detained for border violations. They’re guests of the GDR until this is resolved. I made it clear they’re to be treated well.”

“As we say in the South, mighty white of you.” He scratched his forearm beside the wound. “Are you alone or working with someone?”

“Alone. I don’t know who to trust. I came to help you and get you out of here before they realize where you are. I bought you some time by removing all references to Doctor Gorkovo from Faith’s dossier, but I was working fast and could’ve missed something. I was unable to delete the computerized files.”

“How did you know to find me here?” Faith said. “I know dozens of people in Moscow.”

“Please, I’m your case officer and I’ve studied you.”

“Where’d you pick up English along with the American accent?”

“Silicon Valley. I once earned a Stanford degree as part of my legend there.”

Faith opened Zara’s black leather jacket. The KGB-issue service pistol made it all so clear. How could she have ever been so naïve as to think she could have any kind of friendship with a KGB controller? She grasped the weapon with her fingertips and held it as if she were removing a rotten vegetable from her refrigerator. Summer took it from her, Sveta’s needle still stuck into his forearm. She returned to Zara and continued frisking her, pausing occasionally when she remembered how it had felt to flirt with her only a few nights ago. Faith’s anger surprised her. She didn’t like it.

“I didn’t have any way of waving you off. And I still have no idea who was behind the Pan Am bomb. My best guess is that someone found out something about the delivery and didn’t know who to trust. They tried to stop it in their own crude fashion.”

Faith patted her way down the right leg until she discovered the bulge of a knife. “So why did you do it to me?”

“I didn’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s a lot more going on here than some MfS renegades smuggling explosives to Moscow.”

“Yeah, we figured out that much.” She stepped back from Zara and held on to the knife. “The East Germans are planning some kind of terrorist attack or something to spur a crackdown and a return to more predictable days.”

Zara motioned with her head toward Svetlana. “Can we trust her?”

“More than we can trust you,” Faith said.

“Honecker does believe Gorbachev is endangering the system. The Germans were plotting to take him out and pin it on the Americans. Until I was recalled to Moscow, I thought this was limited to a Stasi operation. It’s not. The GDR leadership initiated it-not that it will matter to anyone but a historian. They approached me to recruit dissatisfied KGB factions to back them to make sure the right side stepped into the power vacuum.”

“Why’d they believe you’d help?” Faith said.

“My father and I haven’t fared well under Mr. Gorbachev. And I haven’t hidden my conviction that he’s bringing poverty and chaos to my country.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t you join in?” Summer said.

“Commander, I make the assumption you’re a Republican, since you’re in the military. If your president were a Democrat and you believed his policies hurt your country, would you then conspire to overthrow him?”

“Of course not.”

“The KGB and Soviet Army have never stepped into our government. We’re not a Third World dictatorship.”

“I thought Andropov was KGB chief,” Summer said.

“And Bush was CIA chief. What’s your point?” Zara said.

Summer shrugged his shoulders.

Zara continued, “When my boss received my reports about the MfS plans, I’m speculating that he decided to either join forces with the Germans or use them in a plot he was already involved in. Either way, I was ordered to play along with them and make them think we were cooperating so we could catch them in the act after you delivered the C-₄. I believed I was feeding them disinformation, but it was the truth.”

“When’s it going down?” Summer said.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“We’ve got to get out of here fast,” Faith said. “A hard-line putsch will shut this place down tighter than North Korea.”

“That’s not your biggest worry. This afternoon they’ve issued warnings to KGB operatives to be on the lookout for two American agents supporting Armenian terrorists. When Gorbachev’s killed tomorrow, a full nationwide manhunt for you begins.”

“We’re screwed,” Faith said. “No one’s going to help us then. This isn’t like the West, where we could go to some remote corner of the country, rent a flat and lie low for a couple of months.”

Summer continued to point the gun at Zara. “The KGB won’t stop hunting us at the border, will it? I remember something about Trotsky, Mexico City and an ice pick.”

“Don’t expect protection from your own government-it won’t want anything to do with you. May I assume, Commander Summer, that you’ll be declared a deserter and court-martialed? May I put my hands down? I’m not a threat. Remember, I was the one who helped you escape.”

“Yeah, what was the think tank with all those brains all about? I know the KGB has to have better holding cells than that,” Summer said.

“I’ve been trying to tell you; it’s not an official KGB operation. So far as I know, only a handful of people are involved, but they’re powerful.” Zara explained her choice of a low-security KGB research lab. “And, Faith, you’ll appreciate this. That’s where they housed Lenin’s corpse during the war to protect him from German bombing.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Faith said.

“I didn’t take the C-₄ when I saw it in your shoes and I returned everything you needed to break out and even started a fire as a diversion.”

“I’m sure we set some mad scientist’s research back decades.” Faith turned to Summer. “What do you think?”

He lowered the weapon.

Svetlana grasped Summer’s elbow. “Now that this is settled, I haven’t finished with your arm.” She and Reagan led him back into the kitchen, but Faith and Zara stayed behind.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Zara stepped toward Faith, but she moved away.

“So am I.”

“I couldn’t confirm it, but I believe your father is alive.”

“I know.” Faith turned and walked into the kitchen.

“Sveta, our captor here has hardly fed us. Do you have anything we could eat?” Faith said as she opened the refrigerator.

“I did what I could.” Zara leaned against the sink, watching Svetlana push the needle through Summer’s skin.

“All done.” Svetlana knotted it and clipped the thread. “There’s some cheese and sausage in the icebox for sandwiches, or I could make you some pork cutlets.”

“Let’s go with the sandwiches,” Summer said. “I agree with the major here that we need to get a move on.”

“It’s Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Kinda young for that, aren’t you, comrade?”

“I was promoted to the rank years ago for my work in California.” Zara walked to the table. She picked up one of the antique cups, looked at it, then set it down.

“Hit a ceiling, huh?”

“You could say that,” Zara said as she pulled out a chair.

“I know exactly how you feel. So what’s your plan?”

“The future of my country is at stake. The problem is, I’ve been abroad and out of the loop, so I don’t know who to trust. Help me stop the coup.”

Faith rummaged through the refrigerator. “You’re kidding, right?”

“That’s another reason why I brought Commander Summer to Moscow. As a US Navy officer, I knew he wouldn’t want to see the world return to the days of the old Cold War, and I mean a very cold, Cold War.”

“Obviously you don’t know the military, but you have my attention,” Summer said.

“If they come to power, I can guarantee an invasion of Poland to stop Solidarity. The Party has gone too far in Hungary with their border liberalization and their market reforms, so I suspect we’ll invade them, too. They were fierce fighters in fifty-six.” She shook her head. “And fanatical totalitarians in command of our nuclear weapons won’t make any of us sleep better at night. Remember Korea? Vietnam? Angola? And how many times have we nearly gone to war over Berlin? These men don’t like West Berlin in the middle of the Warsaw Pact, as you call it. All they need to do is wait for a weak American president and they can take the city-finish the business Stalin left undone. Do I need to go on? I’m sure Doctor Whitney could assist me further.”

“It probably wouldn’t have hurt to mention the purges, gulags-”

“I was focusing on foreign policy, since our domestic policy rarely concerns your military. I know the people who’ll take over and revenge is on their minds. Stalin has already shown the way. They’ll hit hard before a resistance movement can develop, reestablish the gulag system. All of the journalists and entrepreneurs who thrived under glasnost will have knocks at the door in the middle of the night.”

“I get your point.” Summer spoke, shielding his full mouth with his right hand until he swallowed. “What are you thinking of doing?”

“We are not getting involved.” Faith slammed the plate of food down onto the table.

“We are involved. If what she’s saying is true, the next twenty-four hours are going to alter the course of world events, and I don’t think it’ll be for the better. If you don’t see a way to escape after a coup, and you can’t get us out fast enough before they start the all-out manhunt, then our best bet is to keep them from calling out the dogs on us.”

“How can the three of us ever hope to stop part of the Red Army and KGB? I vote we run.” Faith opened her sandwich and extracted a peppercorn from a slice of salami. “We can borrow Sveta’s Lada, steal some plates. It’s eight, ten hours to Tallinn. I have connections that could probably get us out on a fishing trawler.”

“Come, now. It’s not like you’re going to a shipping agent and booking passage on a passenger liner. She also isn’t telling you that you might have to literally jump ship in the Danish Straits.” Svetlana dropped the used needles and hemostat into boiling water. “It’s been done. But not many stevedores are willing to take the risk, and those who are usually turn out to be working for the KGB on the left. When I helped Faith get that sarcophagus out a few years ago, it took me a week in Estonia to find someone reliable to take it into international waters-and he’s not available anymore.” Svetlana’s smile disappeared and she looked away.

Zara turned toward Faith and raised an eyebrow.

“It didn’t have a body in it or anything,” Faith said. “It was a couple thousand years old and it was a special order from a client who wanted to be buried in an ancestral coffin.”

Summer turned to Faith. “Faith, it’s getting riskier here by the minute. Let’s hear the lady spy out and then make our decision. If her plan’s not feasible, we’re gonna run like hell and commandeer a boat if we have to. Think about what’s at stake here. It might be time you decided to take a stand for what’s right for once in your life.”

“The conspirators are meeting in a dacha just outside of Moscow at nine tonight to coordinate final plans,” Zara said.

“What kind of security are we talking about?”

“They won’t want any uninvited guests, but they won’t be prepared to fend off an attack. I would expect less than a half-dozen guards.”

Summer popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and reached for another. “I see you have exact mission specs. Why aren’t they meeting on a base-somewhere more secure?”

“To not arouse suspicion. The GRU knows what happens at every military installation, and too many ranking KGB and Army officials in one place would make GRU worried. You don’t want them worried. Unlike your Office of Naval Intelligence, the GRU has teeth.”

“I know I’m not supposed to interrupt, but can’t we just go to the GRU if they’re pro-Gorbachev?” Faith said.

“They might be compromised,” Zara said.

Summer washed the sandwich down with cold tea. “How were you thinking about taking them out?”

Zara gestured toward Faith. “My friend here was expected to bring with her some plastic explosives that I had planned on using to destroy the dacha. Thanks to her ingenuity, I only have something called Play-Doh.”

“Hold on.” Faith rose from her seat. “Sveta, can you come help me find something?”

“What are you doing?” Summer said.

“Taking a stand,” Faith said as she left the room.

A few minutes later, Faith hoisted the cooler onto the table and removed a plate crudely decorated with blue and pink posies. “Compliments of Captain Ian’s delivery service.”

“Faith, I don’t know what’s with you, but we don’t have time for any more wheeling and dealing. We’ve probably been here too long as it is.” Summer picked up the plate and his fingers sunk into it slightly. He flashed Faith a grin. “I take that back. We might just be back in business.”

“Couldn’t fool you for a second,” Faith said. “But then, it does get a little soft at room temperature. Dry ice kept it hard as a rock, though.”

Zara picked up a plate and scratched off some paint. “I take it this is the C-₄?”

“Yes, ma’am. Looks like we have enough to take out a dacha or two, depending on size and construction.”

“Wooden, single-story and not very big. Maybe two hundred, two-twenty-five square meters. I can draw a rough floor plan.”

“So where’re the caps and time fuse?”

“We might have a small problem. I only had that one small strip of time fuse and one blasting cap. I wasn’t exactly expecting to use the stuff. I did the Play-Doh routine to allow me to bargain for safe passage until I turned over the real thing.” Faith handed Summer the Leatherman.

“That’s going to be a problem, but I’m not sure we want to tackle it right now. I’m getting antsy we’re staying here too long,” Summer said as he shoved the multipurpose tool into his pocket.

“You’re right.” Zara got up from the table. “By now they should be questioning Faith’s old friends and acquaintances, and Doctor Gorkovo’s name might be mentioned. We need to remove every obvious sign that we were ever here. If nothing looks unusual, they won’t stay. Don’t worry about fingerprints, because it’s not a crime scene and they’re not interested in proving you were here. All they want to know is where you’re going. Doctor Gorkovo, I suggest you leave town for a few days to avoid any unpleasantness.”

Faith gathered the dishes from the table and repacked the cooler. “I’m either starting to get used to this formaldehyde or the smell’s wearing off.”

“You reek of vet school,” Svetlana said.

“That could be a problem,” Zara said.

“I’ll throw some cabbage on to boil to mask the odor.” Svetlana reached into the cabinet for a pot. “And I’ll fetch you some clothes to change into before you leave.”

“Sveta, you don’t happen to have any fast-acting tranquilizers and one of those dart guns you use on big animals here?” Faith said.

“Faith, this ain’t Wild Kingdom.”

“Humor me. I have a thing against killing, and I want to be convinced it’s the only option.”

“It is,” Zara said. “Tranquilizers take too long to work-plus, we’re dealing with a group of people.”

“So where are we going, comrade? Your place?” Summer said.

“Not advisable. I work for the KGB, so I have a flat in something like your base housing. But I do know one place no one would ever think to look for Faith. We’ll regroup there and plan our assault.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

MOSCOW

6:41 P.M.

Zara’s Zil sedan reminded Faith of a 1950s American gas-guzzler; if it had a pair of tail fins, it would have been an El Dorado-its ancestors certainly were. The spacious backseat gave Faith and Summer room to stay out of sight. Their bodies pressed tightly against each other and a tattered blanket concealed them from the casual viewer. Faith’s face was so close to Summer’s cheek that she couldn’t tell if it was the wool blanket or the stubble from his day-old beard that was scratching her. She comforted herself that it was him and not the filthy blanket. He put his arm around her, and for a few seconds she was back in the Ozarks, secure in her high school sweetheart’s strong arms, dreaming of the day she would escape the vicissitudes of her mother’s fanaticism. She cuddled closer against him and wished she could change history.

“Kind of like old times, isn’t it?” Summer said. “The only difference is that it’s not your mama we’re worried about catching us back here together, but the frickin’ KGB.”

“Frankly, I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.”

“Oh, come on, Faith. I could always handle Mama Whitney and you claim you can handle the KGB, so it’s your turn.”

“I grossly overestimated myself. We’re fucked.”

Zara turned off the engine. “Stay down until I tell you to get up. I’m parking in a courtyard. I’m going inside first.”

“You know, there’s a chance she’s turning us over to the KGB right now,” Summer whispered into Faith’s ear.

“You’re just trying to make me feel good by whispering sweet nothings, aren’t you?”

“If she has, follow my lead. We won’t resist if I don’t see an opening. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“And what about you?”

In a few minutes, the back door clicked open. Cool air rushed inside the stuffy car. Someone flipped back the blanket.

“Oh, my God,” Faith said.

“Lordy, lordy, look at what the cat’s dragged in.”

“Mama Whitney,” Summer said, springing away from Faith like a teenager caught in the act.

Faith pulled the blanket back over her head. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Come on, child. Don’t get testy with me now. I don’t like it, either, but we’ve got to get you hid.”

“Let’s go.” Summer threw the blanket off them and pushed Faith up onto the car seat. “Now.”

Faith slid across the vinyl and crawled from the car feet-first. Zara reached under Faith’s arm and helped her to stand. For a moment, their eyes met. When Summer put his hand on her back to nudge her forward, Faith saw jealousy flash in Zara’s eyes.

“Leave the keys in the front seat. Sasha will hide the car in the carport,” Mama Whitney said.

“Grab the Coleman in the trunk,” Summer said.

They rushed across the muddy courtyard into the orphanage. Cases of infant formula and diapers turned the hallway into a maze. Mama Whitney waddled around the stacks, leaning into each turn as if skiing a slalom course. A young woman in a white smock and cap stepped into the hallway. Mama Whitney shooed her away with a flick of the wrist. The woman jumped backwards and shut the door. Mama Whitney dug into the front pocket of her housedress and pulled out a string of skeleton keys. She opened an aging wooden door.

The spicy smell of mold rose from the basement. Mama Whitney pawed the wall in search of the light switch and then hurried down the steps.

Faith hesitated. She flashed back to the many spring storms when she had followed her mother down the stairs of the root cellar in search of shelter from tornadoes. As a small child, she had felt safe there as her mother comforted her with Bible stories. She grew older and the tales shifted from Noah’s Ark and Jonah and the Whale to threats of fire and brimstone. By her teenage years, Faith chose to stay in the house alone and dare the wrath of the tornado. Since lightning bolts never struck the sinner, nor did the twisters ever blow down the house, maybe the tempest of the coup wouldn’t find her, either, if she again didn’t follow her mother.

Summer nudged her from behind and whispered, “It’s not going to collapse. Go on.”

She gritted her teeth and descended into her mother’s basement. A lone bare lightbulb dangled on a frayed cord. Broken cribs, piles of donated clothes and stacks of wooden crates filled with baby bottles littered the area. A heap of unfinished projects nearly concealed a corner workbench. Mama Whitney plowed a path through the junk like Moses parting the Red Sea. The Israelites followed her into the wilderness.

Mama Whitney approached the workbench and reached for the floor, her arm flailing in the air. She stood back up, panting. “Summer, help me out, son. I can’t bend over as well as I used to. You’ll have to feel around. There’s a panel in the floor that lifts up. When you get it up, reach in underneath on the bottom right-hand side and you’ll find a round light switch. Flip it on. I think you children will understand that I can’t go down there with you, but you’ll be safe enough.”

Faith turned sideways and inhaled to give him a few added inches of clearance as he slipped past her. Summer ran his fingertips along the floor until he found the outline of the panel. He picked it up, set it aside and stood. “Good to see you again, Mama Whitney.” He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “I sure do appreciate your hospitality.”

“Now, you gonna tell me what’s going on? Is someone about to bust down the doors after you-all?”

“They’re searching for us, but we don’t believe they’re on our trail,” Zara said.

“What kind of trouble you in? You were always such a good boy, but being that you’re with this Jezebel, I have all sorts of ideations. She always did get you into trouble.”

Faith fought back years of anger. She opened her mouth to speak, but Zara leaned over to her and whispered into her ear.

“Ask her about your father.”

Faith’s confused reaction to Zara’s warm breath distracted her from her ire.

Summer towered over Mama Whitney and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Now you two are going to have to bury the hatchet for a little while. It’s a matter of national security. I know you’ve always been a God-fearing, patriotic American, so you’re going to have to put your differences aside for the time being and give each other the benefit of the doubt for the good of the country.”

“You’re still in those special armed forces?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then it must be something real important if you’re here behind the Iron Curtain.”

“Yes, ma’am, and it hasn’t gone too good, but with the help of these two ladies here and your hospitality-and the good Lord willing-we’re going to get things straightened out. I’m not free to talk about it, so I hope you understand.”

“You all stink to high heaven. There’s an old shower down there. I’m pretty sure there’s a dried-up bar of soap. I’ll send someone down with shampoo, towels and the like. Can I get you anything else?”

“Mind if we help ourselves to some clothes and things laying around here? How about if you check on us in a half an hour after we’ve had a little time to regroup? I’m sure we’d all appreciate something to eat and drink then.”

“I’ll see what I can conjure up. Wish I’d a known you were coming, I would’ve whipped up some biscuits and gravy. They always were your favorite.”

“Nobody makes redeye gravy like you do, Mama Whitney.” Summer’s eyes sparkled in the faint light.

Faith descended the ladder first. In contrast to the chaos of the upper basement, the dank secret room was orderly. Crates stenciled with the words INFANT FORMULA in both English and Russian were stacked along a wall beside a padlocked metal door. The heavy lock was new and shiny in contrast to the rest of the dingy room. Dust, mold and flakes of blue paint hugged the brick walls. A rusty showerhead was connected to overhead pipes and a drain was cut into the floor.

Faith palpated her sore ribs. “What the hell do we do now?”

Summer closed the wooden panel. “This is our war room. Time to plan out our op.”

“Who do you think you are, bringing me here?” Faith said to Zara. “You must know tons of people in Moscow, and one of them has to have an empty garage or something.”

“I don’t know anyone I would trust with something this sensitive-not even my father. I’ve spent most of my life abroad. My contacts are in the KGB and diplomatic corps. And no one will ever expect you to turn to your mother for assistance.”

“Present company included,” Faith said.

“Amen to that, but she’s not that bad and she is your mama.” Summer pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat in it backwards at the table made from two sawhorses and an old wooden door.

“Maybe not that bad with you. You always could charm all of the Whitney women.”

Zara’s facial muscles tightened. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we have a lot of work and not much time. First, I want an inventory of our resources, then a review of the target-”

“Hold on,” Summer said. “I think the first thing we need is to agree on our command structure.”

“Very well. I’m in command. As I was saying-”

“Not so fast, comrade. I command special operations all over the world and I blow things up for a living. You’re a spook. You’re used to sneaking around, kidnapping people-and I think you did a pretty crappy job at that.”

“You’re here, aren’t you? And I didn’t plan that one-my staff threw it together on short notice. Don’t forget I’m a lieutenant colonel and you’re a lieutenant commander. I outrank you.”

“Just because the KGB has military ranks doesn’t mean you’ve got equivalent preparation, particularly for this op. I’m a twin-pin-EOD and SEAL.”

“And I was a Girl Scout,” Faith said. “Why don’t we vote on it?”

“No,” Summer and Zara said in unison.

“Glad we’re not fighting for democracy.” Faith laughed, but Zara and Summer scowled.

“Without going into my extensive operations background,” Zara said, “I do concede my work has been of a different nature, and I’ll defer to your expertise for running this op, but only this op.”

“Fair enough. Now, the first thing I want you to do is run this meeting. Carry on.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “This is ridiculous. Let’s get on with it.”

“Faith, this is important. It might seem trivial to a civilian, but a clear command structure is vital to the success of any operation.”

“Command structure? Come on, this is a pissing contest. There are three of us. We’re hardly a SEAL or Spetsnaz team.”

“Commander Summer has a point. You’re going to have to trust both of us and go along.”

“Whatever.” Faith threw her arms into the air. “He’s the captain, you’re the platoon leader and I’m the troops. We’re screwed.”

“Let’s review our resources,” Zara said.

“Come on,” Faith said. “We all know what we’ve got and it’s not much-about ten pounds of C-₄, the gun Summer took from the guard and whatever your pistol is. If I understand my recent explosives lessons correctly, we can’t do much without time fuse and a blasting cap. Speaking purely as a nonprofessional, we’re well equipped to knock off a Seven-Eleven.”

“You’re a good pupil, but you didn’t make it to lesson two. There are ways to set off C without using a cap or fuse-if you absolutely have to. They’re just not pretty. We have enough C to do anything we need, but we’ll have to come up with an easily ignited explosive to detonate it. Give me a couple of minutes under anyone’s kitchen sink and I can come up with a crude bomb. The issue’s survivability. It’s tough to jury-rig a slow-burning fuse to set off a high-velocity explosive.”

Faith held up her hand as if stopping traffic. “Whoa. Survivability? Forget it if you don’t think we’re going to come out of this alive.”

“Faith.” Zara looked her in the eyes. “What we’re about to do will save countless lives-maybe even prevent another war. We have to accept there could be casualties.”

Faith turned her gaze to Summer. He nodded.

“I don’t like it one bit,” Faith said. “Casualties-as you so technically call one of us dying-are not acceptable.”

“We can’t take time to debate this. If you don’t want to be a part of it, opt out now. The comrade here and I have a job to do,” Summer said.

“Call me Zara.” Zara turned from Summer to Faith and smiled. “You could always go upstairs and visit with your mother.”

“That was low. Speaking of my dear mother, what the hell is she doing with a secret room she can’t even squeeze her chubby self into? And why would anyone have to hide crates of infant formula?” Faith stood and walked over to the stacks of crates. “I might not be a professional spy or a SEAL, but I know the hallmark of a smuggler when I see it.” Faith picked up the corner of a crate. “This infant formula is too light. Help me get this open.”

Summer pulled the Leatherman from his pocket and slid a blade under a metal staple, digging into the wood. With a couple of twists, an end of the staple popped out. Within moments, he pried off the lid.

“I knew the orphanage was a front.”

Faith studied the crate’s contents. Black rubber was stretched over a round plastic case and fastened in place with a thin metal strip. Two knobs protruded outside the casing. A ring was attached to a pin inserted into the smaller knob.

Zara smiled. “Landmines. Problem solved, I take it.”

“Yep.” Summer picked up one of the mines and held it by its brown Bakelite case.

“An arms dealer,” Faith said. “A Christian arms dealer. What a hypocrite. Can you tell where it’s from? I’ve heard she’s bringing in big sums of money and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s shopping locally.”

“I’ll be darned.” He turned it over and inspected the markings. “PMNs. Roosky. I haven’t seen one of these puppies in years. This was the first mine I ever came across in the field.”

“We have reports of some corrupt military selling them on the black market,” Zara said.

“Even if she bought them here in Russia, what the heck is Mama Whitney doing with anti-personnel mines?” Summer said. “There are millions and millions of these little boogers in the world. They’re cheap, easy to manufacture. If you want to get some of these to the West or to the Third World, you sure as heck don’t have to go to the trouble of smuggling them out of the Soviet Union. Hell, the Russians give those things as door prizes to Third World guerilla movements that come begging to Moscow.” He sat at the table and unscrewed the large knob on the side.

“She’s probably not taking them out, so I’d say she’s supporting an insurgency movement here,” Zara said. “The Karabakh so-called self-defense army, maybe some groups in Chechnya, Dagestan. I’d also venture a guess they bring them in here through an underground tunnel behind that locked door. Given that this room is much warmer and damper than I’d expect, I’d say the tunnel is part of the hot-water system.”

“Hot water system?” Summer said.

“Moscow uses a centralized system to pump hot water throughout the city,” Zara said.

Faith looked at the reinforced steel door. “I totally forgot about it. In the summer they turn off the hot water for weeks at a time for entire sections of the city to clean the pipes. I remember freezing cold showers at Moscow State.”

Summer removed the brown plastic knob, turned it and looked inside. He then rolled it across the tabletop to Faith. “Here’s the detonator.”

“Will it work as a blasting cap?”

“It could, but that would be the long way around, and we’d still have the problem of no time fuse or det cord. If I remember these suckers correctly, we can solve both problems and use the whole mine as a detonator and timer.” He unscrewed the smaller knob and looked inside. “Just like I remembered. It’s delay-armed. The mine’s designed so that when you pull the pin, there’s a fifteen to thirty minute delay until it’s armed. That gives you some time to plant it and get away. That means you could actually step on it after pulling the pin but before it’s armed and it won’t go off.”

Faith turned the knob as she inspected it. “I don’t think we’re going to get the chance to plant a field of landmines around the front door.”

“It means we can trip the mine first by piling bricks or something on it, then pull the safety pin and it’ll go off in fifteen to thirty minutes,” Summer said.

Faith rolled the knob back across the table to Summer. “Give or take a few minutes?”

“The variation depends on the temp. If it’s colder it’ll take closer to thirty, warmer fifteen. You see, when you pull the pin, you release the striker, the spring-loaded firing pin. It presses against this steel wire, which eats through a lead strip. It takes a while to cut through it. When it does, the mine’s armed and any pressure on the rubber plate on top will release the actuating plunger. Then the striker-”

“We understand. It blows up,” Zara said, tapping her fingers on the table.

“There are a couple of steps before then, but you could sum it up like that.”

“Then we do have the ability to set off the blast with adequate delay,” Zara said.

“And I could cut the time in half by filing down the lead strip so the wire cuts through faster, say in seven to fifteen. Why don’t I do that on a couple, just in case we decide to go that route?” Summer opened a blade on his Leatherman and whittled at the thin lead strip. “To finalize our inventory, the gun I took from your guard has a full magazine with eight rounds. What I wouldn’t give for some night-vision equipment.”

“I have at least fifty rounds of ammunition in the car and a second magazine. The magazine on the Makarov can be a bit tricky to remove. I suggest you practice, so you can reload quickly. I do have a small night-vision monocular and a small pair of regular binoculars in the glove compartment.”

“That’s convenient,” Faith said.

“I keep them for night birding-owls.”

“What kind of power are we talking about?” Summer said.

“I got them from a guy in the KGB Spetsnaz unit. They’re not as good as what I have at home in Berlin, but they’re our latest night-vision technology.” Zara glanced at her watch. “We have to pick up our pace. The meeting is scheduled to begin in three hours. Unless someone knows of any additional resources, I propose we move on to the discussion of the target. The dacha’s located on a stream in a birch forest about a half-hour north of the Moscow ring road. It takes another half-hour to get to the city limits from here, and that’s without traffic.”

“Any neighbors?” Summer said.

“They probably wouldn’t be there this early in the season, not on a Sunday night. One is rather close, perhaps a hundred meters.”

“What I wouldn’t also give for some good overheads. We should get there as soon as we can and see if we can’t borrow a dacha as a base. I’d like some time for recon.”

“That was going to be my suggestion, but we’re discussing the target now, not the plan,” Zara said.

“You don’t have to run this thing like it’s some goddamn Communist Party meeting. We have to get a move on here,” Summer said.

“But we do need structure to this operation, and I do believe you delegated that task to me after you took control.”

“I don’t know how you do it here in Russia, but when planning a mission, we Americans like the input of ideas.”

“Give me a break, you two,” Faith said. “This isn’t the time for Soviet-American rivalry. Let’s move on and tolerate each other’s style differences.” Faith understood the competition had far less to do with international than interpersonal politics.

“As I said, it’s a two-story wooden dacha, no more than two hundred twenty-five square meters.”

“So if my rough conversion is right, that’s a bit over two thousand square feet. I take it we’re not talking sixteen-inch support beams, but regular housing construction?”

“Standard Soviet housing construction, maybe fifty years old. Things were built much better under Stalin, but it’s weathered, which says a lot with our winters.”

“We have enough C-4 to give anyone inside a really bad day. We’re going to need fifteen to twenty pounds of something to weigh down the mine. Do you know if there are any loose bricks around the house?”

“I’ve been at Stukoi’s dacha perhaps three times in ten years, each time for mushroom hunts. There was always a lot of clutter, so I don’t know what it’s like now, but I’m certain you’ll find something adequate.” Zara forced a smile.

“We know anything about the meeting we’re crashing?” Summer said.

“Not much, but it’s going to be important for me to show up and get some kind of proof of the coup attempt. Without that, who’s to believe why we blew up the place? I have a miniaturized camera and microphone I brought from Berlin that I can use to document it. We also need to find out how they’re planning to get Gorbachev, since they didn’t receive the C-4 delivery. We have to make sure that taking them out not only stops them from seizing power, but also saves the General Secretary.”

“How many people? What kind of security?”

“With all due respect,” Faith said, “we’re going into the woods with a bunch of explosives, breaking into a cabin, spying on the neighbors and then winging it. I know you’re both highly trained professionals used to teams with all kinds of high-tech gadgets, but you have to accept that you don’t have your colleagues or your toys and, no matter how hard we try, we don’t know jack about what we’re really getting into until we get there.” Faith stood and walked over to the crate of landmines. She reached inside and picked one up, surprised it was so light. “We’ve now entered the phase where my specialty pays off, and it’s my turn to play leader. We’re going to fan out and scavenge from these crates and that mess upstairs for anything we think might be remotely useful. We’ll take turns on the shower. I thought I saw some gray coveralls in that pile of old clothes. Commander Summer, I suggest you turn your charms on my mother and see if you can get us some flashlights. A backpack would be really nice. You also better get her phone number and memorize it, just in case you make it out and we don’t. I know your mission specs call for only a couple mines, but as the lead scavenger, I’m going to take a bunch, just in case. We might only need a couple, but you never know. Let’s get a move on. The longer we’ve got on-site, the better the chance our half-assed plan might actually work.”

A few minutes later, Faith scaled the ladder. The secret panel to the orphanage’s basement lifted up just before Faith could push it open. She and her mother paused face-to-face and studied the changes in each other that the years of separation had carved. Faith caught a glimpse of something she hadn’t seen or hadn’t let herself see since she was a child. For a moment the woman before her wasn’t a fundamentalist bigot, but a concerned mother, a mother worried about her child.

Faith looked away and slid back down the ladder to the hidden room. “Summer, I think you’d better go up first. You deal with her.”

“You’re a grown woman. Act like one. Get on up there.”

Faith sighed. She climbed back up.

Mama Whitney held a plate of overstuffed sandwiches. “I don’t know why on earth I was so tickled when you showed up. I nearly had to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming or if after all these years Jesus had finally forgiven me and brought my little girl back to me.”

“Those two brought me here.” Faith nodded down the trapdoor toward Summer and Zara. “If I’d known where they were taking me, we wouldn’t be having this touching reunion.”

“Child, I don’t know whatever happened for the devil to cram so much hatred into you.”

“My childhood pretty much covers it.”

“Honey, I did the best I could in difficult times. Lord knows I’ve made mistakes. It sure wasn’t easy raising a child alone back in those days, particularly with my Calling. When are you ever going to find it in your heart to forgive your mama?”

“That’s a new angle. I didn’t think your God had anything to do with forgiveness.”

“I’ll let that pass. I’ve been worried sick about you. A few weeks ago, a young lady who was the spitting image of you-not in looks, but in how she went around in the world-that dear soul was killed right in front of me and it started me rethinking a lot of things. Now I don’t know what you’re up to, but-”

“You dragged me all over creation acting like I was a ball and chain Jesus had strapped to your ankle to punish you for some unforgivable sin.”

“I know you’re caught up in something with with Yurij Kosyk. I don’t know the whithers and wherefores, but I do know if he’s involved, Lucifer himself isn’t far behind. Either your life or your soul is in danger.”

Faith stared agape. “How the hell do you know about Kosyk or Schmidt or whatever the SOB calls himself?”

Mama Whitney opened her mouth, then closed it. She moved her lips as if talking to herself, all the while shaking her head.

Zara climbed up the ladder behind Faith. “I’d love to let you two play this out in your own time, but we’re on a tight schedule. Your mother met with General Kosyk in Berlin last week. And it was a rather protracted, personal meeting.”

“With Kosyk? How personal?” Faith flashed a startled glance at Zara, then glared at her mother.

Mama Whitney looked away, but Faith saw the tears well up in her eyes.

“Mama, how could you-with him?”

“Honey, try to understand.”

“You swore you’d never be with another man again after Daddy died.”

Tears washed down her mother’s face. “Lord, don’t make me do this.”

“Unless it’s about Daddy, I don’t want to know. I can’t take any more of this today.” Faith turned and rummaged through a box of clothes and held up a pair of coveralls. “Summer, I think these will fit you.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

EMBASSY OF THE GDR, MOSCOW

7:43 P.M.

Kosyk watched the second hand of his watch circle the dial. In a couple of hours, he would get even with Bogdanov. No one sets up Gregor Y. Kosyk. The bitch Bogdanov had manipulated events for him to take the fall for losing the Americans. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed she had known they were going to escape. She had probably even helped them. He would take care of Bogdanov soon enough.

Within twelve hours, the putsch would be in progress and the socialist world would be saved-only Kosyk didn’t want the entire old order to be restored. The moribund GDR leadership had squelched his ambitions too many times, but not again, not this time. With a precisely timed phone call, he would set their plans in motion-a few hours prematurely. He picked up the heavy gray receiver and dialed the secure line to the head of the Ministry for State Security in Berlin.

“Mielke,” the MfS chief answered.

“Your shopping list is complete, but your favorite shop closed earlier than expected. It reopens in the morning with new stock.”

“You’re absolutely certain it’s closed?”

“Positively.”

Mielke hung up on Gregor Kosyk for the last time.

Kosyk knew that Mielke was now relaying the news of Gorbachev’s death to Honecker. Within hours, Honecker would order the air corridors to West Berlin sealed off. After the last West Berlin U-Bahn car crept under GDR territory around one the next morning, soldiers would open the long-sealed stations along the two routes crossing beneath their capital and soon afterward their soldiers would pour from West Berlin U-Bahn stations like rats fleeing the sewer. Kosyk wished he could witness the collapse of the Anti-Fascist Protection Wall as the GDR’s military pushed into West Berlin. But even more than that, Kosyk wanted to see Honecker’s and Mielke’s faces when they realized they had no diversion of chaos in Moscow and no hope of Soviet backing. He wondered how long it would take for them to figure out they had unilaterally begun a war with the Americans.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

NORTH OF MOSCOW

8:59 P.M.

On a dirt road a few kilometers from Stukoi’s dacha, Faith steadied the flashlight while Zara and Summer reached into access panels in the Zil’s trunk. Faith’s thoughts were still with her mother. She knew it was childish to want her mother to be with no one but her father-even though he’d been gone for thirty years. She’d hardly admit it to herself and definitely not to Summer, but somewhere deep inside she believed that finding her father would make everything right with her family again. If only he’d been there when she was growing up to temper her mother’s zeal. Now, when she was so close to finding him, her mother ruined everything by having an affair with another man-and not just any man: Kosyk, the Stasi general, the terrorist, the man who threatened to kill her. With a shudder of guilt, she hated her mother even more.

And then she wondered if Kosyk had forced her to sleep with him in exchange for information about her father.

Summer dropped a bulb into her hand. “Good thinking, Faith. We don’t need brake lights to give us away.” He gave her a single pat on the back, but she didn’t like being one of the guys-not to Summer, not now.

Zara drove back onto the main dirt road and continued onward. In a few minutes, she slowed and turned off the headlights. Lights from the dacha flickered through the trees. They crept past it and into the neighboring driveway. The nearly full moon illuminated the rutted drive between the towering birches. Zara stopped the car in front of a collapsing shell of a burnt-out dacha.

“Great intel on our base camp,” Summer said as he looked at the rubble. “Now I wish we would’ve gotten an earlier start.”

Zara backed the car to conceal it as best as possible behind the cottage’s remains. “I told you I haven’t been here for a couple of years.”

Summer smeared shoe polish on his face. “I don’t like the moon phase one bit. It’s far too bright for something like this. At least we found these dark coveralls.”

Zara turned off the motor. “I’ll go survey Stukoi’s dacha and determine who’s there.”

“We agreed earlier that I’m in command of the op. I’ll take the night scope and recon the area. You two wait here and be quiet. Comrade, you make sure Faith understands the importance of following orders.”

Faith noticed Summer checking the Makarov magazine even though he had inspected it during the ride from the city. He had eight bullets and she hoped that was eight bullets too many and not too few.

The moonlight was too bright to risk dashing from tree to tree, so Summer crawled along the damp forest floor, picking up an unintended camouflage coating of mud, sticks and leaves. No one was walking patrol; security for the meeting didn’t seem to be a priority. The closer he got to the dacha, the stronger the smell of burning wood. He paused to scan the area with the night scope. Expecting to see everything in shades of green, he was surprised to see tones of dark gray. Compared to the third-generation night-vision equipment he was accustomed to from the American military, the Red Army monocular was like looking through cheap sunglasses. What he wouldn’t give for an infrared view of the target. At least the bright moonlight had an upside: It augmented the dated technology enough to help him make out three drivers leaning against one of a half-dozen parked cars. He’d have to get closer to be sure, but none seemed to be carrying visible firearms, though one clutched a bottle.

Drink up, buddy.

Summer moved close enough to see without the scope. Just then a car pulled into the drive and parked. He froze as he watched a short man with a goatee strut to the cabin. The man ignored the guards’ greetings.

A woodpile was near an outbuilding some fifty feet behind the dacha and smoke curled above the wooden shack. No one seemed to be inside. The only voices in the still night air came from the dacha and the drivers. He sketched a precise mental map of the area and returned to the car.

Suddenly the car door opened, but before Faith could choke back an instinctive gasp, Zara’s soft hand was across her mouth and Summer was scooting into the roomy backseat with them.

“Your comrades started a while ago without you. I heard a lot of laughing and some pretty bad singing, so I’d say they’re a bit liquored up. They have to be nuts the eve of a coup, sitting in a cabin in the woods, drinking and singing about the Motherland.”

“Welcome to Russia. Stalin used to hold all-night Politburo meetings at his dacha and made his greatest decisions inebriated. Do not underestimate us: We Russians are highly functional drunks.”

“There was a building sort of like a smokehouse, but the smoke didn’t smell like hickory,” Summer said.

“The banya could be a problem,” Zara said. “Someone might be getting ready to use it.”

Summer knit his brow and made eye contact with Faith.

Faith whispered, “A Russian sauna where they steam themselves, beat each other with birch branches, then roll in the snow.”

“Now that’s a pretty picture.”

“How many are we up against?” Zara said.

“I counted three guards. A stocky man marched in while I was-”

Faith interrupted. “What did he look like?”

“Stout, late-fifties, goatee-”

“Kosyk,” the two women said simultaneously.

Faith continued, “Great. We’re about to blow up the one person who knows about my father.”

“I know the man well and we’re doing the world a favor. There are other ways to find out what you need,” Zara said.

“I thought all the documents are sealed,” Faith said.

“Don’t you think your mother knows?” Zara said.

Silence.

“Faith, hand me that paper and pencil so I can rough out a diagram of what we’re looking at.” Summer crawled under the blanket with a flashlight like a child reading under the bedcovers. A minute later he stuck his head out from under the blanket and whispered, “Okay, you two are going to have to join me under here for the briefing. I want you to see my map and I don’t want any light leaking out and giving us away.”

They gathered under the musty blanket and Summer spoke. “Three guys in some kind of military uniforms are standing here drinking. No visible weapons.” He ran his finger along the crumpled paper, leaving a dusting of dried mud. “Two cars had antenna arrays. This last one blocked everybody in and this one here, too.”

“A few generals in there. We have to take out the communications.” Zara put her arm around Faith’s lower back to steady herself in the awkward huddle. At first Faith pushed a little closer to her, but then shifted away.

“Noted. There was no sign of phone lines going into the house, only electricity.”

“I thought Stukoi would have more pull than that,” Zara said.

“The last two cars completely block in all of the others. The trees are too tight on each side for anyone to drive around them. Faith, you’re going to take the mines and place them behind the back tars of the last two cars.” His Ozark accent began to slip through even more strongly as Summer focused on the mission. “When they start to leave or chase after us if we slip up, they’ll trigger the mines and the wrecks will pin in the rest of them. Comrade, any chance the cars are armored?”

“Only Gorbachev, Shevardnadze and a couple of others have them. Not these guys.”

“Good. There’s an entrance under the house here on the side facing us. I’ll slip under there and set up the mine. There are a bunch of bricks laying around the foundation that I’ll use to trigger it. They’ll add a nice little antipersonnel aspect to the explosion. Now timing is going to be critical. Comrade, how long do you need to get what we’re after inside?”

“They’ve been drinking, so it shouldn’t be hard to get them talking. I have a long history of short appearances at social functions with Stukoi. Give me half an hour plus five minutes’ margin.”

“Remember, you can’t let yourself get delayed. I’ll set the mine for the cars nearest the guards, but Faith will do the two back ones later because I don’t want someone leaving too early before the big show and setting them off prematurely. Comrade, move your car to the main road. Faith and I will meet up back here; then we’ll catch up with you at the car.” Summer turned off the flashlight and threw the blanket back. He dipped two fingers into the shoe polish and smeared it on Faith’s cheek. “Sorry. I know how much you hate this.”

“I’m developing an immunity to grime.”

“Everyone understand what we’re doing? Any last questions? Let’s get our gear and be on our way.”

“Whoa,” Faith said. “What if something goes wrong?”

“Improvise and be glad your mama is on her knees for us.” Summer snapped the lid on the polish and dropped it onto the floorboard. He opened the car door and hunched down behind it. Faith and Zara followed him.

Zara opened the trunk and handed Faith one of the rucksacks her mother had loaned them. “I never intended to bring you into anything like this. I’m so sorry.”

Summer grabbed the pack stuffed with C-4 and two landmines and slung it over his shoulder. “It’s now nine forty-three. Comrade, I’ll give you a couple of minutes to park the car and talk to the guards. Be out of there by ten twenty-five at the absolute latest. I’ll pull the pin then, and it’ll go off within seven to fifteen minutes, give or take-and I can’t emphasize enough how inexact this is. I did my best to whittle away half of the lead strip, but who knows exactly how long the mines will take to arm.”

“Understood.”

“I trust you have your little tape recorder and spy camera ready?” Summer said.

“Don’t worry. We’ll have our evidence. You’re more likely than I am to run into a firefight, so you take the extra magazine,” Zara whispered as she slid into the driver’s seat.

“Thanks. One more thing,” Summer said, crouching beside the car. “Make sure you leave the car unlocked and the keys under the driver’s floor mat. Not that we plan on going anywhere without you, but just in case your timing’s off.” He winked at Zara.

Summer took Faith’s hand as Zara drove away. “You doing okay, Faith? You up to this?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen your fireworks.” She looked at him from the corner of her eye and smiled.

They sat down on the ground behind the burnt-out dacha and waited. Summer didn’t take his eyes off his watch. “So what do you think Mama Whitney was doing with that Stasi general?”

“I’m still trying to figure it out. It doesn’t add up. Ever since I found out Daddy’s alive, I’ve assumed he was captive in the Soviet Union, but it could be he’s in Germany. I was thinking maybe Mama was forced to sleep with Kosyk as part of a deal to get Daddy released from an East German prison, maybe even Bautzen.”

“I can’t remember the last time I heard you empathize with your mother. At least some good’s coming out of all of this.” He nodded and looked up from his watch. “It’s time. Stay put. I’ll be back in five.” He kissed her on the top of the head and disappeared into the darkness.

As the cool moisture seeped through her coveralls and underwear, she knew she had to summon the same fortitude as Summer, but she also knew him well enough to sense it wasn’t real. He was scared and that unnerved her.

Her watch’s minute hand had hardly moved since Summer left, though it felt like he had been gone too long. She pressed her eyes shut and strained to listen for Zara’s voice, but only heard the laughter from the dacha and owl screeches from the woods. A breeze picked up and she opened her eyes. Nine fifty-two. Where the hell is he?

Summer suddenly slipped beside her. “Ready, honey?”

“You’re not going to need the night-vision thing are you? Can you at least leave it with me? I’ll go crazy here if I have to wait for you even longer next time. At least with it I could be a lookout for you after I’m done with my minefield.”

“You might as well take it because it’s not going to do me any good under the house. Just keep low.” He unzipped a pocket, handed her the monocular and then looked into her eyes. “Faith, you know I love you, don’t you?” He picked up the backpack and held open the strap for her.

Faith turned her back to him, put on the pack and paused. She swirled around and kissed him on the lips, smearing the shoe polish between their faces. She pulled away from him, unsure whether she dared tamper with the past, particularly at a time when it was being rewritten. “Be careful. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

“Same here. Remember to keep low and watch the time.” He kissed her on the cheek and crept away toward the dacha.

CHAPTER FIFTY

GENERAL STUKOI’S DACHA

A FEW MINUTES EARLIER, 9:28 P.M.

Even as Kosyk walked up the driveway of the dacha, he could hear drunken laughter. Tonight they should be reviewing plans and contingencies, checking and rechecking all that was so meticulously prepared, but he knew the drunkards hadn’t even agreed yet which of them was going to run the country. He went inside. As expected, the Russians were swilling vodka and gorging themselves on caviar. Even Titov’s protégé from the Berlin residency, Resnick, was sauced.

“Sit, sit.” Stukoi poured Kosyk a glass and stuck it in his hand. “Drink with us.”

“Tomorrow night, when we have something to celebrate.” Kosyk shook his head and pushed the glass back to Stukoi, but he wouldn’t take it.

“Tonight we have something to celebrate. We’re on the eve of the future.” Stukoi gulped vodka.

“I came to work, not to make merry. Is everything in place for tomorrow? Have you found FedEx and Otter?”

“Tomorrow will take care of itself. Enjoy yourself with your comrades tonight.” Stukoi slapped him on the back, jarring him enough to splash his drink all over him.

“We have a problem with Honecker,” Kosyk said, ignoring the indignation of the alcohol soaking into his clothes. “I just found out he’s making a move on West Berlin tonight. I tried to talk them out of it, get them to delay until after the putsch.”

General Zolotov waved his hand dismissively. “Let the Germans do whatever they do tonight. We clean up after them in the morning. You know what Stalin thought of you Germans.”

“You can still stop him from blundering into war.”

“You’ve done your duty. We’ll remember it.” Stukoi patted him on the back.

“You have to stop them tonight.” Kosyk lit a cigarette. “Honecker can no longer be trusted.”

“General Kosyk,” Zolotov said, slurring his words. “We heard you. You’re like a schoolboy tattling on your friends. I hated boys like you.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

9:49 P.M.

Zara flicked on the tape recorder hidden in a brooch, fingered the miniature camera concealed as a cigarette packet and then turned the doorknob, but the door was stuck, swollen from the humidity of recent showers. She butted it open with her shoulder and caught herself before she stumbled into the room. Half-empty bottles were scattered on every surface and a smoky blue haze clouded the dozen men, most of whose faces she recognized; the KGB was well represented. She had expected the Soviet Army generals, but was surprised by the GRU’s presence. She was more taken aback by the satisfied smile on Kosyk’s face when he saw her. She recognized the sated look of revenge.

“Zara Antonovna,” General Stukoi spoke with uncharacteristic familiarity. “Finally you join us.”

“Tovarishch Bogdanov,” General Zolotov said. “So you are the girl we have to thank for the restoration of order to our world. You make your father proud. You should have brought Anton Antonovich along. Someone get her a glass so we can drink to her.”

“I can’t take the glory. General Stukoi was the one who brought all of you together. And our German colleagues-”

“Our German comrades failed. Stukoi tells us they didn’t deliver the American explosives and thanks to them we have to hunt down the smuggler and the commando,” a KGB colonel said.

“As I explained,” Kosyk said, “I was not the one who lost them.” The irritation in Kosyk’s voice was stronger than the smell of alcohol in the room, but his perfectly enunciated Russian gave no hint of intoxication.

Stukoi handed Bogdanov a used shot glass and poured vodka into it and onto the floor. “Tomorrow we find the Americans, but before that, we enjoy the May Day. The parade will be glorious and without the explosives we have no risk of damage to Lenin’s tomb or any questions of why we weren’t there with Gorbachev when the explosion occurred. A bullet’s cleaner. It’s better this way.”

Zara took the glass. “So who has the honor in the morning of giving the sniper the final go-ahead?”

“Finished already,” Stukoi said. “Everything is in motion. Zolotov can signal to abort if we need to, but that’s not going to be necessary.”

“A toast.” General Zolotov raised his glass. “To Comrade Bogdanov, who helped bring the spark of revolution from Germany. Tomorrow, we Bolsheviks will once again rid the Motherland of the imperialists.”

The toast dragged on in true Russian style, but Zara ignored it. Her disciplined mind forced herself to concentrate on the strategic situation. They were too late to save Gorbachev by only eliminating the conspirators. They would deal with the sniper in due course. She reviewed various contingencies and planned her responses. She kept coming back to Faith; the woman was a brilliant smuggler, but had no paramilitary training. If the guards discovered her, Stukoi and Kosyk would instantly understand that Bogdanov had helped the Americans, and her only option then would be to take out as many as she could with her eight rounds. Kosyk she would shoot first. He was sober, probably armed and he deserved it.

“To Comrade Bogdanov,” everyone in the room repeated and downed the vodka.

Faith didn’t see any point in writhing through the mud any longer than she had to, so she darted to a tree on the other side of the burnt-out dacha. From there she could see lights and the outlines of cars. She pulled out the night scope, but saw less than with her naked eyes. She dashed from tree to tree down the driveway of the abandoned cottage. When she had gone far enough, she lowered herself to the ground and crawled on all fours toward the target. She winced at the crackle of each leaf, sure it would give her away. The sound of the drivers unnerved her. When she was close enough to distinguish voices, she lowered herself to the ground. The coveralls were a wick for moisture and dampness touched her belly.

She heard a rustle in the leaves. She plastered herself as flat against the ground as she could. Footsteps came closer. If they found her now, it was over. They’d get Summer. Her fingers fanned out, searching for a rock. Her hands pressed into the soft mud, squeezing it under her fingernails. She struck a rock, but it was barely bigger than a crabapple. She clutched it, ready to do whatever it took. Leaves crunched beside her.

A deer emerged from the forest. She exhaled, startling the creature. It bounded into the night.

Her nerves tested, she inched onward until she came to a narrow clearing-the empty drive. She had overshot. She retreated a few yards back into the woods and paralleled the path until she spotted the last car. She crawled behind it and slipped off the backpack. The car blocked the moonlight, forcing her to work in the darkness. She ran her fingers along the top of the mine, making sure the rubber top faced upward, and then she lodged it behind the right tire, taking care not to place pressure on the rubber. She held her breath and yanked out the metal pin.

Moonlight seeped through the cracks between the decaying boards along the foundation of the house. The light was barely enough to help Summer navigate the lifetime accumulation of junk under the house. He plowed through broken sawhorses, scrap lumber and boxsprings as he cleared a path to the center of the structure. He set down the backpack with the explosives and crawled back to the opening, grabbing a dented metal bucket along the way. Like a wolf guarding its den, he emerged from the entrance on all fours.

Bricks were piled beside the house, awaiting some unfinished project. Tonight their wait was over. Summer placed them into the bucket, careful not to make any sound. He estimated he had a good twenty-five pounds’ worth, giving him plenty of leeway.

On his way back under the house, he spotted a small propane tank. It was the perfect height to make a platform for the mine and it would add some punch to the blast. As he ferried the bricks to ground zero, he reminded himself he already had enough C-4 to turn the house into splinters.

As an EOD guy, he’d spent most of his career disarming explosives; the opportunity to blow up such a good target had come up far too seldom. He glanced at his watch and calculated he had ample time for temptation-if he worked fast.

He returned for the propane tank, pleased with how the job was shaping up and not admitting to himself the real reason he wanted it: If something went wrong, he’d shoot into the tank to detonate the charge instantly-even though he’d be too close.

He set the tank on the ground under the center of the building and rocked it to make sure it was on solid footing. On top of it he placed a wide board on which he positioned the mine. He unscrewed the detonator plug, just in case he had carved away too much from the lead delay strip and the mine armed instantly. Molding the C-4 around the mine, he left openings so he could pull the safety pin and screw back the detonator. He checked the time-twenty-two fifteen-and sat down and waited, gun in hand in case he had to do the unthinkable.

Zara excused herself to the kitchen in search of zakuski to munch on. She sensed Kosyk getting up as she walked by him.

He stalked her. “They told me the meeting didn’t start until ten, but they were drunk off their asses when I got here.”

“They told me nine.”

“This is no way to prepare for a putsch. We should be reviewing contingencies, making certain we haven’t overlooked anything.”

“They don’t make hard-liners like they used to,” Zara said with a smile. “So, have we overlooked anything?”

“That’s not the point. Typical Russian Schlamperei.” Kosyk took out a cigarette and rolled it between his fingers. Tobacco fell from the ends. “And now we have to go with a sniper because you lost the C-4 I sent you.”

“I lost nothing. It was never received, but it doesn’t matter now. I’ve been visiting my father all afternoon and evening and I’m not up on the latest. Who won out on the sniper’s position? Stukoi or Zolotov?” Zara fished for plan details as she pulled the top off a caviar tin. She spooned it into a dish.

“I’m not following their petty politics. The sniper’s going to be on the top floor of GUM. It’s a clean shot from the department store to the mausoleum. But that’s tomorrow. Berlin worries me right now. I warned them, but the fools are too drunk to give a damn. Honecker’s starting a war with the Americans as we speak.”

“Have you been drinking, too?” Zara set down the spoon and pushed away the caviar. “What are you talking about?”

“I informed Mielke tonight everything’s in place. The putsch is going down in the morning while Gorbachev reviews the May Day parade. It seems Honecker doesn’t trust that the new Soviet leaders will give them what he really wants-West Berlin. He’s sealing off the city tonight and annexing it. Before anyone realizes what’s happening, the Nationale Volksarmee will liquidate the police, sever communications and seize government buildings. By morning the National People’s Army will be sitting on the Americans’ doorstep, daring them to start the next world war.”

“That’s insane. They know the Americans will defend the city.”

“Reagan would’ve, but he’s been gone for months. Honecker’s counting on the confusion in Moscow to slow down their response. The Americans aren’t going to want to start a war over Berlin with an unknown Soviet government-particularly if it wasn’t involved in the action. The American finger isn’t on the trigger anymore. They’ll hesitate, debate. They’ll be too late, maybe.”

“It’s the maybe that worries me. The Americans will fight for Berlin. That policy’s never wavered. I can’t believe no one in there would listen to you and stop it. The GRU could warn the Soviet Army units in Germany to stop them. Hell, any of them could get word through to the right people,” Bogdanov said.

“Exactly. I thought they would do that immediately. They could clean house with Honecker tomorrow. A fitting epilogue. But you know what they said to me?”

“Cleaning house with Honecker-that’s what it’s all about for you, isn’t it? They take out Honecker and his cronies, and you’re the loyal German who dutifully reported their insubordination to your Soviet masters. You’re putting yourself in line to run the GDR, aren’t you?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“My ass. So is this about liberating your repressed Sorbian brothers, or is it just a power trip for you?”

“There are too many nationalists in this world. The Sorbs are respected, treated well in the GDR. They have money for their organizations, their little books and theaters.”

“And so well treated that’s why you haven’t made it to the Central Committee?”

Kosyk reached into his sport coat. Just then Stukoi and Zolotov stumbled into the kitchen. Several others followed them.

“Come join us, little lady,” Zolotov said. “We go to the banya.”

He put his arm around Zara, puckered his puffy lips and lunged for her. She dodged. He toppled forward, grabbed at her and ripped the brooch from her jacket. It skidded across the floor. In an instant she grabbed his arm as if breaking his fall and bent his thumb backwards, but wasn’t sure if he could feel any pain through the alcohol. “Watch your step. You could really get yourself hurt.” She shoved him along and then reached down for the brooch.

But Kosyk already held it.

He flipped it over and handed it to her with a rare smile. “Please.”

She thanked him and then turned to Stukoi, hoping she could use him to get away from Kosyk while keeping them above the explosion. “Why don’t you wait to go to the banya until after I leave?”

“We added wood to the fire long ago. It should be perfect now. Come join us,” Stukoi said.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I need to be going soon. My father isn’t feeling too well and I get so little opportunity to see him.”

The men wobbled out the back door.

Zara glanced at her watch. Explosion in ten minutes-plus or minus. She had to get out. And she had to do something about the men in the banya. “General Kosyk, it’s been interesting as usual, but I have to excuse myself.”

“You cannot go yet.” He reached into his tweed sport coat and pulled out a gun.

It seemed like it had taken hours, but in less than twenty minutes Faith had crept to the cars, laid her landmines and returned to the burnt-out dacha to wait. She sat down in the familiar spot. The seconds dragged. What was happening? She knew it was too early for Summer to return, but she couldn’t stand not knowing. She twisted a twig between her fingers until it snapped. There was no reason she couldn’t wait on Summer closer to the dacha. With the night scope she could watch the entrance under the house and could be back at the rendezvous spot before him.

Still wearing the backpack with three leftover mines, she crawled toward the dacha. She perched behind a bush on a small rise from which she could view the entire area. She looked through the night-vision scope, but the resolution wasn’t enough to make out much. Time slowed to a standstill. She waited, staring at the unchanging scene. The breeze shifted directions and she smelled smoke. Nothing was coming from the chimney of the dacha, but smoke curled from the banya.

Ten twenty-two-only three more minutes until he pulls the pin.

She raised the monocular to her right eye to watch for Summer. He should be pulling the pin and coming back within a minute. Then she saw movement. Four men staggered out the back door of the dacha. Oh, shit.

Faith shoved the scope back into her pocket, zipping it shut. She crawled on her belly toward the dacha, forcing herself to watch the obese men undress. Slowly they stripped off their suit jackets, dress shirts and trousers. One shoved his clothes at a peg on the side of the sauna, but they crumpled onto the ground. The men stumbled inside.

As soon as the last one shut the door, Faith crawled through a flowerbed and under the house.

It was time. Summer steadied the landmine with his right hand and pulled the pin. The metal striker whizzed out of the detonator plug hole, the tiny steel missile zooming through the air. Summer jumped back, sure he’d filled his pants. Crap. Must’ve cut too far through the delay strip.

Now the mine was useless.

He raced through the dark obstacle course of junk toward Faith and the extra mines.

Kosyk pointed the gun at the center of Zara’s chest. His left eye twitched. “I assume you have an arsenal strapped to your body. Set them on the counter one at a time. You know the routine, any fast moves, any noise-”

She removed the Makarov semiautomatic from her ankle holster, holding the butt with two fingers. She spread her feet apart and held out her arms for a search.

He picked up her gun and stuck it in the back of his trousers. He patted her down with his left hand while the gun in his right pressed against her throat. He stopped at her pockets, removed the cigarette-pack camera and dropped it into his sport-coat pocket. “Marlboro. You won’t need these.”

Zara didn’t want to call his attention to her concern with the time, so she didn’t look at her own watch, but stole a glance at his. She knew that under her feet a spring-loaded metal pin was pushing against a steel wire, wearing away a thin lead strip between her and death. She guessed she had less than four minutes.

“You know, it never did make sense to me why you were the one who approached us with plans for the coup. Mielke has a close relationship with over half the KGB generals and considers the other half blood brothers. He knew exactly whom to trust and who hated Gorbachev. He even came to us directly a couple of years ago with a proposal we oust Honecker. If Honecker and Mielke decided to knock off Gorbachev-Mielke would’ve come straight to us.”

“A rogue general is deniable-Mielke’s not. I couldn’t get the fools to understand that eliminating Gorbachev alone wasn’t enough. They had to find a way to control the successor.”

“You can’t tell me Mielke didn’t grasp that.”

“He believed Gorbachev’s support was weak and fractured. He had faith in his generation of Chekists and Soviet Army commanders and believed they’d seize power, maybe not immediately, but as soon as they thought the imperialists were behind the assassination. Mielke’s getting old and losing his edge-they all are.”

“Sad, in a way. He was probably the most ruthless, cunning bastard I ever met-present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course.” Kosyk smiled again.

“You know it makes no sense they’d make a play for West Berlin on the eve of a coup when there’s the danger of Gorbachev getting involved, possibly changing his plans for the morning. Even if they’re bold enough to invade the city on their own, they wouldn’t do it before the chaos ensued in Moscow. I’m betting you set them up by signaling them that the murder had already happened. They’re probably sitting in Berlin right now, listening to Radio Moscow, wondering why it isn’t playing a dirge like it usually does in the interim between the death of a Kremlin leader and the official announcement.” Zara knew the lead strip had become a little thinner. “You expected your Russian friends in there to contact their colleagues in Germany and stop Honecker, didn’t you? You thought that would be enough for them to boot out Honecker and the whole bunch. After proving your loyalties to the new Soviet leaders, you’d be in line for a major role in the post-coup order, definitely Politburo, maybe chief of the MfS and quite likely the First Secretary.” Where was the explosion?

“You flatter me.” Kosyk’s eye jerked to the left. “And you possess such an excellent grasp of politics; it is a shame to kill you.”

Faith lunged through the hole under the house. The top of her head smacked into something hard, stunning her. She heard a muted grunt. Fingers reached around her throat.

“Summer.” She choked.

“Jesus, Faith. You scared the shit out of me. I need another mine now. No time to explain.”

“Four of them,” Faith said, gasping for air, “just went into the sauna in the back.”

“Shit. We’ve got another problem.” He took the mine from her. “How many mines do you have left?”

“Just these two.”

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to give you a couple pounds of C to pack around the mine. On your way out of here, you’re going to find an old pile of bricks to your right. Shove half a dozen bricks into your backpack and book it to the steam house. Screw off the detonator plug and set it aside for a minute. That’s the big one here.” He took her hand and placed her fingers on a round knob. “Memorize how this feels and how it’s different than the other one.” He moved her cold fingers to the opposite side. “Next, you’re going to mold the C around the mine, leaving holes for the plugs so you can pull the pin. Just smash it around. Doesn’t have to be pretty. Now you’re gonna pull the pin. Stay clear of the det plug hole just in case the little metal thingy comes flying out like it did on me. Screw the plug back into the mine, then stack the bricks on it and get the hell out of there. I’ll meet you at the burnt-out building. Think you can do it, honey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay right here while I get you a slab of C.” Summer retrieved some plastic explosive and handed it to Faith. “Now repeat what you’re going to do.”

Faith summarized his instructions, her speech fast and clipped from adrenaline.

“Good. Now one more thing. We have to coordinate so they go off as close to the same time as possible. Think you can do it in four minutes?”

“I can do it in three.”

“It’s twenty-two twenty-eight-uh, ten twenty-eight. Pull the pin at ten thirty-one.”

“Summer, can’t we speed up things by pulling both pins right now? They won’t arm for a while and there’s plenty of time to set them up.”

“We could do that, but it might arm too fast and blow you up when you put the bricks on it. Get moving. Pull the pin when I told you.”

“Summer, I’m in enough danger as it is.” Faith screwed off the detonator plug and stuck it in her pocket. “A little more won’t matter and we’ll know if this one is another dud.”

She pulled the pin.

“Better get yours out now before I get too much of a head start on you. See you at the ranch,” Faith said. She squeezed out the entrance, took a quick right and shoved the bricks into her backpack, adding an extra one for good measure. She crawled into the woods. The bricks were much heavier than the light plastic landmines, but they didn’t slow her down. She scooted to the back of the banya and dragged herself a few feet under the structure, leaving her legs protruding. She pulled the mine from the front pouch of the backpack, the steel wire now cutting through the lead delay strip. The sound of switches smacking against flesh came from inside the banya. She smashed the C around the mine and screwed on the detonator cap. She took a deep breath and she picked up a brick.

Dear God, please don’t go off.

She lowered the brick onto the mine’s rubber plate.

Kosyk shifted his aim from Zara’s chest to her head. She listened for the charge. Any second now.

“Time we go for a little walk. As soon as you open the door, clasp your hands behind your neck. You’re a professional, so I won’t insult you with a reminder of all the things you can do to hasten your death.”

Zara pushed open the door and considered slamming it back on him, but the rotting wooden frame was too flimsy. She walked down the steps with her hands behind her head, prepared to throw her body to the ground the second she heard the charge.

“Straight ahead. Past the banya to the riverbank.”

If she could get a survivable distance from the explosion, she would have the element of surprise. She could overpower him, eliminate him and then deal with the splinter group in the banya. She listened for the pop of the charge, but only heard the sloshing of her feet in the mud and the voices from the banya.

She passed the banya. The moonlight glistened off the river less than fifty meters away. Constantly scanning the area for an opportunity, she spotted something. Legs stuck out from under the structure.

The commander?

Kosyk? Faith raised her head up and bumped it against the floor of the banya. She saw Zara walking at gunpoint. Summer was too far away to help, so she picked up the extra brick she’d stacked on the mine and wiggled out from under the building. She slithered along the ground toward the riverbank, pausing behind a bush to check her bearings and listen.

“So, you worked with the American even after you said you had no contact with her. Was she CIA? Are you doubling for the CIA and gathering tapes of conversations to use against me after I’m First Secretary?” Kosyk said.

“Your ambitions cloud your judgment. I’m not a traitor like you. I’m loyal to my country, my leader-and my family. You’re not going to succeed. Gorbachev was alerted and Spetsnaz commandos are moving in any minute.”

“I expected more from you. On your knees. Now.”

“So you’re going to make me suck your little cock first, you asshole?”

Kosyk shoved her down.

The brick cut into Faith’s hand as she clutched it as tightly as she could. Too far away. With each crunch of a leaf, another drop of blood drained from her light head.

Kosyk prodded Zara with the butt of the gun. “Who are you working for? Why were you taping tonight’s meeting?”

“Stukoi. He doesn’t trust you. I think his exact words were ‘double-crossing little prick.’ He wanted me to gather the proof you were playing us off against the GDR leadership.”

Only twenty feet. Faith moved closer. Then she heard the hammer click. Faith pulled her arm back, but stopped herself. Too damn far. Keep him talking.

“Explain one thing I couldn’t figure out,” Zara said. “Why did you attempt to recruit Faith at the MfS cabaret in front of all your colleagues? If you were going to succeed in pinning the blame on the Americans, MfS fingerprints couldn’t be left anywhere. You’re too good for such a blunder.”

“What’s the point of being the architect behind the most brilliant operation in intelligence history if no one even suspects it was your work?”

Faith steadied herself with the trunk of a birch as her foot sank into the mud of the riverbank ten feet from Kosyk. She looked at Zara and knew he was about to kill her, so she grasped the brick with both hands and held it over her head. She focused on the base of his skull and lunged forward, but slipped and only grazed the side of his head.

Kosyk spun around and fired at the same instant Zara lunged, spoiling his aim. Still, he kept the gun pointed at Faith. He smiled coldly. “Drop it.” Kosyk motioned with the gun and spoke to Zara. “Over there, beside her.”

Zara kept her hands visible as she inched toward Faith.

Faith turned to Zara for her lead, but glimpsed fear in her eyes. Faith knew it was over-at least for one of them, and Faith was the one facing the barrel of the gun. She trembled and the blood rushed from her head. She couldn’t pass out now, not when she was so close to the truth. She forced a deep breath. Mustering all her self-control, she looked Kosyk in the eyes and said, “I know you’re going to kill me. At least tell me what happened to my father. Where is he? What did you do to him?”

“You really don’t know, do you?” He smirked and turned toward Zara. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you, Bogdanov?”

Faith jerked her head around toward Zara and then slowly turned back to him.

Kosyk spoke. “It was impossible for your father to stay with your mother. He always told her, ‘We had no chance, but we-’ “

“ ‘But we made ourselves one.’ ” A chill ran through her body as Faith recited the lines she had studied so often for comfort, for clues. She could see her father’s bold strokes in his old-fashioned German handwriting. “How the hell do you know those words? They’re from the only thing I’ve ever had that was written by my father.” She searched his face for answers and she found them-in his wide cheekbones, in his high forehead and in the familiar way he cocked his head a little to the left. “You?”

“I offered you the opportunity to learn from me. You rejected it.” His eye twitched.

“What did you do to my mother? Blackmail her? Rape her?”

“You were a love child. I was assigned an undercover mission to penetrate an imperialist front organization in Berlin-West that was a CIA springboard for subversive activities in the republic. My orders were to position myself as close as I could to the ringleader. I couldn’t have gotten much closer.” He laughed.

“You deceived her and used her.”

“Never. I never used Maggie.” He raised his voice. “I was always fond of Maggie, but she was a missionary and I was a career officer in the Ministry for State Security. Our love could never be.”

“You can murder your own child in cold blood?”

“With regret. I’d planned on letting the Russians take care of you, but their usual sloppiness leaves me with little choice. Understand that tomorrow I’ll be leader of communist Germany and I can’t afford a capitalist bastard-no matter how lovely she is.” He reached forward and stroked Faith’s hair. “Before you die, forgive your mother. A Bible smuggler couldn’t have the child of a godless communist any more than an MfS general could claim an American daughter. What happened wasn’t Maggie’s fault. You were a child of the Cold War.” He paused. The moonlight caught his eyes and glistened on the tears that welled up inside them. “Join me.”

“I can’t.” Faith choked on the words.

“Then turn around. Both of you. Now!”

“No. If you’re going to murder your own daughter, you’ll have to do it while looking me in the eye.”

He paused for a few seconds as he studied her eyes and then he pulled back the hammer of the gun.

A white flash lit up the night and a fireball consumed the dacha. The concussion shook the ground. Kosyk jerked his head around in time for the second blast. At that moment Zara struck his arm, knocking the pistol to the ground. They scrambled for the weapon as flaming debris rained down around them. He grabbed the gun. Zara held on to his arm, struggling to keep him from pointing it at her, but he was stronger.

For the first time in her life, Faith wished her father dead. He was no longer the hero she imagined, but a scoundrel, a terrorist mastermind, a Stasi controller willing to sacrifice his own daughter to politics. He had betrayed her fantasy. He had betrayed her mother. He had betrayed her. Just as Kosyk started to pull the trigger, Faith smashed the brick into his skull.

Faith cradled the bloody brick while Zara fussed with the body. She had his nose, narrow, turned up a little at the end. The eyes definitely weren’t hers, set back and with dark baggy circles under them.

Zara took the brick from her hands and tossed it into the river. Rings of ripples floated like ghosts across the still water. Faith watched them hit the bank and return in wave after wave to the center, crossing through one another over and over again until they were no more.

“He’s unconscious but not dead, if you need to say something to him for your own sake. Brain hemorrhages can take a while, and they’re not always fatal.”

Faith dropped to her knees, clutched her father and sobbed. “We had no chance.”

Where the hell is Faith? Summer looked at his watch for the hundredth time, although he had an excellent internal chronometer and was keenly aware of exactly how much time had elapsed. He’d listened as the shouts in Russian faded into moans, but didn’t hear her. He should have gone to the car, but he couldn’t leave her. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her. Then he heard a rustle in the woods below his position, coming up from the river. He slid behind the burnt-out structure and waited for the target to emerge. Please be her.

Two figures stumbled through the woods, not even trying to conceal themselves. He aimed around the corner of the building. Flames lit up the night and he could make out the comrade leading Faith toward him. She stumbled as if injured. He rushed to her. “Where’s she hurt?”

“She found her father.”

Summer mouthed, “Kosyk?”

Zara nodded. “We have to get out of here. The drivers.”

Summer stuck the gun in his pocket and picked Faith up, hoisting her over his shoulder. He was relived to feel her body against his and didn’t want to ever let go.

They ran down the driveway toward the car. Three-quarters of the way down the path, a gun fired and they dropped to the ground.

“Get her to the car. I’ll draw their fire and cover you,” Zara said.

“Careful, comrade.” Summer carried Faith toward the road.

“Go!” Zara crouched behind a tree, reached around and fired off two shots. The drivers returned fire. She hit the ground and crawled to the next tree. She looked around and could make out three figures in the shifting flames. One was headed into the woods to outflank her, so she fired at him and then saw him drop. She shot at the others and sprinted several meters, unloading her Makarov as she ran. She dived onto the ground. Automatic-weapons fire erupted. She slinked along the ground as quickly as she could with at least fifty meters until the road. Bullets sprayed a nearby tree, turning bark into pulp.

A gun resounded from the woods near the road. The commander. Someone screamed and the weapons fire stopped. She stood and ran toward the road. Like lightning branching across a night sky, pain suddenly radiated through her right arm, and then she heard the whizzing sound of the shot catch up with her. She spun around and emptied the magazine in the direction of the fire until a man let out an involuntary yelp of pain. Zara held her arm and ran, arriving at the Zil at the same time as Summer.

Automatic gunfire punctuated the night as she jumped into the passenger seat. “You drive. I’m hit.”

Summer hit the gas. The tires spun, stuck in the soft mud. The engine roared, but it wasn’t loud enough to hide the sound of the nearing Kalashnikov.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

BERLIN AIR CORRIDOR

10:14 P.M. (12:14 A.M. MOSCOW TIME)

The 727 descended to nine thousand feet for the final crossing over East Germany to West Berlin. The day of milk hauls between West Berlin and West Germany had been long and uneventful, save for a bird strike in the late afternoon that threw them off schedule by nearly an hour. Frosty yawned as he scanned his console, all instruments reading within normal parameters. He knew his days were numbered as a Pan Am flight engineer. Flight engineers were slowly going extinct, thanks to declining profit margins and the genius of Boeing and Airbus designers. Modern jetliners had automated so many of the calculations that were the bread and butter of the flight engineer that even the latest models of the complex 747 had forgone their need. Sure, he was a pilot and could always become a first officer, but he was happiest as an engineer.

He patted the side of the engineer’s station of the aging 727. The old girl is built like a brick shithouse. The boys at Boeing had so overengineered the ’27 that he was sure she’d share the same fate as the DC-3. With occasional engine replacements, she’d be demoted from First World passenger service to hauling cargo around the Third World for a good half-century beyond her expected lifespan. The new Airbuses that were entering the Pan Am fleet with their joysticks and glass cockpit would never hold up like the 727. He shook his head at the irony of a disposable airplane disposing with his job. He never did make captain, but then he never did make history as he had dreamed when he first flew his dad’s plane at eleven. Just when things were going right, life and women had a way of getting in the way. Maybe it was time to let go.

The kidnapping a few days before in Moscow haunted him. Faith might be dead now because of him. If he’d fought harder, he could’ve saved her. He shouldn’t have listened to Ian; he should’ve gone ahead and reported her abduction to the embassy. He let Faith down. He wasn’t useful for much nowadays. Maybe it was time to gracefully harden into the fossilized world of retirement. He looked at the worn photo of his chocolate Lab Clipper and smiled. Ever since he had rescued Clipper from the pound and Clipper had saved him from the loneliness of divorce, the dog’s picture rode along on every flight, propped up on the engineer’s station. I’ll be home soon, boy.

The first officer was flying and Captain Henning was monitoring the radio. Frosty noticed his countenance suddenly drop. He grabbed his headset and listened in on the radio chatter.

“Ich wiederhole, Pan American, you are ordered to leave the sovereign airspace of the German Democratic Republic, heading two-two-five,” the heavily accented voice crackled over the radio.

The afterburner of a MIG fighter flared in the distance. A few seconds later, it buzzed within meters of the American civilian craft.

“Jesus,” Frosty said.

The captain’s voice was steady, too steady. “Berlin Centre, Clipper six-six-one, we are experiencing substantial interference by unidentified craft.”

Sweat beaded on Frosty’s forehead. Of all the captains he could’ve been assigned, why did he have to get Captain Courageous?

“Say again, Clipper,” the American air traffic controller said.

The MIG pilot interrupted, “Pan American, you are ordered to heading two-two-five at once. Mach schnell. You are violating airspace of the German Democratic Republic. Leave our airspace sofort or you will be considered hostile.”

“Berlin Centre, Clipper six-six-one, we are being threatened by a MIG intercept. Probable Foxbat. Request heading two-two-five to return to West German airspace, best speed.”

“Pan American, here is your final warning.”

“Henning, fuck protocol. This guy is serious and not very patient. Get us the hell out of here. Now!”

The MIG buzzed them again at the same instant the captain took charge of the controls from the first officer and began to bank. The 727 shuddered and yawed to the right. Red lights on Frosty’s monitors flashed like a pinball machine. A deafening bell drowned everything out, but years of training shoved fear aside. Frosty silenced the bell, and then confirmed the central power selector was set to the number-one engine. He called out the engine failure checklist from memory and the first officer acknowledged each item.

“Number-two engine thrust lever-closed; start lever-cut off; engine fire switch-pulled.”

Frosty monitored the electrical load as he cut the power to the galley and shut off the fuel and hydraulics to the damaged engine. The fire-warning light for the number two was still illuminated. “She’s still on fire. Discharging the bottle now.” He hit the transfer switch.

The first officer followed the protocol while the captain struggled to control the machine as it dropped. And dropped.

Frosty’s breathing stopped when he saw the number-three engine’s low-oil-pressure light flicker and its generator trip off. Its EPR was going down faster than they were. The number two’s fire-warning light burned steady as he counted down the seconds until the next extinguisher discharge. He feared he was going to make history after all. Frosty McGuire, first casualty of WWIII. No, he wasn’t going to let the Red bastards win that easily. He prayed that the number one hadn’t ingested any shrapnel as he discharged the extinguishers for both numbers two and three. Frosty McGuire was going down fighting.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

NORTH OF MOSCOW

11:23 P.M.

The Kalashnikov fire came closer, but the tires of the Zil spun in place. The car slid sideways, splattering mud onto the windows. Summer eased up on the gas to creep out of the rut. It wouldn’t move. “Son of a buck.” Summer slapped the wheel. “I’ll push. Think you can drive a little ways, comrade?”

“Yeah, but hurry. They’ll be in range any moment,” Zara said, her right hand applying pressure to the bullet wound.

Summer sprang from the car. At the sound of another round of fire, Faith let out an involuntary whimper. Mud sprayed Summer as he rocked the car, careful not to slip underneath it. Stepping on a large stone for traction, he shoved until he could feel the veins popping on his forehead.

Then the car moved.

He jumped into the driver’s seat, nearly landing on Zara’s lap. An engine started in the distance. Just as he was closing the car door, he saw a flash of light and a second later heard the report from Faith’s mines. He then listened for the gas tank. Within seconds it lit up the forest. He threw the car into gear and stomped on the gas. The moon was bright enough that he could keep the headlights off. “You’re going to have to direct me. I don’t know where to go except away from here.”

“Straight about twenty kilometers.” Keeping her right arm stationary, Zara removed a cardboard box from under the passenger seat. She pulled out a package of gauze. Holding it between her teeth, she ripped it open. She slipped off the blazer, opened her blouse and pressed the gauze against the wound.

“How bad you hit, Zara?”

“Hurts like the devil, but doesn’t feel like it got the bone. Bleeding’s more than I’d like.”

“You’ve been hit before?”

“Couple times. One grazed my scapula in Grenada during the invasion.”

“Really? I took one there, too-in the butt.”

“Hope you’re not offended if I don’t want to compare battle scars.”

“So there definitely were Russian and not just Cuban advisers in Grenada.” He glanced over to Zara. The white gauze was turning dark from blood.

“Not really. The Cubans can hardly build an outhouse without us, but they’re not too bad with runways. I was based out of Havana at the time, doing some counterespionage work, and I was following up on reports of increased CIA activity when the invasion started. We suspected the CIA was establishing a station at the medical school.”

“Faith, how we doing back there? Want to tell me what happened, sweetie?” He looked into the rearview mirror. She was stretched out, covered with the blanket.

“How do you live with yourself after you kill someone?” Faith said.

“You needed to have aimed lower, at the base of his skull. Where you got him, it would have taken much more force and probably multiple blows to kill him.” Zara pressed on the wound. “You gave him a concussion, that’s all.”

“The thing is, I wanted to. I wanted him dead.”

Silence.

“I want to see Mama now.”

“Why?” Summer said.

“I just killed my father, so I want to sleep with my mother in some twisted Oedipus thing. What do you think?” Her voice cracked her façade. “I need her.”

“The comrade’s right that heads can take a real pounding. I’m sure he’s alive. You try and get some sleep. We’ve got a bit of a drive and it’s pretty much all over now.” Summer crossed his fingers, pointing them toward Zara.

“I’m afraid it isn’t. I was going to give you a couple of minutes of respite before I told you.” Zara peeked under the bloody gauze pads, opened another pack and pressed one on top of the blood-soaked square.

“How’s it look?”

“Bleeding’s slowing. It’s rather deep.”

“I’ve got a good vet here in Moscow I can recommend.”

“Don’t worry about me. There are more important things. We’re facing two separate situations. We stopped the coup back there, but not the assassination. The orders have already been issued and the assassin deployed to murder Gorbachev tomorrow morning during the May Day parade in Red Square.”

“What kind of a dumb-ass outfit is that? You never give the green light until you’re ready.”

“Quite frankly, I doubt he would’ve been sober enough by morning to give the go-ahead. General Zolotov had arrangements to halt it if he had to, but he went up with the banya. Since they never received the C-4-”

“They did tonight.”

“I stand corrected. Since they didn’t receive the shipment as expected, they changed their plans to use a sniper from the top floor of GUM department store.” Zara rifled through the first-aid supplies with her good arm.

“I sure hope that’s the really bad news.”

“Take a right here.” Zara’s face grimaced from pain. “It gets much worse. Honecker is making a move against West Berlin tonight.”

“God almighty.” Summer took a deep breath. “It’s gonna be ironic if I end up getting vaporized by American nukes. Guess, in the end, it doesn’t really matter who they come from.”

“No, it doesn’t. It really doesn’t,” the KGB officer said.

“Any idea of their exact plans?”

“Kosyk said they would seal off the city tonight, liquidate the West Berlin police, take over the government, cut off communications. By morning, he said the Allied bases would be cordoned off by the National People’s Army. Faith, could you help me with this? I’ve reduced the bleeding to a trickle and I want to bandage it.”

“Sounds like a textbook communist takeover.” Faith sat up and took the gauze roll from Zara. Her voice grew stronger. “He forgot the part about installing a puppet government first so it can invite in the National People’s Army and Red Army with a request for military assistance.”

“The Soviet Army isn’t involved. Honecker is acting alone.” Zara opened yet another fresh square of gauze and piled it on top of the blood-soaked ones. “Help me get this blouse off and wrap my arm with the gauze strip.”

Faith leaned over the seat and unbuttoned Zara’s blouse, careful to keep her own mud-caked sleeve away from the wound. “Honecker’s timing really doesn’t make sense to me. They should have waited a few hours. The world would have been so stunned, they’d have a window to move and dig themselves in while the US administration was trying to figure out which faction was taking over in Moscow. The Americans would’ve been stymied asking themselves if the play for Berlin was a result of the coup or was the putsch to prevent the takeover.” Faith pushed the blouse from Zara’s right shoulder, holding it so she could pull the uninjured arm free. She paused for a moment with her hand cupping Zara’s bare shoulder.

“Kosyk set them up. He signaled them that the assassination had already taken place tonight.”

“Summer, I need your knife. I think I’d better cut this off. I’m afraid I’m going to hit the wound when I slip the sleeve over it,” Faith said.

“I’m not that delicate. Go ahead and do your best not to bump it.”

“Summer, the knife, please.”

“Why would they believe him if the assassination hadn’t been confirmed somehow by the news or something?” Summer dug in his pocket and held out the Leatherman.

Faith pulled out a blade. In a single motion, she sliced away the sleeve down to the elbow. Zara unbuttoned the cuff and threw the blouse onto the floorboard. She wore only a sleeveless white undershirt, now stained with specks of fresh blood.

“Kremlin politics are different from the White House. When a leader dies, they usually wait until the body smells before they announce it.” Zara’s strained voice betrayed her pain.

“Are there some painkillers in that first-aid shoebox?” Faith wrapped the gauze around Zara’s arm. “Tell me if this is too tight.”

“I don’t like using drugs unless I really need them.”

“If it’s not something really strong that’s going to make you loopy, go ahead and treat yourself,” Summer said.

Zara shuffled through the box, removed a couple of pills from a cellophane packet and swallowed them dry. Summer turned onto a side road.

“What are you doing?” Zara said.

“Putting the brake lights back before we get pulled over for something stupid. It also helps to focus on a trivial task when you’re pondering global destruction.” He put the car in neutral and set the parking brake.

Faith opened the door, kicking off her shoes. She picked them up and beat them together to dislodge chunks of mud. “Actually, I think I’ll take advantage of the rest stop to get these filthy coveralls off and to get the shoe polish off my face.”

“My clothes are in a garment bag in the back. Please get them out along with a clean undershirt. We might need me in uniform.”

Summer returned to the car wearing a faux leather coat Mama Whitney had found for him. He handed Faith a rag and her own jacket.

“Thanks.” Faith rubbed the tattered T-shirt against her cheek, instantly turning the rag dark. “You know, Berlin is two hours behind Moscow, which makes it a little after nine-thirty there. I doubt they’d take any action until the middle of the night, since West Berlin is a party town. The good bars don’t fill up until midnight and they close around four, though the streets start to really clear out by three. That’s when I’d make my move and get troops in place before anyone realizes what’s going on.”

“Then there could still be time to do something,” Summer said. “How do you think they’ll do it? What comes first?”

“Sever communications,” Zara said without hesitation. “The MfS-the Stasi-has access to the entire West Berlin phone system. It’s no problem to shut it down. Also they’d sabotage the power stations.” She pulled off the soiled undershirt, exposing her small breasts. Summer stole a glance. Zara pulled the clean garment over her head.

“Close the corridor,” Faith added. “It drives the East Germans crazy that they don’t have complete sovereignty over all air, land and sea routes through their territory. If you closed it first, the West would assume it’s the beginning of another blockade, like in the forties.”

“And they won’t go through the Wall,” Zara said. “At least at first.”

“The U-Bahn.” Faith leaned over, resting her arms on the front seat. “Two West Berlin subway lines go under the East connecting to points in the West.”

“East to west sounds pretty direct to me. Why the heck would they build the thing under East Berlin, then back into West Berlin?” Summer said.

“It was built before the division, and it’s not like Berlin was divided on a perfect north-south axis. When they put the Wall up, they boarded up the stations on those lines. You can see them when you ride those lines. They look like they haven’t changed-or been cleaned for that matter-since sixty-one. I’ve actually seen guards there, sleeping on the benches with machine guns on their laps. Anyway, they can reopen the stations, commandeer U-Bahn cars and send in advance troops posing as civilians.”

“How do you think the Americans would respond militarily?” Zara said.

“We won’t give up Berlin,” Summer said. “No way. Not even a Democrat in the White House would do that. I don’t know the defense plans, but I think you know as well as I do they’ll punch through the corridors, and they’re not going to stay in a neat little convoy on the Autobahn. They’ll fan out.”

“As soon as the Americans stray from the established corridors, the Warsaw Treaty takes effect and the WTO states will respond.” Zara retrieved fresh ammunition from the glove compartment.

“I’ve heard rumors the plans call for the use of tac nukes, and I’d expect it,” Summer said.

“As in tactical nuclear weapons?” Faith said.

“Afraid so.”

“If we can get word out to the Americans,” Faith said, “they can at least put the Allies on alert and mobilize the West Berlin police. They’re trained as paramilitaries for just such a possibility, since the West Germans aren’t allowed to station troops in the city. They also have channels-military attachés and the like-to alert the Soviets to rein in their dogs. With Soviet opposition, the East Germans would stand down.”

“You agree, comrade?”

“The East German regime cannot survive without our backing.” Zara slid a fresh magazine into her gun.

“Then we have to figure out a way to warn them. Any ideas? I take it phone calls aren’t an option-not even to the embassy?” Summer said, his voice tailing off as the first set of headlights appeared ahead of them. He put both hands on the wheel and scoped out the nearby terrain. The ditch looked shallow, but the car would never make it through the muddy field. Whatever happened, they would have to stay on the road. The car dimmed its lights and slowed down. Summer set the gun on his lap. After a few long moments, the car passed them, its taillights disappearing in the rearview mirror.

“My nerves are shot. I was sure that car was going to come after us,” Faith said with a sigh.

“It’s not a bad idea to stay alert,” Summer said, returning the gun to the seat beside him.

Zara picked it up and exchanged magazines. “To answer your earlier question, we couldn’t get a line to the West. You have to order the call well in advance, and I seriously doubt you would get one to the European Command or NATO or any military installation, for that matter. You could probably get through to the American embassy, but it would be monitored.”

“I don’t think that’s much of an option,” Faith said, “even if we got through to the political attaché, or, better yet, the economic liaison-isn’t that usually the cover for the CIA station chief?”

“One or the other.” Zara nodded.

“So even if we got through to someone who counts,” Faith continued, “we’d have a hard time getting them to believe us. Let’s say we made it over those hurdles. It’ll go from there to the State Department; they’ll deliberate over it for a while and if they deem it credible, they’ll reluctantly pass it on to the CIA. After the CIA does its bureaucratic number, they’ll go to either the White House or Defense Intelligence Agency, most likely the former. By the time the governmental bureaucracy gets through with the information, the East Germans will be in Bonn. The problem is getting it into the right channel. Frankly, I think our best bet is the media. The whole world monitors CNN. If we could get to their Moscow bureau-”

“We might be able to warn the Allies and even Gorbachev,” Summer said. “Their offices can’t be heavily guarded.”

“They’re not. They’re in a building designated for foreign businesses with one or two guards posted there to keep Soviet citizens out and to monitor who’s coming and going. Of course, the offices are under electronic surveillance, though I doubt anyone’s listening at this hour. It’s probably only taped and archived, but they might go live if the guard gets suspicious. We’ll have to be fast. But one last detail: Why would anyone be at the CNN offices at this hour?”

“Depends on what time it is in Atlanta, I’d bet. What’s the time difference to the East Coast?” Summer said.

“I think it’s seven hours right now,” Faith said. “Which makes it a little before five in the afternoon in the non-Soviet Georgia.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

INSIDE THE MOSCOW RING ROAD

12:07 A.M.

Faith had almost dozed off in the backseat when Zara directed Summer into an alley a couple of blocks away from the foreigners’ compound housing the Moscow CNN bureau. Zara pulled on her blouse, slowly easing the fabric over the bandaged wound. She buttoned it and handed Summer the pistol with the silencer. “I’m not bad with my left hand, but I’m going to give this to you anyway. If the sentry gets suspicious, you know what to do. Since you won’t understand the conversation, I’ll lean back to signal you to take care of him.”

“I’ll understand the body language. Hey, where’d we pick up the new toy with the silencer?”

“Kosyk. But keep in mind it’s a Czech-made CZ-52, so Makarov magazines won’t fit it. We also picked up his shoulder holster.” Zara handed Faith the Makarov Summer had used at the dacha. “And we now have enough to go around.”

“No, thanks. I’ve done enough damage for one night,” Faith said.

“Take it, Faith. You never know.” Summer took the shoulder holster from Zara’s lap. “You don’t mind, do you? I can put it under my jacket, and I don’t think it’d feel real good on you right now.”

Summer stepped out of the car and circled it while Zara slid across the seat. Faith helped her into her uniform jacket. Zara drove to the compound and pulled up to the guardhouse.

“Good evening. Papers.” The guard spit out the words, his breath reeking of alcohol.

“Komitet.” She held up her identification.

The guard closed his eyes and motioned with a nod for them to proceed.

The door of the building was open. They found no building directory, so they searched the halls until they came upon a white door on the third floor with the familiar red CNN logo. Summer reached for the latch, but it was locked. He knocked and they waited. Faith wiped a smear of shoe polish off Summer’s face. He tried again and eyed the security lock, probably imported from the West.

“Can’t we take it off?” Faith pointed to the hinges on the outside of the door.

“True Soviet workmanship,” Zara said. “They’re probably not allowed to change anything outside the unit.”

Summer pulled the Leatherman from his pocket and selected the appropriate tool. In less than a minute, he removed the door and Faith helped him lower it to the floor. He unlocked it and hung it back.

Zara led the way into the empty CNN bureau, holding a flashlight. The office looked like it had been imported as a package from West Germany. The walls, chairs, desks, sofa and tables were clinical-white and spotless. Modern halogen lights sat on each desk. Everything was carefully arranged either parallel or perpendicular to the walls.

They searched the offices for the studio.

“No wonder they’re not working late. Looks like they have too much time on their hands,” Faith said, looking at a bookshelf with each section of books fastidiously arranged by size.

“We do put excessive restrictions on them so they don’t go snooping around too much,” Zara said.

“Found it. Here’s the studio,” Summer said.

They hurried to join him.

They all stepped inside and Faith closed the door behind them. She held up her arm, shielding her eyes from the sudden glare. An assortment of cameras and other electronic equipment was crammed into the limited space and cables crisscrossed the floor. A blue screen covered one wall, where Faith guessed that they projected shots of the Kremlin or other Russian scenes when they filed reports.

“Anyone have a clue how to do this?” Faith said as she studied the control console and flipped a switch, but nothing noticeable happened.

“I think we’re over our heads. Comrade?”

“I’m sorry,” Zara said as the three stared at one another.

“Well, fuck. Pardon my Russian,” Summer said. “I saw a fax machine in one of those offices, and I can’t imagine how they’d do business having to order a line for a fax hours in advance.”

“They have special arrangements for overseas lines. I totally forgot since I don’t work domestically. I’m not that up on things here.”

“Well, hell, let’s go make some phone calls,” Summer said.

Faith commandeered the first office she came to, snatched up the phone and punched in the country code for Germany, then the West Berlin prefix.

“Anyone know the country code for the US?” Summer yelled down the hall.

“Dial eight, wait for the dial tone, then one-zero-one,” Faith shouted as she hit the number for Hakan, not knowing whom else to call. The phone beeped and then a recorded message came on in German informing her that the circuits were down. She tried again, but got the same recording.

The takeover had begun.

Zara dialed her uncle’s home phone, but no one answered after a dozen rings. A corporal finally answered his work phone.

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Zara Bogdanov. Let me speak with my uncle, General Ivanovski.”

“The general’s unavailable.”

“Perhaps you didn’t understand. I am Colonel Bogdanov with the Komitet, and it’s imperative I speak with my uncle the general now. I don’t care if he’s asleep, drunk or screwing my aunt.”

“He’s having dinner with General Titov and ordered me not to disturb him. He’ll have my hide if I interrupt him.”

“He may, but the KGB can get your entire family-including the cousins you have never met.”

The line clicked. She was on hold.

“Ivanovski.”

“Uncle Yuri, it is I. I have an urgent message from Stukoi. Honecker has ordered the NVA to take over West Berlin tonight. They had planned on doing it tomorrow, but Kosyk double-crossed them and set them up. He’s in custody. Stukoi is interrogating him right now. He wants you to stop the NVA and keep them from getting us into a war with the Americans before the deed in the morning.”

“Idiot Honecker. Doesn’t he understand that would mean-”

“I have no time. If you can keep the Germans in line, everything should go fine with our friend tomorrow. Can you do that?”

“We’re not ready for war with the Americans,” the general shouted into the phone with a drunken slur. “Not yet.”

“This is Lieutenant Commander Summer. Get me Captain Moberly on the double.” Summer opened a desk drawer and poked around inside.

“Can I tell him what it’s regarding, commander?” a yeoman said.

“An imminent threat to national security. Get Moberly in the next five seconds or I’ll personally see you’re busted down to an E-1 and spend the rest of your tour painting the same goddamn bulkhead over and over again. Get to it!” The phone clicked and Summer found himself on hold, the closest thing to purgatory in this world. Within a minute, a voice came on the line.

“Moberly here. You’d better have a good one, Summer. My officers don’t go AWOL on me.”

“Sir, we’ll deal with that later.” The line crackled.

“Where the fuck are you?”

“This is going to sound crazy, but I was kidnapped and brought to Moscow, but that’s not the problem right now. You’ve got to get word to the Joint Chiefs and the President that East German forces are mobilizing to take West Berlin tonight. They’re going to cut off the corridor and probably invade through the subway.”

“Moscow, my ass. That’s a good one, Summer. Next you’re going to tell me the Chinese are in Higgins boats, crossing the strait for Taiwan as we speak.”

Faith walked into the room. “Lines are down to West Berlin.”

“I just got word civilian communications with West Berlin have been severed. Listen to me. It’s critical you tell them the Russians aren’t behind it. They don’t even know it’s going on. We’re trying to use back channels to notify them right now. The East Germans are acting on their own accord without Soviet knowledge or backing.”

“How the hell can that happen? And how do you know about it?”

“Sir, I don’t pretend to understand the politics, but I know it’s going down right now. There’s no time for details. Get them on alert. Cut through whatever red tape you have to-”

Faith interrupted. “Tell him to check on the last Pan Am or BA flight of the day and see if they’ve closed the air corridors. Make sure they understand it’s not just a blockade.”

“Sir, check on-”

“I heard it. Do you know what will happen if you’re bullshitting me?”

“Do you know what will happen when the commies take Berlin? And that’s not all, sir. Tomorrow morning they’re going to assassinate-”

The line went dead.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

NAVAL ORDNANCE STATION, INDIAN HEAD, MARYLAND

5:28 P.M. EDT (12:28 A.M. MONDAY, MAY 1, MOSCOW TIME)

Who? Assassinate who? The base commander held the phone for a moment, listening to the dial tone in disbelief. Captain Moberly had known Max Summer for fifteen years and would have trusted him with his life. In fact, he had-more than once. He flipped through his Rolodex until he found the number of Colonel J. D. Drake. The Pentagon’s joint services mandatory training seminar on environmental issues facing base commanders had been a colossal waste of time, but he did at least make some friends in other branches of the service through it. He punched in Drake’s number and browbeat the corporal who answered the phone until he had Drake on the line.

The Navy captain cleared his throat. “J. D., this might sound a bit unusual, but I need to check something out with you before I make an ass of myself somewhere that counts.”

“I’m busy right now. We have a situation here.”

“Wait. Has anything unusual happened in the Berlin corridor tonight?”

“How the fuck do you know about that? I just found out two minutes ago. We think the goddamn Russians knocked down a Pan Am jet. Looks like they’re throwing up another blockade. I knew that glasnost crap was to get us to let our guard down.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CNN BUREAU, MOSCOW

12:28 A.M., MONDAY, MAY 1-MAY DAY

“They cut the line. They’re on to us,” Summer shouted as he threw down the phone. He leaped from the desk chair, drawing his gun. He grabbed Faith’s shoulder and spun her around, pointing her toward the door. She shined the flashlight ahead of them until Summer cupped his hand over it. “Turn that off.”

Zara held her gun with her elbow bent, pointing it into the air. “Ready?” She flung the door open and aimed her service pistol down the hall while she shielded herself with the door. “All clear.” She darted past the elevator to the stairwell. She took several steps at a time, but by the second floor she was breathing hard and holding her bullet wound.

“Need help?” Summer said.

“Take point.”

Within a few seconds, Summer reached the door at the bottom of the stairs. He pushed the latch down. From the expression on his face, Faith understood someone was opening it from the other side. In a single movement, Summer stepped back, kicked the door open and fired into the surprised sentry’s forehead. He crumpled to the floor, his weapon falling from his limp fingers.

Summer scooped up the gun and stepped over the body. Faith hesitated until Zara nudged her. She hugged the doorframe to scoot around him. They raced through the lobby. No sign of backups was visible through the double glass doors, so they ran from the building toward the car. Zara veered toward the guard shack.

“Pick me up on the way. I have to get his security log,” Zara said.

Summer hopped into the car and drove to the gate.

Zara slumped against the guard shack, logbook in hand. Faith jumped from the car and helped her inside, where she collapsed into the seat. Tires screeched as Summer pulled through the gate. Sirens wailed in the distance.

“I need fluids and something to eat. It’s bleeding again.”

“Here. I lifted a Snickers from a desk drawer.” Faith handed her the candy.

“Which way?” Summer said as the car roared down the empty street.

“Get off the main road. Turn left into this alley.” Zara ripped open the bar and threw the wrapper onto the cluttered floorboard.

“Let’s go back to the orphanage to regroup. I need to see my mother.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

NADEZHDA ORPHANAGE, MOSCOW

1:30 A.M.

“Lordy, lordy.” Margaret shook her head when she saw the three of them; it wouldn’t have surprised her if they had been in Hades, wrestling the devil himself for the Keys to the Kingdom. Faith and Summer were a fright, and the Russian girl was pressing bloody rags against her arm. Faith took a step toward her and then stopped herself. She tensed up. Margaret examined her face. She recognized the look in her little girl when her eyes were begging to express something she didn’t know how to say. “Sweet pea, is there something you want to tell me?”

Faith nodded, tears filling her eyes. She took a deep breath and held it. “Forgive me,” she said as she burst into tears and grabbed her mother in a desperate hug.

“Thank You, Jesus,” Margaret whispered over and over again as she held her daughter for the first time in more than fifteen years.

“Mama, I understand now why you always acted the way you did toward me. I was a constant reminder of how you’d strayed-a curse from God.” Faith stopped crying and stepped away from her. “I know about Daddy.”

“Honey, I was young. I didn’t understand like I do now that you’re God’s greatest gift to me. I’m sorry.”

“What’s happened, happened.”

“You should know we were engaged, or I thought we were. I was on my first mission abroad in Berlin-that was before the Wall went up. Yurij was a communist zealot, and he pretended to let me lead him to the Lord. He was so suave, so cosmopolitan; I fell for him like a lovestruck schoolgirl. When he found out you were on the way, he confessed he was married and working undercover for the Stasi. He broke my heart and I know I did his, too. Yurij’s not the kind of man who would blow his cover even if his life depended on it, but he did for me. The hardest thing was that we had to play it out for several more weeks so the Stasi didn’t find out he had up and told me. It would’ve ruined his career.”

“Why did you ever do that?” Zara interrupted.

“I was afraid of him for both myself and my baby. Nothing comes between that man and his climb to the top. I woke up one morning and he was gone and a little note was on the pillow: ’We never had a chance, but we made ourselves one.’ That man had the heart of a poet. I kept that note in my Bible for years until one day it disappeared.”

“I took it, Mama, years ago. I’m sorry. I’d watched you read it and finger it and I knew it was from Daddy. I wanted something from him, some connection to him.”

“I know you did, honey. I found it with your favorite maps and let you keep it.”

“He tried to kill me, but I…” Faith choked on the words. “I killed Daddy.”

“You’re talking nonsense, child.” Margaret turned her head toward Summer. He shrugged and glanced away. Margaret paused for a moment while she blinked back tears. “Then I’m sure he deserved it. He always did.”

They showered, cleaned and dressed Zara’s wound, then met Mama Whitney in the basement with her famous biscuits and redeye gravy. They slurped them down while highlighting the events that led up to Faith’s action.

“We still have to figure out how we’re going to get close to GUM in the morning to stop the assassination,” Zara said.

“You can’t get through because of the May Day parade. By now they’ve thrown up control points around the Kremlin, allowing only people with special invites to get by,” Mama Whitney said.

“I could get through in uniform, but you two wouldn’t.”

“I know people here who’ll sell me KGB uniforms,” Faith said, her mouth still full.

“Your old contacts have been burned by now.”

“I can get what you need, but I doubt I could rustle them up in time,” Mama Whitney said.

“And even if we all made it past the checkpoints, we still have to break into GUM in front of thousands waiting for the parade.” Zara studied Summer as he sopped up the last drops of gravy with a biscuit.

“Let’s approach this like a smuggler.” Faith wiped gravy from the corner of her mouth. “When all entrances are being watched-”

“You take goods in something so commonplace, no one would ever think twice or if they did, they wouldn’t get what it really is,” Mama Whitney said.

“Nice in theory, but they’re closed tomorrow. No deliveries.” Zara yawned.

“GUM has hot water, doesn’t it?” Faith said.

“I’d assume.” Zara set her plate on a stack of old shoes.

“Well, then,” Faith said. “Maybe we need to think more from the rat’s point of view.”

4:49 A.M.

A miserable walk through a sweltering, damp tunnel of the Moscow hot-water system was almost a relief after the two hours of restless anxiety on the hard brick floor under the orphanage. The sweat and grime from the sultry tunnel hid all hints of their brief showers. The biscuits and redeye gravy were a dull memory; Faith could only taste dust. She shined the flashlight ahead of them, searching for the fittings and valves that served as landmarks on the crude map her mother had provided them. The main pipes were large enough Faith could easily have walked upright inside, but the dark tunnels had only enough room for them to go single-file beside the hot pipes. Her sides ached. At least she didn’t have a chunk of lead lodged in her bicep or a gash in her forearm. She admired Zara and Summer for their silent endurance, but she secretly wished they would say something so she didn’t have to keep her own complaints to herself, bottled up along with her fears. A cat-sized rat scurried in front of them and then lurked under the raised pipe.

“So, how are we doing, comrade navigator? I just hit fifteen hundred paces since the last turn.” Summer stopped.

Zara held a flashlight above the drawing. “We should be coming up on some stairs anytime. When we find them, four hundred meters to go until we cross over.”

They walked onward. Within a few minutes, Faith shined the light on a metal ladder. “Guess that’s our stairway. Reset your count.”

“We should notice two fittings close together where the smaller pipes branch out. Something called a flange,” Zara said without referring to her map.

“A flange is just a collar at the end of a pipe where two mate,” Summer said.

“As if we haven’t seen a billion of those junctures already,” Faith said.

“The ladder’s at fifteen hundred fifty-three paces,” Summer said with a rhythm that betrayed he was counting as he spoke. “We’ve been pretty consistent at running around ten percent over the specs. I say we’ll find the juncture around four hundred forty paces from here.”

They followed one another in silence until Faith’s light hit another set of flanges. “Where’s your count?”

“Just under four hundred.”

“Then we’re there.” Faith shined the light on the joints.

“I don’t think so,” Summer said. “I’d put money on it the one we’re looking for is a hundred meters up ahead. I’d really hate to pop up in Lenin’s tomb or something.”

“Actually, the mausoleum is pretty cool inside,” Faith said. “They have the lights arranged so that Lenin lets off this bizarre glow. They’ve used too much wax and made him kind of shiny. I’ll take you there if we get a chance after all this is over.”

“I’ll pass. I’ve had enough of you two taking me sightseeing in Moscow. I can tell you this: If you’re thinking about going into the tourist industry, you’d better not quit your day jobs. No, sir.” He laughed to himself. They filed along until they reached another junction in the pipes. “I’m at four thirty-six and we’re a few steps away. I’d say we’d better get in the turn lane.”

Patterns in the dirt, loose cement and handprints marked where maintenance workers had crawled under the pipe.

“It’s definitely had more traffic than the other ones,” Faith said.

“After you.” Zara put her hand on Faith’s back.

Faith squatted down and leaned over to get a peek at the other side. “You know, there’s something that looks like rat crap down here.” Faith flattened herself against the ground and squirmed underneath the scalding-hot surface, forcing herself to become one with the muck to minimize her risk of contact with the pipe. Pain stabbed her sides as she wiggled under it. She stood up, dusting herself off. “We’ve got another passage. Smaller, though. We’ll have to hunch down to walk through it.”

Zara let out an involuntary moan as she squeezed under the pipe. Faith helped her to her feet. “Shoulder okay?”

“About as well as can be expected when you rake a fresh wound over a rock. I’ll be fine.” Zara unfolded the crumpled map and took point, stooping to clear the low ceiling. “About twenty meters ahead, there should be a ladder and a thirty-centimeter pipe that feeds into the GUM complex. Hey, there’s something else ahead.” A half-dozen boxes blocked the path. Zara turned her light to the dark spot on the roof of the tunnel and found the shaft. “We have definitely found the right place. It appears someone is stealing from GUM and leaving the goods here to be picked up. Anyone interested in a new toilet seat?” Rusting metal rungs led straight up beside a pipe. Zara shined the light up the hole. “I can see about ten meters; then it looks like there’s something blocking it.”

Summer squeezed past Faith. He paused for a moment when they were face-to-face.

“I’ll go first. Let me get it open and then you two can come up. No sense in making Zara hang on to the rungs any longer than necessary. We also don’t know if they can hold weight for long,” Summer said.

“I won’t argue.” Zara stepped aside for Summer.

Summer pulled himself up like a gymnast mounting a set of rings. Zara shined the light up the shaft as he climbed. A scraping noise echoed and loose pebbles tumbled down. Zara jerked her head to the side, but continued to hold the light.

“One side of a rung pulled out. You’re going to have to be real careful.”

Summer reached the top and pushed open a manhole cover. He climbed into the room, leaned back over the shaft and motioned for them.

“Let me help you up to the first rung. You shouldn’t try to pull yourself up with your arm like that,” Faith said.

“I’ve done worse. I’ll be okay.” Zara reached up for the rung with her left arm.

Faith wrapped her arms around Zara’s upper thighs and boosted her up. She supported her until she could feel her weight transfer to the ladder. Faith borrowed boxes from the black marketeer and stacked them under the shaft. She climbed them until she could easily get on the ladder. She scrambled up, spreading her weight across three rungs at a time to minimize the risk of another pulling out. She made it to the top and sat on the floor of the boiler room to catch her breath. A tangle of pipes led off in different directions from a large tank, and the room was cluttered with buckets and mops. “How are we doing on time?”

“It’s zero-five-fourteen. A couple of minutes later than we wanted, but within the margins. We should have plenty of time to set up a stakeout and wait for our sniper. Now, you’re sure we’re not going to set off any burglar alarms?”

“This is GUM, not Nordstrom’s,” Zara said. “I doubt if they even have alarms wired to the doors. No way will they have motion detectors.”

They filed out into the hall. A foul stench assaulted them. Faith gagged. Russian toilets.

The first light of morning filtered down the stairs directly ahead of them. They climbed them to the top floor. Rays of sun now glistened on the arched skylights of the main arcade. Shops lined each side of the gallery, with a wide promenade separating them. The center was open to the ground floor with bridges linking the two sides.

“Any idea which gallery we’re in?” Faith said.

“We’re in the right place. The stores on that side should have back rooms overlooking Red Square. Gorbachev will be on the viewing stand atop Lenin’s mausoleum-that way.” Zara pointed to her right. “The sniper has to go through one of those stores to take his shot. We should set up our observation post in one of the shops across the gallery from them.”

“Let’s take the corner one. We can see everything from there and there’s a bridge to the other side right beside it,” Summer said.

They went over to their new observation post. Heavy red velvet drapes covered the shop window. The glass door was blocked off with similar curtains and no markings hinted at what was sold inside. Zara used the Leatherman to jimmy the lock quicker than most people could have opened it with the proper key.

Faith was totally unprepared for what she saw: stylish dresses adorning the mannequins. They could have been in Paris or London, but not Moscow, home of unisex underpants. She fingered a shawl-cashmere.

“I didn’t think Russia had stores like this,” Summer said. “What happened to lining up for a loaf of bread?”

“This must be a special shop only for the nomenklatura. We have a special shop at Lubyanka for KGB workers that stocks hard-to-get items, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” Zara flipped through a rack. “And for rubles!”

“Okay, let’s get organized. It’s zero-five-thirty. The parade starts in two and a half hours. Now, I doubt our marksman arrives anytime within the next two hours, but you never know. He may be the obsessive-compulsive type that needs to come do his wacko rituals on-site before he can do the job, or he may be the one who likes to come in just in time for the mark, do the job and not hang around. Whatever the case, we have to be ready. We’ll do thirty-minute shifts peeping through the curtains. I’ll go first, then Zara, then Faith. Any questions?”

“Yeah. What are we going to do when he gets here?” Faith wrapped a cashmere shawl around her shoulders to keep warm.

“When it’s time, I’ll go over and take care of him. Zara will come along and cover me. Sorry, honey, but you’d be in the way and I don’t want to put you at risk any more than I have to. You’ll wait here.”

Faith nodded as she spread out another shawl and lay down on the floor to rest.

Summer nudged Faith awake. “Okay, sleeping beauty. Time for your watch.”

Faith opened her eyes wide and checked the time. “Hey, it’s already eight thirty. What’s going on?”

“We couldn’t bring ourselves to wake you earlier. We pulled double duty for you,” Summer whispered. “The parade began half an hour ago and no one’s shown yet. We’re starting to think we have bad intel and this is the wrong building.”

“Psst.” Zara motioned them over to the crack in the curtains. She held up two fingers.

A burly man with a crewcut slipped a key in the door of the shop directly across from them. He carried a brown case. A second sniper opened another shop two doors down. She carried the same style case.

“Looks like we’ll have to split up after all. You take the lady marksman and I’ll take the guy. I’m not being sexist here, but remember, women are always the worst. A lot of antiterrorist squads have standing orders to shoot the women first.” Summer drew his gun from its holster and pushed up the safety. “Faith, you might have to cover us. Stay low and don’t shoot us.”

“That’s some vote of confidence,” Faith said.

“You have the Czech gun. Don’t forget the safety and remember to cock the trigger before the first shot like I showed you,” Summer said. He kissed Faith on the cheek. “Luck, everyone.”

Faith clutched the clunky wood butt of the gun as she watched them dart across the bridge. Zara stopped with Summer at the first door. He placed his hand over the handle and shook his head. He pulled out the Leatherman, stuck a blade between the door and the frame and opened it. He handed the tool to Zara. Faith couldn’t read lips, but knew he again wished her luck. Faith wished them both luck-good luck.

Summer crept into the shop, gun drawn. He swept the gun back and forth, although he was confident the sniper was in the back room, assembling his weapon. Praying he didn’t step on a creaky board, he inched across the floor toward the long counter. A curtain hung in the doorway between the storefront and the back room. He pushed it aside with the barrel of the gun just enough to get a peek. Six tall windows covered the wall. For the first time he saw the domes of St. Basil’s, the red bricks of the Kremlin fortress and the latest Scalpel missiles parading across Red Square, but his focus was on the man opening one of the windows. The assembled sniper rifle sat beside him. Summer didn’t want to take him out now because a gunshot might compromise Zara before she was in place. She needed a couple extra minutes to get to the other store and open the lock. He watched as the man picked up the rifle. Summer pointed the Makarov at the sniper’s head and waited for the resound of Zara’s shot.

Zara wedged the blade between the frame and the door and popped it open, wondering why the stores even bothered with such poor locks. A safety on the tool prevented her from snapping the blade closed. Rather than waste precious seconds, she stuck it in her shoulder holster, still open. She slinked to the curtain separating the sales space from the storage room, wishing she had a god to whom she could pray for success. If they were too late, not only would Gorbachev die; they would be put to death. A fresh breeze alerted her that the sniper had already opened the window.

Faith watched the plate-glass windows of the shops for signs it was all over. Then she saw them. Two men were crossing the bridge toward the stores where the assassins were positioned. They didn’t have any guns visible-yet. A cleanup crew. Assassins to eliminate the assassins. They’ll kill Zara and Summer.

Summer saw the sniper look at his watch and then raise the rifle to his shoulder. He heard gunshots, pulled the trigger and fired two shots into the sniper’s brainstem. He hoped Zara had had similar success.

Zara pushed back the divider and saw the sniper in position, the barrel of the rifle barely sticking out the window. Dust sparkled in the ruby-red of the laser sight. The assassin’s finger squeezed the trigger and Zara fired into her head, but at that moment she heard the spit of the silenced rifle. Smoke curled from the barrel and the spent case dropped to the floor. The woman had gotten off a shot. Zara prayed it wasn’t a clean one as she hurried out the door.

As Faith rushed to the door, she flipped off the safety and pushed back the hammer. She cracked open the door, aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. Again. And again. The cleanup crew fired back, shattering the plate-glass window. Faith dived behind the doorframe and lowered herself to the floor.

Summer watched the assassin’s body slump to the floor. Another gun discharged, but it wasn’t from Zara’s direction.

Oh, my God, Faith.

The sound of gunfire echoed from the arcade. Summer bolted to the door, kicked it and took aim at one of the gunmen. He emptied his weapon, drawing their fire away from Faith, and hit the ground. Bullets whizzed over him. He reached for the second magazine. It wasn’t there. He glanced around for cover, but found none. He inched backwards to the shop. Just then gunfire rang out from down the promenade.

Faith crawled toward the storefront to look out to the promenade, clasping the gun as hard as she could. Broken glass slit her right palm. Blood dripped down her wrist. She peeked through the smelly curtain. Summer and Zara lay on the floor, bullets ricocheting around them. The gunmen crouched on the bridge, firing as they inched their way toward them.

Zara shot as she took cover, crouching behind a wide post in the promenade railing. Her gun was empty. She pulled the extra magazine from her pocket. A glass window behind her shattered.

Zara pushed the magazine release back until the empty magazine dropped. She held the loaded one in her left hand. Before she could shove it into the gun, pain seared her forearm and her hand released its grip on the magazine. It plummeted over the edge of the promenade, down three stories and splashed into the fountain below. Zara pointed her empty gun in the direction of the killers, all the while cursing the weakness of her left hand. She glanced at Summer. He signaled that he, too, had spent his ammo. Bullets pinged around them. They both had to cross at least five exposed meters before any hope of cover. She knew they couldn’t make it. Then across the arcade she saw the velvet drapes of the dress shop move and the barrel of the CZ-52 poke through.

That instant, Faith leaped through the drapes of the shattered storefront. She spotted a head through the railing. She aimed the way Summer had taught her so long ago. She fired. Blood spattered on the dingy white rail. A bullet flew by her. She saw another clean shot and took it. Then silence.

Faith approached the bodies, her gun poised to fire at the slightest motion. Blood drizzled from a round dark hole in a man’s neck. Fixed eyes stared toward the skylights. One hand touched his neck, while the other remained loosely wrapped around the gun.

“Clear!” Faith said as she kicked away their firearms.

Summer and Zara ran to her. Summer searched the bodies for weapons and felt for vital signs. He shook his head, looking up at Faith. “I’ll be damned.”

Zara picked up a gun with her left hand, her right hand applying pressure to her left forearm. “KGB issue. Why am I not surprised?”

Faith pulled Summer to his feet and squeezed him tightly. She kissed him as if the years hadn’t come between them. She still held the gun at her side. Blood was smeared on the Bakelite handle.

“There’s no time for celebration right now. We’ve got another problem.” Zara took the gun and flipped on the safety. “And always assume a gun’s loaded.”

Summer pulled away from Faith.

“My sniper got off a shot the same time I hit her. I pray to whatever god will listen that I ruined her aim. Any moment now, some trigger-happy bodyguards will burst in and we definitely do not want to be standing here as easy targets. I think you know how these teams work. I suggest we get back into the dress shop and do our best to surrender.”

They sprinted toward the store.

Summer turned on the lights and set his guns on the counter. “We don’t want any shadows.”

“If we succeed in surrendering, they’ll be rough and split us up for questioning,” Zara said.

“What do you mean, if we succeed?” Faith jerked her head around toward Zara.

“The assumption will be that we were the ones who murdered or attempted to murder Gorbachev.”

They exchanged silent glances.

“Your arm okay?” Summer finally spoke.

“I’m getting used to bullet wounds. This one’s rather superficial, but a bleeder.” She pressed on it. “They’ll be here any minute. Don’t resist or insist on counsel or someone from your embassy or it’ll get rough. Tell them exactly what happened, but leave out Mrs. Whitney’s landmines. Leave her out all together if you can. They don’t need to know. Say I got them from a Soviet Army contact and Mrs. Whitney only gave us shelter and clothes upstairs at the orphanage. I have my recordings and film I lifted from Kosyk from last night, but it’ll take several hours to get them analyzed and to get an initial forensic analysis of this mess here, so don’t expect a quick resolution.”

“Lovely,” Summer said.

A loud crash came from below. Boots smacked against the steps and heels clicked on the promenade.

“KGB. Don’t shoot,” Zara shouted in Russian. “Over here. Do not shoot! KGB.” She held her KGB identification as high as she could with her left hand, still applying pressure with her right.

“Vot!” someone shouted. “Von tam!”

A dozen nervous KGB troops pointed their Kalashnikovs at them.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CNN CENTER, ATLANTA, GEORGIA

8:30 P.M. EDT

Bernard Shaw crossed off a sentence on his copy and looked into the camera. “We’re back. For those of you who have joined us from Europe and the Mideast, recapping the top stories. The traditional May Day military parade in Moscow was disrupted today by a mad gunman. The Soviet news agency TASS reports that a recently discharged psychiatric patient fired a single shot toward the dignitary viewing stand atop the Lenin mausoleum before turning the gun on himself. General Secretary Gorbachev was evacuated as a precautionary measure. After a short suspension, the parade resumed without further incident.

“TASS also reported that several high-ranking KGB and Soviet Army officials were killed last night when a propane leak caused the explosion of a country home during an early May Day celebration. Western analysts pointed out that several of the deceased were known to have privately opposed Gorbachev’s reforms. Ramsey Jackson of the Heritage Institute speculated that Gorbachev may be resorting to Stalinist tactics to eliminate potential enemies and consolidate his hold on power. Dr. Jackson added, ’I believe it’s going to become evident over the next few months that Gorbachev’s policies of glasnost and perestroika have been ruses to get the West to let its guard down.’

“In other news from the region, NTSB investigators on-site in Moscow have all but ruled out a bomb as the cause of Saturday’s accident on Pan Am 1072 in which four flight attendants and three passengers were sucked from the aircraft. An NTSB spokesman stated, ’Everything we’ve seen appears to be consistent with metal fatigue.’ The final report is not expected until the end of the year.

“Moving west, passengers on a Pan American flight to Berlin were surprised to find themselves landing in communist East Germany. A Pan Am plane made an emergency landing in Leipzig, East Germany, last night after a near miss with an East German fighter. Air traffic control systems and backups responsible for planes in the Berlin corridors went down for several hours, creating havoc in the skies. All other civilian flights were redirected back to West Germany or West Berlin without further incident, but sources tell us that several East German military aircraft weren’t so fortunate. The air traffic control blackout resulted in several midair collisions during a routine National People’s Army training exercise.

“In other news, the CNN Moscow bureau was broken into last night. Nothing was taken, but a Russian policeman was killed. Sources close to the police investigation speculated that rebels from southern Russia broke in with the intent to use broadcasting equipment to spread their message worldwide, but found themselves lacking the technical skills to operate it and fled.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

LUBYANKA (KGB HEADQUARTERS), MOSCOW

TUESDAY, MAY 2

Six. Five. Faith counted down the footsteps, moving toward where she lay exhausted on the urine-caked floor, trying to stretch out whatever rest she could get. Four. She pushed herself to her hands and knees. Three. She put her arms around the stool. Two. She pulled herself up and draped her body over the stool. One. The interrogator grabbed her hair and yanked her upright.

“If you cooperate with us like your friends, you’ll have a nice bed. They told us everything, so we know you’re lying. How long have you worked for the CIA?”

“Never. I cooperated with the KGB. Talk to Bogdanov.”

“We had a long, satisfying conversation with the colonel.” The interrogator cracked his knuckles. “Why did you kill the General Secretary?”

“I told you, we tried everything to stop it. Guess we were too late,” Faith mumbled.

“When did you first meet Bogdanov?”

The lock turned and the metal door opened. A uniformed KGB officer and a neatly groomed man in a Western-style business suit walked into the room. With the flick of an arm, the officer signaled the interrogator to leave. Faith swallowed hard, but her mouth was dry and she only gulped air.

“Doctor Whitney, I’m Colonel Kusnetsov.” He held out his manicured hand.

Faith flinched.

“You don’t have to be afraid. And this is Viktor Petrov, special assistant to General Secretary Gorbachev. We’re here to offer our sincerest apologies for any inconvenience. We’ve completed our initial forensics and you’re no longer a suspect in the attempted assassination of the General Secretary.”

“Attempted?” Faith opened her eyes and looked up at the colonel. “We did it? He’s not dead?”

“We’re in your debt.”

Tears pooled up in her eyes. “Can you get me out of here?”

Petrov helped Faith to her feet. “We’re taking you to clinic seventeen, a special restricted-access facility that you’ll find more like a spa than a hospital. You’ll receive medical attention and rest as our guest while some official matters are sorted out. In due course, we’ll arrange contact with your embassy, since it seems you’re without proper travel documents.”

“Where are Summer and Zara?” Faith stood, wobbling.

“The commander is right now on his way to the clinic. Colonel Bogdanov is undergoing surgery to have bullets removed. You’ll be able to see them both shortly.”

“And Berlin? Moscow is still here, so I take it there was no war?”

“We came very close,” Petrov said, his voice raspy from years of smoking. “I would say closer than we ever have, but your messages got through to the right people. General Ivanovski’s troops prevented a full-scale invasion of West Berlin. The Americans understood we weren’t behind it and quietly stopped the first wave of infiltrators. We’ll officially deny this, but after all you did for us, you deserve to know. What made it clear to the Americans that we weren’t invading West Berlin was when our MIG-29s cleared the skies of the GDR fighters. It was a regrettable loss of several fine Warsaw Treaty pilots, but it was the only way.”

“I don’t want to know, but I have to ask. At the dacha, did Kosyk make it?”

“We couldn’t find him.”

“We left him on the riverbank.”

“The search was extensive, including the river itself. We have little doubt General Kosyk is alive.”

Summer was surprised at the almost-VIP treatment, given the KGB’s reputation. They slapped him around, but seemed careful not to break any bones. He was more worried about how Faith was holding up. He guessed he had been there nearly twenty-four hours when the interrogators were summoned away.

An Amazon ill at ease in her polyester businesswoman’s suit and a man in a US Army uniform entered the room. A guard accompanied them and unlocked the handcuffs that were eating into Summer’s flesh.

“I’m Colonel Holton Wilson, military attaché to the American embassy.” The colonel spoke with a nondescript Midwestern accent. His skin was pasty white. “Chris Goldfarb is our deputy consul and legal eagle. We’d like to talk to you about what happened. We’ve heard the Russian version, but we want to get it from you straight. Chris will do everything she can to get you out of here and home as soon as possible.”

An hour later, a squat nurse dressed in a white smock and hat that would have been more at home on a French chef escorted Faith into her lavish Soviet suite. The two rooms had furniture that would have made an American roadside motel proud. Although the plaid fabrics of the overstuffed love seat didn’t match the swirls of the boxy sofa, the reds almost didn’t clash. Clusters of tinted glass globes hung from the ceiling like a lost high school science project. Obligatory pictures of Lenin adorned the walls, reminding the guest who was really footing the bill.

“Put these on and Doctor Rukovsky will be with you soon.” The nurse tossed a hospital gown and worn terry-cloth robe at Faith with the hallmark courtesy of the Soviet service industry.

“I don’t need a doctor, just a shower, some sleep and Commander Summer.” Faith dropped the clothes on the bed, grateful it was a regular double mattress and not a hospital bed with rails. She walked into the bathroom, hoping to lose the nurse, but she followed her.

The edge of the dry wall was a good half-inch shy of the corner. The rod of the shower curtain was higher on one side, but it did nicely parallel the slope in the bathroom tiles. The finest of Soviet toiletries were arranged on the bathroom vanity. Faith was happy for anything resembling a toothbrush.

“You’re not allowed to have visitors, not even other patients.”

“So Summer-Commander Summer-is here now?”

“You should be honored that Doctor Rukovsky is admitting you herself. The last time I remember the head of the clinic doing an intake exam was when we had Brezhnev’s wife here and the chief was trying to get a new wing written into the next five-year plan.” The nurse picked her nose and rubbed her hand on her smock. “We’ve never had an American here before. From the looks of you, you need a thorough workup. Those circles under your eyes tell me you need a vitamin B injection.”

“Keep your needles away from me. Now if you don’t mind…”

“Get undressed now. Put on the gown and I’ll bring the doctor in to see you.” The nurse stood in the bathroom doorway, gawking at Faith like a zookeeper observing a new arrival.

The pipes clanked when Faith turned on the shower. She pulled off her shirt, dropping it to the floor. “You can either leave me in peace or make yourself useful and scrub my back. If you decide to stay, make sure you wash your hands first.”

Faith caught herself on the shower wall as she nearly collapsed from fatigue. She washed off the last patch of soap from her forearm and turned off the water. She wrapped herself in a towel, staggered to the bed and collapsed. Within moments of her head finding its way to the pillow, Dr. Rukovsky entered the room.

The gentle middle-aged woman examined Faith as quickly as she could and prescribed fluids, food and rest. She agreed the X-ray of her ribs could wait until after she had gotten some sleep. When Faith asked about Zara and Summer, she was ordered to rest-she could socialize later. The doctor instructed the nurse to dress the cut on her hand. By the time she finished cleaning the glass slivers from the cut, Faith was too wired to sleep.

When the nurse left the room, she waited long enough for her to return to her station and pulled on the gown and robe. She stood and the blood drained from her head. Light-headed or not, she was going to find Summer. She pushed down on the door latch. It was locked.

Faith stumbled back to the bed and flopped onto it in defeat. Her eyes drifted shut.

Something brushed against her cheek and she thought she was dreaming when she smelled Summer’s familiar scent. He perched on the bed beside her. The beard that had grown over the past few days had been shaven away, and so had the stubble on his head. He was again as bald as Khrushchev, but much sexier.

“I lifted a couple medical instruments that made great lockpicks.” He stroked her hair.

“You know I love how resourceful you are.”

As she raised her head toward him, he slipped his fingers behind her neck, supporting her head until their lips met.

“God, I’ve missed you so much,” Faith said. “I lo-”

The door flew open and the nurse charged inside. “What is going on here? Back to your room, now!” She pointed to the door.

Summer sprang away from Faith out of old habit.

Faith sat up in the bed and said in Russian, “Commander Summer is my fiancé and we’re guests of Mr. Gorbachev, so I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when we tell him how you treated us. Leave!”

The nurse snorted, stomped away and slammed the door.

“Did you tell her what I think?”

Faith gazed into Summer’s bloodshot green eyes. “I told her I was going to cheat history.”

“You did not. What’d you say?” He smiled as his eyes followed along the lines of her face. “You know, you get more beautiful every time I look at you.”

“I told her you were my fiancé.” Her face relaxed into a soft smile. “And you know, I like the way I felt when I said that. It’s been a long time, but then I am pretty damn tired, so I might be delirious and getting nostalgic.”

“I know how you can keep saying it.”

She drew him to her and kissed him. “Make love to me. It’s been too long.” Faith pulled him on top of her, but immediately wiggled out from under him because of the pain from her ribs.

They had slept almost a day when the nurse waddled into the room, clapping her hands. Summer jerked the sheets up to cover them. They watched the sudden flurry as four deliverymen followed the nurse, carrying garment bags and boxes. A young woman placed a mahogany jewelry case on the dresser while deliverymen filled the wardrobe. Faith thought she recognized one of the dresses from the GUM shop. The smell of fresh coffee and cooked eggs filled the suite as a woman dressed in a chef’s jacket set the table in the adjoining room.

“Eat, clean yourselves up and get dressed. Someone is going to be here in three hours to pick you up, and I’m supposed to deliver you looking your best,” the nurse said in Russian, her damning eyes glaring at them. “You know, this is never allowed here. I don’t know what possessed the director to tolerate this.”

“What’s happening?” Faith sat up in bed, careful to pull the covers around her.

“Doctor Rukovsky is taking care of the pass herself, so I know you’re not being discharged. You have appointments in our salon in an hour for hairstyling, manicures and facials.”

Faith interpreted for Summer.

“Tell her the KGB gave me enough of a facial the other day and haircuts aren’t much use to me.”

The nurse let out a final huff and left. Summer rolled out of the bed and tracked down the coffee smell like an undercaffeinated bloodhound. He lifted the metal covers from a plate. “I think I’m going to need you to translate this, too.”

Faith walked into the room, not bothering to tie the robe closed. She put her arms on his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. The fresh stubble tickled her lips. “What have we got? Scrambled eggs, blini, sausage and kasha. I’d say this is the kitchen’s best stab at an American breakfast.” She reached over his shoulder, grabbed a thin Russian pancake, rolled it up and took a bite.

“Sit down and join me. Aren’t you starving?” Summer shoveled eggs into his mouth.

“Yeah, but I’m curious what they brought us.”

“Clothes are clothes, and you’ve never cared a whole lot about them.”

“No, but I want to know what they’re planning for us.” Faith opened the wardrobe, which was carved with the usual hammers and sickles, and she unzipped the vinyl garment bag. “Summer, I think you’ll want to see this.”

“Can’t we have the fashion show after breakfast?”

Faith lifted open the lid of a hatbox, put the hat on her head and walked into the sitting room.

“Where the heck did they get that?” Summer pushed his chair back and followed Faith to the wardrobe. He pulled out a hanger with a white jacket. “How the hell did they get ahold of one of my dress uniforms? They even got my medals right.”

A few hours later, the driver opened the door of the Chaika limousine. Zara eased herself out, favoring her injured arm. She hugged Faith, their bodies pressing as tightly against each other as their respective injuries allowed. When they pushed apart, Faith kissed her forehead.

“We did it.” Zara shook Summer’s hand and kissed him on the cheeks.

“That’s what I hear. It’s been a pleasure to work with you, colonel.” He slipped his hand behind her back and embraced her.

“The pleasure’s been mine, commander.”

“Glad the first joint Navy-KGB mission was a success, not that the Navy planned or had anything to do with it.”

“Neither did the KGB.” Zara smiled and motioned for them to climb into the limo.

“As a matter of fact, I’m not so sure about wearing my uniform here, but I guess it’ll add credibility when we go to the embassy. That is where we’re going now, isn’t it?”

“I’m so sorry I got you into all this.” Zara took Faith’s hand and squeezed it.

“I was pulled into it before you got involved. I don’t think I’d be alive without you.”

“Faith, you need to know,” Zara continued in Russian, “Berlin wasn’t some honey-trap to solidify your relationship with the KGB. What I expressed was entirely personal and-”

“You don’t need to explain yourself, but you should understand that kind of friendship isn’t for me, not now.”

Summer looked out the window, pretending not to listen to the two women, even though he really didn’t understand the language.

“Let me finish.” Zara switched to English. “You’re a unique woman. I wish things could’ve been a little different, but I’m happy for you. As soon as I saw you two together, it was obvious to me you shared something very deep. I wish you much happiness.”

“You already know?”

“Our walls have ears. And the charge nurse has a big mouth.”

Faith hugged her, careful not to put pressure on her shoulder. “This awful experience reminded us both that no matter who’s been in our lives, or whether we saw each other every day or once a year, we’ve been the most important person for each other. Right after he joined the Navy we were going to get married, but I could never quite settle on a date.”

“Drives me crazy trying to pin this one down on anything.” Summer tilted his head toward Faith. “I finally just gave up.”

“If this whole ordeal has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t wait too long or history passes you by.”

“So does this mean you’re engaged again?”

Faith looked away from Summer. “I plan on staying here for a month or two and holding you to your word regarding the import-export business. We both suspect he’s going to be tied up for a while in a long inquiry into what’s happened here.”

“My security clearance is probably blown to hell after this. Every time it’s come up, I’ve hit snags because of Faith. To date I’ve squeaked by, and I’ve always been kind of amazed I did, but now I wouldn’t be surprised if I end up having to resign my commission with an honorable discharge-seven years shy of retirement.”

“I probably shouldn’t say it, but there are other employment opportunities,” Zara said.

“Thanks, but no thanks, comrade.” Summer grinned.

“Only doing my job.”

“There are tons of ordnance in the world just begging for an EOD guy to clean up. I’ve heard rumors the Navy’s going to give back an island in Hawaii it’s used for target practice forever, and some civilian contractor’s gotta take that hardship post. So what are you going to do now, Zara?” Summer looked out the window as they drove through downtown Moscow.

“You only leave the KGB two ways: retirement or death. So I’ll still be in the business, but definitely not in Berlin. I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but they decided this wasn’t the time to remove Honecker.”

“No way,” Faith said.

“No one-including your people-wants speculation about how close we came to war over Berlin. They’ll give it a few months, during which we basically run everything from behind the scenes. He won’t be able to scratch his balls without a Soviet adviser approving it. We’ll remove him this fall, when no one will link it to this week. Until he’s gone and Kosyk’s friends are purged from the MfS, Berlin isn’t safe for me or Faith. For that matter, neither is Moscow until we’re sure all the conspirators have been rounded up and Kosyk is found. Both of us have to disappear for a while. I’ll see it through that you get set up in a storefront here, but you’re going to have to wait. Personally, I’d love to be sent back to the San Francisco residency. I’d love to bird again at Point Reyes, and there’s a club in the Castro I wouldn’t mind going back to, but I’m afraid my affiliation with you two will cause our counterintelligence to view me as too big a risk to be deployed to the US again.”

Summer watched as they drove past the red brick wall of the Kremlin, turned left onto Red Square and passed through the gate into the Kremlin compound. “I get the feeling we’re not going to the embassy. So, is this going to be some kind of press conference?”

“They don’t want the press involved,” Zara said.

The driver stopped at a side entrance to a massive yellow building that Faith thought housed the Supreme Soviet. Viktor Petrov, special assistant to Gorbachev, greeted them at the door and escorted them into a wood-paneled elevator. Everyone else stared at the lit numbers while Faith admired a relief depicting a peasant woman bundling sheathes of grain.

“This way, please.” Petrov held the elevator door open while everyone filed out into the hall. “Commander Summer, we realize you compromised yourself in regard to your government to save the life of Secretary Gorbachev and to de-escalate events in Berlin. Although we’ve put a press blackout in place, we are cooperating fully with the Americans so they understand your exact role in the matter. For your sake, we wouldn’t want them to misconstrue things.”

“And think I’m a spy. No, we wouldn’t want that.”

They followed Petrov into a banquet hall. A dozen Soviet generals and admirals were standing around, sipping cocktails and munching hors d’oeuvres, as were an American Army colonel and a handful of civilians. Everyone stopped talking and applauded when they entered the room.

Mama Whitney waddled over and hugged them. A distinguished gentleman waited for her to finish, then kissed Zara on both cheeks.

“I didn’t think I’d ever be welcome back in these walls,” he said in Russian.

Zara kissed the gentleman on the cheek. “I’d like all of you to meet my father, Anton Antonovich.”

Before they all could finish shaking hands, Petrov interrupted. “You need to meet some people.” He ushered the three away, then turned to the parents, shrugged his shoulders and said in Russian, “Protocol.” He led them around the room, introducing them to an assortment of dignitaries, including the American Ambassador, the military attaché and someone from the political section.

The African-American colonel extended his hand to Faith. “I’m Colonel Holton Wilson, the American military attaché. Very pleased to meet you.”

“You’re Colonel Wilson?” Summer said.

“I was when I got up this morning.” His teeth glistened. “Commander Summer, you sure got some folks’ attention in Washington.”

“This is going to sound strange,” Summer said, “but is there another Military Attaché posted to the embassy-another Colonel Wilson, a white guy? I think I know the answer to this one, too, but is there a lawyer, a husky woman named Chris Goldfarb?”

“What’s this all about?” Wilson said.

“These two claiming to be from the embassy stopped the KGB’s interrogation and met with me for a good hour and a half yesterday morning.”

Faith and Zara made eye contact and smiled.

“The embassy’s been trying to find you ever since your call to Indian Head. This morning when we were invited to this reception was the first we knew of your whereabouts.” Wilson snagged an hors d’oeuvre from a waiter.

“Looks like you were false-flagged, honey.” Faith patted him on the arm.

Summer shot a glance at Zara. She nodded her confirmation. “At least you don’t have to rough people up that way.” Zara took a sip of white wine. “I’ve heard stories from some old-timers of how we had a whole team in Berlin right after the war who’d pose as American Army officers. They’d approach Soviet citizens who they thought were at high risk for defection. They’d convince them to go over to the Americans, pick them up in a fake American staff car and pretend to drive them to a safe house in West Berlin, but they never left the East. They’d debrief the poor bastards and ship them off to the gulags-if they were lucky.”

Petrov ushered Faith, Summer and Zara to seats directly behind a podium. “If I could have your attention, please,” Petrov announced in both English and Russian, but before he could finish, General Secretary Gorbachev strolled up behind him.

Gorbachev lowered the mike and it screeched loudly. He jumped back in an exaggerated gesture and turned it off. “Andrei Sergeyevich, you hear me back there?” A silver-haired officer nodded. Gorbachev continued, “I always know that if the admiral hears me, everyone can, so I won’t use this thing.” Everyone in the room laughed; a few delayed chuckles betrayed the non-Russian speakers who were relying upon the interpreter standing to his right. “Today we’re honoring three individuals who placed concerns of our country and world peace above their own. For this, my country is grateful. And for saving my life, I am personally indebted.” Gorbachev flashed a smile and launched into a long discourse on the importance of Soviet-American cooperation to world peace and regional stability in Central Europe.

Faith tuned him out and focused on Summer. She surprised herself at how happy she felt as she daydreamed of a vacation together on the shores of Siberia’s Lake Baikal. When a man approached Gorbachev carrying several small cases, Faith started listening again.

“Although the world cannot know what these three individuals did for the preservation of peace, I would like to recognize them today on behalf of the people of the USSR. Lieutenant Colonel Zara Antonovna Bogdanov, I am promoting you today to full colonel, with all the rights and privileges of that rank. Congratulations.” Gorbachev clapped and the crowd followed his lead. The aide opened the first small box. The Soviet leader held up a red ribbon with a gold star dangling from it. A raised hammer and sickle decorated the center of the star. “Colonel Bogdanov, Lieutenant Commander Maxwell Summer and Professor Faith Whitney, in recognition of your courage and your heroic actions, I am pleased to bestow upon you our highest title, Hero of the Soviet Union.”

Faith stood and tugged at Summer. “Get up.”

“I don’t know if I can accept this. I’m an American.”

“Don’t blow it for me. Do you know how hard these are to get hold of?” Faith whispered as she pulled him up from his chair.

Gorbachev shook their hands and pinned the awards on their chests. Summer’s hung beside his Purple Heart. Gorbachev held up another medal attached to a red ribbon bordered with gold stripes; gold bands of wheat framed a platinum bust of Lenin above a small red enameled hammer and sickle.

“That better not be what I think it is,” Summer whispered to Faith.

“Not as hard to get, but right up there. Eight hundred bucks on the black market. We’ll have to sneak them out before this is over because the Sovs will take them from us for safekeeping.”

“I can’t have a cameo of that Bolshevik stuck to me.”

“And I present, to these Heroes of the Soviet Union, the Order of Lenin for their actions strengthening peace between peoples. Congratulations.”

Faith followed Zara’s lead and thanked the General Secretary without trying to make a speech. She held her breath as Gorbachev pinned the Order of Lenin on Summer’s dress white US Navy uniform.

Summer opened his mouth.

Summer, no.

He hesitated, then said, “I appreciate the gesture of goodwill, Mr. General Secretary. As you know, I was not acting on behalf of my government, but as an individual thrown into extraordinary circumstances. As an officer of the US Navy, I’m not sure I can accept an honor from your government like this. Don’t get me wrong, but my understanding is the only American military you ever hand these things out to are spies. We all know I’m definitely not one of those.”

Gorbachev stared at the floor as he listened to the translation, and then he looked up. “I shared your concern when I first discussed it with my staff, but they tell me we’ve awarded our highest military honor, the Order of Victory, to your General Eisenhower. You’re in the company of your presidents, Commander Summer.”

After the ceremony broke up, the assortment of military brass and high-ranking Communist Party members again shook hands with the honorees, but Zara’s father and Faith’s mother were too enthralled with each other to pay attention. Afterward the US military attaché and the Ambassador strolled up to them.

“Lenin looks real pretty on you, commander,” the military attaché said with a chuckle.

“How in the heck am I ever going to explain this one to my CO?” Summer glared at Lenin resting on his chest.

“Don’t worry; I’ll take it off your hands as soon as we get it out of the country.” Faith kissed him on the cheek. “And that Hero of the Soviet Union status will get you all kinds of perks here-free public transportation, a free yearly visit to a sanitarium, one free first-class domestic round trip on Aeroflot each year-”

“Don’t forget priority on the housing waiting list and an extra fifteen square meters of living space,” Zara said.

“And speaking of getting out of the country,” Faith said as Summer handed her a flute of Crimean champagne, “is the embassy going to help us get our passports? I don’t know how much of the story you know, but I seem to have lost my passport in the shuffle and Summer was kidnapped and brought here without any documents.”

“In due time we’ll get them to you. It’s a long process to verify your identities and your stories,” Colonel Wilson said.

“With all due respect, sir, that’s bullshit. I don’t think you have any doubts who we are,” Summer said.

“I’ll begin the debriefing with Commander Summer this afternoon. Someone else will be speaking with you, Doctor Whitney. Other folks are flying in from Washington to talk with you both, meet with Soviet officials and go over the evidence they’ve shared with us. I suspect we can have this wrapped up on this end within a week or so, and then you’ll have some meetings stateside.”

“Sir, I have a date this afternoon that I’ve been waiting over a decade for,” Summer said.

“Then a few more days won’t matter. We’re going to have to keep you two separated until we’ve finished talking to you.”

Zara hurried to swallow a canapé. “Colonel Wilson, I regret to inform you Doctor Whitney and Commander Summer were both injured performing their heroic actions and are currently patients at one of our top medical clinics.” Zara pulled a document from her inside jacket pocket and flashed it to the embassy officials. “Their doctor agreed to allow them only three hours away from the clinic, and she agreed to this only after Gorbachev himself persuaded her to go against her own medical judgment. As soon as they’re fit to be released, we will deliver them to your embassy. Good day, gentlemen. It was a pleasure.” Zara led Faith and Summer away.

“What about Mama Whitney and your dad?” Summer glanced back at them. They were laughing together as if they had known each other a lifetime.

“Let’s leave them to themselves. My father hasn’t flirted like that with a woman since my mother died.”

“You’re certain she’s dead?” Faith said. “Faith!” Summer elbowed her.

As they hurried to the elevator, Faith turned to Summer and said, “You know, I was thinking about that date this afternoon. We’re already dressed for the occasion, and I’m sure, with a little baksheesh, we can work our way into the schedule at the People’s Wedding Palace.” Faith gestured wildly with her hands. “They’re set up using communist iconography in place of religious symbols. Red satin, busts of Lenin everywhere-better than Vegas.”

“You’re crazy.” Summer punched the button for the elevator.

“And that’s why you love me. I could never warm up to a church wedding, but I could really get into this. The Sovs have these great traditions, like the bride in her wedding gown laying roses at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier and Lenin’s-”

“You want me to get married in front of a statue of Lenin? I’d never be able to show anyone my wedding pictures. I know you can’t be serious.”

“It’s not any weirder than in front of a statue of a bleeding martyr on a cross.”

“She’s got a point,” Zara said as they walked into the elevator. “I’d be honored to be a witness if you did it here.”

“Summer, if we do it here today under the eyes of Lenin, I’ll even ask my mother to officiate. She’s ordained in Arkansas.”

Just before the door closed, a hand reached inside and stopped them. Gorbachev joined them in the elevator. He nodded to them and then stared at the lit floor numbers.

Summer lowered his voice. “Mama Whitney in a communist chapel? Now I’m sure you’re pulling my leg.”

“Careful, Summer, or history will pass you by again.” Faith backed up, giving Gorbachev a few more respectful inches of space.

“You know, the thing about history is sometimes it goes too damn fast for some of us to keep up,” Summer whispered, barely moving his lips.

“Then can I at least interest you in a visit to Lenin’s mausoleum? Time creeps in there. As Heroes of the Soviet Union, we can jump to the front of the line.” Faith motioned to Summer’s new decorations.

The General Secretary eyed the medals and smiled.

Summer then put his arm around her.

“Not now.” Faith blushed.

Gorbachev winked at Summer.

“I don’t care if he is a world leader.” He pulled Faith close and kissed her. “You’ve got a deal.”