The Charm School

37

Seth Alevy put on his trench coat, took his attaché case, and left his room on the twelfth floor of the hotel located within the complex of new buildings called the Center for International Trade.

He stepped out into the large marble lobby, which he noted was crowded, mostly with Western and Japanese business people.

As he crossed the lobby, he heard a loud shout and turned quickly toward it. At the far end of the lobby, two men in expensive-looking suits rushed toward a burly-looking man and grabbed him, pushing him against a stone pillar. One of the two men shouted in Russian, “We are CIA! Yuri Sergunov, you are under arrest!”

The burly man, Sergunov, delivered a vicious karate chop to the neck of one of the men, who crumpled to the floor. The second CIA man drew his gun, but Sergunov got to his first and fired twice into the CIA man, who dropped to the mauve carpet, blood spreading across his white shirt.

A few people at that end of the lobby screamed and ran as Sergunov sprinted toward the glass doors, brandishing his pistol. He knocked over a doorman, and Alevy saw him disappear into the night.

Someone yelled, “Stoi!”

The action in the roped-off section of the lobby stopped. The CIA man who had been judo-chopped stood and shouted, “Can’t you explain to that cretin how to fake a chop? He nearly broke my neck.”

A man standing next to Alevy inquired, “Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

The man said in a British accent, “They ought to announce these things, don’t you think?”

“Actually, there’s a sign over there.”

“It’s in Russian.”

“It’s a Russian movie,” Alevy pointed out.

“Can you read that?”

“A bit. Something about asking our indulgence while a film scene is being shot.”

“What sort of film? Looked like a cops and robbers.”

“It’s a spy movie,” Alevy replied. “The fellow who escaped was probably the hero. A KGB man, I’d guess.”

“You don’t say. That’s a different slant on things.”

“This is Russia,” Alevy reminded him.

“Who were the other two chaps, then? Not MI-6, I hope.”

“No. CIA.”

“Ah.” The Englishman thought a moment. “It seemed the CIA men were trying to arrest the KGB fellow. They can’t do that in Russia.”

“It would be good if they could. But this is supposed to be America. Mosfilm uses this place as their American locale. I’ve seen this hotel in ten movies already.”

The Englishman laughed. “Don’t the Russians get tired of seeing the same place?”

“The Russians, my friend, don’t get tired of anything but work.”

“Right you are. Well, this is something to tell everyone back home. You know, I just stepped off the lift, and I was a bit taken aback for a moment. A man can get paranoid in this country.”

“Why is that?” Alevy asked.

The man didn’t respond.

The director was setting the scene again as the CIA man changed into a clean shirt for a retake.

The Englishman said, “This sort of thing is not in the best of taste, if you think about it. I mean, almost everyone here is Western. It’s somewhat offensive.”

“It’s their country.”

“Yes, but really, this is an expensive hotel. We don’t need this sort of thing here. Americans being shot and all that. Though I don’t suppose anyone would know that if they didn’t speak a bit of Russian.”

“Art imitates life,” Alevy said.

“I always thought it was the other way around. Well, I must be going. Good evening.”

Alevy watched the scene begin to unfold again, but decided he didn’t want to see the CIA man take two more shots in the gut, so he turned and left.

He made his way to the shopping arcade, a thickly carpeted concourse with six specialized Beriozkas fronting on it. In the windows of the Beriozkas were decals of American Express, Eurocard, and five other major world credit cards, and the glass was clean.

Alevy walked into the store called Jewelry Store and examined a string of amber beads. Four well-dressed Japanese businessmen browsed together through the elegant shop. An American man next to Alevy said to the woman with him, “If the masses could see this place, they’d revolt again.”

Alevy took the beads, brought them to the counter, and presented a Eurocard issued under the name of Thornton Burns. The salesgirl placed the necklace in a satin box and slid the box into a colorful paper bag. She smiled and said in English, “Have a good evening,” but Alevy had the impression she was reading from a sign over his left shoulder.

He went out into the concourse past the window of a store called For Men and Women that sold an odd combination of Russian furs, embroideries, china, and cut glass. He glanced at his watch and saw it was nine-thirty. The Beriozkas would be closing soon. He passed by the shops marked “Radio Goods” and “Bookstore” and turned into a downward-sloping passage to the food store.

Even at this hour, he noted, the small supermarket was crowded with guests of the hotel, plus diplomats and their spouses from every embassy in Moscow, ranking Party officials with access to hard currency, and black marketeers who were using Western currency at the risk of doing two to five in Siberia.

The market was well-stocked with European canned goods, meat and fish, Soviet hothouse vegetables, and tropical fruits, most of which Muscovites had never seen outside of a book or movie. Alevy noticed that a new shipment of pineapples, still in crates marked “Nicaragua,” was disappearing fast into a dozen carts.

Alevy purchased some Swiss candy bars, American bubble gum, and Finnish hard candies. He paid for the items in American dollars and went back to the concourse, where he found the Intourist service desk located behind a glass wall. He placed his passport, visa, and airline tickets on the desk and said in English, “I would like to confirm my helicopter connection to Sheremetyevo and my flight to Helsinki.”

The attractive blond woman glanced at the papers on her desk and replied snippily in excellent English, “Yes, everything is all right. What is there to confirm?”

“I know how well everything runs in this country, but I want to be certain about my arrangements.”

She looked at him a moment, then replied a bit more civilly, “I know that your helicopter is already here, Mr. Burns. It leaves in fifteen minutes. Go to the lobby and see the bell captain. I haven’t heard of any problem with your Finnair flight.”

“Thank you.” Alevy gathered his passport, visa, and tickets, slipping them into his trench coat. He walked back to the lobby and spotted his luggage, which had been taken from his room. The film crew was wrapping up the shoot, and a porter was trying to get the blood off the carpet.

Alevy approached the bell captain. “Helicopter?” He made a whirling motion with his finger. “Helicopter?” he said more loudly, remembering that Americans had a reputation of shouting English to foreigners in the belief that if it was loud enough the natives would understand it. “Hel-i-cop-ter!”

“Ah, vertolet.” The bell captain pointed through the glass doors to a small white Aeroflot bus.

“Swell.” Alevy pointed to his bags and showed the man his hotel bill with his room number on it.

The bell captain nodded and called a bellboy over, saying to the boy in Russian, “You didn’t think the American was going to carry his bags twenty meters, did you? Be nice to him, and he may take you to America in his suitcase.”

Alevy smiled vacuously at the bell captain and gave him a ruble.

The man touched his cap and said, “Da svedahnya.”

“Good-bye,” Alevy said, and followed the bellboy toward the doors where the doorman wished him a pleasant journey, making Alevy think that indeed some of them were getting it right.

Alevy boarded the Aeroflot minibus and nodded to three other men who were seated. The bellboy stowed Alevy’s overnight bag and suitcase in the rear of the bus. Alevy held on to his attaché case. The driver started the bus.

The man across the aisle from Alevy said to him, “American?”

“Yes.”

The man smiled. “Hey, can you believe helicopter service in Moscow? They didn’t have this when I was here five years ago.”

The man behind Alevy added, “I can’t believe this hotel. It was nearly up to standards.”

They all laughed.

The fourth man, in front of Alevy, looked back at the other three. “Did you men see that cops and robbers movie they were shooting there in the lobby?”

They all nodded. Alevy said, “It was actually a CIA-KGB caper. Silly Hollywood kind of stuff. Never hear about that in real life.”

The bus pulled away from the circular driveway, and the four men, all Americans, exchanged small talk about their stay in Moscow. It turned out that they were all taking the 10:45 Finnair flight to Helsinki, the last flight to the West until morning.

The man in front of Alevy said he was a frequent traveler to Moscow and added, “I always feel good when I get clear of this place. I’ve kissed the tarmac at Helsinki so many times my lips are getting black.”

They all smiled in recognition.

The bus took them around the west side of the hotel to a concrete helipad near the International Exhibition Hall, close by the Moskva embankment road. An Mi-28 helicopter sat on the floodlit pad, its turbojet engine warming. Alevy regarded the white helicopter a moment. Rather than landing skids, it sat on wheels like most Soviet helicopters. It had four main rotor blades, sitting atop two four-hundred horsepower Izotov turbine engines. The Mi-28 saw service in the Soviet military, as it did with Aeroflot as a transporter of VIPs. It was fast, comfortable, and reliable. Or so he’d been told. Like all Soviet aircraft, this one had a NATO code name, and as with all helicopters, the code name began with H. The code names were supposed to be meaningless. He hoped so. The Mi-28 was called The Headstone.

The bus stopped ten meters from the helicopter, and the four Americans carried their own luggage off, the bus driver helping them with their bags of Beriozka items.

The pilot opened the cabin door and took the luggage, stowing it in the narrow space behind the last two seats. The four Americans tipped the bus driver in rubles and climbed aboard the helicopter.

Alevy sat directly behind the pilot and noted that the copilot’s seat was empty as was usually the case on these short hops to the airport.

The other three men settled into the remaining seats. One of them, the frequent Moscow traveler, commented, “At this hour we could make Sheremetyevo by taxi in thirty minutes. The Russkies probably think we’re nuts to spend this kind of money to make it by chopper in ten.”

Another man replied, “They’re learning how to part us from our greenbacks. Ten more years and you’ll see hard currency strip joints on Gorky Street.”

Everyone laughed.

The helicopter lifted vertically over the Trade Center complex, and Alevy looked down at the handsome buildings below: the fifteen-story hotel, the taller office buildings, and the trade exhibition halls. “A true window to the West,” he said. “To the world. Even the Soviet paranoia about everything Western seems to be missing from the place.”

No one replied.

Alevy leaned forward and examined the helicopter instrument panel, its gauges and radios alight in a faint red glow. He said to the pilot, “Do you speak English?”

The pilot glanced back as he swung the helicopter north toward Sheremetyevo. “Chto?”

“Angliiski?”

“Nyet.”

Alevy nodded and sat back in his seat. He said to the other men, “Fuel gauge reads full.”

The man sitting beside Alevy, Captain Ed O’Shea, nodded. “As I said, Seth, it’s a regulation so that all aircraft, even civilian craft, are always ready for instant mobilization if the balloon goes up.”

“Good rule,” Alevy remarked. So far, so good, he thought. One pilot, full tanks. He and two of the other Americans with him, Hollis’ aide, O’Shea, and Alevy’s deputy station chief, Bert Mills, had flown out to Helsinki during the past week, then come back to Moscow individually, with new passports and forged Soviet visas, checking into the Trade Center. They were officially out of the country, and there would be few problems for the embassy if things went bad.

The man behind Alevy, Bill Brennan, who had come directly from his convalescent leave in London, said, “I want to thank you for giving me a chance to even the score.”

Alevy replied, “I thought you’d be getting bored in London.” He added, “They did a lousy job on your nose.” Alevy looked out the window and saw Sheremetyevo coming up on the port front. “Well, gentlemen, are we ready?”

They all answered in the affirmative. Bert Mills, in the rear seat beside Brennan, leaned forward and said to Captain O’Shea, “Now that you’ve seen it, can you fly it from the copilot’s chair?”

O’Shea replied, “Tricky, but we’ll give it a shot.”

“Okay,” Alevy said, “here goes.” Alevy took a chloroform pad from his pocket, ripped open the foil envelope, and reached around the pilot’s face, clamping the pad over his mouth as O’Shea jumped forward into the copilot’s seat and grabbed the controls of the wobbling craft.

The pilot thrashed around, kicking the control pedals and yanking on the collective pitch stick. The helicopter began tilting dangerously as O’Shea fought for control. He shouted, “Get him out of there!”

Alevy stood and ripped the pilot’s headphones off, then with Brennan’s help pulled the pilot up and over the seat, dropping him on the floor of the cabin. The pilot groaned, then lay still.

Alevy took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Okay, Captain. The seat is yours.”

“Right.” O’Shea rose carefully from the copilot’s seat. “Hold on.” He cut the throttle, and the helicopter began to drop. O’Shea vaulted sideways into the pilot’s seat, grabbing at the controls as his feet found the antitorque pedals. The dropping craft yawed and rolled, then steadied as O’Shea got control. He opened the throttle, and the helicopter began to rise. “Okay, okay.”

Alevy crossed over to the copilot’s seat as Bert Mills and Bill Brennan moved forward into the middle seats. Alevy asked O’Shea, “Well, is it as easy to fly as it looks?”

O’Shea smiled grimly. “This is a bitch. I haven’t flown rotary-wing in ten years.” He added, “The main rotor in Soviet choppers turns the opposite of Western rotary-wing. So the rudder pedals are opposite.”

“Is that why we’re zigzagging all over the place, Captain?”

“Yeah. Takes a while to get used to.” O’Shea pointed to a switch. “What does that say?”

Alevy leaned forward and read the Russian switch plate. “Svet… light… moving… landing.”

“Controllable landing light,” O’Shea said. He switched it off. “I saw the pilot hit it a few minutes ago. We don’t need that.” O’Shea pushed the cyclic control stick to port and worked the antitorque pedals to keep the craft in longitudinal trim, swinging the helicopter west, away from Sheremetyevo, away from Moscow. O’Shea said, “I’ll need about fifteen minutes of maneuvers before I feel confident with these controls.”

Alevy replied, “Try ten. We need every drop of fuel. Did that training manual help?”

“Yes, but it’s no substitute for hands-on.” O’Shea added, “It’s okay, men. Just relax. I’m getting it.”

Alevy put on the headphones and listened to the radio traffic from Sheremetyevo tower. He said to O’Shea, “Don’t get too far west. I have to call the tower.”

“Right.” O’Shea practiced some simple maneuvers.

Alevy looked toward the east and saw the bright lights of Moscow on the distant horizon. The sky was unusually clear, very starry, but there was only a sliver of a white, waning moon tonight, he noted, which was fine. Below, the farmland and forests were in almost complete darkness.

Seth Alevy stared out the windshield. Spread before him was Russia in all its endless mystery, the land of his grandparents, a black limitless space so dark, deep, and cold that whole armies and entire nationalities — Don Cossacks, Volga Germans, Jews, and Tartars — could disappear without a trace and without a decibel of their screams being heard beyond the vast frontiers.

Alevy looked west out to where the dark sky touched the black horizon. Soon they would be plunging into that void, and though he could smell the fear around him, nothing frightened him so much as the thought that they might be too late.

Bill Brennan, sitting now behind O’Shea’s seat, with his feet on the unconscious Aeroflot pilot, asked Alevy, “Do you want me to dump him?”

“There’s no need for that.”

“Okay. Can I break his nose?”

“No. Just tie him up.”

Brennan tied the pilot’s wrists and ankles with a length of metal flex.

Bert Mills looked at his watch. “We’re about five minutes overdue at Sheremetyevo.”

“Right.” Alevy said to O’Shea, “Let’s kill all the lights.”

O’Shea scanned the instrument panel and referred to an Mi-28 cockpit diagram that he and Hollis had made up with English subtitles some weeks ago.

“Here,” Alevy said. “This says ‘navigation lights.’”

“That’s the one.”

Alevy hit the switch and the outside lights went out. “You just fly, Captain.” He took the diagram from O’Shea and found the interior light switch and flipped it, throwing the cabin and cockpit into darkness. The instrument lights cast a pale red glow over Alevy and O’Shea’s face and hands.

The effect of the nearly total darkness inside and outside was somewhat eerie, Alevy thought, and he could hear the other three men’s disembodied breathing above the sound of the rotor blades. Alevy held the diagram on his lap and scanned it. He found the radio transmit button on the cyclic grip. “Okay.” He depressed the transmit button and suddenly shouted in Russian into the mouth mike of his headset, “Kontroler! Kontroler!”

A few seconds later the control tower at Sheremetyevo replied, “Kontroler.”

Alevy said excitedly in Russian, “This is Aeroflot P one one three — lost engine power—” He stopped talking, but continued depressing the button the way a pilot would do as he contemplated the ground rushing up at him. Alevy screamed in Russian, “God—!” then lifted his finger from the button and heard Sheremetyevo tower in his headphones, “—one one three, come in, come—” Alevy shut off the radio power and removed his headphones. “That should keep them busy searching for wreckage, as well as making them reflect on man’s need for divine comfort in the last second of life. Okay, Captain O’Shea, let’s head west.”

O’Shea swung the tail boom around and pointed the Mi-28 west, then opened up the throttle and changed the pitch angle of the rotor blades. “This thing moves.”

Alevy looked out over the dark landscape. “Let’s get down there, Captain, and find a place to park it awhile.”

O’Shea began his descent from twelve hundred meters. As the ground came up, Alevy, Brennan, and Mills scanned the terrain. Brennan said, “Forest there. Open farmland over there. Too open. There’s something — what’s that?”

They all looked out to starboard at a light-colored area about five hundred meters away.

Alevy said, “Get in closer, Captain.”

O’Shea slid the helicopter to the right and dropped in closer. He said, “It looks like an excavation. A quarry or gravel pit.”

“That’ll do,” Alevy said.

O’Shea banked around toward the large shallow excavation that appeared to encompass about an acre dug out of the open plains northwest of Moscow. “Okay,” O’Shea said, “let’s see if this helicopter knows how to land.”

O’Shea looked below to see if there were any smokestacks or anything that would give him an indication of the wind direction, but he saw nothing. He guessed that the wind would be coming from the northwest as it usually did this time of year, and he banked around so he could make his landing heading into what he hoped was the prevailing wind.

He maintained a constant rpm so there would be no variation in torque forces that could make the craft yaw around its vertical axis. The pedals, which were reversed because the rotor direction was reversed, were his major problem; what should have been second nature was becoming a thought process, like driving a British car on the left side of the road.

Alevy said, “You’re doing fine.”

“You talking to me?” O’Shea’s instinct was to glide in at a shallow angle, as with a fixed-wing, but he knew he had to maintain sufficient altitude until the last few seconds in the event he did something to stall the engine, which would necessitate an autorotative landing; a free fall that could only be made successfully if there was time to throw the transmission into neutral, adjust the pitch of the blades, allowing the uprushing air to turn the rotors to produce enough lift to cushion the crash.

He was coming in at about forty-five degrees, and the altimeter showed five hundred meters.

He began decreasing airspeed with the collective pitch stick and throttle. As the collective pitch was adjusted, he increased his pressure on the right rudder to maintain the heading and increased the throttle to hold the rpm steady. Simultaneously he coordinated the cyclic stick with the other controls to maintain the proper forward airspeed. He wished he had another hand.

The helicopter passed over the edge of the excavation at one hundred meters’ altitude, and O’Shea realized the pit was deeper than he’d thought. The opposite wall of the pit was less than a hundred meters away now, and he was still about one hundred meters above the bottom of the excavation at an angle of approach that would put the craft into the fast-approaching wall. He felt sweat forming under his arms.

O’Shea immediately decreased the collective, simultaneously increasing rearward pressure on the cyclic, like reining in a horse. The craft’s nose rose higher, and it began to slow. He resisted the temptation to cut the throttle, which seemed the natural thing to do to bleed off airspeed, but which would have led to a stall. “Damn… stupid helicopter.”

The helicopter continued to slow, but O’Shea knew he was in a tail-low attitude, and the rear boom might hit the ground before the wheels did.

The rotor’s downwash raised huge billows of dust and gravel, obscuring O’Shea’s visibility, and he had to look at the artificial horizon indicator to see if he was horizontal to the ground. The downwash was creating a turbulence that was interfering with his ability to hold the craft steady. He could see neither the ground nor the excavation wall to his front and was hoping to touch the ground with his wheels before he touched the wall with his nose. “I can’t see… can anybody see!”

Alevy replied, “Relax. You’re fine.”

O’Shea knew that he was too nose-up and tail-down and that the helicopter was now tilted to the left and was still moving forward faster than it was descending. He also realized he had lost control. He made a decision and twisted the throttle shut, hoping that gravity would do what he could no longer do. “Hold on!” The nose dropped, and the whole craft fell the last few feet but not straight down, the left landing-wheels hitting first. “Damn it!” O’Shea shut off the engine as the entire craft rocked from side to side, the rotor blades barely clearing the ground.

Finally the craft settled into the gravel, and the rotors wound down. They all sat silently as the dust settled, clearing their view. Alevy looked around the excavation. It was indeed some sort of open quarry. He saw a few wooden sheds to the right and earthmoving equipment but no sign of workers or watchmen. Alevy commented to O’Shea, “Are you on the upsweep of a learning curve, Ed?”

O’Shea drew a breath and nodded. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. “I got this thing figured out now.”

Brennan opened the sliding door, and he and Mills carried the unconscious Aeroflot pilot out of the helicopter. They dragged him through the gravel away from the helicopter and removed his Aeroflot flight suit, leaving him tied hand and foot in his underwear.

Alevy and O’Shea carried their luggage out and piled it some distance from the helicopter. Alevy opened one of the suitcases with a key and removed three KGB Border Guard uniforms, along with black boots, caps, four Soviet watches, pistols, and three KGB greatcoats. Alevy, Mills, and Brennan changed into the KGB uniforms, while O’Shea put on the Aeroflot pilot’s flight suit.

As Alevy buttoned his greatcoat, he scanned the rim of the pit but couldn’t see much in the darkness. “I think we can wait it out here.”

Mills surveyed the pit. “I didn’t see any lights or signs of life coming in.” He looked at his Soviet watch. “If this thing works, it’s ten thirty-two. We’re going to miss our Finnair flight.”

Brennan chuckled as he strapped on a leather belt with a holster that held a silenced 9mm Makarov automatic. Alevy and Mills strapped on their holsters also, and O’Shea slipped his automatic into the pocket of his flight suit. They synchronized their watches, then heaped their civilian clothes, passports, visas, watches, and wallets onto the stack of luggage, then threw the Beriozka bags and attaché cases on top of that. Alevy took the satin box of amber beads from his trench coat and transferred it into his KGB greatcoat.

Brennan reached into the open suitcase and retrieved the last items: two cylindrical phosphorus incendiary grenades with timers. Brennan set the grenades’ timer for three hours and shoved them into the pile of luggage and clothes.

Alevy said, “Let’s go.” They all returned to the helicopter.

O’Shea climbed back into the pilot’s seat, and Alevy again sat in the copilot’s seat. Brennan and Mills sat behind them. Alevy asked O’Shea, “What is your estimate of our maximum available flight time?”

O’Shea thought a moment, then replied, “As I said when we first discussed this, helicopter flying time is very hard to estimate. Fixed-wing craft have more defined parameters. You take off, fly, and land. With a chopper, you do other things. Like hover, which burns a lot of fuel.”

Alevy let O’Shea talk, because he knew O’Shea had to talk it out. Also, because they had three hours to kill.

O’Shea went on, “A lot has to do with winds, air temperature, load, altitude, and the type of maneuvers we get involved with. It has to do with me not wasting fuel, but I’m not familiar enough with this craft to squeeze the most flight time and distance out of the least amount of fuel.” O’Shea said nothing for a while, then answered Alevy’s question. “Worst case would be two hours’ flight time. Best, about four hours.”

“Straight line distance?”

“Figure… at about a hundred mph, two to four hundred miles.”

Bert Mills remarked, “Even best case is going to be a damned close thing.”

Brennan, who didn’t seem interested in the subject of fuel, was checking his Makarov automatic. He slid the magazine in and out, then worked the slide mechanism like a man who’s had some bad experiences using other people’s guns. He said, “Everybody check their weapons.”

Everyone did as Brennan said, as he was the mission armorer.

Brennan then rummaged through Alevy’s large overnight bag that had been left aboard and took out the broken-down pieces of a Dragunov sniper rifle and quickly assembled it in the dark. He mounted a four-power night scope on the rifle and loaded it, then pointed the rifle through the windshield and turned on the electronic scope. “Not bad for made in the USSR.”

“They make some nice weapons,” Mills remarked.

Brennan shut off the scope and laid the rifle at his feet.

Alevy said to Brennan, “There are two aerial survey maps in the bag.”

Brennan found the maps and handed them forward. Alevy gave one to O’Shea, who laid it out on his lap. Alevy handed him a red penlight, and O’Shea studied the map.

Brennan was still rummaging through the bag. “Phosphorus grenades, extra ammunition, a little of this, and a little of that. Inventory complete.” He said to Alevy, “It’s none of my business, but where did you get these uniforms and hardware? And how did you keep the room maid from seeing everything?”

Alevy replied, “That little antique store in the Arbat has a costume shop in the basement. The hardware came in the diplomatic pouch. As for the nosy maids, I had that bag and the suitcase delivered to the lobby from the outside just before we boarded the bus.”

Brennan said, “I want you to know something, Mr. Alevy. I have a lot of confidence in you, and I don’t think for a minute this is a suicide mission. Also, I like Colonel Hollis. He’s a straight shooter. And I liked his lady. That’s why I’m here and not in London.”

No one added anything to that for a few minutes. Then O’Shea said, “I don’t want anyone to get anxious about the flying. Think about what you have to do. I’ll take care of the flying.” He added, “The principles of flight remain the same even here and even if the rotors do go the wrong way.” He tried a laugh, but it came out wrong.

Bert Mills said, “This damned uniform is pinching my crotch.”

Brennan remarked, “That’s because KGB tailors don’t have to allow room for balls.”

Alevy said to Brennan, “Bill, there’s a blue Beriozka bag I left back there. I got Bazooka bubble gum and some other things. Pass it around.”

“Bazooka? Hey, thanks.” Brennan found the gum and passed the bag to Mills, who took a candy bar. He passed it up to O’Shea, who declined. Alevy sucked on a hard candy. Brennan blew a big bubble, and it popped. Brennan said, “Hey, it’s Halloween. Happy Halloween.”

No one answered.

Brennan added, “I’ve seen some scary costumes for Halloween, but these outfits are the scariest fucking things I’ve ever seen.”

Mills forced a laugh. “Where we’re going you’ll see about five hundred more of those scary outfits.”

“Thanks,” Brennan said.

The minutes passed in silence except for the ticking of the cooling engine and the sound of popping bubble gum. Alevy said to everyone, “Relax.”

38

The VFW hall held close to a thousand people, but it was the quietest thousand people Hollis had ever been among.

The building was surrounded by armed KGB Border Guards, and no one was permitted to leave until midnight. The main recreation room was darkened, lit only by black candles and the grinning faces of jack-o’-lanterns. In the barroom and all the side rooms, men and women congregated, speaking in hushed, angry tones. Occasionally someone would weep. For the amount of food and liquor available, Hollis noticed that no one was drunk, and the food remained untouched, even by the students, who Hollis thought seemed very uncomfortable. The masks, Hollis reflected, were off, literally and figuratively; no one was wearing the party masks, and no one was acting his part.

In the center of the recreation room sat a black-draped coffin on a bier, a party decoration that had taken on another significance. No one stood around the coffin.

Burov had not put in an appearance, and Hollis pictured him in his dacha, sitting with his wife near the porcelain stove, reading Pushkin or perhaps watching an American movie on videotape.

Hollis, who knew he would not be among the ten randomly picked for execution, felt somewhat guilty at being one of only two Americans in the hall who wasn’t contemplating his imminent death. Lisa, he knew, felt the same.

When he had told Lewis Poole of Burov’s plans to execute Dodson and ten others, they had discussed the possibility of not putting out the news. But Poole, Lisa, and he had concluded that everyone had a right to know.

There had been some incidents during the so-called party: Jane Landis had spit in the face of a student, and the stereo that had been playing funereal music to set the mood of the theme party had been kicked to pieces by one of the kidnapped American women, Samantha Wells. Two American fliers, Ted Brewer and another man, had gone outside and tried to push their way past the cordon of Border Guards but were forcibly carried back inside. Captain Schuyler, whom Hollis had met on the path with Poole and Lieutenant Colonel Mead, had punched one of the students, but the fight had been quickly broken up.

To the students’ credit, Hollis thought, they took the verbal abuse and looked rather sheepish. Certainly, Hollis reflected, the school would be closed for weeks if not months after this mad night.

General Austin sat in a small study, speaking briefly with groups of men and women, twenty and thirty at a time until most of the two hundred eighty-two Americans under his command and their wives and girlfriends had been addressed by him. Hollis made his way into the study and heard Austin say, “To attempt to escape is our only pure and uncompromised act here. So we shall try again and again and again. There won’t be ten years between attempts. There won’t even be twelve months until the next one. And if they want to shoot us ten at a time for each attempt, so be it. This school is closed.”

Hollis listened awhile, then went into the barroom and got a glass of beer. Lisa found him and held his arm. “Sam, I can’t take much of this.”

Hollis glanced at his watch. “Another few minutes. At midnight it’s over.”

He looked around the long barroom and spotted Sonny and Marty talking in a corner. At a small table sat the four students he’d met in their cottage. One of them, Erik Larson, was looking more like Yevgenni Petrovich Korniyenko, Hollis thought. In fact, all the students seemed not to know how to act anymore, and Hollis wondered why Burov had subjected them to this. Perhaps there was a lesson here for them too. And the lesson had to be that the state was all powerful and that disloyalty equaled death. But they already knew that.

Commander Poole came up to Lisa and Hollis. He said, “The men — and the women — are prepared to stick together. We can start a revolt, right here and now. We can refuse to leave here and hold the students hostage. We can march on Burov’s house. We can all rush the main gate, and perhaps some of us will get through and make it to the embassy.”

Hollis looked at Poole, and they both knew that Poole was not stating viable options, but was enumerating different forms of suicide. Hollis said, “They have the guns, Commander. That’s what the twentieth century is all about. Whoever has the rapid-fire automatic weapons is in charge.”

Poole nodded with his head down. “So we take the eleven losses and let it go at that?”

“Yes. We have to live to try again and again. Someone has to get out of here. That’s what General Austin is saying, and he’s the boss. And you know, I don’t think things will be the same around here after tonight.”

“No.” Poole thought a moment. “And you know what else? That’s for the better. We’ve all gotten too cozy with these people. We have our comforts, our women, our children, our intellectual freedom… it was hard for us to get angry and stay angry. That’s all changed now.” He looked at Hollis and Lisa. “I think your presence here was the slap in the face that we needed to bring us out of it.”

Hollis cleared his throat. “I may have sounded hard at General Austin’s house, and I assure you my views haven’t changed. But I didn’t mean to leave the impression that I am not concerned for your welfare.”

“I understand.”

Midnight came, and people began streaming silently out of the hall.

Poole said to Lisa, “We’ll pray tonight.” He said to Hollis, “Burov has imposed a curfew for twelve-thirty A.M., so we are all effectively under house arrest until dawn. We can’t meet or discuss this any further. The penalty for breaking curfew is to be shot on sight. So I will wish you both good-night and see you on the soccer field in the morning.” He turned and left.

Hollis asked Lisa to wait around until all the Americans and their wives were gone. Oddly, Hollis thought, most of the students stayed on. He noticed they began drinking, and as he suspected, one of them approached him and Lisa.

Jeff Rooney greeted them with less ebullience than the first time they’d met. Neither Hollis nor Lisa returned the greeting.

Rooney said, “I just want you guys to know I feel awful about this.”

Hollis looked Rooney in the eye and replied, “You’re going to feel even worse when you get to the States and get picked up by the FBI. You can think about how sorry you are for the rest of your life in a federal penitentiary.” Hollis added baitingly, “You can study for your Air Force tests in the big house, General.”

Rooney seemed at a loss for words. Several students began to gather around.

Hollis continued, “They didn’t tell you that the rate of capture for you people is about two hundred a year, did they?”

“No… they… I didn’t read about any…”

“Even Western newspapers don’t know everything, you idiot.” Hollis snapped, “Get out of my sight.”

“I’m sorry—”

Lisa said, “You know better, Rooney. You know what a monstrous system this is. You all know, and there is no excuse for you. You are contemptible. Go away!”

Rooney didn’t seem inclined to move, and neither did the growing crowd of young men and women. Rooney said, “I’m sorry. I really am. I… can’t understand why Colonel Burov—”

“Then,” Hollis said, “why don’t you organize the students and make a protest to Burov?”

“We can’t—”

“No, you can’t because you are no more an American than Genghis Khan or Colonel Burov. You have no idea what it means to be a free man with rights and responsibilities.”

“I do! I learned that here.”

Lisa stepped closer to him. “You can’t learn that.” She poked him in the chest. “You have to live it every day. Go on, Rooney, go and exercise your right to freedom of speech, guaranteed in both our constitutions. Exercise your right to petition for redress of grievances. That would be good training for you.” She looked around. “For all of you.”

No one spoke, and Hollis had the impression that some of the one hundred or so students in the barroom now were thinking about things, but a good number of them had that neutral vacuous expression that people wear when they hear a call to arms and pretend the speaker is addressing someone else. About half the students, however, seemed ready for some sort of action. Hollis said to them, “Do you understand that you have no more rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness than any prisoner here? Did you ever wonder what happened to the students who wash out of this school?”

John Fleming, one of the men they had met on the basketball court, shouted, “You’re trying to seduce us in your typical Western way. We don’t listen to Western treachery.”

Marty, the Landises’ boarder, called back, “If you’re going to argue with them, argue like an American, not a stupid Russian.”

This brought some shouts pro and con. Suzie Trent stepped out of the crowd and walked directly to Lisa. “What happens to the students who wash out?”

Before Lisa could answer, Jeff Rooney snapped at her, “Shut up! Do you want to get into trouble?”

“I want to know.”

The Landises’ other boarder, Sonny, stepped out of the crowd surrounding Hollis and Lisa and addressed the students. “I’ll speak like an American. These two are abusing their rights to free assembly and freedom of speech. They are inciting to riot and pose a clear and present danger to the peace. I propose we make a citizen’s arrest and take them to headquarters.”

Hollis was impressed with Sonny’s grasp of the law and how it could be perverted. Hollis said to him, “Your master, Petr Burov, is going to illegally execute—”

Sonny shouted, “There is nothing illegal about it! There are duly constituted laws in this place, Hollis, and Dodson broke one of them. He knew it was a capital offense.”

Hollis stood face-to-face with Sonny. “What about the ten people to be executed at random? That is called reprisals and is unlawful in any civilized society.”

Sonny put his face closer to Hollis’. “Are you saying we’re uncivilized?”

Lisa pushed Sonny’s chest. “What do you call executing a POW who was doing his duty and exercising his right under the Geneva Convention to escape?”

Sonny glared at Lisa, keeping a watch on Hollis out of the corner of his eye.

The room was very quiet, and someone said softly, “She’s right. The execution is illegal under international law.”

A few people murmured assent.

Erik Larson cleared his throat. “Most of us are Red Air Force. We know that’s no way to execute a brother officer. Maybe we can draft a note to Burov—”

“You needn’t bother,” Burov said as he strode into the room. There were six armed KGB Border Guards behind him. He looked at the students, then at Hollis and Lisa. “Well, are you trying to replay the American Revolution here? We’ve already had our revolution, thank you.”

Hollis walked toward Burov and said, “I think this class will never be the same again, Colonel.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Call off these executions.”

“No, I’m more convinced than ever that we need this tomorrow. All of us.” Burov looked at Marty, then at Jeff Rooney, Suzie Trent, and a few of the others. He said, “I commend all of you on your fine acting. An outsider would have actually thought you believed what you were saying.” He smiled unpleasantly.

Suzie Trent said in a soft voice, “I believed what I heard about this terrible killing tomorrow.”

Burov glanced at her, then looked at the others. “Does anyone else wish to add anything to this young lady’s comment?”

No one spoke immediately, then John Fleming said, “Yes, Colonel, I think she has always harbored unorthodox and improper thoughts about our socialist motherland.”

Hollis noted that this time no one told Fleming he sounded like a stupid Russian, so Hollis said, “You’re full of shit.”

Burov looked at his watch. “It is twelve twenty-five, Colonel. If you and Ms. Rhodes leave now, you can probably get into your home before the curfew. If you don’t, you may very well be shot by a patrol. Good evening.”

Hollis took Lisa’s arm and led her toward the door. Lisa said to Burov, “For everyone’s sake, please reconsider.”

“You’d better hurry. I’d like to see you in my office tomorrow, not in the morgue.” He turned from Hollis and Lisa and said to the students, “Continue your Halloween festivities.”

Hollis led Lisa into the rec room, where another two hundred or so students had been pressed close to the door of the bar. They parted quickly, letting Hollis and Lisa through.

They went out into the cold, damp air and took the trail back to their cottage. Neither of them spoke for a while, then Lisa said, “My God, I’m proud of you, Sam Hollis.”

“You did all right yourself.”

They reached their house and went inside. Lisa bolted the door, sank into the armchair, and stared at the dead fire. “A spark. Is that what they need? Or do they need a blowtorch?” She drew a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. “I simply do not understand these people. No one does.”

Hollis replied, “That’s because they don’t understand themselves. But if the day comes when they do, when they stop worrying about how the West perceives them and start to become aware of who they are, then the first Russian Revolution will become nothing more than a prologue to the second revolution.”

“But when?”

“When they’re ready. When they can’t deny outside reality any longer.”

“I hope I live to see it.” She smiled grimly. “I hope I live to see tomorrow.” Lisa stood. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Go ahead. I need to be alone awhile.”

“All right.” She kissed him and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Hollis shut off the lamp and sat in the darkness alone with his thoughts. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that after all was said and done, Alevy had simply betrayed and abandoned them. And Hollis could think of professional reasons why Alevy would do that — Alevy-type reasons. Yet, the feeling, if not the fact, remained with Hollis that Alevy for all his deviousness was not capable of this ultimate betrayal. Unless of course he felt he had been personally betrayed. And perhaps Lisa had betrayed Seth Alevy, her lover. Hollis didn’t know. And perhaps Alevy felt that Hollis had betrayed him as well. Sexual jealousy was as potent a force in the affairs of men and women as anything else and had brought nations and kings to ruin.

Hollis stared into the darkness. The time passed, and though he was tired, he felt no need for sleep. A strange confidence took hold of him, and he knew that one way or the other this was going to be the last day for the Charm School.

39

It had become cold in the cabin of the Mi-28. Alevy, Mills, Brennan, and O’Shea each took turns outside the helicopter, scanning the rim of the gravel pit with the night scope mounted on the Dragunov sniper rifle. With a roll of black tape, Mills had changed the helicopter’s identification number from P-113 to P-413, on the chance that other aircraft, or even the Charm School, had picked up radio traffic concerning the crash of 113.

The Aeroflot pilot began moaning in the darkness, and Brennan, who was outside the helicopter with the rifle, poked his head through the door and said to Alevy, “We should have brought a blanket for him.”

Alevy wondered at Brennan’s compassion for a man he had been prepared to throw out of the helicopter at a thousand meters. Alevy said, “It’s above freezing. He’ll live until someone finds him in the morning.” Alevy took another chloroform pad from his pocket and gave it to Brennan. “Put him back to sleep.”

Brennan went off into the darkness and came back a few minutes later. The pilot stopped moaning.

The next hour passed without incident. Captain O’Shea had the sentry duty and was scanning the narrow ramp road that led down into the pit. He suddenly lowered the rifle and jumped onto the rung step at the door. “Something coming down the road.”

Brennan leaped out of the helicopter and snatched the rifle from O’Shea. He knelt, pointed the rifle toward the road, and adjusted the focus toward the dirt ramp about a hundred meters away. O’Shea scrambled back into the pilot’s seat and prepared to take off.

Brennan tracked the movement, took aim, and fired. The silenced rifle coughed, and the flash-suppressed muzzle glowed briefly. Brennan stood and went back to the open door of the helicopter. “Big buck. Dropped him.” He added, “Very good rifle.”

At 1:30 A.M, Alevy said, “Let’s go.”

Bert Mills, who was standing sentry, jumped back into the helicopter and gave Brennan the rifle.

O’Shea started the two turbine engines and let them warm for a few minutes, scanning the gauges.

Alevy, sitting in the copilot’s seat, asked O’Shea, “Do you remember how to fly it?”

O’Shea forced a smile. “I do. But I don’t know how to take off.” He placed the cyclic stick in a neutral position and moved the collective pitch stick in the full down position. He twisted the throttle on the collective stick, at the same time pushing the stick forward. The helicopter began to become light on its wheels, and the torque effect caused the nose to swing to the left. He put pressure on the right foot pedal to bring the nose back to a constant heading. The helicopter rose vertically in a cloud of sand and gravel.

O’Shea let it rise, checking the torque gauge and the rpm as he held it steady in its vertical climb. The helicopter rose out of the pit and into the north wind.

Below, there was a flash of brilliant light as the phosphorus grenades exploded, consuming the pile of baggage and clothing.

O’Shea eased the cyclic forward, and the Mi-28 began a diagonal climb on a northerly heading. At eight hundred meters, O’Shea swung the nose west and adjusted the controls for a straight and level flight.

Alevy commented, “You’ve taken the excitement out of helicopter flying.”

O’Shea settled back in his seat. “I’ve got this thing tamed.”

“Glad to hear it.”

O’Shea said, “Bill and Bert, you spot for aircraft. They can’t see us without lights. Seth, find me the Minsk — Moscow highway or the Moskva River.”

Alevy looked out the windshield. The night had remained clear, and the starlight gave some illumination to the ground, though the moon was nearly set. Alevy scanned the terrain below, finally picking out the Moskva River, looking like a thin ribbon of tarnished pewter, winding through dark fields and forests. He said to O’Shea, “Slip south of the river.”

O’Shea turned to a southwest heading.

Alevy stared at the ground below, and within a few minutes he said, “There. The highway. See it?”

O’Shea craned forward. “Okay.” He swung the helicopter on a due west heading and followed the highway.

Mills called out, “Eleven o’clock, level.” To their front, coming toward them, they could see blinking navigation lights. The closing speed of the two craft was fast, and the lights were suddenly very near and coming toward them on a collision course. O’Shea banked the Mi-28 to the right, and the other craft, a mammoth Mi-8 cargo helicopter, shot past on their port side. O’Shea exclaimed, “Jesus…” He took a deep breath and said to Alevy, “If he spotted us without our lights, he’ll make a report. “We’d be less likely to arouse suspicion if we were running with our lights on.” He added, “If they’re looking for us, Seth, they’ll be using airborne radar anyway.”

Alevy replied, “I hope that where they’re looking for this helicopter is in the woods outside of Sheremetyevo. No lights.”

They continued west, land navigating between the Moskva and the highway, which ran roughly parallel to the river. Alevy looked at the airspeed indicator, which showed 120 kph. He said, “We should be seeing the lights of Mozhaisk soon.”

Brennan commented, “I don’t see any lights. Nobody lives down there.”

Mills leaned forward and pointed to the left. “There. Is that Mozhaisk?”

Alevy looked at the lights about five kilometers ahead. There weren’t many of them at this hour, but he could definitely pick out a string of lights that appeared to cross the Moskva River. That would be the Mozhaisk Bridge. Alevy replied, “There’s not much else around here, so that must be the town. Guide on that, Captain.”

“Right.” O’Shea corrected his heading and pointed the nose of the Mi-28 directly toward Mozhaisk.

Within a few minutes they could see the illuminated center of the small town where the two main streets crossed; the north-south street leading to the bridge and the east-west street, which was the old Minsk — Moscow road.

Alevy said, “Drop to about five hundred and follow the river.”

O’Shea descended toward the Moskva and passed over the bridge. At this altitude the river seemed more luminescent, reflecting the cold starlight and the last available moonlight. O’Shea commented, “I used to love river flying. Went up the Hudson in a Piper Cherokee once. Did the entire Colorado in a Cessna… now I’m doing the Moskva… in a borrowed Mi-28… a Headstone.”

No one spoke for some minutes, then Alevy said, “Reduce airspeed.”

O’Shea brought the helicopter’s speed down to ninety kph.

Alevy looked at his watch, then at his aerial map and said, “Gentlemen, we’ll be landing very soon.”

No one responded. They were all professionals, Alevy reflected, and each of them had at one time or another pushed his luck to the limit in the performance of his respective profession. They were, each in their own way, cool, distant, and businesslike. They had calculated the odds and found them slightly better than Russian roulette with a five-chambered revolver. They were all damned scared but damned excited too. Alevy could almost feel the energy, the anticipation of actually seeing if a chalkboard play would work on the ground.

Alevy scanned the south bank of the Moskva River. “It’s somewhere in that pine forest there.” He said to O’Shea, “Lower and slower, Ed. Turn in over the forest.”

“Right.” O’Shea turned away from the river and cut his airspeed, dropping two hundred meters of altitude.

Alevy glanced into the rear and looked at Brennan and Mills sitting in the murky cabin, scanning the terrain from the side windows. He had never asked their motives for coming or given them any sort of recruiting pitch. He’d only outlined the plan and asked if they thought it was feasible and if they wanted to come along, and they said yes on both counts. And that was that.

Alevy looked out the windshield at the expanse of dark pine forest passing below. The forest ended, and he could see a broad rolling field, dotted with what he knew were stone monuments. Borodino Field. He said to O’Shea, “We’ve overshot it. Swing around.”

O’Shea brought the helicopter to a hover, then swung it around 180 degrees and made the transition back to forward flight. They passed again over the edge of the forest, and without Alevy’s saying anything, O’Shea cut the airspeed further and dropped to two hundred meters.

Mills saw it first. “There. Ten o’clock, one klick.”

They all looked to port and saw a cleared swatch of ground running through the thick, dark trees. Alevy caught a glimpse of a watchtower and noted there were no floodlights on the perimeter of the camp. This was the age of electronic motion sensors and sound detectors, personnel radar and night-seeing devices. Prison walls had gone high-tech, especially in the Soviet Union.

Alevy said to Brennan, “Let’s get the wind direction.”

“Right.” Brennan reached into the leather bag and found a smoke marker. He slid a section of the Plexiglas side window open, pulled the pin on the marker, and dropped it out the window.

O’Shea put the helicopter into a hover at two hundred meters’ altitude and watched the white smoke billowing through the trees below. O’Shea said, “Wind out of the north at about five knots. About eight kph.” O’Shea added, “The watchtowers may be able to hear the rotor blades now. If we’re going in, we have to be lit.”

“Right,” Alevy replied. He threw the switch for the navigation lights and the blinking boom light, then said to O’Shea, “You know what you have to do.”

“Right.” O’Shea went from hover to forward flight again, keeping the engine rpm up and the blades pitched at a high angle to obtain maximum lift at slow airspeed without stalling. He banked around to starboard, approaching the northern edge of the camp perimeter on a parallel run from west to east. They could all see the watchtowers now, spaced about two hundred meters apart along the edge of the cleared zone.

Alevy said to Brennan, “Hand me the canisters.”

“That’s all right. I can do it.”

“Hand them to me.”

Brennan took four unmarked metal canisters from Alevy’s overnight bag and passed them to Alevy. Alevy examined them a moment, then ripped a protective yellow plastic wrap off their top lids and turned a timing dial on each one. He slid open his vent window and dropped the first canister out, about five hundred meters outside the northern perimeter of the camp. He waited a few seconds, then dropped the second canister, followed by the third, then the last canister roughly opposite the northeast corner watchtower. He was sure no one in the towers could see anything falling from the helicopter. He said, “Okay, Captain O’Shea. Into the camp.”

O’Shea swung to starboard, and they came around, passing over the watchtowers and barbed wire at 150 meters’ altitude.

Alevy said, “The helipad is at the western end of the camp. Keep on this heading.” He hit the controllable landing light switch, and a bright beam projected from the underside of the fuselage. Alevy moved the lever that controlled the shaft of light, and the beam moved across the treetops. By now, Alevy thought, the Russians were trying to contact them by radio, but Alevy didn’t have their frequency. The Russians were very jumpy and deadly earnest about protecting restricted airspace, but here in the heart of Russia, Alevy hoped they would ask questions first and shoot you later. He hoped, too, if they had seen the smoke marker, they took it for what it was supposed to look like, a landing aid to determine wind direction, and not for what it actually was — a means to determine where to drop the four gas canisters so that the gas, when it was released, would blow over the camp. This was one case, Alevy thought, where their paranoia about being attacked by treacherous imperialist forces was not paranoia. He said to O’Shea, “We shouldn’t draw any ground-fire. But if someone down there gets trigger happy, be prepared to floor it.”

“I know.”

Suddenly a beam of light rose into the air about a hundred meters to their front, then passed slowly over the fuselage, illuminating the cabin and, Alevy hoped, the familiar Aeroflot logo. Aeroflot and the Red Air Force being about one and the same, Alevy thought, that should cause no suspicion. The beam held them as they dropped altitude. O’Shea said, “That’s probably the helipad light.”

“Okay.” Alevy moved his landing light beam toward the spotlight, and he could see now, not three hundred meters to their front, the large natural clearing in the forest. Alevy worked the landing light switch and flashed the international codes for “Radio malfunction, permission to land.” He said to O’Shea, “Okay, Ed, let’s take it in.”

O’Shea began a sloping descent toward the helipad. “This is it.”

The ground light moved away from them, and the beam dropped, sweeping back and forth over the grass clearing, showing them the way.

Brennan was scanning with the night scope on his rifle, and Bert Mills said to him, “Is there a welcoming committee waiting for us?”

Brennan replied, “There’s nobody on the field. I see a log cabin at the edge of the field. Guy there on a flatbed moving that spotlight. He’s got an AK-47 beside him. But I don’t see much else.”

O’Shea banked to the right so he could make his final approach into the wind.

Mills asked O’Shea dryly, “Is this going to be as exciting as the last one?”

“No.”

O’Shea reduced power and passed over the log cabin at fifty meters, heading for the center of the large clearing.

No one spoke.

Alevy felt his heart speeding up, and his mouth went dry. He cleared his throat and said, “There will be no money in this for you, gentlemen, no medals, no glory, no official recognition, no photo opportunities at the White House. There will just be a hell of a bad time down there and maybe an unmarked grave in this Russian forest. So I thank you again for volunteering.”

None of them responded.

Alevy looked at his watch. It was 2:03 A.M. The camp would be sleeping, unaware that release from their long captivity was close at hand.

O’Shea pulled back on the cyclic stick, and the helicopter flared out, hung a moment, then settled softly onto the grass helipad of the Charm School. O’Shea said aloud but to himself, “Nice landing, Ed.”

40

The helicopter sat in the center of the field, its engines still turning. Brennan and Mills dropped down below the window.

Seth Alevy looked at his watch. It was just 2:05 A.M. He said to O’Shea, “Captain, you will lift off not later than three forty-five, with or without passengers, and that includes any or all of the three of us. Understand?”

“Understood.”

“Shut it down.”

O’Shea shut off the engines, and the blades wound down.

The beam of light coming from the vicinity of the radio cabin about a hundred meters off played over the helicopter, picking out the cockpit, the cabin windows, the Aeroflot emblem, and finally the registration number, P-413, on the tail boom.

Alevy climbed back into the cabin and slid open the portside door. Brennan said, “Good luck.”

Mills added, “You look Russian.”

Alevy jumped down, put on his officer’s cap, and strode purposefully toward the searchlight and the log cabin. He said to himself, “I hope so.”

The man behind the light shut it off, came down from the flatbed, and walked toward Alevy. As he drew within ten meters, Alevy saw he was a young KGB Border Guard carrying an AK-47 at port arms. The KGB man stopped and issued a challenge. “Halt! Identify yourself.”

Alevy stopped and replied in brusk Russian, “I am Major Voronin.” Alevy strode up to the man, who had come to a position of attention, the AK-47 still at the ready across his chest, his finger on the trigger. Alevy stopped a few feet from him. “I’m here to see your colonel,” Alevy said, not knowing if Burov used that nom de guerre here or used Pavlichenko, which General Surikov had indicated was Burov’s real name. Alevy snapped, “Are you deaf, man? I’m here to see your colonel!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Has he sent a vehicle for me?”

“No, sir. And I have no instructions regarding your arrival, Major.”

“How unfortunate for you,” Alevy said, using a sarcasm favored by KGB officers. “What is your name, Private?”

“Frolev.”

“Well, Frolev, call and get me a vehicle.”

“Yes, sir.” Frolev did an about-face and marched back to the radio cabin.

Alevy followed.

Frolev walked past the spotlight’s flatbed, which Alevy noted had no vehicle attached to it. This izba was a simple structure of hewn logs and the ubiquitous sheet metal roof. There were some windows cut into the cabin, and from the roof protruded a stovepipe and two aerials. Two wires, electric and telephone, ran from the cabin to a nearby pine tree.

Frolev opened the door of the one-room izba and moved aside as Alevy entered. A bare lightbulb hung from the center rafter. Inside were two other men — one more than Alevy had figured on.

One man lay sleeping on a cot along the far wall, a hard-cover copy of Rybakov’s The Children of the Arbat on his rising and falling chest. The other man, a sergeant, sat at a field desk studying a game of chess that had neared its end. As Frolev pulled the door shut, he yelled, “Attention!”

The sergeant jumped to his feet, and the sleeping man stumbled out of the cot and stood to attention.

Alevy looked around the room. In the far corner was a ceramic tile stove atop which sat a steaming teakettle. Along the right wall was a long table on which were a VHF radio, a shortwave radio, and two telephones.

Alevy moved to the chessboard and examined the pieces. He said to Frolev, “Are you white? How did you get yourself into such a mess?”

The man laughed politely.

The middle-aged sergeant, standing at the desk, cleared his throat, “Excuse me, Major.”

Alevy looked at the man. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“Unfortunately I know nothing of your arrival.”

Frolev said quickly, “Sergeant, this is Major Voronin to see Colonel Burov. He requires a vehicle.”

The sergeant nodded and said to Alevy, “Sir, we were not able to raise you on the radio.”

“Nor was my pilot able to raise you. You’ll do a communications check with him. Have you called the duty officer regarding our landing?”

“No, sir, but I’ll do that now.” He said to the man near the cot, “Kanavsky, call Lieutenant Cheltsov.” Kanavsky moved quickly toward the field phones.

Alevy drew a short, discreet breath. Things were going well. Or perhaps his years in this country had given him some insight into how these people reacted to given situations. The sergeant hadn’t called the duty officer because he didn’t want to annoy an officer, who would only have snapped something like, “What the hell do you want me to do about it? Flap my wings and intercept the helicopter? Find out who he is and call me back.”

Alevy stepped casually off to the side so that he had the three men in his view. Kanavsky picked up the field phone and reached for the hand crank.

Without making an abrupt movement, Alevy drew his silenced automatic and put the first round through the chest of Frolev, still standing with the AK-47 at the door. Frolev gave a start but didn’t seem to know that he’d been shot. Alevy spun and put the second round into the side of Kanavsky. The man shouted in surprise, dropped the phone, and his hand went to his rib cage.

The sergeant reacted quickly, drawing his revolver from his holster. Alevy fired first, hitting the man in the midsection, causing him to double over and stagger back into the field desk, scattering the chess game. Alevy fired again into the crown of the sergeant’s head, and the man dropped to the floor.

Alevy walked to Kanavsky, who was still standing, and put a bullet into his head, then went to Frolev, who was trying to get to his feet. Alevy stood off a short distance so as not to get splattered and fired once into the side of Frolev’s head.

Alevy hung up the telephone and took the kettle off the wood stove. He found a wool glove warming by the stove and wiped the wetness from his gun hand, then cleaned the blood from his jackboots. He loaded a fresh magazine into the automatic, drew a deep breath, and reminded himself that several hundred Americans had lived and died in this place for nearly two decades. He composed himself and stepped outside.

Brennan and Mills were already there, Brennan with the Dragunov sniper rifle and Mills with the black leather overnight bag. Alevy said in a low voice, “Bill, you tidy up in there and stay put.”

Brennan asked, “Are you sure I can’t come along?”

Alevy liked Brennan, and Brennan was very brave and enthusiastic but had a short attention span. “As I told you, Captain O’Shea needs some advance warning if things start to come apart. Also we don’t know if these guys phone in scheduled sit reps to anyone or if anyone calls them periodically. So if somebody calls looking for a situation report, just say nechevo—there is nothing. That’s standard radio lingo for negative sit rep. Nechevo.”

“Nechevo.”

“Sound bored and tired. Yawn.”

Brennan yawned and said through his yawn, “Nechevo.”

“Good. If anyone gets chatty on the phone say it again with emphasis. Be rude and hang up.” Alevy added, “I’m assuming that calls originate from headquarters, so I’ll relieve the commo man there of his duties. I’ll call you from there — you answer the phone with Da. Not Allo. Da.”

“Da. Nechevo.”

“Fine. And if anyone comes around to check this post, let them in, but don’t let them out.”

Brennan smiled. “I’ll let the Dragunov talk Russian.”

Mills added, “Don’t hesitate to jump on that chopper if you hear all hell breaking loose.”

Brennan didn’t reply.

Alevy slapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck, Bill.”

“You too.”

Brennan took the leather bag inside the cabin. Alevy and Mills moved quickly up the narrow pine-covered lane that led away from the izba and the helicopter clearing. Alevy said, “You were supposed to wait for my signal before getting out of the chopper.”

“You were a long time in there. Did they call headquarters?”

“They said they didn’t.”

“Do you think Brennan will be all right on the telephone?”

“About as good as O’Shea was with the helicopter.”

Mills commented, “Sometimes you can overplan an operation. We don’t have that problem here.”

Alevy smiled grimly. They had a pilot who couldn’t fly his craft, a man on the telephone who couldn’t speak Russian, and Bert Mills, who didn’t look, act, or speak Russian. But it was the best Alevy could do, considering the problems inherent in mounting an operation in the heart of the Soviet Union. The word of the night was improvise. “Improvise.”

“And bluff,” Mills added.

They intersected the blacktopped main road of the camp, and Alevy took a compass from his greatcoat. To the right, he knew, should be the main camp gate, beyond which was Borodino Field. To the left should be the center of the camp. The satellite photographs had shown a large concrete building that Alevy hoped was the headquarters. They turned left and moved quickly along the edge of the tree-lined road.

Within a few minutes they saw the lights of a long wooden building that hadn’t appeared in the satellite photographs. They approached it cautiously. Alevy saw it had a porch out front, and as he got closer he heard music coming from the building. Alevy pointed to the sign above the door that read VFW POST 000. Mills nodded and motioned to the Coke machine.

Alevy stepped up to the porch, followed by Mills. Through the window they could see a large recreation room in which were about twenty men and a few women, all in their mid-twenties. Alevy said, “Students.”

A group of men and women were watching Bela Lugosi’s Dracula on a seven-foot video screen. The rest of the students were sitting in a group of chairs, drinking and talking. There were Halloween decorations on the walls and a large coffin in the center of the floor.

Mills said, “Party. Halloween.”

Alevy nodded. He hadn’t thought of that, though it looked as if it were about over. He focused on the huge American flag on the opposite wall. “Bizarre.”

As they turned to leave, the front door opened, and a middle-aged man in a white ski jacket came out onto the porch and stopped short. He stared at Alevy and Mills.

Alevy and Mills looked back at him. No one spoke for a few seconds, then the man said in English, “You speak English?”

Alevy nodded.

The man cleared his throat and said in a drunken slur, “Well, go ahead and shoot.”

“Shoot?”

The door opened again, and a young man came out and said quickly in Russian, “I’ll take responsibility for this American, Major.”

Alevy tried to figure out what was going on and what language to reply in. Both men were clearly very drunk.

The young man spoke in Russian. “My name is Marty Bambach. This is Tim Landis. I board with him. I’ll take him home.”

Landis said in English, “I just lost track of time. No big fucking deal.”

Alevy began to understand. Landis was the American, probably violating a curfew, and Bambach was a Russian American. Alevy said to Marty in Russian, “I can overlook this man’s curfew violation if you take responsibility for him.”

Marty replied in Russian, “Thank you, Major.” He looked at Alevy in the dim light. “Are you new here?”

“Yes. Why don’t you go inside? I want to speak to this man a moment.”

Marty hesitated, then said, “He doesn’t speak Russian.”

“Go inside.”

“Yes, sir.” Marty turned to Landis and said in perfect English, which surprised Alevy and Mills, “It’s okay, Tim. He just wants to talk to you. I’ll take you home.” Marty turned and wove his way back into the building.

Landis staggered to the edge of the porch and leaned on the rail. He unzipped his fly and urinated. “Fuck this place.” He zipped himself up and wobbled back toward the door.

Alevy took his arm and said in accented English, “Have a seat there.”

“Let go of my arm.”

“Listen to me. Is Colonel Sam Hollis here?”

Landis looked at Alevy but said nothing.

“Hollis and Lisa Rhodes. Are they here?”

“Hollis… I felt sorry for him… he made it home.” Landis shook his head.

“Go on.”

“Plucked out of the drink… but here he is with us poor bastards… twenty years late… but here he is.” Landis suddenly attempted a salute. “Captain Timothy Landis, United States Air Force, at your service, Major. Hey, when is this fucking tour up?”

“Very soon.”

“Yeah? Best news.”

“Where is Hollis?”

“My wife Jane thinks he’s a hunk.”

“Wife?”

Landis went on, “But he’s got his woman with him. Fucking women. They’re going to shoot her. She talks too much.”

“Who? Who are they going to shoot?”

“Huh?”

“Lisa Rhodes? Are they going to shoot Lisa Rhodes?”

“Probably. She talks too much too. Her and my wife. Dynamic duo.” Landis fell into a rocking chair and stared at the porch ceiling.

“Where is Hollis?”

“Oh…” Landis looked around as though familiarizing himself with his surroundings. “Oh… they gave him Dodson’s place. Behind this building. Couple hundred yards.”

“And the woman with him? Lisa Rhodes?”

Landis looked at Alevy and Mills. “What you want to know for? Hey, those two been through enough of your shit.”

“What shit?”

“The fucking cooler. You’re all the fucking same. You and Burov and all the KGB shits.”

“Is Burov here?”

“Where the fuck else would he be?”

Mills put his hand on Alevy’s shoulder and whispered, “We have to get moving.”

“Hold on.” He said to Landis, “The woman. Lisa. Is she with Hollis? In Dodson’s place?”

Landis rose unsteadily to his feet. “Leave them alone.” Landis suddenly took a swing at Alevy, and Alevy stepped back. Landis shouted, “Go ahead, you bastard, shoot me! Shoot me! I want to die!” Landis staggered across the porch and fell against a post, covering his face with his hands. Alevy and Mills could hear him sobbing, and as they walked away, they heard him cry out, “My God, get me out of here!”

Mills said softly, “Jesus… Seth, this is bad.”

“I didn’t think it would be good, Bert. You understand now, don’t you?”

“I’m beginning to. I’m not sorry I came.” He added, “Wives?”

Alevy shrugged. “Camp whores, I guess.”

They found the path that ran behind the VFW hall and followed it down a slope into a thickly treed hollow. Mills whispered, “The other guy. Marty Bambach. That was a Russian. His English was perfect.”

Alevy nodded.

“And he was protecting Landis.”

Alevy replied, “I can’t even begin to imagine what sort of surreal world has developed here. But we know they have jails and curfews and that the KGB is in charge.”

Alevy reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and took out a small radio receiver, turned it on, and extended the aerial. He put the jack to his ear and listened. “Well, we have a signal. It’s somewhere in this area.” As he walked he said, “Getting louder.” He looked around and noticed for the first time a shingled cottage, set back in the trees with its lights off.

Mills whispered, “It looks like an American Cape Cod. This is eerie.”

Alevy moved through the trees, and the signal got stronger. He tossed the receiver in the bushes and approached the front door. The door had no lock cylinder, only a knob, and it turned, but the door didn’t move. Alevy put his shoulder to the door and pressed slowly. He felt something give, then heard metal hitting the floor. He whispered, “Stay here.”

Alevy opened the door and slipped inside the dark house, closing the door behind him. He turned on a red-filtered flashlight and played the beam off the walls and furniture, then noticed an open doorway in the right-hand wall, through which he could see the glow of an electric heater. He went through the doorway and found himself in the bedroom. His light picked out the icon on the wall over the double bed. Alevy walked softly over the floorboards to the bed and looked down at Lisa Rhodes, bundled under a stack of quilts. Involuntarily he reached out to touch her cheek.

The crook of an arm locked around his throat, and he saw a long serrated bread knife poised in front of his heart. Alevy managed to turn his head slightly and said softly, “Hello, Sam.”

Hollis released his grip. “Hello, Seth.” He motioned toward the door, and they went into the living room. Hollis turned on a table lamp, and Alevy saw he was wearing a warm-up suit similar to what Landis and Bambach had on. Hollis rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, and Alevy nodded. Hollis put a black gospel tape in the player. Alevy said softly, “Hell of a way to greet a friend.”

“You’re not dressed like any friends that I have.”

Alevy smiled. “You’re a cool customer, Colonel.”

Hollis hesitated, then said, “It’s actually good to see you for a change.” He put out his hand, and Alevy took it. Hollis said, “I was beginning to wonder.”

“I came as fast as I could, Sam. I spent five days in Washington selling this operation.”

“What’s the plan?”

“I’ll brief you as we go along. Why don’t you go wake Lisa?”

Hollis went back into the bedroom and closed the door. Alevy went to the front door, opened it, and spoke to Mills, who was crouched behind an evergreen with his pistol drawn. Alevy said, “They’re here. Few minutes.” He closed the door and walked around the room, examining it. He picked up a stack of magazines, then looked at the videotapes on the bookshelves. “Incredible.”

Hollis came back into the room. “She’s coming.”

Alevy nodded and motioned around the room. “Not bad.”

“Not good, Seth.”

“I heard they gave you a rough time.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“From a Captain Landis. Know him?”

“Yes.”

“Looks like a burnout,” Alevy said.

“They’re all burnouts. How did you see Landis?”

“At VFW Post zero zero zero.” Alevy explained briefly.

Hollis nodded. “I could spend a week telling you about this madhouse, but I suspect time is short. How did you get here?”

“I misappropriated an Aeroflot chopper from the Trade Center. Mi-28.”

“Right. The one I briefed you on. Who flew?”

“Your aide. He’s rather fond of you and would also like you to reconsider some of the ratings you gave him on his efficiency report.”

“I’ll think about it. Who else is with you?”

“My man, Bert Mills. He’s outside. And Bill Brennan.”

“Brennan? He’s back?”

“Just for the day.”

“Explain the plan to me.”

“Well, I dropped four canisters of something called THX, a new sleeping gas—”

“Sandman.”

“Yes, that’s the code name. Very potent. The canisters are on timers. We have about an hour and a quarter left.”

“For what?”

“For this and that.”

“Who are you taking out of here?”

“You and Lisa and two others. That’s all I can take on an Mi-28, and that’s all the evidence I need to effect the release of everyone else.”

Hollis nodded, “I’d be willing to stay here.”

“I know you would, Sam. But you know too much, and I can’t leave you in their hands.” Alevy hesitated, then asked, “They grilled you?”

Hollis nodded. “Burov did. Minimum damage. The heavy guns come in tomorrow from Lubyanka with polygraphs and electric shock.”

“I was just in time.”

“Right. Are Surikov and his granddaughter out?”

“Yes. Last Saturday. Leningrad route.”

Hollis stared at him in the dim light. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Hollis said, “You have to negotiate for the wives and everyone else here too, Seth.”

“Landis mentioned his wife. Who are these wives?”

“Russian women. Mostly politicals. And sixty some children—”

“Good God….” Alevy shook his head. “I figured there would be women for them. But wives… children…? Are they attached to…? Well, I guess they must be. My mind is trying to process this—”

“Plus there are six kidnapped American women, and there are other Russians from the Gulag, such as the camp doctor and nurses. They go into the deal for the three thousand moles that we’re going to swap.”

Alevy looked at Hollis. “You know something, Sam, you’re a real American. I mean that. You really want to save the world, or at least as many of its inhabitants as you meet and like. Well, okay, we’ll be in good shape to bargain after tonight.”

Hollis asked, “How far do you intend to fly in an Mi-28 with eight people aboard?”

“Depends on how the winds are blowing.”

Hollis said, “I don’t think the ambassador or Charlie Banks would appreciate seeing a hijacked Soviet helicopter landing in the embassy quad.”

“We can discuss this after we’re airborne.”

“Seth, you can’t get an Mi-28 with eight people to any part of the free world from here. Do you have a refueling station, a relay chopper—?”

Lisa came into the room, wearing a blue warm-up suit and running shoes, and Alevy guessed that this must be the camp uniform. She stood back a moment, taking in Alevy in his KGB uniform, then moved quickly to him and put her arms around him. “Seth. Oh, my God…”

Alevy disengaged himself. “We have to move quickly.”

She nodded and took her ski parka from the coat hook. “I have to get my icon—”

Alevy held her arm. “It’s not your icon.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a reproduction, Lisa. It’s got a transmitter in it. That’s how we found you.”

Lisa stared at him, then at Hollis.

Alevy said, “It was a contingency plan. In case something like this happened. I checked out Lubyanka and Lefortovo with a radio receiver and got a negative signal.” He added, “I hoped with the hammer and sickle carved in the icon, they’d let you keep it. They probably think the Kellums did that. The real icon is safe.”

Lisa stood quietly a moment and looked from one to the other, then moved close to Alevy. “Do you know what they did to me here?”

“I’m afraid I probably do. That’s the point: what they do to people.” He said to Lisa, “Bert Mills is outside. He, I, and Sam have a few things to take care of here. You will have to make your way to the helipad by yourself. Brennan is in the radio shack there. He could use some help with his Russian if anyone telephones him. Captain O’Shea is on the pad with a helicopter. We’ll be along shortly.”

Lisa replied, “Forget it, Seth. Sam and I have come this far together, and we’re not separating.”

Hollis said to Alevy, “Don’t even bother to argue with her.”

Alevy nodded. “I know.” He drew two 6.35mm Tokarev automatics with silencers from the inside pockets of his greatcoat and handed them to Lisa and Hollis.

Hollis got his parka and reached for the door.

Alevy held his arm. “One last thing, and I guess we can spare sixty seconds for it.” Alevy drew a small leather box from his pocket and handed it to Hollis.

Hollis opened it and saw inside the silver star of a brigadier general.

Alevy said, “There are orders signed by the President, but I couldn’t bring those along, for security reasons of course. Congratulations, General.”

Hollis closed the box, wondering briefly if this promotion could be considered posthumous, or perhaps pre-posthumous. He wondered too how the government was going to get his death benefit back from his wife if he actually made it home or if they’d increase it if he didn’t. The last thing he allowed himself to wonder was if the general’s star was a reward or a bribe. He said, “Thank you for delivering it.”

Lisa kissed him on the cheek. “Congratulations, Sam. General Hollis.”

“Thank you.”

Lisa turned off the tape player and the lamp, and they left the cottage quietly.

Bert Mills stood with his hands in the pockets of his green KGB coat. “Hi, folks. Ready to go home? For real this time.”

“Hello, Bert.”

Alevy said, “Lisa is coming with us.”

They moved quickly to the lane and headed back toward the main road. Hollis whispered, “Directional microphones. Talk low and talk Russian.”

Alevy nodded. He whispered in Russian, “Are there patrols out?”

Hollis replied, “Tonight there are.” He explained briefly about the curfew, the reason for it, and the morning executions.

Alevy shook his head. “That bastard. Eleven people…? We did get here just in time.”

Hollis said, “But tonight you have to watch for curfew patrols.”

They came to the main road near the VFW hall, which was now dark and quiet. Hollis whispered, “Where do you want to go?”

Alevy replied, “Headquarters.”

Hollis pointed to the right.

They hurried at a jog along the road and within a few minutes saw the lighted facade of the grey concrete structure. They stopped and knelt in the drainage ditch by the side of the road. Alevy remarked, “There’s no Soviet flag or markings.”

Lisa said, “This is America. Inside the building, however, is another story.”

Hollis asked, “What do you have in mind, Seth?”

“We have to knock out the headquarters and all their communications and listening devices if this thing is going to work. Then we need two more passengers for the helicopter.”

Hollis thought of the Landises and knew their son wouldn’t make much difference in an already overloaded helicopter. He also thought of General Austin and Commander Poole. He said, “That’s a tough call, Seth. But I have a few candidates.”

“I’ll make it a little easier for you. Is Burov in the camp?”

Hollis looked at Alevy and nodded. “I guess that’s the professional thing to do.”

“Sure as hell is. Not to mention my personal annoyance over the ‘dirty Jew’ remark. I’ll bet you guys have a few things to settle too.”

Lisa replied, “This is not a vendetta, Seth, but if you need him, we know where he is.”

Alevy nodded. “The second person I want is the ranking man here.”

“That would be General Austin,” Hollis replied.

“And you know where to find him?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Alevy poked his head over the drainage ditch and looked at the headquarters building. He said, “Tell me about H.Q.”

Hollis answered, “There’ll probably be a guard in that booth. There will be a duty officer at the desk as soon as you walk in. Commo room to the left.” Hollis gave Alevy and Mills a description of the layout, concluding with, “The cells are on the first floor in the center rear.” He added, “Jack Dodson is in one of those cells, and he’s the American I want with us.”

“No,” Alevy replied, “we are taking General Austin.”

“Wrong.”

Lisa said, “You can’t find Austin or Burov without our help, Seth. If Sam wants Dodson, you’ll take Dodson.”

Alevy replied angrily, “I won’t take him if he’s not ambulatory.”

Hollis said, “You’ll take him if he has a breath left in him. I don’t know the man, Seth, and neither do you, but he’s the one who’s earned the right to leave with us. Subject closed.”

Alevy said tersely, “All right. How many men do you think are in the headquarters building at this hour?”

Hollis replied, “According to the briefing I got from Austin’s aide, Commander Poole, there will be the duty officer, commo man, sergeant of the guard in the guard room near the cells, one or two KGB Border Guards, and one or two drivers who may or may not be in the building at any given time.” He added, “There are also six or seven men in the listening room where all the camp’s sound sensors and listening devices are monitored. That’s the room we have to shut down if we’re going to move freely around this place.”

Alevy replied, “We’re going to shut down the whole building.” He said to Hollis and Lisa, “You two obviously can’t pass as KGB officers, so you stay—”

Lisa interrupted, “We’ll pass fine as prisoners. Let’s go, Seth.”

Alevy glanced at Mills, who nodded. They quickly went over the plan, then stood and walked toward the building, Lisa and Hollis in front, their hands behind their backs, followed by Alevy and Mills.

The guard peered at them from the booth, and as they drew closer into the light, he stepped out, his rifle across his chest.

Alevy motioned him to the front door. “Two for the cells. Open.”

The guard hesitated, then went to the front door and opened it. He peered at Alevy and Mills in the light, and it was obvious he did not recognize them as any of his battalion officers. Alevy motioned him into the building. Mills brought up the rear and closed the door.

The duty officer was Lieutenant Cheltsov, the man Hollis and Lisa had spoken to when they were released from the cells. Cheltsov stood to attention behind his desk. He glanced at Hollis and Lisa and said, “Again?” then looked quizzically at the Border Guard, who shrugged. Cheltsov addressed Alevy, “Yes, Major?”

Mills drew his silenced automatic and put a single shot through the Border Guard’s head. Lieutenant Cheltsov watched the man fall, but nothing seemed to register with him. He stared at the dead man on the floor, then turned to Alevy, who shot him once in the forehead. Cheltsov fell back into his chair, his arms outstretched, and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, the bullet hole in the center of his forehead spouting blood.

Lisa put her hand to her mouth, turned away, and faced the front door.

Alevy said to Hollis, Lisa, and Mills, “Bolt the front door, wait five seconds, then bring those bodies into the commo room.” He crossed the lobby and opened the door to the communications room. The commo man sat at the telephone switchboard, reading a magazine. He turned and looked at Alevy, then stood. “Yes, sir?” He saw the automatic in Alevy’s hand.

Alevy motioned him away from the switchboard, then shot him twice in the chest, sending the man crashing into the radio console. Alevy walked to the telephone switchboard. It was a manual board, he noticed, and with the operator dead, no calls could be connected.

Hollis and Mills came in, dragging the bodies of Lieutenant Cheltsov and the guard. They pushed the two dead men under the radio table.

Alevy looked at the switchboard connections and found the contraction Verto—“helicopter.” He plugged the wire in, pushed the ringer button, and held the headset to his ear. A voice, sounding bored and tired — and nervous, he thought — said, “Da. Nechevo.”

“Bill, it’s me.”

“That’s good.”

“Anyone else call?”

“No, thank God—”

“Anything to report there?”

“No. Quiet. Nechevo.”

“Okay, you won’t be getting any calls on the telephone except from us.”

“Both radios are squawking away.”

“Hold on.” Alevy moved to the radios and turned the volume up on the speakers. He listened a few seconds, then said to Brennan, “Normal traffic. Don’t worry about it.”

“Right. You in charge there now?”

“Getting there.”

“You find them?” Brennan asked.

“Yes, they’re both with us now.”

“Great. Say hello.”

“All right. Listen, Bill, if your end of the operation starts to come apart, you and O’Shea beat it. And if you’re still around at three forty-five, and we don’t show up, you leave before that gas gets to you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Lisa will be at this switchboard until further notice.”

“Good.”

“See you later.” Alevy said to Lisa, “Hold Brennan’s hand awhile. Connect any calls going through this switchboard and listen in. With your other ear, monitor the traffic on these two radios. Okay?”

She nodded.

Alevy said to her, “We shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. If you hear trouble, call Brennan, then get out of here and make it to the helipad. I’d like one witness to this place to make it out. Okay?”

She glanced at Hollis, who nodded.

“Okay,” Alevy said. “Sam, let’s go to the room where they monitor the listening devices.”

Hollis squeezed Lisa’s hand and went to the door, opening it slowly. “Clear.” Alevy and Mills followed him into the lobby.

Hollis led them to a short corridor off the lobby that ended in a black metal door marked MONITORING STATION. The three men held their pistols at the ready, and Hollis twisted the doorknob slowly. He took his hand off the knob and shook his head to Alevy. “Locked.” He raised his hand to knock, then noticed a button on the doorjamb and pressed it.

A few seconds later a voice called out. “Who is it?”

Hollis replied, “Cheltsov.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollis moved to the blind side of the door as Alevy and Mills holstered their pistols. Alevy whispered to Hollis, “Stay here and keep watch.”

The door swung out, revealing a young man in his shirtsleeves. The man looked at Alevy and Mills, jumped back quickly, and saluted, his eyes scanning left and right for Lieutenant Cheltsov.

Alevy and Mills strode into the monitoring station, a small windowless room of precast concrete, lit by fluorescent bulbs. Six men sat at individual consoles with earphones, listening, Alevy assumed, to the input from various electronic security devices around the camp, switching channels from time to time.

Along the far wall was a bank of reel-to-reel tape recorders. On the left-hand wall, Alevy saw a large map of the camp, marked with numbers showing, Alevy guessed, the locations of the listening devices.

The young man in his shirtsleeves, still holding his salute, asked, “Can I help you, Major?”

Alevy replied tersely, “Carry on.”

The young man hurried back to his console and put on his earphones.

Alevy and Mills stood in the center of the room and looked around. Alevy noticed a red light over the door, which he guessed must flash when the door button was pushed so as to alert the men with headphones that someone was there. Alevy spoke to Mills in a soft voice. “How do you want to take them?”

Mills cleared his throat. “They’re unarmed, Seth. Can we take them without blood?”

“I would, Bert, if we had a bit more time.” Alevy noticed a few of the men glancing at him and Mills, and he gave them a stern look, sending them back to their monitoring. Alevy said to Mills, “You do those three, I’ll do these three here, and we’ll meet at the middle. On three… one, two, three—” Alevy and Mills drew their silenced automatics and began firing.

Hollis, outside the door, heard bodies hitting the floor and thrashing around. Someone screamed. He reached for the door, but it opened, and Mills came out, looking, Hollis thought, as though it was he who had lost blood. Alevy followed, closing the door behind him. Alevy said to Hollis, “The cells.”

Hollis led them back to the lobby, then turned into the long corridor that ran to the rear of the headquarters building. They came to the cell doors and quickly checked the bolts until they found one that was shut. Hollis opened it and looked inside. A man lay on the floor and even in the dim light Hollis could see his clothes were torn and he was badly battered.

Alevy said, “I guess that’s Dodson.”

Hollis knelt beside the man and checked his pulse. “Alive.”

Alevy said to Hollis, “Take him to the commo room. Wait there with Lisa.”

Hollis stood. “Where are you two going?”

“Where can we get a vehicle?”

“Should be one or two Zils out back.” He moved to the door of the cell. “Down that corridor.”

“Okay,” Alevy said, “we’ll bring it around front.” He added, “Sam, if you don’t see us in ten minutes, you and Lisa take off for the helipad. Okay? Don’t try to carry Dodson.” Alevy asked, “If I don’t catch up with you later, where can I find Burov?”

“East end of the main road,” Hollis answered. “Big dacha. Guards and dogs. Think about that.” Hollis added, “Don’t forget about the men in the guard room down the corridor.”

Hollis went back to Dodson and lifted him onto his shoulders.

Alevy and Mills walked rapidly into the corridor that Hollis had indicated and came to a door marked GUARD ROOM. Alevy opened the door, and he and Mills walked into a small barracks room in which was a field desk and telephone and six double bunk beds, all unoccupied except for one bottom bunk in which was a naked man and woman. A sergeant’s KGB uniform and the woman’s clothes were strewn on the floor. The sergeant sat up quickly and hit his head on the top bunk, then scrambled out of the bed and stood naked at attention. The woman pulled the sheets over her head.

Alevy asked, “Sergeant, where are the other guards and drivers?”

The sergeant seemed to have trouble finding his voice, then replied, “One guard and driver are making the rounds of the posts with the corporal of the guard. The other guard and driver are at their fixed post at the rear door of this building.”

“Is anyone else in the building?”

“The duty officer, the communications specialist, and the men in the monitoring room. Major, I can explain about—”

“About-face, Sergeant.”

The sergeant did an about-face, and Alevy drew his pistol and shot him in the back of the head, sending him sprawling over the strewn clothes. Mills put three rounds into the huddled figure beneath the blanket. The woman thrashed around, then lay still. Mills and Alevy caught each other’s eye for a moment, then turned away and went out into the corridor.

They found their way to a rear foyer and opened a metal door that led down a ramp to a concrete slab on which sat a Zil-6. A harsh mercury-vapor light on the building illuminated the rear courtyard, and beyond the Zil, Alevy saw what looked like a medieval catapult. A KGB man sat on the running board of the Zil, smoking a cigarette. Standing near him was a bulky Border Guard with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. The two men saw the door open, and the driver stood. The other man turned and faced Alevy and Mills.

Alevy walked up to them, and when they saw he was an officer, they came to rigid attention. Alevy said to the driver, who was wearing a holster and revolver, “I am Major Voronin, from Moscow, and this is Captain Molev. We are making a security check of this installation.”

“Yes, Major.”

“Is this your fixed post?”

“Yes, Major.”

“What is your name?”

“Strakhov, sir.”

“What are your duties?”

“I and Private Filenko here secure the rear door of the headquarters. I provide transportation to the sergeant of the guard if he requests it.”

Alevy glanced at Filenko, whose AK-47 was still slung over his shoulder. He turned back to Strakhov. “When do you expect the other driver to return?”

“There is no set time, Major. It depends on how long the corporal of the guard spends at each post.”

“Does he check the three men at the helipad during his rounds?”

Strakhov looked at Alevy a moment, and Alevy could see he was thinking about something. Alevy knew his Russian was good as long as he kept it short and if he didn’t have to make extensive use of specific occupational jargon. Obviously he was sounding less like a KGB major from Moscow on a snap inspection.

Alevy noticed too that Filenko no longer had his head and eyes straight ahead, but was looking at Mills. Mills, Alevy suspected, was probably looking less like a KGB captain by the second. Alevy recalled the question that he and Hollis had batted around — the question of Americans passing for Russians and vice versa. Alevy turned to Filenko. “Let me see your weapon.”

Filenko unslung his automatic rifle and as per regulations, stood with it extended at the position of present arms. Alevy grabbed the forestock with his right hand, but Filenko did not release his grip. The two men stared at each other a moment, and Filenko said, “Major, may I have the password for the night?”

Mills didn’t understand what was being said, but he didn’t like what he saw. His hand moved slowly toward his holster.

Suddenly the door through which they’d come burst open, casting a shaft of light over the concrete.

The four men looked toward the door and saw a naked woman standing there, her body red with blood. She staggered out onto the ramp and stumbled toward them, pointing at Alevy and Mills and crying out in Russian, “Murderers! Murderers!”

Before Alevy could react, he felt the AK-47 yanked from his hand and felt the muzzle press into his stomach. Filenko shouted, “Hands on your head.”

Alevy placed his hands over his service cap, and Mills followed as Strakhov drew his revolver.

The woman staggered a few feet closer toward them, then fell to her knees, grasping the folds of Mills’ greatcoat. Alevy noted the location of the three wounds: one in the buttocks, one in the lower back around the right kidney, and a grazing wound along the woman’s right temple. He noticed too that Mills was quite pale and looked as if he might become sick. The woman collapsed at Mills’s feet.

Strakhov asked Mills, “Who are you?”

Mills didn’t understand a word and stared at the man.

“Answer me, or I’ll shoot you on the spot.” He pointed his pistol at Mills’ face.

Alevy said, “He cannot speak. Throat operation.”

Strakhov shouted, “On your knees!”

Alevy knelt, and Mills did the same. Strakhov said to Filenko, “Keep a watch on them. I’ll get Lieutenant Cheltsov.” He ran, pistol in hand, toward the rear door of the building and disappeared inside.

Hollis moved quickly through the front lobby with Dodson over his shoulders. He approached the door of the commo room and said, “Lisa, coming in.”

The door opened, and Lisa, pistol in hand, stepped aside.

Hollis laid Dodson on the floor.

“Sam… is that Jack Dodson?”

“I’m sure it is.”

“He’s been… tortured.” She asked, “Is he going to live?”

“I’m certain Burov left enough life in him to make the execution worthwhile. His vital signs are good. He’s probably heavily drugged so he can’t try to kill himself. He’ll come out of it. We’ll take him home.”

She nodded, then fell into his arms. “Sam, let’s get out of here.”

“Soon. How’s Brennan?”

“I just spoke to him.” She smiled. “He says he’s bored.”

“Good. What’s on the radio?”

She glanced at the two radios on the table. “Not much. Normal talk so far. Towers calling one another, motorized patrols talking to one another.”

“Has anyone tried to radio here?”

“I haven’t heard any calls for headquarters.”

Hollis nodded. The standard military procedure was that headquarters called the posts, asking for situation reports. The posts called only if there was a problem. He wondered when the dead commo man was scheduled to call the towers, gate, and other posts again. He asked, “Has anyone tried to place a telephone call?”

“No. The switchboard is quiet.”

“Good.” Hollis thought that this operation had all the “S” elements of a successful covert operation — surprise, speed, security, and secrecy. But if the secrecy was blown, they’d have to contend with six hundred Border Guards. Hollis glanced at the two bodies on the floor. Very angry Border Guards. He said to Lisa, “You’re doing fine.”

She forced a smile. “Thanks.” She asked, “Where are Seth and Bert?”

“Getting a vehicle.” He looked out the long slit window that faced the main road out front. “They should be around in a minute or two. I’m going back in the lobby to unbolt the front door and keep watch. You stay here. I can see this door from the front door. Just take a deep breath and think about… autumn in New York.”

“With you.”

Hollis squeezed her hand and went out into the lobby and unbolted the front door. Suddenly the sound of running footsteps echoed from the corridor at the rear of the lobby, and Hollis spun around. A man in a KGB topcoat burst into the lobby at full speed, a pistol in his hand. Before he saw Hollis, he shouted, “Lieutenant Cheltsov!” He stopped short at Cheltsov’s desk, then his eyes took in the blood-soaked chair and the smear of blood trails where Cheltsov and the Border Guard had been dragged into the commo room. His eyes followed the blood, then he turned his head and found himself looking at Hollis.

Hollis pointed his TD automatic, knowing the distance was too long to ensure a hit, and the 6.35mm round too small to ensure a kill. Hollis said in Russian, “Drop your gun.”

The man suddenly spun around and ran for the corridor. Hollis fired his silenced automatic twice, both rounds hitting the concrete wall above the man’s head before he disappeared into the corridor.

Hollis followed at a run into the corridor. The man was a good thirty feet ahead of him, heading toward the cells, then suddenly drew up short, skidded over the painted concrete floor, and turned his body toward the intersecting corridor as his legs pumped. Hollis fired twice, and the man fired back once before he disappeared into the next corridor.

Hollis took off at full speed, came to the intersecting corridor and without slowing, cut like a broken-field runner into the narrower corridor, his running shoes holding to the floor. He saw the man duck into the guard room and heard him shout, “Sergeant! Sergeant!”

Hollis hit the half-open door with his shoulder and rolled into a prone firing position as the man spun around and fired at the swinging door.

Hollis emptied his last three rounds into the man’s chest and watched him backpedal as though he’d been pushed. The man pointed his pistol at Hollis’ face, then suddenly seemed to lose his balance and toppled backward.

Hollis sprung up and rushed at the man, then stopped short as he saw what he had tripped over; lying on the floor was the naked body of another man, blood pooled around his head.

Hollis bent down and pulled the pistol out of the hand of the man he’d shot, then looked around the dimly lit guard room. He saw clothes strewn about the floor, a KGB uniform and women’s clothing. He noticed the bottom bunk of one of the beds soaked with blood and knew that Alevy and Mills had already been there.

The man he’d shot moaned, and Hollis knelt beside him. The man wore a topcoat that was still cold to the touch, so he had just come from outside, which meant he had to come through the back door where Alevy and Mills were supposed to be getting a vehicle. Hollis stood with the man’s pistol in his hand.

The man looked up at him and tears formed in his eyes. Hollis recognized the man as one of his guards during his time in the cells; the man who had told him he wouldn’t feel much like fucking. The man said in Russian. “I am sorry…. I am sorry….”

“That makes two of us.” Hollis unloaded the magazine from the man’s pistol and transferred it into his own silenced automatic. He pointed the pistol at the man’s head, hesitated, then turned and moved quickly into the corridor.

Filenko knelt and rolled the naked woman on her back. “This is the sergeant’s woman. Why did you shoot her? You!” He shouted at Alevy, “Answer me!”

Alevy answered, “Filenko, I’ll have you shot—”

“Shut up! You are not a Russian. Who are you?”

“Estonian.”

“Then speak Estonian. I know a few words.”

“All right.” Still looking at Filenko, Alevy said in English, “Bert, count of three… One, two—”

The door opened again, but Filenko kept his eyes on Alevy and Mills as he called out, “Ivan, did you—?”

Suddenly Filenko’s body lurched twice, then he dropped his rifle and sank to the ground, his hands clamped to his side.

Hollis ran down the ramp as Alevy and Mills stood. Mills grabbed Filenko’s rifle, and Alevy said to Hollis, “One of them went inside—”

“He’s out.”

“Good. Let’s get these two inside.”

Hollis saw that Filenko was still alive, lying on his back now, his eyes following the three of them as they spoke. Hollis went to the semiconscious woman who was moaning on the cold pavement and knelt beside her. “Jane Landis…”

Alevy asked, “You know her?”

“Yes. This is the wife of the man you met — Tim Landis. Did you shoot her?” He stared at Alevy.

Alevy said, “She was in the sack with the sergeant of the guard.”

“No…”

“Yes.”

“She was very anti-Soviet.”

“Not when I saw her.”

“She may have been spying on them.”

“Or for them,” Alevy observed.

“Maybe she was doing it to help her husband… I don’t know.”

“Neither do I, Sam.”

Hollis looked at Jane Landis, who stared back at him. She moved her mouth to speak. “Sam… help me.”

Mills cleared his throat and said, “My God, I’m sorry.”

Alevy said, “It doesn’t matter. Move her inside.”

As Hollis took her in his arms, Alevy asked him, “What’s that thing over there, Sam?”

Hollis replied, “That is how Dodson got out. I think that’s how Burov was going to execute Dodson and ten others tomorrow morning.”

Mills exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!”

Alevy nodded. “I want this guy.”

Hollis put Jane Landis over his shoulder and carried her up the ramp. Mills and Alevy followed, dragging Filenko by his arms into the headquarters building.

They turned into the narrow corridor of cells and pulled Filenko into one and bolted it.

Alevy said to Hollis, “You have to lock her up, Sam. I don’t know who she is, and I don’t care.”

“She’s dying, Seth.”

“I don’t care.” Alevy opened the cell door. “In there.”

Reluctantly Hollis placed Jane Landis on the cold floor and knelt beside her.

“Don’t leave me, Sam.”

Hollis wanted to ask her for an explanation, but thought that Jane Landis, or whatever her name had once been, was as multilayered as a matrushka stacking doll, a shell within a shell, within a shell — each real, each hollow, each neatly embodied within the next.

Alevy put his hand on Hollis’ shoulder, and Hollis stood and looked around the cell. “This was where they had me. Lisa was next door.”

Alevy made no comment.

Hollis left the cell, and Alevy shut and bolted the door. He said to Hollis, “If she lives, she’ll be included in the swap.”

Hollis doubted that on both counts.

Mills said to Hollis, “Thanks for coming to look for us.”

Alevy, who didn’t seem as appreciative, said, “We should try to stick to our prearranged plans when we agree to them.”

Hollis asked, “Did you plan to have those guys get the drop on you?”

Alevy said to Mills, “Go back to the commo room. Call Brennan one more time, then jam the radios and destroy the switchboard. Sam, you come with me, and we’ll get the Zil and bring it around front. Let’s move.”

Hollis and Alevy moved quickly toward the rear of the building, guns drawn. They opened the back door and saw the Zil parked on the concrete under the glare of the light. Alevy said, “I’ll go first. Cover.” He ran to the Zil and jumped into the driver’s seat. Like most military vehicles, the Zil had a keyless ignition, and Alevy pushed the starter button. The engine caught on the first try. Hollis jumped in beside him, and Alevy threw the floor shift into gear, then drove around the building. Alevy said, “I don’t want you or Lisa to question my handling of this operation.”

“I think it’s your sanity we’re questioning.”

Alevy glanced at Hollis. “I know what I’m doing, Sam.”

“I know what you’re doing too. Do it without me.”

“Then go. I don’t need either of you.”

“I’ll go if you let me take Mills. He doesn’t deserve to die for your immortality.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“About you getting a chapter in the secret histories of Langley and Lubyanka.”

Alevy replied, “You think you have me figured out, don’t you?”

“I’m getting close.”

“Well, I’m not suicidal. I’d like to be in London tomorrow.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

Mills moved quickly through the lobby, unbolted the front doors, then approached the commo room. He stood to the side of the door and said softly, “Lisa, it’s Bert Mills.”

“Okay, Bert.”

Mills entered the commo room and closed the door.

“Where’s Sam?” she asked. “He was out in the lobby—”

“With Seth. They’re bringing a vehicle around front.”

Lisa nodded.

Mills noticed Dodson laid out on the floor near the two dead Border Guards. He knelt beside Dodson and looked at his battered face. “My God…” He checked his pulse. “He’s alive.” He looked at Lisa. “I understand why Sam wants to take him, Lisa, but this guy is a burden that we don’t need.”

Lisa replied, “Nevertheless, if Sam wants him out, that’s what we will do.”

Mills glanced at her, then shrugged and stood.

“What took you so long back there?”

“We ran into a few things,” he answered without mentioning Jane Landis. “Everything is all right.”

She looked at him and said, “Bert… all this killing… it’s making me sick to my stomach.”

“We’ll talk about it when we’re out of reach of the KGB. They make me sick to my stomach.”

She nodded.

Mills went to the switchboard and put the headset on, then pushed the ringer.

A voice came through the earpiece. “Da. Nechevo.”

“Bill, it’s Bert Mills.”

“Oh… everything okay?”

“So far. How about there?”

“I don’t know….”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, one of the watchtowers turned its spotlight on our chopper for a few seconds. Probably got O’Shea a little nervous. But nothing came of it. I still have radio traffic, but it’s still Greek to me.”

“Give me the frequencies on the radios.”

“Hold on.” Brennan came back a few seconds later and gave Mills the frequencies. “They’re quiet now.”

Mills checked the corresponding radio on the counter and found the frequencies were the same. “Okay, Bill, I’m going to jam both radios, and you do the same. Then I’m going to destroy the switchboard, so this is a final sign-off. We’ll see you later. Stay awake.”

Brennan chuckled. “Da.”

Mills aimed his automatic at the switchboard and fired into the connectors. Sparks flew, and the smell of burning insulation filled the room. He went to the two radios, which were crackling, and turned up the volume on both of them. He asked Lisa, “What’s he saying?”

Lisa listened at the speaker of the shortwave radio as a voice spoke in Russian. Lisa said, “Someone identifying themselves as ‘Tower One’ calling the helipad.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

Mills reached in his pocket and took the roll of tape he’d used to change the helicopter’s identification number. He taped the transmit keys down on both handsets.

Lisa asked, “The radios are jammed now?”

“Only on those frequencies.” He studied both radios, then pointed to a metal nameplate. “What’s that say?”

She read the plate. “Auto search… something like that.”

“That’s it.” He turned on the toggle switch above the nameplate, and the frequency dial began scanning the band. Mills said, “That’s used to pick up the strongest transmissions in the area, like a car radio scanner. But when the mike is continuously keyed, the radio becomes a broadband jamming device.” Mills did the same to the shortwave radio. “This will play havoc with their radio traffic.”

“But it might also alert them that something is wrong,” Lisa said.

Mills had the uneasy feeling that KGB Border Guard detachment already suspected that. “We’re nearly done here.”

“Are we?”

“Well, almost nearly.” Mills glanced at his watch, then at Lisa. Neither spoke.

Hollis and Alevy parked the Zil in front of the headquarters building and entered the lobby. Alevy called into the commo room, “Coming in.” Alevy and Hollis entered the commo room, and Lisa ran into Hollis’ arms.

Alevy knelt beside Dodson and looked him over. His warm-up suit was ripped and stained with blood. His body was filthy, and his hair was matted. Dodson’s unshaven face was bruised and puffy, and his nose looked broken. Alevy pushed back Dodson’s eyelids. “Really bad shape.”

“Obviously,” Hollis replied. “He’s been in the open country a couple of weeks, and he’s been beaten for a few days. But mostly he’s drugged up. He’ll be fine. He comes with us.”

Alevy stood. “All right. Let’s go.”

Lisa asked, “Are we going to the helicopter?”

“No,” Alevy replied. “We’re going to get Burov.”

“Why, Seth?”

“Because that’s what I came here for.”

She grabbed his arm. “Is that why you came here?”

“Well… I came here for you and Sam. But—”

“Seth, this place is full of Russians.” She looked at Hollis. “Sam, how many? Six or seven hundred?”

Alevy said tersely, “What difference does that make? I don’t plan to get into a firefight with them. I just want to be out of here before they wake up. I have no time to argue.” He looked at Lisa. “Why don’t you and Sam take Dodson in the vehicle and go to the helipad?”

Hollis said to Alevy, “We’ll stay with you.” He looked at Lisa. “Are you all right?”

“I’m scared out of my mind.”

“Well,” Alevy said in an uncharacteristic display of candor, “so am I. So let’s get it over with and get home.”

Mills helped get Dodson on Hollis’ back, and they moved quickly through the lobby. Alevy opened the front door and looked out. “Clear.” They rushed down the steps of the headquarters, and Mills dropped the tailgate of the Zil and helped Hollis place Dodson in the space behind the rear seats. Mills got in the vehicle beside Alevy, and Hollis and Lisa jumped into the rear seats. Alevy said, “You two stay low.”

Hollis and Lisa dropped to the floor as Alevy moved the Zil to the road and turned right toward Burov’s dacha.

41

The Zil-6 moved over the dark road.

Lisa said from the rear, “Seth, we don’t need Burov. Just take another American. General Austin’s house is right off this road. You wanted him.”

“But you wanted Dodson. Only room for one more, and that will be Colonel Petr Burov. Right, Sam?”

Hollis didn’t reply.

Mills said, “Seth, we got some problems at the helipad.” Mills explained about the spotlight and about the tower trying to raise the helipad radio.

Alevy stayed silent a moment, then said, “Let’s not get jumpy. We’re very close to pulling off the snatch operation of the decade. What do you think, Sam?”

Hollis thought that a reasonable man would have accepted the evidence and concluded that the operation was starting to unravel. Alevy, however, was a driven man, and Hollis did not trust driven men.

“Sam?”

“I think we’re all living on borrowed time.” Hollis said to Mills, “Bert? What do you say?”

Mills seemed torn between reason and loyalty to Alevy, which they both knew were mutually exclusive. Mills looked sideways at Alevy. “Seth… we got Sam and Lisa, we got an American… chopper’s crowded. Maybe it’s time to shuffle off.”

Alevy turned and looked back at Hollis. “Sam, it’s your call. Do you want to get Burov yourself, or would you be content to let him live? Maybe tomorrow when he wakes up from the Sandman, he’ll murder twenty Americans.”

Hollis replied curtly, “This isn’t a balls contest.”

“I’m not questioning your nerve. I just want to know if you have any personal scores to settle. In our business, you can let personal considerations help you make an operational decision. Well?”

Hollis glanced at Lisa, then said to Alevy, “Drive on.”

Alevy remarked, “I think we have each other figured out.”

Lisa slumped against the door and stared at Hollis. He stared back. Hollis recalled the trip to Novodevichy Convent, sitting on the floor, with Jane Ellis and Betty Eschman in front. That had been a lark, Hollis thought, compared to this. But this was the inevitable result of what they had begun in Moscow. Lisa kicked his foot and forced a smile. “Novodevichy?”

He nodded. They had a short but memorable history.

Hollis said to Alevy, “Keep it at about fifteen K, or you’ll attract attention.”

They continued on, and Alevy navigated a bend in the road, then said, “What the hell is that?”

Hollis raised himself up and looked out the window. “That’s Pine Corners Shopping Plaza. You never saw a shopping plaza before?”

Mills laughed. “Jesus Christ….”

Alevy looked up at the camouflage net that blocked the night sky, then cut into the parking lot and drove slowly past the stores and shops. “Seven Eleven?”

“Mosfilm does the props.”

“Really?” He looked at each shop window as they drove by, nodding his head several times. “Not bad… do they—?”

“I’ll brief you,” Hollis said curtly, “in London. Let’s move it.”

Suddenly a pair of headlights appeared on the road, and they saw a huge Zil-131 troop carrier pass the parking lot, heading toward the headquarters building.

Mills said, “If he stops at headquarters, he’s not going to like what he sees there.”

Alevy hit the accelerator and swung back onto the road, falling in behind the troop carrier. In the canvas-covered rear compartment, Alevy’s headlights illuminated about twenty men with AK-47’s. Alevy honked his horn and flashed his lights. The carrier’s driver put his arm out the window, then stopped the vehicle. The driver got out and walked back toward them. He called out, “Strakhov?”

Alevy said to Hollis and Lisa, “Stay low.” He opened his door and said to Mills, “Get behind the wheel.” Alevy jumped out and walked toward the driver of the troop carrier, who was shielding his eyes against the glare of the headlights. The driver asked, “Who is that?”

“Major Voronin.”

The man snapped to attention and saluted.

Alevy asked, “Where are you taking those men?”

The driver replied, “To relieve the guard posts.”

“Which guard posts?”

“Towers one and two, the main gate, the headquarters, and the helipad, sir. I’ve just relieved the guards at the dacha.”

“Colonel Burov’s dacha?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many guards do you mount there?”

“Three.”

Alevy glanced at the twenty armed men in the rear of the truck whose heads were turned toward him. Alevy addressed the driver. “The personnel in the headquarters and the helipad have two more hours punishment duty for sloppy attitudes.”

“Yes, sir. By whose authority, Major?”

“Mine, Corporal. Go directly to the towers and the main gate, then bring the rest of your men back to the guard house.”

“The barracks, sir.”

“Yes, the barracks.” Alevy felt a bead of sweat form under his cap and roll down his forehead. “Dismissed.”

The driver hesitated, then saluted and turned on his heel.

Alevy walked back to the Zil and got into the passenger side. “Turn it around, Bert.”

Mills had trouble finding reverse, then got it into gear, and the Zil stalled. “Damn it!” The big troop carrier sat on the road in front of them. Mills restarted his vehicle and made a choppy three-point turn on the narrow road as the troop carrier moved off slowly. No one spoke. Mills got the Zil moving back down the road toward Burov’s dacha. He said softly, “I don’t drive Russian.”

Hollis said to Alevy, “I heard most of that, and I don’t think he completely bought it.”

“You don’t understand the Russian mind.”

“I understand the military mind. Men will take orders from their own officers, but not necessarily from an officer they don’t recognize.”

“I seem to be doing all right.” Alevy asked, “Do you want to turn back or go on?”

Hollis replied, “Go on.”

Lisa made a sound of exasperation. She said to Mills, “Please, Bert, can’t you reason with these two?”

Mills thought a moment, then replied, “No.”

A minute later, Alevy asked, “Is that the dacha’s guard booth ahead?”

Hollis peered out the windshield. “That’s it. The dacha is surrounded by barbed wire. Dogs run loose between the wire and the house. There should be two KGB at the guard booth and one inside the dacha itself. But you never know.”

“That driver confirmed three.” Alevy said to Mills, “You take the guard that approaches, I’ve got the other one.”

“Right.”

“Down in back.”

Mills slowed the vehicle and drew closer to the guard booth. Alevy looked past the gate at the rather plain-looking dacha sitting in darkness about a hundred meters away. Mills brought the Zil to a bucking halt, and it stalled. He started it again. “I never got the hang of a stick shift.” He drew his pistol and held it in his lap.

One of the guards walked up to the driver’s side and looked in the open window. “Yes, Captain?”

Mills pumped a single shot between the man’s eyes as Alevy opened his door and stood on the running board. The second guard was still in the small booth, and Alevy could see him furiously cranking the field phone as he reached for his rifle. Alevy steadied his aim over the roof of the Zil and fired all eight rounds from his pistol into the booth. The glass and wood splintered, and the man dropped to the floor.

Mills shut off his headlights.

Hollis got out of the Zil as Alevy moved to the gate. Hollis grabbed Alevy’s shoulder. “He’s mine.”

Alevy nodded. “Okay. But don’t kill him.”

“I know.”

Alevy looked at his watch. “We have thirty-four minutes to get to the helipad.”

Lisa said to Hollis, “Let me go with you. I can help you get past the guard inside.”

Hollis nodded. He opened the wire gate, then turned to Alevy. “On the left side of the house is Greg Fisher’s Trans Am. We’ll take that out of here.”

Alevy seemed not to understand. “Fisher’s Trans Am? Here…?”

“Burov drives it. Keys are most probably in the ignition.”

Alevy nodded. “Good idea, Sam. They might be on the lookout for a Zil-6 by now. And if the Trans Am is Burov’s car, we might not be challenged.”

Mills added, “And we may need the speed and handling. The Zil’s a pig.”

Hollis replied, “All that may be true. But I want the Trans Am, because… I want the Trans Am.” He took Lisa by the arm and began running up the long blacktop path toward the dacha.

Two German shepherds suddenly appeared out of the dark, tearing toward them from opposite directions. Hollis dove into a prone firing position, steadied his aim, and fired at the closer dog to his left. The automatic coughed softly, but the dog yelped loudly. Hollis rolled to his right just as the second shepherd reached him and Lisa. Hollis could actually smell the big dog in the split second before he put a bullet into its open mouth.

Hollis stood and helped Lisa to her feet. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

They got to the front door, and Hollis nodded to her. She turned the doorknob and found it open. Lisa put her pistol in her parka and slipped inside.

The guard was sitting in a chair in the large foyer by the light of a dim lamp, aiming his automatic rifle at her. Lisa partly closed the door behind her and stood motionless. The guard said, “Who are you?”

She put her finger to her lips and whispered in Russian, “I am Lisa Rhodes, the new American woman. The colonel wishes to see me.”

The guard said, “He never told me.”

“He told the men outside.”

The guard grinned. “And what do you suppose the colonel wants to see you about at this hour?”

“He wants to have sex with me.”

The guard smirked and put his rifle on the desk. He said, “I’ll have to sneak upstairs and nudge him.” He pulled off his boots. “Get into the living room and get out of your clothes. That’s where he has to do it with his old lady upstairs.” The guard stood in his stocking feet.

Lisa pulled the door open and jumped aside.

Hollis ran through the door and fired as the man reached for his rifle, then rushed forward and grabbed him before he fell. Hollis sat the man back in his chair and saw the frothy blood forming at his lips and could hear the sucking chest wound as the guard tried to breathe.

Hollis took Lisa by the arm and propelled her toward the front door. He whispered, “Go. No arguing.”

“Please… Sam, be careful—”

Hollis opened the door and pushed her out, then turned back to the guard, who was staring at him. Hollis walked past him, then turned, clamped his hand on the man’s shoulder, and fired a bullet into the back of his head, holding him in his seat.

Hollis left the foyer and went toward the staircase.

The stairs creaked, but he continued on up. A woman’s voice said, “Natalia, is that you, darling?”

Hollis stopped. He heard footsteps, then the woman’s voice called out, “Petr, Natalia is in her room.”

Burov’s voice came back. “It is the guard. Come back to bed.”

Hollis heard footsteps again and the sound of a door closing. He climbed the remaining steps and came to a large upper hallway. To the left were two half-open doors that would be the bedrooms of Burov’s daughter, Natalia, and probably his mother. To the right was the closed door that would be the master bedroom. Hollis went to the closed door, listened, then turned the knob, threw the door open, and shoulder-rolled into the room, coming up into a firing position, his pistol aimed at the bed. “Don’t move!” The room was dark except for a small red bulb, and as Hollis’ eyes adjusted to the light, he saw it was actually a red star glowing atop a wood model of the Kremlin’s Spassky Tower. That seemed odd, but odder still was the single empty bed on which lay a rag doll. Hollis understood, but it was too late.

He heard the revolver’s hammer click behind him, and Burov’s voice said, “Drop the gun.”

Hollis dropped the gun.

Burov said, “Don’t stand. Turn around on your knees.”

Hollis turned his body slowly toward Burov. Burov flipped on an overhead light, and Hollis saw Burov standing in the doorway, barefooted, wearing flannel pajamas and pointing a big revolver at him.

Burov said, “Some families practice fire drills. We have other sorts of drills here. And you think Russians are stupid.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

“The stupid one,” Burov said, “is the one who is on his knees looking into the barrel of a gun.” Burov regarded Hollis curiously. “What is your purpose here?”

“To kill you, you idiot.”

“No, you would have simply shot bullets into that bed. You said, ‘Don’t move.’ You wanted to capture me. Where did you get that gun?”

“None of your business.”

“Are you alone?”

“What do you think?”

“I think not. Did you kill the guards?”

“Yes.”

“And my dogs?”

“Yes.”

Burov nodded thoughtfully, then said, “My phone doesn’t work, and I think you have people downstairs. So we are both in a bad position.”

Hollis said nothing.

“Is this a rebellion? That would be lunacy. There are six hundred armed Border Guards here. Do you want to negotiate for Dodson’s life?”

“I want to give you a lecture about how much power comes from the muzzle of a gun. It depends on other factors. And authority never came from the muzzle of a gun. Are we learning something?”

Burov snapped, “Get on all fours and crawl out here.”

Hollis dropped to all fours and moved out into the hallway as Burov stepped back.

Burov said, “To the right.”

Hollis crawled down the hallway, and Burov came up beside him close enough to kick Hollis in the head with the heel of his bare foot. “I’ll show you who has the power and the authority here.”

Burov led Hollis into the master bedroom. “On your back.”

Hollis rolled over on his back, and Burov walked out of his line of vision, then stomped his foot down on Hollis’ face.

“Take off your jacket and sweat shirt, and pull your pants down around your ankles.”

Hollis sat up slowly, Burov still behind him, and removed his parka and shirt, then slid his pants down.

Burov snatched the jacket away, then said, “Lie down, hands under your ass.”

Hollis lay down and put his hands under him.

Burov went through Hollis’ parka. He tossed a spare ammunition clip aside, then said, “What is this?” He threw the silver general’s star on Hollis’ bare chest.

Hollis made no reply, and Burov kicked the top of his head. “And what is this in these aluminum cigar tubes, Hollis? Names… ah, a class roster, living and dead. Where are you bringing this?”

“One copy to Washington, one to Moscow.”

“Yes? You think so? I don’t think so.”

Hollis thought Burov’s voice sounded strained. He heard Burov move to the far side of the room and glanced over at him. In an alcove near a window was a radio transmitter, and as Hollis watched, the radio glowed to life. Burov said, “I’m going to call out the entire Border Guard detachment from their barracks, Hollis.” He picked up the handset.

“Where is your wife, daughter, and your mother?”

Burov turned toward him. “Why do you ask?”

“This place is surrounded, and there will be shooting. I’ll guarantee them safe passage out of this house.”

“You can’t guarantee anything, you shit.”

“They can leave now. Before you call.”

Burov, still holding the handset, came toward Hollis. “There is no one surrounding this house.” He kicked Hollis in the side of the face.

“You know there is. The guards are dead, and your phone is cut.”

“But not my radio.”

Hollis said in Russian, “Then make the call, you stupid shit, and fuck you, your wife, your daughter, and your ugly old mother.”

Burov again kicked Hollis in the face. He held the handset to his ear and listened to the intermittent jamming as the radio in the headquarters and the one in the helipad cabin transmitted their open microphones across the band. He swore softly, went back to the radio, and switched to the alternate frequency. He heard snatches of conversation cut off as the jamming swept the frequencies. He glanced at Hollis, then said into the mouthpiece in Russian, “All stations, all stations, this is Colonel Burov. Full alert, full alert. Send a detachment of guards to my quarters at once. Be on the lookout for armed prisoners—”

“Students!” Hollis called out. “Students!”

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

“Why don’t you shut yours? No one can hear you anyway. Can’t you tell the radio is jammed, you stupid shit?” Hollis added in Russian, “Don’t the Russians understand electronics?”

Burov dropped the handset and took a long running stride toward Hollis, his foot shooting out toward Hollis’ head. Hollis sat up quickly, causing Burov to lose his balance as his foot sailed through the air. Hollis lifted himself on his hands and pivoted his legs around, knocking Burov off his feet. Hollis’ right hand wrapped around Burov’s revolver, and he held the cylinder in place as Burov tried to squeeze off a round. Hollis jabbed the fingers of his left hand in Burov’s eyes, then jabbed into his larynx. Burov let out a gasp but did not loosen his grip on the pistol. Burov’s left hand chopped down on Hollis’ neck twice before Hollis could grab Burov’s wrist. Hollis kicked his shoes and pants off and brought his knee up into Burov’s testicles.

The two men rolled and thrashed around on the floor, Hollis holding his grip on Burov’s revolver and Burov’s wrist, each trying to position their knees for another blow to the groin, and each aware that the other was trained in the same deadly arts. Hollis smashed his forehead down on Burov’s nose and heard it crack. Burov got his teeth into the maxillary nerves of Hollis’ cheek and drew blood before Hollis could pull his face away. Hollis stuck his thumbnail into the fleshy part of Burov’s wrist, digging at the veins until he opened one of them and felt the blood spurting. Neither man uttered a word or a sound of pain.

Hollis realized that Burov had not been lying about his physical condition, but Hollis’ condition was not as good as it had been some weeks before, and he was tiring, unable to roll Burov over on his back again. Hollis found himself under Burov’s heavy weight and felt Burov’s gun hand working free. Both men looked at each other in the dim light, and Hollis saw that Burov was bleeding from the nose and the right eye. Burov said softly, “I’m going to shoot you in the balls.”

Hollis suddenly released his grip on Burov’s wrist and with his freed hand delivered a karate chop to the back of Burov’s neck, then reached around Burov’s head and grasped his chin in his hand and pulled, turning the man’s head and neck until he could hear the cartilage cracking. Burov reached for Hollis’ hand to break the grip before his neck broke.

Hollis kept up the pressure, and he could see Burov’s tongue protruding from his mouth and his left eye beginning to bulge. Burov’s free hand was pulling at Hollis’ arm. Hollis brought his knee up into Burov’s groin twice, realizing the man’s defenses were failing. He tried to pull the pistol from Burov’s hand, but Burov held tight.

Then, to keep his neck from breaking, Burov suddenly released his grip on his pistol and let his body roll over on his back, rolling out of Hollis’ twisting jaw hold. Burov got to his feet.

Hollis stood also, and the two men faced each other, hunched over and panting. Hollis let Burov’s pistol fall to the floor. “Come on.”

But Burov didn’t move, and Hollis could see he was finished. Both eyes were filled with blood, and his breathing came in short raspy gasps. Blood poured from Burov’s nose and spurted from his wrist. Hollis moved closer to him, caught his breath, and said, “For Dodson, Fisher, the airmen, their women, and the children.” Hollis drove his fist into Burov’s face and heard the cracking of teeth.

Burov toppled backward and lay still on the floor. Hollis sank to his knees and turned Burov over on his face so he wouldn’t drown in his own blood. He ripped off the collar of Burov’s pajamas and tied it around the open vein of Burov’s wrist.

Hollis sank to the floor, trying to clear his head and catch his breath. His hand went to his right cheek where Burov’s teeth had ripped into the flesh and nerves, and he felt a searing pain flash through his brain.

A figure appeared in the doorway, and Hollis could make out a pair of jackboots coming toward him. He looked up into the face of Seth Alevy. Behind Alevy was Lisa. Hollis tried to stand, but Alevy’s hand pressed down on his shoulder. “Sit awhile.” Alevy took the revolver from the floor and went over to Burov.

Lisa hurried to Hollis’ side. “Sam, are you all right?”

He nodded, then turned toward Alevy. “Radio.” He pointed.

Alevy moved from Burov to the radio and ripped the handset out of its cord, then smashed the plastic handset against the steel radio casing. “Was he able to get a call through?”

“I don’t think so.” Hollis pulled on his sweat pants, and Lisa helped him on with his shirt and parka. He got on his running shoes but found he couldn’t tie the laces, and Lisa did it for him. Hollis stood unsteadily, stuffing the loose papers from the cigar tubes into his pocket. Lisa handed him his star.

Alevy turned Burov over and looked at his face, then looked at Hollis and said, “You guys don’t like each other.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

A voice said in Russian, “Why did you hurt my father?”

They all turned toward the door. A frightened-looking girl of about ten stood in her nightgown at the open door. Behind her was a rather plain, middle-aged woman in a heavy quilt robe, and barely visible behind her was the old woman whom Burov had introduced as his mother.

The middle-aged woman looked at Hollis, then at Lisa, then at Alevy in the KGB uniform. “Is my husband dead?”

Alevy replied in Russian, “No, madam, he is only unconscious.”

She sobbed. “But I don’t understand what is happening.”

Alevy and Hollis glanced at each other. Lisa said to them in English, “You will not kill them.”

The girl, Natalia, said, “Will my father be all right?”

Lisa replied in Russian, “Yes.”

Suddenly the old woman pushed past her daughter-in-law and granddaughter and hurried into the room, kneeling beside her son, tears falling on his face, her fingers caressing him. “Oh, God, my poor boy. Petr, Petr, God love you, my little one.” Hollis recalled those World War II newsclips of the old babushkas keening over the bodies of their sons and husbands. He thought, My God, how many Burovs have been carried in the big bellies of these saintly old ladies?

Alevy said in English, “We can’t take them, and we can’t leave them….”

Lisa snapped, “No, Seth!”

Hollis said to Alevy, “I want Burov to know they’re alive. That could be useful to us later.”

Alevy nodded. “All right.” He said to Burov’s wife in Russian, “All of you will remain in the house, or the dogs will get you. Some soldiers will be along in a while.” Alevy knelt to pick up Burov, but Hollis pushed him aside and with some difficulty got Burov in a fireman’s carry and took him toward the door, the old woman still caressing him.

Lisa put her hand on Natalia’s head. “We’re taking him to the hospital. He will be home soon.”

Burov’s wife and mother tried to follow Hollis down the staircase, but Alevy stopped them. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”

Lisa and Alevy made their way down the stairs after Hollis. Lisa said to Alevy, “You were kind to them.”

Alevy didn’t reply.

The Trans Am was now outside the front door, its hatchback open. Mills got out of the car, and with Hollis, they put Burov in the rear compartment with Dodson. Mills tied Burov’s wrists with a piece of steel flex. Hollis looked down at both battered men: Dodson in his torn warm-up suit, Burov in his blood-splattered pajamas, neither face recognizable. The circle was closing on itself, Hollis reflected, the events set in motion by Dodson’s catapult over the wire were nearing resolution. Hollis said to Alevy, “I’ll drive. Bert, give me your topcoat and hat and get in the back with Lisa.” Hollis put on the KGB topcoat and cap, then slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. Mills and Lisa climbed into the rear, and Alevy got in beside Hollis. Hollis threw the Trans Am into gear and accelerated quickly up the path, through the gate, and onto the dark, curving road.

They passed the shopping plaza, and Alevy said, “We have twenty-two minutes before Sandman. Lots of time.”

Lisa said, “Is that it, Seth? We can go now?”

“Yes. Helicopter’s full.”

“Damned full,” Hollis added. He stepped on the accelerator and brought the speed up to sixty mph.

As they approached the headquarters building, a piercing siren cut the air. Alevy said, “I assume that has something to do with us.”

Ahead they could see the lighted headquarters building with several Zil-6’s in front of it and about a dozen KGB Border Guards milling around. One of them stepped to the side of the road and began waving to Hollis to pull into the parking area in front of the headquarters.

Hollis put the pedal to the floor, and the headquarters shot by in a blur.

Alevy said, “What do you suppose that fellow wanted?”

“I don’t know.” Hollis saw the speedometer climb to ninety mph. They shot past the dark VFW building, and Hollis said, “Watch for the helipad turnoff.”

Mills commented, “They’re not real sure who’s who or what’s what yet.”

Alevy said, “Well, I hope they figure it all out after we’re gone.”

Hollis glanced in his rearview mirror. “Two vehicles coming up.”

Alevy looked over his shoulder, and his eyes made contact with Lisa’s. He said, “You’re unusually quiet.”

She smiled nervously. “Thinking about the helicopter.”

“We’ll be airborne in a few minutes.”

Hollis said, “They’re still back there.”

Alevy said to Mills, “Burn them.” He handed his hat to Mills. “Use this.”

“Right.” Mills took a phosphorus grenade from its Velcro holder on his ankle, set the timer dial at zero, and laid the grenade in the hat. He asked Alevy, “What’s the delay for zero?”

“Seven seconds.”

“Right. Could you open your door a crack?” Mills pulled the timer dial out to arm the grenade and counted to four, then pushed the hat out the door onto the road. “Five, six.”

The lead vehicle, a Zil-6, was about two hundred meters behind them, flashing its lights now and sounding its horn.

“Seven.”

The phosphorus exploded under the first Zil, which veered off the road and crashed into the trees, its fuel tank exploding. Balls of burning phosphorus lifted into the air and ignited the pine trees. The second Zil, a big troop carrier, kept coming, but they drew no fire from it. Mills said, “He’s thinking about where that came from. He doesn’t really want to open fire on the colonel’s car.”

Lisa called out, “Sam! There’s the road to the helipad.”

Hollis hit the brakes and cut the wheel to the right, the Trans Am fishtailing but holding the road. He downshifted, then accelerated up the narrow gravel track. The Pontiac bounced as Hollis floored it, and the speedometer climbed to sixty mph, then seventy.

About two hundred meters ahead Hollis saw the outline of the radio cabin and a dim light in one of its windows. He also saw part of the clearing but couldn’t see the helicopter.

The siren was still wailing, and now the searchlights in the towers were probing into the woods beyond the perimeter. The camp was alive, the six hundred Border Guards were on the move. Hollis said, “We can pick up Brennan on the run.”

Alevy looked out the rear. “That damned troop carrier is coming up. Stop it here and block the road, or they’ll follow us right to the helicopter.”

“Right.” Hollis hit the brakes, and the Trans Am skidded to a halt diagonally across the gravel path. He pulled the keys out of the ignition, then shut off the lights as everyone scrambled out.

The Zil behind them slowed to a stop about a hundred meters away, its headlights illuminating them. Alevy carried Dodson, and Hollis took Burov on his back. Alevy said, “Lisa, run on ahead and tell Brennan we’re coming in.”

Lisa pulled her pistol, then ran down the path.

Hollis could see the shadows of at least ten men leaving the troop carrier and coming toward them. Someone shouted in Russian, “Identify yourselves.”

Alevy said to Mills, “Hold them for a few minutes, Bert.”

“Right.” Mills drew his automatic, rolled under the Trans Am, and waited for the men to draw closer.

Hollis and Alevy began running toward the cabin, carrying Burov and Dodson on their backs.

Mills steadied his aim and fired a full eight-round magazine from his silenced pistol. Someone screamed and immediately the air was cut with the hollow popping noise of AK-47’s on full automatic, sounding like a string of tightly packed firecrackers. The windows of the Trans Am began shattering, and the streaks of green tracer rounds sliced through the black night. Mills reloaded and fired off another eight rounds.

Hollis and Alevy ran hunched over, their feet trying to find traction in the gravel as their burdens became heavier. Hollis still could not see the helicopter in the field.

Lisa, ahead of them, came within twenty meters of the log cabin and called out, “Bill! Bill Brennan!”

A voice called back, “Lisa Rhodes? Come on! Run!”

Lisa sprinted the last twenty meters and ran into the arms of Brennan. He said, “Okay, okay. Take a breath. What’s happening?”

She motioned back down the lane. “Seth and Sam… carrying Dodson and Burov.”

“Who? Oh, yeah. Good. And Mills?”

“Back there. They’re coming. We were chased.”

“I guess so. Okay, get to the chopper, out there in the field—”

“No, I’m waiting—”

“Well, then get into the cabin and stay low. Be right back.” Brennan ran up the lane and met Alevy and Hollis coming toward him. A burst of automatic fire ripped into the boughs above their heads, and they all dove for the ground. Brennan looked at Burov and Dodson and asked, “They hit?”

“No,” Alevy replied. “Resting. Did Lisa—?”

“Yeah, she’s in the cabin.”

“Okay, you take Dodson here and get back to the cabin.”

Brennan got to one knee, and Alevy put Dodson on Brennan’s back. Brennan said, “Couldn’t you find people who could walk?”

The fire from the AK-47’s was pruning the branches above their heads, and the lane was becoming covered with boughs and cones. Hollis saw a mangled squirrel drop beside him. Hollis couldn’t tell if Mills was firing back because of his silencer, but the Border Guards seemed to be moving closer, and he could actually see muzzle flashes through the trees.

Brennan got into a crouch and began running back toward the cabin with Dodson.

Alevy said to Hollis, “Go on, Sam. Mills is my responsibility. Beat it.”

Hollis hefted Burov over his shoulder. “Try to stay alive long enough for me to kick the shit out of you.” Hollis followed Brennan in a low crouch.

Alevy knelt behind a large pine tree to the side of the lane, drew his pistol, and fired randomly into the trees on both sides. Suddenly there was an explosion, and Alevy saw a ball of orange fire erupt up the lane, and he knew the Trans Am had blown. He called out for Mills, but got no answer. Alevy slapped his last magazine into his pistol and began making his way toward the cabin, firing as he went.

Hollis covered the last few feet between the lane and the cabin and sank to his knees in the doorway. Brennan took Burov off his shoulder and laid the unconscious man beside Dodson just inside the door. Hollis stood and noticed that the cabin was dark now, but he could pick out Lisa crouched below a window and nearby three corpses in uniform stacked neatly against a wall. Lisa said, “Sam… are you all right?”

“Fine. Stay low.” Hollis took off the KGB topcoat and threw it over Dodson.

Brennan picked up his Dragunov sniper rifle and went to the window, focusing the night scope on the nearby tree line. He said, “I don’t see Alevy or Mills on the path, but I see figures moving through the trees.” He took aim and fired, the operating rod of the silenced rifle making a metallic noise louder than the muzzle blast. He reaimed and fired again. “It’s a nice rifle, but the scope is not as sharp as ours.”

Hollis saw three AK-47’s stacked against the other window, and near them was a metal ammunition box filled with thirty-round banana clips. He knelt at the window, took a rifle, and knocked out the glass.

Brennan said, “Don’t fire yet, Colonel. They don’t have a fix on this place yet.”

“Right.” Hollis looked at Lisa kneeling beside him. “I’m going back for Seth and Bert.”

She grabbed his arm. “Don’t you owe me something?”

Brennan glanced over at them. “Hey, why don’t one or both of you guys get out there and see if O’Shea’s still hanging around? Tell him what’s happening.”

Hollis took Lisa’s hand and led her to the door. “Keep low.” He pulled her away from the cabin and toward the clearing where they knelt in the knee-high grass. About a hundred meters out, Hollis could see the white helicopter against the black tree line beyond it. Above the sound of the gunfire, Hollis could hear the turbines running. “Do you see it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell O’Shea we’re all right and we’re coming.”

She looked at him. “You’re coming with me.”

“Later.”

“Now!”

Hollis grabbed her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I need you to go out there and tell him we’re coming or he might take off. I have to go back for the others, Lisa.”

“I’ll jump off, Sam. I swear I will. If you’re not there, I’ll come back for you—” Tears filled her eyes, and her body began to shake.

Hollis turned her toward the helicopter. “Run. Low. Go on!”

She glanced back at him, then began running through the grass toward the helicopter, turning her head back to him every few strides.

Hollis watched her silhouette getting smaller against the distant helicopter, then turned toward the cabin and found himself face-to-face with Alevy.

Alevy watched Lisa disappear into the night, then looked at Hollis. “Go ahead, Sam.”

“I’ll get Burov.” Hollis moved past Alevy and headed back toward the cabin, Alevy beside him. Alevy said, “At least she listens to you. She never listened to me.”

Hollis didn’t reply. The sound of gunfire was closer now, and Hollis could see green tracer rounds streaking through the woods, though most of them were impacting in the trees.

Hollis and Alevy sprinted the short distance to the open door of the cabin and dove onto the floor. Brennan said, “There are a lot more of them now. They’ve fanned out into the woods and are moving tree to tree. They’re playing it cautious, but they’ll be here in about ten minutes.” Brennan added, “If they break out of the tree line over there by the clearing and see the chopper, we have a problem.”

Alevy nodded. “We have to slow them up a little.” He grabbed an AK-47, poked the muzzle through a window, and fired long bursts into the nearby trees until the thirty rounds were expended.

The firing from the woods slackened for a few seconds as the Border Guards took cover. When the firing picked up again, Hollis noticed that most of it now seemed to be directed toward the cabin. He could hear the thud of impacting rounds on the far side of the logs, and an occasional green tracer sailed through the shattered windows, hit the opposite wall, and glowed briefly before it burned out. Overhead, tracers ripped through the sheet metal roofing, and the rafters began to splinter. Brennan said to Alevy, “Maybe you want to hold off on that until you see the whites of their eyes.”

Alevy reloaded another magazine. “Okay, Bill, you take Burov and get to the chopper.”

Hollis said, “No, Dodson goes first. I’ll take Burov.”

Alevy nodded to Brennan.

Brennan gave his sniper rifle to Alevy. “You can track them through the night scope, and the muzzle makes no noise or flash. Use this until they get closer. Then use the AK’s and the stuff in the bag.” Brennan added, “Better yet, let’s all get the hell out of here.”

Alevy raised the sniper rifle above the windowsill, aimed at a muzzle flash, and fired off a round. He said, “I have to wait a bit longer for Bert. See you later.”

Brennan was kneeling beside Dodson now. “He’s got an okay pulse, but he’s really out.” He put Dodson over his shoulder and moved toward the door, which was not in the direct line of fire from the woods. “Okay, see you on board,” Brennan said with no conviction. He charged out the door, and Hollis watched him as he moved rapidly away from the cabin toward the clearing and disappeared in the darkness.

Hollis dropped down on one knee beside Burov and checked his pulse and breathing. “He’s okay. Worth taking.”

Burov stirred and tried to raise his head, but Hollis pushed him back. Burov mumbled through his swollen lips and broken teeth. He spit up blood and gum tissue, then said in Russian, “You…” He opened his eyes. “You… Hollis… I’ll kill you… I’ll fuck your woman.”

Hollis said in Russian, “You’ll live, but you won’t feel much like fucking.”

“Yeb vas.”

Alevy moved beside Burov and said to him, “Do you know where you’re going, Colonel? To America. Lucky you.”

“No… no…” Burov raised his tied hands and swung weakly at Alevy.

Alevy removed a spring-loaded Syrette from his pocket and jabbed it into Burov’s neck, releasing a dose of sodium pentothal. He said to Burov, “You can send postcards to Natalia.”

“You bastard.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Burov seemed to notice the sound of gunfire. “See… they are coming for you.”

Alevy said to Hollis, “Well, Sam, it’s your turn. Take your prize home.”

Hollis replied, “Why don’t you come along? Mills is dead.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Come on home, Seth. You deserve it. Lunch at the White House.”

“I’ll give the orders, General Hollis. Get moving.”

Hollis and Alevy looked at each other a moment, then Alevy said, “The sleeping gas will pop in a few minutes. I’ll be all right. You’d better go.”

They heard the sound of running footsteps outside, and they both grabbed rifles as a voice called out, “I’m coming in!”

Mills dove headfirst through the open door and rolled into Burov, who gave a grunt. Mills sat up on the floor and caught his breath. “They’re close. Less than a hundred meters.” He looked at his watch. “Jesus… time to go.”

Hollis noticed blood on Mills’ hand and on his neck. He smelled of burnt gasoline, and his clothes were singed. “You hit?”

“I’m all right. I got away from the car before it blew. Well, are we waiting for anything?”

“Just you,” Alevy replied. “You take Burov. We’ll cover you with smoke.”

“Right.”

Hollis lifted the unconscious Burov onto Mills’s shoulders as Alevy tore open the black leather bag and removed a smoke canister. He stood to the side of the door and peered around the jamb. “They’re damned close.” He pulled the pin on the canister and flung it out the door. The black smoke billowed and began drifting southward with the wind toward the advancing Border Guards. Alevy took a CS gas canister from the bag and flung that out also. The CS riot gas hissed into the air and wafted along with the smokescreen. He said, “Okay, Bert, see you in a minute or so.”

Mills stood in a crouch near the door with Burov on his back and watched the ground-blinding smoke roll away from the cabin into the tree line. The sound of a man gagging could be heard above the sporadic weapons’ fire. Mills said, “Good luck.” He held on to Burov and ran from the cabin, the smokescreen behind him. Hollis lay in the doorway with an AK-47 and fired a full thirty-round magazine in a sweeping motion across the tree line, getting little fire in return. He glanced back toward Mills and saw he had disappeared.

Hollis rolled back into the izba and sat with his back against the log wall. As he reloaded, Alevy knelt by the window and fired long bursts into the black smoke. Spent shell casings clattered to the floor, and the smell of burnt cordite filled the cabin.

Hollis said, “Okay, Mills and Burov are on board by now. You want to go first? I’ll cover.”

Alevy glanced at his watch. “No, you go first. We have a few minutes.”

Hollis moved toward the door, then looked back at Alevy.

Alevy smiled. “Go ahead.”

Hollis could hear the sound of the helicopter turbines coming from the clearing. “He’s going to leave. Come with me.”

Alevy sat with his back to the wall beside the door but didn’t respond. Hollis thought he looked very relaxed, very at peace with himself for the first time since Hollis had known him. “It wasn’t sleeping gas that you dropped from the helicopter, was it?”

Alevy replied, “No, it wasn’t.”

“Nerve gas?”

“Yes. I used Sarin. Tabun is good too, but—”

“Why? Why, Seth?”

“Oh, you know fucking well why.”

“But… Jesus Christ, man… nearly three hundred Americans… the women, children—”

“They can’t go home, Sam. They can never go home. They have no home. This is their home. You know that.”

Hollis glanced out the window and saw the smokescreen beginning to dissipate. He rummaged through the leather bag and found the last smoke grenade and the last of the CS riot gas. He pulled both pins and flung the grenades out the door. There was still some firing directed toward them, but the predominant sound now was of vomiting and swearing. He said to Alevy, “So, the State Department and the White House got their way. This place never existed. And you went along with it?”

Alevy glanced at his watch. “Go on, Sam. I’m not asking you to die here.”

“Are you going to die here?”

Alevy did not reply directly, but said, “I’m about to murder a thousand people.” He looked at Hollis. “It was my idea. The poison gas. It’s good for the country.”

“How is it good for the country?”

“It’s a compromise. In exchange for the CIA and the Pentagon not wrecking the peace initiatives and all that crap, we can keep as many as we want of the three thousand or so graduates of the Charm School that we’ll eventually round up in America. The rest we can dispose of without benefit of trial. That was made possible by you and General Surikov’s files. That’s what broke the deadlock. We’re starting our own Charm School in America. Get it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Don’t be a goddamned Boy Scout. We’re turning their intelligence offensive against them on this one. We’ll have a class A school for our agents, and Burov and Dodson will be sort of deans of students. Pretty neat, don’t you think?”

“Your idea?”

“Of course.” Alevy added, “But I’ll tell you something else that wasn’t my idea. Neither you nor Lisa were supposed to leave here alive. Your own people in Defense Intelligence, including your boss, General Vandermullen, agreed to that, though somewhat reluctantly, I’ll admit.”

“Then why—?”

“Oh, I’m not that inhuman, Sam. Could I really leave her here to die?”

“Nothing you do would surprise me anymore, Seth.”

“Thank you. But that I couldn’t do. As for you… well, I like you, so I’m giving you a chance to get out.”

Hollis listened to the sounds of the helicopter’s turbines running up. He said to Alevy, “How about Surikov and his granddaughter, Seth? Did you lie to me?”

“I’m afraid so. They’ll stay in Moscow awhile longer. They have to or the KGB will know that Surikov blew the Charm School graduates. We can’t have that until the FBI is ready to round them all up. You know that.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“I’m a patriot.”

Bullets began slapping into the log walls again, and Hollis could now hear the deep chatter of a heavy machine gun. The walls began to splinter, and Hollis lay prone on the floor. “Get down.”

Several rounds hit the radios, and they disintegrated. The porcelain stove shattered, and smoke and ash billowed out of it. The three corpses on the far wall took some hits, and Hollis could hear the sound of popping body gases and smelled death. Hollis reached out and pulled an AK-47 toward him, then rolled to the door and fired at some nearby muzzle flashes. “They’re here, at the front of the cabin now.”

Alevy didn’t seem interested. He remained sitting with his back to the wall. He remarked, “And to add insult to injury, Sam, my people are going to smuggle the Kellums out. They’ll get teaching positions in our American Charm School. They’re quite bright as it turns out and willing to cooperate in exchange for not being thrown in the Moskva.”

Hollis reloaded another magazine. “What a fucking mess. The people you were supposed to rescue here are going to die—”

“Right. Quite painless though. Sarin is quick.”

“And Lisa and I were supposed to die. And Burov the sadist lives, and the fucking Kellums live, and Surikov and his granddaughter who risked their lives for us are stuck here, and Dodson whom you all wanted to kill to shut him up is going from a living death here to another living death in your goddamned new Charm School—”

“That’s about it. Except taking Dodson was your idea. I wanted the general. Anyway, Charlie Banks and his crowd are quite pleased. Your people are sort of pleased because the honor of the missing airmen remains unblighted. It would be hard to explain all those traitors—”

“They weren’t—”

“They were. And needless to say, the CIA got what it wanted.”

“And you? Did you get what you wanted, Seth?”

“I guess. Maybe I just got what I had coming.”

Hollis looked at Alevy in the dim light. “Do you understand how monstrous this is?”

“Absolutely. But do you realize how brilliant it is? This is a classic turnaround of a massive espionage offensive against us into an unmitigated disaster for them. We’ve bought a little more time for the fat, decadent West to consume more designer jeans, play at democracy, talk about peace and understanding, write diet books—”

Hollis sprang across the room and knocked Alevy over. He pinned his shoulders against the floor and put his face near Alevy’s. “Do you know what you’ve done? Has everyone in Washington gone stark fucking crazy?”

Alevy shouted, “They’re scared shitless is what they are! Get off your high horse, General Hollis. This is bottom-line survival.” He pushed Hollis away and sat up.

“Then you’re all missing the goddamned point!” Hollis shouted, “We can’t survive by becoming like them. People like Surikov and his granddaughter… we’re their light in this darkness… don’t you understand, Seth? I’ve just gone through two fucking weeks of totalitarianism. You and I lived here for two years, Seth. Jesus Christ, man, haven’t you learned anything—?”

Alevy pulled his pistol and pointed it at Hollis’ face. “I don’t want a goddamned lecture. I know what the hell I did. At least admit that it had to be done. Or just shut up.”

Hollis lay prone on the floor and listened to the gunfire getting closer. He could hear men shouting orders and guessed they were getting their nerve up for the final assault across the open space between the road and the cabin. He took a deep breath and said to Alevy, “All right… I understand.” He thought of Jane Landis, then of Tim Landis and their little boy. He recalled the quiet suffering of General Austin, the understated bravery of Lewis Poole, and the tragedy of all the Americans he’d met here and their Russian wives and their children. He remembered the female doctor who had checked him over and remembered the other political prisoners who were victims of this madness. He even had a passing thought about the students, especially those who had raised their voices at the VFW hall. And there were the five or six hundred Border Guards, who to some extent were blameless, and there was Burov’s wife, his mother, and his daughter. “Damn it!”

Alevy threw away his pistol and grabbed one of the AK-47’s from the floor. He stood at the window and fired a continuous stream of bullets until the rifle overheated and jammed. He threw it down and stooped for another rifle as a burst of bullets tore at the shards of glass and window frame.

Hollis picked up the remaining AK-47 and moved to the window that faced away from the gunfire. He raised the butt of the rifle and smashed away the glass and wood.

Alevy looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“No, you’re not.” Alevy swung his rifle around and aimed it at Hollis. “You know too much now.”

“That’s why I’m going home.” Hollis lifted himself into the window. “Let’s go.”

Alevy fired a burst of rounds into the wall above Hollis’ head. “Stop!”

“No. I’m doing it my way, Seth. Not yours.”

“You owe me, Sam. For saving Lisa’s life. Cover me.”

“I don’t owe you a thing. Hey, Seth.”

“What?”

“You cover me. Okay?”

Alevy looked at him across that dark cabin. “Sure. I always have.”

Hollis nodded. “Thanks, Seth.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll be right behind you, Sam. See you on board.”

Hollis rolled out the window and lay still on the ground. Suddenly, he heard a shout from a chorus of voices. “OOO-RAH!” The air was split by the deafening round of AK-47’s on full automatic, coming closer as the Border Guards began their final charge across the open space toward the cabin.

Hollis ran toward the clearing, keeping the solid cabin at his back. Stray rounds streaked by to his right and left, but he ignored them, focusing only on the field ahead. He reached the grass and dove into a prone position.

Behind him he could hear footsteps beating on the soft earth. He watched Alevy coming toward him, then Alevy seemed to stumble and fall, disappearing in the tall grass. Suddenly, the undulating grass became the swells of Haiphong harbor, and the figure trying to rise up out of it was not Alevy, but Ernie Simms. A voice called out, “Sam! Sam!” And Hollis could not in truth tell if it were Alevy’s voice or Simms’ voice echoing down through the years. Hollis stood and ran toward the voice.

He reached Alevy crawling through the yellow grass, and Alevy clutched at Hollis’ leg, then rolled to his side as Hollis dropped low beside him. “Sam…”

Hollis tore open Alevy’s tunic and saw the dark stain spreading over his snow white shirt. “Damn it, Seth.”

Alevy rolled over on his back, and Hollis pressed the heel of his hand against the sucking chest wound. “Lay still, Seth. Shallow breathing.” But already Hollis saw the frothy blood bubbling from Alevy’s lips. “Easy. It’s all right.”

Alevy’s eyes seemed clouded, and his breathing was coming in gasps, but he spoke distinctly, “Go… go… they’re waiting… don’t let them wait….”

Hollis hesitated just a split second, then said, “Not this time. We sink or swim together, buddy.” He grabbed Alevy under the arms and began to pull him up but felt Alevy’s body stiffen, then go limp. He looked into Seth Alevy’s dead open eyes and let him slip easily back onto the damp Russian earth. Hollis drew a deep breath, then said softly, “I think I’m going to miss you, my friend.” And when the KGB found his body, Hollis thought, they would know that it was Seth Alevy who had beaten them, and that there would be no tit for tat this time.

Hollis rose slowly to one knee and peered out into the dark clearing. The helicopter was gone, and he looked up and saw it rising vertically into the air. He looked at his watch and saw it was 3:48. They had waited, but not long enough. He supposed that O’Shea, Brennan, and Mills had seen to it that Lisa did not leave the helicopter. Still, he thought, she might be out there in the dark field. He stood, cradled his rifle, and began moving toward the center of the field where the helicopter had been.

He heard a noise behind him and glanced back at the radio cabin. It was burning now, and by the light of the fire he saw the figures of KGB Border Guards moving into the clearing, coming toward him.

Hollis turned back toward the field and continued walking, though with each step he was more certain that she wasn’t out there. He was glad she wasn’t, but he would have liked to see her once more just the same.

He reached the place where the helicopter had been and stood in the flattened grass. He looked up but could no longer see the aircraft in the dark sky.

Hollis heard a noise, and he looked out toward the opposite tree line. He could make out another line of men moving in his direction. The searchlights on the closest watchtowers were turned inward now, and two of them were sweeping the field. One of them caught him in its beam.

From the direction of the cabin, a voice called out in Russian, “Surrender. You are surrounded. Put your hands up.”

Hollis dropped to one knee and fired back toward the cabin, then turned and fired at the advancing line approaching from the other direction. Both lines of men hit the ground, but he drew no return fire as they couldn’t shoot toward each other. He watched them coming in short rushes through the knee-high grass, then taking cover, both skirmish lines of KGB Border Guards converging on him. The spotlight remained fixed on him, and he fired along its beam until it went black.

“Surrender! Stand up!”

Hollis fired off the remaining rounds from his rifle, then drew his pistol and waited. Both groups of men were within fifty meters of him, and they were calling to one another. Someone gave an order, and the group from the direction of the cabin dropped low into prone firing positions. The other line knelt with rifles raised toward him, like a firing squad. He fired his pistol at them and waited for the fusillade of bullets to rip into him.

He waited, but nothing happened. He looked toward the men who had been kneeling, but he couldn’t see them any longer, and he realized they must have also dropped into prone firing positions in the grass. He called out in Russian, “I do not surrender! Come and get me!”

He waited, but no one replied. He heard someone retching, then a moan, and he understood. The nerve gas, coming from the north, had reached the first group of men before it had reached him. He noticed, too, that the spotlights from the towers were no longer moving but were pointed motionless into the air.

He looked back at the guards who had come from the cabin, downwind of him, and he saw they were still moving through the grass. Hollis stood with his pistol drawn, waiting for the nerve gas or the last of the Border Guards, and knowing it made no difference which reached him first.

The sky was clear, and the gentle wind still blew from the north. He felt no particular fear of dying, knowing in his heart that but for a matter of minutes in Haiphong harbor, he might have spent the last fifteen years of his life here. Fate had given him some extra time, but it was borrowed time, and now the debt had to be paid, as he always knew it would.

There was already an occupied grave for him at Arlington, and he didn’t suppose it mattered that the ashes in it were not his, but were those of some unfortunate Russian. Everyone had paid their respects and were getting on with their lives. This death then was somewhat redundant, just as the deaths of the airmen here were redundant. In truth, he knew that by playing Alevy’s game he had contributed to this outcome, and he thought it fitting that he should be here with the men who would never go home.

And in truth, too, he knew he could have left that cabin two minutes sooner. But for reasons better known to Alevy than to himself, he had stayed, had found himself too drawn to Alevy and too involved with the man’s seductive madness.

But Alevy he could forgive, because Alevy was willing to die for his convictions. Someone such as Charles Banks and the people who played global chess in Washington and Moscow were another matter. They were the ones, he thought, who needed a whiff of cordite, dead bodies, and gas to bring them back to reality.

Hollis closed his eyes and conjured up a picture of Lisa the first time he’d ever really noticed her, in the duty office the night of Fisher’s disappearance. Looking back, he realized that something had passed between them that night and that he knew where it was going to lead; just as he’d also known that the business of Fisher and Dodson would eventually lead him to this moment. But as these were conflicting premonitions, he had tried to distance himself from her. If he had any regrets, it was that he should have loved her more, should have given her what she gave with such enthusiasm to him.

The wind picked up, and he took a deep breath. The pine and the damp earth still smelled good, its essence, at least, untainted by the deadly man-made miasma. He felt a slight nausea and an odd tingling sensation on his skin. He heard a man cry out briefly in the distance, then another one moaned. He wondered how the gas was killing the Russians downwind of him before it had killed him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a steady flapping sound, like the wings of dark angels, he thought, coming to lift his soul away. The wind picked up and he opened his eyes. The sky was pitch black above him, and he saw the darkness descending on him like some palpable thing. Then he saw the wings of the angel whirling in the night sky and understood that it was no gas-induced apparition but a helicopter, clearing the air around him, creating a small pocket of life in the dead zone.

Hollis shook his head. “No! Go away!” Haiphong harbor was his second chance. He deserved that one, but he didn’t deserve this one. “Go away!”

The helicopter slipped to the side, and he saw her kneeling in the open door, ten feet above him, her hand extended toward him. Beside her was Brennan, and in the window was Mills. In the pilot’s seat O’Shea was flying with far more skill than he was capable of.

Hollis shook his head and waved them off.

“Sam! Please!” She leaned farther out the door, and Brennan pulled her back, then threw a looped line down to him.

The helicopter hovered a moment, and Hollis saw it was being buffeted by its own downdraft. He realized that O’Shea would sit there until he either crashed or was killed by the gas. Hollis drew the looped line under his arms and felt his body leave the ground, swinging through the air, then he felt nothing.

42

Sam Hollis felt his body swinging through the black void. The sensations of weightlessness and motion were soothing and pleasant, and he wanted it to last, but by stages he realized he was not floating but sitting still.

He opened his eyes to blackness and stared at distant lights until they came closer and took the familiar form of a cockpit instrument panel. He focused on a clock in front of him and saw it was nearly six. He assumed it was A.M. He turned his head and looked at O’Shea, sitting in the pilot’s seat beside him. “Where the hell are you going?”

O’Shea glanced at him. “Hello. Feeling all right?”

“I feel fine. Answer my question, Captain.”

Lisa leaned between the seats and kissed him on the cheek. She took his hand. “Hello, Sam.”

“Hello to you. Hello to everyone back there. Where the hell are we going? The embassy is only twenty minutes—”

Bert Mills, sitting behind him, said, “We can’t go to the embassy with this load, General. Captain O’Shea, Bill, and I are officially in Helsinki. You and Lisa are officially dead. Dodson died almost twenty years ago, and Burov is a major complication.”

Hollis nodded. He knew all that. “We’re going to the gulf.”

O’Shea replied, “Yes, sir. Gulf of Finland. To rendezvous with a ship.” O’Shea added, “Congratulations on your promotion.”

Typical military, Hollis thought. No congratulations on being alive, but promotions were important. He grunted. “Thanks.”

Mills asked, “How do you feel physically?”

Hollis moved his legs, then his arms, but didn’t feel any lack of coordination. His vision was good, and his other senses seemed all right. He smelled a faint odor of vomit and realized it was coming from his sweat shirt. He hadn’t voided his bladder or bowels, which was good. He realized the right side of his face was numb and put his fingers to his cheek, feeling a gauze pad over the area where Burov’s teeth had ripped his flesh. The numbness, he assumed, was caused by a local anesthetic and not the effects of nerve gas. “I’m all right.” He turned in his seat and stared at Mills. “You administered pralidoxime?”

Mills nodded, acknowledging that what they were discussing was the antidote for nerve gas, not sleeping gas.

“Did I convulse?”

“Slight. But if you feel all right, then you’re all right. That’s how that stuff is.”

Lisa said, “I didn’t think sleeping gas could make you so sick.”

No one replied.

Hollis turned and looked around the dark cabin. Lisa was kneeling on the floor between the seats, Mills was directly behind Hollis, and Brennan was sleeping peacefully in the seat behind O’Shea. In the two rear seats were Dodson and Burov, odd seating companions, he thought. They both were held upright by shoulder harnesses.

Mills said, “Dodson will be okay. He just needs a few square meals. Burov… well, he needs his face rebuilt. I hope there’s no brain damage.”

“He started with brain damage,” Hollis replied. Hollis felt Lisa squeeze his hand, and remembering his one regret, squeezed it in return. He said, “Good to see you.”

She said, “We waited for you, but…”

“You weren’t supposed to wait, and you weren’t supposed to come back and risk everything.”

Mills said, “We took a vote, and I lost. Nothing personal, General. Just for the record.” Mills added, “Also for the record, you and Seth shouldn’t have waited for me. But thanks.”

Hollis turned back to the front and scanned the instrument panel, his eyes resting on the fuel gauge. “How far are we from the gulf?”

O’Shea replied, “Based on average airspeed and elapsed traveling time, I estimate about a hundred and fifty klicks. I have a land navigation chart, but I can’t see any landmarks below. We’re on a heading for Leningrad. When we see the lights of the city, we’ll take a new heading.”

Hollis looked at the airspeed indicator and the altimeter. They were traveling at 150 kph at 1,600 meters. He read the torque gauge and tachometer gauges, then checked the oil pressure and oil temperature, battery temperature, and the turbine outlet temperature. Considering the load weight and the distance already traveled, the helicopter was performing well. The only problem he could see was with the fuel: there didn’t seem to be enough of it. He tapped the fuel gauge to see if the needle moved.

O’Shea thought Hollis was drawing attention to the problem and said softly, “I don’t know.” He forced a smile and using an old pilot’s joke said, “We might have to swim the last hundred yards.”

Hollis replied, “You burned some fuel coming back for me.”

O’Shea didn’t reply.

No one spoke for some time, and Hollis noted that for all the euphoria they must have felt over a narrow escape, the mood in the cabin was anything but jubilant. He suspected that everyone’s thoughts were flashing back to the Charm School and forward to the Gulf of Finland. The here and now, as Brennan was demonstrating, was irrelevant. He said to Mills, “If I understand you correctly, you, Brennan, and my former aide here are still in Helsinki and most probably will not be returning to Moscow to resume your duties, diplomatic or otherwise.”

Mills replied, “That’s a safe assumption.”

“And Burov and Major Dodson will disappear into the American Charm School.”

Mills nodded tentatively.

“And Lisa and I will get a ticker tape parade in New York.”

Mills stayed silent for a moment, then said, “Well… did Seth speak to you?”

“Yes. I know that Lisa and I were not supposed to be on this helicopter. But now that we are…”

“Well… I suppose we can say your helicopter accident was a case of mistaken identity. I guess we can work out your resurrection.”

“Thank you. You worked out our death real well.”

Mills smiled with embarrassment.

Lisa looked from one to the other. “I’m not completely following this, as usual.”

Hollis looked at her. “It wasn’t sleeping gas. It was nerve gas. Poison.”

“What…?”

“There will be no negotiating or swap for the others. Everyone back there, including Seth, is dead.”

“No!”

“Yes. You and I were supposed to be dead too.”

“Why…?” She looked at Mills. “Seth… dead? No, he can’t be dead. Bert said he would be taken prisoner and exchanged for Burov. Bert?”

Mills stood. “Sit here.” He took her arm and moved her into his seat. Mills squatted on the floor and drew a deep breath. “It’s very complicated to explain, Lisa.”

Hollis said, “No, it’s not, Bert. It’s very simple. You just don’t want to say it out loud.” Hollis said to Lisa, “The State Department, White House, Defense Intelligence, and the CIA cut a deal. Mrs. Ivanova’s Charm School is closed forever, and Mrs. Johnson’s Charm School is about to open.”

Mills said, “I don’t think you should say anything else, General. I don’t think Seth would have wanted her to know any of this.”

Hollis ignored him and continued, “The two seemingly insolvable problems were, one, how to identify the Russians in America, and two, how to deal with the Americans held prisoner in Russia. A man named General Surikov provided the solution to the first problem, which allowed Seth to provide his solution to the second.” Hollis related to Lisa what Alevy had told him.

Lisa stared at Hollis’ reflection in the Plexiglas window as she listened. When Hollis finished, she said in a surprisingly strong voice, “And that was all Seth’s idea?”

Hollis nodded. “To his credit, he felt remorse over the consequences of his finest moment. And he couldn’t bring himself to let you die. He was ambivalent about me right to the end. I shouldn’t even tell you that, but you have a right to know everything.” He added, “That’s what you always wanted.”

“I don’t think that changes how I feel about him right now.” She thought a moment. “I can’t picture all those people dead…. All those men, their wives, the children… Jane, the kidnapped American women….” She shook her head. “I can’t believe he made up that lie about sleeping gas and prisoner exchanges.” She looked at Hollis. “You knew it was a lie, didn’t you?”

“It seemed a bit too good and didn’t fit the facts.”

She nodded but said nothing.

Hollis said to Mills, “I consider that my life and Lisa’s life are still in danger.”

Mills seemed uncomfortable. “I’m not the source of the danger. We’ll work something out.”

“Like what? Life tenure in the new Charm School?”

“I think that all Seth ever wanted from you two is a promise never to reveal a word of this to anyone.”

Hollis noted that Mills’ voice had that tone in it that one uses in speaking of recently deceased heroes. The legend begins. Hollis looked at Lisa and saw she had her hands over her face and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Hollis turned back toward the front and concentrated on the problem at hand. His eyes swept the gauges again, and he noted an increase in oil temperature and a drop in pressure. The fuel needle was in the red, but the warning light was not on yet. He said to O’Shea, “You’ve done an admirable job of burning fuel. Reduce airspeed.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, according to my instructions, which I opened only after I was airborne, our rendezvous with the ship must occur before dawn. The ship won’t identify itself after daylight. There may be Soviet naval and merchant vessels in the area.”

“I see.”

O’Shea added, “First light in that part of the world isn’t until zero seven twenty-two hours. We’re cutting it close even at this speed.”

Hollis nodded. He’d thought the problem was only fuel. Now it was the sunrise. Hollis looked at the airspeed indicator, then the more accurate ground-speed indicator. Airspeed was still 150 kph, but actual ground speed was only 130. They were obviously bucking into a strong headwind.

Hollis looked out the windshield. Thin, scudding clouds flew at them, and occasionally he could feel the turbulence of the gusting north wind.

The sky above was layered with clouds, and there was no starlight. Below, Hollis could not see a single light. He’d flown this route to Leningrad with Aeroflot, and he knew this part of Russia. Much of it was an underpopulated expanse of forest, small lakes, and marshes. Last autumn he’d taken the Red Arrow Express from Leningrad back to Moscow, and the train had passed through the same country he’d seen from the air. The villages had been dilapidated, and the farms badly kept. It was a cold, unforgiving stretch of country below, not the sort of place where one would want to forceland a helicopter.

Hollis said to O’Shea, “Did you try a higher altitude?”

“No, sir. I didn’t want to burn any more fuel on a climb.”

Hollis took the controls on his side. “Take a break. Stretch.”

O’Shea released the controls and the stretched his arms and legs. “Do you want to fly it from the right-hand seat?”

“No, but I don’t want to try a crossover either. I’ll let you sit in the pilot’s seat as long as you don’t take it seriously.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollis knew that helicopter flying, which needed continuous concentration and constant hands-on, could fatigue a solo pilot within an hour. O’Shea had been behind the stick for close to two hours, alone with the falling fuel needle.

Hollis said, “Let’s go upstairs.” He increased the collective pitch for a slow rate of climb, increased the throttle, and held the craft level with the cyclic stick. The increased torque caused the nose to yaw to the left, and O’Shea reminded him, “It’s backwards.”

“Thank you, Captain. Does that mean our fuel level is rising?”

“No, sir.”

Hollis pressed down on the right rudder pedal and put the helicopter in longitudinal trim. “It seems to handle all right. But I wouldn’t want to have to try something tricky like landing on a pitching ship in the dark with a strong wind.”

O’Shea glanced at Hollis to see if he was making a joke. O’Shea said, “Well, I’ve logged enough time on this to give it a try. But if you want to take it in, you’re the skipper.”

“We’ll arm-wrestle for the honor as we make our final approach.”

Mills looked from Hollis to O’Shea. Pilots, he thought, like CIA operatives, resorted to black humor when things were least funny.

Hollis watched the altimeter needles moving. At three thousand meters he arrested the ascent, and the airspeed climbed back to 150 kph. The ground-speed indicator read nearly the same. “That’s better.”

O’Shea said, “Maybe I should have climbed earlier.”

“Maybe. Maybe the headwinds were stronger up here earlier.”

“It’s hard to know without being able to call for weather conditions.”

“Right.” Hollis familiarized himself with the controls and with the instruments. He played around with the data available: speed, altitude, load, fuel, elapsed flight time, estimated distance to landing — but he couldn’t say with any certainty whether or not they’d see the Gulf of Finland before dawn or for that matter even see the Gulf of Finland or the dawn.

O’Shea seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “If we spot a landmark, we can figure our distance to landing. But I don’t have a feeling for that fuel gauge.”

Hollis replied, “We have the speed we need to arrive on time at the only landing site we have. Those are close parameters, and there’s nothing more we can do at the moment.”

O’Shea said, “Maybe we’ll pick up a tailwind.”

“Maybe.”

Mills, who had been listening intently, asked, “What if we pick up another headwind?”

O’Shea glanced back at him. “No use worrying about something we can’t do anything about.”

Mills said to Hollis, “Basic question, General — what are the odds?”

Hollis replied, “I just got here. I’m not giving odds on your game plan.”

Mills asked, “Look, would it help if we dumped some weight?”

“I assume you’ve already done that.”

O’Shea replied, “Yes. Coats, baggage, drinking water, some hardware, and all that. Lightened us maybe a hundred pounds.”

Mills said, “I had something else in mind.”

Hollis inquired, “Whom did you have in mind, Bert?”

“Well… Dodson or Burov, I guess.”

“You need them,” Hollis said. “Would you like me to jump?”

“No. I don’t want Captain O’Shea flying again. He makes me nervous.” Mills smiled, then added, “Look, we can get rid of Burov if it would make a difference.”

Neither Hollis nor O’Shea replied.

Mills said, “Well, forget it. I’m not playing that lifeboat game. That’s your decision if you want to make it.”

Hollis rather liked Mills when Mills was being Mills. But when Mills was trying to be Alevy, the result was an affected cynicism without his boss’s style or moral certainty.

Lisa, who hadn’t spoken in some time, said, “I don’t want to hear about any more murders, please.”

No one said anything, and the only sound was from the turbines and rotor blades.

Hollis asked O’Shea, “Have you sighted any aircraft?”

“No, sir.”

Hollis nodded. He didn’t think anyone at the Charm School had had the opportunity or ability to radio out any information. But by now, the Soviets might have discovered that their facility had been wiped out, and they might have made the connection between the missing Aeroflot Mi-28 helicopter and the disaster at the Charm School. And if they had put it all together, they were probably thinking of the only safe place other than the American embassy that an Mi-28 could reach: the Gulf of Finland.

Hollis turned to Mills and asked, “Did you people consult any Air Force types when you put this scheme together?”

“Of course,” Mills said in a slightly offended tone.

“How did you expect to escape Soviet radar detection?”

“Well,” Mills replied, “the Air Force guys we spoke to figured we’d be out of reach of Moscow’s radar by the time they drew any conclusions. We knew we couldn’t be spotted visually with our navigation lights off.” Mills said to O’Shea, “You have some technical written orders, don’t you?”

O’Shea replied, “I was supposed to get down low to avoid airborne radar — to blend in with the ground clutter — and take an evasive course toward the gulf. But I sort of figured that the available fuel wouldn’t allow for that.”

“You were sort of right.” Hollis said, “Even if they’re not looking for us, we’re going to show up on somebody’s screen as we approach Leningrad’s air traffic control area.”

O’Shea said, “At that point we’re going to have to get in low, below the radar. We can risk a visual sighting over a populated area at that time because we’ll be in the home stretch. We should be landed before they can scramble a flight to intercept us.” He looked at Hollis. “What do you think?”

“I think someone forgot to consider Red Navy radar that watches everything in the gulf. I think if they’re specifically looking for us, they’ll find us. I’m going on the assumption they haven’t connected an Mi-28 Aeroflot helicopter bearing a certain ID number with the nerve gas attack on their training facility outside of Borodino.”

Mills said, “We’re gambling that no one even knows that the Charm School is dead until someone comes by in the morning with a delivery or someone calls from Moscow or something. As for this helicopter, I changed the ID number, and they’re probably still looking for the crash site of P-113. This is a very compartmentalized country, and information does not travel freely. Therefore connections aren’t easily made. That’s working in our favor.”

Hollis replied, “You may be right.” He asked O’Shea, “How are we supposed to rendezvous with the ship in the gulf?”

O’Shea glanced at a piece of paper clipped to the instrument panel. “Well, first we look for Pulkovo Airport, which you and I would recognize from the air. Then we drop below two hundred meters to get under the radar. About a klick due south of the control tower, we take a three-hundred-ten-degree heading. We’ll pass over the coast west of Leningrad and continue out until we see the lighthouse on the long jetty. From a point directly over the lighthouse we take a three-hundred-forty-degree heading and maintain a ground speed of eighty kph for ten minutes. According to what it says here, somewhere down in the main shipping lane we’ll see three yellow fog lights that form a triangle. Those lights are on the fantail of a freighter heading out of Leningrad. The lights won’t blind or project a beam that might attract unwanted attention. But they should glow bright enough for us to see them at two hundred meters’ altitude and about half a klick radial distance around the ship — even in one of those gulf fogs. We land in the center of that triangle, deep-six the chopper, and the ship takes us to Liverpool.” O’Shea added, “I’ll buy dinner when we get to London.”

Hollis glanced at O’Shea but said nothing.

They continued north for another fifteen minutes, and Hollis saw that the ground speed was dropping, indicating they were picking up headwinds again. The needle on the fuel gauge was buried in the red zone. One of the things Hollis recalled from the Mi-28 manual — which he’d purchased indirectly from an Aeroflot mechanic for blue jeans and American cigarettes — was that the fuel gauge shouldn’t be trusted. In fact, he noticed that though the needle was deeper in the red, the fuel warning still wasn’t on.

O’Shea said, “Want me to take it?”

“No. I need the practice.”

A few minutes later O’Shea said, “We should have seen the lights of Leningrad by now.”

Hollis nodded.

Mills asked, “Will we have any warning before the fuel runs out?”

Hollis replied, “Do you want a warning?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to land in Russia?”

“I guess not. I guess we just keep flying until we go down.”

“I guess so,” Hollis replied.

Five minutes later the fuel warning light flickered. A few seconds after that a reedy voice said in Russian, “Your fuel reserves are nearly gone.”

O’Shea replied to the recording, “Screw you.”

The voice said, “Make preparations to terminate your flight.”

Hollis and O’Shea exchanged glances.

Mills asked, “What did he say?”

Hollis replied, “There’re only forty-two shopping days left until Christmas.”

Lisa said to Mills, “Fuel is low.”

Mills nodded. “I figured that’s what he said.”

They continued on north through the black night. No one spoke, as if, Hollis thought, everyone were waiting for the sound of the turbines to cut out. Finally, Lisa leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder. “How are you?”

“Fine. How’re things back in business class?”

“You tell me. How much fuel is left after that announcement?”

“It’s more a matter of how much flight time you can get out of the available fuel. That depends on load, temperature, humidity, winds, altitude, speed, engine performance, maneuvers, and the good Lord.”

“Should I pray?”

“Can’t hurt.”

“I’ll let you fly.”

“Okay. You pray. I’ll fly. Later we’ll switch.”

Lisa looked at Hollis’ hands on the controls. This was a different Sam Hollis from the one she’d known in Moscow or in the Charm School. It struck her that he belonged in this aircraft, and she recalled what Seth Alevy had said to her at Sheremetyevo Airport about the world of pilots: They were a different breed, but she thought she could love him just the same.

The voice said again, “Your fuel reserves are nearly gone,” then, “Make preparations to terminate your flight.”

No one spoke for some minutes, then O’Shea said, “Hey, did you hear about the Aeroflot pilot who ran low on fuel crossing the ocean and dumped fuel to save weight?”

No one laughed, and O’Shea said, “It’s funnier on the ground.”

Hollis looked at the instrument panel clock. It was 6:59. Sunrise was in twenty-three minutes, after which time the freighter was to turn off its landing lights, making it indistinguishable from any other freighter in the area. At their present speed they could cover about sixty kilometers before sunrise. But for the last ten minutes of the flight they would have to reduce their speed to eighty kph, according to the instructions. Hollis said to O’Shea, “Our options are two: We can decrease speed, conserve fuel, and we’ll probably make it to our rendezvous, but it will be well after dawn. Or we can increase speed and our rate of fuel consumption, which is the only way we could possibly make our rendezvous before dawn. Of course, if we increase fuel consumption, we may not get that far. What’s your professional opinion, Captain?”

O’Shea replied as though he’d given it some thought. “I’m betting that there’s more fuel left than we think. That’s just my gut feeling. I say full speed ahead.”

Mills said, “I vote to cut speed and conserve fuel. Our primary obligation is not to get to that freighter before dawn — it’s to get out of the Soviet Union, and out of the reach of the KGB. I want to make sure we reach the gulf. I’d rather go into the drink than have them get their hands on us. We know too much.”

Hollis replied, “You have no vote, Bert. This is a technical matter. But your opinion is noted. Lisa?”

“I’m with Bert. I’d rather drown than run out of gas over land.”

Hollis nodded. “Should we wake Brennan for his opinion?” Hollis heard the sound of popping bubble gum, followed by Brennan’s voice saying, “We dead yet?”

Mills replied, “We’re working on it.”

Brennan stretched and cleared his throat. “Hey, Colonel, glad to see you up and around. How you doing?”

“Fine. I’m a general.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Hey, did we do a tit for tat on them, or what? I mean to tell you, we kicked some ass. Right?”

“Right. Did you hear our problem?”

“Yeah. That’s a tough one. Whatever you guys decide is okay with me.”

Hollis wished everyone was as unopinionated.

Brennan added, “I hate flying. Glad we’ll be down soon.”

O’Shea said, “Your call, General.”

The disembodied voice said again, “Your fuel reserves are nearly gone. Make preparations to terminate your flight.”

“Full speed ahead.” Hollis pushed forward on the cyclic stick, dropping the craft into a nose-down attitude, and simultaneously increased the throttle and adjusted the collective stick. The airspeed indicator rose to 180 kph with a corresponding rise in ground speed. Hollis said, “Never believe a Russian.”

They continued north. The fuel warning light glowed steady red, and the recorded voice gave its warning in the same indifferent tone. Hollis had always thought that these cockpit recordings should get shriller each time they came on. But tape players did not fear death.

O’Shea called out, “Look!”

Hollis, Mills, Lisa, and Brennan looked to where O’Shea was pointing. Slightly to starboard of their flight path, on the black distant horizon, they could see a faint glow. Hollis announced, “Leningrad.”

O’Shea said, “About twenty klicks. Maybe seven minutes’ flight time.”

Hollis looked at the clock. It was 7:04. Eighteen minutes to sunrise. If they got to Pulkovo in seven minutes and changed heading, they would get to the lighthouse in about another five minutes. Then a ten-minute flight to the rendezvous point with the freighter. That sounded like twenty-two minutes.

O’Shea said, “We’re racing the sun now, General.”

Hollis replied, “I thought it was the fuel gauge. You’re confusing me.”

O’Shea smiled grimly.

Hollis increased the craft’s speed to two hundred kph.

O’Shea observed, “We’re operating at full power at the end of a long flight. Do you trust these turbines?”

Hollis glanced at his instruments. The turbine outlet temperature was redlined, and so was the oil temperature. “Never trust the reds.” Hollis called back to Brennan, “So what made you come back for this, Bill?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Seth Alevy said you were in trouble. That’s why Captain O’Shea volunteered too. Right, Captain?”

“Right.” O’Shea said to Hollis, “I want you to reconsider my evaluation report.”

“I’ll think about it.” Hollis began a long sloping descent. O’Shea said to him, “How many hours of rotary wing do you have, General?”

Hollis glanced at the clock. “Counting the last thirty minutes, one hour.”

O’Shea said, “Seriously.”

“I don’t know… ten or twelve. Is this a test?”

“No. I’m just wondering who should put it down.”

“If it’s a power-off landing in the freezing gulf, you can do it. If it’s power on, on the deck of the freighter, I’ll do it.”

“Okay.”

The Mi-28 continued descending, and Hollis noticed its ground speed bleeding off, indicating increasing headwinds. At five hundred meters its airspeed was still 200 kph, but its actual speed relative to the ground, which was the speed that mattered, was not quite 130 kph. Hollis knew they were encountering those infamous winter winds from the Gulf of Finland, winds so strong and steady that they sometimes caused the gulf to rise as much as five feet, flooding Leningrad. He thought about heavy seas and their freighter rising, falling, rolling, and pitching in them.

Hollis could now see the main arteries leading into the city and saw some predawn traffic below.

Leningrad. The most un-Russian city in Russia. A city of culture, style, and liberal pretensions. But a city where the KGB was reputed to be particularly nasty, a counterweight to the westward-looking populace. Hollis had sometimes liked Leningrad and felt some sense of loss as he flew over it for the last time.

O’Shea said, “I think that’s the Moscow highway down there. So Pulkovo should be to port.”

Mills said, “I haven’t heard the recording for a while.”

Hollis replied, “I think he gave up on us.”

O’Shea said, “Is that it?” He pointed out the left side window.

Hollis looked and saw the familiar blue-white aircraft lights. “Yes.” He added, “That was a remarkable piece of land navigation, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir. I tried to allow for wind drift, but I wasn’t sure how much we were being blown off our heading.”

“Apparently not enough to miss a whole city.” Hollis banked left as he increased the rate of descent. The altimeter read two hundred meters, and he leveled off. He estimated he was a kilometer south of Pulkovo’s tower, and he took a heading of 310 degrees. They were so low now that Hollis could make out passengers in a bus below. He saw a few factories slide by and saw a train speeding away from the city. To the north, the great city of Leningrad seemed to grow brighter minute by minute as it wakened from its long autumn night.

O’Shea said, “I think I see the gulf.”

Hollis looked out and could see where the scattered shore lights ended and a great expanse of black began. “Another few minutes. Look for the lighthouse at the end of the jetty.”

The minutes passed in silence. The coast slipped below them, and they were suddenly out to sea. Hollis looked at the clock: 7:14.

Mills said, “That’s it. No going back.”

Hollis nodded. If they went down and survived the crash, survival time in the near-freezing gulf would be about fifteen minutes.

O’Shea pointed directly ahead. “Lighthouse.”

“See it.” Hollis continued on and within a half kilometer of the lighthouse began to throttle back and pick up the nose. The ground speed hit eighty kph as he passed over the lighthouse on the end of the two-kilometer-long concrete jetty. He swung the nose around to the new heading of 340 degrees and noted the time on the clock: 7:17. “Captain, keep the time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollis watched the compass and maintained the northwesterly heading but had no doubt that the north wind was blowing them off course. He tried to calculate how much drift there might be in a ten-minute flight if the wind was as strong as thirty to forty knots. He had a sudden desire to meet Mills’ flight advisers. He said to Mills, “What air force was that?”

“Excuse me?”

“The guys with whom you consulted.”

“Oh… what’s the problem? Besides fuel, I mean?”

“Navigation. Two moving objects. He has to contend with the seas; we have to contend with the air.”

O’Shea observed, “Sort of like threading a moving needle.”

“In the dark,” Hollis added.

Mills didn’t reply.

Brennan said, “I guess we only have one shot at this rendezvous.”

O’Shea said, “If that many.”

A voice said in Russian, “Fuck you… I’ll kill you all.”

Hollis inquired, “Is that a prerecorded announcement?”

Brennan chuckled. “I think that’s our passenger in coach. What did he say?”

“He said he needs another shot of sodium pentothal,” Hollis replied. “Bert, shut him up.”

Mills made his way to the rear and looked at Burov. He called out to Hollis, “He’s in bad shape already, General. I don’t want to kill him.”

Burov said indistinctly through swollen lips, “I’ll have you all back in the cells.”

The recorded warning came on again, and Burov said, “You see? Land this helicopter immediately.”

Hollis called back in Russian, “Shut your mouth, Burov, or I’ll throw you out.”

Burov fell silent.

Mills looked Dodson over and announced, “Our other passenger seems okay.”

O’Shea said, “Time, seven-nineteen, two minutes elapsed.”

Mills looked out the rear window toward the southeast. “The sun is coming up.” He added, “They won’t take us aboard if it’s light.”

Lisa asked, “What choice do they have?”

Mills replied, “Well, they have the choice of shutting off their landing lights. Then we wouldn’t know what ship it is down there. All I know is that it’s a freighter. I don’t know anything else about the ship, not even its nationality. We’re not supposed to know anything for security reasons, and I guess also so that we can’t make a landing in the daylight and endanger the ship. All we know is to look for three yellow lights on a freighter.”

Hollis said, “Maybe your friends in Washington picked a Soviet ship for us.”

Mills smiled weakly. “That’s not funny.”

Burov spoke in English through his broken teeth. “Listen to me. Listen. Land this helicopter and let me out. You can make good your escape. I will guarantee you that no harm will come to the men and women at the school. You have my word on that.”

There was a silence in the cabin, then Hollis said to O’Shea, “Take the controls.” He made his way to the rear of the cabin and stood over Burov, whose wrists were bound to the chair with steel flex. Hollis stared at Burov, and Burov stared back. Finally Hollis said, “Would you like something for the pain?”

Burov didn’t respond for a second, then shook his head.

“Are you thirsty?”

“Yes. Very.”

Hollis turned around. “Anything left to drink?”

“Just this,” Mills said, handing him a flask. “Cognac. Real stuff.”

Hollis took the flask and held it to Burov’s blood-encrusted lips. Burov’s eyes stayed on Hollis, then his mouth opened, and Hollis poured half the flask between Burov’s lips. Burov coughed up dried blood, but got most of the cognac down. Hollis saw tears forming in the man’s eyes and assumed it was because of the burning alcohol on his split lips and gums. Hollis said, “We have no water.”

Burov didn’t reply.

Hollis put the cap back on the flask and said to Burov, “It’s over, you know.”

Burov said nothing.

“Within a few minutes you will be either a prisoner on a ship or will be dead in the water. There’s no other fate for you.”

Burov nodded.

“Do you pray?”

“No. Never.”

“But your mother taught you how.”

Burov didn’t reply.

“You might consider it.”

Burov seemed to slump further into his seat, and his head dropped. “I congratulate you. All of you. Please leave me alone.”

Hollis looked at Dodson’s battered face, then looked back at Burov. Hollis said to Burov, “You’ve got a lot to answer for. I’m going to see to it that you answer directly to Major Dodson on behalf of the other airmen.” Hollis moved to the port side windows and looked out to the southeast. He saw a small red rim poking above the flat horizon, casting a pink twilight over the city of Leningrad. But out here, in the gulf, the waters were black. He went back to the copilot’s chair and sat. “I’ll take it.”

Hollis looked at the clock: 7:21. About six minutes’ flight time to their rendezvous site, but only one or two minutes to first light. They weren’t going to reach the freighter before dawn.

O’Shea was looking intently out the front windshield. Mills and Brennan were looking out the port side, Lisa was looking out to starboard. They all searched the dark sea below. There were lights down there, Hollis saw, boats and channel markers, but no triangle of yellow lights.

As Hollis watched, the water became lighter, and he could see its texture now, the rising swells picking up the new sunlight. At least, he thought, he’d seen the dawn, and regardless of what happened, it was a better dawn than it would have been in the Charm School.

O’Shea announced, “It’s seven twenty-seven. Elapsed flight time since the lighthouse is now ten minutes.”

Lisa said, “I don’t see it.”

Brennan said, “I guess they’ve shut off their landing lights. Maybe we should just put it down on any ship. You see that big tanker out there? About ten o’clock, half a klick.”

Hollis could see the massive flat deck in the grey morning light. It was inviting, but like a woman beckoning from a dark doorway, it was not necessarily a safe bet. Hollis said, “It may be a Soviet or East Bloc ship. We can’t tell.”

Mills concurred. “We agreed that we wouldn’t fall into their hands. We owe that to our country as well as to ourselves.”

Brennan nodded. “You’re right. It could be a commie ship. I guess you find a lot of those here. I’d rather drown.”

Burov spoke. “You can’t be serious. Wouldn’t you all rather live than die horribly in the cold water?”

Lisa replied, “No.”

Brennan turned and said to Burov, “I don’t want to hear your voice again.”

Another few minutes passed, and the sky went from grey dawn to morning nautical light. Hollis could see the heavy cloud bank overhead now and the gulf mist below. Sea gulls and terns circled over the water, and in the distance he saw a rain squall. A typical dreary day in the Gulf of Finland.

Mills said, “Well, he’s killed the lights by now. He won’t risk a Soviet ship seeing an Aeroflot helicopter land on his deck. I can’t say I blame him.”

Lisa said, “But I don’t see anything that even looks like a freighter. I see a few tankers and a few fishing ships. I saw one warship with guns back there. We’ve missed him.”

O’Shea said, “Maybe he’s still in Leningrad, trying to clear red tape. Maybe he’s off course or we’re off course. An air-sea rendezvous with radio silence is hit or miss.”

Hollis looked at his flight instruments. The Mi-28 had been pushed beyond its limits, and he found it ironic that the last Soviet product he would ever use was the best. Every component had performed admirably except the fuel gauge. He said to O’Shea, “You were right about the fuel.”

“I figured that the gauge was an extension of Soviet life. They don’t trust people to make rational choices, so they lie to them for their own good.” O’Shea smiled, then added without humor, “But I think by now that empty means empty.”

Mills stopped looking out the window and sat back on the floor between the seats. “Well, good try though.” He produced the flask, took a swig, and handed it to Brennan. Brennan drank and gave it to Lisa. She offered it to Hollis and O’Shea, who declined, O’Shea saying, “I’m flying.” Lisa, Brennan, and Mills finished the flask.

Hollis looked out at the water below. The seas were high, and he could see white curling breakers rolling from north to south. At two hundred meters’ altitude, his range of vision encompassed an area large enough to insure that he wouldn’t miss the freighter even if he was two or three kilometers off course. Something was very wrong, and the thought crossed his mind that this was yet another Alevy double cross, a joke from the grave. But even if Alevy had wanted O’Shea, Brennan, and Mills silenced, he had apparently promised to deliver Burov and one American, so it couldn’t be that. Hollis realized just how much Alevy’s thinking had affected his thinking for him to even consider such a thing. Yet, he would wager that the same thought had passed through everyone’s mind.

O’Shea said, “See those buoys? We’ve crossed out of the shipping lane.”

Hollis nodded. He suddenly put the craft into a steep right bank and headed southeast, into the rising sun, back toward Leningrad.

Mills asked, “What are you doing?”

Hollis began a steep descent. Ahead, he could make out the lights of Leningrad about fifteen kilometers away.

Mills repeated, “What are you doing?”

Hollis replied, “I’m going on two assumptions. One is that the freighter did not reach the rendezvous point in time and is still steaming out of the harbor. Two, if that holds true, then the skipper of that boat feels some sense of failed duty, and if he sees us, he will do what any sea captain would do for a seacraft or aircraft in distress — he will come to our aid.” Hollis leveled the helicopter at less than one hundred meters above the churning sea and cut the speed to a slow forty kph.

O’Shea said, apropos of nothing, “I feel fine. We did good.”

Mills concurred. “We beat most of the odds, didn’t we? We’re here.”

Brennan said, “We stole this chopper, got into the Charm School, rescued Dodson, kidnapped Burov, shot our way out, flew cross-country over Russia, and got to where we were supposed to be. Shit, as far as I’m concerned, we made it.”

Hollis said, “I find it hard to refute that logic, Bill. If we had a bottle of champagne, I’d say pop it.”

Mills said, “Damn, Seth was supposed to buy champagne at the Trade Center.”

At the mention of Alevy’s name, there was a silence during which, Hollis thought, everyone was probably cursing him and blessing him at the same time. Such was the fate of men and women who move others toward great heights and dark abysses.

Lisa said to Mills, “Change places with me.” She got out of her seat and knelt on the floor to the side of Hollis. She said to him, “I know you can’t hold my hand now. But if you don’t have to hold the controls in a minute or two, can you hold my hand then?”

“Of course.”

O’Shea took the controls. “I’ve got it, General. Take a stretch.”

Hollis released the controls and took Lisa’s hand.

The helicopter continued inbound, toward Leningrad, and no one spoke. The steady sound of the turbines filled the cabin, and they listened to that and only to that, waiting for the sound to stop.

O’Shea cleared his throat and said in a controlled voice, “Twelve o’clock, one kilometer.”

Brennan, Mills, and Lisa stood and looked out the front windshield. Steaming toward them was a medium-sized freighter, and on its fantail were three yellow lights.

Hollis released Lisa’s hand and took the controls. He figured they needed about thirty seconds’ flying time if he brought it in straight over the bow. But if they flamed out, they could smash into the freighter, and neither the freighter nor its crew deserved that.

He banked right, away from the oncoming ship, then swung north, approaching the freighter at right angles, flying into the strong wind for added lift. He noticed that the three yellow lights were off now, which probably meant they’d seen him making his approach.

O’Shea said, “General, we have to get some altitude for a steep approach.”

Hollis knew that a shallow approach from a hundred meters was not the preferred way to land a helicopter on a moving deck. But a flame-out during an ascent was no treat either. All his instincts and what was called pilot’s intuition told him that his remaining flight time could be measured in seconds. “Relax.”

“Your show.” O’Shea scanned the instrument panel as Hollis concentrated on the visual approach. O’Shea called out airspeed, tachometer readings, torque, and altitude. He said, “Ground speed, about thirty.”

Hollis saw that the freighter’s stern was going to pass by before he reached it, so he put the helicopter into a sliding flight toward port as he continued his shallow powerglide approach.

He adjusted the rudder pedals to compensate for the decreased torque, keeping the nose of the helicopter lined up with the moving ship, while continuing a sideways flight.

He tried to maintain constant ground speed by use of the cyclic pitch, coordinating that with the collective pitch and the throttle.

O’Shea called out, “Ground speed, forty.”

Hollis pulled up on the nose to bring down the speed.

O’Shea said, “Altitude, fifty meters.”

Hollis kept the nose lined up amidships. The distance to the freighter was about one hundred meters, and he estimated his glide angle would take him over the stern for a hovering descent.

“Ground speed, thirty; altitude, thirty.”

A horn sounded, and O’Shea said, “Oil pressure dropping. We must have popped a line or gasket.”

The recorded voice, which had stayed inexplicably silent about the fuel, said, “Imminent engine failure. Prepare for autorotative landing.”

They were within ten meters of the ship’s upper decks now, and Hollis picked up the nose of the helicopter, reducing ground speed to near zero. The ship slid past, and the aft deck was suddenly in front of him. The deck was pitching and rolling, but never had a landing zone looked so good to him. He felt his way toward the retreating deck, and as he passed over it, the helicopter picked up ground cushion and ballooned upward. “Damn it.” The stern was gone now, and he was over the water again. Without the ground cushion, the helicopter fell toward the water.

Hollis quickly increased the throttle and the collective pitch of the blades, causing the helicopter to lift, seconds before the tail boom would have hit the churning wake. Hollis turned the nose back toward the stern and followed the ship, focusing on its stern light, trying to hold it steady in the strong crosswind. He felt like a man trying to grab the caboose rail of a moving train.

Written in white letters across the stern of the ship was its name, and Hollis noted it irrelevantly: Lucinda.

The recorded voice said, “Imminent engine failure. Prepare for an autorotative landing.”

Hollis pushed forward on the collective stick, increased the throttle, and literally dove in, clearing the stern rail by a few feet. He pulled back on the collective pitch, and the helicopter flared out a few meters from the rising quarterdeck.

O’Shea shut the engines down as the rear wheels struck the deck and the Mi-28 bounced into the air. The pitching and rolling deck fell beneath them, then rose and slammed the two starboard wheels, nearly capsizing the aircraft. Hollis yanked up on the brake handle, locking the wheels.

Finally the helicopter settled uneasily onto the moving deck. Hollis looked up at the ship’s mainmast and saw it was flying the Union Jack.

No one spoke, and the sound of the turbines and rotor blades died slowly in their ears, replaced by the sound of lapping waves. A salty sea scent filled the cabin, and the relatively smooth flight was replaced by the rocking of a wind-tossed ship. Hollis saw that there were no crew in sight and assumed that all hands had been ordered below.

O’Shea cleared his throat and said quietly, “I don’t like ships. I get seasick.”

Brennan said, “I fucking love ships.”

Mills said to Hollis and O’Shea, “You both did a splendid job. We owe you one.”

Hollis replied tersely, “If ‘we’ means your company, Bert, then we all owe you one too.”

Lisa suddenly threw her arms around Hollis’ neck. “I love you! You did it! Both of you.” She grabbed O’Shea’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you both.”

O’Shea’s face reddened. “I didn’t do… well, talk to him about my efficiency report.”

Hollis smiled. “I’ll reconsider it.”

O’Shea said to Hollis, “Right before I shut the engines down—”

“I heard it.”

“What?” Mills asked.

“One of them,” O’Shea replied, “went out. There isn’t enough fuel in the tanks to fill a cigarette lighter.”

“Well, we don’t need any more fuel. See, it worked out fine.” Mills reached under his seat and pulled out a plastic bag filled with black ski masks and handed it to Brennan. “Here, everyone put on one of these. No talking to the crew, no names.”

Mills went to the back of the cabin and slid a mask over Dodson’s face. He looked at Burov and said, “Well, Colonel, the good guys won.”

Unexpectedly, Burov laughed. “Yes? The CIA are the good guys? Your own countrymen don’t think so, no more than my countrymen think the KGB are the good guys. You and I are pariahs, Mr. Mills. That’s what sets us apart from humanity.”

“Could be. Glad to see you learned something in your own school.” Mills took a Syrette from his pocket and jabbed the spring-loaded device into Burov’s neck. “You talk too much.” He slid a ski mask over Burov’s head. “That’s much better.”

Brennan slid open the door, and a rush of cold air filled the heated cabin. Brennan jumped down onto the rolling deck, followed by Lisa, O’Shea, and Hollis. Mills got out last and said, “I’ll have Dodson and Burov taken to the infirmary.” He looked up at the Union Jack. “I sort of figured it would be British. There aren’t many of our intrepid NATO allies we can count on anymore.”

Hollis observed, “For this operation, I don’t even trust our allies in Washington, Bert.”

“Good point.”

Lisa asked, “Are we home free, or not?”

Hollis didn’t think they would ever be home free as long as they lived. He replied, “We’re in the right neighborhood.”

The door of the quarterdeck opened and six seamen dressed in dark sweaters appeared. They approached the helicopter and looked at their five passengers curiously: four men, one woman, all wearing black masks. Three men were in Russian uniforms, one in a sweat suit. The woman wore a sweat suit and parka. And on board the helicopter, Hollis thought, were two unconscious and battered men in black masks, one in pajamas and one in a shredded sweat suit. If the seamen had been asked to pick out the good guys from the bad guys, Hollis realized, they would probably guess wrong.

One of the seamen made a pushing motion toward the helicopter as if he didn’t think anyone spoke English. Mills shook his head, held up two fingers, and pointed. The six men went to the helicopter and removed Dodson and Burov, laying them on the cold, wet deck.

Hollis jumped back into the cockpit and released the brakes, then joined O’Shea, Brennan, and the six sailors in rolling the helicopter to the portside rail. One of the men swung open the gangplank section of the railing. They all pushed from the rear of the fuselage, sending the Mi-28 over the side, nose first, its long tail boom rising into the air as the front plunged down toward the churning sea. Instinctively, they all went to the rail and watched as the helicopter bobbed a moment until the sea rushed into its open door and it slid, cockpit first, into the dark water. Its tail section seemed to wave a farewell, and Hollis found himself touching his hand to his forehead and noticed that O’Shea did the same.

The crewmen moved quickly to the three fog lights, which were portable and connected by cords running to electrical outlets. They disconnected the lights and threw them overboard. Hollis thought there was something disturbing about that. Getting rid of the helicopter was an obvious thing to do. But getting rid of three small lights indicated that the captain was taking precautions in the event of a possible boarding and search by Soviet authorities or at the very least a flyover. Hollis wondered what other evidence the captain was prepared to throw overboard.

Hollis looked over the port rail to the south and saw two ships on the distant horizon. They may have seen the helicopter landing, and through binoculars they could have seen it pushed overboard. If they were Soviet ships or even East Bloc craft, they might radio a report. More to the point, Red Navy radar had probably picked up the unidentified flight and had recognized its flight characteristics as that of a helicopter. They could have seen the blip descend to sea level, and perhaps had even concluded that it had landed on the ship that also appeared on their screens. Three-mile limit notwithstanding, the Soviets claimed this whole part of the gulf as their private pond.

Mills seemed to guess what Hollis was thinking. Mills nodded toward the two ships on the horizon. “That’s why we wanted a night landing.”

“Yes, but radar works at night.”

Mills replied, “I was told it would look like a crash at sea on radar.”

“It might. Depends on the Ivan who was staring at the screen.”

“Well, then this is a test to see whose side God is really on.”

Hollis smiled grimly. “After what we did at the Charm School, I think we’re on our own.” Hollis turned and walked away from the rail. Four of the seamen had stretchers now and were carrying Dodson and Burov toward the quarterdeck. One of them said to Mills, “Infirmary.”

One of the other two sailors motioned to them, and they followed him into a door on the quarterdeck, then went up a narrow companionway to the upper deck and walked along a passageway without meeting another person. The seaman took them up one more deck and showed them into a white-painted chart room with large portholes that was located behind the bridge. The seaman left wordlessly, and Hollis pulled off his ski mask. Lisa, O’Shea, Mills, and Brennan did the same.

They all looked at one another, not knowing what their mood was supposed to be. In truth, Hollis thought, they were all so numbed by fatigue, tension, and sadness that he wouldn’t be surprised if they all stretched out on the chart tables and fell asleep.

Finally Mills broke into a grin and said in a buoyant voice, “Well, my friends, next stop is Liverpool.”

Brennan gave a long hoot and yelled, “We did it!”

There was some backslapping and handshaking, and Lisa got a kiss from Mills, Brennan, and O’Shea.

O’Shea, in an expansive mood, said to Hollis, “You’re a hell of a chopper pilot, General. Where’d you learn to fly rotary wing?”

Hollis replied, “Somewhere between Novgorod and Leningrad.”

Mills laughed. “You fooled me. Hey, look, there’s coffee and brandy.” Mills went to a chart table along the starboard side bulkhead on which sat an electric urn. He drew five mugs of coffee, then poured brandy into each one and passed them around. He raised his mug and said, “To…”

“To Seth Alevy,” Hollis said, “and the men and women we left behind.”

Everyone drank, but the toast had its effect of subduing the celebration. They all had more coffee and more brandy. There were chairs at the chart tables, and everyone sat but Hollis, who stood at one of the four starboard portholes and stared out to sea. The Gulf of Finland, the few times he’d seen it, reminded him of molten lead, as it did now, seeming to roll in slow motion, heavy, turgid water, all shades of greyness, its surface strangely unreflective. He saw a thin fog rolling in from the north, and through the fog, a squall suddenly burst forth like a gauze veil passing through smoke. The grey sky, the grey water, and the adjoining land masses, an unchanging landscape of grey-green pine forests, continually dripping a wetness onto the soggy earth. It was a dank and bleak corner of the world, making the Moscow region look sunny and picturesque by comparison.

Hollis rubbed his eyes and rubbed the stubble on his chin. The anesthetic was wearing off, and he could feel his cheek beginning to throb. It occurred to him that the rendezvous with this ship should be listed under minor miracles, right after their escape from the Charm School.

The door to the chart room opened, and a tall, red-bearded man of about fifty strode in. He was wearing a heavy white cable-knit sweater and blue jeans. He said nothing, but helped himself to a mug of coffee, then sat casually at the edge of a chart table. “Welcome aboard the Lucinda,” he said in a British accent. “I am Captain Hughes. Your names, I am told, are no concern of mine.”

Hollis said, “I want to thank you for leaving the lights on beyond the sunrise.”

Captain Hughes looked at Hollis. “I’ll tell you, they were off, but I left the watch on, and he spotted you. So I argued with myself a bit and turned them on again.”

Mills said, “That was good of you.”

Hughes shrugged. “We were a bit off schedule ourselves. The bloody Russians don’t move very quickly with the paperwork, and our pilot boat was late.”

Captain Hughes looked at O’Shea, Mills, and Brennan in their KGB uniforms, then at Lisa and Hollis. “I’ll wager you’ve got quite a story to tell. By the way, that landing was either the best air-to-ship landing I’ve ever seen or the worst. I expect you know which it was.” Hughes added, “We’re carrying timber, if you’re interested. Pine, birch, and aspen. They grow good wood because God manages the forests, not them.” Hughes smiled and added, “We dropped off a load of fresh vegetables. They like to lay on some nice things for the anniversary of the glorious Revolution. Can’t say I approve of trading with them, but a job’s a job. Which brings me to my next point. I was given ten thousand pounds to say yes to this, and I’ll get another fifty thousand when I hand you over. You’re quite valuable.”

Hollis replied, “I hope we haven’t cost you more than we’re worth. Do you have any radar indications of ships approaching?”

“No, but you can be assured we’re watching Kronshtadt naval base very closely. Once we sail past there and get into the wider gulf water, I’ll breathe a sigh.”

“So will we all.”

Hughes said, “There isn’t enough money around to entice me to do this. They told me it was important to both our countries.”

“Indeed it is.”

Hughes said, “Before I left Leningrad this morning, a stevedore pressed a piece of paper into my hand.” He gave it to Hollis.

Hollis unfolded it and saw it was a page from a one-time cipher pad. It had that day’s date on it and a frequency. A handwritten note said: Sit rep, attention C.B.

Mills looked over Hollis’ shoulder and whispered, “That’s our diplomatic code.”

Hollis nodded and gave it back to Hughes. “Captain, will you be good enough to have your radio man encrypt a message from this pad as follows: ‘Attention Banks. Landed this location. Situation report to follow.’ Leave it unsigned. Send it out on that frequency.”

Hughes nodded. He said, “Your two friends in the infirmary are resting comfortably. The medic would like to be briefed on their history.”

Mills replied, “They’ve both suffered obvious physical trauma. Both have had sodium pentothal recently. The one in the sweat suit is the friend. The one in pajamas is not. He must be restrained for the duration of this voyage.”

Hughes walked to the door. “I’ll have a steward bring you some breakfast. I’ll arrange for sleeping quarters. In the meantime, feel free to use this room as long as you wish.”

“Thank you.”

Hughes left the chart room.

Hollis went back to the porthole but saw nothing out there except the thickening fog. He said, “We’ve all done a good job. I don’t like what we did, but we did it well.”

Mills poured himself more brandy. “Yes, and for whatever it’s worth to you all, I wanted to see those men come home… with their new families.” He added, “I’m not a religious man, but perhaps they’re better off where they are now. I don’t think even they really wanted to go home anymore.”

No one responded.

Hollis’ mind returned to the Landis house, and he thought of Landis’ little boy, Timmy, and of Landis’ saying about him, “My poor little guy.” Maybe, Hollis thought, just maybe they were all at peace now.

Hollis sat at the chart table and found a pencil and paper. He said to Mills, “I’ll write Charlie a note.”

Mills smiled. “Be nice. He probably sat up all night worrying about us.”

Hollis drew the paper toward him and began writing in standard, nonradio Russian:

Hollis handed it to Mills, who read it, nodded, and passed it on to the others.

Hollis said to O’Shea, “Captain, go to the radio room and encrypt this. Stay with the operator as he sends, then wait for a reply.”

“Yes, sir.”

O’Shea took the message and left the chart room.

Lisa put her arm around Hollis. “Can British sea captains marry people?”

Hollis smiled for the first time. “Yes, but the marriage is only good for the length of the voyage.”

“Good enough.”

Mills sat in a chair, yawned, and said as if to himself, “In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been in a Moscow taxi, an Aeroflot bus, an Aeroflot helicopter, a Zil-6, a Pontiac Trans Am, and now, thank God, a British merchant ship.”

Brennan took a pack of bubble gum from his pocket, started to unwrap a piece, then looked at it. He said, “Seth Alevy bought this for me in the Trade Center. He was a funny sort of guy. You always thought he was kind of cool and someplace else. But if you ran into him in the embassy, he’d call you by name and remember something about you to say. I always noticed that the senior people never said much to him, but the security men, Marine guards, secretaries, and all thought a lot of him.” Brennan rewrapped the gum and put it in his pocket.

No one spoke for a while, and some minutes later O’Shea came back into the chart room and handed Hollis a piece of paper.

Hollis looked at it and read it aloud: “From Charles Banks. ‘Delighted to hear from you. Congratulations on a fine job. Very sorry to hear about Seth. We’ll miss him. You’ll be met in Liverpool. Very much looking forward to seeing you all in London. Drinks are on me. Special regards to Lisa.’ Signed, ‘Charles.’”

Hollis looked at O’Shea, Mills, Brennan, and Lisa. The radio reply was so typically Charles Banks that everyone seemed on the verge of laughter.

Mills finally said, “What a lovable son of a bitch. I’d like to beat the hell out of him, but I can’t bring myself to do it. So we’ll have a drink with him instead.”

Lisa added, “I always liked him. I still like him. But I don’t trust him anymore.”

Hollis reflected that he had never trusted Banks. He wouldn’t trust him in London either.

An elderly steward entered with a galley pitcher of orange juice and a tray of hot biscuits. He set them down on the chart table and said in an accent that reminded Hollis of a Horatio Hornblower movie, “Compliments of Captain Hughes.” He added, “The first officer extends to the lady the use of his quarters. For you gentlemen, bunks have been set up in the officers’ wardroom. The captain wishes you to know that there are no radar sightings of any note. If there’s anything further you’ll be needing, send a message to the bridge, and someone will see to it.”

Mills thanked the steward, who left. Mills said, “Sometimes when we’re in Russia, we lose sight of what and who we’re fighting for. Then you come West on leave or business, and you run into a London cabbie or someone like that steward, and you remember the word ‘civility,’ and you realize you never once experienced it in the workers’ paradise.”

They all sat at the chart table, and O’Shea observed, “Real orange juice.”

They ate in silence awhile, then Brennan said, apropos of nothing, “I like London. I like the way the women talk.”

O’Shea smiled and said, “I didn’t think helicopters could be so much fun to fly. I might try rotary-wing school one of these days.”

Hollis observed, “School would be a good idea.”

Mills chewed thoughtfully on a buttered biscuit, then said, “I’m anxious to debrief Burov and Dodson. That will be one hell of an interesting assignment. I wonder how they’ll relate to one another in a different environment.”

Lisa looked around the table. “Don’t anyone laugh, but I’m going back to Russia someday. I swear I will.”

No one laughed. Hollis said, “Me too.”

O’Shea stood and looked at Mills and Brennan. “Why don’t we go find that wardroom and catch some sleep?”

Mills and Brennan stood. Mills said to Hollis, “I’ll look in on the infirmary, and I’ll keep in contact with the bridge regarding radio messages or unfriendly radar sightings. But somehow, I think we’ve made it. We beat them.”

Hollis replied, “We were due.”

Mills took his ski mask and moved to the door. He said to Hollis, “When you were passed out in the helicopter, I noticed that you snored. So why don’t you find other sleeping accommodations?” He left the chart room.

Lisa and Hollis looked at each other across the table. Lisa said finally, “You look sad.”

Hollis didn’t reply.

Lisa said, “We’re all sad, Sam. We’re happy that we’ve saved our own necks, but sad about the others.”

Hollis nodded. “This was the ultimate betrayal. The government betrayed those men once and now again. We’ve swept the last wreckage of that war under the rug for all time.”

“Will you try to put it behind you now?”

“I’ll try. Once you’ve come full circle, any further movement along that route is just going around in circles. I’ll try to move on now.”

Lisa removed a satin box from her pocket and laid it on the chart table and opened it. She stared at its contents awhile, then lifted out a string of amber beads and held them draped over her fingers. “Seth gave me these while we were waiting for you outside Burov’s house. May I keep these?”

“Of course.” He added, “Just don’t wear them.”

She looked at him and couldn’t tell if he was serious. She dropped the beads back in the box and closed it.

Hollis took some crumpled sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them on the chart table, holding them down with lead map weights. “These are the names of the men, living and dead… all dead now, who were in the Charm School from the beginning.”

“That was what Lew Poole gave you?”

“Yes.” He stared at the curled papers. “Simms… here’s Simms….” He looked off into the distance and spoke. “On the Vietnam memorial, they have crosses beside the names of the missing.”

“Yes, I’ve seen that.”

“And if a missing man is confirmed dead, they carve a circle around the cross.” He looked at Lisa. “I want these men to be officially recognized as dead and their families notified. I want this list put to some good use.”

She nodded, then asked, “Is that list… dangerous to have… I mean, the Charm School never existed.”

Hollis replied, “I think it would be dangerous for us not to have it. This is the only real evidence that you and I have that the Charm School did exist. It is our insurance policy.”

She nodded in understanding.

Hollis said, “I’ll send this along with a letter to my father in Japan. I’ll have a seaman post it in Liverpool before we get off the ship. Then when we get to London, we’ll talk about things with our friend, Mr. Banks.” He looked at her. “So what do you want from all this?”

She smiled. “I’ve got it. You.”

He smiled in return.

She added, “And we have Gregory Fisher’s murderer, don’t we? I mean, I know that Burov is not the sole murderer. The system is a killer. But a little justice was done.”

Hollis sipped on his coffee. Lisa yawned. Through occasional breaks in the clouds, shafts of sunlight came in through the portholes and lay on the table for a time. A seaman appeared at the door and said, “Captain Hughes wishes you to know that we’ve passed Kronshtadt. We are in undisputed international waters.”

“Thank you.”

Lisa looked at Hollis. “Another step home.”

“We’ll get there.” Hollis stood and went to the starboard porthole. He stared out to sea awhile, then turned and found Lisa standing in front of him. They looked at each other, then spontaneously she threw her arms around him.

The steward opened the door of the chart room, mumbled something, and backed out.

She buried her face in his chest. “My God, Sam, I’m so tired…. Can we make love this morning…? My parents buried their daughter…. They’ll be delirious to see me…. Come home with me…. I want to meet your odd family…. Sam, can I cry for Seth? Is that all right?”

“Of course. You’re shaking. Let me take you to your room.”

“No, hold me.” She said softly, “Can we pretend that after our lunch in the Arbat we flew to New York and nothing happened in between?”

“No, we can’t do that. But we can try to make some sense of it. Try to understand this whole mess between us and them. Maybe I’ll teach you about Soviet air power, and you explain Gogol to me. We’ll both learn something that no one else cares about.”

She laughed. “I’d like that.” She hugged him tighter. “Later I’ll tell you a Russian bedtime story.”

They stood silently for a long time, listening to the sounds of the ship and the sea, feeling the roll and forward momentum of the freighter as it moved westward, away from Russia.