The Arctic Event

Chapter Ten

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

Fall meant fog in the Pacific Northwest. The landing lights of the jetliners sweeping in to the runways cut like slow comets through the sinking overcast, and the tops of the hotels along the airport strip faded out of existence in the gathering dusk, illuminated windows diffusing into a golden glow within the mist.

As the bubble elevator climbed the exterior of the Doubletree Hotel tower, Jon Smith watched the sharp edges and details fade from the night. He wore knife-creased army greens, and he was alone for the moment. That would change presently. He was en route to link up with the other members of his team, one a stranger and the other not exactly a friend.

He couldn’t blame Fred Klein for his personnel selection. The director’s choice had been a logical one. He’d worked with Randi Russell before. They had been thrown together on a number of missions, almost as if fate were perversely entangling their life paths. Smith recognized her as a first-class operator: experienced, dedicated, and highly intelligent, with a weirdly diverse set of talents and a useful capacity for total ruthlessness when required.

But she came with a penalty.

The elevator doors split and rumbled apart, and Smith stepped out into the dusty rose-and-bronze-themed entry of the rooftop restaurant and lounge. The hostess looked up from her podium expectantly.

“My name is Smith. I’m here to join the Russell party.”

The hostess’s brows lifted, and there was a moment’s open and curious appraisal. “Yes, sir. Right this way, please.”

She led Smith across the low-lit lounge. Silenced by the dark carpeting underfoot, their steps didn’t break the murmur of subtle music and soft conversation. And then Smith understood the hostess’s flash of curiosity.

Randi had selected a table in the sunken rear corner of the dining room, an isolated setting partially screened from the other patrons by a decorative planter wall. It was a table intended for privacy, suitable for the quiet planning conference to come.

But it would also serve as a very suitable lovers’ rendezvous, and Smith was meeting with not just one exceptionally beautiful woman but with two.

Smith smiled wryly to himself. He hoped the hostess would enjoy her ménage à trois fantasy. She would have no idea how totally wrong she was.

“Hello, Randi,” he said. “I never knew you could fly a helicopter.”

She looked up from the table and nodded coolly. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Jon.”

The first few seconds were never easy. The old twist in the guts was still there. Although Dr. Sophia Russell had been the older sister, she and Randi had been like twins. With the passage of time, the resemblance had grown almost eerie.

He wondered sometimes what Randi saw when she looked at him. Likely nothing pleasant.

Randi wore black suede tonight, a jacket, skirt, and boots outfit that matched the flare of her good looks and complemented the multitinted gold of her hair. Her dark eyes held his for a fraction of an instant, then darted away. “Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, this is Professor Valentina Metrace.”

These eyes were gray under a glossy fringe of midnight-colored hair, and they met his, level and interested, with a glint of humor in their depths. The professor was in black as well, black satin evening pajamas that molded to a slim yet pleasantly curved figure, hinting that there was not a great deal worn underneath them. “Checking into a motel must be hell,” she said, extending her hand to him. Her voice was low, with a hint of something like a British accent.

The hand was held palm down, not to be shaken but to have its slender fingers lightly clasped as a blood royal might accept the touch of a courtier.

It was apparent that Valentina Metrace was an attractive woman who thoroughly enjoyed being an attractive woman and who enjoyed reminding men of the fact.

The tension broke, and Smith took the offered hand for a moment. “The spelling of the first name helps,” he deadpanned.

Smith ordered a pilsner to match Randi’s white wine and Professor Metrace’s martini. “All right,” he said, pitching his voice so it couldn’t carry to the next occupied table. “This is the word as it has been given. Tomorrow we’re out of here on the eight forty-five Alaskan Airlines flight to Anchorage. Our equipment kit and our helicopter are being pre-positioned there. We will also be joining up with our Russian liaison officer, a Major Gregori Smyslov of the Federation Air Force.

“From Anchorage we’ll fly ourselves to Sitka. There we rendezvous with the USS Alex Haley, the Coast Guard ice cutter that will carry us within range of Wednesday Island.”

“Who are we?” Randi inquired-a peculiar question for anyone not in their peculiar trade.

“The cover story established for this operation will permit us to pretty much maintain our own identities,” Smith replied. “As Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, MD, I’ll be acting as the mission pathologist, attached to Department of Defense graves registration. My primarily concern will be with the recovery and forensic identification of the bodies of the aircrew.

“Professor Metrace will also essentially be who she is, a civilian historical consultant working under contract with the DOD. Supposedly, her job will be the identification of the aircraft itself, should the wreck be of a U.S. Air Force B-29. Again, supposedly, Major Smyslov is to perform much the same duty should the plane prove to be a Russian TU-4. We’ll be maintaining the fiction that the bomber’s origins are still unknown, at least until we reach the crash site.

“You’re the tricky one, Randi. As of this moment you are a civilian charter pilot flying for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. The Wednesday Island expedition is a multinational scientific project, and NOAA and the U.S. Coast Guard are providing the logistical support. That includes the insertion and extraction of the personnel. You and the Alex Haley are being sent up there to pull the expedition out before the onset of the polar winter. Your own name is probably safe, and appropriate cooked documentation will be provided with the equipment kit.”

Her gaze dropped away to the tabletop for an instant. “Is it possible for me to know who I’m actually working for?”

Smith regretted the answer he had to give. “You are a civilian charter pilot flying for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration.”

He could feel Randi’s tension ramp up. By now, her superiors must have surmised that there was a new player in the covert operations game. A new elite outfit, working outside Langley’s authority but with the pull to tap the CIA’s resources at will. From past personal experience Randi must also have surmised that he, Smith, was part of that new organization. It would rankle a veteran operative to be left out of the loop in this fashion. Jon had no choice in the matter. Covert One remained “need to know,” and to put it bluntly, Randi Russell did not need to know, just to obey.

“I see,” she continued stiffly. “I gather I will be taking my orders from you in this operation.”

“From me or from Professor Metrace.”

Randi snapped her head around to stare at Metrace. The dark-haired mobile cipher operative merely lifted an eyebrow and her glass, taking a final sip of her martini.

This situation was simply getting better and better. Being positioned as the junior member of the team could only further ruffle Randi’s feathers. What had his mountain warfare instructor warned him of the other day, that he was forgetting how to command? Well, by God, he had better start remembering right now.

“Professor Metrace is to be considered my executive officer on this operation. Should I not be available, she has full decision-making authority on all aspects of the mission. Is that understood?”

Randi’s eyes met his again, expressionless. “Fully, Colonel.”

Their meal came and went in near silence; Smith had the salmon while Randi Russell ate lightly at a dinner salad. The only one who truly seemed to enjoy her food was Valentina Metrace, consuming her steak and baked potato with a dainty, unconcerned fierceness.

She was also the one who dove back into the mission over their after-dinner coffee.

“One of our Keyhole reconnaissance satellites got a clear-weather pass over the Misha crash site,” she said, removing a set of photo prints from her shoulder bag. “It gives us a much better look at what we’re dealing with than the ground photography from the science expedition.”

Smith frowned at his copy of the overhead imaging. It could clearly be seen that the downed bomber was indeed an exact clone of a B-29. The slender, torpedolike fuselage and the lack of a stepped cockpit were unmistakable.

“Are you sure this is one of theirs?” Randi asked, mirroring Smith’s thoughts.

The historian nodded. “Um-hum. Most of the insignia paint has been storm scoured away, but you can just make out the red star on the starboard wingtip. There’s no doubt; it’s a TU-4 Bull. Specifically it’s the TU-4A strategic-strike variant, intended for the delivery of atomic or biochemical weapons. What’s more, this one was an America bomber.”

Smith glanced up. “An America bomber?”

“An aircraft specifically configured for attacks on targets in the continental United States. It’s been stripped and lightened to maximize its range.” Reaching across the table, Valentina traced a manicured fingernail down the spine of the aircraft. “You can see how all of the defensive gun turrets except for the tail stingers have been removed and the mounts fared over. Most of the armor will have been removed as well and auxiliary fuel tanks installed in the wings and aft bomb bay.”

She looked up from the photo. “Even so modified, the TU-4 had very decided limitations as an intercontinental delivery system. Striking over the pole from the nearest Soviet bases in Siberia, they could just barely reach targets in the northern-tier states. And the missions would all have been one-way. There would have been no fuel left for a return flight.”

“Missiles with men inside,” Smith mused.

“Essentially, but they were what Stalin had at the time.”

“And how did he get his hands on them in the first place?” Randi asked in puzzlement. “I gather these were our best bombers during the Second World War. We certainly didn’t just give them to the Soviets.”

“We did, but inadvertently,” the historian replied. “Early on during the strategic bombing campaign against the Japanese home islands, three B-29s were forced to land in Vladivostok because of battle damage or engine failure. The crews and aircraft were interned by the Russians, who, at the time, were neutral in our war against Japan. Eventually, we got our aircrews back, but the bombers were never returned.

“Instead Stalin ordered Andrei Tupolev, one of Russia’s greatest aircraft designers, to produce an exact copy of the B-29 for Soviet Long Range Aviation.”

She smiled ruefully. “It was the most incredible reverse-engineering project in history. Aviation historians who’ve had the opportunity to closely examine examples of the Soviet Bull were always puzzled over a small round hole drilled into the leading edge of the left wing. They could never figure out what it was for. When the Russians were asked about it they stated that they didn’t know what it was for, either. It had just been there on the B-29 airframe they had broken down for blueprinting.

“Come to find out, it had probably been a bullet hole made by the machine guns of a Japanese interceptor. But Stalin had specified that he wanted an exact copy of the Superfortress, and what Uncle Joe wanted, he got!”

Her finger continued to trace the outlines of the wrecked bomber’s wings. “She obviously hit flat and skidded across the glacier on her belly. And given the way these propellers are bent, all of her engines were still running when she went in.”

Smith scowled. “If she still had all of her engines, what forced her down?”

Valentina shook her head. “I, and the experts I’ve consulted, haven’t a clue. There is no indication of a midair structural failure, battle damage, or a collision. All of the control surfaces are present and accounted for, and there’s no sign of a fire before or after the crash. The best guess is that they were running out of fuel and the pilot set down on the island while he still had power for a controlled approach and landing.”

“Then wouldn’t they have had plenty of time to send a distress call before going down?” Randi inquired.

Professor Metrace shrugged slim shoulders. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But radio conditions around the Pole can be tricky. They could have encountered a magnetic storm or a dead zone that killed their transmissions.”

Their low-keyed discussion broke as a waitress approached and refilled their coffee cups. When it was safe to resume, Randi inquired about the plane’s crew.

“They lived, at least for a time.” Once more Valentina tapped the photo print. “This was an entirely survivable landing. The crew must have gotten out. There’s even evidence to that effect. The cowling of the starboard outboard engine has been removed. You can see it lying on the ice beside the wing. It was probably done to drain the oil out of the engine sump for use in a signal fire.”

“But what happened to them?” Randi insisted.

“As I said, Ms. Russell, they must have survived for a time. They would have had sleeping bags, arctic clothing, and emergency rations. But eventually…” Once more the professor shrugged.

The fog swirled thickly beyond the restaurant window beside them, a chill pang pulsing through the glass. It would not have been a good death, castaway in the cold and eternal polar darkness. But then, Smith knew of few good ways to die. “How large would the crew have been?”

“For a stripped TU-4, at least eight men. In the nose you’d have the aircraft commander, the copilot, the bombardier-weapons officer, who would also have served as the plane’s political officer, the navigator, the flight engineer, and the radio operator. Then, in the tail, you’d have the radar operator, possibly an observer or two, and the stinger gunner.”

A thought swirled momentarily behind Valentina’s steel-colored eyes. “I’d fancy having a look at the ammunition magazines of those tail guns,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“You’ll get the chance, Professor,” Smith replied.

“Make it Val, please,” she responded with a smile. “I only use ‘professor’ when I’m trying to impress a grants committee.”

Smith gave an acknowledging nod. “Okay, Val, is there any indication of the anthrax still being aboard?”

She shook her head. “Impossible to tell. In a bioequipped TU-4A, the reservoir would have been mounted here, in the forward bomb bay. As you can see, the fuselage is intact. The containment vessel itself would have been made of stainless steel and would have been built like a bomb casing, sturdy enough to survive at least a moderate crash impact.”

“Could it have leaked?” Randi inquired. “The reservoir, I mean. Could the crew have been exposed to the anthrax while in flight? Maybe that’s what forced them down?”

Smith shook his head. “No. That couldn’t have been it. Bacillus anthracis is a comparatively slow-acting pathogen. Even with a high concentration of inhalational anthrax in a closed environment, the incubational period would still be at least one to six days. Anthrax also responds well to massive doses of prophylactic antibiotics. By 1953 the Russians would have had access to penicillin. A biowar crew would have been equipped to handle an accidental exposure. Anthrax only gets ugly if you aren’t set up to deal with it or if you don’t recognize it for what it is.”

“How ugly?”

“Very. Without immediate treatment, the mortality rate for inhalational anthrax is ninety to ninety-five percent. Once the germinated spores infest the lymph nodes and start to elaborate toxins, even with full antibiotic and supportive medical care, there’s still a seventy-five percent probability of death.”

Smith sat back in his chair. “Needless to say, I’ll have enough doxycycline in my kit to treat a small army, along with a serum that can give a short-lived immunity. Working at USAMRIID I’ve also been inoculated with the anthrax vaccine. Have either of you?”

The two women looked at him, wide-eyed, shaking their heads.

Smith smiled grimly. “Oh, well, if you see any fine, grayish-white powder lying around, better let me deal with it.”

Valentina Metrace lifted her elegantly sculpted eyebrows. “I wouldn’t think of denying you, Colonel.”

“My preliminary briefing indicated that there might be two metric tons of this stuff aboard that plane,” Randi said. “That’s over four thousand pounds, Jon. What would that translate to in area effectiveness?”

“Let’s put it this way, Randi. You could carry enough anthrax spores in your purse to contaminate the entire city of Seattle. The Misha 124’s warload would have been adequate to blanket the entire East Coast.”

“Given a perfect distribution pattern of the agent, that is,” Professor Metrace interjected. “That’s always been the problem with any biological or chemical weapon. They tend to clump on you, and you end up wasting ninety percent of it.”

The historian’s high-fashion appearance contrasted radically with her topic of discussion, but the absolute surety with which she spoke left little doubt as to her expertise. “The Russians used a dry aerosol dispersal system with the TU-4A. Essentially the bomber was a giant crop duster. Ram airs in the engine cowlings would scoop up and compress the slipstream, channeling it through ductwork to the reservoir manifolds. There the airflow would strip the powdered spores from the containment vessel and spray them out through vents under the wings.

“A crude system with poor metering control as compared to wet dispersal, but it had the advantages of being simple and comparatively light in weight. Depending upon your drop altitude and the prevailing winds, a strip of land a dozen miles wide by several hundred long could have been rendered lethally uninhabitable for decades.”

“For decades?” Randi looked startled.

Valentina nodded. “Anthrax spores are tough little bastards. They love organic, nitrogen-rich environments like common garden-variety dirt, and they remain virulent for a positively obscene length of time.”

She paused to take a sip of coffee. “There was a small island off the coast of Scotland that Great Britain used for anthrax bioweapon experimentation during the Second World War. This island was only recently declared safe for human reoccupation.”

“Small areas, like individual buildings, can be decontaminated using chemical agents. Common off-the-shelf chlorine bleach works wonders against anthrax. But for large areas, like an entire city or agricultural land…” The historian shook her head.

“If the anthrax is still aboard the aircraft, it may have lost virulence after half a century,” Smith added. “But it’s also been sealed inside a containment vessel and exposed to the polar cold. In effect, it’s been refrigerated in a dry, oxygen-free environment, as perfect for long-term preservation as you could hope for. I’m not prepared to say what state those spores may be in.”

Valentina Metrace employed her expressive eyebrows once more. “There’s one thing I am prepared to say, Colonel. I wouldn’t want to be the one to have to pull the cork and look inside.”

Smith rode the exterior elevators down to the lobby level, the night and its myriad of street and building lights snapping back into clarity as the glass-bubble car dropped out of the fog layer.

He wished he could clarify his thoughts as easily. This upcoming operation looked challenging but straightforward, one that could be dealt with by simply being careful enough and deliberate enough not to make mistakes.

But there was still the sensation of being back in a fog bank. Everything in his immediate vicinity was clear and straightforward, but there was also a wall beyond which he couldn’t see, and a feeling of things hidden.

What had Director Klein told him? “Assume there are other agendas in play. Watch for them.”

He would have to stay braced for whatever might come looming out of the mist.

At least he’d have good people backing him. Valentina Metrace was…interesting. They certainly hadn’t made professors like that back when he was going to college. There was a story to be learned about her. And as one of Klein’s mobile ciphers, she had to be exceptionally good at whatever it was she did.

And he’d have Randi again. Fierce, valiant, and self-contained, there could be no doubting her. Past all personal pain or anger she would not fail him. She would do whatever she might be tasked with, or die trying.

And that was the problem within himself. Smith had seen so much of Randi Russell’s life and world die, he sometimes had the feeling he was destined to oversee her death as well. Or be responsible for it. It was a personal nightmare that had grown every time they had been thrown together on an operation.

Angrily he shook his head. He must not take the counsel of that particular fear. If it was to be, then it would be. In the meantime they had a job to do.

The elevator door chimed and slid open. His rented Ford Explorer was parked out in the hotel’s front lot, and as Smith passed through the lobby he diverted for a moment. Entering the glass-walled combination newsstand and gift shop, he purchased both a USA Today and a Seattle Times, as part of an agent’s instinct for staying aware of his environment.

Back in the lobby he paused to study the headlines, and his operator’s hackles rose.

It must have been a slow news day. On the front page of the Times there was a brief Department of Defense press release. It concerned the joint U.S.-Russian investigation team being sent to the crash site of the polar mystery plane, complete with its departure time from Seattle, its route, and means of travel.

The news story was entirely appropriate for the mission cover; the information given out, routine. A failure to advise the media of the operation could have aroused suspicion in its own right.

But to Smith it was a shout into the darkness, and there was no way of knowing who might overhear.

In her hotel room, Randi Russell sank down on the edge of the bed. Aimlessly running her hand over the golden-toned coverlet, her thoughts jumbled between the past and future.

Damn it, she was a good pilot, or at least a fair one, but she didn’t have near the hours needed to consider herself a competent arctic bush aviator. But that was always a problem with the Agency. Admit you knew how to fix a leaky faucet, and the assumption would be that you knew how to manage a flood control project.

The compounding half of the equation was, of course, the personal pride that always choked off the words “No, I can’t do this.”

Most particularly she couldn’t bring herself to say those words to Jon Smith.

What curse chained her to that man?

She would always remember the worst fight she’d ever had with her older sister, the cold fury she had felt when Sophia had appeared with Smith’s engagement ring on her finger, and the searing words of betrayal she had rained upon Sophie before stalking out of her apartment.

The worst had been that Sophie had refused to fight back. “Jon’s sorry for what he’s done to you, Randi,” she’d said, smiling that wise, rather sad, big sister’s smile of hers, “more sorry than you can ever know, or at least be willing to understand.”

Randi would never understand, not now.

She was starting to unzip one suede boot when a soft knock sounded at the door. Tugging the zip up again, Randi crossed to the room’s entryway, carefully checking the door’s security peephole.

A pair of level, narrowed gray eyes looked back.

Randi went through the motions of clearing the dead bolt and the security chain and removing the wet molded tissue wedge from the foot of the door. “Is anything wrong, Professor?” she asked, opening it.

“I’m not sure,” Valentina Metrace replied, her voice cool. “That’s what I’m here to find out. We need to talk, Miss Russell, specifically, about you.”

A little startled, Randi stepped back, and the historian brushed past her into the room. “Are we secure here?” she asked bruskly.

“I’ve scanned for bugs,” Randi replied, closing and relocking. “We’re clean.”

“Good. We can get down to it, then.” Valentina paced into the middle of the room, her arms crossed. Abruptly she turned to face Randi. “What the hell is wrong between you and Smith?”

In her casual amiability over the dinner table, Professor Metrace had not seemed quite such a formidable personality. But in attack mode now, her eyes were steel, and Randi was aware that even without heels, the brunette was an inch or two the taller.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Professor,” Randi replied stiffly. “There are no problems between Colonel Smith and myself.”

“Oh, please, Miss Russell. The atmosphere over that table was so charged it would have registered on a Geiger counter. I’ve never worked with either you or Smith before, but I gather you must have operated with the colonel in the past. I must also assume that you both must be reasonably competent members of the Club, or you wouldn’t be here. But it is also obvious something has gone off between you.”

Damn it! And Randi had been priding herself on the way she’d been keeping the lid on. “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself about, Professor.”

Metrace shook her head impatiently. “Miss Russell. I am a professional at this game. That means I don’t work with people I don’t trust, and right now I’m not trusting anybody. Before I take another step forward on this operation, I want to know what exactly the bloody hell is going on between my theoretical teammates-in detail!”

Randi could recognize the gambit in play: belligerence, probably feigned, and a sudden slashing assault. Metrace was not merely demanding information. She was probing, testing Randi’s reaction.

The CIA operative strove to suppress her instinctive flare of anger. “I suggest that you discuss this matter with Colonel Smith.”

“Oh, I fully intend to, darling. But he’s not available at the moment, and you are. Beyond that, Smith seemed to be handling affairs better. You seem to be the one with her knickers in a knot. Illuminate me.”

This woman was infuriating, or at least that was how she desired to be at the moment. “I can assure you that any dealings I may have had with Colonel Smith in the past will have no effect on our current assignment whatsoever.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Metrace replied flatly.

Randi felt her control cracking. “Then you may judge that it’s none of your damn business!”

“Keeping my skin intact is my business, Miss Russell, one that I devote a great deal of loving attention to. And right now I am sensing a sour team and a mission aborted before it launches, because of personnel problems. I’m one of the mission specialists, thus, indispensable. I suspect Colonel Smith is as well. That leaves the little helicopter girl to get the black ball. I assure you that you can be replaced, darling. Now, watch me walk out of here and make it happen!”

The confrontation hovered on the verge of critical mass. But both women recognized that if a blow was thrown, it would be no scratch-and-slap cat fight; one or the other or both of them would be dead or critically maimed in seconds.

Finally, Randi took a deep, shuddering breath. Damn this woman and damn Jon Smith and damn herself. But if they were going to be operating together, Metrace had the right to ask and Randi the responsibility to answer.

“Ten years ago a young army officer that I was very much in love with was serving with a peacekeeping force in the Horn of Africa. We were going to be married when he got home. But he contracted something out of the African disease pool, something that medical science was just beginning to recognize. He was evacuated to a Navy hospital ship and placed under the care of an army doctor who was serving aboard at the time.”

Valentina relaxed minutely. “Colonel Smith?”

“He was a captain then. He made a misdiagnosis. It wasn’t really his fault, I suppose. Only a few tropical disease specialists really understood the illness at the time. But my fiancé died.”

The silence returned to the room. Randi took another deep breath and went on. “Some time later, Major Smith met my older sister, Sophia. She was a doctor, too, a research microbiologist. They fell in love and were engaged to be married when he convinced her to come and work with him at the U.S. Army Medical Institute for Infectious Diseases. Do you remember the Hades plague?”

“Of course.”

Randi kept her eyes fixed on the blandly patterned wallpaper. “USAMRIID was one of the first agencies called in to try and isolate the disease and find a cure. While working with the plague, my sister caught it.”

“And she died as well.” Valentina Metrace’s voice softened into compassion. The test was over.

Randi could meet the other woman’s gaze now. “Since then I’ve found myself working with Jon on a number of different assignments. For some reason we just keep getting tangled up with each other.” She continued with a wry, self-derogatory smile. “I’ve come to recognize that he’s a good operative and essentially a good person. I’ve also come to recognize that what’s happened in the past is…past. I promise you, Professor, that I’ll have no problem working with him as my team leader. He knows his business. It’s only that I have some memories to work through whenever we first come together.”

Valentina nodded. “I see.”

She turned for the door but paused halfway through the move. “Miss Russell, would you like to have breakfast with me tomorrow, before we get on the plane?”

She put no special emphasis on the “we” in the sentence. It was offered as a given.

Randi’s responding smile was open this time. “I’d like that, Professor. And call me Randi.”

“And Val for me. I apologize for coming on quite so strong. I was a bit uncertain about the scenario. I wasn’t sure if I might not be getting caught up in the fallout of some former romantic entanglement.”

“Between Jon and me?” Randi chuckled ruefully. “Not likely.”

The other woman’s smile deepened. “Good.”

After Valentina Metrace had left, Randi frowned. There had been no reason for the black-haired historian to look quite so pleased with that last answer she had been given.