

IRON DOGS

&

CAESAR'S RUBY

DAVE R. MORTENSEN

This is a work of fiction that contains various references to actual events and some genuine historical figures as well as locales. In some cases those events are portrayed in non-historically accurate ways. The names of fictional characters, places and the incidents described are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to businesses or establishments, government entities, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Iron Dogs & Caesar's Ruby

Smashwords Edition

Copyright, 2013, by Dave R. Mortensen.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Ollie and Nancy, Ray and Bonnie and Tex and Mazie

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

If you are old enough, try to remember what things were like in the late '90s.

I originally started writing this in 1997 and was about three-fourths of the way through in 1998 when I had a computer hard-drive failure. After more than ten years passed I came across an outline I had printed out and filed away and decided to restart from memory.

For me, as well as the modern-day characters in this novel set in 1997, Y2K was just becoming part of the news vernacular; gas was about $1.25; the 'world-wide-web' was rapidly emerging but most users were dialing into it and Google was still just an idea; Bill Clinton was in his second term; Pathfinder landed on Mars; the movie _Titanic_ was released; Princess Diana was killed in a car accident; John Denver, Jimmy Stewart and Jacques Cousteau died; IBM's "Deep Blue" computer defeated Gary Kasparov and in a little over a year of playing professionally, at the age of 21, Tiger Woods won the Masters and became the number-one ranked professional golfer in the world.

None of those things have anything to do with the story but there are some things in 1997 that do; the U.S. tour of the Russian's "Jewels of the Romanovs" exhibit being the most significant, including a stop in Houston, Texas.

Now try to put yourself in the place of the citizens of the USSR in the '40s and imagine what it was like for the people living under Joseph Stalin. Then consider the misery of a brutal war in which over seven million citizens and soldiers died. In the "Great Patriotic War" against the Nazis, nearly twice that number were injured or wounded or debilitated by famine and disease.

In that era, large parts of the Soviet population became little more than slaves to the regime. Ethnic cleansing was an almost routine practice but instead of concentration camps and gas chambers, people were sent to work and die laboring in the gulags in the vastness of the Soviet Union.

Against that backdrop, consider the lengths Joseph Stalin was willing to go to in order to defeat the Nazi's, remain in power and spread his view of communist dogma; there were no limits. Megalomaniac, paranoid, sociopathic, ruthless – those are just a few of the terms that are still used to describe him, but for me, the most apt description of all is _cunning_.

Make no mistake, Stalin is not the central figure of this novel – instead, something he might have done that would have enormous consequences for an American family some fifty years later is the catalyst.

And attention, WWII aviation history buffs: I know, some of the dates of some fictional events might not seem authentic – but some are. Try to enjoy the story without looking up something on Google every few hours!

On the other hand, for those who aren't familiar with the world of the '40s, by all means, have your browser and mouse ready; the history involved is as fascinating as it is troubling.

Dave R. Mortensen

IRON DOGS & CAESAR'S RUBY

CHAPTER LINKS

Prologue. – Montgomery County, Texas, February, 1997

Chapter 1. – Leningrad, USSR, Winter, 1942

Chapter 2. – The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas, Wednesday, May 21, 1997

Chapter 3. – Houston, Texas, Wednesday Night, May 21, 1997

Chapter 4. – Moscow, USSR, January, 1942

Chapter 5. – Houston, Texas, 12:30 a.m., Thursday, May 22, 1997

Chapter 6. – The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Chapter 7. – Leningrad, USSR, September, 1942

Chapter 8. – Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Chapter 9. – USSR, September, 1942

Chapter 10.– Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Chapter 11.– Southern Ural Mountains, USSR, September, 1942

Chapter 12.– Near Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Chapter 13.– Chkalov, USSR, October, 1942

Chapter 14.– Calder Ranch, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Chapter 15.– The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR, 1946

Chapter 16.– Calder Ranch and Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Chapter 17.– Arlington Heights, Virginia, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Chapter 18.– Berlin, Germany, Soviet Sector and Moscow, USSR, October, 1946

Chapter 19.– Berlin, Germany, Soviet Sector, October, 1946

Chapter 20.– Calder Ranch, Texas, Friday, May 23, 1997

Chapter 21.– Houston, Texas, Friday, May 23, 1997

Chapter 22.– The Hill Country of Texas, Friday and Saturday, May 23 and 24, 1997

Chapter 23.– Calder Ranch, Texas, Saturday, May 24, 1997

Chapter 24.– Berlin, Soviet Sector and the USSR, November and December, 1946

Chapter 25.– Calder Ranch, Texas, Memorial Day Weekend, 1997

Chapter 26.– Berlin, Soviet Sector & the USSR, January, 1947

Chapter 27.– Texas, Tuesday, May 27, 1997

Chapter 28.– The U.S. and U.K., Thursday, May 29, 1997

Chapter 29. – Cambridgeshire, U.K. and Houston, Texas, Saturday, May 31, 1997

Chapter 30. – Houston, Texas, Sunday, June 1 through Tuesday, June 3, 1997

Chapter 31. – Long Island, New York, 0230, Wednesday, June 4, 1997

Chapter 32. – Houston, Texas, Wednesday, June 4, 1997

Chapter 33. – Long Island, New York, Wednesday, June 4, 1997

Chapter 34. – U.K., Thursday Morning, June 5, 1997

Chapter 35. – The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR, January, 1956

Chapter 36. – Cambridgeshire, U.K. and Calais France, Thursday afternoon, June 5, 1997

Chapter 37. – Cambridgeshire, U.K., Thursday evening, June 5, 1997

Chapter 38. – Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Thursday evening, June 5, 1997

Chapter 39. – Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Late Thursday night, June 5, 1997

Chapter 40. – Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Friday, June 6, 1997

Chapter 41. – Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Saturday evening, June 7, 1997

Chapter 42. – Houston, Texas, Friday, October 24, 1997

Chapter 43. – Kirkland Estate, Cove Neck, Long Island, New York, November 19, 1997

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

Montgomery County, Texas, February, 1997

Knowing well the route to the address for her next delivery, the FedEx driver was careful not to exceed the speed limit on the farm-to-market road carving its way across the sprawling and irregular patchwork quilt of ranches and farms. On this undulating, two-lane ribbon of asphalt many miles northwest of Houston, an inattentive driver could suddenly come upon almost anything from a semi hauling cattle to gaggles of wildly-colorful bicyclists to a pair of riders loping along on horseback. Worse yet were the tractors or even larger farm implements; in many places the dirt and gravel on the shoulders could be loose enough to ruin your whole day if you had to suddenly swerve around something wider than a highway-lane rumbling along at less than ten miles per hour.

Today was like most of the delivery trips she made to the Calder ranch with one exception – the single, small box was addressed to the owner's recently widowed mother.

The familiar, gradual turn straightened and she coasted then turned left onto the private road, stopping a few yards from the gate at a stone pedestal. Leaning out of the open door she lifted a phone handset from a covered intercom box and when a voice came on the line she smiled and waved in the direction of a camera embedded in one of the gate pillars. "This one's for you Mrs. C.," she responded into the handset. Before she hung up the phone, the heavy steel-barred gate began rolling away to the side on its track.

Little more than a half mile beyond the gates she turned left onto a gradually sloping concrete driveway that veered off toward the home of Cecil and Margaret Calder. Even before she pulled the truck to a stop at the apex of the large loop in front of the porch she saw the woman waiting at the top of the steps. "Hi, Mrs. C.," she called out with a bright smile. She shut off the engine and soon stepped out of the truck with the small box and her clipboard. "Looks like y'all are the important one today."

At seventy-six, with greenish eyes and long, gray-white hair tied back in her usual thick pony-tail, the diminutive woman known to almost everyone as 'Mrs. C.' was a little surprised. She couldn't recall the last time she was the sole recipient instead of acting as the signatory for the packages that sometimes arrived at the ranch when her son and his wife were away from their nearby home.

"Hi Deedee," she said warmly with a ring of true Texas drawl to her voice. "Now, don't tell me they had y'all drive all the way the hell out here for _that_ little thing?"

"Oh no, Ma'am ... I've got a few stops out this way," the young woman said as she climbed up the low steps of the expansive covered porch. "Fact is, weather like this I don't mind a bit." Handing over the clipboard and pen she commented on how ruthless Mother Nature had been with the south Texas gulf recently. "Maybe we'll get dried out this week ... coupl'a weeks back we even had trucks stuck in town in water up to the headlights." She looked at the box label and her thin eyebrows knitted in puzzlement. "This one's come a ways."

Margaret Calder examined the printed form on the clipboard more closely. "Will you look at that ... Colchester, England?"

"Where's that?"

The older woman thought for just a moment then signed on the line and shook her head. "I don't know ... but I guess I'm gonna find out," she said pleasantly as she traded the clipboard and pen for the package. "Thanks, Deedee," she added with a natural, automatic smile.

The driver turned and trotted down the stairs then as she rounded the corner of the truck she called back with a friendly tease, "Must be a secret admirer!"

"Y'all drive careful now!" Margaret admonished loudly as the noisy engine started. Instead of waiting on the porch to exchange another wave as the truck rounded the loop she was already opening her front door.

"What on earth?" she asked quietly as she swung the door closed then went directly through the living room down a hall past the dining area and into the kitchen. Retrieving a pair of scissors from a drawer, she stood at the rectangular table and began attempting to open the heavily-taped cardboard box. After nearly jabbing herself with the scissors she cursed whoever thought it necessary to over-use seemingly impenetrable tape for such a lightweight package.

More-or-less ripping the top flap of the box open caused a handful of foam packing shells to scatter out onto the table and the floor. "Damn these things," she muttered as she dug a few more out of the box and raked them into a pile.

The first thing she found inside was a folded page of typewriter paper embedded in the contents. Scanning it confused her thoroughly. _This isn't right,_ she told herself then read the odd page in more detail.

"What is this ... e-b-a-y?" she asked, spelling it aloud then read another part: " _Congratulations! You're the winning bidder_."

Bidder?

She suddenly remembered her deceased husband talking about computer auctions but she also recalled he refused to use eBay, preferring to stick with the classified ads in a handful of major newspapers where coin collectors dealt with people they knew and could trust. _'On that computer thing, you don't really know who you're buying from or selling to'_ , he had warned emphatically.

"Somebody's sure as hell confused," she announced firmly then saw something on the page about categories and noticed the words _jewelry_ and _costume_ , then focused on the paragraph labeled ' _Item description'_ :

Very unusual large ruby colored stone (paste?) pendant with painted leaf and brass wire twig decorations. I don't know the age but it has been in my collection for over 10 years.

She looked at the black-and-white image of the item she had allegedly bid on and admitted to herself that she had never seen anything like it. Now very curious, she fished around in the package and found a smaller cardboard box wedged among the packing near the bottom. This one was made of a thinner but more rigid material with a dappled dark-green surface and had a lid held in place by old and fraying silk ribbons tied in a bow.

The thought of opening something that might not belong to her was troubling; the fact that the name of the sender, ' _Camilla Farnsworth_ ' and the town in England were complete unknowns only added to her apprehension. She finally decided it really couldn't do any harm to look at it before she went to the trouble of having it sent back to the apparently mistaken or simply careless ' _Camilla_ '.

After undoing the bow and removing the lid she carefully pushed aside the aging and crisp excelsior packing, revealing a small, dark-gray velvet drawstring bag. She studied it as she pulled it up from the clingy packing and realized whatever was in it was fairly heavy for its size. Now even more intrigued, she untied the strings without bothering to pick off the bits and pieces of wood shavings. After pulling the mouth of the bag open she reached in and fished the irregular item from it.

Somewhat smaller than a hen's egg, it was unlike anything she had ever seen and she sensed it was quite old. The stone itself was like a giant unevenly-formed reddish-purple blackberry and had not only dark leaf decorations at the top but what looked like tiny, gold-colored curling sprouts attached in places.

"Oh, my," she said in an admiring whisper. "What do we have here?"

She was no expert in jewelry; her small collection of valuable pieces rarely left its rosewood cabinet in her bedroom. Rather than gifts of jewelry over the years, her late husband had been more likely to come up with a rare addition for her Lladro collection or something eminently more practical like a saddle, a firearm or a gift to some charity in her name.

The more she looked at the beautiful object the more she began to worry that it might be something of real value and concluded this had to be some terrible mistake – probably a technologically-based one.

"Well, you know Camilla, I don't know what it's really worth ... but I guess we're going to have to find out how to get this back to y'all," she said as she prepared to put it back in its box. Only then did she notice the small envelope on the inside of the lid; reading the name written on it in a compact but elegant cursive hand nearly stopped her heart.

Now trembling with a combination of apprehension and excitement, she sat down and managed to remove and open the envelope without tearing it apart. The simple, handwritten, unsigned note had been folded to fit and she held her breath while she read it:

I wanted you to know that you and Cecil will always be in my heart.

I am deeply saddened and truly sorry this has taken so many years to find you.

"Alexsandr," she gasped in a whisper as tears began to well up. "My God ... you're still _alive_!"

CHAPTER 1

Leningrad, USSR, Winter, 1942

At the surprisingly advanced age of sixty-three, Sergei Molenkov was among the oldest of the unlucky remaining survivors of _blokada Leningrada_ , the on-going siege of Leningrad. As one of the starving but still somewhat useful workers, he had yet to be scraped together into the almost suicidal defense forces resisting German Feldmarshal von Leeb's Army Group North in the regions around the city.

During the seemingly endless months of the horrifying siege, hundreds of thousands of Leningrad's citizens that hadn't been evacuated died of starvation or succumbed to the cold or disease; tens of thousands were killed in the bombing and shelling; thousands had been executed for "crimes" such as stealing a ration card or carrying a leaflet the Nazis had dropped from the air suggesting the survivors turn on their Stalinist leaders and surrender.

On a stool hunched over his workbench where he fitted parts into and adjusted trigger assemblies, Molenkov looked up when his eye caught his supervisor walking briskly in his direction through the aisles of similar workers. His stomach knotted when he saw the man was accompanied by a Commissar Officer.

"Comrade Molenkov," the supervisor said loudly over the shop noise as the two men approached.

Molenkov set the assembly he had been working on down and wiped his hands on a rag then turned and rose from his stool, steadying himself with a hand on the workbench.

The officious younger man in a surprisingly unspoiled uniform stepped in front of the moribund supervisor and stated flatly, "Comrade Sergei Molenkov."

When Molenkov did not respond the man eyed him coolly and didn't hide the frustration in his voice. "You _are_ Sergei Molenkov, yes?"

The old man nodded then looked with some trepidation to his supervisor, who scowled and said, "This is Molenkov."

The officer sighed impatiently then leaned in and ordered, "Come with me, Comrade."

Molenkov was now more than just wary and confused; being taken away from work could only mean bad things and he wracked his brain to think of what minor infraction on his part might have been discovered. _Did someone turn me in for something?_ he asked himself as he recalled the myriad of typical secret acts of daily survival, any number of which could have been construed as illegal.

He found it difficult to keep up as he followed the officer through the factory and they finally stopped at the floor manager's office door where papers were handed to a clerk. As he waited, Molenkov noticed two other men standing near one of the exits and after a few seconds he thought he recognized one of them. _No, that is not possible_ , he told himself then decided not to say anything as the three were led outside into the even more frigid cold toward an awaiting truck.

With some assistance from men already in the cargo bed, they climbed into the rear and found places to sit as the heavy canvas tarp at the back was unrolled from the top and tied down. With their eyes not adjusted to the darkness they waited silently in the cold then heard shouted orders just before the truck's engine seemed to reluctantly growl to life. Moments later as it started moving Molenkov heard a voice ask, "Sergei? Sergei Molenkov?"

He turned in the direction of the sound but could only make out a shape. "Yes?" he answered, trying to be heard above the intermittent noise.

"It is Boris!" the man said excitedly.

The name registered poorly from a part of Molenkov's memory that had been created long ago, then the truck came to a rather abrupt stop and he leaned further after improving his grip on the wooden slats of the bench. "Boris?"

The voice came back with a note of exasperation. "Boris Tsokolalev. You do not remember?"

Someone seated at the back end of the truck bed managed to manipulate a portion of the canvas flap, letting a beam of grey light in.

"Tsokolalev?" the man holding the canvas open asked in astonishment. "You ... you are Boris Tsokolalev?"

Molenkov could finally see the man seated across from him but he could not believe his eyes. "Tsokolalev? Boris?" His voice fell to a whisper. "It cannot be."

Tsokolalev didn't react – instead he continued trying to see the man at the back, shielding his eyes from the glare. "I can't—"

The grizzled man at the tailgate said emphatically, "Vatolkin! Illia Vatolkin! Number twenty-four _Bolshaya Morskaya_."

In an almost shout Tsokolalev said, "Illia!" then abruptly turned again to Molenkov and pointed to the other man. "You remember Illia?"

Molenkov's memory made the connection and he suddenly realized two men he had not seen in decades were riding with him in a military truck. The fact that their shared fate was unknown seemed to be forgotten and he couldn't conceal the joyous amazement. "Illia! Is that you? This is not possible ... we thought you were dead ... how could this be?"

Vatolkin adjusted the canvass again and the light diminished, temporarily leaving them all with even poorer vision. Over the noise and pausing when the truck's abrupt movements jarred him, he told his story of being arrested in 1918, accused of being involved in Madame Fabergé's escape to Finland. After being sent to a gulag for three years, he was inexplicably freed and had returned to Leningrad, working mostly at repairing watches and clocks. For the last two years he had been assigned to machining parts for telephones.

"Boris?" Molenkov asked the man across from him, "All this time ... were you in the armory ... there in the same factory with me?"

The little man laughed grimly. "Two days. No, no, three days my old friend. Until Tuesday I was repairing tin ware then they decide I should put sights on guns."

A man further forward in the truck spoke up. "You worked at Fabergé?"

Everyone turned in the direction of the voice.

Molenkov said firmly, "I did."

In the dark, with the irregular motion of the truck it was difficult to tell if anyone else nodded in agreement or was shaking their head.

Another question came from the same man, "What did you do?"

"I cut gemstones and made carvings," Molenkov replied proudly. "And you?"

"Metal refining."

Another voice spoke up. "Enamels."

"As I did," another said then added tiredly, "My name is Yuri Kozhedub."

After another moment of reflection Molenkov asked in wonder, "Yuri? ... Do you remember me?"

"I, I ... it has been so long," the man replied. "I cannot say."

"Sergei Molenkov – it's Sergei," he said enthusiastically.

Vatolkin worked the canvas open again, this time providing enough light to allow them to study the faces around them in more detail. The eleven men in the back of the truck quickly realized age had made the task of recognition extremely difficult if not almost impossible; they had not seen each other for well over twenty years and the horror of what Leningrad had become had turned older men seemingly ancient.

Tsokolalev asked loudly enough to be heard by all of them, "The House of Fabergé ... we all worked there ... am I right?"

"Eleven years," Molenkov said. "A journeyman under Perchin."

Each of the men followed suit and took their turn stating the number of years they had worked in what had once been the premiere Fabergé production facility.

The sound of the engine quieted slightly and with an alarming screeching of brakes the truck came to a stuttering stop on the snowy road's surface. As the canvas was rolled up they heard more voices then saw armed soldiers standing nearby.

" _Iz,_ _vyyti iz gruzovika_ ," (out, get out of the truck), they heard as the tailgate swung down. Two of the soldiers assisted some of the less agile to the ground then escorted the odd little assembly of old men through the dry, crunching snow to a Commissar Officer who led them into a driveway between two tall buildings and through two heavy doors into a vestibule.

The sentries inside gestured to the group to move into the large, windowless room where more than fifty elderly men were already seated on wooden benches.

Some began recognizing acquaintances and friends from their distant past and the word spread that all of them had worked either for the House of Fabergé or for a number of its suppliers.

A short, fleshy-faced Commissar Officer, wearing thick glasses stepped into the room with a list in his hand and began scanning the assembled group of what could easily have been declared men too old to be of any viable use.

Molenkov watched and listened as the man called two names at a time then perfunctorily gestured toward the door to an adjoining office. On the other side of the door Commissar Officers could be seen, two standing behind tables covered with several stacks of papers and two sitting behind small desks.

When he heard his name he got up stiffly, walked up the aisle and across the room into the office and stood before one of the desks. In moments he was answering questions about his prior work from an impatient man who didn't even look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. When the list of questions seemed to be completed, a printed paper and pen were passed across the table from the man standing behind it. "Sign here," he heard and looked at the pointed finger on a line. "You are to start a new work assignment immediately, Comrade."

Molenkov took the pen and unsteadily signed the document then the bureaucrat unceremoniously stamped it and what looked like a copy.

"Give these to the Lieutenant outside," the man said then handed him several papers. "You will be taken to your residence to collect your personal items. You will be going away. A uniform will be provided. You can bring only one piece of luggage. Keep that in mind. Through that door Comrade."

Molenkov seemed frozen in time. "Yes Comrade, but—?"

The Officer cut him off with a bored, dismissive glance and a raised hand. "One more thing, Comrade. You are to say nothing about your new work assignment. Is that understood?"

When Molenkov didn't respond immediately the official asked more forcefully, "Do you understand, Comrade?"

Molenkov hesitated for only a second then nodded and said, "Yes, Comrade, I, I ... but where am I going?"

The man glared at him impatiently and pointed toward the door. "There, you are going through that door," he said icily.

Another man was already waiting to take Molenkov's place in the office and the room he had come from was still half full; he decided it was best to move and not ask any more questions.

In the hallway beyond the office a Red Army Sergeant with a disfigured face and wearing a shabby uniform looked at him dully as he reached out for the paperwork. After only glancing at it he handed it back, turned and pointed toward a door. "That way."

Molenkov walked down the hall and went through the door to the outside where an aging enlisted man of undeterminable rank stood in the cold and pointed him to the opening of a parking garage across a small courtyard. "There," the man huffed weakly.

Once inside near a line of several parked cars, Molenkov handed his paperwork to a soldier who struggled to read it, adjusting his glasses with one hand and holding the page up close. "Mulnikov?" the soldier asked.

"Molenkov," he corrected

Irritated at having his failed eyesight pointed out the soldier consulted a map for several moments then gestured toward a driver who rose up from leaning on the fender of one of the cars. "Give this to him."

Molenkov took the papers and approached the driver and after taking one page and reading it the woman simply pointed to the rear door then got behind the wheel and started the car. The two men already seated inside were strangers and although he was now almost certain they had also been workers at Fabergé, they rode without speaking and were dropped off at their respective _kommunalkas_ , the shared residences most Soviet citizens were forced to live in.

Having gathered what little there was of his possessions from his space in the dingy room, he rudely ignored the prying questions of a busybody woman tenant, then waited at the front door of his building with his suitcase at his feet, opening the door nervously several times in anticipation and with no small amount of trepidation. Fortunately, none of the other residents of the building came or left; he had no need to fabricate some kind of story for them and he hurried outside when he heard the car approach and come to a stop.

The three men rode in silence through the almost deserted streets to the _Dvortsovaya Naberezhnaya_ , the Palace Quay, along the Neva River where the vast complex that was the Hermitage had been established.

The eastern wing of the _Zdanie Glavnovo Shtaba,_ the General Staff Building, had once housed the Foreign and Finance Ministries until those functions had been moved to Moscow; to the men's shared and growing astonishment, the car pulled to a stop near a portico and the driver ordered them out.

When they got out of the car a man checked their papers then directed them through a door to an anteroom where a bulky, stern-faced woman in a housekeeper's uniform instructed them to clean the snow and dirt off their boots with brooms that were passed from one to another. Once satisfied with the results, she led them along a broad corridor to a set of stairs and down into a large, windowless room nearly filled with rows of tables and benches.

Molenkov immediately realized the room was not just out of the reach of the frigid Russian winter elements – it was actually heated and the men already there were no longer wearing their collection of rags or tattered outer clothes. He loosened the thread-bare towel that had served as his scarf and opened his coat, relishing the warmth as he looked around. "Tsokolalev?" he asked aloud amidst the quiet conversations.

"Over here," a voice came to him.

Molenkov worked his way over then slid his suitcase under the bench and sat above it. Two of the other men from their original truck journey soon joined them and they began looking around trying to identify any more familiar faces. Conversations in the room were subdued but in some places became almost affable; several more reunions took place as additional men were delivered to the Hermitage.

When the room was nearly full, Molenkov thought he smelled something other than what one would expect in a room with more than fifty men who had rarely worn clean clothes or bathed. "What is that smell?" he asked under his breath.

"I have long ago given up trying to identify such things," someone answered.

The man across the table from him said ruefully, "Leningrad has a way of destroying the senses."

"Bread?" someone whispered.

"Not just bread," said another.

A man behind Molenkov turned and said as if he could not believe his own nose, "I smell cabbage!"

Someone grumbled, "Bah ... what you smell is you!"

"No, no ... turnip ... those are turnip greens," someone else claimed.

The double doors at the end of the room swung open and three servers rolled in a cart of tin plates, bowls and cups that were quickly passed down the rows. Next were pots of hot tea, carried down the aisles and placed among the groups of men who quickly started pouring and drinking.

Two more carts, piled with small loaves of real bread and carrying two huge metal cook pots with aromatic steam rising from them were pushed into the room. Servers began by passing out the loaves then worked their way down the aisles ladling soup into bowls held up by eager, sometimes shaking hands.

Other than the repeated sounds of thanks and awe at what was being given them, talking quickly came to an end. Soon the only sounds in the room were made by hungry men using metal utensils to eat quickly but it wasn't long before low conversations resumed.

A man not far from Molenkov held up a small piece of what was probably sausage. "Where did this come from?" he asked before putting it in his mouth and slowly and methodically savoring it.

"I don't believe I want to know," another said under his breath.

The man who asked the question said, "I have not even seen a living animal in months."

Molenkov finished chewing a chunk of bread he had dipped in the salty broth. "This is not ration bread," he said.

"You are right ... there is no sawdust in it," someone whispered.

"Rye ... it _is_ rye," another said.

_I had forgotten what real bread tastes like_ , Molenkov admitted to himself then added in an almost whisper, "It seems to me ... I do not think we can do what they want with unsteady hands."

That assessment was gradually met with nods of agreement from the men around him; almost all of them had been weakened if not debilitated by malnourishment. It dawned on Molenkov that any of those who had been rejected were probably beyond any hope of recovery. _We are surviving – they will not_ , he thought.

While they were eating, a well-dressed civilian took a position at the doorway. "Comrades – I am Ivan Yeremenko," he said loudly. As the majority of the men raised their heads and turned, he went on. "Finish your meal while I deliver my message to you."

There were a number of men in the room who had heard of Yeremenko and the fact that a man of his position was addressing them was yet another surprise in this day of surprises.

"Comrades ... you have been chosen to work for the State Diamond Fund. I am its Director. The orders for your work come from the Kremlin ... from Comrade Stalin himself. I have come from Moscow to see for myself what is being done."

He definitely had their attention. To them, this was a man who probably spoke with Stalin frequently, perhaps even dined with him at one of his dachas from time to time. But while the men might have craned their necks or raised their heads to get a look at him more than once, they quickly returned their focus to their bowls. It wasn't lost on most of them that while Yeremenko lived and dined among their glorious leaders in Moscow, the bread and bowl of actual soup was the most they had eaten in a very long time and at this man's whim, could very well be their last.

Yeremenko introduced the tall, slender man next to him. "This is Comrade Merkulov. He is in charge of this facility. You will be meeting your supervisors shortly. Those supervisors report only to him. They will introduce you to your work assignments. Let me make one thing very clear before I leave – your best work is required. And, at your most rapid pace. If you cannot perform your tasks you will be returned to your previous assignments." As if wanting to make sure the men understood that threat, Yeremenko paused long enough to scan the room, looking at the men for even a hint of confusion. "As you will soon discover, Comrade Murkulov is an expert ... and a demanding one. He will accept only your finest work. Only the finest work will keep you here."

At that Molenkov and Tsokolalev shared a knowing glance across the table. Both realized the outlook for those who slacked off or did shoddy work was the eventual death sentence Leningrad had become.

Sounding much like a military officer, Merkulov then proceeded to outline their lives for the still-undeterminable future. They were to be housed in a barracks section near the dining hall they were now in. They would be provided with three sets of work clothes that must be kept clean. There was a facility for them to do their own laundry and failure to use it could mean an end to their assignment. Cleanliness, something that had been so recently foreign to them, was now of paramount concern.

They were not allowed to send letters or communicate with persons on the outside. They would eat in the dining hall in the morning at 0600 before reporting to their work and once again their meal would be served there in the evening at 1900. Their midday bread ration and tea would be brought to them near their work areas at noon each day.

Merkulov finished by announcing, "You may have questions but those will be addressed by your supervisors. When you are finished with your meal they will come to direct you to your quarters."

As Molenkov watched the haggard faces around him during the short speech he saw most of the men appeared almost numb – seemingly unable to believe in or understand their good fortune. A few were doing their best to conceal their distrust and cynicism but there were some who seemed eager to begin working.

Hushed discussions sprung up after Yeremenko and Murkulov left the room then the doors opened again and the servers brought out bottles of vodka. As they were being distributed and cups eagerly filled, a group of four civilian managers came into the dining hall.

"Comrades! Pay attention," one of them ordered loudly. "When you hear your name, bring your belongings and join the man who announced it."

As the names were read off each of the men noted who their supervisor was then quickly finished their vodka and rose. With full stomachs for the first time in many, many months, they gathered what possessions they had then joined one of the four clusters of men. As a group was complete, the supervisor led them out.

In the barracks he was quickly assigned an empty bunk that had a thin mattress rolled up at the head with a small pillow and a single blanket on top of it; the idea that one thin blanket would be sufficient was another introduction to the fact that the space was warm.

Clean work clothes, even stockings and underwear had been folded and stacked on a large table at one end of the room along with a collection of used but serviceable work shoes on the floor.

For the first time he realized there were already men living there; a few of the bunks near the entrance were made up and had clothes hanging on hooks by them.

"They thought of everything," a man noted aloud when holding up the pants and shirts. "No pockets ... no cuffs."

"Unpack. Then you will clean up," the supervisor ordered. "Take one set of your work clothes with you. You are to shower and discard what you are wearing in the bin near the lavatory door. You will shave and dress ... you will learn of your work assignments soon."

The supervisor left the long room and the men began following their orders, avoiding any communication other than to exchange glances and shrugs.

Molenkov looked at what he was wearing and quickly decided there was little or nothing he had on that could be salvaged other than a belt; months at a machine parts work bench had permanently rendered his clothing dark with grimy stains. The pores and creases in the thin skin of his aging hands still had residues of dark machine-oil and his cuticles were almost permanently blackened; his old sweat-stained cap had formed a crease in what was left of his thinning, almost white hair.

Crossing the hall to the lavatory, Molenkov placed the new clothing he had chosen in a space on a shelf then got undressed and discarded everything into the rapidly-filling bin of rags that had served so many men as clothes for far too long. To his astonishment the shower room had hot, not just warm water and there were bars of crude soap scattered around. Like all of the men, he lingered, marveling at the experience of hot water and getting really clean for the first time in months.

Razors were on a shelf and after showering they followed the instructions to shave, standing before small mirrors mounted above a long, trough-like sink running along one wall.

"This must have been senior enlisted men's quarters," the man next to Molenkov said quietly.

Molenkov looked around briefly as if someone might overhear than asked quietly, "You were in the army?"

The man shook his head. "Until this morning I was a pipe fitter. I have repaired fixtures in them before."

"I have not shaved in ... I cannot say I know now how long," another man said then set the razor down, rinsed the shaving soap from his face and examined the stranger before him in the mirror.

Molenkov, too, could barely recognize himself without the unevenly-shaded gray and white beard he had worn for so long. His sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes along with the blotches that had appeared on his skin made it seem as if he was looking at his dead father in the mirror.

Orders called out by the supervisor got them moving into the dressing area and some trades were quickly arranged among them to improve the fit of the work uniforms and footwear. They soon returned to the barracks where the supervisor eyed them carefully and a few instructions were given to get rid of old caps then the group filed out into the hallway.

Molenkov was not the only one who noticed the armed soldiers at the double-door they were led to and while there were uneasy glances exchanged no one spoke as the guards recognized the supervisor and stepped aside. Beyond was yet another long corridor they filed into then the guards closed the doors.

Molenkov whispered to the nearest man, "We are prisoners," and received a hint of a nod in response.

As the supervisor led them further along they could see workshops on each side – rooms that had a definite familiarity. The tools and machinery of fine jewelry making were arrayed in them and a handful of men were already at work.

"You can see we are just getting underway, Comrades. We have little or no time for practice."

One of the men from behind Molenkov spoke up. "How long will there be work for us, Comrade?"

The supervisor was devoid of emotion as he responded. "Until Comrade Yeremenko says there is no more to be done."

\- # -

Merkulov approached the only man seated at the cluster of workbenches in the otherwise vacant workshops. "You have done well, Comrade."

"Thank you," Molenkov said gratefully, knowing the only reason he was the last artisan still working in the shops was because of a skill only he had been gifted with. That gift had meant he was tasked with some of the most difficult and important work and he had not rushed.

Without saying a word Merkulov reached out his hand.

Molenkov handed him a fine cotton cloth then deposited the piece he was working on in the center of it. The manager used his magnifying glass to examine the work for nearly a minute. "Yes, yes," he said appreciatively. "It appears you are nearly finished?"

"Tomorrow ... maybe the next day you can exchange them back and forth without knowing."

"To the eye, of course," the manager said.

Molenkov nodded. "With a stone of that color and size it is impossible to truly duplicate ... replicate, yes. But only the most sophisticated of tests could possibly discern a difference between the two as to age."

"The enamel?" Merkulov asked.

"That, yes ... we cannot match it precisely ... and the gold ... there are impurities in the original as well but as long as no destructive test is performed I believe it will be indistinguishable."

"Tomorrow, you said?"

Molenkov nodded. "I believe so. I need just one more comparison to the original, Comrade."

"We will arrange it, Sergei. In the morning ... you get some rest now."

Molenkov removed his eyepiece and rubbed his eyes, surprised at the manager's use of his first name. He had been working alone without taking the kinds of small breaks one naturally did when working among others and found his back and shoulder's had stiffened. He stretched, flexed his hands and stepped off the stool then walked slowly out of the workshop and down the hall toward the empty barracks.

Murkulov placed the piece back on the pad then turned and walked out of the area to his office. He picked up the phone on his desk, ordered a connection made to Yeremenko and after less than a minute of waiting for the Director to be located he said, "Comrade Yeremenko, as of noon tomorrow the order will be filled."

\- # -

At noon the following day the manager handed Molenkov's completed piece to another man who examined it briefly then passed it to another inspector who placed it beside the original. After a thorough comparison with a powerful magnifying glass the man glanced at his compatriots and said flatly, "Done."

Merkulov nodded to the two men and they turned and walked away with the items in their possession.

Without looking his supervisor in the eye, Molenkov asked, "Comrade, may I speak freely?"

Almost casually the man asked, "What is on your mind?"

Molenkov struggled with the words. "I ... I ... what ... what will I do now? I cannot go back to making parts ... making parts for guns ... is there no work I can do here?"

Merkulov was forthright in following his orders. "We all have our assignments, Comrade. It is not for me to change the orders of the Kremlin."

Again at a loss for words, the old man's mind struggled with the thought of leaving the relatively luxurious conditions he had been living in. But that wasn't the only force dragging on him; an indefinable sense of dread was now mixed with a feeling that by making counterfeits of historical treasures he was somehow betraying the Motherland.

The unasked questions were haunting him almost as much as the fear of what would happen if he were to know the answers.

The supervisor shook his head. "You and the men who completed their assignments have been provided for. You will not have to fight the Nazis, Comrade," he offered reassuringly then lowered his voice and his tone became almost fatherly. "Now, go. Pack your things then come to my office. You will collect your pay and there will be transportation."

Molenkov finally accepted the fact that there was no more to be done. As he walked for the last time back to the empty barracks he began to feel his future was more than just unsettled; they had been so sequestered that he knew nothing of what Leningrad was now like nor the status of the war.

Putting his new clothing in the old suitcase didn't assuage the sense of worry but as he walked to the manager's office he gradually resigned himself to having no choice but to go back and find out what work he would be put to. Almost reluctantly, he stood at the door of the office and finally knocked.

"Enter," he heard and opened the door into the supervisor's office.

"Guard this carefully, Comrade," Merkulov said as he turned and lifted a burlap sack then passed it to Molenkov. "You will find several days worth of rations in it, including a sausage ... I should warn you, men have been killed for much less."

Molenkov's surprise was obvious. "Thank you, Comrade," he said gratefully as memories of what life had been like raced through his mind. He was about to offer his hand to the man he had worked for over the months but thought better of that kind of personal gesture. Instead he simply said, "Thank you," again with all the warmth his fears would allow him to generate.

"Good bye, Comrade," Merkulov said evenly.

Molenkov turned and walked out of the office and closed the door for the last time. With his pay envelope in his coat, the heavy sack over his shoulder and his suitcase in his hand he followed two enlisted men down a series of corridors to an exit door that opened onto a driveway. They pointed him into the back of a small truck with a covered bed and he set his things over the tailgate then managed to climb in without assistance; months of decent rations had taken years off his apparent age.

He leaned up against the side and was rocked back and forth as the truck navigated a series of long, narrow drives then finally stopped. He could hear the driver say something, then the truck lurched forward again and in the receding view out the back he saw guards lower the cross-bar back into place. When the truck came to another halt at what he estimated was almost a half-kilometer further he heard the driver call out to him. "This is as far as we take you, Comrade – your transport is out on the street."

Struggling somewhat with his suitcase and the sack, he managed to get out and walk forward. As he passed the cab with his exhaled breath spinning off into the air he said, "Thank you, Comrades."

When he realized the heavy wooden doors of the exit were still closed he turned back toward the truck but the driver waved him on.

"Pound on it. They will open it," he heard the man shout.

As Molenkov trudged some thirty meters forward some of the details of the wooden doors became more visible. There were no hinges; the marks and stains were very strange. Now even more bewildered, he asked aloud quietly, "Bullet holes?" _Had there been fighting this close to the palace?_

Just as he was going to set his case down to pound on the huge door he realized something else was wrong. What had first appeared to be a set of heavy gate doors was actually a thick wooden wall mounted against the stone; his stomach turned when an unwanted thought surfaced: _Those stains – they look like dried blood._

The primitive part of the man's mind was awakening, telling him to flee but his body remained paralyzed by rational thought. _They would not do this!_ _There is no reason for this!_ All-too-soon it began to make sense; none of the men doing this work could have been left alive to reveal what they had done.

In despair rather than adrenaline-driven panic he slowly turned around to look back. By the time he was facing the truck the suitcase and sack had been dropped to the ground and he saw the driver and passenger already stationed outside the vehicle with their rifles raised.

"Fools ... just old fools—" were his last, whispered words.

The darkness came instantly and Sergei Molenkov didn't see the soldiers approach, collect the same well-used pay envelope and sack of food that had been carried there so many times before.

CHAPTER 2

**The Museum of Fine Arts,** **Houston, Texas, Wednesday, May 21, 1997**

Fortunately for everyone attending the gala on this evening, the deluge that had battered and soaked the gulf region of Texas earlier in the day had finally abated, somehow leaving behind even more humidity than normal but also unseasonably cooler temperatures. Consequently, the benefactors of Houston's Museum of Fine Arts and their friends and invited guests didn't need to worry about being dampened or breaking a sweat between the valet parking line and the climate-controlled indoor environs; even those who self-parked nearby risked little chance of being visibly uncomfortable in formal wear.

The invitation-only preview of the Russian "Jewels of the Romanovs" touring exhibit drew in the art-loving crowd that had either made substantial donations to the institution over the years or were guests of those who had. In addition to the chance to ogle the collection of priceless treasures prior to the public opening, some considered it a social obligation to be there; some viewed it as an opportunity to see and be seen. Then there were those drawn by the curiosity of having honest-to-God formerly communist Russians in town, including a senior bureaucrat of indecipherable political position but seemingly significant stature in the world of art history.

Even with the atypical late-spring cool, a casual visitor would still have been able to tell this was Texas; there are few other states where evening wear routinely includes exotic-skin cowboy boots and margaritas outnumber martinis four-to-one.

The floating sounds of a Paraguayan harpist and a guitarist were seemingly incongruous against the historical Russian theme of the exhibit; the more popular southern flavor presented by the performers had been selected rather than typical attempts at reproducing the less-than recognizable Eastern-European sounds of the prior century; the organizers were not trying to replicate an era – it was a fund-raising party, after all.

Michael Kirkland had come to Houston expecting—among other things—to at least get a first-hand sample of the seemingly unique Texas cuisine, but standing before one of the many serving tables distributed around the huge museum he actually felt slightly disappointed. The quite spectacular offerings prepared by some of the area's stellar chefs included almost everything but what he was looking for.

"My first trip to Houston and I find I'm at a loss," he mused toward one of the uniformed serving staff, deliberately loud enough to get a tall, auburn-haired and elegantly-dressed woman nearby to turn her head slightly. "But this is excellent," he suggested pleasantly to the grinning young man on the other side of the serving table.

Elanore Calder balanced a fork on her tiny plate then turned fully to see who it was with the sort-of-British accent. When she did see the man's face she was a little taken aback. _Damn,_ she said to herself as she smiled automatically then assumed her preferred role as hostess. She stepped slightly closer and extended her hand to the stranger and in a subdued Texas drawl she introduced herself. "Well, hello ... Elanore Calder ... welcome ... we are so pleased to see a new face here."

The tall, expensively-dressed man with the almost-chiseled features and short, dark hair took her hand gently but firmly. "Michael Kirkland, at your service," he said fluidly with the barest hint of a bow, trying not to overtly study her.

"Oh, my," she said with a slight chuckle then charmingly added, "You really aren't from 'round here are you?"

The now less-subtle twang of the woman's voice gave him a chance to try a poorly-rehearsed cowboy imitation. "No, Ma'am, but I arrived as rapidly as possible," he said then quickly asked in his normal, slightly formal diction, "Was that the proper form?"

Sociable to a fault, Elanore Calder leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, "I really shouldn't give away state secrets, but it's, ' _I got here quick as I could_ '."

Kirkland repeated it back to her twice, sounding more like a bad version of John Wayne than a native.

She laughed again. "You're a quick study ... but, Mr. Kirkland—"

He raised a hand slightly and sounded as if he were pleading. "Please ... please, just Michael."

It dawned on her that the nails on the fingers of the large, powerful-looking hands appeared to be manicured and she managed to hide a bit of disappointment. _Oh, dear ... so good looking, so polite ... he's probably gay_. "Michael – well, that works for me. So, Michael, whereabouts are you from?" she asked then took a sip of champagne, noting also there was no ring on the left hand holding his drink.

"I'm based in New York ... I'm here doing research."

"Research?" she asked with a note of surprise. "You don't look much like a researcher, Michael," she tested coyly. "Somehow I can't see you in a lab coat unless you wore it on TV."

He grimaced only slightly. "I should say I'm an _appraiser_ doing research ... and I don't even own a laboratory smock," he advised.

She avoided snickering at his pronunciation of ' _laboratry_ ' then asked almost dubiously, "An appraiser?"

Glancing around he said, "I study the values of precious things," then he gestured toward a group of people surrounding a brilliantly-lighted cabinet with a fabulous piece of jewelry displayed in it. "That ... that brooch they are studying, for example ... that's a two hundred carat sapphire. There are fifty-six carats of diamonds around it ... it's antique to say the least." He turned again and after a quick survey of the not-so-subtle diamond earrings dangling below the woman's ears he smiled and gazed at her intently. "What would you suppose it might be worth?"

She blinked a couple of times then gazed at the display and took another sip of champagne before responding honestly and emphatically, "I have no clue."

He tilted his head down slightly, raised his eyebrows and pointed at her. "You are not only honest ... you're _not_ alone."

"So you're in the jewelry business?"

Kirkland shook his head then took a sip from his drink. "No ... not really, no, most of my clients are involved some way or another with the insurance business," he answered with deliberately incomplete honesty.

Elanore thought about that for a moment and noting the onyx-inlaid gold stud set he was wearing she came to a conclusion that while he was terribly attractive and obviously well off, his line of work must also be terribly dull. "Umm," she said while nodding then asked, "If I get too nosey, you just please tell me—"

"Oh, no, no ... not at all—"

"Whereabouts in New York?"

"Long Island – Cove Neck." When he saw it didn't seem familiar to her he added, "About forty-five clicks east-north-east of Manhattan."

_Clicks?_ She thought and paused only for a second before asking, "You're a pilot?"

He looked quite surprised as he asked, "And you?"

"Single engine, instrument rated," she said proudly.

Instead of appearing astonished he made a point of noticing the rings on her left hand. "Is the lucky man a pilot as well?"

The compliment wasn't enough to make her blush but she rolled her eyes slightly. "I only share Al with a bunch of pilots and old airplanes ... come with me, Michael," she said as she took his arm and began guiding him in the direction of a group that included her husband. "You have to meet Al ... we have to get you properly indoctrinated." Through the sleeve of the tailored tuxedo jacket she noticed his arm felt as unyielding as the neck of a horse. _And he works out, too,_ she added to her assessment of the new stranger in town.

Moments later her husband saw them approaching and recognized the slight tip of his wife's head that called him to break away from whatever it was he was engaged in. With a well-practiced look and a quick "excuse me" he moved away.

"Al," Elanore said, "you have to meet Michael – he's just gotten into town and before any of these cougars get to him I have managed to pry out of him that he's an insurance appraiser _and_ ... better yet, he's also a pilot."

"That's a good sign ... Alex Calder," the fiftyish-looking man said warmly, extending his hand. "Welcome to Houston."

As they shook hands Kirkland realized the man wasn't what he had expected for a chief executive of a giant technology company and museum trustee. A quick study first convinced him Calder had spent a lot of time outdoors – the tanned, somewhat rugged complexion made him look older than he probably was. The receding, thinning, salt-and-pepper hair swept straight back didn't exactly subtract any years from the image, but the firm grip and the lack of a gut behind the cummerbund told him Calder was more interested in being fit than trying to appear younger. "Michael Kirkland," he said pleasantly.

"Well, I see you've fallen under the spell of Houston's most determined hostesses," Alex offered warmly with a slight tip of his head toward his wife, then added conspiratorially, "I should warn you she has a reputation for introducing couples."

Kirkland looked as if he had been duly alerted but said, "Well ... maybe it's time to—"

With widened eyes and a slight wave Alex cut him off. "Let every eye negotiate for itself ... and trust no agent; for beauty is a witch against whose charms faith melteth in blood."

Kirkland couldn't help chuckling at the quote he struggled to recognize – but especially at the change in the man's accent which had switched from obvious Texan to stage-worthy Shakespearean English. "I'll try to be less gullible than poor ... poor ..." he said then shook his head and snapped his fingers. "Ah ... what's his name—?"

"Claudio," Alex interjected.

Kirkland nodded then made a toasting motion toward Elanore. "I'll take your word for it ... despite that, being the newcomer, I believe I should place myself at your mercy, Mrs. Calder."

She gave her husband a fleeting, almost petulant smirk then said graciously, "Well, I'm off to do what I do while you boys do whatever it is you do when I'm away doing what I do ... it was nice to meet you Michael."

"The pleasure was mine," Kirkland replied genuinely.

A moment after she swept away her husband mused, "A woman on a mission."

"What mission is that?"

"You married?"

"Oh no, no, no."

"Ah – well then, I'd say sometime in the next half-hour or so you're going to be introduced to one Catherine Cruz."

Kirkland smiled in anticipation. "I suppose I should be looking forward to it."

"I'll let you be the judge of that ... let's get a drink."

\- # -

Elanore Crawford found her way to the side of her former sister-in-law and asked very quietly without turning, "Did you see him?"

Accustomed to that kind of question from her best friend and confidant, the younger woman swept her eyes back and forth. "Him? Who?" she asked then casually turned and glanced around, trying to not be obviously on the lookout for what must have been someone impressive enough to garner Elanore Calder's attention; the bar her friend set was high. _Lesser mortals need not apply_ she reminded herself.

Elanore scoffed – but subtly. "Your radar must be down ... come on ... tell me you _really_ haven't seen him."

The somewhat shorter woman with almost black hair and large, dark-brown eyes finally looked at her former sister-in-law with a ' _no more bullshit_ ' expression. "Okay, El. Straight up. Where is he?"

There was a quickly-issued whisper in response. "Don't turn around – he's looking this way ... he's behind you over by the icons, talking to Al and the Engles and what's his name ... the pizza guy."

"Pizza guy?"

"What's his name ... the one with the ads—"

"Oh, I know who you mean—"

"Hell, I should know this," Elanore said, chastising herself then remembering what she had approached Catherine about. "Oh, but, he's over there by—"

"I'm supposed to have seen this guy but I can't turn around to see him?"

"Give it a bit," Elanore said instructively. "I'm gonna go talk with Al."

"And just leave me to keep looking around like an idiot?"

"Not for long," Elanore advised then set her drink flute down on a tray that was passing by. She smiled and waved faintly to another couple she knew then turned back to her friend and quietly fired off a rapid but detailed assessment: "Black tux, expensive tailoring ... six two and without boots ... dark hair a little on the short side, he knows how to shave ... blue-grayish eyes ... ah, he's from Long Island, no wedding ring, about five thousand bucks worth of studs, has manicured nails and arms like iron. He's also a pilot."

After several casual glances at the men in the immediate area Catherine was still at a loss. "Who is he?"

"He says he's an appraiser."

"Not what he is ... who he is."

"Michael Kirkland."

Catherine turned as casually as she could and froze when she spotted the man her friend had described.

Elanore saw the look. "Honey, he's pretty, but—"

" _Damn_ ," Catherine interrupted admiringly then turned back to her friend before he might catch her looking. "But what?

"His line of work sounds really dull."

\- # -

With guests drifting around and enjoying – or in some cases tolerating – the event to one degree or another, Catherine Cruz was in her element, fulfilling not only professional but social obligations as Curator, talking to anyone and everyone; making sure all the right people were getting the attention they expected; answering questions and circulating. Trying to keep an eye out for the striking man Elanore Calder had pointed out could only be done in a haphazard fashion in the expanses of the museum.

While talking with a couple she had known for several years she saw her friend break away from another group and subtly motion her over with just a faint lift of her chin. A funny sense of anticipation made her feel a little bit like a schoolgirl as she graciously excused herself. _Oh shit, here we go._

"Cath," Elanore began confidentially as she turned and took her aside, "we need a huge favor."

After listening for a moment and considering the request, Catherine's response was a definitive and incredulous, "No way ... there is no way we can let him do that ... the Russians would—"

Never one to see 'no' as anything more than a temporary annoyance, Elanore interrupted and played her trump card. "Just spend a few minutes with him. He's very convincing."

"Convincing—?"

"That too."

Catherine shook her head dismissively. "About what?"

Elanore fixed her friend with an almost stern look and turned up the dial on the normally subdued southern-belle drawl. "Hon, I don't pretend to know a whole lot about the history wrapped up in here, but I think I know when somebody _does_ know what they're talking about and _the_ most gorgeous, seemingly unattached man to walk in here in a long, long, _long_ time is holding court over there with some people who account for a large chunk of the annual budget 'round here and ... well ... just trust me on this one," she said then took a breath, sighed and lowered her voice even more, "they're lapping it up and y'all don't want to miss this. _Or him ..._ this first, then if things work out ... well, then you can tell me _all about_ him."

Catherine couldn't keep from grinning even as she tried to appear disapproving. She sighed heavily. "He actually wants to examine some of the exhibit pieces?"

Elanore nodded reassuringly. "Uh huh."

"As in open them ... take them out of the displays?"

"Uh huh ... not during the show ... tonight, after the crowd's gone."

" _Está fuera de su mente_ ," (he's out of his mind), Catherine whispered sternly.

Elanore smiled at her. "Not hardly."

In a whisper Catherine asked, "You don't think so?"

"Come on. Let's let him make his own case," Elanore said and turned.

As they deliberately wandered toward Kirkland and the small clutch of people he was talking to Elanore said to her quietly, "Please tell me you know something about this, this, ah, what the hell, this 'war of the great patriots'."

"The war of—that's _the great patriotic war_ ," Catherine corrected on mental autopilot.

At that Elanore paused and turned, looking and sounding thankful. "Oh, good ... that's a relief."

As they got closer one of the men participating in the discussion recognized them and turned to make introductions. "Dr. Kirkland ... this is Elanore Calder—"

"Yes, we've met," Kirkland said smoothly.

_Doctor_? Elanore wondered.

"—and Catherine Cruz, our Curator," the man added.

Before Kirkland took her outstretched hand he immediately realized he had noticed her during the evening; any man who hadn't would have to have been blind or on a very short leash.

From a distance it had been the long dark hair partially tied behind her head and the soft but definite curves of her figure in the fitted yellow gown. Close by, the large, dark eyes were captivating, set above high cheek bones separated by a narrow nose over wide and slightly lush lips. At a rare loss for words, the only thing Kirkland could come up with was, "Curator?" Without letting go of the gorgeous woman's delicate hand he turned slightly to Elanore Calder and said, "Your museum has the world's most beautiful curator – and I know a lot of curators."

"You didn't tell me it was _Doctor_ Kirkland," Elanore admonished slyly.

With his eyes back on Catherine, Kirkland suggested, "It tends to distract people from more consequential things." After saying it he regretfully let go of her hand before it might appear awkward. _I should have come here a long time ago,_ he told himself.

Elanore saw the twinkle in his eye then the look on Catherine's face and her worries and hopes for her friend ratcheted up equally. _Good Lord, The Great Leslie has come to Houston_.

\- # -

Instead of getting to know more about the beautiful woman on a personal level, Kirkland soon found himself participating in a back-and-forth kind of panel discussion with her before a growing group of guests who found themselves unexpectedly fascinated and entertained.

The impromptu, unscripted and enlightening dialogue ranged across centuries and continents and through wars, uprisings, natural disasters, marriages, infidelities, intriguing crimes and even conspiracy theories. Along the way they also exposed some of the not-generally-known character flaws of important historical figures and artists which resulted in even more questions.

At some point Kirkland finally suggested they may have monopolized too much of the guest's time and to the disappointment of some the show quickly wound down.

For Elanore the results were interesting to say the least; one woman touched her shoulder in passing and whispered, "Sell tickets for a rematch," then a man who had served with her on a local educational television board offered in confidence, "We need to get them on PBS, El ... this is too good to pass up," and told her he'd see her the following week; a slightly inebriated but brutally honest woman she had known for many years made Elanore nearly burst out laughing when she brushed by and whispered, "Get 'em a room, honey."

Watching the two for another few moments Elanore leaned closer to her husband and whispered, "Okay, tell me I'm right ... he's not gay."

Alex Calder snorted a short, quiet chuckle that nearly made him spill the drink he held. "You gotta be kidding," he said derisively. "Geez, El ... look at how he looks at her."

"But he just sounds so—"

"It's the British accent."

Elanore shot a hopeful glance of realization at her husband. "You know him?"

Alex shrugged. "Not a whole lot longer than you. Somebody 'round here knows him or he wouldn't have been invited."

Elanore was surprised she hadn't thought of that. Then the sudden feeling she had somehow been left out of the normal social loop that mattered in such things she said, "Okay, you're right. But who?"

He ignored the question. "You want my opinion they look pretty damn good together."

A more serious, protective tone materialized in her voice. "We need to know more about him ... I feel like I introduced them and we don't know diddly squat."

Alex took the opportunity to tease his wife about her mission to get Catherine Cruz connected to the right man. "You mean ... what you really mean is, now that you've seen them together ... now you need to know how we protect Cath from the dashing stranger who might ride off into the sunset with her ... or in his case, the sunrise."

She glared at back sternly. "Well, maybe ... okay ... yes." Her apparent displeasure with her husband's ignorance about the importance of such things dissolved as Kirkland and Catherine approached.

"So," Elanore began, trying to catch Catherine's eye to get a reading, "does Doctor Kirkland get to take a closer look?" Instantly recognizing the possible double meaning she deftly added, "At the jewels?"

Catherine was only momentarily caught off guard. She had forgotten what Elanore had originally requested and the issue of looking at the items after the show hadn't come up in talking with the Professor. After thinking for only a second she said, "Well, if I can convince Matt—"

Alex interrupted, "Know what ... I'll go talk to Matt," he said instructively, then rattled the ice in his empty glass and looked for a place to put it. "I saw him a minute ago," he said as he stepped away.

Catherine was relieved as she concluded the matter was about to be settled without her even having to ask. Alex Calder was not only a major benefactor and trustee he was in no small way responsible for Mathew Dunlap's longevity as Executive Director and the resulting success of the museum. "If you'll excuse me I'll go down and make the arrangements with security." With that she turned and walked toward the nearest staircase.

"I cannot thank you enough, Mrs. Calder," Kirkland said sincerely.

_He looks very pleased,_ she thought. "I figured they'd let you have a private viewing once the crowd's gone."

For a few seconds Kirkland looked confused. "Oh, that. Yes ... yes of course." His gaze was still on the woman now across the room at the opening to the stairs. "But especially for introducing me to Ms. Cruz."

\- # -

With the crowd and the catering crews gone and only the cleaning staff finishing up in various places, Kirkland was being escorted through the exhibits by Catherine Cruz and two armed security guards. He had immediately realized the pair wasn't the stereotypical retiree or bumbling fat-guy type; poised, athletically built and in tuxedos that were tailored to conceal their weapons, the only things that gave them away other than their watchful demeanor were the special high-grip soles of their dressy-appearing shoes and the subtle earpieces for communication. Earlier in the evening, unless one knew what to look for it would have been hard to point them out among the crowd.

Kirkland had introduced himself to the two men and to put them at ease he played the role of the inquisitive academic. He had already determined that the lengths the museum and the Russian team had gone to protect the collection were impressive; short of a massive, all-out armed incursion, their arrangements were fool-proof without a conspiracy of absurd proportions.

When he asked to examine something, one of the guards would speak to the control room via radio to turn off whatever kind of alarm was around or on the particular display case itself. When the guard got the approval and gave the okay, his partner would examine the lock on the cabinet and consult a computerized list to find the appropriate key on a large ring. Once that lock had been released, Catherine would take a specific electronic card credential from a stack only she carried and pass the card over a hidden proximity reader. When the second electric locking mechanism had released she would open the case and Kirkland could get close enough or even remove an item to physically examine it.

Wearing fitted, lint-free linen gloves and using his own loupe, Kirkland carefully examined a number of pieces, all the while offering no expressions nor making any comments.

His inspection of some of the world's most exotic and historically-significant treasures lasted less than fifteen minutes then he smiled warmly at Catherine after she closed a cabinet. They stepped back out of the way as the guard turned the mechanical key and said something into his microphone.

"I can't thank you enough," Kirkland said then turned to the guards. "Gentlemen, my compliments to your team," he said as he shook hands with them. "Remarkable attention to detail."

One of the men nodded slightly but smiled only briefly. "It's what we do, Professor."

"That's all?" Catherine asked, unable to conceal a little bit of disappointment.

"More than I could have wished," he answered honestly.

"And?"

He looked confused.

"Opinions, Professor?"

He flashed a sly smile and said quietly as they walked away from the guards toward the exhibit hall passage, "That will cost you dinner." When she didn't seem to be able to respond he added, "There's a place on Long Island ... they lay claim to offering what _they_ say is 'Tex-Mex' and I thought while I'm here ... I thought I'd find out if they're telling the truth. It appears they are not ... not that they're not telling the truth," he began then realized he was starting to babble as he looked into the woman's eyes. "I just haven't found ... I'm not from around here."

Several thoughts began swirling around in Catherine's head but she forced herself to focus on the one that had more to do with professional curiosity than what Elanore had in mind for her. "Sure. But ... I'm driving _and_ I'm buying."

Kirkland looked visibly relieved that he didn't have to try and explain further. "How could I refuse?"

The smile she saw threatened to extinguish all professional thoughts and Catherine thanked her genes for being able to blush almost invisibly. She had never let herself be truly swept off her feet and tried to ignore the physical sensations that were interfering with her concentration. "Give me a minute to get my things ... this late at night you'll have to trust me."

CHAPTER 3

Houston, Texas, Wednesday Night, May 21, 1997

Catherine returned from her office and they stepped out of the museum lobby into the now oppressive humidity of the evening. She pulled a paper ticket out of her tiny handbag as the valet trotted toward them then she looked at Kirkland. "It's easy to get lost around here."

"I know. I got a bit lost just getting here – twice," he admitted honestly.

"With this rain it's been dangerous in places ... especially west of town."

The young valet approached them and asked, "Ticket, sir?"

Kirkland shook his head as he gestured down the street. "I parked in the ramp, thank you."

Taking her ticket the valet turned to his key box and was soon dashing across the street and as Catherine waited to see if Kirkland would say anything more she tried to decide if she needed to ask something to fill in the pause.

He rescued her by turning and gazing into her eyes. Without making it a question he said, "You know the story behind Caesar's Ruby."

She looked into the intense but now color-distorted eyes in the yellow-orange artificial lights and confidently nodded. "It probably wasn't a Caesar's, it's not Russian and it's not a ruby ... and it was a gift to Catherine the Great from the King of Sweden." When he nodded slightly she added, "I actually did my homework on the exhibits, Professor."

"Ah, yes ... but, but ... the _real_ story is, it was more _bribe_ than _gift_ ," he pointed out then began scanning the street. "And there is questionable ownership involved in the provenance."

Not knowing what that might entail she started to ask, "There is—?"

"Because," he resumed with an index finger raised for emphasis, "Gustavus the third went to St. Petersburg with it ... all the while thinking he was going to go home from his visit with a bride ... a beauty by all accounts by the name of Alexandrina, who just happened to be Catherine's grand-daughter."

"A cousin ... marrying his cousin's granddaughter," she said with a touch of dismay, unsure which was most disturbing, the age difference or the possible genetic issues the offspring would encounter later on.

"Yes ... and think of it – Gus goes to St. Petersburg, hands over what they both think is a ruby from the Roman Empire and they negotiate the terms for the girl."

After a few seconds Catherine quipped sarcastically. "Ahh! How nice of them to work all that out for her."

"All well and good ... so far. But then dear ol' Gus actually _reads_ the marriage agreement Catherine had drawn up. Much to his dismay, the document didn't match up with what they had agreed on. Imagine that! His own _dear cousin Catherine,_ who just happens to be one of the most clever people in the world, tried to trick him! Apparently Gus decided not to sign and leaves poor little Alexandrina in the lurch – and Catherine kept the pendant."

She shook her head, keeping an eye out for her car then turned and grinned at him coyly. "Never underestimate a Catherine."

With mock wariness Kirkland said, "I'll keep that in mind." After a moment he bent down closer to her and momentarily tipped his head sideways in the direction of the museum door. "This one is a replica."

She tried not to look dismissive at the rather bold claim but the steady gaze she saw reflected more than just guesswork; there was an assurance in his eyes that implied far more than just theory.

Kirkland glanced around again to assure himself they were still alone before he went on. "The enamel is less than a hundred years old. Without a sample I can't say for certain but my opinion is it's a formulation made in Eastern Europe or Russia in the first part of the century, most likely by Fabergé."

She didn't really want to take issue with his assertion but asked skeptically, "Fabergé?"

"The gold appears to have been a product of this century as well."

_That's not possible_ her professional mind told her. A frown of disappointment formed on her face as she considered the implications. From a curator's standpoint the idea of having counterfeit pieces in an exhibit of the museum was more than just troubling. The political fallout was just one facet; being fooled was yet another and publicity of such a thing could only damage the reputation of the organization – as well as her own. "Any other pieces we're showing appear to be counterfeits?"

He leaned in again and whispered, "The Le Tavernier stone in the brooch is almost too good."

"So, you say the diamond ... the diamond is too good," she said flatly.

" _Almost_ too good," he repeated. "Remarkable work, though."

Before she could formulate another question her car approached and came to a stop at the curb.

As the valet accepted the tip and held her door, Kirkland spent a few seconds admiring her taste in sports cars then managed to squeeze his frame into the passenger side. "A 300ZX ... I hear this is the last year they're making these."

"This is three years old ... my brother bought it then needed the money for school ... I love it. You know something about cars?" she asked, half expecting him to tell her far more about her car than she really wanted to know.

"Only what I read."

She was genuinely surprised he wasn't going to explore the subject any further. "What do you drive?"

"Right now? A Suburban."

She looked at him quickly with her eyes wide and almost giggled. "You _rented_ a _Suburban_?"

He decided not to explain and gave her an almost hurt look. "What's wrong with it?"

"Somehow I see you more as the Jaguar type."

"Oh ... well, it seems to be the appropriate thing ... when in Rome and all ... and plenty of room," he added gesturing with his hand at the top of his head at how little space there was between him and the car's headliner.

"I hadn't thought of that ... I'll try to avoid major bumps," she said with a sheepish grin as she pulled quickly into the nearly vacant street.

\- # -

As the parking valet waited patiently for the last of the evening's customers to finally decide to go home, he was surprised as two men dashed out of the museum door and ran to the curb where they stood watching the small sports car speed away. After a few seconds they looked at each other as if not knowing what to do, then one of them turned and jogged over to the valet stand.

"Ticket sir?" the valet asked somewhat nervously, wondering if he had just missed seeing some kind of incident.

The big man's accent was obviously foreign and he had a scowl on his face that didn't change much when he spoke. "Who was in the car?" he demanded.

"That car? Hell, I dunno," the young man answered honestly. "I don't work here – we just park cars."

The second man, much smaller and dressed in a tuxedo was now beside the podium, glaring at him. "There was a woman and a man who just left—"

"They do sumthin'?"

"Did they leave together?" the man in the tuxedo asked intently.

"You cops?" the valet asked as if he might be able to help – although it was hard to imagine the man and woman he had seen were being looked for by the police.

"Security," the smaller man said. "Did they leave together?"

Dutifully impressed with the apparent authority he was faced with the valet felt it was best for him and the company he worked for to cooperate. "They came out, she gave me a ticket, I got her car—"

"What about the man?"

"Uh uh, he didn't have a ticket ... he said he parked in the ramp," the young man said pointing down the street.

"They left together in that car?" the big one asked jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"Uh huh, yea."

The two men turned and strode quickly toward the door without saying anything more.

"What'd they do?" the valet called out. When neither of the men responded he said under his breath, "Rude sonsabitches."

\- # -

Despite the ramifications of what Kirkland had explained about the exhibits, Catherine Cruz decided to first try and redirect the conversation away from the disturbing idea that the Russians were engaged in a massive fraud. "Where are you staying?" she asked casually as she braked at a stop light.

"Near the airport," Kirkland replied, then realizing she'd ask which of the two major airports that served the area he quickly added, "Hobby." After a moment he asked, "Is this out of your way?"

"No, not a bit," she offered quickly. "It's not far at all." When he didn't seem to be ready to continue with small-talk she let her curiosity guide her questioning. "So if you don't mind my asking, what does ' _almost too good_ ' mean when it comes to a blue diamond?"

Kirkland gazed at the woman next to him as she concentrated on driving and he consciously avoided sounding professorial. "Sometimes the finest things nature produces have tiny, interesting flaws that conspire to make them even more attractive."

It took a moment or two for her to decipher the double meaning behind his statement and she resolutely ignored the compliment. "I can see how that makes them harder to duplicate," she agreed.

"In most cases the counterfeiter isn't even aware of them ... mainly because he rarely has first-person access to the original."

"That makes sense," she said.

"But even if they do, for the most part they simply can't duplicate what nature was able to accomplish over tens of thousands or millions of years."

"So, the blue diamond – this one – are you saying it's not a real diamond?"

"Oh, it is indeed a real diamond," he said nodding. "A remarkable one ... but therein we come to yet another quandary." He held up an index finger slightly as he glanced around at the lighted windows of the Houston skyscrapers. " _If_ , let's just say _if_ the Russian's traditional story of the gem having been cut from Le Tavernier's original stone is true, the one I just examined is not that gem."

Illuminated briefly by the taillights of a car in front of them, Kirkland could see the look of uncertainty on her face and he reached into his pocket, removed the loupe he had used in the museum and flipped it open. "The Hope Diamond, at least what remains of the original source stone – the one Tavernier sold to Louis the Fourteenth – has a distinctive phosphorescence signature." He pressed a tiny button on the loupe and waved it over the cuff of his shirt. "This has a miniature short-wave ultraviolet emitter."

She took her eyes off the street for only a few seconds to see the narrow streak of light moving back and forth across the fabric. "Where do you find one of those?"

Ignoring the question about the custom-made device, Kirkland went on with his explanation of the giant stone. "Blue diamonds will glow _after_ being exposed to ultraviolet radiation. Now ... the Hope Diamond glows red – quite red, in fact. The diamond here in the exhibit does as well, but not quite the same color. It's at least three nanometers off in wavelength, perhaps more."

"That will do color measurement too?"

He nodded and pointed the device at her shoulder and leaned closer to look in the loupe. "You're wearing a five hundred and eighty-five nanometer gown," he announced then noticed her subtle perfume for the first time.

She tried not to sound suspicious as she asked, "And you've examined the Hope Diamond? At the Smithsonian?"

He nodded as he leaned back and put the loupe away. "They sent it back to Winston's in New York for some restoration work last year. I examined it before it was packed in Washington, when it was unpacked in New York, then before it was packed for the return and again after it was unpacked." In the varying lighting he couldn't tell if the look on her face was from professional understanding or concealed incredulity and added, "My client was the insurance carrier for the courier."

He deliberately failed to mention the part where he and his associate had shadowed the courier personnel every inch of the trip and were prepared to intervene in ways the courier security personnel might not have been able or equipped to.

"So, if I have this right," she began tentatively, "either the Russians have been lying all this time about their piece coming from the original ... the original Tavernier stone ... and to keep up appearances maybe, or," she paused and gestured with one hand, "they're lying about _this_ one ... the one we're showing, being the diamond that was originally in Empress what's-her-name's ring."

"Maria Feodorovna," he offered with a Russian accent that surprised her. "And you're right."

She turned to him as they came to a stop. "You speak Russian?"

"It's useful in this line of work," he offered simply.

She sighed and thought for several moments as she negotiated her way through a left-turn arrow. "Well ... the provenance of Russian jewelry wasn't something I've studied until very recently," she said in her defense. A sudden sense of dread came over her as she thought about how to explain this bizarre situation to her boss. "Matt's not going to believe this," she offered gravely. "No one will."

Kirkland responded flatly, "It would serve no useful purpose to tell anyone."

To her the comment sounded like more than just a suggestion and his next statement was actually alarming.

"Given the stakes involved I would suggest we keep this to ourselves."

After considering that carefully she finally asked, "You're saying it should remain a secret?"

"It's not something the Russians would be thrilled about anyone knowing."

She instantly grasped his advice was sound; there had already been an international incident surrounding the exhibit and she also knew parts of the collection were actually backing the country's currency – there was no telling what might happen if the secret were revealed. "Obviously," she said then announced, "This is it," and swung into a still-crowded parking lot.

As they exited the car she grinned at him quickly and noted reassuringly, "Don't let the looks fool you. It's old for a reason."

Kirkland immediately concluded the wonderful smell of wood smoke, grilled meat and spices wafting across the parking was designed to make patrons hungry before they even got through the door. "They certainly know how to advertise," he said after inhaling gently several times.

"That's mesquite," Catherine advised. "Fajitas ... they have them on Long Island?"

"So they say," Kirkland offered uncertainly. "I suspect they're nothing like this, though."

In the deliberately ramshackle-chic restaurant they were both overdressed and got several odd looks, but over their dinner it soon became obvious to Kirkland that the longer he was around her the more captivated he was becoming; he had to remind himself more than once of the sheer implausibility of meeting someone like her under the circumstances. To say that she was pretty was an understatement but the equally alluring effect on him was coming from her mind. Despite what he realized was a prodigious I.Q., she was poised but not officious, quick to laugh and at times even self-deprecating, but what he was becoming immensely curious about and couldn't bring himself to ask was why she was seemingly unattached?

Every once in a while the conversation drifted into – then for him, quickly back out of – more personal areas. He learned she had once been married to Elanore Calder's younger brother, which was somehow supposed to explain why 'El', as she called her, was her best friend and why she was always hovering when events like tonight's took place. He decided again to keep his curiosity in check and not explore how that relationship had survived.

They had a few good laughs over her stories about Houston's social set, including a few of the people at the exhibit gala; she also told him quite a bit more about the Calder family than he had already been able to uncover before coming to Houston.

He learned her big sister-ish sister-in-law was an authentic native Texan, married to the man who had gradually turned his father's relatively small but successful aeronautical engineering firm into a major software and aerospace technology conglomerate.

Kirkland was also surprised that despite her close relationship to the Calders, she was a white-knuckled flyer. For her, commercial passenger jets were scary enough and although she had travelled with the Calders in their bigger single-engined turboprop a few times, small planes made her distinctly uncomfortable.

As the dinner conversation proceeded Catherine found getting to know more about the man seemed like some kind of a chess match. He had a way of deflecting questions that resulted in her telling _him_ things. She got him to describe a few things about his home on Long Island only by talking about her original home in Florida where her parents still lived. When she told him that her mother worked part time in real estate and her father would soon retire from the postal service she learned he lived alone but not really alone; in addition to the housekeeper-cook that came three days a week there was a family living in a home on the property.

After telling him about her degree from the University of Florida, she pried out a little more about his education and learned he graduated from Oxford and that his economics doctorate was from Georgetown. The fact that he was a visiting professor at UCONN was another curiosity she asked more about then realized his reluctance to talk about it came from the fact that, as he explained, statistics were incredibly boring to ninety-nine-point-nine, nine, nine, nine, etc., percent of the population.

Talking about their work commutes and traffic led him to reveal he sometimes used a boat to get across Long Island Sound when he was teaching in Connecticut. In nice weather the ten-mile trip could take less than ten minutes each way; in really bad weather the drive was a hundred mile round trip in dreadful traffic and he would sometimes be forced to take a hotel room near Stamford.

Kirkland managed to avoid talking more specifically about his business and especially his clients other than to say had been busier as a result of the publication of Hector Feliciano's _Lost Museum_. The intrigue surrounding that revelation successfully diverted their conversation away from his life and back to the subject of artworks and how WWII had impacted their ownership in often disturbing ways for museums and owners around the world.

But as midnight approached, they realized they were the only remaining diners in the restaurant and they agreed it was time to leave. The waiter was dutifully corrected after handing the bill to Kirkland and soon after Catherine signed the credit card slip they left.

As she drove back to the museum they were both trying to not appear too forward in what had been, thus far, a mostly professionally-oriented evening. In their own ways, each knew they had ventured into the edges of a very unexpected and powerful whirlpool with potentially good or bad future consequences; for both, caution born of past missteps was overcoming the effect of the margaritas.

Before she turned onto the street for access to the parking ramp she let herself take a capricious leap and asked if he was going to be leaving for Long Island in the morning.

"Not tomorrow," he answered with a hint of curiosity then decided to take a chance of his own. "Is a Yankee's offering to exchange cell phone numbers acceptable behavior in these parts?"

Without waiting for an answer he retrieved a business card and a gleaming Krone pen from an inside pocket then reached forward, holding the card on the sloping dash while he wrote something on the back.

Catherine glanced long enough to see him write two phone numbers and for the first time she noticed the Patek Phillipe watch fully exposed on his left wrist. _Appraising must pay very well_ , she thought.

"Trade?" he suggested. "The first one is my cell – the second rings my GM's desk." He offered the card to her and added, "Cell phones don't work everywhere but they have ways to reach me anytime, anywhere ... I have one of those satellite pagers."

Pleased and not the least embarrassed at his invitation, she opened the glove box between them, lifted out a wallet and removed one of her business cards. "My cell is on there. I'm permanently attached to it," she admitted.

He read it as he spoke toward the dashboard and gestured in the air with the pen. "I have a meeting with a client here in the morning. Then I have to be in Dallas for an appointment Friday morning ... but I can be back here that afternoon."

When she looked at him uncertainly he offered, "I'll take _you_ to dinner somewhere I'm relatively sure you've never been."

_In Texas? What does he know about Texas?_ she thought then decided not to ask. _Catherine, don't let this one get away_ , she could almost hear as if Elanore Calder were whispering in her ear. "Okay, Professor Kirkland – on one condition."

When he heard her agree Kirkland actually felt his pulse quicken; she could have asked and gotten almost anything and in this most delicate of now-purely social negotiations the chance to see her again overcame his normal caution in dealing with business clients – and their friends. "Agreed," he said, mustering a confident look instead of grinning like a smitten teenager.

She raised an eyebrow and with a barely-concealable tone of curiosity asked, "Why did you come to Houston."

He didn't hesitate. "As long as you won't call me 'professor'."

She made a show of trying to decide then nodded once. "Agreed."

He inhaled and held it for a moment with his eyes narrowed as he considered how to explain without actually answering. "Alright," he began then exhaled as if giving in. "I'm here on behalf of a client ... a very _private_ client."

"And?" she prodded, realizing she should have asked who had invited him to the private showing. _Somebody I know knows this man_ , she told herself.

"The one I'm meeting in the morning," he answered, putting her question off teasingly with a raised index finger. "One condition, one question, one answer," then he smiled slyly, took her right hand and barely kissed it.

She could feel the warmth of his breath as she heard him add, "If I stay here any longer I fear you'd learn far too much."

Instead of letting her hand slip from his, she turned further, leaning closer and putting her other hand behind his neck, pulled him gently toward her. He didn't resist and she closed her eyes and kissed him temptingly. When she managed to overcome the urge to pursue the almost delirious feelings she backed away slightly and took in a deep breath. "You make a compelling argument, Pro—Michael. It's Michael ... not Mike?"

Kirkland smiled. "As long as it's not Professor ... but only my nephews call me 'Uncle Mike'."

With her eyes unavoidably soft she almost whispered, "So ... Friday?"

"Friday – if you can get away early in the afternoon, around three? I'll ring you ahead," he said softly, still close to her. He lifted her chin slightly, kissed her again then watched her eyes barely open when he pulled away. As if giving himself sound advice he said barely above a whisper, "I'd better get out of here."

The implication behind the statement and especially the way he said it only amplified her feelings but she managed not to say anything that might reveal what was going on in her mind. She smiled quickly as if agreeing to put a stop to such ideas and put the car in gear.

Kirkland undid the seatbelt and began to extricate himself from the very low car then bent down to look at her from the curb. "And, I'm buying ... and I'll drive," he commented almost sarcastically. "And thank you for dinner ... good night."

"You're welcome ... I'll see you Friday ... good night," she responded with a warm smile.

"Friday," he said then closed the door. Instead of standing there waving like some smitten fool watching her drive away, he turned and walked briskly into the parking ramp then jogged up the stairs to the second level with his mind on nothing more than Catherine Cruz and what to do to suitably impress her.

CHAPTER 4

Moscow, USSR, January, 1942

With almost no light coming through the windows from the stone-gray late afternoon skies, Col. General Mikhail Leonov, Lt. General Alexsandr Krylov and Lt. General Andreyev Golikov stood looking over a long table scattered with maps, charts and various documents illuminated only by incandescent lamps around the perimeter and a single ornate chandelier centered above the ornate table.

Instead of meeting in the Kremlin, they were convened in a large room in Stalin's isolated "number one" dacha some five kilometers to the southwest and well beyond the view and curiosity of others. The first General Secretary of the Communist Party had ordered the dacha's staff out and sent the three officers there to ensure they could confer in secrecy and without interruption.

Leonov stepped to the ringing phone on the small table at the side of the room and after answering and listening without offering any responses, he finished the call by simply saying, "Yes, Comrade," then turned to face the other two men, pausing in thought and finally saying as if it were bad news, "It is worse than I expected – eight months, no longer."

"Eight months?" Krylov asked incredulously, wondering how it would be possible to have planes ready and pilots trained in such a short period.

Golikov looked back and forth between the other men in amazement. "But ... even following our present timetable we have little or no margin for error."

Leonov didn't react to his subordinate's concerns and he simply stared at the items on the surface of the table. After a few moments he looked at both of the men and added quietly, "There is no option, Comrades."

As the most senior of them it was he who faced the most immediate, ruthless and capricious wrath of their great leader should the mission fail. He knew in his mind, if not his heart, that the odds of success had been improved by careful planning on the part of his trusted fellow officers, but they now had to begin executing the plan in a minimum amount of time.

Leonov picked up a decanter and poured more wine into his glass, then looked at his officers as he poured for them. There was a long-held familiarity among the tiny, secretive splinter he had formed and with no party apparatchiks or staff anywhere to be found in the entire house, formality was relaxed.

"Alexsandr, you should start assembling your pilots at once. They will have precious little time ... and it will be in England."

"England?" Krylov asked with even more surprise.

"They can begin training there immediately," Leonov said as he bent down and wrote a date and a contact name on a piece of notepaper. "There will not be sufficient aircraft here in time for them. Here ... this is the RAF officer you will coordinate with. He will be at the British Embassy day after tomorrow ... he will be expecting you."

Krylov took the paper and read the unfamiliar name. He quickly recognized the Sofiyskaya 14 address of the embassy directly across the Moskva River from the Kremlin but what concerned him most was the rapidly approaching date.

The senior officer sipped his wine before continuing. "As we should have anticipated, much has changed in a short time. Comrade Stalin just confirmed it," he noted with a tip of his head toward the phone. "A British aircraft carrier will be assigned to the arctic convoy route in September. We cannot affect its departure date. But twelve planes can be placed in the below-deck hangar and brought to Keg Ostrov intact. There will be no delay for assembly and testing. Unfortunately for your pilots, they will have to accompany their planes on the voyage."

Krylov's mouth opened slightly at this revelation and he leaned over and uncovered one of the maps on the table. As he pointed at Keg Ostrov he said, "That means _if_ they arrive ... without damage," he cautioned, "weather permitting, they could be readied to depart for Smolnya the following day."

Leonov nodded then began laying out the foundation of the orders that would be coming from him in the coming weeks and months. He turned to Krylov with a kind of resignation in his voice and asked, "How many of them are still alive?"

"As of three days ago, all twenty," Krylov said. He could see the immediate relief in the General's face and added, "Yes, it is good news. And I have five alternates if need be."

Leonov nodded as he pursed his lips and made a slight smacking sound through them. Pilots were hard to keep alive and the irony of having to take some of the best out of combat was not lost on him. "I will sign the orders tonight."

Being the logistics officer for the mission Golikov could still hardly believe what he had learned about the British naval convoy. "A carrier in the Arctic," he whispered shaking his head. "It sounds utterly foolhardy to me."

Leonov pointed out the obvious with a wave across the assembled maps. "The U-boats have been taking their toll. The British want air cover for the convoys. So they are sending a carrier. We can use that to our advantage."

Both of his officers looked at him with shared concern. The arctic routes were exceedingly dangerous and not only because of the German U-boats and air patrols; the weather was almost as treacherous. Leonov looked at their expressions and said flatly, "We cannot meet Comrade Stalin's timetable any other way ... if we were fortunate enough to have two or three more months perhaps we could use an alternative ... but not today. No ... no," he said as he shook his head slightly. "No, comrades ... for us ..." he inhaled deeply before going on, "for us the cargo will be ready in Leningrad in September."

He paused for a moment or two, seemingly reluctant to say more then added quietly, "An alternate plan is already in place but that is not your concern. Frankly I see the alternate having little chance of success ... perhaps in year it would be workable."

Given the new orders Krylov was now faced with not only the logistics of getting twenty pilots to England to train in the new airplanes in a short period of time, but to see that twelve of them and twelve planes were on board a British warship without incident. If that wasn't daunting enough, they also had to somehow arrive safely at a port in Arkhangelsk that might be overrun by the Finns or the Nazi's sometime in the future.

"Who will be in command?" Leonov asked.

"His name is Kovpak ... Major Alexsandr Kovpak."

Leonov was somewhat surprised that he actually recognized the name of an individual fighter pilot but he was also pleased to find out someone of that stature and reputation had been chosen. He nodded seriously in agreement.

"He also reads and speaks English," Krylov added. "One other does as well."

"Good," Leonov said enthusiastically. The language issue was just one of the problems they faced in getting Lend Lease aircraft into service. The Soviet teams responsible for assembling aircraft now starting to arrive in Ivanovo spoke no English and the British technicians and engineers who were working on the Hurricanes spoke no Russian. By some miracle of chance, a member of each team happened to speak French and painfully slow progress was being made.

Bureaucratic issues only added to the inherent logistical delays. Leonov had been told flight testing of one aircraft would begin 'perhaps in April' and no more than six would be available by June at the earliest; with the grudging cooperation of the RAF and the British Navy the timetable for Stalin's mission was now possibly – but just barely – going to be met.

"Do not confide in him or any of them about their mission objective until they have returned to Smolnya," Leonov ordered calmly. "The less they know the less they can say to some curious British airman ... or sailor."

Krylov nodded. "As far as any of them will know, they are to become proficient and then deliver the aircraft to a location they will learn of when it is necessary for them to know."

"I will have quarters set apart for them well before they arrive. They can have no outside contact," Leonov added.

In addition to secrecy, Leonov's intricate plan relied on a personal opinion he had formed. He and Krylov had spent three days with a handful of U.S. Army Air Corps pilots as they demonstrated their planes and he had developed significant respect for the brash American officers and the aircraft they flew. He also knew Krylov had been among the delegation to the United States that evaluated Lend Lease aircraft and they shared the same opinions of the potential.

The desperate need for more rapid progress in aviation was not lost on him; the Luftwaffe was sending improved aircraft into the fight and it would take time for some of the emerging Soviet advancements to match them.

Leonov also knew the air war over Western Europe had evolved into a different form of combat than the one the Soviets faced. The British and Americans were engaging Nazi aircraft at very high altitudes where the P-39 proved ineffective, but in the eastern European front where the battles raged closer to the ground, he was not alone in considering the strange tricycle-geared but heavily armed airplane to be a potentially valuable weapon – in properly-trained hands.

The need for the planes and the decision to use them also enabled a convenient cover story to ensure that curiosity about the secret mission would be minimized; under the Lend Lease program, additional P-39's would be coming from the United States via Abadan, Iran and having a cadre of trained pilots and ground crews located there was an eminently practical step.

Golikov pointed to the map. "In addition to the fuel supplies we will have at least one technician at each waypoint. It will appear to be a routine deployment. There will be oil, hydraulic fluid and glycol – and tools. We can also obtain replacement assemblies from Ivanovo and will have transport aircraft standing by."

Leonov nodded then ran a hand through what was left of his thinning hair. He stood with one hand behind his back and said formally, "Eight months, Comrades." He looked at both of them and squinted slightly. "Do not let anyone interfere." The two officers nodded in agreement and he added another warning. "If you are faced with any recalcitrance, any attempt to thwart this mission you must advise me immediately ... there will be no challenges to your orders ... not from anyone."

He took a few steps and picked up a portfolio from the table. "They are not to interfere," he said as he opened the seal and removed several envelopes. "In these are directives from Comrade Stalin himself. Should you encounter a challenge from any officer, Commissar or otherwise, present one of these to him and tell the fool that just by opening it he will immediately face a troika. Do not use them lightly, but ... do not hesitate if you believe the mission could be compromised ... and do not explain anything."

Krylov turned to a sideboard and retrieved three glasses and a decanter. He placed them on the table and poured vodka then passed each of them a glass. With a grim countenance he said, "To Comrade Stalin and the Motherland," then they gulped down their drinks in unison.

CHAPTER 5

Houston, Texas, 12:30 a.m., Thursday, May 22, 1997

Other than the low buzzing of the parking ramp's lights, Kirkland's leather shoes made the only sounds echoing off the walls and floors, but as he approached his Suburban he heard the definitive sound of two car doors opening somewhere nearby and an engine starting on the level below. As he inserted his key in the door he saw the reflection of two large men approaching in the heavily tinted windows. They stopped and stood together near the back corner of the big SUV as he heard a car accelerating toward them.

He looked at the men calmly and said affably, "Hey," and while they made no immediate moves, Kirkland prepared himself and glanced around. He quickly decided that if they had guns they would have either taken them out or at least shown them but he also figured the time required to unlock and open the door, trigger the drawer to access his automatic and then have it pointed in their direction exceeded any reasonable margin of error.

As the sound of a revving engine came closer he looked at them coolly and asked in his best imitation of a Texan after a few too many drinks, "Duh' I know y'all?"

A tan Lincoln Town Car sped into view then came to an abrupt halt with tires squealing on the smooth pavement; positioned only a few feet back of the men it effectively blocked his Suburban in place. One of the men raised a hand and waggled a summoning finger then pointed to the Town Car's rear door.

Kirkland lowered his head slightly, pointed at himself and gave them a 'who, me?' kind of smirk then turned the key in the door and unlocked it while he kept his gaze fixed on them.

He staggered slightly for effect and as the men heard the solenoid-bolts of the doors 'thump' they took the bait. As the first one rushed at him Kirkland reached out and grabbed the rear passenger door handle and yanked it open just in time for the assailant to run full force into the edge of the heavy door. The impact made the Suburban actually rock slightly and the big man grasped his chest in pain and staggered back and to the side clumsily, forcing his partner to change his own angle of attack.

No longer coming headlong, the second man's motion was easy to use and amplify. Kirkland seized the off-balance man's suit coat, leaned back and swung him in an arc, gaining speed then ramming him into the nearest concrete pillar.

As another man was climbing out of the rear passenger side door of the Lincoln, the first attacker was groaning, struggling to roll into a position to get up from the ground when Kirkland kicked his feet out from under him and turned to face the third man. Unlike the other two, this more compact one didn't come at him with a rush. As he slowly closed the distance he came into a fighting stance and was obviously not fooled by Kirkland's 'drunken Texan' ruse.

They circled slightly then engaged with a series of blows and blocks. After three such encounters it soon became apparent Kirkland was controlling the combat; while seemingly well trained, the man was far too rigid in style and rapidly became predictable as well as frustrated. Kirkland blocked a misguided fist and struck the man in the chest hard enough to crumple him to his knees. But before he dealt the next blow a sharp voice with a strong foreign accent echoed through the parking ramp. "Stop! Do not do that!"

Kirkland turned quickly to see an older and smaller man dressed in a tuxedo, standing just outside of the open back door of the Town Car. The Walther PPK pointed in his direction was small but convincing enough and with one hand Kirkland simply guided his victim down from the semi-upright position and tipped him over onto the ground. He glared at the man holding the gun, noting the little man was nervous and unaccustomed to having his henchmen leave him exposed to this kind of unpleasantness. "Who the heller you," Kirkland mumbled.

"I am Pavel Silayev. I am a Director of security for the Russian Finance Ministry," the man said in reasonably good English. "And you are?"

Kirkland let his stance relax considerably but continued eyeing the man sternly. Keeping his semi-inebriated Texas drawl working he asked a little too forcefully, "Director? What the hell security?"

"Director of security for the museum exhibit. And you are?"

Kirkland looked exasperated as he sighed and responded. "A goddamn guest ... I'm professor—"

"A professor?" Silayev interrupted suspiciously as he glanced at his men.

Kirkland huffed in disdain. "Huh! Hell, yes ... and I've taken down bigger steers," he bragged ignorantly, only hoping to make the right impression. "Wha'd you say y'all were?" with an almost good-natured tone.

The Russian was somewhat confused but didn't show it. "Your purpose in examining the exhibits tonight was what?"

After a couple of breaths a slow smile formed and Kirkland's glare waned. He chuckled and said, "God damn, man ... have you _seen_ her?" He let that sink in for a few seconds then added, "Y'all are blowing this way the hell outta purporshun mister ... whas yername?"

"Sill- _aye-ev_ ," the Russian pronounced irritably. "Of course I have _seen_ her," he added as it dawned on him what this enigma of an American might be trying to imply. _The belligerent fool is after the woman!_

"Oh ... okay ... but guess what ... you're not in Russia Mr. Sillyoff. You're in goddamn Texas, U-S-of-fuckin'-A." He gestured at the gun and said, "And I have some _serious_ doubts y'all have a permit for that little thing ... and, and you know what ... you know what, Mr. Sillyoff ... you and the three stooges here ... y'all can spend the night in a jail cell for all I care. And, and ... you know what ... you know what else? I can make that happen, too. We'll have y'all on a plane back to Russia before ... before lunch."

Silayev looked at the Texas license plate on the vehicle and realized the man he was confronting might actually be someone who could put him in a very uncomfortable position. He turned into the car and said something in Russian to the driver.

As he did Kirkland instantly closed the distance between them and deftly stripped the small pistol from the man's hand.

Before he could even turn around or cry out Silayev felt himself unceremoniously shoved into the back seat with Kirkland looming above him.

Kirkland found the drawl made it easy to sound menacing. "One of your boys over there has at least one or two broken ribs ... y'all trust me on this one ... I heard it. He probably needs a visit to the hospital. Now ... now ya see – lucky for him there's one right around the corner."

Kirkland withdrew from the door, walked forward to the driver's window and tapped on it with the gun. The electric window went down and Kirkland leaned over slightly, smiled and pointed forward. The bulky driver put the car in gear and pulled forward without taking his eyes off the gun as Kirkland walked along-side, waving him forward until there was room to back his Suburban out. He slapped the roof of the car and it abruptly stopped. " _Prevaskahdnee_ ," Kirkland praised.

_Excellent_ ? Silayev asked himself. _He speaks Russian? How is that?_

One of the men was helping his injured partner into a standing position as Kirkland climbed into the Suburban then turned and pointed at the big man's chest. "Careful," he warned. "A punctured lung is a really bad thing."

When the door didn't close immediately Silayev wondered what the man was doing but decided against moving. He began to see and hear the ammunition go bouncing across the concrete then saw the man come around the corner of the vehicle wearing white gloves and holding the gun.

Kirkland approached the car and worked the action, letting the last chambered round fall to the ground. As he kicked it away beneath another vehicle he slipped the clip back in and tossed the gun onto the seat beside Silayev then held up a piece of tape that had fingerprints on it. Without a trace of inebriation he announced, "In the true spirit of international good will ... I won't be mentioning this little incident to the Sheriff ... y'all have a nice night," he said then casually sauntered back to the Suburban and climbed in.

As Kirkland drove off toward the exit ramp, Silayev ordered the driver to help the other men into the car then got into the front seat and took out his own cell phone.

\- # -

After pulling out of the ramp and heading east on Binz street Kirkland dialed Catherine Cruz. "Do you know a Russian by the name of Silayev? Pavel Silayev?" Kirkland calmly asked, then heard the alarm in her voice as she said an unladylike word in Spanish and chastised herself at some length for not making the Russian security team aware of the special after-hours access to the exhibit pieces.

"It's my fault," she said. "This is all my fault. I'm _really_ sorry, Michael, I just assumed Matt would have cleared it with them."

With some concern about what he might have done to complicate her life Kirkland decided not to explain the encounter in the parking ramp in any detail. "He's an unpleasant sort but I think I persuaded him we posed no risk to the exhibit."

"I am so sorry—"

"Don't be," he interrupted then quickly changed the subject by reminding her of their upcoming Friday dinner.

In a way she was glad he wasn't there to see her reaction. An eagerness she hadn't felt in years made her take a deep breath and sigh. "See you Friday – good night," she said then heard him say 'good night'. Before she could blurt out an invitation she might later regret she disconnected the call.

\- # -

Kirkland crossed over the 288 freeway and turned north toward the heart of Houston then swung southeast on I-45. Four miles past the exit to Hobby he turned east onto the Sam Houston Parkway and almost immediately exited to Galveston Road toward Ellington field. Minutes later the Suburban was concealed in the cargo hold of his plane but a tantalizing historical puzzle – and especially Catherine Cruz – were still on his mind.

\- # -

Silayev seethed but managed to maintain his air of confidence as he paced in the drive area outside the hospital's emergency room entrance and explained his version of the results of the evening's investigative pursuit to his immediate superior, Dr. Abel Kurtz.

A senior Director of the State Diamond Fund and the one official Kremlin representative accompanying the Romanov treasure exhibit, Kurtz was determined to avoid any hint of further controversy. The political fallout was already unpleasant and the recent all-too-public events in Washington, D.C. hadn't won any friends at home. And while Silayev was not his first choice to lead the security detachment, he was at least experienced in American engagements and had handled the debacle in Washington reasonably well. For the time being he was willing to accept the man's explanation of the minimal impact of the potential security breach.

Silayev didn't mention the fact that at least one of his men would be off duty for several days as a result of the encounter in the parking ramp and when Kurtz asked who the man in the museum with the curator had been Silayev realized to his chagrin that he had not obtained any identification. "He claims to be a professor; Ms. Cruz will know – I am confident his interest appears to be in her."

He held the phone away from his ear for a moment while being scolded for the second time that evening. It was bad enough that he hadn't been aware of the impromptu examination until after the pair had left the museum; now he had to face the fact that he and his men hadn't accomplished the basic task of discovering who the man really was.

In his defense Silayev assured the doctor that the security guards had been fully involved during the man's examination of the items. And of course there was the fact that nothing was missing; nothing ever left the guard's sight. He suggested the video tapes be reviewed in the morning to prove it. "Yes, Doctor ... I agree ... We can resolve this in the morning ... Yes," he said then the call ended.

Gnawing at Silayev even more than the embarrassment of having three of his men taken out of action was the fact that the man had taken fingerprints from his clandestinely acquired handgun. Deportation for having it in his possession would be rapid – but worse, would jeopardize the elaborate covert plan he was part of. _This man is very dangerous_ , he told himself.

CHAPTER 6

The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Despite the long and late hours of the previous day, Catherine Cruz arrived at the museum a few minutes before 8:30. Wearing glasses instead of the contacts that had been in too many hours and with her hair knotted and held by chopsticks behind her head, she looked almost librarian-ish. The evening's long stint in formal wear and heels also meant the order of the day was comfort - black jeans, a simple yellow silk blouse and penny-loafers.

After using her credential and typing in her code to clear the secured employee entrance she moved into the intersection of corridors and turned toward her office where her visibly concerned assistant nearly ran into her.

"Oh, thank God you're here!" Shannon Liu gushed in an anxious whisper. She put a hand to her chest and took a breath then exhaled as she moved to Catherine's side and began walking with her down the corridor. "Matt and the Russians are in his office with the security—"

"He what?" Catherine asked. The look of distress she saw made her stop walking. Her assistant started to mouth some words and Catherine tipped her head slightly. "What's going on?" Doing her best to be casual she started walking again. "I need some coffee—"

"The a ... the man last night, the man you let examine—"

"His name is Kirkland," she interrupted instructively avoiding the temptation to make the obvious point that it was done with Matt Dunlap's as well as Alex Calder's approval.

"No, that's just it, Catherine—"

"It's what?" she almost demanded and stopped again as she suddenly realized her assistant of just three months had never used her first name until this moment. She instantly regretted her petulant attitude; this was another woman trying to reach her as a woman, not just a colleague or employee.

The now embarrassed assistant sighed and looked away, then bit her lip for a second. "The guy you left with. He isn't – they can't find him on the guest list."

Trying not to appear shocked, the first thing Catherine forced herself to say was still blunt. "That's impossible." She saw the all-to-understanding look on Shannon's face and it did nothing to quell the emotions that were beginning to roil through her. She tried to hide any hint that she might have been tricked or used as she started walking again. If she hadn't kept her anger under control she would have spat out the words, but her tone was sufficiently icy to get the point across. "Un-frickin believable! I go out to dinner with a man – and now it's everybody's business!" She then realized her boss was probably as annoyed as she was. "What did Matt say?" she asked.

Shannon looked resigned to her fate of being the messenger of bad tidings. "Just to have you come up when you can ... they're in the main conference room."

Catherine wanted to off-handedly respond with, ' _He's a professor, for God sakes,'_ but decided to save that for Silayev who she figured was luridly imagining her evening and thinking she had been tricked into being just another vulnerable, stupid woman in a game played by men. Unfortunately, doubt was now beginning to intrude on her self-assurance and the feeling she might have been taken advantage of was making her gut twinge.

Adding to her discomfort was the worry now nibbling at the edges around her image of the man she had been so intensely attracted to; it was not the only time she let a first impression send her off on a path that ended badly.

Some years ago she had ignored fleeting hints of common sense after falling in love and marrying a man who turned out to be little more than a good-looking, convincing con artist with a penchant for luring people into investment and tax-dodging schemes. The millions he made in a very short period of time bought them a home that was extravagant even by Houston standards. With it came a live-in cook, two housekeepers, a five-car garage and choices of vehicles to drive at her whim that ranged from a lithe little Porsche Boxster to a gargantuan AM General Hummer. While her husband would have preferred a private jet, because of her fear of small planes it meant they travelled in first-class wherever they went – and they had travelled frequently. They also entertained on trips on their sixty-foot sailing schooner harbored at the Galveston Yacht basin.

The money also created a certain amount of local notoriety and made them welcome among some of the movers and shakers in the Houston area. They spent lavishly to entertain in their home to solidify and expand on his business connections but after a few very good years, some of those connections soured and even became litigious. There were others who didn't take the ultimate step of suing but became more than just disconnected. Rumors spread; messages left on answering machines weren't returned; encounters at local venues were cool if not frigid. Painfully, supposed friends drifted off into the distance as the tide of innuendo swept across the communities they had become a part of. It wasn't long before there were only a handful of people outside of her own family who would return a phone message from her; she developed a love-hate relationship with the phone company's 'caller ID' service.

The U.S. Attorney's office and the IRS finally swept in and a year of even more painful, slow and all-too-public justice ensued, during which her husband's infidelities and drug use were revealed as depositions and witness testimony painted a paradoxical picture of a man she had refused to recognize any real flaws in.

Not long after the grind through the judicial system, the bankruptcy court left her with nothing but her degree, some personal belongings, an old car and few friends – first among them the older sister of the man now serving twenty-eight years in a federal prison for a laundry list of crimes.

Despite the inevitable divorce and no matter what tongues wagged, the Calder family had been steadfast in their friendship and support. But even after resuming her life with her maiden name it had taken years to overcome the feelings of dread that people were talking behind her back; without the Calder's unflinching loyalty and their stature in the community she probably would have been forced to try and start another life somewhere else away from people who knew her ex-husband.

Now confronted by such thoughts and with her emotions barely in check, Catherine gathered herself and asked her assistant calmly, "Do me a favor – tell them I'll be up in just a minute. And thank you," she said then her voice softened. "Look ... I'm, I'm sorry, Shannon ... I'm just ... shit ... you know what ... you really wanna know? I guess ... I guess I'm pissed off, actually," she said with more determination.

Shannon's face flashed a surreptitiously knowing smile as she recognized the change in her boss' attitude. "You should be," she suggested supportively as she headed off toward the elevator.

As Catherine continued to her office she tried to review everything that had happened from the first moment she had been introduced to 'Michael Kirkland'. Her mind instantly fast-forwarded – vividly remembering the kiss she had given him and his response; physical sensations involuntarily rose and she had to concentrate to obliterate them.

She also remembered the business card he had written numbers on the back of and the phone call from him about Silayev. _So what the hell happened after I dropped him off?_

Once inside her office she pulled out her phone and looked at the calls she had received. There it was – the only one outside of the Houston area in the last two days: 516. And the other number on the card, his assistant, was also 516. The front side of the card had only his name with the words 'Appraisal Services' below it and two 212 area code numbers, one of which was noted as a fax machine. _Those I know are New York_ , she reminded herself and confirmed it noting the 1 World Trade Center address.

She resisted the immediate urge to call him, torn between wanting to reassure herself and not wanting to appear too eager. _I really shouldn't have kissed him_ , she told herself, trying to quell the repeating tide of physical desire the memories of that kiss brought on. She sighed heavily then clenched her jaw and made her decision – despite her respect for Matt Dunlap and how much she liked him as a boss, someone else's screw-up was not going to ruin this and there was no way she would let the irritating Silayev get to her.

It suddenly dawned on her that she also knew a secret the Russians would certainly not want revealed. "Oh shit," she whispered as she thought about how to avoid the issue. _They'll want to know but ... they don't know ... or do they?_ "Shit," she whispered.

As the worry about what might be going on in the conference room mounted she put Kirkland's card back in her wallet and dropped her handbag in a file drawer at the side of her desk then locked it. With her folio in hand, she took a deep breath and left quickly, turning in the empty hallway for the elevator, determined to be calm and collected. "Unflappable," she quietly repeated several times before the doors opened and she entered the small elevator car. Moments later as she stepped out into the conference room lobby, she tried to imagine laughing about this silliness when she saw Michael again on Friday, but as a fortifier it didn't work very well and her stomach told her so. She walked unhurriedly to the coffee cubicle, poured a cup she knew she shouldn't drink then carried it casually past the glass walls of the conference room in full view of the three men and one woman seated around one end of the large table.

"Sorry, Matt, I didn't mean to keep everyone waiting," she offered pleasantly as she walked in then pushed between two empty chairs and took one. She deliberately avoided looking at the two Russians, instead giving Dunlap a steady, questioning gaze.

The always expensively-dressed senior executive seemed determined to not give the matter any more credence than he thought it deserved. "I didn't see any need to ask you to come in early," he said affably. "Do you recognize this man?" he asked as he slid a grainy picture across the table.

She felt every eye in the room on her as she looked at the image, a blow-up centered on a man's face from what had to have been a camera somewhere in the ceiling of one of the gallery areas. She immediately nodded. "Yes ... that's Professor Kirkland." She kept a lack of concern on her face and tried to not reveal any emotion in her voice when she asked, "Why?"

The little Russian security man took a breath as if he was going to say something but Dunlap's hand rose very slightly. "Just a moment, please," he said politely without taking his eyes off Catherine. "Did you invite him?"

"No," she began, "and I don't know who did." She shook her head and looked at the only other woman in the room, Dunlap's irreplaceable right hand, Ronnie Collier. "He's not in the database?"

The older woman she had known and worked closely with for several years shook her head and looked more than just disappointed that something like this could have ever happened under her watch. "I don't know how, but that name wasn't on the guest list," she said worriedly tapping on a small stack of paper.

Catherine appeared genuinely confused. "I don't understand how he could get in without an invitation." It took several moments to remember the details and she sipped some coffee. "I didn't meet him until later in the evening," she said casually. "I don't have any idea when he came in." After thinking a few more seconds she said with a little bit of uncertainty in her voice, "El ... Elanore Calder introduced us ... but I'm not sure when."

"Do you know anything about him?" Silayev asked.

Determined to not let this silliness go much further but not wanting to sound overly dismissive she said, "He's from Long Island. He's a professor at UCONN." She shook her head slightly as she avoided looking at the Russians. "So?" she asked as her hand opened if she expected to hear something more.

"You-con?" Silayev asked.

"The University of Connecticut," Dunlap answered.

"That's what he said," Catherine said evenly, trying not to let any hint of doubt creep into her demeanor.

Dunlap obviously didn't have that bit of information at hand and he turned and asked Ronnie to call UCONN and find out if the man calling himself Michael Kirkland was actually a professor there.

Silayev turned to Ronnie. "I think you'll find out there is one. But would you please ... see if you can get them to fax us something with a picture?"

Dunlap looked dubious but grudgingly nodded toward his assistant and as she left the room he turned again to Catherine. "Any idea why he wanted to see these particular items?" he asked as he removed several more photo images from a folder and slid them in front of her.

She could see herself and Kirkland in the frame of each one and with mounting concern she thought carefully before answering. "I assume because we had been talking specifically about the older Romanov and pre-revolutionary Fabergé pieces ... where they originated, where they are now ... that kind of thing."

Kurtz finally spoke. "From hearing his discussion with you, he appears to have an interest in incidents surrounding World War II."

Catherine's memory was triggered by the comment and she said, "Actually, Doctor, there was something ... he mentioned being very busy since the Feliciano book came out."

Both Kurtz and Dunlap began nodding in concurrence.

"Indeed," Kurtz said then leaned back. "Did he say anything about working on behalf of one of the families?"

She thought again but shook her head. "No. At least he didn't say anything other than something about the book ... more like the fallout from the book had kept him busy."

Silayev squinted at her distrustingly. "And he mentioned no names?"

Catherine shook her head and didn't say what she was thinking: _No, you twit, he didn't mention any names_. Instead she noted coolly, "I'm sure he considers his client's identity to be highly confidential."

Kurtz pointed a finger in the air for emphasis and spoke again. "None of the items in the control of the State Diamond Fund have ever been part of the Nazi acquisitions. If this professor were investigating on behalf of one or more of the families he would have been wasting his time here."

Dunlap saw Catherine nodding in agreement and asked, "Did he give you a business card?"

She forced herself not to react and shook her head instead of letting them detect a lie in her voice.

Silayev sounded doubtful. "You didn't exchange phone numbers?"

To help conceal the deceit Catherine looked offended. "He knows where I work. And no, I didn't ask him for a number."

"We want to know who he really is," Silayev said.

Her frustration was again getting the better of her and she clenched and unclenched her jaw. "Who he _really_ is?" she asked dismissively then didn't wait for an answer. "He's a _serious_ academic," she asserted firmly.

_Fool ... or perhaps liar,_ Silayev thought. _If he is an academic, he is a very dangerous academic_. "He was reluctant to tell us who he was last night," he said.

"People in this country are like that," Dunlap noted.

Ronnie entered the room and handed Dunlap the slightly-curled pages of a fax, looking at Catherine with visible dismay as she walked behind the chairs and re-took her seat. Dunlap read for a moment, glanced in alarm in Ronnie's direction then slid the pages across to Catherine. " _That's_ Professor Kirkland of the University of Connecticut," he said, unable to conceal a certain tone of concern.

Catherine looked at the aging, balding, mustachioed total stranger in the picture and her stomach turned as she tried to mask the nervous response that was making the hairs on the back of her neck tingle.

CHAPTER 7

Leningrad, USSR, September, 1942

Lt. Vasili Surin stepped down from the wing of his aircraft in the chilled air and saluted the waiting General Alexsandr Krylov smartly. "Comrade General!"

"Congratulations, Comrade," the senior officer said without revealing any of his excitement as he returned the salute. His eyes quickly became fixed on another plane just about to touch down in the distance then he looked around to watch another taxiing toward them. "How many?"

The younger man answered immediately while he was removing his parachute and harness. "All twelve, Comrade General."

"Ah," Krylov said, nodding quickly as if it were expected.

"No issues to report, Comrade General. Although the sea voyage ... it is not something I would wish upon anyone."

"It would not be my choice of a mode of travel," the General agreed honestly. "Are the radios functioning?"

"Yes, Comrade General. They are in good order."

Krylov nodded. "Good ... very good." It was hard to conceal his relief as the first and seemingly most difficult steps of this crucial mission were now completed. He smiled almost enough for the young pilot to notice then turned to watch another plane on approach through a pair of large binoculars that had hung around his neck. "The most difficult part of this mission is almost over," Krylov advised and saw an immediate nod of agreement coupled with a expression of relief.

"Major Kovpak is a superior navigator."

Krylov's choice of leader for the mission was proving itself sound. At only twenty-seven, Alexsandr Kovpak was among the youngest surviving Majors in the Red Air Force and had distinguished himself in combat. He was also a natural leader of men and the fact that he had a command of the English language had accelerated their progress in Great Britain.

Stocky and about 170 centimeters tall, Kovpak's boyish looks only contributed to the amazement other officers exhibited when they first met him. On more than one occasion in years past, a senior officer had seriously questioned him about his birth date, marveling at his flying prowess and record at such a seemingly young age. The more recent stories circulating about his exploits against the Japanese in the Khalkhin Gol or during the invasion of Poland were also seen by some through the lens of uncertainty – until they saw him fly.

When it came to politics, Kovpak was something of an enigma. Despite invitations, he had avoided taking a leadership position among the Communist party apparatus, participating as necessary but focusing his energy on developing and honing his flying skills and tactics as opposed to writing and speaking on non-aviation matters. Early in his career, recognizing the climate of anti-intellectualism Stalin had inculcated in the Kremlin, he avoided the limelight whenever possible, but his reputation and rapid advancement had attracted the attention of at least one surviving senior officer—Krylov—and now the General had dramatically changed his future.

The noise from the next aircraft coming into position on the tarmac inhibited any further communication and the General walked around the tail of Surin's plane and waited while the other pilot finished his shutdown procedure. He greeted the airman and eventually repeated the process ten more times, finally returning Kovpak's salute wearing a beaming smile. "It is good to see you again, very good indeed."

"It is good to be here," Kovpak said enthusiastically taking the general's offered hand.

While ground crews chocked the wheels the pilots followed the General to the doorway of one of the nearby hangars. A few of them noticed the General wasn't accompanied by any other staff officers and some noted the unusually large detachment of troops stationed in the distance all around the facility; a few heads tipped and fingers subtly pointed but no one spoke.

Despite the uncertainty they were all somewhat relieved to have returned to their element and grateful to be back in their own country no matter the course of the war or how bad things might have become. While the training at Duxford, England was a clear success and their first flight from that base to Glenegedale, Scotland had gone well, the rest of journey had been distinctly uncomfortable for most of them.

The British carrier, Avenger, with the Airacobras stowed intact below on the hangar deck, had joined a convoy departing from Loch Ewe off the coast of Scotland, and they soon began experiencing and enduring a voyage through the brutal Arctic sea. The passage lasted almost three weeks and none of the Russian pilots had ever spent time on board naval vessels of any size.

The bitter Arctic conditions meant they were forced to stay out of the elements in their quarters for most of the trip and even as officers they were somewhat isolated from the British ship's crew with the exception of meals in the officer's mess.

Fortunately for those who didn't adapt well to the continuously churning ride, there had been two days to recover on solid ground while the British Navy crews got the new aircraft out of the carrier's hangar deck and hoisted by crane onto three Russian-manned barges. From there it took another half-day to have the barges pushed two miles across the Dvina and have them offloaded at Keg Ostrov.

The island where the Soviets maintained the airfield was the hub of preparation and assembly activity for the Lend Lease British Hurricanes being delivered in crates. Several British technicians that were trained on the P-39 had been dispatched there in advance and twenty-four hours after the planes were on the ground they had been inspected, fueled and started without any significant problems.

Just after dawn the following morning, Kovpak had taken to the air, loitering below the cloud deck as the others took off and joined him in a circling formation. He led them southwest, eventually across the shores of Lake Ladoga and into their landing pattern at the seemingly abandoned Smolnya Aerodrome, remaining in the air while his small squadron made a good show of proper procedure for the awaiting Krylov.

None of the pilots had served at Smolnya so the area and the aerodrome were completely unfamiliar. The fact that a complete barracks facility had been assigned to just the twelve of them seemed odd but not overly surprising given the secrecy of their mission.

"Your quarters for the time being, Comrades," Krylov announced waving to the rooms along the hall then pointed behind him. "The briefing room is at the end of the hall, that way. The latrine and showers are through these doors," he instructed, pointing at a set of double doors half-way down the hall. "Sort yourselves out and bring in your personal gear. A meal is being prepared in the building behind the hangar ..." he paused to look at his pocket watch, "yes, in thirty-five minutes. I will join you in the briefing room at twelve forty-five."

The General turned and took only two steps before abruptly turning around. "One more thing, Comrades ... I know you have been away for some time, but ... there is to be no communication with anyone until this mission is completed." He scanned the eyes of the younger men to ensure they understood the importance of what he had just told them. "As far as anyone knows, you are still in England for at least another two weeks. You will discuss nothing about your mission ... not with anyone." Krylov didn't wait for a response and turned and strode out.

No one spoke until they heard the door to the outside close. "Did you see the perimeter guards?" one of them asked and received several affirmative responses. "There are tanks lined around the field," another noted.

Kovpak held up a hand and said, "Wait." They turned to him and he whispered, "Quiet." When the sound of the General's staff-car starting came to them he scanned their faces with a stern look. "Comrades," he began, shaking his head, "there is no need to appear to General Krylov that we have become a bunch of curious English school boys." A few of them nodded reluctantly in agreement.

Captain Vladmir Bochkov, leader of the second element shook his head. "Comrade Major," he said, then added with a hint of disgust, "I feel like a prisoner."

Kovpak considered the comment carefully; from the air he had seen the armor as well, and in fact, Krylov had told him they would be kept out of touch for security purposes. As he began cataloging the looks on their faces he decided to let them know a little more than they should. "Have you noticed something else?"

Several of them looked at each other with a bit of bewilderment and a sly smile formed on Kovpak's face. "For this entire mission – since we left for Duxford. There are no Commissar Officers with us." He let that sink in for a moment then added, "Not during the training, not on the ship, not at Keg Ostrov ... and not even here."

One of them smirked with unconcealed disdain, "They could not have survived the voyage," and got a round of laughingly derisive comments in agreement.

"Comrades, this is more than just adherence to secrecy. I have known Krylov for a long time. I also know he reports directly to General Leonov." He noted the acknowledgements among the group then continued. "A lot has changed since we left ... no Commissars ... consider that ... Leonov has taken the fangs out of the dogs."

That was a surprising piece of news to the pilots. General Leonov was widely known and considered to be one of the most effective officers; it seemed possible that the leadership failures brought on by the imposition of the political overseers might be finally coming to an end.

Kovpak elaborated on how the General had used his influence to reduce some of the absurdities of political interference that had sometimes crippled military effectiveness. "We are going to complete this mission without them," he said authoritatively then began moving toward the door to the tarmac area and called back to them, "For me, I want a clean uniform. My last shower was on that wretched ship."

\- # -

After the meal the pilots began assembling in the long-unused briefing room and quickly got a fire going in the iron heating stove. Several of them stood near it and others dispersed and began to arrange chairs behind the rows of long tables in an effort to have it resemble a room more fitting for a briefing of fighter pilots by a General.

"No one has been here in a long time," someone noted, brushing at the dust on a chair and getting comments and nods of agreement.

As the stove began taking the chill from the immediate space around it, the sound of approaching footsteps from the hall drew them to attention even before Kovpak could issue the order.

"Comrades," General Krylov announced as he strode briskly into the room then turned and sniffed as he closed the door. Looking at the stove and said, "I see someone still knows how to light a fire ... you did not grow entirely soft in Duxford," he added pleasantly and noted a number of smiles. He stepped onto the small riser at the front of the room. "Take your seats, Comrades," he ordered almost casually, then spun his hat onto one of the tables and removed his gloves and heavy outer coat.

As the twelve men quickly seated themselves behind the narrow tables Krylov grasped the edge of a curtain at the back of the platform and quickly slid it to one side to expose a large map of the western part of the Soviet Union. He then turned and scanned the group. "The time has come, Comrades, for you to learn what you will be doing for the next few days."

The pilots were more than just curious; their military careers had taken an unexpected and radical turn. One day facing the onslaught of the Luftwaffe and the masses of anti-aircraft weapons that had been deployed deep into their country, the next being ordered to England to become some kind of vanguard of an expected wave of new aircraft. In one sense it was distressing but in another welcome because they knew their skills were being called on to be handed down to hundreds of new pilots. _The Motherland could not survive without this inoculation_ , they had been told by Krylov in their initial briefing in Moscow in the early months of 1942; if they could multiply themselves with these new aircraft their unquestionable duty was to do so.

The reality of course was they had no say whatsoever. Military orders—especially in the Soviet military—were never questioned no matter how absurd. They all knew of officers and some even had friends who were dispatched to the gulag or redistributed to penal ground combat units to die quickly for failure to accept even ridiculous commands. All of them had either known of or heard first-hand accounts of officers who had simply disappeared as well as some who had committed suicide as a choice in their manner of execution. The tiny few who had come back from the gulag were more than reluctant to explain their absence or reveal who might have been responsible for it.

Until very recently the war had been an unmitigated disaster for the Soviet military. In no small part due to the lack of experienced commanders. Many of the qualified senior officers the twelve pilots had served under were ignored or overruled by incompetent, politically-motivated hacks, or worse, were swept up in the purges orchestrated by the paranoid General Secretary.

Thus, in late September of 1942, after their training in England and surviving a harrowing voyage among the prey for the German U-boats in the arctic, they all shared a sense of urgency in addition to curiosity. They were also impatient to find out how this new training command was going to be deployed, not to mention how and when the promised potential of advancing in rank would come about.

But for some, frustration was simmering and not just from the annoying isolation and heightened level of secrecy.

Unlike the lithe but relatively crude little Polikarpov aircraft they had become so familiar with and adept at flying, these American planes were vastly more complex – and they now knew first-hand would be troublesome for inexperienced or inattentive aviators. Twenty pilots had journeyed to England and only twelve had returned with planes. One had been killed in a landing accident and another disabled permanently when another aircraft collided with his on the ground. The other six were not chosen to continue the mission for reasons the rest of them had various opinions about, mostly surrounding the inability to master the differences and complexities in the short time allowed.

Unlike any fighter they had seen, instead of having a tail wheel, the Airacobra's undercarriage had a wheel under the nose. While on the ground the plane sat relatively level instead of pointing upward. That configuration required rather radical changes in takeoff and landing procedures as well as mastery of new skills that had to replace what had become ingrained habits.

The pilot of a P-39 didn't lean out of the cockpit and twist the plane back and forth to try and see forward while taxiing then just line up into the wind and gain speed across the field. Instead, the Airacobra needed a smoother surface, preferably prepared strips or tarmac. Getting into the air in the Polikarpovs required nudging the stick forward to raise the tail prior to pulling back for takeoff while these new planes had to build up more speed and almost start flying before easing back on the stick to launch. Crosswinds had to be dealt with differently and takeoff and landing patterns and directions more carefully considered.

One of the pilots who had washed out had come to call the plane the " _zheleznyĭ sobak_ " (iron dog), and he was not the only Soviet fighter pilot who used the epithet in the early going.

The pilots had grown accustomed to comparatively crude machines that did things almost at their beck and call; with the Airacobra a new pilot either adapted quickly to their new mounts' characteristics or they were sent back to their home units – or they died. Every pilot dispatched to England for this mission knew the conversion to this entirely new kind of plane was not without risk.

The most daunting issue that washed out several pilots was the sheer complexity of the plane and its systems. The liquid-cooled Allison V-12 that sat behind them had an on-board starter and didn't require having the prop turned by hand. No trucks with powered shafts were required to connect to and spin recalcitrant radial engines to life. Powered by an on-board battery, the inertial starter system cranked the engine to life - if one followed the procedures correctly, that is. It was not a fool-proof process, sometimes resulting in flaming blasts coming from the exhaust tubes behind them.

Once the massive engine was running, temperature was controlled by adjusting ducts that carried air across the plane's radiators. There were also multiple instruments and indicators they had never seen before that they had to learn to not only interpret, but react to appropriately.

A Curtiss Wright development, the propeller on their batch of P-39's was considered to be a major technological advance. Instead of being driven by hydraulic pressure that relied on the engine running, propeller pitch changes were made using an electric motor then were locked in place. Until a change in pitch was needed, the system used no electricity. But as advanced as it was, in some early versions if it weren't carefully maintained there was an unfortunate tendency for it to fail, resulting in what was termed a "prop overrun." If a pilot was not properly trained to deal with the situation it could be catastrophic; during takeoff or landing it was too-frequently fatal.

As with all technical advances, some involved trade-offs that required time to overcome in terms of unexpected adaptations in the field. The P-39 required hundreds of feet more to get airborne than the planes they were accustomed to and the landing gear wasn't as sturdy and forgiving. But the nearly nose-level angle and the forward position of the cockpit nearer the leading edge of the wings vastly improved visibility for maneuvering on the ground and especially downward while in the air.

There were other advantages: Having to hand-crank the Polikarpov's landing-gear mechanism forty times to raise or lower it was more than just annoying and the rush of air coming from the I 16's wheel wells while doing it was unpleasant to say the least. But more important than the improved comfort of the pilot for this mission was the fact that the P-39 could fly much faster and farther than other planes they might have available; even the very new Yak-1b, while almost as fast, could not match the range.

For the mission's planners and lead pilots, one of the most important features was the radio the Americans equipped the planes with. To save weight, Soviet crews had routinely removed their bulky radios from aircraft because they rarely worked properly, but now, instead of hand signals or wing waggles that were sometimes obscured by their goggles in the open cockpits, they could actually communicate reliably amongst planes and with the ground at considerable distances. Orders from a commanding officer could be instantly received by everyone in the flight. Equally important, reports of sightings from among a formation or even several kilometers away meant there would be fewer surprises and the leader could make assignments to focus the attention of the flight segments.

In a relatively brief time, the new plane's overall advantages became more and more apparent to them as they were familiarized with managing the risks. That didn't mean fighter pilots considered the people making the decisions about aircraft to be geniuses – when a dangerous flaw in design or production wasn't found or corrected, it was the pilot that died, not the bureaucrat signing the orders for the planes.

For the twelve pilots, having mastered the Airacobra, the mystery that had been on their minds for weeks and months was about to be solved.

"I can tell you are more than just curious about the rest of the mission," Krylov said as he scanned the eyes of the men, knowing among them were several who had distinguished themselves in the crucible of combat.

His own trials had been in the Spanish Civil War, in Russian aircraft that had been more than a match for their opponents of that era. He also knew the men in the room had been influenced by the required study of his and his comrades' tactics and exploits.

"I will not waste your time and mine, Comrades. I will also not insult your intelligence. There is a reason you have no communication with the outside. This is an operation known to few. The mission was conceived in secrecy ... that is all you should need to know. With the exception of course, of your individual mission orders ... which you will receive just before takeoff."

There were glances among the group and Krylov recognized them as the ordinary interactions of men who served together and shared in the knowledge that they weren't being told the entire story. Not that it would interfere with their duty; it was simply a part of the camaraderie of those ordered into battle with scant information about why.

"As you already know, you are divided into four elements of three planes. Make sure you understand this, Comrades – each element's duty is nothing more than to ensure the element leader's aircraft reaches the mission objective."

He looked at the faces more closely and to ensure there was nothing in the way of misunderstanding he explained further. "The Luftwaffe may succeed in sending aircraft deeper and deeper into the Motherland. We have had reports of reconnaissance aircraft as far east as Ulyanovsk," he said as he gestured in an arc toward the map. "Because of this, two defenders will escort their leader and assure at least that aircraft reaches the objective – Tehran, Iran." He stepped to the right and pointed to the destination at the lower-left corner of the map.

The looks on the faces of the pilots were various states of confusion and disbelief. "Yes, Comrades ... Iran," Krylov confirmed by tapping the map. "You will take four divergent routes involving multiple waypoints ... stocks of fuel, hydraulic fluid and glycol have been distributed. Those waypoints will only be revealed to your flight leaders tomorrow."

With another glance around he added, "I anticipate all twelve of you will arrive. Comrade Stalin insists on at least four." Before a discussion arose or any questions were asked Krylov continued. "As Major Kovpak knows, in order to provide additional speed and defensive maneuverability, the wing armament is being removed tonight from the four lead aircraft.

Captain Boris Kuznetskov, the leader of Element four, seemed prepared to ask the question no one else would and as a handful of his fellow officers looked to him he asked, "Comrade General?"

Krylov looked at him knowingly and then around at the others. "You want to know what is so important about those four planes." The looks on the faces of the officers reinforced the shared importance they placed on the question but he didn't answer immediately. "I understand."

He stepped off the low platform, lifted a chair down then sat in front of them and crossed his legs as he took out a cigarette. Almost instantly several lighters were offered by the pilots closest to him.

"I see you have acquired the American's secret weapon," he said, grinning slyly about the Zippo lighters. He took one from the nearest hand and lit his cigarette and examined the lighter momentarily then handed it back. Just to make a point, he reached into the front pocket of his tunic and extracted one very much like theirs' except for the fact it was gold-plated and had a U.S. Army Air Corps insignia affixed to it and his name in Cyrillic text engraved below it. "I went with a delegation to the United States some time ago. This was a gift from the American General Arnold." He tossed it to one of the men and it was soon being passed around admiringly.

"I suppose ... some of you still have several cartons of American cigarettes with you ... somewhere," he said only half-jokingly and noted some sheepish looks. "I will trade one of my tins of the lighter's fluid for one carton of the Camel or Chesterfield brand," he announced and watched the men look at each other. "I have twelve available," he suggested and could see from the quick glances and nods that accommodating deals would be made. "We'll make our arrangements at the morning meal," he added knowingly.

The tenor of the meeting had been successfully altered and as his lighter made its way back to him he began again. "As far as everyone outside of this room knows ... the Kremlin, including Comrade Stalin himself, has placed extraordinary faith in getting as many of these planes into the fight as quickly as possible. There is indisputable truth to that. The depot in Tehran is going to be receiving them in numbers—unassembled, mind you—in the very near future. There are trained contractors to assemble them ... but as yet ... as yet there are not enough Soviet pilots to test and certify them. Other than you."

He drew a long pull on his cigarette, inhaled then blew the smoke upward. "A handful of officers in the Red Air Force will know this very soon, but the enemy must not. There are Nazi spies and sympathizers everywhere, Comrades." He stood up and gestured toward them with a sweep of his hand. "You and your planes _must_ get to Tehran. You must then train and qualify the pilots we will soon be sending you. They must get their aircraft back to their units and into battle ... those planes coming from our allies are of no use sitting on the ground in Iran," he added emphatically as he turned and pointed to the lower part of the map.

After another drag on the cigarette he continued. "As you have discerned," he said then cocked his head toward the side without looking at the subject of his implication, "and as Comrade Kuznetskov is bold enough to ask, there is more." He paused again and seemed to let his last statement simmer among them. "And ... and now, and because you are unable to communicate with anyone prior to your mission, I will tell you more." With his eyes narrowed the General gave them all a questioning look. "I will, that is ... I will, as long as I am assured of your oath of silence." His face then took on a scowl of deadly seriousness. "By my telling you this, you will take this to your graves, Comrades."

To a man, they agreed without hesitation.

"We do indeed have a dual mission," he said as he retook his chair and saw the perceptive glances among the men. "It should come as no surprise that we cannot defeat Hitler alone. Only with the help of winter have we stalled the Nazis." Seeing the mixture of grudging agreement, surprise and concern that crossed their faces he went on in a very low voice as if he were admitting to a secret failure. "You could have no way of knowing it," he said then paused to take another puff of the cigarette, "but this city is surrounded ... under siege. Hitler has shifted his forces southward." His voice became even more grave as he added, "Stalingrad is being turned to rubble. It is impossible to fathom the casualties."

The men exchanged looks that ranged from concern to resigned acceptance of something they may have expected.

"In order to reduce the pressure on our forces, Comrade Stalin has offered something to our allies that will speed an invasion of Europe ... that is what your four element leads will be carrying, Comrades." He let that sink in a moment then continued. "When that invasion comes, Hitler will be forced to withdraw portions of his armies back to the west." He paused to see their reactions then added quietly but adamantly, "All they have to do is make him take some of his forces back ... and we will _crush_ what remains!"

Kovpak nodded and after a few seconds said thoughtfully, "The Nazis will have no choice but to defend what they have taken."

Krylov nodded then glanced again at all of them. "You will save the lives of millions of your comrades."

After several moments of silence someone finally asked, "But Comrade General, what is it? What is being delivered?"

Krylov tapped on his cigarette and shook his head. "I do not know. Even General Leonov does not know." He looked at them sternly. "And speculation is more than just useless, Comrades. Just asking such a question outside of this room would put us all in great peril. I have told you this only out of respect for you ... and your oaths. As far as you and I know—as far as you and I will ever know—there is _nothing_ being delivered ... nothing but twelve aircraft and twelve pilots." He crushed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot as he said instructively, "That is all that will ever be said about it ... even among you." He let them consider that for a few seconds then added, "Focus instead on your mission ... your duty."

Other than the noises from the fire inside the stove, the room fell eerily quiet; they were all engaged in their own thoughts until the General continued. "After the morning meal, and our little bit of barter," he noted dryly with raised eyebrows, "I will see Major Kovpak here at oh-six-hundred for navigation orders." He brushed a stray bit of cigarette ash off his hand and said, "I wish to congratulate you on your accomplishments thus far. I am proud to have been your commanding officer." He paused as he shook his head. "Unfortunately, I will never be able to tell anyone of this mission." His voice became solemn as he added, "Nor will you. Such is our duty." As he stood he added firmly, " _Udachi_ (good luck) to you all, Comrades."

As Kovpak called them to attention the General stepped to the table then put on his coat, picked up his gloves and hat and strode out of the briefing room without another word or gesture.

"Take your seats, Comrades," Kovpak ordered then took a deep breath. "As you heard, our mission continues tomorrow. For now, I suggest we rest and you review your technical operation manuals." He paused as the pilots reacted with various levels of faint scorn then his voice raised to the level of issuing an order as he added, "Pay special attention to your fuel management ... there is no margin for error."

Acknowledging the group's acceptance of that mission imperative Kovpak continued. "The evening meal is at 2000. A film will be shown here at 2045. I am told it brings news that we have not been made aware of while we have been away. Attendance is required." Over the resulting small chorus of groans and comments he added, "You are dismissed."

CHAPTER 8

Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Catherine Cruz stared at the fax and the black and white image of 'Professor Michael Kirkland'. She knew from the growing tightness in her throat that her voice wasn't going to be as steady as it could have been; luckily she sounded genuinely confused instead of distraught. "I don't get it," she said as she looked up at Dunlap. "There can't be anything missing—"

"Not a thing," Dunlap said at least in part to come to her rescue. "I didn't think there would be ... not unless this guy is David Copperfield or can move faster than the speed of light." He set his pen down on the polished surface and leaned inward to see who was paying attention. "Look, folks, let's get something out on the table here. Like I said, Alex Calder thought he was the real deal." When no reactions were visible he shook his head. "There's a simple mistake in here somewhere," he said pointing at the computer printout as well as the fax.

"I believe we should discuss this with Mr. Calder," Silayev suggested and looked to Kurtz for support that didn't materialize.

Dunlap shook his head. "Let's not make a mountain out of a mole hill."

Catherine saw the glare he was directing at Silayev and breathed an almost visible sigh of relief.

Silayev was not entirely willing to give up that easily but with the other events of the previous evening he didn't dare push too far; the man who hadn't identified himself was in possession of evidence that could jeopardize Silayev's status in the U.S. But acting out of character wasn't an option – persistence was required so he tried another angle. "He may have been gathering intelligence about the security arrangements."

"I don't think so," Catherine said without looking up. She knew instinctively all eyes were aimed at her again and she added, "He was extraordinarily knowledgeable."

Silayev raised his eyebrows slightly. "The best are." He looked around at the others as if he were lecturing. "They are thorough in their research; meticulous in planning. They have resources." His next statement was spoken more slowly as if to emphasize his point. "They use assumed identities."

After a moment Dunlap shook his head dismissively. "The exhibit will open on schedule," he began, "but we're changing some procedures, resetting the access cards and codes, just in case." Everyone but Silayev nodded in agreement and Dunlap added, "And we ..." he paused and scanned the faces before saying, "I think we're finished here."

Still unable to get any backing from Kurtz, Silayev thought better of saying anything more and decided a more discrete inquiry with their local Houston Police Department liaison would suffice. _Even without you, Ms. Cruz, we will find out who this man really was,_ he thought as he shrugged in feigned resignation.

Catherine caught a quick ' _are you alright?'_ look from Dunlap and she responded with a hint of a forced smile fronting a firmly clamped jaw. As she rose from the chair and moved toward the door she suddenly got the distinctly unpleasant sense her boss felt sorry for her – not for the questioning but for having possibly been taken advantage of.

She managed to get down to her office quickly without seeing any of the museum staff, avoiding the embarrassment of encountering someone who might discern the teeming emotions that would surely be obvious by now. The fear and worry came and went; her determination to believe in the man she thought had been Michael Kirkland cycled back and forth from fragile to resilient.

The first thing she did when she got into her office was place a call to Elanore Calder. When the answering machine at the Calder home picked up and started playing the message she didn't even try to conceal her frustration. " _Mierda_!" she hissed forcefully. By the time the recording beep came on she had regained most of her composure and just in case anyone other than El might hear, she tried to sound nonchalant. "El, hey, it's Cath ... call me as soon as you can, my office, okay? Bye."

God dammit, El! You've gotta get a frickin' cell phone!

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and slowly let it out as she tried not to succumb to the fear of having been a pawn in some elaborate game. _I'm not that stupid_ , she reminded herself then her resolve wavered. _Oh, God please, tell me I'm not that stupid_.

With her nerves on edge, the ringing cell phone was startling and the number appearing on the display made her hold her breath; before she could decide to answer the call a voice from her office doorway made her jump yet again.

"Hey, you okay?"

She spun to see Elanore Calder standing at the open door. " _Jesus_ , El!" she blurted out then took another deep breath and exhaled loudly. "I just tried to call you," she said, forcing a quick laugh as she turned and set down the phone, letting the call from the now-mysterious man go to her voice mail.

Elanore leaned forward slightly, tipping her head to get a closer look as she walked further in. "You okay?" she asked again, this time more seriously. "What's wrong?"

Catherine's eyes burned and with her lips pursed and her throat tightened she somehow marshaled her resolve and refused to cry. More than anything she wanted to melt down in a puddle of sobs while her dearest friend held and comforted her as she had done more than once over the years. Instead, she sat down and gripped the arms of her chair and leaned back with her eyes closed. "Shit!" she hissed, then repeated it three more times while shaking her head slowly. In plaintive, whining exasperation she asked, "What am I going to do, El?" When no immediate response came from her now-confused friend she added glumly, "I've really stepped in it this time."

Elanore took the moment to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk and look more closely at her friend in anticipation. "What the hell is going on?"

Catherine suddenly snapped out of her reverie and swung her gaze down from the overhead lights. "How come you're here?" she asked in bewilderment. The expression on her face quickly shifted to one of embarrassment. "Don't tell me I forgot something ... _Dios, yo soy un desastre_ , (God I am such a mess)—"

"Let's see," Elanore thought aloud as she translated slowly. "God ... you are—oh! He's that good?" she asked teasingly then grinned smugly. "I thought he would be."

Catherine leaned forward and put her forearms on the desk with her head down, which only encouraged her friend to continue the torture.

" _Noche toledana_ , (a restless night) eh? Is he as good as he looks?"

Catherine's head popped up with her mouth open and she gave her friend a seriously indignant look despite the fact that she knew it wasn't going to be convincing. "We had _dinner_. And I went home ... alone. And we're having dinner on Friday," she added resolutely, knowing full well if anything more interesting had happened she would never have been able to conceal it from her best friend for any length of time.

In more ways than one Elanore felt relieved and she decided to let Catherine off the hook, her curiosity shifting the subject to what she had seen a few minutes earlier. "What was all that up in the conference room?" When her friend didn't seem to switch gears fast enough to keep up, Elanore launched into the rapid-fire commentary she could seemingly turn on or off at will. "I was here to see Matt, we're going to figure out how to set up a luncheon for some of the new donors after last night – we hit some home runs in your audience, Cath, that discussion thing you and the professor did, they're serious about sponsoring a PBS production with you two, really, we can get production backing ... then I saw you in the conference room so I hung around, then Ronnie came out and she said it would be a few minutes so I got some coffee and wandered around 'til I spotted you heading down here at full throttle."

Catherine blinked a couple of times, rose from her chair, walked over quickly and closed the heavy door. As soon as she sat down again she leaned slightly over the cluttered desk and lowered her voice. " _Yo realmente en mal estado esto,"_ (I've really messed this up).

"You've ... you've, what?"

"Last night ... after we closed—"

"What did you say?"

"What?"

"You said _realmente_ something something—"

"Oh, sorry, I said I really messed up."

"What?"

"He examined some of the exhibits."

"The exhibits? So what? Alex—"

"The Russians think he's some kind of a, a, a jewel thief ... checking the security."

Faced with an apparent absurdity, Elanore's mouth opened slightly as she froze in disbelief. "Doctor _Kirkland_?"

Catherine nodded and couldn't force her emotions to stay below the surface any longer. Her voice was tight and her chin quivered slightly. "El ... he wasn't on the invitation list ... he's not a professor at UCONN ... Ronnie checked with them."

Elanore could plainly tell her friend was in distress but worse, she wasn't making any sense. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times then finally found the words. "But he ... he couldn't have just ... hell ... Hon, he couldn't have just wandered in off the damn street ... could he?"

Her friend shook her head but was unable to form words.

"Didn't ... didn't you just say you were going to have dinner with him?"

A quick grab of a tissue from the nearby box was the only thing that saved Catherine's tears from ruining the little eye makeup she wore. As she struggled to regain her composure with her eyes closed she felt her desk chair turning. When she looked up through the welling tears she realized Elanore had moved a chair around the desk and was sitting in it leaning toward her. She sniffled, pursed her lips, tossed the tissue and got another one, then leaned back, brushed a few loose hairs away from her face and dropped her hands into her lap as she heaved a sigh.

"Cath ... listen Hon," Elanore began firmly, "now listen ... for my money he is not _Sir Charles Lytton_ any more than I am."

Catherine went blank and regarded her friend with confusion. _Charles what?_ She sniffled and managed to ask, "Sir who?"

As if everybody in today's world should have known the famous actor's role Elanore said offhandedly, "David Niven." Seeing the look of misconnection she pushed on. "The _Pink Panther_ movies? The British playboy jewel thief," she instructed. When her friend still appeared baffled she added, "The thief was _Sir Charles Lytton_."

As it had any number of times before, Elanore's diversion actually made Catherine smile and almost giggle as she recalled snippets of the movies. The world was not really coming to an end and her sense of humor caught up with her in spite of what had gone on that morning. "You know he does sound English ... and good Lord, El, he has expensive taste," she offered more coherently, recalling the fact that he wore a five-figure watch. But the look of worry returned to her face when she said, "El, I don't know what to do ... I'm afraid they'll call the police."

Elanore scowled slightly. "Oooh, that's not so wonderful."

"And you introduced us."

_He did start the conversation_ , Elanore recalled then kept at the attempt to lighten the situation. "I guess I'm responsible because I introduced you ... okay, so we'll both get arrested. Al and Mrs. C. will get a kick out of seeing that in the Chronicle. Uh, but ... I know Al'll bail you out but I'm not sure—"

Catherine interrupted with a raised hand and couldn't suppress the grin, whispering, "El ... I sort-of lied to them ... no, I flat-out lied to them. I have his business card and cell phone number. They don't know I'm seeing him again. If they did I know they'll have the cops talk to him. I don't want that." The turmoil on her face was even more obvious after she said it.

Elanore's voice lowered into a near whisper. "Oh, shit ... he really got to you, didn't he?"

Catherine nodded and looked down again. "He's, he's—"

"Gorgeous," Elanore interrupted jealously.

Catherine snickered reluctantly and relaxed somewhat. She lowered her voice and said just above a whisper, "He's one of most interesting men I've ever met ... and a great kisser."

"I knew it!" Elanore said, leaning back with a smug look. "And that's all?"

Catherine suddenly fixed her with a serious look. "Like I said, that's all," she said firmly.

Elanore saw the pain behind the kidding. "Serious?"

Her friend sniffled and grabbed another tissue. "I'm thirty-five, okay? How many of him am I going to get kissed by ... and asked out again?"

Elanore decided to reinforce a point she had attempted to make more than a few times over the years since the divorce. "Plenty if you'd take a chance," she admonished honestly.

Admitting to reluctance was something Catherine had wrestled with over the years, particularly each time she had seemingly scuttled a potential relationship for reasons she didn't want to examine too closely. It was as if the damage from her marriage had been so great that she couldn't risk having it happen again, no matter how many times Elanore and her other friends tried to convince her she could have another life with another man. And now, barely twelve hours had passed since meeting someone, that for reasons she couldn't immediately fathom, seemed to invalidate her fears and verify the advice that had been given so often. "He's not just good looking ... I really, really want to see him again."

Her friend could only nod in a kind of wary sympathy. _She's toast_ , Elanore thought then unsuccessfully tried not to smile.

Catherine took a deep breath and sighed as she looked out the window into the still-gray morning. The lack of sunshine in the last several days wasn't helping her mood at all and she blinked back tears. "They've screwed something up, El ... I'm not going to call him and look stupid ... and help them screw this up."

Her desk phone rang but before picking it up she looked at the display. "That's Matt," she said then took a deep breath again. "He's been really good about this," she noted gratefully then picked up the handset. "Hi," she said almost automatically. "No, no, I'm okay ... He ... An inv—he had an invitation? ... I _knew_ it ... I'll be right there," she said emphatically then hung up with her spirits suddenly lifted. "They found on the tape where he comes in ... he had an invitation!" She made a fist and seemed about to start pounding on the desk but restrained herself. "I _knew_ it!" she said with a mixture of anger and relief. "Come with?" she offered as she stood up. "They're going through the invitations."

In the conference room again, this time with Elanore at her side and Dunlap and Ronnie across from them, they searched through the cardboard file box of nearly 500 invitations. Fortunately, they hadn't been just tossed in at random as they were handed in; under the watchful eyes of two uniformed guards the hostesses at the reception desk had graciously accepted each of the invitations and for the most part they were stacked in the order they had been presented.

From tediously stepping through the video the security department had determined the man identified as 'Michael Kirkland' was the 306th guest to be admitted at exactly 7:27 p.m.

Dunlap startled them all as he dropped his fist onto the table and read aloud: " _The Houston Museum of Fine Arts is pleased to invite Michael C. Kirkland, Ph.D., to a benefit reception and private preview exhibition_ —" he halted and looked apologetically at Catherine as he handed the invitation to Ronnie.

After looking at it closely Ronnie said with visible relief, "It's ours."

"Obviously," Dunlap said flatly.

"This doesn't make any sense," Ronnie offered.

Catherine and Elanore breathed a huge simultaneous sigh and they couldn't help but see some irritation brewing on Dunlap's normally placid face.

"Now all we need to do is figure out why it's not here," the executive grumbled, shaking the pages of computer printout. "Ronnie ... would you—?"

With visible irritation in her demeanor she was already a step ahead of her boss. "I'll get with Bernard," she said of the museum's one-man information technology staff.

"And I'll show this to Silayev," Dunlap said as they headed to the door in tandem.

After they were out of earshot Elanore said glumly, "Well, I hate to say it, but I think Matt's going to be disappointed." She saw Catherine's mood swing downward yet again in confusion and she lowered her voice. "All that really proves is he had an invitation in his hand with that name printed on it ... Hon, nobody was checking IDs," she noted glumly.

Catherine recognized her sister-in-law's insight into all things social and replied resolutely, "I was with him for hours ... he is who he said he is!"

Unwilling to disagree and simply toss aside the hints of her own personal assessment of the man she picked up the fax from the table and began to read it.

Catherine frowned as she thought about what Elanore was reading and she tried to sound positive. "That's what UCONN sent us. That's a picture of him ... well, that's their professor Kirkland."

Elanore only nodded distractedly but after a half-minute of thoroughly reading the small, sometimes barely-legible text that offered more information than was really of interest to anyone, her shoulders suddenly slumped and she sighed in obvious frustration. Rattling the flimsy paper she asked, "Oh, shit, Cath, did anybody _read_ this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did anybody actually _read_ the whole thing ... the bio? The whole damn thing?"

Catherine quickly thought through the meeting and how the page was handed first to Dunlap, then to her. "Ronnie ... she, she probably did ... I think Matt did," she said unconvincingly.

Elanore said smugly as she handed the page to her bewildered friend, "Hon, read the next to last sentence of the last paragraph."

Catherine took it and began reading aloud: " _'Professor Mike Kirkland and Professor Michael C. Kirkland, a visiting lecturer in Economics at the Stamford campus, are not related'_."

Elanore pointed at the page and said, "My bet is visiting lecturers don't get their pictures taken." As Catherine's eyes widened and her mouth opened Elanore looked to the ceiling and added sarcastically, "Dear Lord, protect this glorious institution and all that is within it from the stupidity of the men protecting it ... amen."

" _Mierda!_ " Catherine whispered angrily then a sudden thought came to her. "El, you might want to call Al and let him know ... I think Silayev thinks Al knows him."

Elanore looked dubious. "Al?" she scoffed. "He just met him last night ... I introduced them."

\- # -

Alex Calder strode across his office and opened the concealed door of a large, acoustically isolated and electronically shielded private conference room. Inside, Kirkland sat at one end of the long table that was studded with conferencing equipment and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling white marker-board walls where any number of major advancements in technology had been explored in detail without the risk of eavesdropping.

"Come on in," Calder said and held the door open. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he added as he led his guest across the expanse to the area of his desk. "That ran a little longer than I thought ... and I didn't want anyone other than Sally to know you were here."

"That's probably a good idea," Kirkland acknowledged.

Calder pointed at the two chairs in front of his desk. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you," Kirkland replied.

"So," Calder said as he took his chair behind the desk. "Whad'ya think ... are we dealing with the real thing?" he asked pleasantly

Kirkland spent a moment thinking then began by relating a somewhat sanitized version of the previous night's encounter with Pavel Silayev and his men, leaving out the fact that a handgun had been involved and the seriousness of the Russian's injuries.

Calder was visibly stunned and after a few moments of shaking his head he said, "He had three men with him ... waiting for you in the parking ramp?"

"I'm assuming they talked to the parking valet," Kirkland noted. "He was the only one who knew where I was parked."

"Why? What the hell did they want?"

"I'm confident it had something to do with my examination of the exhibits."

"Shit," Calder noted as he realized someone should have informed Silayev personally before they let Kirkland handle their precious artifacts.

"He seemed more than just annoyed ... but I think I managed to disabuse him of any real concerns ... I more or less left him with the idea that I was only interested in Ms. Cruz."

A knowing grin slowly formed on Calder's face. "Still, I'm really sorry as shit ... when we talked the other day I thought we'd just keep quiet and corner Matt later on in the evening and set you up to see them today."

Kirkland gave his client a look of reassurance. "Not to worry. In my line of work there are sometimes exigent circumstances."

Calder shook his head again as he considered the odd phraseology. "Yea, well, this isn't what I had in mind ... hell, most of the consultants I've brought in didn't have to deal with thugs in parking ramps – they're more likely to use PowerPoint to bore people to death."

Kirkland laughed knowingly then became serious. "Well, I'd gladly do it all again to meet Ms. Cruz."

Calder grinned and his eyes closed slightly. "Ahh ... and I should have thought El would have her radar on. To her it's 'new donor awareness'," he said making quote gestures in the air.

Kirkland squinted in misunderstanding and Calder added, "I give her crap about using the museum to introduce eligible men to Cath."

"Well, I have to say I learned enough to want to learn more," Kirkland advised. "She's as brilliant as she is beautiful. I'm more than a little amazed she's not attached."

Calder smiled quickly and nodded then paused uncertainly before saying, "You know ... well, maybe ... I don't know how much she told you ... she was married to El's little brother."

"She did say something about him," Kirkland replied casually.

Calder closed his eyes for a moment as a look of disgust fell over his face. "He's in for twenty-something for trying to scam a few hundred people and screw the IRS along the way."

At that revelation Kirkland's brow furrowed and he squinted as he asked, "Really?" Knowing something about the IRS as a provider of expert opinions in a number of tax-related cases he took a deep breath and sighed. "I have an interesting relationship at Treasury ... I've done work for them ... and on the other hand, sometimes for the people they ah ... ah, they shall we say, the people who disagree with their opinion of the value of something."

Calder looked at Kirkland and shook his head faintly. _That makes sense; he's a hired gun_ , he thought then continued with his explanation of his brother-in-law's troubles. "His name was Burnett, Roger Burnett ... the case ring any bells?"

Kirkland thought for a moment then shook his head. "I can't recall."

"Went from running a couple of car dealerships to prison in, oh, a little less than four years."

"Really?" Kirkland offered in amazement. "Embezzlement?"

"Shit, that would have been better," Calder said disgustedly. "No ... no, Roger ... ol' Roger turned out to be quite the entrepreneur. When it got going he made shit-loads of money. But when the whole thing cratered the sonofabitch was so damn sure of himself he wouldn't listen to _anybody_ ... not even his lawyer. And Commoner lined her up for him."

Kirkland found it difficult to believe someone Barton Commoner recommended wouldn't be listened to.

"He could've plea bargained down to 'round five years. The moron kept trying to tell the judge and the jury some bullshit story that the IRS was an illegal private company ... and then he keeps arguing with the judge—"

Having been an expert witness in numerous civil as well as criminal trials, the concept was almost astonishing. "Arguing with the judge?"

"You wouldn't have believed it unless you'd seen it. We were there for the whole thing. It was embarrassing."

"Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, was he?"

Calder huffed and shook his head. "Sure as hell thought he was. She, the judge, she especially liked the part where he demanded to have recuse herself because she was part of the conspiracy." He paused and sighed as he leaned back in the chair. "It wasn't pretty. It took the jury less than four hours ... part of that was lunch." After a few moments he added, "He kept at it, though. Filed a blizzard of paper trying to appeal."

"Obviously to no avail," Kirkland suggested more than asked.

"Obviously is right ... over and over. Then he came up with the brilliant idea to file liens on the IRS agents and the prosecutor."

"Liens?"

"On their property. Utterly bogus but a pain in the ass. It took a long time for things to settle down 'round here. Even after the divorce."

Kirkland sat quietly, noting his client was ruminating over what were obviously some rather sore memories. Finally he decided to try and change the subject. "So ... as for the earlier part of the evening, the reason you asked me—"

"Oh," Calder acknowledged with a serious nod. "Okay ... so, real or not?"

"What I can tell you is the Caesar's Ruby in the exhibit isn't the original ... it's a handsome piece, but nevertheless not the real thing."

When Calder looked skeptical Kirkland provided the simplest and most obvious reason. "It's too new, probably less than a hundred years old."

Calder's lips formed a narrow line and his jaw tightened as he leaned forward onto his forearms and interlaced his fingers. He exhaled slowly, making an almost-whistling noise but said nothing.

After waiting a few seconds Kirkland asked, "The question now is ... what would you like me to do?" When Calder didn't offer a response Kirkland added, "You should know ... it's more than just that piece."

Calder's mouth opened slightly for a moment then he sighed and began shaking his head. "We're being flimflammed by the Russians, aren't we?"

"In terms of three of the five pieces I examined ... I would say yes. Perhaps more if I could get them into the proper lab."

"Shit," Calder repeated in a whisper then rubbed his forehead with his thumb and fingertips. A realization came to him and he looked up in concern. "Does Cath know?"

Kirkland paused only briefly then nodded. "But she also knows it would be more than foolish to reveal it."

Calder thought about that for several seconds then asked with definite concern, "What would the Russians do if they found out she knew?"

"If anything were to come out, their instincts, the Russian's, that is, would involve simple denial. There is no one to prove otherwise."

"Umm," Calder said in agreement then a thought came to him. "Except you."

"Hence the source of Mr. Silayev's agitation," Kirkland replied. "And without another legitimate analysis—"

"Which sure as hell won't happen again," Calder noted.

Kirkland nodded in agreement. "Indeed ... their secret is safe. It would be yet another rumor."

After a few moments of considering the situation Calder sighed heavily then asked, "So now what? What do you recommend?"

"I can draft an expert appraisal report, you can submit that to your loss carrier for credit on the paid premium," Kirkland said. The lack of reaction from across the desk confirmed a theory – there was more going on here than a simple insurance premium adjustment but he decided to go along for a while longer. "If it escalates to filing a civil suit, the law firm retains me as an expert witness – but given the involvement of a foreign country, these circumstances are somewhat unusual."

Without saying anything, Calder drummed his fingers on the desk then suddenly stopped, rolled his chair back slightly, opened a desk drawer and removed a small, dark-gray velvet bag. He rose slightly and held it out over the desk toward Kirkland.

_This ought to be interesting,_ Kirkland thought as his curiosity mounted. He hesitated for a second after taking the bag then untied it and began turning it inside out. "I didn't bring gloves," he said concentrating on manipulating the cloth carefully to reveal the object without touching it. "But I never go anywhere without this," he said as he pulled his loupe out of his sport-jacket pocket.

Without revealing his astonishment, he studied the pendant closely for nearly a minute then couldn't entirely conceal the shock on his face when he looked up.

Calder's voice sounded as if he were admitting to a grave misdeed. "That's the real thing, isn't it?"

Kirkland blinked a few times as his eye adjusted from the loupe and he swallowed hard. _He doesn't look pleased at all_ , he thought. "Ah ... well, Mr. Calder, I ... I can't be certain in a _legal_ sense without some further testing, but in my opinion ... this piece is authentic," he said and looked at it again admiringly.

He heard the man say something indistinguishable with a tone that could have been either relief or despair. "So this ... this is the reason I'm here?" he asked as he replaced the pendant in the bag and gently handed it back to Calder, overcoming the almost desperate urge to ask how it could possibly have come into his possession.

Calder breathed in deeply then nodded as he exhaled. "Yep. It is."

There were both social and legal boundaries to be observed in these situations; challenging a client's motives was inappropriate unless you intended to see them sued or prosecuted, which hardly seemed rational at this juncture with someone of Alex Calder's stature. Kirkland's mind wheeled at the possibilities – some of them criminal – as he leaned back and looked calmly at Calder. Finally he cleared his throat and asked, "Do you believe someone ... someone in the museum is involved in, in ... however this ... this _situation_ , shall we say, has come about?"

After a few moments Calder answered glumly, "No ... no I don't. I don't think so."

Unable to discern anything more from the man's demeanor, Kirkland decided to simply offer an opinion of one of the possible realities. "The problem anyone who has the real one, of course ... the real problem _you_ have is ... the pendant is essentially worthless except to two parties." He held up a hand and index finger. "Obviously, the Russians," he said, sounding as if it were a rather dire warning then raised another finger, "and possibly one other entity. But given the span of time involved I'd have to verify the second party's current interest."

Kirkland still couldn't get a reading on what was going on behind the man's eyes but he continued offering advice. "You, the current possessor, could never sell it to anyone and expect to remain anonymous for any length of time. Or, more accurately, the complications that would arise were you to _try_ and sell it would be ... let's say, dangerously unpredictable."

"Umm," Calder grunted quietly as he hefted the bag a couple of times then said, "I'm not interested in selling it," as he returned it to the drawer.

Kirkland wasn't sure what to make of that but and decided not to inquire about what were obviously closely-held secrets. "There would be a reward, well, a reward of sorts for it. There are probably only a handful of people aware of its real status—you and I now included—and it has been missing a very long time."

Calder regarded the Professor with a look of a young boy having been discovered doing something he shouldn't have been doing. "So ... to use the movie vernacular, it's the proverbial 'hot rock'."

Before answering, Kirkland considered how best to explain the incredibly complex situation. After several moments he sighed and said, "Not publicly. And there are protocols that must be observed to maintain that status."

Calder seemed dubious. "Why shouldn't it just ... what if it just showed up in a box at the embassy?"

The response was a blunt warning. "Mr. Calder, the reappearance would trigger a manhunt of unprecedented proportions – and possibly disrupt a longstanding and delicately balanced relationship between the Russians and the other party."

Calder blinked several times before he asked, "Wouldn't they just be happy to have the damn thing back?"

Kirkland paused again in thought, wondering what a full explanation might lead to then decided to trust his new client implicitly. "Were it just that one piece, yes perhaps ... but as I said, it's not."

"Oh, shit ... I hadn't thought of that," Calder said in almost a whisper. "If one shows up that means somebody might know where the others are."

"Exactly," Kirkland said emphatically. "And ... it also indicates that someone else ... worse yet, an _unknown someone_ may know about the copies."

Calder groaned quietly and seemed to stare at the surface of his desk.

Kirkland's suspicions were growing even as he decided to confide in the obviously troubled executive; clearly nothing in the man's vast business experience had prepared him for what he was wrestling with. "Mr. Calder—"

A raised hand and a surprising smile were accompanied by a friendly suggestion. "Like the song says, 'you can call me Al,' please – nobody around here calls me Mister. And El's the only one who calls me Alex and only when I'm in deep shit. And right now I think she's going to be calling me Alex a lot."

Kirkland grinned back. "Very well ... I'll try to get used to that. So ... with the Russians it's like dancing with elephants in a small room – one has to be vigilant and agile. It's very political. Yeltsin just signed an agreement with NATO ... that was not considered appropriate by some in the power structure. So for you, for this, it very much depends on who knows the truth. A faction that suddenly recovers the real pendant might want to expose the conspiracy of another – if there was one ... one they can somehow prove exists. That unlocks a Pandora's Box that may include not only political gamesmanship but more likely, achieving a position of considerable economic advantage."

Calder didn't react other than to turn his head toward the windows and look out into the gray sky over Houston. After a few moments he closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. "Shit," he whispered again then said reflectively, "Past and to come seem best; things present worst."

It took Kirkland a few seconds to interpret what he had heard then he began, "Shakespeare ... ah ... I can't recall it."

"Henry ... the fourth ... the second one ... things were not going well for the rebels," Calder said almost distractedly, picking up a pen and twirling it through his fingers then clicking it a few times.

Instead of blatantly asking his client for the whole story, Kirkland expanded on the details of the Russian situation, finishing with what could only be construed as a warning: "In order to preserve your safety and the safety of those having anything to do with it coming into your possession, I can offer my services as an escrow agent to deal with those parties ... at arms' length to you."

Calder's gaze turned from the window toward Kirkland and he squinted slightly. "They must really trust you."

"They do. I wouldn't be in business if they didn't. The fact is I probably wouldn't be alive."

Calder cleared his throat and reached toward the cup of coffee on the desk and discovered it was cold. He scowled and set it back down and looked at his watch. "Whew ... I need something to drink ... you? Water? Coke? Anything?" he asked as he swiveled the chair and reached over to a cabinet that opened to reveal a small, well-stocked refrigerator. "What's your poison?"

"Perrier, please," Kirkland answered, gesturing at the familiar green bottles.

"Got it."

"Perfect, thank you," Kirkland said. "I don't need a glass."

Calder passed the bottle across then opened his own and gulped down nearly half of it. After taking a deep breath and letting it out he asked, "So, you deal in stolen artifacts?"

Kirkland sympathized with the flawed assessment. "Deal _with_ , yes, rarely ... deal _in_ , never," he advised.

"No offense," Calder said dejectedly. "This is new ground for me."

"None taken," Kirkland said then took a drink. "The public doesn't realize it but many thefts are never reported, especially from private parties. Nor are recoveries." He watched his client's reaction and added, "There exists a very, very black market ... from which the authorities are excluded ... although they try to exert influence it has its own protocols and rules of engagement."

The more Calder heard the more uncomfortable he became about the position his mother's past had put them all in but he wasn't prepared to delve into that facet of what could now be deemed a looming calamity. "So the bad guys get a pass if things are kept quiet?"

There was a pause while Kirkland held his breath as if he were going to say something but had changed his mind. After another moment he reluctantly agreed with Calder's assessment. "Admittedly, that does happen. The actual market for authentic pieces such as that is incredibly small. In some respects it's a self-policing business."

When the look on Calder's face shifted further toward unease Kirkland added, "There are such things as possessions with value beyond the understanding of people who do not own them. Call it pride ... fetishism, even xenophobia with certain historical items."

After another drink Calder nodded. "As King Henry would also say, 'men prize the thing ungain'd more than it is'."

Kirkland smiled in agreement. "True. There is also the fact we are in a world with varying degrees of law enforcement efficacy ... not to mention judicial reach. Integrity is not a universally-held credo. And then there are people willing to steal something worth millions just to get a few thousand dollars from a prearranged transaction. Men like Myles Connor love art but get a thrill out of being a criminal. But, most of them steal to get money from the insurers."

Calder leaned back in the chair again and his mind raced. Having dealt with the vagaries of justice on multiple continents in the intellectual property battles so common to the technology industry, he was beginning to develop a clearer view of the world Kirkland worked in and what he was alluding to. It didn't make him any more comfortable to think there was a set of behind-the-scenes channels and operatives beyond the reach of the law and he felt as if he had been hijacked into an underworld that hadn't yet been outed as part of popular culture. "We have our black hats and white hats in this business too," he said.

"An apt analogy."

Focusing now on his own family's predicament with more thorough understanding of the risks, Calder decided to rely on Kirkland's obvious expertise. "Barton holds you in very high regard," he said, remembering what the attorney had told him: ' _Nobody's going to challenge his opinions for very long'_.

"I believe we are wearing the white hats," Kirkland suggested.

"And the other party?"

Kirkland took another drink then scowled, tilted his head in thought then leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. "Things have changed over the years. Ah, I guess you would say the U.S. government sees them as indispensible black hats. The Russians see them as both. How much do you know about the De Beers operation?"

After shrugging and frowning slightly Calder said, "Well ... Oppenheimer ... and I guess, diamonds." He leaned forward, rested his forearms on the desk and picked at the paper label on the green bottle as he remembered something. "And an anti-trust case that will probably put GE's lawyers' kids through Harvard law ... that's about it. Other than we've all paid way too much for diamonds over the years ... why would they be interested in it?"

CHAPTER 9

USSR, September, 1942

The overcast weather above the Smolnya aerodrome had become an advantage for the mission pilots rather than an impediment. To the west, the Luftwaffe was effectively blocked from sending their aircraft below the cloud layer that hovered low over Leningrad.

After being briefed privately by General Krylov, Major Kovpak took the packets of mission orders and personally conducted three separate and more detailed briefings with the other leads. They, in turn, would brief their element pilots but only in the minutes before launch, which would take place at almost any time the order came down.

None of the missions were operationally difficult, Kovpak realized. They appeared more tedious than dangerous as long as the leads navigated reasonably well and the pilots maintained rigorous monitoring of fuel consumption, which necessitated attention to not only power settings but the trim controls. The way he saw it, without mechanical or supply complications they would all be in Tehran in a matter of two or three days at most. Contact with the Luftwaffe or a radical change in the en route weather were the only risks and those he considered highly unlikely.

Element number three, led by Captain Yuri Kozhedub launched first at 0645 with the objective of reaching Kotlas, some 900 kilometers east. After refueling, he led them further east then turned southeast to Ufa on a leg of 1,100 kilometers. The flight from there to the remote aerodrome at Aqtobe was shorter, only 700 kilometers and they arrived without incident well before dark on the first day to an enthusiastic but small, secluded reception.

Captain Vladmir Bochkov's element number two launched at 0715, flying 600 kilometers on a more northerly route to Plesty. Only minutes after their departure on the next nearly 1,100 kilometer leg southeast to Izhevsk, one of the escort pilots simply fell back without reporting any difficulty and returned to the field. Unable to reach the plane on the radio, Bochkov ordered a return to ascertain what had happened. After repairs to the stricken plane's radio were completed they resumed the mission the following morning, arriving in Urgench late in the afternoon.

On the second day, Captain Boris Kuznetskov led his element number four out of Leningrad at 0700, flying 600 and fifty kilometers to Velsk where one of his wingmen arrived with a severely overheated engine that seized shortly after landing and was deemed unrepairable. The two remaining planes flew the 800 kilometers to Izhevsk and successfully continued to Aqtobe, where they were pleased to learn of the success of the previous two elements.

Kovpak next led element number one into the air at 0730 and arrived without incident in Veliky Ustyug. After some minor hydraulic repairs on one of the escorts, they departed no more than an hour late, heading due east then eventually turning south to the aerodrome near Ufa. But instead of being able to continue to Aqtobe, Kovpak's aircraft developed a propeller problem while warming up that could not be resolved by the mechanic at the aerodrome. After consulting with the Bell Aircraft advisors in Moscow, a decision was made to remove the required propeller parts from the stranded plane in Velsk and have them flown to Ufa.

Finally, a full two days behind schedule, Kovpak and his two escorts left Ufa in perfectly clear weather on their way to Aqtobe, skirting the snow-covered western slopes of the Urals with Mount Yamantaw in full view to their left. By then, the other elements had already arrived at Tehran, minus one more escort that experienced generator problems and diverted to what was thought to be an aerodrome at Nukus.

Even before Kovpak leveled off at 3,300 meters he was already confident the mission objectives would be accomplished. Now all they had to do was ferry three airplanes to Tehran with two stops along the way.

\- # -

The pilot of the long-range Messerschmitt bf-110 reconnaissance plane was paying close attention to the engine power settings and his range calculations. They were very close to the turn-around point of their photographic mission over the railroad marshalling yards near Ufa and he had no desire to wind up dealing with a fuel shortage while returning to the safety of Luftwaffe-dominated airspace.

Radio communication with the other two similar planes in the spread formation was forbidden. As mission commander it was his call on when to return and he had to balance his technical prowess with the egos of the other two under his command; turning back too early or too late had differing sets consequences – all of them bad.

The almost nonchalant alert came to him from his crewman, not from one of the other planes. "Three aircraft, _Oberleutnant_. Far below ... four o'clock, at least a kilometer south."

"Altitude?" the pilot ordered, unable to see in that area because of the wing.

"I make them above three thousand meters. Heading appears to be one eight zero. It was just three very quick sun flashes then I could make them out against the snow."

The aging bf-110 he was piloting had been relegated to reconnaissance missions in the war against the Soviets but those who had flown the type in combat were more than familiar with what it could accomplish, especially in a surprise attack.

"Just three?"

"Yes, sir."

"Try to find them again," he ordered, maintaining their heading to assure photographs of the mission objective some 5,000 meters below them would be obtained. "I doubt they've seen us."

Less than a minute after passing the designated objective with the cameras running, the pilot pushed the throttles forward and banked the plane sharply to the right. "Are they following?" he asked over the increasing noise.

The crewman leaned into the motion and tried to see if the other two planes in their formation had seen the lead aircraft make the abrupt turn. "Yes, sir," he answered.

"We can descend and gain on them without wasting fuel," the _Oberleutnant_ said somewhat arrogantly. "We can return with more than the mission film." The difficulty of course was finding the three small planes his gunner had seen a flash of sunlight reflect off of. The winter conditions were to their advantage; apparently the planes were not camouflaged in white.

The crewman felt a sense of dread and he almost regretted reporting the sighting. Altitude was one of the things that had kept him and many other Luftwaffe crewmen and officers alive in the war thus far but questioning a superior officer's decisions during a mission was an admission of cowardice. He swiveled to face forward and scanned the area ahead.

The leader of the recon formation felt confident that with the three of them and the element of surprise, downing at least one, perhaps even two of the Soviets would be simple and quick. This far to the east, the Russians were unlikely to be expecting an enemy and he doubted they would be experienced pilots. _Probably a training mission_ , he considered.

As the Germans descended rapidly in the direction of their anticipated intercept point, one of Kovpak's wingmen spotted the planes and reported by radio. Kovpak calmly clicked on the radio link twice, ordering them to execute their planned engagement tactics, gritting his teeth that his orders did not permit him to turn and join in the fight. Instead, he advanced the controls and entered a shallow dive to gain airspeed. _Unbelievable! I'm running away from a fight!_

Suddenly the scattered bf-110 pilots found themselves trying to regain their advantage of surprise as two planes they had never seen before had rounded wide but rapid horizontal turns that put them in ideal firing position to the sides of the bigger planes. The thumps of cannon fire startled the rear gunner of the lead plane and he saw bits and pieces of one of the bf-110s break away at about the same moment a thin stream of smoke appeared from one of the other plane's engines. As he tried to bring his machine gun to bear on one of the planes flashing across his line of sight to the rear he heard heavy bullets slam into the canopy and bore somewhere into the fuselage ahead of him.

The would-be dogfight did not last long and like many aerial engagements it ended before anyone was actually destroyed. The Luftwaffe _Oberleutnant_ understood not only their fuel situation but the importance of the film in the cameras his planes carried; as long as they returned, his failed attempt to gain another score against the enemy would be heralded as a valiant effort. With one of his aircraft experiencing engine trouble and another with part of a rudder shot away and carrying bullets somewhere in his own plane they continued the shallow dive to maintain momentum and veered west at maximum speed. To his surprise and relief, the two unidentifiable Soviet fighters didn't follow; what he couldn't have known was they had been ordered not to pursue enemy planes if the attack was broken off.

Kovpak was about to succumb to his fighter pilot instincts and join his men but the voice he recognized over the radio stopped him. "They have turned west," he heard and he immediately slowed significantly to let the two escorts overtake him. He searched the sky to his rear to see if he could find them and after a couple of minutes became alarmed to see a stream of what looked like glycol vapor trailing behind one of his wingmen. The voice in his headset from the pilot sounded surprisingly calm. "I must have taken a hit in the propeller. The vibration is severe above nineteen hundred RPM."

Kovpak did some quick estimation and made a decision to save the pilot and the plane – after all it was quite likely three of the element leaders were already in Tehran. He consulted his chart and scanned the bright, snow-covered terrain to determine their location. "Can you return to base?" Kovpak asked. After a moment or two the affirmative answer sounded confident enough that Kovpak calmly said, "You are also leaking coolant. Return at once. And good luck to you, Vasili." He swiveled his gaze to find the other plane. "Number two, your status?" he called.

"Overtaking you. One kilometer directly behind and approximately five hundred meters above. No damage to report. We made only one pass. We both had hits. They ran away like kicked dogs."

_That must have been quite a surprise,_ Kovpak mused.

The other plane pulled gradually into formation next to him and slightly behind then followed closely as Kovpak began a turn eastward. The encounter with the Nazi's this far to the east had alarmed him – he wanted additional space and fortunately, the number two pilot had made the mistake of not dropping his external fuel tank and they both could afford the slight extra distance.

Near the tiny town of Tolparovo, some fifty kilometers east of their planned route, he gradually swung southward again and they settled into the routine of scanning the sky for other planes. With the twisting White River below them, Kovpak suddenly noticed Lt. Mikhail Vitolkin's plane losing speed and falling behind. "Your status, number two?" he radioed. The message that came back was alarming to say the least.

"It stalled! I had to switch fuel tanks. I must have been hit!"

Kovpak cursed and dropped airspeed and altitude to observe. From below he could see the damage to the wing area and the streak the exiting fuel had left on the underside. Knowing the airplane's systems configuration in detail he realized a bullet must have found a fuel line and he quickly determined that with only half the normal fuel available his remaining escort was about to be forced out of the mission. Again he consulted his chart but decided to wait until the pilot of the other plane had things fully under control before asking him any questions.

Vitolkin's plane soon picked up speed as the engine regained power and Kovpak radioed, "The nearest field is Salavat. Ninety kilometers due west. Ufa is one hundred and sixty kilometers. I leave it to you to choose but I recommend Ufa if fuel allows. You can have repairs made and I will arrange for charts to be sent." After a few moments he added, "You and Vasili can join me at your earliest opportunity."

"What is the heading to Ufa?" Vitolkin responded quickly.

Kovpak had already calculated it for him. "One five seven. Good luck to you, Mikhail."

As the plane banked away sharply Kovpak heard, "To you as well, Major."

Now just over an hour from Aqtobe, Kovpak again settled into the routine. _Krylov must be pleased_ , he thought to himself. _Even Stalin must be pleased_. He began to consider what his career would be like in the future: A Colonel's station in an elite training command. The opportunity to instruct appealed to him even though he knew he would have few hours to be personally involved in honing the fighter pilots' skills from a cockpit.

As this mission was now drawing to a close he reminded himself of how fortunate he had been to have General Krylov as a mentor, but as he was dwelling on what life was going to be like, he suddenly became all-too-close to losing his own.

CHAPTER 10

Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Kirkland took a deep breath as he pondered how his new client might react to what he was about to reveal about the De Beers cartel and Russian history. "Under the present circumstances you need to know more than I would ordinarily reveal ... and, bear with me, some of this will run contrary to what you may know of history," he warned.

"Somehow I'm beginning to doubt a lot of things," Calder said dolefully.

"Well, you obviously know something of World War Two," he began, gesturing toward the huge aircraft models hanging above them and some of the pictures on the walls that showed Calder in the cockpit of several fighter planes from the '40s, "so, this may interest you more than it would the average antique jewelry collector."

Calder huffed slightly as he shook his head then offered a correction. "Jewelry? The only things I collect nowadays are parts for old planes. Know anybody with a set of drums and brakes for a Curtiss P 40?" he asked sarcastically. "I can make you a helluva trade for some Allison connecting rods."

A bewildered Kirkland shook his head. "That's not a market I know anything about."

"It's not like you can go down to the auto parts store," Calder said instructively.

Kirkland nodded in understanding. "Ah, I would imagine ... scarcity is an inherent factor in value."

With a knowing nod Calder agreed. "With people, too. Just ask my HR folks and my CFO ... I've got twenty-somethings around here driving Beemers."

"Highly specialized knowledge I assume."

"Very," Calder said grudgingly.

"Speaking of specialization ... do you know anything about diamond mining?"

It was Calder's turn to look bewildered. "Uh uh. Not much ... from what I hear it's not a job I'd want."

Kirkland set his drink on a coaster on the table between the chairs. "Very highly specialized geologic science," he said then relaxed in the chair somewhat and began to relate the secrets of the Soviets dealings with the De Beers cartel.

Contrary to the commonly accepted Soviet version of the 1955 Siberian discoveries, very early in 1941 the cartel's contracted experts had identified a handful of prospective areas among those the Soviet geologists had suspected were similar in structure to parts of South Africa. They were confident those locations would be viable for further exploration – exactly _how_ viable and exactly _where_ was a secret they kept as they bargained with the Kremlin. De Beers was even willing to pay the Soviets to let them bring their expertise and technology to bear on finding and mining diamonds and then moving the gem-quality ones to market on an exclusive basis.

Stalin and his ministry officers knew having the cartel's expertise and involvement would shorten the time not only to the realization of massive revenues but to meet the growing demand for industrial diamonds by several years if not decades. To maintain secrecy as well as control of the diamond market was crucial – he saw the diamond industry as a way to secretly fund the creation of even larger armies. With Japan menacing China and with the Nazis on the move in Europe, time was of the essence; the Soviet Union needed to quickly establish sources of new, state-controlled and especially fungible assets as well as diamonds for industrial purposes while there was still time.

Negotiations had been underway for several months when Hitler invaded and the situation in the Soviet Union deteriorated rapidly. The Nazi's rapid advances and the obvious Russian military failures alarmed the cartel – they were rightfully concerned the Soviets might lose the war and they'd wind up abandoning everything in Russia to Hitler.

Given the Oppenheimer family's Jewish background and sympathies, for the cartel to be faced with seeing the Nazis become aware of diamond mines in Russia was unthinkable.

In September of 1941, the senior cartel representative warned the Soviet Minister of Finance that the De Beers operation would not put up the required £100 million in gold and currency for the production and marketing rights while facing the risk of seeing that investment and the diamond resources it would secure simply fall into the hands of Adolph Hitler. They demanded a delay until the outcome of the war could be better ascertained.

Stalin was furious but could do nothing. Then in January of 1942, even more desperate for war materiel, he proposed a solution to the stalemate. In order to preserve the arrangement and as a guarantee that the Soviet Union would prevail, he offered a portion of the Romanov treasure to be delivered to and held by the cartel as £100 million in collateral that would be recovered over time once diamond production got underway. The cartel soon agreed as long as the collateral included only gemstones and jewelry; they were not interested in artwork or other historical artifacts.

Stalin and his Minister of Finance conceived an elaborate subterfuge to produce replacement duplicates of the historic pieces to conceal that fact that the treasures were going to be sent to the cartel. This was done under the guise of being prepared to confound the Nazis if they did somehow prevail but it also helped conceal the fact that the treasure was no longer in the possession of the Ministry. The seemingly outlandish idea gained credence and accelerated rapidly when one of the Minister's closest advisors reported that many of the surviving craftsmen and artisans from the height of the Russian Fabergé era were still living in Leningrad – thus, there was a local, albeit aging source of the kinds of skills and talents required to accomplish the task in the shortest possible time.

Secret orders—no more peculiar than some of the others that had emanated directly from the Kremlin—were rapidly issued to round up surviving artisans and craftsmen and put them to work. With the production arranged, Stalin handed the delivery and security aspects to one of his most trusted generals and sometime in the fall of 1942 the cargo was secreted out of the country via multiple aircraft. In the end the incredibly complex mission was mostly successful with the exception that some of the cargo failed to reach the delivery point and apparently vanished.

After hearing the story Calder immediately understood. "And this," he said as he gestured toward the drawer, "this ... it was one of those missing pieces."

Kirkland nodded slowly. "Apparently so. But, understand, until now, I considered the story of the missing pieces to be perhaps as much myth as fact. Needless to say the Kremlin hasn't let an outside expert examine the collections over the years."

"That helps explain why the Russians were so pissed last night ... you might reveal their secret ... or the real secret behind the secret."

"Possibly ... but I have considerable doubt as to whether Silayev is aware of it. It's something well above his pay-grade. Dr. Kurtz may but he would never reveal such a thing under any circumstances."

Calder nodded after considering that then a thought came to him. "Why didn't Stalin send the duplicates and keep the real ones?"

"They knew there would be gemologists at the delivery point. And you have to keep in mind ... the path to their diamond production still ran through the cartel."

After staring at one of the pictures on his wall for several moments Calder joked, "Stalin pawned the family jewels." Another thought came to him. "Back then, what was a hundred and something million pounds in dollars?"

"Roughly four hundred million. The cartel only paid for three quarters of that because that's all that was delivered."

Calder's eyes widened and he whistled lowly. _So whoever sent this to my mother stole over a hundred million dollars worth of jewelry in nineteen forties' dollars._ He slumped back in his chair and winced then said, "Damn, man. A hundred million ... without a calculator I'm guessing it's worth ten times that now."

Kirkland only nodded slightly.

Calder shook his head in disbelief. "And the Russians _couldn't find it?_ "

With a thoughtful look upward Kirkland replied, " _Couldn't find it_ is an adequate analysis under the circumstances of the time. They had a very rough idea where it might be but the area was apparently quite remote. Of course, Stalin promised the cartel it would be found and delivered ... he also had the gall to demand the full payment."

"Sounds about right," Calder said knowingly.

"Yes, but by then the Red Army was in a desperate battle to save Stalingrad. He was forced to accept the three-quarter payment."

"Stalingrad," Calder noted grimly. "It was the handwriting on the wall for the Wehrmacht."

Kirkland nodded again. "And you're very close on the inflation rate. It's slightly over eleven to one." He paused for a moment then asked, "Which begs a very delicate question, Mr. Cal—sorry, Al—is that the only piece you have?"

Calder immediately shook his head. "I honestly don't know." The magnitude of what he had just heard made his new-found knowledge of his parents' previous lives even more significant – perhaps even more dangerous. "You're heading up to Dallas," he began, "but I think there are some things you need to know ... and some more things I still need to know about how _that_ got here," he said pointing to the drawer.

_He doesn't know how it got here?_ Kirkland thought then raised his hand slightly. "I can leave tonight or early in the morning if need be. Or if you prefer, I'll be back Friday afternoon ... I'm having dinner with Catherine."

Calder grinned and nodded approvingly but after a few moments the worry crept back into his mind and he began shaking his head. "I don't wanna wait that long. Can you come out to the ranch and meet my mother? For lunch?"

"Your mother," Kirkland said as if the source of the mystery had just been revealed.

Calder nodded, recognizing the look of surprise on the man's face. "Yep," he said then sighed as if another admission had been made.

"I can't wait to meet her," Kirkland began enthusiastically then looked at Calder and asked, "If you're going to be carrying the pendant, may I suggest we take my vehicle?"

Calder thought momentarily then shrugged, stood up and walked over to a door that opened into what looked like a small closet. He reached in and removed a shoulder holster with a Smith & Wesson 4006 in it and put it on, followed by a light sport-jacket that had been tailored to conceal the gun.

"And yes, it's legal," he offered as he recovered the small bag from the drawer and dropped it into an inside pocket. After calling his assistant with the news he'd be out the rest of the day he turned to Kirkland and said, "Let's go."

\- # -

As they wound through the freeway network from downtown Houston toward the northwest, Kirkland listened as his client related a truly fascinating but now somewhat even more disquieting story of a family secret having been kept for decades.

Alex Calder had only recently learned his mother and father were not 'Cecil and Margaret Calder' as they had been known since the late nineteen forties. In fact, his mother's former name was Helena Nuryev and his father was Colonel Anton Nuryev, a Soviet Red Air Force fighter pilot and intelligence officer. They had been secretly extricated from East Berlin to England in 1947 and new lives were created for them in the U.S. 'Cecil Calder' became a consultant to one of the major aeronautical firms in California; 'Margaret Calder' was turned into the typical housewife who eventually went into nursing when her children were old enough to be in school.

Alex was their first child, born in California in 1948 and had grown up very much the typical California coastal kid with a sister just two years younger. He somehow survived the lifestyle of the sixties and after graduating he joined the Air Force and became a fighter pilot – never once knowing there was more behind his father's obvious pride than just having a son flying in the Air Force.

For fifty years his parents had dutifully kept the secrets that had been so necessary to keep them safe from what had been the Soviet Union – even after _Glasnost_ in the late '80s and the eventual collapse in 1991. Then, just three months after the death of Cecil Calder, a box containing the pendant had arrived with a note from a man his mother wouldn't identify other than to say she thought he had died long ago, and after four months of wrestling with the problem by herself, she finally approached her son.

Kirkland fought the repeated urge to ask questions as Calder retold the story his mother had related. New bits and pieces of a very old puzzle were now tantalizingly close to being found and while he didn't want to offer anything that might deter the telling he finally had to ask something Calder had left out. "Where did the shipment originate?"

Calder heaved a sigh before he answered. "Don't misunderstand ... my mother is seventy-six but she's more than just in control of her faculties. Now that I think of it I suspect she was trained in how to not tell people anything."

When Calder pointed to the next exit, Kirkland changed lanes as he asked, "But how would the party who sent her the pendant have found the connection between Nuryev and your father living as Cecil Calder?"

Calder fixed him with a quizzical look and shrugged.

"Ah. The lady won't say."

"Hell, she may not even know," Calder offered then seemed to be trapped in thought for a few moments. "But until we can assure her that nothing can happen to him or the family she's gonna keep that to herself – I think that's why she insisted I call Commoner."

"Does he know about the ruby, or your parents?" Kirkland asked about the man they both knew as one of the country's shrewdest legal practitioners.

Calder shook his head. "Uh uh. Mom and I decided to start by finding out if it was real. I told him basically what I told you about the museum situation." They drove on a half-mile or so in silence then Calder added, "The only people who know about this ruby thing are my mom and I, and now you."

Kirkland considered that then advised, "Let's not forget the person who sent it."

A twinge of uneasiness made Calder take a deep breath and he shook his head slightly as he almost whistled it out. "This whole thing is way outta left field." After a few seconds he added almost reluctantly, "El's ... shit, I don't know what El's gonna do ... she'll be at the house for lunch."

Kirkland recalled the seemingly imperturbable woman he had met at the museum. "My first impression of your wife leads me to believe she'll find it intriguing."

"Hah!" Calder snickered. "I don't think _intriguing_ is the right word – she doesn't like being kept outta the loop on things. You should have seen her face when she couldn't figure out who the hell invited _you_ ... and now this."

"I'll do my best to be reassuring. No small part of my business involves dealing with exigent circumstances."

Calder picked up on the phrase he had heard the man use before. Until then he hadn't paid any attention to the vehicle but he started noticing things. "This isn't a rental, is it?" he asked as he glanced around. "I've owned a couple of these ... my son still keeps one around for hunting ... lousy mileage."

"Especially with four wheel drive."

"I'd guess that's useful where you're from."

"It is," Kirkland agreed. "We got over a foot of snow in April."

Calder pointed to the array of controls and switches on the dash and custom center console. "That's a nicely-done setup."

"If I didn't think it would attract too much attention I'd drive an armored truck at times," Kirkland said then went on to explain the extensive modifications that had been made to the Suburban to turn it into his version of an all-purpose company vehicle:

The windows had a slightly-tinted laminate material on the inside that could deter most handgun rounds; the windshield was also armored the same way the presidential limos were; there was a layer of Kevlar inside all of the doors; the oversized tires were nearly bullet-proof and could run flat for over thirty miles; the front and rear bumpers and the frame had been reinforced so it could ram other vehicles as well as survive a side ramming; the roof-rack was an integral part of a fairly-well concealed roll cage; the gas tank and the auxiliary supply had a self-sealing lining; there was an auxiliary radiator system that would take over should the front-facing radiator lose pressure; the interior and engine compartment had separate fire-suppression systems and a coordinated hydraulic system controlled the suspension and shock absorbers so it could be raised six inches and lowered by four from a control on the console.

He didn't mention the variety of weapons he routinely carried in special compartments but he described the small vault in the floor in the back.

"This is like the ones the Secret Service uses, isn't it?" Calder asked.

"Actually, not quite. They rely on heavier firepower and sheer numbers. It was done by the company that makes them for the Arab royal families – a French client of mine recommended them."

"So you haul things with it?"

"Small things and even clients at times ... just like this."

"How did you get Texas plates and stickers?" Calder asked, looking at Kirkland with a new-found regard for what the man had meant by the phrase 'exigent circumstances'.

Kirkland sounded resigned to his fate as he explained, "I pay extortionate property taxes in seven states for the privilege ... they're easy to switch."

_Is that legal_? Calder wondered. Then something about the man's story dawned on him. _There was no way he could have driven from New York._ "If you flew in, how did you get this here?"

CHAPTER 11

Southern Ural Mountains, USSR, September, 1942

When Kovpak became aware of what was happening with his plane, something in his mind told him there had to be a better answer than the American officer's advice to bail out when a propeller runs away. Like thousands of aviators that went before him in the history of aircraft development, he found himself the sole subject of an impromptu aeronautical experiment; unlike a large percentage of those who had not survived those situations, Kovpak's determination, his studied understanding of the plane coupled with extraordinary piloting skills gave him a life-saving advantage.

He also had altitude – for a very short time. Avoiding the Airacobra's propensity to spin, he somehow managed to bring the crippled aircraft to the ground in what became an uncontrolled, gear-up, sliding, bouncing, twirling and grinding journey across a snow-packed, flat and nearly level space he had seen from the air. With a loud crunching sound the plane finally jammed itself tail-first into in a heavily wooded thicket at the edge of the small valley.

The abrupt stop itself wasn't sufficient to render him unconscious but the pain spreading in the left side of his head told him that somewhere in the process he had struck something. He couldn't see blood on his uniform but could feel a warm fluid slowly making its way down his left jaw and an odd numbness in his right forearm warned him that it might have been broken; an attempt at moving it brought on a flare of pain.

The distinctly quiet surroundings of the wilderness area lulled him toward the comfort of unconsciousness and as he tried to resist the slowly collapsing tunnel of vision, the ticks of cooling metal and hisses of moisture being turned to steam somehow reminded him of being near locomotives in his youth. As he drifted out of reality he thought he saw his father standing on a railroad depot platform.

\- # -

By the time Kovpak regained consciousness the ticking and hissing noises had stopped and the first fully-recognizable sensation he felt was the cold. It took an interminable period of time before his mind finally began putting together the pieces of the puzzle; he had survived a crash landing and at least the cockpit of the plane was relatively intact. An extreme feeling of relief washed through him as he realized there had been no fire – he hadn't been among those pilots who had survived a landing only to be immolated as they struggled with their harness or pounded helplessly at a damaged canopy that wouldn't open.

An ill-advised attempt to reach upward with his right hand instantly reminded him that something in that arm was broken. He winced and gritted his teeth as he tried to find a position for it where the pain wasn't overwhelming.

Luckily the harness release was at the lower-left side of the seat and once he tripped it, he leaned forward somewhat and began to more clearly assess his situation and surroundings.

Wiping off some of the condensed vapor his breath had deposited on the inside of the canopy allowed him to get a glimpse of the path the crippled plane had gouged across the snowy surface of the small valley and he shook his head in amazement at his own good fortune. "Alexsandr Kovpak, you have truly cheated death this time," he told himself aloud.

The recurring pain made it obvious his first task was to immobilize his arm. After long minutes of frustrating, tedious, one-handed effort involving holding pieces in his mouth and even gripping other parts between his knees and under his feet, he fashioned a reasonable sling out of parts cut from his harness. Breathing heavily from the effort and the pain he congratulated himself on having maintained his knife's sharpness as he rested to avoid blacking out.

His next concern was the cold and the even colder oncoming night. With the cockpit intact he had the advantage of not being exposed and while his flight suit was suitable for cold weather, he worried about falling asleep without additional protection – he rightfully feared he might not wake up.

With some difficulty he opened the right-side door and the inrush of colder, fresh air seemed to help clear his head. He rose up enough to haul the cut-away parachute pack out from under him and with it on his lap he managed to open it, rewarding him with several square-meters of silk fabric that could be used as suitable bedding after he tediously cut off the rigging cords.

As dark threatened to descend on his odd encampment he decided to do some nearby crash site exploration. Despite the pain in his arm he gingerly climbed out onto the wing and stood up unsteadily to look around. The effort made his head throb and he reached up, discovering dried blood on the left side of his face and neck. When he removed his radio headset he found the dented and cracked left earpiece had been the cause of the damage to his ear; he also heard something in the distance – flowing water.

Looking through the dense growth engulfing the plane it dawned on him that this natural barrier may very well have saved him from eventually winding up in that water. While he had been wrestling the crippled plane into position to land, he hadn't taken into consideration how little speed would be lost on the relatively smooth, icy surface. Now looking off in the direction he had come from at this higher perspective he realized the plane had skidded more than a kilometer.

Assessing the overall results of his first crash-landing he marveled at how rugged the aircraft was. The vegetation had acted like a giant net and the sloping trailing edges of the wings had first scraped then plowed a path and finally dug into the more dense undergrowth and layer of packed snow. When he examined the tail section he quickly concluded the upward-pointing horizontal stabilizer's abrupt impact with a tree had most-likely been the cause of his broken arm.

Despite being relatively intact, he knew it retrieving it would require a monumental effort in this remote area, particularly without any nearby roads. The marvelous new plane was now relegated to being little more than his shelter for the coming night.

\- # -

Kovpak woke several times during the hours of darkness, not only from the pain in his arm but the uncomfortable position. At some point he remembered one of the unusual aspects of their training – the introduction to the U.S. Army Air Corps pilot's survival kit, something called the 'E-17' which not only had chocolate and caramels but pain medication and an assortment of other useful items.

With light from the Zippo he found his water flask and took four aspirin from the kit, hoping it would dull the pain radiating from his arm. Despite the acrid taste the pills left in his mouth they apparently worked well - the next time he awoke it was light outside.

The heavy overcast was now lower and threatening – he could sense it might start snowing at any time but he decided to take the time to make a fire and heat water for some of the bullion from the kit. While it was heating in the metal flask, he ate one of the chocolate rations and took four more aspirin.

After thoroughly assessing his situation he began mentally preparing himself for a potentially long hike, first in the direction of the river then along its general path in hopes of finding civilization. _Three, perhaps four or five days_ , he told himself he could stay alive with his broken arm in the conditions he faced.

He knew from his chart there were small hamlets in this part of the Urals, but he also knew the peasant farms had been collectivized and the results had brought about widespread unrest that had been harshly dealt with. He could only hope he would come across someone who didn't harbor ill-will toward military officers.

After finishing the broth he put out the small fire and gathered what little he had, arranged the parachute into a crude poncho and set off in the direction the small compass from the kit indicated was south. As he trudged through the snow in the open area he became more aware of the peculiarly shaped mountain ahead of him; it was not only odd - it was inexplicably familiar and from this vantage point it appeared to be the head of a small elephant projecting out of the rocky hill. He stopped for a moment to consult his chart, but could find nothing on it that matched the terrain ahead of or around him.

Less than a kilometer further, he knew he was approaching the river again and was grateful that it didn't block his path around the mountain. Fording a river in these kinds of temperatures was more than dangerous and he also knew the rivers in this part of the country were so twisted that if you expended the effort and crossed one, you might soon find you have to cross it yet again as it wound back the other direction.

Another hour of rough going through the overgrowth adjacent to the river brought him to an area with fewer trees, and to the east he could see what looked like a farm field beyond it. He struck off in that direction and soon came to what was clearly a man-made space in another valley, separated from the one he landed in by what he called the "elephant." From this side it looked like just another mountain. Turning southeasterly he realized he was coming to civilization but as he neared the tiny village he was both disappointed and alarmed; there was no smoke from any chimney and no tracks on what he thought of as the road leading to it.

The tiny peasant hamlet had been deserted, and after spending a few minutes exploring two of the weather-battered houses in the small chance there might be something useful left behind, he came to the conclusion it had been abandoned for a very long time; his were the only tracks in and even the snow on the lone road to the southeast was untouched.

With the pain rising again in his arm, he took more of the aspirin and sat down on the porch of what had been a church, contemplating what he should do next. Clearly, no one was coming to whatever town this was or had once been. He wondered if this was the way the entire countryside would be and the thought of walking for many kilometers only to find another collection of abandoned buildings was at once both worrisome and depressing.

He rose and went inside the tiny church through the dilapidated door that dragged on the floor from the leaning of the wall. Surprisingly the roof had not leaked and the interior was simply layered with what must have been several years' worth of dust that had infiltrated through the cracks in the wooden slats and window frames. The array of gaps let in almost as much light as the crude rippled glass they still held.

He thought about resting then consulted his watch; time made the decision for him. There was only the one road out which meant there was something in that direction – or at least there had been at one time. He concluded he would go as far as he physically could before dark then make camp for the night.

Knowing that finding dry wood for a fire in the open would be time consuming, Kovpak broke away a few loose segments of the old, brittle woodwork, stomped them into smaller kindling-sized pieces and put them in his pockets. When he stepped back out onto the porch he saw the first indications of actual snowfall – a few, tiny drifting flakes. He took a few minutes to re-fashion his parachute poncho and soon enough, heavy, wet flakes were coming down as he began hiking through the untouched white that blanketed everything.

Only the sounds of his breathing, the steady crunch-swish-crunch of his boots in the snow and the faint tapping of the flakes against the parachute silk accompanied him as he reached the road and turned southeast. He managed to keep a steady pace despite the depth of the snow on the gradual uphill path and without pausing along the way he ate the last of the chocolate and caramels.

Late in the afternoon, after what he estimated had been six or seven kilometers he spotted a crossroads ahead and hurried toward it. "Trucks!" he exclaimed aloud with excitement and relief as he got close enough to see the deep double-width grooves in the snow-pack. _Not recent – maybe not even today but definitely vehicles_ , he told himself as his mood immediately lifted.

Instead of going further up into the mountainous terrain, he set out southwesterly on the near-level but curving road. The going was easier in one of the tracks and from time to time he'd lift the now damp parachute off his head and stop, holding his breath in hopes of hearing the sound of a motor somewhere in the distance.

He pushed himself for well over an hour in hopes that he might be found and at an almost right-angle bend in the road he finally paused to catch his breath, sensing from the tiny, sparkling points of light drifting through his eyes that he may have over-exerted himself. He scanned the horizon for any telltale signs of civilization then finished his flask of water and fumbled with getting it back into his pocket.

The driver of the small truck had his foot off the gas and entered the familiar, abrupt corner at a safe speed but he could not believe his eyes when he saw something in the road – something off-white and almost shapeless that didn't belong there. In panic, he slammed on the brakes and tried to veer off, but the momentum and the firm, frozen tracks guided the sliding vehicle directly into the unsuspecting and unaware object.

\- # -

Kovpak drifted up out of unconsciousness and thought he heard several voices, including one of a woman, but before he could make any sensible words come out of his mouth he felt something being injected into his left arm. Unable to focus, all he could see was a source of bright light above him but it began to fade as whatever he had been given pulled him back under.

\- # -

In his Kremlin office, General Krylov paced anxiously, waiting for the phone to ring again, this time with an explanation that reflected something more than uncertainty on the whereabouts of Major Kovpak.

The first report of the pilot's likely whereabouts had come five days after the plane failed to reach Aqtobe. The infirmary commander at Orsk had taken seriously Kovpak's barely understandable order to notify _only_ General Krylov of his situation. The highly unusual phone call to the General's command office in the Kremlin had taken almost a day to get through and during that time Kovpak's doctors had ordered him to be sent via train to the facilities at Chkalov, some 200 kilometers to the west.

And now, yet another day had passed. Much to the General's frustration and despite having learned Kovpak was stabilized and expected to recover, no one at Chkalov seemed to know if he had arrived there or not. Krylov had given the young officer one hour to personally check every patient in the hospital and report back to him.

There were six minutes to spare when the phone rang and he yanked the earpiece from the cradle. "This is Krylov!" he announced firmly.

After the operator made the connection, the concerned voice at the other end answered the General's first question – he assured him there was no Major Kovpak in the hospital. He also reported that no patients had been brought in by train in the last two days. However, they had been notified of four patients coming from Orsk but had no names because the patient's transfer orders were being carried by the medical attendant accompanying them. To the best of his knowledge the Major was still on the train and he offered to notify Krylov as soon as he was received.

"Do that, Captain," Krylov ordered. "No matter the time."

The next call went to his adjutant to have a plane readied to take him to Chkalov on two hour's notice then he walked out and strode in the direction of General Leonov's offices, feeling far more satisfied than he had in several days. _At least Kovpak is alive. At least now we can find the plane_ , he thought.

\- # -

Kovpak gradually became more aware of his surroundings as the gentle sensations of motion no longer seemed to lull him back to sleep. A blurry image of an older man above him formed and he heard words of reassurance: "You are doing much better, Comrade Major."

He managed to force the words out from his dry mouth. "Where am I?"

"We are taking you to Chkalov, Major."

Kovpak could hear the familiar noises of the interior of a slowly-moving train car as he conducted his own personal physical inventory while trying to make his eyes focus. His toes and feet responded, relieving him of the fear of being paralyzed but there were flashes of pain as he attempted to assess the damage to his arms and hands by moving them. There was a profoundly deep ache at his left hip and he learned quickly that taking a deep breath was a terrible idea. But even with the pain the most disconcerting thing was he could not remember what had put him in this situation. "Water," was all he could manage next and moments later a cup was placed at his lips and he began trying to sip as if his life would end without it.

"Careful," the voice said. "You have been under sedation for some time. The doctors operated on you. Please, do not try to move."

After licking his roughened lips to distribute the tiny amounts of water still on his tongue he managed to ask, "How did I get here?"

"We had hoped _you_ could tell us where you came from."

He had to think for a moment. "I am a pilot," he said with some conviction.

"Yes, we know," the medic said. "Were you in a crash?"

Kovpak was able to nod slightly and asked for more water. After swallowing again he looked at the man and said, "I ... I was flying ... yesterday, perhaps the day before—"

The medic interrupted him. "Comrade Major, you have been in the infirmary for four days."

The man on the stretcher bed across from him spoke. "They brought you to Orsk Tuesday afternoon, Comrade. I was taken in at the same time."

_Tuesday_? Kovpak was becoming alarmed about not being able to remember what had happened. He turned his head to the left to see who had spoken. "Orsk?" he asked the younger man.

The medic answered, "You had been badly injured. Someone found you and took you to an old man, a physician ... his sons took you to Orsk."

"What day is this?" Kovpak asked in alarm.

"Careful," the medic said. "Try to remain calm. Today is Saturday, the third of October."

He suddenly remembered something important. _But – four days ago?_ "Comrade, did, did they get word to General Krylov ... I asked that he be notified."

The man nodded reassuringly. "I believe a call was placed, yes. It takes time."

Kovpak relaxed somewhat as he realized he could now recall the early parts of the mission then the alarm rose; _But what happened? Why can't I ... what's wrong with me?_ "When do we arrive in Chkalov?" he finally asked.

"By morning," the medic answered and looked at his watch. "Three, perhaps four hours. There have been interruptions."

Kovpak blinked then sighed in understanding and the medic said dryly, "We have not yet won the war, Comrade Major."

He found he was able to raise his head slightly and looked around, immediately discovering why he couldn't move – he was strapped to the stretcher. "Comrade," he asked the medic seriously, "how badly am I injured?"

"Do not be alarmed by the bindings ... you have been unconscious and with the train moving we cannot risk injuring you." He turned and picked up a clipboard. "You have a skull fracture, a broken rib, a broken forearm and a sprain of your left knee. They believe you have a cracked pelvis. That must have been a frightful crash."

Kovpak realized he couldn't answer accurately and in obvious confusion he simply said, "It must have been."

CHAPTER 12

Near Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

In answer to Alex Calder's question about how the Suburban got from Long Island to Houston Kirkland asked, "Are you familiar with a Transall?"

Alex Calder's memory gears began whirring. _A Transall?_ His first notion was some kind of auto-transport rig, but that would have taken more time than driving the Suburban itself. "I give up," he said then pointed. "Take a right at the stop sign."

"Picture a smaller twin version of a Hercules."

Calder looked at him with an odd mixture of surprise and confusion and Kirkland explained how the majority of the assignments he undertook for clients were sometimes best served with the big ex-military cargo plane. "It's a two hundred and sixty knot office and garage that can land and takeoff almost anywhere."

While he was a recognized expert in historically-significant artwork and jewelry, Kirkland's clientele called on him for any number of issues, often with highly-unusual logistical requirements. In addition to confidentiality for the client, an engagement could demand the expertise of other highly-specialized experts he engaged as affiliates and consultants. Sometimes, the item being evaluated had to be taken to places where tests could be conducted and observations made by an authority. In other situations a team of experts might have to travel to a remote location with a substantial amount of support equipment – and there were times where that support equipment included armament.

In certain instances where expanded security became the paramount issue, Kirkland would draw from a select cadre of professionals, including teams of combat-experienced men who were ultimately dependable – in part because they sought the reputation accumulated by repeat assignments for him as much as the money. But those situations were rare; guile, technology, attention to detail in crafting diversions and having willing friends in the right places had proven extremely effective.

In one of the specialized fields the expert simply did not travel; if one wanted her opinion, the instruments in question—including, over the years, a harpsichord and two grand pianos—had to be taken to her estate in Austria then allowed to gradually acclimate for weeks before she would begin her analysis. Another affiliate had a huge facility specifically for x-raying large objects, including vehicles and statuary. Then there were the occasions where a typical charter aircraft would attract too much attention from regulators or authorities.

"We sometimes do recoveries and deliveries," Kirkland advised matter-of-factly without inviting further questioning.

_Recoveries?_ Calder wondered but didn't ask. Knowing little about the man's business operations he wondered, _what does 'we' mean?_

"Perhaps the best way to explain what we do in those situations is to say there are just some things the common carriers won't carry," Kirkland said then quickly added, "usually because they can't get insurance coverage." He deliberately avoided mentioning having to go into and out of places others wouldn't and the lengths he sometimes went to meet his client's objectives.

Calder nodded in growing understanding as he thought, _I was looking for an appraiser ... Commoner sent me_ _Indiana Jones_.

"I also have some clients who are more security conscious than others ... and there are some who simply don't trust freight companies and customs brokers." He also left out the fact that there were ways to completely avoid customs if one had the properly-equipped aircraft, cover story and know-how.

Calder nodded in agreement. "Over the years I've had some experience trying to decide who to trust."

Kirkland nodded as he said, "In your business I would imagine you have."

A slight chuckle preceded a more thorough explanation of how the fraud and tax problems his brother-in-law faced had dogged the family.

A few of the people who decided to participate in Roger Burnett's so-called 'wealth protection' and 'prosperity' programs were more than happy to not only hide assets and money in a variety of off-shore entities, they were even willing to try and expand on their rapid success. One of them became involved in laundering money through his supposedly impenetrable network of private trusts and off-shore banks and sham businesses. Some portion of that money was eventually traced to a Central American drug cartel and when the Federal seizures went into effect, millions of dollars of tainted drug money suddenly became assets of the U.S. Government.

While the trials for Burnett and his accomplices ground their way through the Federal criminal court system, the drug gang had operatives shadowing a number of people connected with the cases, including the Calder family. If that wasn't unnerving enough, there were rumors and even conjecture in the news that Catherine Burnett must have known more about her husband's scam-funded empire than she actually did, and the in-law connection to the Calders only helped fuel the intrigue.

Fortunately, the family had a large and diverse group of friends, including some in law enforcement. More than once a marked car was visible within a city block of their personal vehicles as they went about their normal routines. At seemingly random times there would be a Texas Ranger seen at the doors of Calder's offices or the museum. Sometimes county sheriff's cars came and went from the ranch property without any apparent reason.

Moments after Catherine's final court testimony, the U.S. Marshall's service escorted her and Elanore to a private airfield where they boarded a chartered jet that took them to a friend's property in Colorado – one in a ski-resort town with a Sheriff's department adept at protecting the privacy of the wealthy and celebrity residents and their guests.

The Federal and local law enforcement agencies in Texas eventually made it uncomfortable enough for the trafficker's henchmen that they faded out of the picture. Finally, with Burnett behind bars in Oklahoma and all the assets the justice department could find recovered from the labyrinth he had constructed, the cartel's interest in Catherine and the Calders waned rapidly.

After listening to the story Kirkland suggested, "You've seen your share of exigent circumstances."

"You're right – it's why I have the permit for this," he said patting the holster then pointed forward. "About a mile ahead, this will veer right and about half a mile after, look for a gap ... there's a pair of stone pillars between some trees on the left."

With looming security issues that were sure to arise in this situation, Kirkland thought for a few moments then asked pointedly, "No threats since then?"

"Not a peep," Calder answered then pointed to the left of the road. "This is it," he said as they approached the turn-off to the ranch gates.

\- # -

In a sedan less than a mile south of the ranch entrance, the driver pulled to the side of the road and placed a call on his cell phone. When Pavel Silayev answered the driver said, "It's the black Suburban," then read off the license number. "Yes ... They're together."

Sitting on a stool in a restaurant's bar, Pavel Silayev smiled at the confirmation of his hunch as he wrote the number down on a napkin. _The professor has important friends_.

CHAPTER 13

Chkalov, USSR, October, 1942

Senior Lieutenant Anton Nuryev was anxious to try one of the wheel chairs that seemed to offer at least some modicum of mobility. His broken ankles were still in casts and only minimally painful, but despite his pleas, the doctor and nurses insisted on another week before they would allow him that much freedom from the bed.

Taller than any other officer in his unit or in the Chkalov hospital, at 190 centimeters in height and weighing eighty kilograms, Nuryev was a physically imposing presence when on his feet, but languishing in the confines of a hospital bed he felt small and powerless, as if the war and his life were slipping away out of his reach.

His unit and several others had been ordered to thwart the Nazi's determined aerial surveillance of the Baku area on the western shore of the Caspian Sea in a desperate attempt to hamper attainment of Hitler's ultimate objective – the capture of the Caucuses, the world's most productive oil region. Preventing reconnaissance had been deemed crucial to the defense strategy and that meant planes and pilots were expendable.

A mid-air collision between his MiG-3 and an unseen enemy plane tore off most of one wing but he was somehow able to bail out. Unfortunately, some part of the spinning and falling wreckage collided with his feet at very high speed and he landed in the water with two broken ankles. Unable to use his legs to kick in the frigid and rough waters, he swam on his back in the direction of the shore for nearly fifteen minutes before a fishing vessel found him and pulled him from the water.

After being treated near Baku, he was shipped across the Caspian to Aqtau and then by various rail connections to Chkalov, but now, over a month after his nearly fatal flight, he was becoming more than just impatient with his progress – he was also bored and anxious to get back into the fight.

When word quickly spread around the crowded barracks-like ward that an almost legendary fighter pilot had arrived for long-term recuperation, Nuryev's first thought was that fate had handed him a learning opportunity.

Among the fifty-or-so men with various physical injuries on the ward, a handful were pilots and it was not long before Kovpak was among them, sharing stories and of course, swapping rumors. Given he was the highest-ranking officer and the most recent arrival, it was assumed he would know more about what might be going on in various parts of the front, but to their disappointment he explained he had until very recently been in England evaluating new aircraft.

Despite that story, he took the opportunity to try and buoy the spirits of the men, engaging them with accounts of victories he knew of and some he had only heard of, mixed among warnings of the dangers of listening to rumors that might only serve to weaken their resolve.

To their further surprise, Kovpak was visited little more than a day after his arrival by none other than General Krylov. Not only was it very unusual for a senior officer to take the time away from command duties to visit one of his junior officers, it was unheard of that a General would come all the way from Moscow and spend the better part of a day in private consultation with one.

When Kovpak was rolled into the ward after his meeting with Krylov, he was soon inundated with questions, few of which he could answer; what he could do for them was share a gift he had received and he showed them one of the bottles of fine vodka the General had smuggled into him. After their evening meal a small, quiet gathering ensued in the vicinity of Kovpak's bed.

As they talked, Kovpak revealed more about the plane he had been evaluating while leaving out any hint of the purpose of the mission he had undertaken. He mentioned to them that if their units were assigned the new aircraft he would probably be seeing them in the near future, as his new assignment and new rank of _Podpolkovnik_ (Lt. Colonel) meant he was to oversee the training of pilots in the Airacobra. He also warned them that only determined pilots would be able to master the complexities of the planes they would see in their future. It would take some time to become effective in them but once they did, with the proper adherence to operating rules and tactics they were formidable weapons.

Just days before Nuryev was scheduled to be returned to a non-flying staff position to finish his recovery, Kovpak took the younger pilot aside and they began talking about the future. Even thought he had already arranged for the Lieutenant's transfer to his new training command he asked Nuryev if he would be interested.

Unable to conceal his excitement, Nuryev said almost too loudly, "Of course, Comrade Colonel."

"Then we have another cause for a celebration," Kovpak announced with a smile as he brought out another bottle of the General's vodka and two cups. "Your orders will arrive any day ... you will probably be there before me."

Lubricated by good cheer and vodka, their conversation ranged from their education and families then back into their military experiences, in particular with Kovpak detailing more about training in England with the Airacobra.

As he explained some of the events leading up to the end of his last flight, he realized more of the missing pieces had been coming back – but not always in the right sequence. Some came with absurdly confusing and fleeting images.

Scowling in confusion he said, "It seems I did not do what I had been told was the best thing in the event of the propeller overrun." After a moment he sipped the vodka then explained in some detail what he had learned in England about the complex prop and the procedures for it. He finally confided in Nuryev what the experienced British and American pilots' advice had been: _Bail out!_

During his stay in the hospital Kovpak had often reasoned a bailout might have put him in the condition he found himself in. In the first place, as Nuryev had learned with his broken ankles, the impact in the air with a crippled aircraft while getting out of it can and will do serious damage. Then there was the fact that the infirmary personnel at Orsk had dutifully packed and sent along all of his belongings – and among them had been his parachute.

But now he began to recall some of the procedures he undertook while still well over a thousand meters in the air – _going by the book_. With mounting excitement he said, "I think the engine seized ... I ... I was looking for somewhere to land. I remember ... I remember now," he said struggling with the thoughts racing around in his head. "A flat area ... on the snow, and I kept the speed up by diving then turned once then I had no choice and ... I must have slid and gone around and around. Yes! It went straight back into something. I could see where I had come from ... but I had hit my head ... I ... I cannot ... I cannot remember."

Nuryev knew Kovpak's memory of events between the time he was flying and waking up in the train car on the way to Chkalov was faulty, so he was surprised at some of what he was now hearing in Kovpak's in halting, even confused sentences.

"They must have found you in the plane," Nuryev said. "That's why you don't remember. You hit your head when you landed, Colonel."

Kovpak nodded but was frustrated that enormous gaps in his memory remained.

"Where did you land?" Nuryev asked.

The question brought with it an odd vision and the thought was so strange he decided it would be embarrassing to say anything about it. _I was standing in the snow and I saw an elephant_. "I really don't know," he finally said while concentrating. "But I know I was in the snow ... I was walking in the snow."

Nuryev shook his head in bewilderment. "Wait! You said _walking_ ... walking in the snow? How could you be walking?"

Staring at his legs in the chair and remembering the pain from the slow-healing injuries Kovpak finally said, "I must have dreamt it ... but—" he suddenly had an idea and rose to his feet and limped to his bed then reached below it and dragged out the large canvas bag his gear had been put in.

Nuryev saw him struggling to open it with one hand and came over on his crutches and sat on the bed. "Let me help, Colonel," he offered.

Kovpak, still in a kind of daze but enthused about finding something he remembered in the bag, used one hand and lifted it onto the bed where Nuryev loosened the binding cord and pulled it open. Kovpak pulled out his uniform, wincing somewhat at the smell from it being packed for so long, then came his flying boots and the thin flight helmet, followed by the survival kit. Finally the large wadded up silk parachute spilled onto the bed and floor.

At the bottom of the bag was a harness that had been cut up. _I did that,_ he suddenly remembered then pointed at the parachute. "I cut off the rigging," he said slowly as he rapidly moved handfuls of the silk around to the point where an edge with several short remains of cord appeared.

"So you _did_ use the parachute! And after you collected it you cut the rigging. You made a shelter?"

Kovpak was staring numbly at the large pile of fabric. "It was cold." He looked at the pieces of the harness and another memory came to him. "My arm ... it was broken by the control stick ... the impact ... the elevator struck something and I should not have held on to it so tightly." He pulled the odd pieces of the harness closer to him. "I ... I ... yes, I made this ... a sling for my arm. I think I was in the cockpit ... I _was_ on the ground."

The emergency kit was the next thing he had fleeting recollections of and he picked it up from the floor. "And ... and ... there were medicines in this – look, this is in English – these were for pain."

Nuryev surprised him by being able to read the label, albeit haltingly, then saying, "I see the chocolate is gone ... and the broth."

With that Kovpak seemed to freeze in place as he struggled with another fuzzy recollection where the strings of a barely remembered dream seemed to bind him between being asleep and awake. After staring across the crowded hospital barracks for several moments he decided it would be better if he did not reveal anything more – speculation about the ultra-secret mission could do no one any good, especially him. The mission had been a success; three of the four lead elements had landed in Tehran and despite not being able to recall where his plane was, no less than General Krylov had assured him Stalin's plan apparently didn't involve recovering it.

At least now he knew he had probably crashed and been found somewhere in the Urals and taken to a medical facility. _I'm alive and will fly again soon_ , he thought.

"It doesn't matter, Anton," Kovpak said as if talking to a life-long friend. The military formality ebbed as he went on. "It's not important any more ... I may never remember the details." He scanned his damaged body with no small amount of frustration and looked at the younger officer. "I had a skull fracture. The doctors say this is why I can't remember. But this is nothing we need to be concerned with. We have a war to win – men to train. They will drive the Nazis from the Motherland. That is our fate, my friend," he said, then poured more vodka into their cups. "Death to Hitler!" he toasted.

CHAPTER 14

Calder Ranch, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Kirkland sat with Alex and Margaret Calder in her seemingly timeless, southwestern-style living room, surrounded with a lifetime of family memorabilia and Texiana, awaiting the arrival of Elanore and the lunch she was bringing. Over iced tea the casual talk ranged back and forth between a confirmed northeasterner and resolute Texans and he tried to put the older woman at ease by focusing on his work as an appraiser, sprinkled with some of the odd but less exciting facets of his work.

Based on Alex Calder's suggestion, Kirkland avoided asking questions about the family history unless his mother raised the subject, but it proved difficult to not try and satisfy his curiosity. Instead of trying to uncover more about mystery of the couple's prior life in Russia, he learned their house had been built on the property by Cecil Calder in order to have a place to get out of the hustle of Houston. Having lived most of the time in a high-rise condo not far from the company's offices, the family's part-time "weekend ranch" offered a diversion out in the country, first with horses and eventually even a small herd of cattle. As the primary business evolved, Alex had stepped into the executive office and soon built a much larger home a half-mile further up the private road. The in-town condo was now only rarely lived in unless business meetings or social events necessitated avoiding the long trip back and forth.

Hearing a car door close, Alex said, "That's her," and rose out of an over-stuffed leather chair. As the click of a woman's shoes on the stonework porch became clearer he opened the door for his wife

Elanore juggled one of the large, white paper sacks into her husband's hands without turning to see who might be in the room. "Whose is that?" she asked casually, tipping her head toward the black SUV in front of the house. "Somebody call the Secret Service?" she joked as she set her handbag down on a side table in the entry and dropped her keys into it.

"It's mine," Kirkland said casually as he stood up.

She turned and saw him then froze with her mouth opened. After a few seconds she glanced at her husband then her mother-in-law before looking back at Kirkland. For one of the few times in her life she was at a loss for words but after glaring at Alex she strode to the kitchen with the lunch as she said emphatically, "I can't wait to hear this!"

\- # -

"This is my doing," Margaret said as they began setting out their lunch at her kitchen table. She touched Elanore's hand and their eyes met. "It hasn't been the right time for anyone to know until now ... even Alex didn't know."

"Until a few weeks ago," Alex pointed out.

"Know what?"

Kirkland gestured toward Margaret as he said, "Your in-laws have been protecting an important state secret for half a century."

_Okay ... who the hell is this guy?_ Elanore thought, almost unable to keep her eyes off the man that she was now certain had lied to everyone. _He's a Fed ... that's what it is, he's no insurance appraiser, he's a Federal Agent!_ "State secret?" she asked incredulously. "Who are you—"

Before Kirkland could respond Margaret interrupted. "Hon, we had no choice ... we were disconnected from that life for damn good reasons."

_What the hell does 'that life' mean?_ At that moment Elanore felt utterly lost and her gaze stayed on her mother-in-law. "You ... you were ... disconnected?" she asked. "From what _life ..._ what life are you talking about?"

"It was before I was born," Alex said then picked up a pickle spear with his fingers and took a large bite.

Elanore eyed Kirkland suspiciously. "So you're what ... you're with the CIA, you aren't—"

Kirkland shook his head as Alex corrected her by saying, "No, El, he's not—"

"Not what?" she asked quickly.

"Not an agent of any kind," Kirkland suggested.

On top of her fear that she had helped this man become close to Catherine, the fact that her husband was unfazed enough to eat – even though it was from their favorite barbecue joint – was disconcerting. She sighed and using one of Catherine Cruz's useful Spanish phrases she had learned over the years she muttered, " _Más vale que sea bueno_ ," (this better be good).

"Oh, it is," Alex said quickly. "Mom and Dad seem to have followed Shakespeare's advice ... to 'speak less than thou knowest'."

Margaret grinned at her son then unhurriedly put some potato salad on her plate as she enhanced the explanation. "I guess, I guess the best way to say this is my real name is ... no, my real name _was_ is better ... I _was_ Helena Ulanova Nuryev." She looked up from the plate at her dumfounded daughter-in-law and added, "Cecil was Anton Nuryev. Lt. Colonel Anton Nuryev – of the Soviet Air Force." Tapping the spoon against the plastic container she added, "We escaped from East Germany ... from Berlin in 1947."

After several moments of stunned silence Elanore turned and flashed a look of disbelief at her husband and saw him nod slightly in resigned acceptance. Her face attempted to ask her husband what her mind was thinking: _She's not crazy, is she?_

Alex swallowed and gestured back and forth between himself and his mother with his fork. "Like I said, I didn't know until about three weeks ago."

_How the hell can they even think of food?_ Elanore thought. It took several seconds to bring herself to ask something and she pointed at her husband. The tone of accusation was unmistakable, but tempered by years of trust it was more sarcastic than angry. "And _you_ decided not to tell me."

"I couldn't ... I couldn't ... not until now. I had to verify something for Mom first."

Margaret's tone was serious as she said, "Hon, you've gotta realize there are risks ... well, that ... or hell, maybe after all these years, there _were_ ... I finally had to talk to someone."

Looking at her husband again Elanore asked point blank, "Your dad was a Russian officer?"

Alex nodded. "Yep."

Her next question sounded even more incredulous. "Ceece was a spy?"

Margaret answered for her son with a bemused laugh. "Oh, no ... oh, Lord no ... he was a pilot, not a spy ... we were there in Berlin the year after Germany surrendered."

Elanore shook her head as she tried to comprehend the fact that the couple she had known and loved for so many years had been able to conceal such a thing. "Okay ... after the war ... that means you were there, in Germany ... when?"

"Uh huh. We were. Until nineteen forty-seven we were in Berlin," Margaret answered.

"So ... so ... all those things ... everything about you before what ... what was ... that was—"

"Made up for us," Margaret interrupted. "Everything. Even the family pictures," she added, pointing to the hallway.

Elanore's gaze turned again to her husband and there was a sense of worry in her question. "But, but you _were_ born here – you were born in the U.S.?"

"That much is real," Alex replied. "But everything before about – what, Mom? Forty-seven?"

Margaret nodded. "More or less."

"That's a figment of somebody's clever imagination," Alex finished.

Still almost stupefied and with the enormity of what she was learning, Elanore's mind seemed to focus on odd little details. "Then ... all those people ... all those people in the pictures?" she asked without completing the question, pointing to the hallway that paralleled the large dining room where dozens of photographs had hung for over two decades. "Who are they?"

As she poured a small ladle of sauce onto the food on her plate Margaret answered with an almost embarrassed, confiding tone in her voice, "We never knew, Hon. We just memorized everything. To fit in we had to know lots of names and places. And dates, we had to know dates, of course. Dates were so important ... history especially. We were in a little classroom. We had to have all of it committed to memory. It was a long time before we could be moved into our first neighborhood off the base."

Elanore tried to comprehend what it might be like to have to learn to perform an entire life as some kind of role in a play. The idea of being able to point to something and relate a completely fabricated story about it as if it were coming from a genuine memory was unimaginable. The realization of how automatic it had become for both of the Calders was setting in, and intuitively she measured it against her own real-life experience.

Her own memories of growing up with a huge family in and around Victoria, Texas were founded on real things – tangible things, including good and bad events. But now she knew her in-laws had been hiding their real experiences successfully for decades; she found the dichotomy somehow disturbing.

Now she knew the couple couldn't have met at school in California; neither one of them attended, let alone graduated with a degree from USC – including the framed one on the wall in Cecil's den. Cecil's father and mother weren't buried in a small town in Iowa and Margaret's parents and grandparents weren't the people interred in that beautiful graveyard she and Alex had once visited in Kentucky. _Were those real? Was there even anyone in those graves?_

After hearing only a few sentences from the people surrounding the table, her fragments of imagination and assumptions about the Calders in years past had just been rendered utterly meaningless. _Living a lie_ ; the trite phrase wouldn't stop rattling around in her consciousness. _Did it get easier as they got older?_

The sepia-toned picture in the hall of a man and woman standing with a group of children on the steps of a porch could never again trigger a brief daydream of what it might have been like for a very young Cecil Calder to live on a farm in the Midwest in the '20's. She resisted the urge to go down the hall and look at the little boy again and see if she still thought it looked like a very young version of her father in-law.

Suddenly the story of Margaret's being raised as an only child by her domineering grandparents after her father and mother were killed in a car accident no longer made her wonder how the woman had become a self-assured, insightful and wise-cracking matriarch.

The little girl in the picture with pigtails and her eyes squinting from the sun, seated between the elderly couple on the tailgate of a truck wasn't seven-year-old 'Maggie' Babbage; Cecil Calder hadn't driven Margaret all the way from California to Kentucky in his 1939 Chevrolet to ask the elderly Morton Babbage's permission to marry his granddaughter; they hadn't been wed by a preacher on the back porch of a general store before retracing their trip back to California.

Elanore was wrestling with the fact that a significant facet of her married life had just been chipped away; the almost perfect gemstone that was her marriage now had a huge but deeply-hidden secret flaw they would always have to hide. _God, no one would believe this_ was one of the repeating thoughts that seemingly wouldn't go away. _How do we explain this one? We're not who we said we are,_ were others.

She decided the emotions were too complex to explore at the moment and her mind turned toward thoughts of what had really happened to her husband's parents in the Soviet Union. That period of time was incomprehensible; all she could vaguely recall of that era was that the East Germans were an oppressed people who lived behind the "Iron Curtain" and longed for a better life somewhere else. Questions arose and faded as she concluded it was yet another subject best left to some later time.

Her heart sank as she thought of similar feelings Alex must have had in the past weeks without being able to talk to her. _At least they were his biological parents_ , she thought.

Her insides quickly turned to knots with the realization that the fiction that served as their family history would probably still have to be maintained – the whole family now had a secret to hide. _But for how long? Good God ... Cecil Calder ... Al's dad ... fifty years of a family secret ... this I don't want to read about in the papers._ She looked at her husband but didn't verbalize any of her thoughts.

Kirkland's question to Margaret managed to raise Elanore from her reverie. "Do you know if any of his or your family survived the war?"

Margaret took a sip of iced tea and seemed to think for a few moments with her eyes fixed on something on the table before saying, "I had only one living relative ... a cousin." She then raised an index finger briefly as a recollection surfaced. "She was six years older than me and she had one child ... I lived with them for a time ... it was in Moscow before we got married." Her face took on a look of pained dismay and she avoided making eye contact with anyone at the table as her voice weakened. "I was told ... when I was in school ... my parents told me I had two younger brothers but they died while I was very young. I was too young to remember. And of course, after Berlin ... we didn't exist in the Soviet Union."

After several moments Alex reminded her, "You said Dad had a sister."

His mother nodded and looked off to the side for a moment as she swallowed. "He did," she said then sighed. "I never met her. About all I knew about Anton was what he told me ... he was a young man when he went into the army. He knew horses and became a cavalry officer. Somehow he got into an aviation school ... but that was before I met him. After that, he was a pilot. That was where I met him, in Moscow."

With a voice somewhat strained with emotion Elanore asked sympathetically, "You never met his parents?"

Margaret shook her head slightly. "No ... no, but that wasn't all that unusual. I know they passed on years before. Come to think of it, Anton told me he found out somehow his family succumbed to an epidemic ... typhus, typhus, that's what it was. But hell, there were always official denials about things like that." She looked at the faces of the people surrounding the table and added, "We came to accept what we were told ... whether we believed it or not didn't matter."

Kirkland added grimly, "Few in the West understand how many millions of people died before and after the war – and famine was far more widespread than disease."

Margaret looked even more distressed as she added grimly, "Those deaths marched side-by-side, Professor. I was a nurse."

Alex watched his wife's face sympathetically. The pained expression he saw coupled with years of marriage to the only woman he ever really loved gave him more than just a hint into what was going on in her mind. "A million questions, huh?"

It took Elanore several seconds to fashion a reply and even then it didn't come out easily. "I ... I ... it's just I ..." and at that she stalled out, unable to formulate a coherent question.

"We've got time, Hon," Margaret said soothingly. "You want to know, just ask."

After another moment of thought Elanore's mind led her toward an odd realization: "You said _cavalry_ officer," she began, ruminating over the years of the Calders on horseback before Ceece's diagnosis with lung cancer had started the slow and distressing process of getting out of the family's sort-of hobby cattle business.

Margaret's small smile was followed by a tiny nod. "From horseback to the cockpit," she pointed out. "Then back to horses."

"No wonder he could handle them," Elanore said, remembering the older man who could out-ride half the cowboys in the county even well into his sixties.

"He liked them more than planes," Margaret said as she smiled at her. "And after all that, you probably want to know what this has to do with our Professor."

Elanore inhaled deeply and sighed. Her stomach had soured and she looked at the people around the table as if she would find some kind of indefinable help. "The thought crossed my mind," she said, gathering herself as she caught Kirkland's eye.

"The professor doesn't know the whole story," Margaret announced. "It's been almost exactly fifty years ... I couldn't wait any longer. So, a few weeks ago I decided to tell Alex."

Her son nodded slightly. "I didn't know what the hell to do, so I made up a cover story and called Barton ... Barton made a call then the Professor called me." He took a bite of coleslaw and chewed for a moment or two then added, "And here we are."

_Barton Commoner?_ Elanore thought then concluded that her husband certainly would have called their long-time family attorney, but she sighed in frustration at not being included earlier on. She glared at her husband and asked, "And we are _where_?"

Alex held up a hand defensively. "I'm new to this, too."

It dawned on Elanore that something else had been hidden from her. "You told me last night you didn't know him," she said accusingly.

Alex shook his head vigorously and waved his fork back and forth for emphasis. "Oh, no – no, no, no. What I _said_ was, I hadn't known him _much longer_ than you – and that's the truth. I actually didn't _meet_ him until you introduced us."

The look she gave him for that revelation showed less sympathy than she had been feeling minutes earlier.

After wiping barbeque sauce from his mouth and fingers Kirkland made an attempt to rescue his client. "Your husband asked me to come to Houston and give him my opinion of certain pieces in the exhibit."

"The exhibit?" Elanore asked in further confusion.

Alex nodded. "At the museum ... which he did."

Elanore looked back and forth between the two men for a few seconds. " _You_ got him the invitation!" She was about to add that he had lied to her again but remembered more precisely what he had said – that _'someone must have known him'_. "You ... _you're_ the _'someone'_ who must have known him," she said almost indignantly.

Alex took a drink of iced tea then filled them in on the details of his made-up story for Commoner about some old family jewelry they had found among the myriad of things Cecil Calder had collected and squirreled away over the years. Then he related how he asked the manager of the commercial printing company to prepare an invitation as a surprise for his wife. "I overnighted it to the Professor," he finished almost conspiratorially.

"Oh ... so you two planned last night."

Kirkland shook his head along with Calder and said, "Not at all. I was simply enjoying the evening." When Elanore gave him a look of disbelief he added, "I planned to find Mr. Calder and introduce myself – privately, of course. You," he said with a disarming smile, "you were gracious enough to have intervened ... you accelerated the process greatly."

Elanore scowled for a moment and remembered her almost immediate resolve to introduce Kirkland to Catherine Cruz. "So, it ... the meeting with Cath, that was, that was a coincidence," she offered.

"A fortunate one, but yes, a coincidence," Kirkland confirmed.

As if ruefully admitting a mistake she said more than asked, "Well ... I guess I did, didn't I."

Kirkland's grin did nothing to conceal his interests. "I think it worked out particularly well."

Elanore kept looking at him and realized he was thinking at least in some part about Catherine, but she was still confused; there had to be some other kind of connection. "Okay ... okay, so ... what am I missing here?" She turned to her husband and cocked her head to one side. "What does this ... that, I mean, the museum ... what does that have to do with your Dad?"

Alex wiped his hands on a napkin and said casually, "I'll show you," then got up and went to the living room. When he returned he was carrying the small, gray velvet bag and before sitting down, he imitated Kirkland's handling method, untying the bag and manipulating the pendant into view. Grasping the piece delicately as if it were somehow incredibly fragile, he set it on top of the bag on the table in front of his wife.

Elanore's mouth opened and she leaned closer to it. "What is that?" she whispered lowly with a sense of mounting dread then gasped, "That's—"

"That's the real one," Kirkland said. "The one in the exhibit is exquisite, but it's just an exquisite replica."

Her eyes widened in shock as she matched what was sitting on her mother in-law's kitchen table with something she had seen the night before. A horrifying realization came to her and she looked at Kirkland as if he were a dangerous criminal. "You switched them!"

Both of the men shook their heads and her mother in law caught Elanore's attention by pointing at it. "No, Hon ... that was sent to me back in February—"

"Sent? It was _sent_ to you?"

"Uh huh."

Elanore looked disbelieving. "Sent to you ... from where? Who the hell could get—?"

"The man who helped us get out of Berlin," Margaret interrupted. When Elanore didn't react she continued. "I thought he died years ago."

Elanore looked as if she was just barely beginning to understand. "Who? Who died? How the hell did _he_ get it?"

Margaret looked both sad and wistful as for a few moments before she answered. "The who part ... well, the who part ... the who part is he was an officer Anton met early in the war. Without him we wouldn't be here today. He was _Obshchiĭ Alexsandr Kovpak_."

"General," Kirkland offered in translation.

"General?" Elanore whispered flatly after hearing the Russian pronunciation of the name for the first time. _He speaks Russian?_

Margaret nodded. "As for how he got it, that's a story nobody would believe ... and I don't know where he is."

Elanore had another sudden realization. "Alexsandr?" she asked and looked at her husband. "Alex?"

"He saved our lives. Alex is named in his honor," Margaret answered.

Alex pointed at the pendant and finally connected the dots for her. "Mom showed it to me and we decided the first thing we wanted to know was if it was real."

Margaret reached out and touched Elanore's arm. "But ... but I also told Alex ... well actually, I lied ... I told him we ... I told him it was something we got during the war." As the room filled with silence she gazed at her daughter-in-law and tried to be reassuring. "I, I made up a story. I said it was something we shouldn't reveal to anyone until we were sure it was real."

Alex continued the story. "A few days later I was in the conference room when I saw Cath's promotional layouts for the Romanov thing – needless to say, _that_ little bauble caught my eye."

"And, so you know Barton?" Elanore asked looking at Kirkland for confirmation. He nodded and she continued. "So you came to Houston to appraise it and, so ... so Barton knows about—"

Kirkland interrupted with a slight raise of a hand. "Actually, no," he said then swallowed. "Barton still thinks I'm here to value some of your estate pieces."

Alex interrupted by saying, "The fewer who know the better."

"I agree," Kirkland said with a nod then continued, "Until this morning, all I knew was what your husband told me ... he wanted an assessment done on some pieces in the _exhibit_."

"And you didn't know about this," Elanore said more than asked as she waved a finger toward the pendant.

"No," Kirkland answered. "Nothing but rumors about Russian skullduggery with their Romanov treasure over the years."

"I showed it to him at the office this morning," Alex added.

"Your husband's initial request wasn't unusual ... this, on the other hand—"

Alex chimed in with a raised hand. "Finding an appraiser for this stuff isn't easy ... Barton said the Professor has some unique qualifications." He glanced at his mother and wife and added with a sly smile in his Shakespearean actor's diction, "With apologies to the Bard, someday 'a round unvarnished tale' the professor will have to deliver."

Kirkland saw the somewhat confused look on the women's faces and chuckled. "Someday, perhaps, but more importantly there is more than a half-century of intrigue involved behind that pendant – and I should point out that I actually attended the Romanov showing at the Corcoran last month." He gave Elanore a knowing grin. "That visit was out of professional curiosity ... but there I had no opportunity to get a closer look." He raised one eyebrow and added pointedly, "At the jewels."

_Ooooh, this one is clever_ , Elanore thought as she forced herself to not start snickering in embarrassment at her unplanned double-entendre of the prior evening.

Kirkland took another swallow of iced tea and continued. "My General Manager convinced me this, even on short notice, this, because of Alex's position with the museum, might be a chance to get to examine the Romanov treasure and validate a theory. But I had no idea you were in possession of the real one."

Elanore couldn't resist a dig at her husband. " _La necesidad carece de ley_ ," (necessity knows no law) she said slyly.

Alex shrugged and avoided looking at his wife while she tried to bore holes through him with her eyes. She rested her elbow on the table and fiddled unconsciously with the edge of her placemat then looked at Kirkland as she thought about Catherine's dilemma at the museum that morning. "But ... but you _are_ a professor at UCONN?"

Kirkland nodded reassuringly. "Econ statistics, one semester a year, in Stamford."

"And you really are an appraiser," she said for her own confirmation.

Kirkland smiled quickly then took out a small leather case, slid a heavy, gold-embossed business card out of it and handed it to her. "And no, that's not my secret identity."

Elanore began to nod slightly as she examined the impressive card then scowled and looked at the pendant with her lips pursed for a few seconds. "So ... this one," she began and pointed, turning to Margaret for the answer, "this one is real and the one in the exhibit is a fake."

Three heads nodded and Kirkland confirmed her conclusion. "Almost certainly. On this one I don't see any of the tell-tale indications of something made in the last century."

Unable to completely understand what that meant she was still uncertain. _He's pretty damn sure of himself_ , she thought, then began ruminating over his wide-ranging discussion with Catherine during the previous evening. _And by all accounts he knows what the hell he's talking about_.

Kirkland decided to ask a question about a subject no one had raised. "Mrs. Calder ... I've been meaning to ask ... where did it come from?"

Margaret set her fork down on her plate delicately and appeared to be examining something across the kitchen for a long moment. After a relieved sigh she said, "Chelmsford, England ... and please, Professor, folks who know me call me 'Mrs. C.'."

Kirkland pointed in her direction and then around to the others with a now almost-bare pork back-rib and nodded vigorously in agreement. "As long as you will please, please just call me Michael – I get more than enough 'Professor' and 'Doctor' treatment in Stamford."

Margaret smiled back at him as she rose out of her chair then turned and walked across the kitchen. "I'll be back in a minute," she said just before disappearing through an archway into a room that led to an outside rear door.

In a mixture of confusion and anticipation they heard a door close as she left the house.

"The garage?" Elanore asked then turned to her husband. "What's in the garage?"

Alex shrugged. "Don't look at me."

Elanore wasn't buying it. "I am." Elanore she said insistently. "What did your dad hide out in the garage?"

"Hey, this is new to me. I haven't been in the garage much since we went through it before Christmas."

Elanore's mind slipped back to the trailer full of odd things Margaret had insisted on selling off some months after Cecil's funeral – most of them duplicates of tools along with a hoard of nails, screws, fasteners and miscellaneous bits and pieces of hardware that would have supplied a small retail hardware store for weeks, if not months.

Almost two minutes later Margaret came back into the kitchen carrying a small FedEx box and a piece of paper. Before taking her chair she set them on the table in front of Kirkland.

Instead of touching them immediately, he rose and stepped over to the sink and washed and dried his hands carefully. When he sat down again he gingerly picked up and read the note and then closely examined the box and its label, being careful to handle it by the corners and edges. After reading it he took out his loupe and reexamined the handwritten note more closely. "It's handwritten, recent ... no more than a few months old at the most," he said then passed the page to Elanore. "Careful – by the edges."

As he began scrutinizing the printed eBay seller's page he asked without looking up, "Does Chelmsford mean anything to any of you?"

The Calders shook their heads then Margaret answered, "No, no, I don't think so ... the only towns I can remember in England are Crawley and Liverpool. We were only in Crawley a few weeks and we were taken to Liverpool ... we boarded a ship the same day."

Alex's curiosity about this new detail made him ask his mother, "Do you remember the ship or the date?"

Margaret had to think for several moments. "It was ... I think it was June, on the Mauritania ... it was new ... you can't imagine what it was like for us to travel on a ship like that." Her eyes twinkled and she smiled, clearly pleased she was able to share the memory and the secret after so many years. "It was like being in a palace ... I'd never seen anything like it. It was much more elegant than the ships Ceece and I have been on, but it wasn't as smooth ... I had never been on a ship and I didn't do well the first two days or so."

"Did they just put you on board alone?" Elanore asked.

"Oh, no," Margaret said with a laugh. "There were three men and a woman escorting us ... and at least one was with us everywhere we went but our little cabin." A wistfully sad look came over her as she added, "I'd never seen Anton in a suit and tie ... and you had to be nicely dressed for meals, especially dinner. And I'd never seen, let alone worn clothes that, that elegant ... Anton could hardly recognize me," She began to laugh and closed her eyes. "They gave me this hat, this, this just incredible hat, out to here," she said with her hands almost out to her shoulders. "I'd die before I'd be seen in it today but it made me feel like one of them."

"You travelled as Americans?" Kirkland asked.

Margaret shook her head. "No ... we had Finnish passports ... and we weren't the Calders then. That came much later. We weren't allowed to talk to anyone – I, well truth be told, I couldn't have – I couldn't say much more than 'good morning', 'good evening', 'please' and 'thank you' ... oh, and I remember now, 'we're in cabin one-twelve'," she added with a nod and a grin. "English was very hard for me. Anton could carry on a conversation with the agents but he still sounded very Russian."

Elanore was more than just curious about that entire adventure but instead of pursuing the subject she glanced down again at the fabulous jewelry piece. "And ... until you got _this_ , you thought the general ... General what?"

"Kovpak," Margaret said to help Elanore's memory.

"He's the general that got you out of Berlin ... you thought he was dead?"

Margaret nodded soberly. "We were told he got out safely but we weren't allowed to meet him – or even know where he was taken – at least I wasn't. Maybe Ceece did. We always thought it was somewhere in England."

Kirkland pointed at the pendant. "And this is the only thing you've ever received from him?"

Margaret took a deep breath and sighed heavily. "Actually, no," she admitted then rose again. "There's been a few things." She exited again through the doorway toward the garage as her three guests exchanged surprised looks around the table.

"They must have gotten some letters over the years," Alex remarked quietly.

Kirkland looked doubtful. "I would have thought that was strictly forbidden."

Alex looked at his wife in shared understanding and said, "What was it you said about necessity and the law?"

Elanore raised an eyebrow momentarily then asked, "Wouldn't the safe be a better place than the garage?"

Alex shrugged then tipped his chin toward the hallway leading to his father's office. "We had the combination. I was in and out of it all the time."

"That's the first place anyone would look," Kirkland suggested.

Another minute later Margaret came back into the kitchen with three similar boxes. All of them had been opened and as they moved things around on the table to make room she set the stack in the center.

Alex gave his mother an uneasy look, now confirming his suspicion that she hadn't revealed everything to him. "When did you get these?"

"The last three months – they came one each month."

The first thing Kirkland did was set them apart and compare their labels with the first one. "Same printer I think it's safe to say ... it's dot matrix ... and after that one in February, one more per month, almost like clockwork, the first week of March, April and May."

He paused in thought and tried to recall a map of England. "Chelmsford, Swindon, Northhampton ... Horsham ... cities some distance around London. If memory serves ... quite literally all around it."

He passed Elanore and Alex each a box and reached into the one from March, finding a quite typical old British tobacco tin wrapped in bubble wrap that the tape had been pulled off of along with another eBay printout. Looking steadily at Margaret he caught a knowing smile forming as he pulled the lid from the tin and removed what he recognized as a black velvet loose gemstone bag.

Alex and Elanore froze as he opened the bag and poured a few large diamonds into his outstretched hand. He took a napkin and rolled the rest of the stones gently onto it.

"Oh my God," Elanore gasped.

"They're even more striking on black," Kirkland said admiringly as he carefully rolled them onto the surface of the flattened black bag and spread them out. Even with just the daylight from the open blinds of the windows and door to the patio, at least a hundred diamonds of varying carat weights glimmered with dazzling intensity before their eyes.

Without using the loupe he knew they were real and all were well above a carat; many of them were at least four, perhaps four-and-a-half carats. He held up the seller's page and read aloud: "' _One hundred rhinestones ranging in size from six to nine millimeters_ '."

"A hundred and sixteen," Margaret corrected. "Believe me, I've counted them ... and they sure as hell aren't rhinestones," she offered seriously.

"You are quite correct, Mrs. C.," Kirkland noted quietly as he moved some of them around with his fingertip and selected one of the larger ones to examine with the loupe. As the Calders watched in expectation he picked up and studied several more. "There are a number of old-cut stones ... they don't have the popular fire we expect in today's retail market, but they're actually large enough to be re-cut—"

"Re-cut?" Alex asked.

"What did you mean 'old-cut'?" Elanore asked as she examined the diamonds on her wedding set.

Kirkland concentrated on the stones as he answered. "Until 1919 diamond cutters didn't fully understand the geometric principles of optics and reflective surfaces ... then along comes a Belgian engineer, a fellow by the name of Tolkowsky ... and turned the diamond cutting world on its ear."

He selected another larger stone and continued. "In the main, these are—I'm going to guess based on the few I've looked at—nearly colorless and flawless. And to answer the question on everyone's mind, on today's market I would say most of them are worth in excess of twenty-five thousand dollars ... some as much as forty."

There was a collective gasp from the others around the table.

"They have to be individually graded," he suggested, "but there's somewhere north of three million dollars in diamonds here."

Alex whispered incredulously, "Three million," then he recalled what Kirkland had told him earlier in his office and asked, "But aren't they unsellable?"

Kirkland set down his loupe, rubbed his eyes quickly and cleared his throat. "Actually," he began then sighed and continued guardedly as he pointed at the pendant, "unlike the famous ruby, these can't be identified or traced. They are highly liquid."

Margaret pointed at the box in front of Elanore. "You'll especially like that one, Hon."

Elanore's mind raced as she began unwrapping the wad of paper she had pulled from the box. Inside was another wad, this one aluminum foil and inside it was a small linen bag. Her hands began to tremble and instead of opening it she passed it to Kirkland. "I'd drop it and break something ... I don't want that on my conscience."

After taking it from her, Kirkland used the prong of a fork to delicately loosen the knot holding the bag closed.

"Sorry," Margaret said. "I may have pulled that a tad tight."

After opening the bag Kirkland removed a bundle of cotton and carefully unwrapped it, removing the tangled bits and shreds to reveal a brooch fashioned in silver and gold with diamonds surrounding a staggeringly large and brilliant blue stone. "Oh, yes," he whispered in awe then blew out a slight 'whew' sound. "This might look familiar," he said as he held it up and looked at Elanore, reminding her of more of their conversation the previous evening.

Slowly she whispered in awe, "Oh my God ... yes."

Kirkland looked at Margaret and Alex as he explained, "It's a sapphire ... two hundred and sixty carats with fifty-six carats of antique diamonds around it. I actually didn't examine the item at the museum last evening but knowing what I know now ... under the circumstances," he said then paused as he examined it again and added, "I'd say this one is real."

Elanore raised the page and read the eBay description aloud: " _'Too gaudy for words this is the perfect highlight for that turban or bandolier costume!'_ "

"A sapphire ... you said two hundred and sixty carats ... a sapphire?" Alex asked.

"It's among the largest in the world," Kirkland answered, setting it on the bag on the table and picking off the last clingy wisps of cotton.

Alex decided not to reach out and pick it up. Instead he sorted through the excelsior in the cardboard box in front of him and found a typical small and inexpensive hinged velvet-covered jewelry box the size a woman's watch might come in.

A huge, beaming smile formed on Margaret's face and she said, "That one's my favorite."

Alex opened the box but his face couldn't register any additional surprise as he looked at another brooch made up of diamonds. _Oh wow, what the hell is this_ , he thought then gingerly passed it to Kirkland.

Kirkland took the piece as he noted, "Clever of them to put it in a cheap oriental knock-off box." After only a few seconds he added, "I can't say for certain but this is most likely the authentic Duval piece." He held it up for them to see more closely. "It's known as _The Cornucopia_ – and it's over two hundred years old."

Alex looked at his printed page and said, "Total price, fifty-one dollars including FedEx shipping."

Kirkland sighed as he set the piece on the table and looked around at the Calders. "In addition to three pieces of Romanov jewelry and several million dollars worth of diamonds, you have a very interesting dilemma." After a few seconds he turned to Margaret and said, "I suppose now you want to find General Kovpak."

With her eyes scanning the priceless treasure on the table before them, Elanore seemed lost in thought then a sheepish grin formed as she looked at Margaret and said quietly with a kind of guilty, conspiratorial tone, "Or maybe he'll just keep sending you stuff."

Kirkland shook his head. "We'd better find him before he does."

CHAPTER 15

The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR, 1946

Igor Olnikov smoked almost continuously as he sat nervously outside the office of Colonel General Viktor Semyonovich Abakumov, Stalin's recently appointed Minister for State Security and depending on the unpredictable calendar, Olnikov's apparent ultimate superior.

A well-regarded, experienced investigator who had served in highly-classified positions before and during the course of the war, Olnikov had never been called directly to the office of the head of any of the varying organizations he had labored so carefully under. Skipping the chain of command was almost never done but with the almost constant changes dictated from the Kremlin, particularly those from Stalin or those maneuvering for power, he wasn't entirely surprised. _One just has to wind up on the right side_ , he reminded himself.

When Abakumov's aide opened the door and motioned him to enter, Olnikov quickly rose and crushed out the cigarette then straightened his tunic. He walked as calmly as he could into the surprisingly well-furnished office and stopped before the desk where the Minister was seated.

Abakumov ignored him and continued reading something for nearly a minute then set it down, signed it and blotted the ink. After examining his signature closely, the man looked up at Olnikov with no expression at all. The eyes were almost vacant; the voice was unexpectedly weak, almost feminine. "Take this," he said as he picked up and handed Olnikov a sealed envelope then glanced over at a clock to his right. "You are to report to Comrade Stalin in twenty minutes. Do not open that. You will deliver it to him only."

Abakumov looked down again and picked up his pen. "You are dismissed," he said flatly as he resumed reading another document.

Olnikov's mouth was now dry and he swallowed with some difficulty. "Yes, Comrade General," he said then turned to leave the office, even more concerned about what his future held.

"One more thing, Comrade," the Minister said, still without looking at Olnikov.

"Yes, Comrade General?"

"This meeting never occurred."

Despite the blasé way the man had said it, Olnikov well understood the meaning. "Of course, Comrade General," he replied knowingly then let himself out the door.

Fifteen minutes later Olnikov steeled his resolve, walked up to a Captain at a desk in the waiting area outside Stalin's offices and introduced himself.

The taciturn officer consulted a page in a scheduling ledger and with a grunt and a hand gesture pointed to a short row of chairs. "You will be called," he said quickly after writing something on the paper.

Noting there was an ashtray on the small table next to the wooden chair, Olnikov decided he would have time to have another cigarette, but before he could light it a door opened and another officer stepped out and called his name. He rose and followed the man and as they stepped inside Stalin's office another aide appeared, carrying a string-tied bundle of files some twenty centimeters thick. The man placed the pile on the corner of the tidy desk then quickly retreated and closed the door quietly behind him.

Olnikov remained standing then removed the envelope from inside his tunic and held it toward Stalin. "I was told this was to be seen only by you, Comrade."

After opening it and reading briefly, the First Secretary said, "Comrade Igor Olnikov," then finished reading the two pages before looking at him and suggesting he sit with a wave of one meaty hand.

With the papers placed on the desk, Stalin rose, linked his hands behind his back and began pacing back and forth as he gave very specific instructions as to what he wanted done.

\- # -

After his brief meeting with Stalin, a confused and only slightly-less apprehensive Olnikov was shown to a compact office that had been prepared for him on the same floor and began considering his future. He had somehow been singled out to conduct an investigation that was so secret no one other than Stalin and he could ever be aware of the nature of it. Even Abakumov had only known _who_ he had chosen for the assignment, not what Olnikov was going to be doing.

Olnikov would have no clerk, no typist and no administrative assistance or advice from the other arms of the state security bureaucracy. But what he did have was an order signed by Stalin directing whomever it was presented to to provide him with their full cooperation. Thus, he had access to any military service document with the specific exception of those of personnel related to scientific and weapons secrets.

The stack of files he had been given were dossiers of twenty Red Air Force fighter pilots who had been chosen to undertake a highly-secret mission that Stalin would describe to him only as ' _in support of our victory in the Great Patriotic War_ '.

Olnikov's first and only task was to identify the status and whereabouts of each of the mission's participants – living or dead. Once that was accomplished he was to report back to Stalin privately without taking any further steps. There was to be no contact with any of the pilots and no revelations to anyone about the purpose of his investigation, particularly within the party or military chain of command.

Unlike complete personnel files, none of the records reflected events before November of 1941 or beyond September of 1942. Other than their assignment and transportation orders, most of the contents were notations made while they were in the United Kingdom. One of the files recorded the pilot had been killed in a flying incident during July of 1942. Another was permanently disabled at about the same time and he found six others had been returned to the USSR between July and August.

He was unable to discern what they had been ordered to do after their departure from England and he got the distinct impression he nor anyone else still alive was supposed to know the purpose behind their mission.

But for Olnikov, that mission was irrelevant; he was going to be spending time at the Kremlin, scouring military personnel files and unit reports. _There's going to be much more to this than a clerical exercise,_ he told himself grimly.

\- # -

In addition to Olnikov being experienced and well-positioned in the intelligence directorate, his career made him familiar with the bureaucracy of the Soviet military apparatus and the disparate ways each of the branches functioned and maintained their archives. Within a week he had completed his initial task and sent word to Stalin's aide that his report was completed – a day later he was summoned again to Stalin's offices.

The report was only four pages in length and Stalin went though it quickly while remaining seated at his desk. "Only three still alive," he remarked without any surprise. "I remember this Kovpak," he said, pointing at the page. He took up his pipe and was about to light it when he looked up at Olnikov and asked, "Did you know General Krylov?"

Olnikov didn't have to think for more than a few seconds. Everyone in the Soviet Union who could read or had functioning ears must have known of Krylov and his legendary heroism by the time of his tragic death in a flying accident off the coast of Latvia. "I know of him, but I never met him, Comrade."

"Golikov?"

The agent glanced down in thought for a few moments then shook his head. "I cannot recall."

"And Leonov?"

"Yes, I have attended party meetings where he was a speaker."

Stalin rose from his desk, struck a match and lit his pipe, then stood near the window and proceeded to outline the supposed purpose of the secret mission – to deliver the payment for a very covert bargain to advance the Allies' invasion of Europe.

Stunned but carefully avoiding any display of what he was thinking, Olnikov immediately connected the story to a number of rumors that had circulated since the end of the war – careful whispers about Soviet technological secrets somehow falling into the hands of the Western allies. As Olnikov and others had concluded out of sheer ignorance, ' _How else to explain the American's atomic bomb?_ ' when the fact was Soviet spies like Klaus Fuchs had started passing secrets about his work while in Britain and later, from his involvement in the Manhattan project.

"And these pilots," Olnikov asked, pointing at the report, "they are responsible for espionage? Weapons secrets? Even Comrade Leonov?"

"Espionage?" Stalin asked dismissively then shook his head and puffed on his pipe. "No, no, Comrade ... that story was nothing more than a ruse. A very clever one crafted by Leonov himself," Stalin instructed. "It was highly persuasive with Krylov and Golikov. It ensured their understanding of the need for success." He examined his pipe for several moments as he added, "It has resulted in some ill-advised rumors."

Despite Stalin's more troubled demeanor, Olnikov was relieved that he wasn't going to be involved in yet another persecution of one or more of the man's suspected enemies, especially someone of Leonov's stature. "I have seen nothing in any records that explains the mission," he began, "and until this moment I could only deduce the purpose was expediting the deployment of the Lend Lease aircraft through Tehran."

Stalin lowered his pipe to his side. "That is as it should be. There are no other records of the mission – don't waste your time trying to find them. What I want Comrade ... I want the missing plane found ... and no one is to know it is being looked for."

Olnikov was clearly taken aback. "The plane?"

Stalin simply looked at the agent without answer or explanation.

"Comrade Stalin, what ... what am I looking for ... if I find the plane?" Olnikov asked with some trepidation.

Stalin almost began to speak but instead, paused again and looked out the window. When he turned and looked directly at Olnikov he said firmly, "What is there or is not there is of no concern to you."

Olnikov instantly realized that subject was closed. "Of course, Comrade."

Knowing full well what was sent in the planes, Stalin offered a misleading explanation to the unasked question. " _I_ want to know if there was ... if there is anything that my enemies could use to misconstrue the truth."

_Does he not already know?_ Olnikov thought then nodded affirmatively. "Yes ... yes, I understand, Comrade Stalin."

"There is a chance one of them – one of the pilots may know something that would provide a clue as to the plane's whereabouts," Stalin said as he stepped over to his desk and removed an envelope from a drawer and held it out. "Your authority will not be questioned," he added flatly.

As Olnikov opened the envelope and read the short letter Stalin spoke again. "After you discover what they know, report only to me ... and be persistent," he said then apparently became temporarily distracted by his pipe before he added, "That is all."

"Yes, Comrade," Olnikov said then put the letter back in the envelope, turned and walked out through the waiting area and directly to his office, his mind wrestling with what he had learned and what he was expected to accomplish.

Disturbing thoughts swept through his mind about the ramifications of what was now a matter of significance to the First Secretary. _If there truly was something, if not weapons secrets, what could it be that could be used against the most powerful man in the Soviet Union? Could he trust Stalin to be telling him the truth? Of course not ... I am at the mercy of a man well known for his cunning and ruthlessness. Will just knowing there is nothing there be sufficient for him to quiet the speculations? Will he use that knowledge to prosecute those who he thinks are prepared to accuse him?_

Seated at his sparse desk he began having phone calls placed, leaving instructions for the officers to contact him at the Kremlin without revealing the urgency or the fact that he was functioning under Stalin's personal orders. There was no need to have others know the significance of the matter; the instructions were coming from the offices of the First Secretary and that made them significant enough.

Without any clerical or secretarial assistance he was forced to wait in his office for the responses and he was surprised how quickly the call from _Podpolkovnik_ (Lt. Colonel) Mikhail Vitolkin's aide came.

The Air Defense unit Vitolkin commanded was not much more than an hour away by car while the crippled Vladmir Bochkov's care center at the coast of the Black Sea was several days travel from Moscow. The third survivor, _Polkovnik_ (Colonel) Alexsandr Kovpak, was even further away in Berlin.

He decided to start with the closest man.

\- # -

Vitolkin's small office was austere to the point of being purely functional and until Olnikov passed the orders from Stalin to the officer there were a number of inconvenient interruptions; the document had the desired effect – Vitolkin issued an order to his aide and then escorted the agent through the office building to a large, vacant briefing room in the adjacent hangar.

After closing the door he said quietly, "We should keep our voices down," then took out a cigarette and lit it before he sat down at one of the tables.

Olnikov nodded in agreement. "I understand," he said then sat across the table from the Colonel and lit his own cigarette.

Vitolkin's mind was reeling but he seemed relaxed despite the significance and source of the man's orders. "This is obviously an urgent matter, Comrade."

After exhaling the smoke upward Olnikov began, "You are correct. It is. Your mission ... the one in nineteen forty-two, to England ... there are only three of you left."

Vitolkin's brow furrowed as he scowled. _Only three?_ He managed to remain visibly calm while the onslaught of trepidation made his gut tighten and his mouth dry. _Secrets and oaths_ , he reminded himself and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "The mission ... it was," he paused and shook his head and glared at the agent with a firm determination. "It was not a matter to be discussed."

"Until now," Olnikov advised.

Vitolkin rubbed his chin briefly then leaned back in his chair. "Very well ... what is it the First Secretary wants to know?"

"Everything, Comrade. Everything you can recall ... there are no records of that brief period of your career ... no documents remain at all. It is safe to say that situation was planned for. It is now necessary to gather the facts of the matter."

Vitolkin nodded only slightly as the fear of what might be the real reason behind this investigation gripped him. _Secrets and oaths_ he reminded himself several times as he began recounting their clandestinely-arranged training in England, their return via the Arctic Sea route and finally Krylov's briefing at Smolnya. He consciously avoided any mention of their becoming aware of the real purpose of the mission.

"And that was when? You were in Leningrad when?"

"September," Vitolkin answered.

Olnikov wrote something more on his pad of paper then Vitolkin continued, explaining their staggered departures from Smolnya and his aborted flight out of Ufa and awaiting the navigation charts Kovpak was supposed to have sent to continue the mission.

Seeing the puzzled look on the agent's face Vitolkin explained, "We did not carry charts ... navigational maps. Only the four element leads knew the waypoints ... the details. The first waypoints were all different for each element – secrecy was that vital. Other than knowing we were eventually going to Tehran we had no way of knowing how we were getting there."

Olnikov scowled with a doubtful look. "Really?"

The Colonel nodded. "It's far too great a distance to make in one flight, Comrade. The petrol, the glycol ... even the hydraulic fluid had to be in place, waiting for us. Only the leads had been briefed on them." With his hand making a hopping gesture across the surface of the table he added, "Once in the air we were given the heading and distance to the next destination and so on."

"Why do you think Kovpak did not send to you ... what was it you said ... ah, you waited in Ufa?" Olnikov asked. "For the ... the charts," he noted from what he had written.

Vitolkin looked somewhat surprised. "You do not know, Comrade?"

Olnikov didn't react. He took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled then offered some advice. "Assume I know nothing, Colonel."

Vitolkin fought the urge to smile as he said more than asked, "Ah ... you probably have no way of knowing ... Major Kovpak never reached Tehran."

Now it was Olnikov's turn to appear surprised. _This could be a stroke of good fortune_ , he told himself. "But he is still alive ... that means he must have taken the plane somewhere else."

The almost excited tone of the man's statement led Vitolkin to a sudden conclusion: _They're looking for Kovpak's plane!_ After a moment he shook his head dismissively. "I doubt that, Comrade ... after he did not arrive in Tehran, General Krylov told me they located him in hospital in Chkalov but offered no information as to why ... other than that he would recover ... and as ordered, we had no further communication. None of us have discussed this since that time."

"Chkalov? Could he have taken the plane there?"

Vitolkin regarded the stranger with some distrust, but knowing he had no choice but to provide an answer he shook his head. "Unlikely in a fighter aircraft. That would be too far west. And being hospitalized would indicate to me, at least, that he was involved in an accident of some kind."

Olnikov seemed to be confused. "But where was he going, if not Chkalov? He was lost between Ufa and where? You said Aqtobe?"

Vitolkin nodded. "Where the fuel was arranged. And, I should have mentioned, there were mechanics at each waypoint. Had any of us gone somewhere else our planes could have been stranded. But more importantly, Comrade, going to other aerodromes would also jeopardize the secrecy of the mission." He leaned forward on the table and picked up another cigarette but didn't light it. "In Ufa we wired General Krylov's office asking for charts and they were delivered to us two days later. When we finally got to Aqtobe we were three days late ... only then did we learn he had not arrived there. General Krylov would know more, of course, but, as I am sure you know, he was killed in a tragic accident."

Olnikov sighed and nodded then crushed out his cigarette. _But Kovpak is not._

Vitolkin tapped the end of his unlit cigarette on the table and reached for his lighter as he continued with his story. "We were dispersed to training units approximately three months later. I know Kovpak was in a training command ... the last time I saw him was ... ah, I cannot recall now. Of course, we never spoke of the mission – he may know more," Vitolkin added then lit the cigarette.

Olnikov nodded in thought for a moment then asked, "How far is it from Ufa to Aqtobe?"

_They really are looking for the plane!_ Vitolkin concluded and decided to be less than fully forthcoming, in part to buy time to find a way to forewarn his friend. He squinted and pursed his lips in thought. "I believe about seven, perhaps eight hundred kilometers. The Airacobra will not fly much more than eleven hundred kilometers safely. But with the proper charts that would be simple to determine. If I recall, we were thirty minutes into the flight when we encountered the Luftwaffe reconnaissance planes ... after we drove them off Surin had to turn back with propeller damage. Not long after I also had to return to Ufa. I was leaking fuel and would not have made it to Aqtobe."

"And Kovpak continued ... alone."

"Those were our orders," Vitolkin said simply.

Olnikov now realized he had what he needed to report back to Stalin; better yet, with the actual pilot of the missing plane still alive, the task of finding the plane had probably become enormously less difficult. "Well, Comrade ... you have saved me a considerable amount of time ... Comrade Stalin will be made aware of your cooperation," he said as he rose.

Vitolkin wanted to verify some of his concerns about what the secret mission had actually been designed to accomplish but with an apparently satisfied agent drawing the questions to a close he thought better of it; yet another reorganization was underway in the Kremlin and allegiances were going to be tested. _The less I know the better_ , he concluded as he rose. "If you see Colonel Kovpak, give him my regards ... is he still in Berlin?"

"He is," Olnikov said pleasantly. And if I see him I will do that." After a few seconds he added, "Of course you will not discuss this with anyone."

As if it should be obvious Vitolkin said, "Of course."

After escorting the agent to the exit he returned to his office and began pondering some way to get word to Kovpak without endangering either of them. _Secrets and oaths_ , he thought again.

CHAPTER 16

Calder Ranch and Houston, Texas, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Alex Calder walked over to the dining room table where Kirkland was seated with the packing boxes and their contents arrayed in front of him. "I know you need to be in Dallas tomorrow, but you're welcome to stay for dinner."

Kirkland quickly nodded. "I appreciate that, thank you." He was concentrating on the box he had taken the tobacco tin full of diamonds from.

Looking closer as he sat down in a chair across the table Calder asked, "Find something?"

With a frustrated shake of his head Kirkland said, "Umm. I don't think so ... this one, this is the one that had the diamonds. I was hoping it had been opened and resealed before it got here." He set the box down and leaned back and ran a hand through his hair then seemed to stare at the box as if defeated. "But I don't believe it was."

Calder looked puzzled. "You're saying someone along the way might have found out what was in it? What am I missing? Why wouldn't they just take them when they found them?"

Kirkland appeared to wrestle with a thought then leaned forward with his arms resting on the table and intertwined his fingers. "The only place that provides an opportunity to discover what is inside something like this coming into the country is the customs broker."

It dawned on Calder slowly. "Ahh ... they x-ray them."

"Only some of them. Why they pick the ones they do is a closely guarded secret, and those that get x-rayed are routinely opened if something looks suspicious."

"That means it would never have gotten here if someone had seen or opened it."

"Maybe," Kirkland advised. "It's far too secure an environment for someone to simply steal the contents, if that's what you're thinking." He paused again then leaned back from the table. "No, if someone had seen this and then opened it, what would have been here at your Mother's place were men in dark suits and ties with no sense of humor they're aware of." As his client seemed to grasp what he meant, Kirkland looked around again and continued in a voice barely above a whisper. "Smuggling diamonds is a bad idea ... these got through unopened by sheer chance."

With a sound understanding of statistical theory Calder said, "Not much of a deterrent."

"Still, it's certainly not a method I'd recommend," Kirkland said flatly.

Calder sighed and leaned his elbows and forearms on the table. "What about the odds of finding General Kovpak?"

Kirkland shook his head and gestured to the boxes and papers on the table. "There's a message in here," he said. "Somewhere."

\- # -

After dinner Kirkland followed Alex Calder's map of the ranchlands and the Houston-area freeway system, all the while trying to refocus on the following day's business for another client in Dallas but he found it more difficult than normal to concentrate for multiple reasons, not the least of which was Catherine Cruz.

After reaching the Transall parked at Ellington field and securing the Suburban in the cargo hold with Joe Bonamassa blaring from the plane's sound system, Kirkland closed the rear door then climbed the steps up into the cockpit where the music was even louder. Knowing better than to startle Ben Yamaguchi within physical reach he knocked loudly on the bulkhead and yelled, "You'll go deaf, you know!"

When the music dropped to background level Yamaguchi smirked, "I wondered what was taking you so long to get it tied in ... I was about to come down and supervise."

Kirkland ignored the comment. "Sorry I'm late ... what'd you do for dinner?"

"I found a sushi bar – I was surprised how good it was. There's some ika and kaiso in the fridge—"

Kirkland raised a hand. "No, thanks ... I had grilled salmon and something with black beans and corn and peppers and something called jicama—"

"Hiccawhat?"

"Yea ... sort of like a, a ... a sweet radish ... maybe. I thought you were going to find that fried chicken steak—"

"Chicken fried steak," Yamaguchi corrected then donned his headset and asked the tower for permission to start the engines.

After getting his own headset into place Kirkland commented, "Chicken fried steak ... that just sounds wrong."

"So does fried chicken steak."

Kirkland realized there would be more things he would have to ask the natives about. "It makes no sense," he noted as he strapped in and adjusted his harness.

"Hey, you do realize we're in another country."

They both heard the permission to start and Kirkland picked up the checklist. "Yea ... what is it with the sweet iced tea?"

Yamaguchi grinned as he started the first engine then they proceeded through the checklist and soon had both props spinning noisily. When satisfied everything was as it should be, he asked the tower for permission to taxi which was quickly granted; at that hour of the night they had the field almost to themselves and were soon rolling on a north-bound takeoff.

Flying out of Ellington Field at night in the crowded airspace around Houston required frequent guidance by air traffic controllers and the two men said little to each other until they had been handed off to the Fort Worth regional center. Yamaguchi leveled off at 20,000 feet, watched as Kirkland adjusted the power and trim settings and relaxed as he poured some fresh coffee from the thermos. In less than an hour they would be busy again, descending and blending into the heavy Dallas-Fort Worth traffic on their way to Addison airport some 250 miles to their north.

The adopted infant son of Jewish bookstore owners, at the age of five Benjamin Epstein had become Ben Yamaguchi as a result of the divorce and remarriage of his mother. He eventually learned his biological lineage included a Japanese grandmother but he looked neither Japanese nor Jewish; for one thing, at just over six feet he was too tall; he also had green eyes. Despite the constant name confusion he had excelled in school and had become, among other things, an Air National Guard Captain with thousands of hours in military air-cargo planes – including the venerable C-130 Hercules.

His civilian life had taken a radical change in 1991 when one of his martial arts _gakusei_ learned of his military service. The relatively new student, Michael Kirkland, approached him and wanted to know how to go about bringing a French military cargo plane from Europe to Long Island. What he was looking for was someone who could not only obtain a rating quickly and be the pilot-in-command for the ferry trip, but then get Kirkland, a fairly experienced private pilot, a commercial rating for it.

Yamaguchi's formal education had been centered on mechanical engineering and aviation but after transitioning from the Air Force Transportation Command into the New York Air Guard he had decided to support himself and his wife and first child with a combination of martial arts instruction at his own dojo while flying freight aircraft and various charters on an annoyingly irregular basis.

When Kirkland explained what his business involved and how he wanted to expand it via the new cargo plane, the younger pilot had also just learned another child was due and he jumped at the chance to have not only a substantially larger and more steady income, but to learn something about a business he hadn't even known existed.

It wasn't long before the job became a family affair. His wife, Terri, was now in charge of running the administrative and financial side of Kirkland's unique operation. The small family lived in the large, elaborate guest residence on the Cove Neck property.

Even when not using the Transall, Yamaguchi would almost always travel with Kirkland, invariably being introduced by his boss as "my associate," without alluding to the fact that his role included physical protection. A master sensei in multiple martial arts disciplines, his visible role sometimes involved nothing more than looking at something he had no clue about and confirming with a nod whatever Kirkland had just said. Part of that was on the job training; part of it was also for show. Only a few clients had the temerity to wonder aloud how his surname didn't seem to match with his Caucasian appearance.

The fact that he also got to not only use, but tinker with and adapt some very interesting technology also tapped into his innate understanding of how to make things work – sometimes in applications where they hadn't been intended, let alone tried. Kirkland's collection of such things sometimes gave them an advantage in their peculiar business environment and Yamaguchi had two patents to his credit; more importantly, other bits and pieces had saved their lives in tight spots.

Now in the moonlit skies above the cloud layer blanketing most of south Texas, Kirkland filled him in on everything that had transpired during the day.

"Holy shit," Yamaguchi said after considering what he heard about the Calders and the story behind this new client. "So they have four pieces – real Romanov pieces? Sent by this General guy ... and they, as in we, don't know where he is."

"Three genuine pieces and a fortune in loose diamonds – and we don't even know _who_ he is today. He was apparently taken in by the British. Same drill as the Calders, new name, new life – but in the U.K. ... we think."

"And somehow, this guy got out of the Soviet Union with the missing fourth of the De Beer's collateral."

Kirkland nodded. "Apparently so—actually, no," he corrected himself. "We don't know that. All we really know is the four packages were sent from the U.K. We're assuming he's reaching out now that his partner from that time has passed away."

"Damn," Yamaguchi said with a scowl. "This has ugly written all over it."

"We're going to have to juggle some things," Kirkland said.

"So we're going back to Ellington tomorrow?"

Kirkland reached behind his seat and removed a Jeppesen chart Alex Calder had given him. "David Wayne Hooks Memorial. It's closer to the Calder ranch."

"Why do I get the feeling _we're_ going to find this General?"

Kirkland nodded. "That's the long and the short of it. I think there have to be some clues in what he sent but I haven't found anything yet ... I brought the packaging – you should take a look."

Yamaguchi tied some thoughts together. "This all sounds interesting," he said with a smirk then turned to his boss and asked pointedly, "But ... more importantly ... where you taking this fabulous Cruz woman tomorrow?"

When Kirkland revealed what he had in mind Yamaguchi said with a phony oriental accent, "Ahh ... most excellent plan, round-eye."

CHAPTER 17

Arlington Heights, Virginia, Thursday, May 22, 1997

Over a thousand miles away from Houston, one of Nelson Bailey's phone lines rang as he was watching the news. A call on that line at that hour of the night was highly unusual and he looked more closely at the display to see who might be trying to reach him.

"Shit," he whispered aloud after finally recognizing the number. He sighed heavily and grabbed the remote to mute the television system. _What the hell are they up to now?_

The Russians who had originally hired him in the summer of 1996 were impatient, not to mention obnoxiously demanding and doing what he did for them had been more than just a little illegal; he had been glad to have them go away quietly without any further assignments no matter how financially rewarding at the time.

The fact that it had taken him so long to finally prove Cecil Calder was Anton Nuryev that the old man had died before the Russians could get to him had infuriated his clients; they confided in Bailey they were depending on having Nuryev supply crucial information to find someone and his passing effectively stalled their search. Although Bailey had been paid as agreed for the job of finding him, the strain in their business relationship had apparently been sufficient to end it.

Now a year later he debated answering the call – but only for a few seconds; curiosity was part of his makeup and if anything, they paid well for his unique capabilities.

Bailey's resources of information about people included a very private network of individuals who traded data among themselves without regard for company privacy policies or laws. Among them were employees of insurance companies, banks, credit bureaus, skip tracers, law firms, collections agents and even people in courts and government agencies. In the burgeoning market Bailey thrived in, information was often used as currency; you just had to have access to some of it to trade – if you didn't, all it took was real money. Some of his clients dealt in cash money and were loathe to record their participation through routine accounting procedures.

His earlier professional career included over thirteen years as a Postal Service Inspector and he still had friends in law enforcement, especially in the District of Columbia area. When it came to very confidential assignments, he and his local contacts didn't have to risk communicating electronically or at work; they could meet in any number of places to do business. In their realm, the most confidential things no one would ordinarily be able to find were bought and sold over drinks, a meal or even a round of golf and often delivered by word of mouth rather than on paper or via computer.

His business success had really begun when he saw the opportunity to use the emerging power of the Internet to help creditors track down people that owed money. Almost at the same time, he realized he could give employers a way to weed out applicants who may have padded their resume or not fully revealed everything on job applications. Unlike the credit bureaus, Nelson Bailey operated in an underground economy where the rules were made by the participants.

The remodeled garage of his modest home had become a growing office and computer room and the local phone company was hard pressed to keep up with his phone line and network bandwidth requirements. In early 1995 he had the first T1 circuit in the area put in, much to the amazement of the installation crews who had never seen such a thing in a residence. Not long after, he ran into the limitations of the residential communications infrastructure and had to find a suitable commercial location to house the rapidly growing business. In 1996, he moved into a stylish utilitarian-chic loft above the climate-controlled space that housed his racks of computers, network equipment and fax machines.

That first year he moved, business was so good he paid more in income taxes than he had during his entire USPS career. Very private information about people that no one else seemed to be able to find was incredibly profitable and simple skip-tracing for collections accounts—while still an active line of business—was a diminishing part of his personal activities. He now had a small staff of contractors connected to his systems that he farmed out that routine kind of work to while he nurtured a number of very covert contacts among out-of-state law-enforcement entities to enhance his value with his existing Washington connections. The things he might be able to uncover for them might never be used as evidence in an actual trial but some kinds of information naturally led to finding people or bits of evidence that _could be_ admissible. Investigators both public and private could depend on Bailey to find out if what they were about to go to extraordinary lengths to obtain would be worth the time, effort and especially the exposure of filing motions for search warrants.

Not surprisingly, many of his clients were law firms, private investigators and other types of security operatives – one of which he had recruited in Houston a year ago for the Russian client's project; the fact that the operative worked in the security department of the Calder's business made him the ideal choice and the amount of money involved assured his silence.

When he picked up the phone he answered, "Bailey," then listened, recognizing the voice of Pavel Silayev as the Russian read off a Texas license number and asked him to find who owned it. "Hold on ... Okay, I'll call you back ... Yes ... I know ... give me a few minutes," he said then shook his head as the call ended without any common courtesies. "Fucking rude son of a bitch," he grumbled aloud.

From one of his computers in his office he logged into an insurance company database that soon gave him the name of the company the vehicle was registered to – a Texas LLC that he next found was officed at a law firm in Austin.

He dialed and when the Russian answered he said, "It's a law firm in Texas – he must be their attorn—"

The retort from Silayev cut him off. "He's not a lawyer. His name is Kirkland."

"Then that's not his vehicle—"

"Never mind that," he heard the Russian order. "Find out everything you can ... on a Professor ... his name is Michael Kirkland. He's from New York. He lectures at the University of Connecticut in Stamford ... He's an appraiser. And do it quickly."

"It'll take some time," Bailey warned.

"Five thousand pounds."

"Okay, twenty-four hours, maybe less."

Bailey heard the call disconnect and immediately realized the Russians were not ready to quit looking for something; suddenly there was another party involved that seemed to be of vital interest to them.

" _Money's money_ ," he thought and then from his desk he began marshalling his network of resources. After several minutes he had the electronic wheels in motion to find out what kind of information was out there and how much it would cost to obtain some of it under extreme priority circumstances.

He took a lap-top computer up to his residence area and connected it to the Ethernet network then watched out of the corner of his eye from time to time to see what responses he'd get.

Five questions about the man being 'an appraiser' trickled in as he sipped his drink. Apparently there was more to the appraisal industry than Bailey had realized; there were four real estate appraiser hits on the last name but none of them were in New York. _What the hell kind of appraiser is he?_

One of his best but most clandestine resources offered an interesting potential gold mine of information – a checking account activity register for two New York bank accounts under Michael C. Kirkland, Ph.D., one addressed at the World Trade Center and another at Cove Neck, Long Island. The price being asked was exorbitant because of the inherent danger of being found as the source of such information, but if there weren't many more responses he knew he might have to pay it. The dates, amounts and _Pay to the Order of_ information would create an easy path to finding out even more about someone and he knew that from that same source he could then acquire copies of any checks that were particularly interesting.

But before he had to make a decision on paying that price, an insurance specialist offered something almost as intriguing but far less expensive – information from applications for insurance coverage on a number of aircraft that bore his name and signature; the most curious bits of information on that offer were the aircraft tail numbers.

"Well now, a professor ... with insurance policies on seven airplanes," Bailey mused aloud, knowing another source at the FAA in Oklahoma City would be able to provide interesting details if he wanted to track Kirkland's planes and especially their whereabouts. He quickly typed a message to the insurance specialist that met the asking price and within minutes, twenty-six faxed pages of insurance documents began arriving. Even before the last one crept out of the machine he was composing his message to the woman who worked at the FAA.

By the time he dialed Silayev's number, a few other offers had been accepted and he knew the dossier he'd compiled was not only complete, but worth the offered price. The slightly less surly Russian was apparently duly impressed and Bailey knew five thousand pounds would appear in his offshore account within forty-eight hours.

As he sat in his recliner staring at the silenced television screen, basking in his success, he was still wondering what or who the Russians might be looking for. Another thought suddenly came to him: _What if I've already got what these fuckups are after?_

He looked at the phone as he considered the situation. _They're still looking for someone ... someone outside the U.S. ... someone Cecil Calder could have helped them identify or locate and this new player, this Professor sure as hell has them stirred up._

The question really boiled down to whether or not the Russians would trust him enough to tell him who they were actually after. _That's the key to getting back in this game,_ he concluded.

At some expense early on in the process he had obtained the senior Calder's long distance phone records going back almost three years. Disappointingly, there had been very few international calls using the home number during that time and of those, they were to and from two hotels their son and daughter-in-law had stayed in – one in Israel and one in Singapore. In the last two years, Margaret and Cecil Calder had owned just one cell phone but it had never been used to make or receive an international call.

Nothing in their substantial financial and property holdings indicated a relationship to anyone outside the country and they had reported no foreign investments or sources of income on their tax returns in the last seven years; their last foreign financial transaction had been an Amex card purchase during a cruise near Greece in 1991.

With his mind churning Bailey took a deep breath and tried to relax by channel surfing among news stations, relying on his intuition to work on the problem at hand.

He froze when the thought hit him: _There has to be something in that house that could lead to the mystery man_. _There should be personal letters with names and addresses – things they couldn't bear to part with even after all these years_.

He ruminated over those ideas several times then suddenly a redundant advertisement he had just skipped over triggered another thought: ' _When you care enough to send the very best'._ He paused for a few seconds then it came to him: _The funeral!_

Cecil Calder's funeral had been fairly large even by Texas standards and his son Alex had large numbers of business relationships and acquaintances all over the world. _Maybe the man they're looking for would have at least sent a sympathy card ... no way to know,_ he thought. _Cards would just be mailed ... if she kept them ... that's one thing that could only be found at the house._

Moments later another funeral-related idea struck him – _Flowers!_ "Those I _can_ find!" he said aloud and as he headed back to his office more ideas came to him: _Birthday and Christmas presents; anniversary gifts; anything to or from overseas – why didn't I think of this before?_

Within minutes, encrypted messages were sent to several people in his network and he knew sometime in the next few hours he would probably have several lists of data to comb through.

\- # -

As Bailey's network of sources started sending in files he began building a simple database, importing the names and addresses of anyone who had ordered flowers for the Calder family using a major credit card in the last twelve months. Within hours that file had grown to over 220 names in the U.S. and eighteen from other countries.

What was even more curious was a file of information about international shipments from three of the major overnight carriers. As it started arriving he merged it to the database and immediately found something odd – four packages delivered to Margaret Calder, one per month beginning in February and all from England. All had been classified as gifts for customs purposes. _Did she subscribe to something?_

It didn't take long to find that none of those sender names matched up with the two from England who sent flowers to the funeral and none of them matched up with other credit card transactions. It wasn't a smoking gun but it was something to offer and he reached for one of his phones and dialed Silayev again. "There's probably something there, in the house," he said after the Russian answered. "I've done some research ... ah, in case you're interested ... It depends on who you're looking for, chances are they're on this list – and, interestingly, the widow has received four packages, all from one country."

There was a long pause then Bailey heard Silayev ask, "Can your man in Houston handle this?"

"This what?" Bailey asked and paused to consider how well he knew Dennis Boland, the security guard at Calder's headquarters. He had proven reliable at reporting the Calder family's movements and providing Alex Calder's office phone call records during the investigation last year but whether or not he was up to the task of a burglary was an unknown; there seemed to be no reluctance on the part of his clients to have him try it.

"Offer him twenty thousand."

Bailey quickly assumed some portion of that would be his. "I'll see what I can do."

"Keep me advised," he heard.

The connection was terminated and Bailey thought only briefly before sending an encrypted message to Dennis Boland's last known email address.

CHAPTER 18

Berlin, Germany, Soviet Sector and Moscow, USSR, October, 1946

A two-time Hero of The Soviet Union and expert on successfully deploying new aircraft with effective pilots, Colonel Alexsandr Kovpak's career was now more about assessing his British counterpart's capabilities and writing reports than being at the controls of a plane.

Another massive reorganization of the Soviet military was underway and he was about to be promoted to Major General after being assigned to lead the team that would be negotiating with the British for the delivery of several Rolls-Royce jet engines. He had been a logical choice for the assignment; not only did he know what it would take to get men and aircraft into mission-ready status, he spoke English fluently and had the respect of several high-ranking officers in the RAF, including one he knew from his training experience in 1942.

It was hardly surprising that he would draw his staff from the officers of the training regiments he had commanded during and after the war and the latest of them coming to the Soviet-controlled sector in East Berlin was the young pilot he had met in Chkalov and had taken to his training staff in Lipetsk.

Major Anton Nuryev walked into the imposing fascist-designed structure in Karlshorst and showed his identification to the sentries, neither of which knew the locations of offices, although one of them knew there was a Colonel Kovpak that had come in earlier and had gone to the third floor.

Nuryev proceeded up the stairs with his footsteps echoing in the expanse of the nearly deserted building and on the third floor, near the end of a corridor he saw the small sign projecting out into the hall: 'Полковник Ковпак'.

The anticipation of seeing the Colonel again warmed him and he strode quickly down the corridor. Opening the frosted-windowed door he found the clerk's desk empty but the door to the office beyond it open. "Colonel? Colonel Kovpak?" he called out, unable to conceal the excitement.

Kovpak recognized the sound of the voice instantly and he rose then stepped quickly to the middle door and called out warmly, "Anton!" He strode to the visitor and they embraced like brothers then Kovpak held the younger but much taller officer by the shoulders and smiled. "Welcome to Hell," he said vigorously.

With his heavy coat off and after a salutary shot of vodka from a bottle he had brought with him as a gift, the two men sat and talked in the Colonel's incongruously spacious office, smoking cigarettes and discussing what had transpired in their lives and careers since Kovpak had been dispatched to the Soviet sector of Berlin almost a year earlier.

Their very private talk delved into the troubles of the USSR and people they knew then Nuryev suddenly remembered something and removed a sealed envelope from inside his tunic. "I almost forgot," he said as he placed it on the desk. "It was in an envelope in my post station the day before I packed. Whoever it is from must have known where I was going – there was a note with it to deliver it to you personally."

Kovpak looked at it and assumed it was simply a courtesy letter from a former comrade in the training command. Since it was obviously nothing official, rather than interrupting their reunion he casually slipped it into his desk drawer.

As they talked Kovpak could tell Nuryev was somewhat disappointed he would not have the opportunity to be involved in the deployment of new jet aircraft that were being designed. To set his friend's mind at ease he decided to confide even more. "I think you will live longer here," he advised warily. "You may not know it ... few do ... we are experiencing some difficulties with jet propulsion."

Nuryev's face gradually shifted toward one of deep concern.

The senior officer shrugged slightly and looked resigned to reality. "You probably are not aware, of course. The Americans and British have already worked through most of them," Kovpak admitted.

"But with the German technology—"

Kovpak raised a hand and shook his head. "The German engines are ... the best word is what? 'Problematic'."

"Problematic," Nuryev repeated warily.

"And our aircraft designs are requiring more powerful engines. You will do well to not be among the first to fly them," he advised solemnly.

Nuryev thought about that news for a moment then seemed to slump in his chair. "I have to admit Helena is pleased to see me on the ground," he said with a touch of dismay, then smiled as he changed the subject by adding, "but I have good news – I am going to ask her to marry me."

Kovpak bounced his fist on his desk lightly as he whispered enthusiastically, "Excellent, Anton!" then his mood changed to one of resignation and sympathy. "It is unfortunate Berlin is in no condition to bring her here."

Nuryev sighed. "I understand. We will have to wait."

Kovpak scowled and nodded as he took a puff on his cigarette. "Maybe not too long. Spring perhaps." He shook his head in dismay then explained with shaping movements of his hands. "Most of Berlin is nothing but collected mountains of rubble. There are probably two million people here ... ten percent of the sewers are in working order."

"I saw some of it from the air ... it's hard to believe there are people living here."

"Food, Anton," Kovpak continued grimly. "Food ... every day ... the first and the last problem is food. The Germans ... for the most part they are civilians ... they have no grasp of what is involved in supporting a population." He gestured with his cigarette as if making a circle and added, "Needless to say we do not venture out into parts of our sector without escort ... keep that in mind."

With due consideration Nuryev said, "Desperation can turn even pets into wolves."

The Colonel nodded then took out a piece of official stationery and hand-wrote a one-paragraph letter, signed it and passed it across the desk to Nuryev. "If you show this to the officious son-of-a-mongrel superintendant of that building he will have electricity and perhaps even hot water in an apartment in a day or two. Then you can move from the officer's quarters."

When Nuryev seemed confused Kovpak grinned slyly. "We pay him to let officers live in the building. There are other buildings we could use but he has friends ... you will hear of them ... the new Socialist Unity Party. For now, he can keep the electricity on and the water running even when our official influence has failed."

"Thank you, Colonel," Nuryev said gratefully.

Kovpak leaned back then sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger for a moment. "It is a political quagmire ... be careful who you talk to and what you say. There is much you will have to learn in the weeks to come."

Nuryev nodded slowly with concern at the gravity his mentor was displaying. "I understand," he offered.

The Colonel took another drag on his cigarette then tapped the ash in the tray and spoke through the exhaled smoke. "And ... and ... our glorious allies meddle in things they should not. The Americans and British have been particularly focused on scientists," he said with some admiration in his tone. "They were going after them at Peenemunde even before the little pissant corporal killed himself. And we know of others ... some ... even men who are guilty of the most grievous offenses are still disappearing."

Nuryev scowled then took a drink of vodka. "To where? Could it be they are being prosecuted?"

Kovpak shook his head with a grim look on his face. "No ... no, Anton. In fact they are being rewarded for their mental prowess. They can take full advantage of this situation to escape punishment."

"These are civilians?" Nuryev asked incredulously.

Kovpak shook his head. "Both. Civilian scientists and officers."

Like many officers that had survived the war Nuryev shared in a visceral hatred for the Nazis – especially those that had commanded their war machine. Some of the units with the tacit approval, if not the explicit orders of their officers, had engaged in atrocities against Soviet soldiers and even civilians on a massive scale. And like most of his fellow Red Air Force officers, he was either unaware of, or chose to not recognize the same kinds of acts Soviet commanders had ruthlessly engaged in.

"Until recently, the Kremlin has been content with relocating German factories and workers," Kovpak explained. "But ... that is going to change soon. Very soon. Come next month we will be conducting Operation _Osoaviakhim_."

Nuryev squinted slightly. "Should I know this?"

Kovpak nodded somberly. "You should, indeed. We will participate in the selection of the aviation scientists and specialists that will be relocated from Germany."

"Relocating them ... the Germans? Really?" Nuryev asked with some confusion.

"Comrade Stalin does not trust them, especially in such close proximity to our allies. We do not have enough eyes to watch them all."

The younger officer shook his head then asked very quietly out of curiosity, "So ... you, you are in contact with the Americans?"

Kovpak crushed out his cigarette and shook his head. "For now, Colonel Petrov is my equivalent in dealings with the Americans. We, this office ... we deal only with the British. Which is the primary purpose for you being here." Kovpak grinned slightly. "After Operation Osoaviakhim is substantially underway we have an opportunity to acquire a number of their RB.41 engines ... their production jet engines."

Nuryev looked doubtful. "You know I am certainly no expert on turbines."

Kovpak chuckled slightly. "An engine is just thrust ... useless without a pilot, my friend. We know they are already replacing it with a more powerful version because we have learned they have licensed that design to the Americans. The details of our offer are yet to be worked out – but I want fresh eyes and ears when we see one of their _Vampire_ prototypes."

"They will let us examine one?" Nuryev asked almost incredulously.

"Fly one," Kovpak corrected and nodded. "A two seat trainer powered by the RB.41. I want someone with recent training command experience to fly with their pilot – to observe and to ask questions," he added, pointing at Nuryev. He saw the look of growing excitement and smiled. "I thought that would raise your spirits."

Nuryev tapped the ash off his cigarette as he said, "You are right as usual, Colonel."

"Their Vampire is a proven design, Anton. I would not risk you in an experiment," Kovpak confided. "Now ... before any of that can happen ... this is Berlin ... you have to get properly settled. The motor pool is behind this building. There are two drivers on duty at our disposal at all times. Have one of them take you to the address on that letter – just have him wait while you get your apartment arranged and he can return you to the barracks to collect your belongings and get you back before dark. And make sure one of them will pick you up to get you here Monday at 0700. I will introduce you to the staff and put you to work."

"I am forever grateful, Colonel. Truly grateful."

Kovpak gave him a doubtful look with an accompanying grin. "Do not thank me too much just yet, Anton – you have not seen much of Berlin and winter is on its way."

\- # -

As Nuryev went down the broad flight of stairs to the grandiose foyer, he saw a man dressed in civilian clothes that had just come through the doors and was being cleared by the pair of sentries.

As they passed each other Nuryev nodded and said, " _Dobroe utro_ ," (good morning), Comrade," and received the same in response.

The man abruptly stopped just two steps later and turned around. "Comrade Major, pardon my asking – do you work here, in this building? I'm looking for a Colonel Kovpak, perhaps you might—?"

Nuryev interrupted pleasantly, "Of course, Comrade. The Colonel's offices are on the third floor, to the left from the top of the stairs, almost to the end," he said waving in that direction.

"Thank you Comrade Major," the man said and nodded, then turned and strode toward the stairs.

\- # -

Kovpak retrieved the privately-addressed envelope Nuryev had delivered from his desk and opened it expectantly without undue concern but after reading the short letter a second and third time his curiosity turned to alarm. _Secrets and oaths_ , he thought.

The sudden knock from the outer office door only added to his sense of impending danger. _That's not Anton,_ he concluded, slipping the letter and envelope back into his desk drawer.

With his mind racing over the message he had just received his instincts took hold and he picked up his personal weapon before walking to his office door. Seeing the shadow of someone in the corridor against the glass, he kept the gun behind him then moved across the small space and opened the door a few inches.

The man he saw looked up at the small sign above the door and then back at him. "Comrade Colonel Kovpak?" When the Colonel didn't immediately respond he added, "I am Igor Olnikov, Ministry of State Security."

Kovpak thought it odd that the man was not in uniform and he made no move as if to invite the stranger in. Instead he fixed him with a chilly stare. "None of the Intelligence Ministry staff are here today, Comrade."

Olnikov reached up and into his heavy outer coat which caused Kovpak to move slightly – just enough to let the agent see the pistol. Instead of overreacting to the Colonel's tensed body language and the gun, Olnikov slowly and calmly fished an envelope from inside his suit then removed the contents and held them out to Kovpak. "My orders are from Comrade Stalin. I thought it best to speak with you privately."

As Kovpak examined the document Olnikov added, "Your office was very busy yesterday ... the superintendant of your apartments said you would be here this morning."

_The idiot superintendant has a loose tongue,_ Kovpak thought. After skimming the document again he looked at the man without any hint of fear. "You understand we have to be cautious – not everyone is who they say they are," he said then relaxed his stance and became almost congenial. "Come in, Comrade ... by some miracle of Wehrmacht engineering there is heat in my office." He turned and gestured toward an ornate circular rack. "You can leave your coat here."

Kovpak realized what he had read only moments before the knock on his office door could very well have saved his life: ' _We were told nothing'_ , he was reminded by someone who had been interviewed by the man now in his office.

\- # -

With Olnikov making notes, Kovpak started at the very beginning, revealing details about the mission that would never have been disclosed had it not been for the orders the agent carried. He outlined how that instead of being part of the groups that were to be trained by Americans in the USSR in Lend Lease aircraft, his small group had been ordered to England. He went on to describe the passage through the Arctic and how secretive their quarters were at the Smolnya aerodrome.

Kovpak lit a cigarette before continuing. "There were spies everywhere, Comrade, as you probably know better than I."

Olnikov responded blandly, "Some things remain the same."

"Indeed ... but at that time it was important to set up a way to expedite the delivery of those types through Tehran. I estimate the schedule was advanced by several months as a result of the mission."

"And General Krylov did not confide in you any other purpose?"

Kovpak showed no sign of concern. "He did not." He waited several seconds with his eyes locked on the investigator's and added, "We did not question our orders," he added assertively.

Olnikov nodded slowly in understanding even though his own curiosity was far from satisfied. "What _were_ you told?"

After taking a drag on his cigarette and exhaling, Kovpak leaned back in his chair and removed a tiny fragment of tobacco from his tongue with his thumb and forefinger. "We were told that the objective was to get the four leads, of which I was one, to Tehran. The two escorts in each flight were actually considered expendable should we encounter the Luftwaffe ... or more likely at that time, one of our own pilots who did not recognize the planes as ours."

The thought of being shot down by another of your own comrades by mistake seemed alarming to Olnikov but his expression didn't change as he asked, "Why were those four —why were they so important?"

Kovpak shrugged slightly and drew on his cigarette before he answered. "The four most qualified navigators and instructors. We had the best chance of completing the mission. We also had a slight advantage in range and maneuverability ... our wing armament and ammunition had been removed."

Knowing little or nothing about aircraft armament Olnikov asked simply, "You flew unarmed?"

Kovpak shook his head. "No, the Airacobra also had two fifty caliber machine guns and a twenty millimeter cannon in the fuselage ... in the nose," he said pointing forward.

_But the wing guns were removed,_ Olnikov thought. "And without the guns in the wings ... this is a substantial amount of weight?"

"Indeed," Kovpak said nodding. "They were British seven-point-seven millimeter ... two in each wing, with belts of ammunition out toward the wingtips ... five hundred rounds in each wing ... fifteen kilograms plus about that much for each weapon ... forty-five kilograms on each side."

Olnikov again considered the likelihood of there being something on board the plane but rather than reveal anything by asking Kovpak a question he made a mental note to examine an Airacobra in Moscow to see for himself.

Kovpak decided to explain further and he extended his hands out to his sides and raised and lowered them alternately. "It is a feeling from the stick, Comrade. Weight significantly changes how a plane rolls. I flew them with and without guns in training."

The little Olnikov knew about airplanes was enough to convince him that Kovpak was telling him the truth but his curiosity was becoming even more acute. He eyed the Colonel closely and asked, "Did you ever learn, perhaps at some later time if something else might have been taken by your planes to Tehran?"

Kovpak shook his head dismissively and laughed slightly. "Ah, the rumors ... no ... no, and I have not given it any thought, Comrade. I learned from General Krylov that the mission was successful. The war went on ... we all had other responsibilities. It was just one mission."

"A highly secretive one," Golikov noted.

After regarding the agent for several seconds Kovpak said, "You realize, Comrade, any future discussion was forbidden. I have not spoken of it with anyone until this day. I am violating my oath based solely on the orders you showed me."

Olnikov nodded gravely. "As I understand it you did not reach one of the locations ... one of the _waypoints_."

_He certainly has talked to Vitolkin_ , Kovpak reminded himself. "Correct. I failed to reach Aqtobe."

"I will save the two of us some time, Colonel. You and I may never know the reason, but Comrade Stalin wants your plane found."

Kovpak had already sensed where the man's questions were heading and for effect he chuckled in amusement at the absurdity. "The plane? Whatever for?"

Olnikov didn't seem to share in Kovpak's dismissive view of the idea. "Comrade Stalin insists," he said evenly. "I am not in a position to question orders, either."

After a few moments Kovpak shrugged slightly. "Well then ... I can only tell you what I remember, Comrade," he said candidly, knowing there would be things he would not reveal.

"Go on," Olnikov urged.

"Somewhere just south of Ufa we were attacked by three enemy aircraft. Both of my escorts turned and engaged them and drove them off. But they both sustained damage and returned to the Ufa aerodrome. I know I continued as orders required but sometime later I must have had a mechanical failure. Apparently, I bailed out and was injured ... or I may have even crashed. To this day I still do not know which. According to the doctors my head injuries damaged my memory. The only thing I can recall with any certainty is regaining consciousness on a train."

Olnikov knew from his review of the scanty medical records he had obtained that the man was telling him the truth about his failed memory. "And is there anything you might be able to tell me that might narrow down the location?"

Kovpak crushed out the last stub of his cigarette. "No, but fortunately, I can do something to assist you."

Olnikov was surprised. "What is that?"

Kovpak leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk. "Comrade, if nothing else, the Nazis were fastidious, particularly the Luftwaffe. We are in possession of the archival records of the Luftwaffe. I can grant you access to them. In fact, I can arrange an interpreter ... the three planes my group encountered on that date would have reported the engagement during their debriefing. They are commonly known as 'after action reports'. They would include the coordinates. They were reconnaissance planes. Messerschmitts ... older bf-110s."

With increasing anticipation Olnikov asked, "So they were not shot down?"

"No ... they broke off after Surin and Vitolkin turned and attacked. I believe they were at or near the limit of their return range and could not sustain the engagement." He paused then went on instructively, "The mission of reconnaissance is to bring back intelligence, Comrade. The Nazi flight leader was foolish. But he was also lucky. Had they not broken off and run they would have been destroyed."

"I see," Olnikov said thoughtfully.

Kovpak took out a sheet of his official stationery and wrote orders granting Olnikov complete access to the Luftwaffe flight record archives.

"I appreciate the assistance."

Kovpak signed the document, blotted it and replaced his pen. "If you return Monday to the building directly across the courtyard there will be a liaison officer on the ground floor ... give that to him and he will assign a German clerk to you. If there are any questions, please advise him to see me."

"Thank you again Colonel ... I may have more questions, based upon what I find, or do not find."

Kovpak considered his next statement carefully. "Comrade, our next meeting should not be here. I suggest you leave a sealed envelope at my apartment. In it, tell me where and when you would like to meet."

Olnikov recognized the need for discretion. "I understand ... one more thing ... I almost forgot ... Comrade Vitolkin asked me to give you his regards."

A smile formed on Kovpak's face and it was easy to look pleasantly surprised. "It has been years. I hope he is well. Is he still in Moscow?" he asked, deliberately misrepresenting what he knew.

Golikov shook his head, "Lipetsk," he corrected. "He was most helpful, as well ... good day, Comrade Colonel. I can see myself out."

\- # -

Kovpak wasn't overly troubled when he found the envelope that had been slid under the door of his apartment. Although it had been five days since his meeting with Olnikov it was obvious the agent was keeping himself informed of things in Berlin – Kovpak's new rank of Major General was included in the address.

The room Olnikov had taken was located in what served as a hotel for Soviet bureaucrats and after waiting for several minutes in the makeshift lobby to see who might be paying attention, Kovpak knocked on Olnikov's door at 2100 hours.

On the fourth floor, the space in the mostly habitable building was little more than three meters by four. At one time perhaps elegant, it had been connected to two other rooms via doors that were now covered with crudely-fitted and painted lumber; the light fixtures had long ago been taken, leaving bulbs hanging from wires.

In addition to the simple bed, washstand and a wardrobe, Olnikov had acquired a table and a single swivel chair which he offered to Kovpak hospitably. "Comrade General," he said as he gestured.

On the table were a number of maps – apparently the German clerk that had been assigned to him had helped him locate not only the Luftwaffe records but some of the maps prepared from aerial photographs.

Kovpak studied the maps and soon confirmed for Olnikov that it seemed as if the position of the engagement matched his recollection of events, but instead of providing additional information, he set out on a course of further deception he had formulated in the days since their last meeting.

Over the years, small, phantom bits of memory had come to him, similar to those he had discussed with Nuryev in the hospital in Chkalov, the most repetitive one being the very strange vision of standing in a snow-covered field and seeing a shape like an elephant – a baby elephant. With Nuryev's arrival in Berlin, more of the dream-like images had come to the surface and he had become fairly certain that he did not bail out of a crippled airplane.

He had also correctly discerned the implication in Vitolkin's message: _Olnikov was dangerous_. The only reason he could come up with for Stalin wanting to find his missing plane was whatever could still be in it might be hazardous to the First Secretary if it were recovered – which meant danger for anyone involved in the mission. _I'm still alive because I may hold the key to finding the plane ... but what about after it is found_?

With the intrigue surrounding everything that went on in the Communist Party and the Soviet military, Kovpak had decided he must put himself in charge of his own safety. And he had to operate with only what he had at hand in Berlin; there was only one person he could trust – Major, and soon to be Lieutenant Colonel, Anton Nuryev.

Olnikov's next question surprised him. "Did you know you were taken to Chkalov from Orsk?"

Kovpak looked up and his brow furrowed in concentration for several moments as he thought how to respond. He had to be careful – the opening moves of this mental chess match with a man who reported directly to Stalin could not be undone. "I believe someone may have mentioned Orsk," he said then gazed again at the map. "It made no sense to me at the time ... I attributed it to being where the train originated – not where I was put on it." He shook his head in confusion. "Hmm ... I was in Orsk?"

"Yes," Olnikov confirmed. "Someone found you and took you to Orsk."

"I also know they found me with my parachute ... it was with my belongings at Chkalov. But as I said ... I cannot recall bailing out of the Airacobra ... or why I would have."

He paused again then looked at the agent. "I wrestled with this for some time while I was in hospital, Comrade. I still cannot think of circumstances under which I would be found with my parachute—opened, mind you—unless I _had_ bailed out of the aircraft."

Olnikov started nodding slowly. "I have been told exiting an aircraft is hazardous."

"And if I did indeed bail out, what you are looking for may have been utterly destroyed on impact ... have you ever seen a crash site, Comrade?"

The agent shook his head and looked somewhat concerned about this new possibility.

Kovpak's voice lowered slightly. " _I_ have. Too many of them. Wreckage can be scattered for hundreds of meters ... but some are nothing but charred craters ... with only a few small pieces of metal remaining. I have even seen one where the only thing that could be identified was the hulk of the engine. How you would even find such a thing in the Urals this time of year is beyond me."

Olnikov could only agree. Even with what he knew now, finding Kovpak's plane might require hundreds of men searching on foot and horseback in the deepening winter in an area of hundreds of square kilometers. But his task, at least for now, was only to report back to Stalin. "You have been most helpful, Comrade Colonel. It will not be my decision on how to proceed. If you recall anything, even the most minor detail, please get word to me in Moscow ... by secure dispatch, of course. We may meet again should the need arise."

"Of course, Comrade," Kovpak said then rose and picked up his coat and hat. As he opened the door he turned and added, "If I can be of assistance."

"Thank you again, Comrade," Olnikov said.

" _Udači_ ," (good luck), Kovpak said as he stepped into the hall and closed the door. _You may never find it, Comrade Olnikov, but I will_.

\- # -

Olnikov's next meeting with Stalin was brief – surprisingly so. The Generalissimus seemed preoccupied but at moments very attentive as he listened to the agent's outline of the facts surrounding Kovpak's abruptly-terminated mission.

As the briefing ended it was apparent Stalin had agreed with Olnikov's conclusion – that whatever might be left of Kovpak's plane, if there was indeed anything, it would be difficult if not impossible to find in a veritable wilderness, particularly after several seasons of snow cover.

His task completed, Olnikov had been almost summarily dismissed – with an ominous warning that he not reveal anything to anyone under any circumstances.

He was not entirely surprised he was going back to his regular duty and as he walked out of the wing toward his own office he found himself very relieved that Stalin was not sending him to into the wilderness at this time of year to mount a search for a missing airplane.

But what might have been the real reason for finding the plane was a question hard to dismiss and as he exited his small office for the last time and descended the stairs he came to the conclusion that the General Secretary might not be finished with him.

CHAPTER 19

Berlin, Germany, Soviet Sector, October, 1946

With the early onslaught of what would prove to be one of the worst winters in history, the people of Germany were being subjected to not only the sociopolitical fallout of losing the war but an expanding disaster in terms of simple human survival. While bombs and artillery were no longer raining down on them, the forces of nature were making an already appalling situation much worse. Most of the Russian occupation forces in the Soviet zone had experience with the hard winters of their homeland, thus they fared better than their Allied counterparts and especially the German civilian population.

As Kovpak and Nuryev went about their routine duties, the silence from Olnikov seemed appropriate – apparently the story had been convincing enough and now, formulating a way to get to the airplane first was becoming something of a fixation for Kovpak.

He rightly assumed that without some insight or guidance, no one would go searching en-masse in the remote region – although he knew Stalin had ordered more absurd things in the past. _But Stalin does not want anyone to know_ , he often reminded himself; having dozens perhaps even hundreds of troops and their officers engaged in such a task would invite all manner of speculation. He also believed he would be among the first to know if a search was going to be mounted – without him involved it would be a fruitless exercise.

In his apartment, Kovpak had assembled a collection of maps, charts and Luftwaffe aerial photographs that were far more detailed than anything the Red Air Force had available – and those, he had decided, would not return to the archives.

Now, after explaining his plan to an astonished Nuryev, they were exploring potential locations. To their combined surprise they had come to learn the Luftwaffe had been penetrating not only as far as Ufa, but had managed to photograph locations of important metallurgical production facilities many kilometers south and eastward, including Orsk.

"I may have mentioned this before," Kovpak said as he closed his eyes in concentration, "but the memory is so strange ... and so impossible."

"The snow?" Nuryev asked. "Standing in the snow."

Kovpak nodded then something changed in his mind and he shook his head. "I am sure now it is not a dream. I was looking at a mountain, Anton. It looked like an elephant ... the head of a small elephant ... a very small one. I _was_ ... I was standing ... I was in the snow, in a field."

Nuryev studied his friend and mentor and could sense the struggle going on in the General's mind. He decided to try another approach as if this absurd-sounding image might have been real. As he would debrief a pilot who had been involved in an incident, Nuryev even made it sound as if he were conducting an accident investigation. "Let's start with that, General. It was a mountain. How high was it?"

Kovpak looked at his friend and realized what he was doing. He smiled slightly and his mind began to focus on the specific question instead of the flurry of confused thoughts. "I would say at the highest point ... perhaps a hundred meters."

"And which direction were you facing when you saw it? Nuryev asked quickly.

Kovpak stared at the map. "I ... I cannot ... I do not know. It was overcast. There were higher mountains behind it," he said, gesturing with a hand in the air. "And a valley between them. And I was in a larger valley."

"Assume for the sake of argument that you put the plane down on some suitable surface in this area," Nuryev said, circling a portion of the map with his finger. "Look at the terrain map, General. What direction would you have gone?"

Kovpak said nothing and Nuryev prodded. "You would not have climbed a mountain, correct? You were injured."

Kovpak scowled and his eyes darted back and forth a few times. "I believe I would have found and followed a river ... down river," he said and pointed at several places on the map as he added, "but there are too many streams and rivers."

"Do you recall this ... White Lake?" Nuryev asked, tapping his finger on a large lake on the map.

Kovpak tried but failed to remember what it might have looked like from the air. "I know we were near the White River. That was one of my landmarks on our chart." He studied the map again near the small town of Pribel'skiy which the German's had recorded as the location of their engagement.

"I know we ... it was Vitolkin and I ... I decided to get closer to the mountains ... to the east. Yes! When he caught up with me we flew almost straight toward the southern slope of Yamantaw." Kovpak paused. "I remember now ... we turned south when I estimated we would have a due south course to Aqtobe."

"How far did you fly? How long?"

"I do not know ... I know he, he fell back ... out of formation. When he recovered I saw his fuel leak and he ... yes, now I remember, I told him he could go due west to Salavat or return to Ufa ... yes, to Ufa, he chose Ufa ... and I would have had to have given him the heading."

Kovpak drew a line on the map with a pencil from Aqtobe due north until it would have crossed an east-west line from Salavat.

"Orsk," Nuryev noted, pointing to the map. "If you had gotten this far, you would have flown only a few kilometers west of it."

Kovpak used a caliper to measure the distance from the last point he could recall to Aqtobe. "Five hundred and fifty kilometers," he said.

"Less than two hours," Nuryev said. "What was your altitude?"

"It should have been thirty-three hundred meters."

"Could you have seen this – this, this _elephant_ from that altitude?"

"I cannot see how ... I do not know," Kovpak began, then the sudden realization he _had_ seen it from the air made him take a breath and hold it. He raised his head and his eyes swung back and forth as he fought to sort out what was going on in his mind.

There was now a second image from his memory—one from inside the cockpit—a nearly flat, snow covered expanse with the same elephant more than two, perhaps three kilometers away in the distance below. He sat down, his mind reeling. "I saw it, Anton," he said numbly. "I even circled to line up across the field."

"So you had enough altitude to see it and then circle to land!" Nuryev said with some amazement.

"I must have," Kovpak admitted slowly. "I was trying to see it again ... to home in on it across the space ... I ... maybe I was not actually standing in the snow."

"And you still had power?" Nuryev asked, knowing he had been told something different years ago.

There was a confusing moment when Kovpak's mind could not make all the details match up at the same time. His voice was almost at the level of a whisper as he said, "I have no recollection." After a few more moments his eyes opened wide. "Wait! Wait! Remember the American's advice about a prop overrun?"

"Ignore the manual and bail out," Nuryev answered quickly.

"Which I think now I must have ignored."

Nuryev saw his friend's mind making more connections and he pressed on with the debriefing techniques he had come to use with pilots. "Your emergency landing procedures ... what procedures were you following? What did you see? What exactly did you do?"

Kovpak stared into the space in front of him and simply said, "You are a genius, Anton!"

\- # -

Only a day after the revelations that came from their meeting, Kovpak put into motion the plan they had devised. He dispatched Nuryev on a mission to visit and report back on the readiness of three potential training and maintenance bases where a tour of British aircraft might stop – one of those chosen was Orsk.

During the three-week assignment Nuryev was well received at the bases he visited and dutifully put together detailed reports on his observations. On his arrival back in Berlin, his first order of business was to hand Kovpak his report, consisting of dozens of pages of his official findings.

Later, in Kovpak's apartment, Nuryev showed his friend and mentor a chart and a series of photographs he had taken from the air above the veritable wilderness that spread to the north and west of Orsk.

"It's all but invisible above a thousand meters. I circled four times to get lower and take these," Nuryev said.

Kovpak was speechless. Fixated on the black and white photographs, he struggled to make more sense out of what he was seeing.

"It juts out, making a loop in the Sakmara River – here," Nuryev said, circling a point on the map with a pencil. "If you continued following the river you would have come to this village."

The General seemed to be concentrating and Nuryev gave him a strange piece of news. "It seems deserted. Not one plume of smoke. No vehicles. No tracks that I could see and I circled it several times at very low altitude. Had there been anyone they would have come out to see."

Kovpak stared numbly as more memories unfolded. "I was in a church," he whispered. "Inside a church ... I thought it was another dream ... why would I be in a church?" he asked as if he had suddenly reached a conclusion. "There was no one there. There was nothing there ... nothing inside the church but dust ... and a painting ... a painting on the ceiling. I ... I remember now ... I broke up some dry wood ... from a window sill ... for kindling ... then I went outside and it started snowing."

Nuryev nodded encouragingly. "There is just the one road leading southeast – if you wish to call it that. It's not even on the map but it rises slightly up the valley to a ridge, here, where it intersects with this road." He paused momentarily. "If you were walking up that road and came to this intersection, which way would you have turned? Up, to the east into the mountains or to the west, following the ridge?"

Kovpak had no ready answer. "I ... I think I would have looked for smoke from dwellings or encampments," he said uncertainly then shook his head vigorously. "But no ... no, Anton. This is not possible. With my leg and my hip injured, how could I have walked this far?" he asked as he ran his finger across part of the map. "That would have to be nearly eight kilometers from the village."

Nuryev thought for only a few moments. "If you were injured you would not have been able to even get to the church from the crash site."

_I must not have been that badly injured in the crash_ , Kovpak reasoned.

"Uninjured, with the emergency supplies, you could have travelled eight, even ten kilometers a day," Nuryev suggested. "General ... you had to have been hurt and found somewhere after _this_ point."

_He's right ... there is no other explanation._ "The nearest village is what? What is this?" Kovpak pointed to a dot Nuryev had placed along the road.

"Ramazanovo," Nuryev replied quickly. "At least it is not deserted." He pointed to another dot. "This is only somewhat more established, it is Ibragimovo ... General, I believe something must have happened to you somewhere along this road," he said with his finger pointing back and forth along the line. "Someone found you and took you to Ibragimovo. Or possibly as far as Kuvandyk ... here. There is a rail station, surely there must be an infirmary."

"Amazing," Kovpak said, nodding with a slight smile. _No one else will be able to put all this together_ , he told himself then his thoughts turned in another direction entirely. He gathered and rolled the charts and photographs together and got out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. "Come – sit, Anton."

Nuryev studied his friend, trying to discern what Kovpak had in mind. They toasted, " _To the Motherland_ ," then what he heard next stunned him.

"The rumors ... about another purpose behind the mission ... they were true, Anton – at least to some degree. On our four planes we carried something Comrade Stalin himself ordered to be secretly delivered to the British." Watching the younger officer's eyes widen he added, "Krylov confided in us that the British would mount an invasion of Europe because of it."

Nuryev could only stammer, "But, then ... Europe? How would they?"

"He was wrong on only one point, Anton," Kovpak said as if he were revealing a long-held confidence ... it was not Europe ... it must have been Africa."

Nuryev's mouth opened as he remembered the early November invasion that forced Hitler to withdraw some of the forces fighting near Stalingrad; while he came to the same conclusion he suddenly had another thought. "General Leonov deliberately led him to believe it was Europe ... to conceal the real target."

Kovpak nodded in agreement. "A diversion. To mislead any spy that might come upon the plan."

"So now the question is, what was being given in exchange?"

"It could only be something so secret that it was not trusted to anyone other than Leonov."

"Atomic secrets?" Nuryev managed to get out in a whisper.

Kovpak took a drag on his cigarette and said flatly, "Perhaps ... I told Olnikov that the plane felt as if the wing compartments were empty. But, no matter what it is ... I want them to find the plane."

Nuryev shook his head and looked bewildered. "To find it? But—"

"Without the cargo ... whatever it is," the General added, looking squarely at Nuryev.

As Kovpak explained his plan Nuryev came to understand why his friend had survived as a senior officer all these years.

Eventually, when the time was right and with the General's suddenly improving memory and directions, Olnikov would find the plane, only to discover the alleged secret cargo had been removed – or may not have even existed. Whatever plans Stalin had in mind for Leonov and anyone else associated with the mission would be stymied.

"There will be no evidence, Anton," Kovpak said. "Only you and I and Comrade Stalin will ever know the truth."

CHAPTER 20

Calder Ranch, Texas, Friday, May 23, 1997

Margaret Calder climbed the steps from her pool and began toweling off, then put on a lightweight robe and prepared to relax in a chair beneath the large umbrella. Her family would be at her home in another two hours along with Professor Kirkland – _no sooner_ , she had insisted. Despite her excitement about the possibility of finding General Kovpak, she was not going to let recent events keep her off her routine. A half-hour swim every morning had been a significant part of her physical regimen for over twenty years and she had the stamina, muscle tone and figure of a woman nearly two decades younger to show for it.

In preparation for the return of the Professor, she had gone to the garage to her husband's bank of floor-to-ceiling tool cabinets. Inside one of them, among several old tool boxes was one containing an odd assortment of pieces of household hardware and a few cheap tools concealing a false bottom Cecil had painstakingly crafted. From that space she had removed their small treasure of remaining secrets – the only physical evidence of any connection to a prior life. Included in those were a few personal letters from Alexsandr Kovpak – under other names, of course. The last of the correspondence had come from Belgium just before the Calders moved from California to Texas. Nothing further had arrived since that time and over the years she had sadly assumed the move, or Kovpak's likely passing, had permanently disconnected them.

Even now, how Kovpak had known where to send the old letters and the recent anonymous packages—if they really were from him—was a complete mystery to her but she had collected all of their secreted items and laid them out on her dining room table, organizing them in chronological order as waves of emotion roiled through her.

In addition to the handful of letters there were things among the collection they should not have taken out of Berlin or the U.K.: Two photographs from their wedding; some of the medals awarded to Anton Nuryev; a handful of their very early letters to each other. Then there were a few things from their travels, like the tickets for the train trip across America and a photograph of them in front of their first apartment – precious things that were not supposed to exist. If they were to be revealed, the elaborate process of establishing their new lives might be unraveled even after half a century.

And now, with the family relying on Professor Kirkland, she felt almost relieved that someone might be able to find Alexsandr without endangering him.

The cordless phone on the glass-topped table bleeped and she quickly dabbed at the moisture at her ear then picked it up. "Hello? Oh, hi, Hon ... No, but they will be in a coupl'a hours ... No, they're at the hangar to meet your Professor ... Ah huh ... Okay, I will ... No ... Now y'all know I will ... Now, when have I ever _not_? ... I promise we won't make him late ... Love y'all, bye," she said cheerfully then set the phone down and relaxed with a smile on her face, intuitively coming to the conclusion her young friend should take every opportunity to get to know the man better. "He may be a Yank, honey," she said aloud as if Catherine could hear still her advice, "but he's a thoroughbred."

\- # -

Kirkland lifted the Transall off the south end of the Addison airport runway and soon turned to 156° to follow the Joe Pool Four departure route. With the brilliant sun almost overhead and no weather issues to deal with, Yamaguchi put in a Jeff Healy CD and they listened for a few minutes while watching the instruments and the sky for traffic as they climbed toward 23,000 feet.

When his mind circled around to their more pressing issue Yamaguchi reached over, turned down the volume and said over the intercom, "We know all four boxes came FedEx customs."

Kirkland nodded. "Four cities not far from London."

"And your guess was right, they're all from the same printer."

"Which means—?"

Yamaguchi held up a hand and gestured with a circular motion. "Someone is printing the labels then driving all the way to somewhere else to send them."

"I think you're right, but don't get the wrong idea ... it's not that far. They're all within fifty miles of downtown London."

Yamaguchi thought again then offered, "So they're what ... just something to throw anyone who's looking off the trail?"

"That's my guess," Kirkland said without a lot of conviction. "I get the feeling I've been thrown off the trail."

With a brief nod Yamaguchi squinted in concentration and said, "Um. This is going to get strange," then reached over and turned up the volume.

\- # -

From a limb in a heavy stand of trees about a half-mile from the northwestern corner of Margaret Calder's home, Dennis Boland scanned the area through binoculars and tried to ignore the nervousness in his gut. The little side-project he had taken on for Bailey in the previous year had been simple and reasonably rewarding, but now he was actually breaking the law overtly for a significant sum.

For him, the timing of the surprise call was fortuitous; he had dodged a tax-scofflaw bullet or two but as the slow and ominous wheels of the IRS had begun turning, he knew he would lose his job if criminal charges were brought; based on personal experience, the company's owner had no sympathy for people who dabbled in the tax protester movements. The calamity might be a few months or even a year or more away but he had decided some time ago his long-term future did not include living in Texas and working as a corporate security guard for a company that had contracts with the US government.

The money offered was simply too much to pass up – particularly since it was cash. With what he had stashed away, he figured an additional twenty thousand was enough to set himself up in Panama running a tax-haven scam that could net him hundreds of thousands a year if he did it right. But, unlike most of the people following Roger Burnett's business model, Boland wouldn't thumb his nose at the IRS – he'd just make himself invisible to them. _Burnett just didn't get out of the country in time_ , he had repeatedly told himself. _A few tweaks to the business model and life is good_.

Boland knew the layout of the Calder property as well as the floor plan of both homes from the blueprints used to design the security systems that had been connected to the corporate offices during the Burnett trial. And today, the surveillance he had conducted on the property for Bailey a year ago was paying off. _Nothing has changed_ , he assured himself.

Just before eight o'clock that morning he had watched Alex and Elanore Calder leave the ranch together in the boss' Jaguar and now, with Margaret Calder turning slow free-style laps in her pool he decided to take his chance.

After climbing down from the limb he hoisted two lightweight nylon gym bags over his shoulder and headed across the field of wild grasses, weeds and flowers at a steady jog. It was the better part of a half-mile but he was in reasonably good condition and had dressed lightly for the heat of the day. _Just keep swimming, lady,_ he told himself.

As he approached the northern perimeter of the Calder's original fenced-in acreage, he crossed through a barrier of shrubbery then climbed over into the expanse of horse paddocks surrounding the barn. After catching his breath and watching from behind the corner of a horse trailer, he trotted to the back corner of the enormous garage then walked to the front and peeked around, seeing only the ripples of the woman's wake on the pool's surface as she swam away and disappeared from view.

Dashing across the concrete between the garage and the back of the house, he arrived on the covered porch leading to the back door, breathing heavily from the run as well as sheer nervous excitement. Reminding himself of the need to do what it was he came to do, he focused his attention on the door and getting inside. Through the glass he could see into the mud room off the kitchen and further into a hall which he knew from the plans would lead him to the rest of the house.

He didn't bother with trying to be completely silent; a woman swimming at least fifty yards away wasn't going to hear the sound of broken glass and he knew the alarm system well enough to notice the lights on the control panel showed it still wasn't armed. He grinned in bemusement at the fact that while they were tied to the system at the corporate offices, the elaborate security systems at the Calder's homes were rarely activated, especially during the day.

A few seconds after punching through the window with his elbow he was inside, moving rapidly down the hall looking for the master bedroom and pulling a small metal detector from one of the bags. "Shit!" he whispered out loud as he failed to locate any hint of a hidden safe anywhere on the walls of the master bedroom itself or the large closets.

Back out in the hall he began looking in various rooms, finally recognizing one that was obviously a man's den. "Alright!" he said lowly as he saw what he had come for – a huge, dark-green safe. "Dude, you found it!" he whispered excitedly then practically sprinted toward the part of the house that led through the kitchen toward the pool, running right past the dining room where the collection of the family's secrets were laid out.

Standing at the sliding glass doors to the patio and removing a small revolver from the bag he said quietly, "Okay, Mrs. Calder, let's find out just how good your memory is ... you have a safe to open."

He had no taste for violence, particularly when it came to women and especially for a woman as old as Margaret Calder, but desperation had gotten him this close to a better life out of the clutches of the Treasury Department and he wasn't about to miss this opportunity to radically improve his chances.

He froze when he saw that she had taken a chair under the umbrella and quickly stepped back out of potential view then glanced around the vertical blinds and saw her talking on the phone. When she set the phone down and leaned back in the chair he looked around and spotted the clock on the microwave: 9:57.

Hoping the phone wouldn't ring he slid the door open quickly and pointed the gun in her general direction as he walked quickly across the covered part of the patio and out onto the textured surface surrounding the pool.

"Mrs. Calder!" he said loudly enough to make her jump and turn to see him. "Get up. Come inside ... now!" he ordered.

Margaret Calder turned further in her chair and her mouth opened but she didn't get up.

"Mrs. Calder. Get up and come inside," he ordered insistently, waving the gun. "Do not reach for the phone, Ma'am. Just get up and come inside. I'm not going to hurt you if you do exactly what I tell you."

Margaret rose slowly and somewhat unsteadily as her mind kicked in. _Our papers! They're all on the dining room table!_ "What do you want?" she said, her voice weak and her hands trembling visibly as she raised them and tried to think of how to keep the man from going back in the house. "How do you know who I am?"

"Inside, Mrs. Calder. Do it now ... I mean it," he said loudly, gesturing again with the revolver.

As she shuffled toward the still-open door in obvious fear she asked again, "What do you want?"

"Inside. The safe – and don't give me any bullshit about not knowing the combination," he said as he gestured toward the door.

Margaret seemed to relax and she deliberately let her shoulders slump. She stopped and turned to face him and her entire demeanor changed. "Jesus Christ," she said looking him square in the eyes with a look of pity that surprised him. Her voice softened and she tilted her head slightly. "If y'all need some money just ask, son."

Not expecting that kind of response Boland seemed baffled for a moment then blurted out, "Just open it!"

Margaret looked up into the air above her and sighed in mock annoyance then she turned, stepped up through the open door into the kitchen and strode quickly to the hallway – away from the dining room, leaving him to have to almost jog to catch up with her.

She acted as if she had caught a small boy pilfering a cookie jar, not an armed man trying to steal valuables. "Think Cecil kept a lot of money here?" she asked loudly with some disdain as she went quickly down the hall then stopped abruptly and turned around as he approached, "I'm afraid y'all are going to be disappointed."

When she turned and continued to the door Boland trailed after her, even more bewildered at her seemingly fearless indifference.

She walked into her husband's den and without even looking to see if he was following behind her she asked, "This?" pointing as the man stepped further into the room.

Boland nodded. He tried to make it sound like an order as he said, "Open it." As her hand moved toward the handle of the large safe it dawned on him this older woman with an attitude just might have a loaded weapon inside. "No ... wait!" he shouted and raised the revolver.

"Son, it's not even locked," she said flatly, leaning over then spinning the spoked wheel. "Here ... it's too heavy for me," she lied.

Boland gestured for her to step back and she complied as she said, "He never locked it," then she moved behind the large desk chair to the left of the safe. "It's insured. Go ahead ... take what you want." Her voice turned firm as she added, "Then get out."

He stepped closer, pulled the heavy door open and looked at the contents of the safe: Several long guns, some of them that looked more than just expensive; no locks on the drawers; a few shelves with pistol cases on them; no ammunition and nothing looked like he would have expected to contain documents. "Where are they?" he asked pointedly as he turned to look at her. "Files ... old records, letters ... things like that?"

Margaret managed to avoid looking confused. "In the valise. The leather one, laying there in the bottom," she instructed almost impatiently. "All his old stuff is in there."

When Boland bent further over he saw what looked like a large, old-fashioned soft-side briefcase toward the back of the safe. As he reached in and touched it he heard an odd "whooshing" sound and suddenly an incredible pain erupted at the base of his skull. Unconsciousness prevented him from hearing the groaning noise he made as he collapsed in a heap.

\- # -

After striking the man and making sure he was no longer a threat, Margaret Calder concentrated on controlling her breathing. The blow from the lightweight-alloy aircraft tail hook her husband had won in some absurd bet had rendered the intruder unconscious but she intuitively knew her first course of action was not to call 911. Unlike the damsels in distress in the ridiculous movies, Margaret Calder was not about to become a victim on the run, nor was she going to kill what amounted to a burglar no matter what Texas law allowed. _When this moron wakes up he's not going to be able to move_ , she decided.

After significant effort and using yards of duct tape, the unconscious man lay on the floor of Cecil's den as she rifled through his wallet. "Don't worry, I'm not stealing anything," she muttered as if he could hear her then after finding some identification she picked up the phone and dialed her son's cell number. When Alex Calder answered she asked, "Do you know someone, an employee by the name of Dennis Boland – a security guard?" There was a short pause before Alex responded in the negative. "Well, _I_ just happen to know where Mr. Boland is," she said with a self-congratulatory note.

At their hangar at David Wayne Hooks Memorial airport, her son asked in a casual, almost reflexive and only slightly confused response, "Oh? Where's that Mom?"

"I think I may have hurt him," she said with what sounded to her son like concern.

His nervous system was already stressed and his mind couldn't come up with a scenario that explained what he just heard. "You did what?" he asked as if his mother was the confused party. "Hurt? Hurt who?"

Elanore heard her husband's exclamation and looked at him in fear. "What?" she asked almost automatically. Alex was listening to his mother's voice with a befuddled look on his face and Elanore tried her best to not be impatient but the next thing he said shook her thoroughly.

"Get out of the house, Mom ... No. No, don't do that, don't do that, go to the safe room," he said firmly. After listening a few seconds he tried to interrupt as he was beginning to move quickly toward the car parked in the shade next to the hangar.

Close behind him Elanore asked, "What's going on, Al?"

"No! No, Mom ... please, Mom, go to the safe room, we'll be there in fifteen minutes ... He what? Old papers? ... You did what?" As he listened, a strange kind of calm appeared on his face after he processed what she had meant by 'taping him up'. He turned to his still glaring wife as they climbed in the dark-green XK8. "She has a guy tied up in duct tape in Dad's office ... she clubbed him with that old arresting hook!" He started the car, handed Elanore the phone and the Jaguar was soon streaking across the concrete toward the street.

Elanore did her best to not sound too alarmed as she put the phone to her ear. "We're on our way ... Ah, are you sure? ... Okay, well, wait, wait a second," she put her hand over the phone and turned to her husband. "She wants to know if you want her to call 911."

Alex thought for only a few seconds with his lips pursed and his jaw clenched in anger. "Oh, no ... I want to have a little talk with my _ex-employee_ first," he said menacingly. "And I want the Professor to talk to him."

As the car turned sharply onto another road and gathered speed, Elanore looked at her husband uncertainly and said into the phone, "Alex says to hang in there until we get there." She covered it again. "The Professor?"

Alex picked up on the look she was giving him and said coolly, "This has to have something to do with Mom's situation ... he wasn't after money ... it's too much of a coincidence."

Elanore thought for several seconds. "You can't do this without the police," she admonished then became even more adamant when he didn't respond. "Al, you need to talk to Dickey!"

Alex shook his head slightly as he considered calling their friend, Sheriff Richard "Dickey" Steadmore. He passed a slower vehicle at over eighty miles an hour and said, "Tell Mom to stay on the phone. Tell her to just ... hell, I don't know, just talk to her."

\- # -

Alex drove through the gate when there was barely enough room and sped up the road, skidding slightly as he negotiated the turnoff to his mother's house.

As if nothing unusual had happened, Elanore listened to her mother-in-law casually explain her morning swim, then the phone call from Catherine and finally what had happened after it. When the car screeched to a stop they bolted from it and dashed to the porch.

"Mom?" Alex yelled as he came through the front door. "Mom?"

"In here," Margaret called out pleasantly as if she were responding to everyday company.

Alex stopped abruptly at the door to his father's office and could only stare in amazement. Elanore was seconds behind him and had to nudge him out of the way to see what was going on.

Margaret Calder turned from watching the television and hung up the desk phone as she saw her son. "Hi," she said pleasantly.

A heavily duct-taped man was lying on the floor, his hands in front of him and his ankles and shoes wrapped together. The bloody hair on the back of his head matched the color of the stains on the collar of his shirt and while he wasn't coherent he made a groaning noise and Margaret gave him a pitying look.

"I don't think I hurt him seriously," she said. "But he hasn't moved much at all."

Elanore looked at the bundle of tape and said with some amusement, "I don't think he can."

Alex kneeled down beside the man and looked more closely at the injury. _Shit_ , he thought. He wasn't overly worried about the damage but from his un-professional first impression it appeared they might have to hand him over to the paramedics instead of getting to ask him some questions.

"Now that y'all are here I'll get my kit," Margaret said rising from her husband's desk chair then pausing to turn the TV off with the remote. "Oh, this is his," she said pointing at the now-unloaded revolver and handing Elanore the six rounds she had taken out of it. "Let's try to not get any blood on the carpet," she advised then nonchalantly walked out of the room.

"Is he all right?" Elanore whispered fearfully.

"Hell, I don't know – Mom can take a closer look at him with us here."

"Is that one of your security guys?"

Studying the ID badge on the desk by the man's wallet Alex said, "He may have been – I, yea, I've seen him before."

Margaret came back into the room with what looked like a large plastic tackle box and waved her son aside then opened the case and pulled out a sphygmomanometer and a stethoscope. After taking the man's blood pressure she removed the stethoscope from her ears she said, "He's not in shock. He hasn't lost enough blood for that ... he's going to have a bitch of headache when he comes around."

"Do we need to call the paramedics?" Elanore asked worriedly.

Margaret then took a small penlight from her kit and tested the man's pupillary reaction. "Not unless you want to," she said, undoing the blood pressure cuff and letting her son help her to her feet.

Alex leaned over the man and spoke loudly. "Don't try to move, Dennis. You have a head injury. Trying to move would be another really bad idea."

Boland's eyes finally began to focus then swimmingly drifted around the room. When he tried to turn his head to take in more of his surroundings he winced in pain and said something unintelligible.

"Just lay still, son," Margaret advised. "His ears might be ringing," she added quietly to Elanore. "Give him a few minutes and you can get him upright," she suggested. "I think the bleeding has stopped. I'll go finish the tea," she said nonchalantly ... the Professor is still on his way?"

Alex nodded in response then shook his head in amazement at how unfazed his mother was.

Elanore waited a few seconds until her mother-in-law was out of earshot then leaned close to him and whispered adamantly, "We need to call Dickey!"

Alex began nodding in agreement then shook his head and mouthed emphatically to prevent Boland from hearing, "Not now." He gestured for her to move with him out into the hallway and once he was sure their prisoner couldn't hear he leaned close to his wife. "I want to make a deal with him."

She recoiled as if her husband had suddenly morphed into an alien. As far as she was concerned, having Boland behind bars seemed to be the only reasonable outcome.

When he saw her reaction he took a deep breath and sighed. "Look. I'm in this way over my head—"

"Which is _exactly_ why you should call Dickey right _now!_ " She insisted.

"No, that's not what I mean." He looked down and glanced back and forth trying to organize his thoughts and emotions. "El, someone else must be looking for that General ... Mom and Dad's friend. They want to find him bad enough to hire people to come here and find things, maybe even force Mom to tell them something. I think this guy knows who it is."

Elanore grew even more concerned. "All the better to have the Sheriff here, Al!"

Alex took her by the shoulders gently and fixed her eyes with his. "And tell them what?" He paused to see if she understood. "Let's just tell them about how some mysterious _and,_ " he paused with a finger raised, "not-to-mention, former _communist_ officer, who _supposedly_ disappeared fifty years ago, is now smuggling priceless Russian artifacts to a former Red Air Force officer's wife? She's not too old to go to jail, El."

A look of being overwhelmed crossed her face, but only for a moment. "We don't need to tell them all of it," she protested.

"We don't know what he knows ... yet. What if he knows the whole thing and starts telling them?"

Her shoulders sagged and she sighed. "I think I see your point," she whispered in resignation.

Alex cocked his head quickly in the direction of their prisoner. "And if _he_ goes away—"

Elanore went rigid and her eyes opened wide. "Goes wh—?"

Alex put up both hands. "No! For chrissakes, El," he said with some frustration. "Not 'goes away' _that_ way!"

She rolled her head back and sighed loudly in relief then whispered back, "I'm sorry ... really—"

"We give him a choice."

Elanore looked at her husband as if she was being lied to. "A what? A choice of what?"

"He tells us everything he knows about who he's working for and we don't turn him over to the police. Then we let the Professor sort the rest of it out."

The look of misunderstanding on her face made him explain more about what he knew about Kirkland. "He does that kind of thing in his business. _Exigent circumstances_. White hats versus black hats ... stuff we don't need to know. Or want to know."

Elanore was suddenly reminded of her initial assessment that Michael Kirkland's job must have been awfully dull and she appeared fearful again. "What the hell does 'don't want to know' ... what does _that_ mean?"

"How to find Mom's friend without exposing him and her and how to—"

Margaret interrupted them as she approached down the hallway. "Who's meeting the Professor?" she asked simply, seemingly immune to the tension. "You know he has a date with Catherine later this afternoon," she added as if that were the most important aspect of the day's events.

Alex and Elanore exchanged glances as Margaret went by and he spoke first. "Why don't you ... why don't you go meet him at the hangar ... have him explain what he explained to me at my office, okay?" He looked quickly at his watch. "They'll be there in less than a half hour. It's big, ah, a big twin, like a Hercules with just two engines. I'll keep an eye on things here. Just, just tell him to explain white hats and black hats and tell him we think we've caught one of the black hats. It'll make more sense."

She looked both bewildered as well as resigned to being dispatched without fully understanding what her husband and the Professor might have been cooking up behind her back. She looked at him and said almost petulantly, "Oh. Okay ... I'll just go meet them ... not worry about a thing."

Alex nodded. "Please?"

Elanore shook her head and glanced at her watch, realizing she was not going to be changing her husband's mind.

"I promise, we can take care of this ... I left the keys in the Jag," he said convincingly.

Elanore took a deep, cleansing breath and sighed, then kissed her husband quickly and headed down the hall.

\- # -

When he fully regained consciousness, Dennis Boland found himself in Margaret Calder's large kitchen, well-taped to a sturdy arm chair. Although still in some pain, he was now becoming more and more aware of what was happening. "Are the p'leece coming?" he asked somewhat numbly. When it seemed he was being ignored he tried another approach. "Are you holding me for the p'leece?"

"You best stay quiet," Alex Calder advised. "You've had a head injury."

With growing concern Boland determined he was completely immobilized in the chair then his attention was drawn to footsteps coming toward the kitchen. It took a few seconds to realize it was the man that had driven Calder to the ranch the other day.

"Well, what have we here," Kirkland said with a smirk as he walked in. "I'd offer to shake your hand but, well, that would be rude under your present circumstances, wouldn't it?"

Boland's heart rate began climbing; despite the calm words something very cold was behind the eyes now fixed on him and Alex Calder's departure from the room didn't help.

He saw another man walk in carrying some articles as the tall man explained, "My associate here was going to have to begin some fairly intensive research into you and your compatriots, Mr. Boland – but it would appear Mrs. Calder has intervened and saved him a considerable amount of time."

In obvious discomfort mixed with fear Boland said, "I ... my head ... I need a doctor."

"Actually, you've been looked at by a very experienced trauma nurse," Kirkland countered. "Of course, she's retired," he added offhandedly. "But she's also the one that knocked your silly ass halfway to the moon ... look at it this way Dennis, she could have just kept swinging until you were dead, and rightfully so."

Boland struggled slightly and found once again the duct tape wasn't yielding. He didn't like looking at the man and his fear was ratcheting upward as he came to grips with the fact that he was completely vulnerable. "You're not the police?" he asked less dully, his speech improving from the adrenaline.

Kirkland shook his head. "No. They would be cutting off the tape and reading you your Miranda rights at this point."

Boland unimaginatively tried to stall. "Can I have some water?"

"Of course," Kirkland said then looked at Yamaguchi. "If you would please, see if you can find a glass and get Mr. Boland some water."

"How about iced tea?" Yamaguchi offered, pointing to the large jar sitting on the counter.

Boland nodded. "Yes. Yes, please," he said with a slight feeling of hope. After being helped to take a few sips of the tea, Boland licked his lips and glanced around nervously. He watched the other man step away and heard the noise of the glass being put down in the sink but couldn't see what he picked up from the counter because of the man seated in the chair. When he finally did see what the objects were he actually jerked in the chair and a bolt of pain surged from the back of his head. With his eyes wide and his mouth agape, the thought of what might be about to happen made his groin tighten and his tongue suddenly became even more dry. "You, you can't ... no ... you can't!" he gasped.

Yamaguchi set the Bernzomatic torch, a box of kitchen matches and a large pair of locking pliers on the table next to Kirkland then stepped around behind Boland carrying a roll of duct tape and a folded dish rag.

"Wait! You can't!" Boland protested loudly and tried again to struggle as he saw Kirkland reach over and pick up the hand torch. Before the man behind him could tape the dish rag over his mouth, Boland pleaded almost hysterically, "What do you want?"

Kirkland lit a match and opened the valve on the small torch. A slight puff followed the hissing sound that accompanied the flame.

Boland was now in full-blown panic and he screamed, "What are you doing?" The dry dishrag being stuffed in his mouth muffled what he tried to add to that.

Kirkland picked up the pliers and slid forward in his chair. Leaning closer to Boland he examined the torch flame and adjusted it to a broader shape then did something with the knob on the pliers.

Boland could smell the torch and screamed something unintelligible through the rag as tears began to burn in his eyes and pain radiated from the back of his head. He saw the man in front of him nod and the tape was pulled and the rag removed. "I'll tell you anything, anything!" he gasped desperately.

"Who hired you?" Kirkland asked casually, keeping the torch and the pliers close enough to one of Boland's hands that he could now feel some heat from it. "And for the sake of the fingernails on your right hand, don't say something utterly absurd such as, ' _I don't know_ '."

"Nelson Bailey!" Boland blurted out loudly. "His name is Nelson Bailey. He's a skip-tracer out of Virginia. Arlington Virginia. He's paying me ... twenty-thousand."

Kirkland didn't hesitate. "For what?"

With his eyes fixated on the flame Boland answered in a staccato rush. "He wanted stuff, like papers ... anything – anything old. Papers. Files and letters, envelopes, pictures, calendars. Anything with a name and address on it." He took a gasp of breath as his eyes remained fixated on the torch.

Kirkland waited several seconds then casually dialed down the flame until it extinguished. "How do you contact Bailey?"

Boland relaxed only slightly but was still breathing heavily. With tears and sweat trickling down the sides of his face he answered, "I send him an email. And he can send me back a number to call ... and, and a code, a code that works – it, it, it works only once, just for that call."

"Have you ever met him?"

Boland nodded with more relief and his breathing began to normalize. "Yeah. In Austin. We met at the airport ... last year."

Kirkland set the torch and the pliers down on the table as Yamaguchi walked around into view. "Last year ... and what did you do for him last year?"

Boland seemed to sag and he lowered his head as if we were embarrassed. "I kept track of when the boss was in the office."

"That's all?"

"Well, that and I copied the phone system call records ... the calls made from the boss' office number."

"What else?"

"Just this ... the paper stuff," he said miserably then shook his head gingerly. "I needed money. I really needed money ... a lot of it. I've never done anything like this before, believe me."

Kirkland eased back in his chair. Without commenting on the bumbling fool's attempt at burglary he simply asked, "Money? Really?"

Boland nodded glumly.

"Dennis, Mr. Calder is prepared to make you an offer you're in no position to refuse."

An odd look of relief mixed with misunderstanding crossed Boland's face. "He what?"

"The Calders don't like publicity ... Mr. Calder is especially sensitive to it for purely economic reasons. _You_ should know that."

For several moments Boland couldn't assemble a cohesive train of thought about why that was important to him then the inkling of not being handed over to the police if he were cooperative came to him. "So ... so ... I do what? What do I do?"

"Give us Bailey."

Several seconds later Boland offered, "I did ... didn't I?" He looked at the other man for confirmation but there was none.

Kirkland tipped his head, squinted slightly and leaned closer. "We want him to come _here_."

Still shaken from what he had just gone through it made him more than a little queasy to think of what might happen to Bailey.

Kirkland spoke again. "As far as anyone knows, you might just have succeeded in this little mission of yours today, right?"

Boland didn't know how to react for a few moments. "Ah ... I guess," he said, still uncertain as to what that meant.

"Bailey doesn't know you got caught, does he?"

It wasn't long before he realized what that meant. "No ... no, he couldn't."

"You see, Dennis, all you really have to do is tell him you now have what he was after," Kirkland advised. "And he has to come and get it."

A flood of fears and emotions dashed around in Boland's mind and the idea of actually being able to get away came to the forefront. But it wasn't long before hope was replaced with doubt. "I, I, ah, I don't think he will."

"I disagree, Dennis." Kirkland leaned back in the chair again. "What if you were able to tell Mr. Bailey that you know exactly where to find the man _his_ client is actually looking for?"

Boland's mouth hung open and he struggled with how he could make that happen.

Kirkland saw the hesitancy, mostly brought on by fear but also by the fact that the man's future was now a complete unknown to him. "There's an offer on the table, Mr. Boland. One that includes you getting your money from Bailey and not being handed over to the police."

"But, but _I_ don't know ... I, I don't know who ... who, or even what he's looking for," Boland quickly admitted.

Kirkland smiled broadly. "You don't have to, Dennis!" he said encouragingly. " _I do_. All _you_ have to do is convince Bailey that _you do._ "

Like a drowning man Boland was now grasping for any floating object in the ocean and the dangerous man was offering one. "So ... all, all I have to do is get him, get him to, to meet me?"

Kirkland nodded.

"But meet me where?"

"You need a safe place away from here to rendezvous. One he's familiar with."

Boland was clearly out of his league in formulating such a plan. "Where's that?"

"The same place you met before. You said it was Austin."

Boland could only nod hesitantly in agreement.

"Monday or Tuesday," Kirkland said flatly. "The time of day is up to him and the airline schedules."

The desperate man's eyes darted around. "But ... what do I give him?"

"How much does he owe you?" Kirkland countered quickly.

Boland froze at the thought and after a few seconds he admitted, "Still twenty ... twenty thousand."

Kirkland nodded agreeably and said, "Tell him to bring cash."

The confusion was plain in Boland's repeat of his question: "But what will _I_ give _him_?"

Kirkland responded icily, "A surprise."

\- # -

Elanore had been horrified by the sounds she heard coming from her mother in-law's kitchen and her hands revealed her distress, clenching and rubbing as if she was putting on lotion.

Margaret soothed in a whisper, "He didn't touch him, El." When that didn't seem to have any affect she added bluntly, "He promised he wouldn't hurt him. I wouldn't have told the Captain where to find the torch unless he'd promised."

"But he's already hurt," Elanore argued.

Margaret sounded unsympathetic. "I only hit him once ... he doesn't even have a concussion."

"He's just scared shitless," Alex said calmly. "For all he knows, the Professor could be Hannibal Lecter."

Elanore shuddered at the thought as she recalled how gracious and urbane Kirkland was and despite his explanation of white and black hats in such things, she was decidedly uncomfortable; she worried again about the fact they knew so little about him.

The double doors opened and Kirkland stepped into the great room and looked first at Margaret. "Your patient is fine, Mrs. C., and _very_ cooperative ... I think now would be a good time to go ahead with getting him patched up if need be."

Yamaguchi offered, "It wouldn't be my first assist, Ma'am."

Margaret looked up at the younger man and a sinister smile started to form. "Something tells me he'll be scared shitless of both of us."

Elanore took a deep breath and made a 'whew' sound as she stood up. "I'm glad that's over," she said then asked nervously, "Do you think he knows about the jewels?"

Kirkland shook his head. "I seriously doubt it. He was hired last year to keep track of your agenda, Mr. Calder. He also copied phone records from your office extension."

Calder looked stunned. "My phone couldn't be bugged—"

"Not bugged, just the records from your phone system of all the numbers you called and all the numbers of people who called you."

"Shit," Calder hissed.

"That may or may not have helped them find you," Kirkland said as he turned to Margaret. "It seems to me they were already suspicious and were caught off-guard when your husband passed away."

Elanore couldn't hide the concern and anger when she asked, "So they've been looking ... they've been watching us for a year?"

Kirkland nodded. "It appears so. Boland was re-hired for this, to find anything and everything he could get his hands on about you and your past."

"Now what ... what do we do with him?" Elanore asked.

"I'll put a bolt on the outside of one of the guestroom doors," Alex suggested.

Kirkland lowered his head slightly to catch her eye. "We caught the bait. We're now prepared for some serious fishing next week."

Margaret pointed at him and suggested, "You've got more important things to think about."

CHAPTER 21

Houston, Texas, Friday, May 23, 1997

Catherine Cruz couldn't resist going to the front windows of her house a few times in the minutes before 3:30 in the afternoon, each time trying to deny she was having feelings she hadn't felt in a very long time. She had happily followed Kirkland's suggestion to wear 'something casual to start with' and despite her curiosity she hadn't given him any hint of concern when he recommended she pack something 'nice but not too-formal' for dinner. Nor had she reacted negatively when Kirkland advised her they would have 'rooms', plural, for the night before returning late on Saturday afternoon in time for dinner at the Calder's.

She tried to not let her imagination run too far, too fast. _Is he planning something more than dinner? Of course he is ... at least I hope he's at least considering it,_ she had thought more than once during the day.

Despite any number of dates and two fairly involved relationships since her divorce, this was the first time Catherine finally understood what Elanore had told her about falling in love with Alex, describing it as a realization that someone had turned on a switch inside her – one that she never wanted to have turned off. Despite the mere hours she had known him, thoughts that Michael Kirkland might be _that man_ were keeping her imagination busy – almost to the point of being annoyingly distracted.

When she saw the black Suburban pull into the driveway of her small home in the Hunters Creek suburb she was again puzzled; _my knight in shining armor arrives in a rented covered wagon_ , she thought. But as she watched him walk up the sidewalk her heart accelerated as she saw the loose-fitting non-designer jeans and a blue short-sleeved knitted silk shirt that revealed the contours of a body honed by serious exercise. "Whoa," she whispered aloud.

After the chime sounded she deliberately counted to ten before she opened the door. "Well, how was Dallas?" she asked brightly before stepping back and welcoming him in.

He smiled and tipped his head slightly and appeared to be in thought. "Profitable," he finally said with a quick nod.

_Profitable? What does that mean?_ "Good, good ... so, would you like a drink or something?"

"No, no, thanks," he said then glanced around and spotted her one piece of luggage at the bottom of the stairs. "I see you're ready."

"Where are you taking me?"

He took one of her hands and raised it close to his lips. Keeping his eyes locked on hers he answered, "As I promised, someplace you've never been."

With her heart accelerating she admitted, "Well that could be any number of places." She took a breath then stepped back slightly and asked, "Am I dressed for it?"

He took the opportunity to look more closely at the jeans and the form-fitting, ribbed-knit sleeveless top. Even with only a hint of visible cleavage the white top immediately drew attention to the definite distinction between her breasts and flat stomach.

Trying not to appear too atavistic all he could say was, "Perfect," but the urge to take her in his arms and restart from where they had left off in her car arose. He caught himself and made only one more subtle suggestion: "Maybe athletic shoes."

"Oh ... they're in my bag," she noted and gestured toward the rolling travel case. "Why?"

"It's a surprise," he admonished.

She looked down at his feet and saw a pair of rugged-looking Doc Martens. "Hiking?" she prodded.

"In this heat?" he scoffed. "I'm a Yankee, remember?"

\- # -

As he began driving toward David Wayne Hooks airport, instead of waiting for her to start asking questions Kirkland decided it was safe to lay out the entire story of what had been going on since he received the original call from Barton Commoner almost a week earlier.

After listening in stunned silence Catherine finally said more than asked, "So your very private client is _Al._ "

Kirkland only grinned sheepishly and nodded in response.

The story about the Calder family's actual background and Margaret mysteriously receiving Romanov items was shocking enough, but when he added the details about Dennis Boland being caught in Margaret's house her eyes widened in shock. "He's at the ranch? Not in jail?"

"He's bait," Kirkland said simply.

The idea seemed preposterous – then she realized she was riding somewhere with a man who seemed perfectly at ease with what sounded like a movie plot where people took the law into their own hands. _They have a guy locked away at the ranch?_ "He's bait? For what?"

As if it were just an every-day occurrence he glanced across at her and went on matter-of-factly, "To get to the man that hired him. A fellow out of Virginia by the name of Bailey ... who will then lead us to the predators up the food chain."

Thoughts of who that might involve included the Russians and the ramifications of that make her distinctly uncomfortable. "Russians?"

Kirkland saw the obvious look of distress on her face and said, "Could be. All we know is someone is looking for Margaret and Cecil's old Russian friend. We think he's somewhere in England."

Catherine's unease was growing but her mind began dwelling on her friends' situation under the weight of what she had just learned about them. _What would everyone around here think about Cecil Calder being a Russian – a communist at that?_ "I can see Al not wanting to tell the police," she said. "Wow, it's hard to imagine how this would play out around here." She shook her head slowly as she tried to think of what that kind of publicity would mean to her friends. "How did El take it?"

Kirkland's mouth wrinkled into a wry smile. "Ah ... well—"

"Pissed?" Catherine offered.

He nodded. "A fair summation ... but not for very long." He actually chuckled before adding, "At one point when we showed her the ruby she thought I had switched them the other night."

Catherine was at a loss to respond as she thought of what her friends must be going through. Equally daunting was trying to imagine the senior Calders as refugees from behind the Iron Curtain. "How's Mrs. C. holding up?"

Kirkland thought for a few seconds and sighed. "Well ... she seems relieved, actually, but she's primarily worried about finding the General."

"And she's okay with having this Boland guy around?"

"He's in a guest room at the other house. And he's being very cooperative ... he really doesn't have any options. Bailey is supposed to bring him his money next week."

"Ah. That must be worth waiting for."

"Twenty thousand in cash ... it's that or jail."

She marveled at the idea of Margaret being so calm and collected that she had lured the man into a trap. "In one way it's hard to see a little old lady clubbing a guy but in another way I can just picture her grinning at him when he woke up."

"She's a remarkable woman," Kirkland agreed then mentioned almost in passing, "Alex told me their son should be there before dark," he added. "That seemed to reassure her."

Catherine sighed and nodded with some relief. "That's right – Marty will be here for the holiday."

"An extra pair of eyes I suppose." Kirkland offered.

"Uh huh," she agreed. "I think you'd like him. He's only twenty-three—wait —maybe twenty-four ... yes, twenty-four. Once you get used to everything and everybody being 'dude' he's a great guy ... he's in law school at UT."

Kirkland resisted the urge to make a derisive joke as he thought of the legal profession in general; instead he decided to remain polite. "Is he like his father or more like his mother?"

Catherine thought for a moment before answering. "Well, he's about six inches taller than his dad and a lot bulkier."

Kirkland's eyes widened at the thought of someone that large; he made Alex Calder to be six feet in height and about one-seventy. "That big?" he asked incredulously.

"Even taller than his grandpa ... Ceece was a bit over six feet. The first time I met Marty he was taller than me ... and he was just a kid."

"Basketball player?"

She shook her head. "Baseball. He could have played pro ball but he decided to stick it out in school."

Knowing how hard it was to even get on a major college baseball squad let alone a professional team Kirkland asked seriously, "He really could have played in the majors?"

"They had scouts and agents all over the place two or three years ago."

"What position?"

"Center field and first base ... what they really wanted was his hitting."

Kirkland suddenly realized she knew more about baseball than he had expected – what she said next confirmed it.

"He hit .345 his junior year ... and .385 as a senior."

"Wow!" He looked back and forth from the mirrors and traffic to her a few times. "You seem to know something about baseball."

She gave him a disparaging look he didn't turn to see. "My family on both sides was originally from Cuba ... baseball is a religion. My grandfather played there."

Kirkland nodded in amazement and asked, "Who do you have for the series?"

"The Marlins, of course," she answered as if he should have known then she enjoyed the duly impressed reaction on his face. She turned and watched the road ahead for a few moments then suddenly wondered why Kirkland was still taking the time to take her out. "Shouldn't you be at the ranch?"

He smiled at her and said, "Priorities. We can't do anything more until we get Bailey here. And that's not going to happen until after the holiday ... Elanore wanted to make sure we were back for the party."

She grinned, realizing that with Kirkland along the traditional Memorial Day event at the Calders was probably going to be quite different for her this year. "It's more than a party," she said.

Kirkland shot her a confused glance between looking in the mirrors.

"They do it every year. They didn't tell you?"

He shook his head. "Just that we should be there ... you can imagine they've been somewhat distracted."

Catherine considered what had happened and felt a wave of concern for her friends and what they must be going through at a time when social obligations couldn't be set aside. "It really is a big deal," she said then explained how Memorial Day had worked at the Calder ranch for at least the last ten years.

At dawn Sunday a small army would show up on the property and several acres of field grass would be mowed and enormous open-sided tents raised. The biggest one would cover a wooden dance floor and stage and most of the others would be filled with picnic tables. Late that afternoon the generator trucks would be parked some distance away and power runs set out, the restroom trailers would be put in place and the parking areas marked off.

Before dawn on Monday morning caterers would haul in the trailer-sized barbeque smokers then around noon, the teams who entered the crawfish boil and etouffee contest would start setting up in a special row of smaller tents. Not long after, the sound-system and lighting people would ready the dance-hall and stage; even the band members and crews came early to be part of the event before they had to play.

After listening to her explain Kirkland offered, "Sounds like a mini-Woodstock."

"Oh, but better organized. The first year they did it it took almost a week to set it all up, but they've done it enough that it all goes up in about twenty-four hours. Three hundred people will start showing up around three or four o'clock."

"Three hundred people?"

She nodded. "It gets a little bigger every year ... Al and some of his friends even fly their planes over in a formation a few times then everyone gains ten pounds and tries to dance it off ... and we're talking real Texas dance music—"

Kirkland raised a finger of his hand in caution as he shook his head. "Ah ... you should know, I, ah, I do not dance—"

Catherine's looked carried a not-so-subtle warning. "El will insist."

"In this heat?"

"They have those big sprayer things all over the place and it doesn't really get going 'til the sun's going down."

Kirkland looked over at her with some trepidation. "You Texans are certainly a determined lot."

"The pool at the main house is open," she said and involuntarily paused as mental pictures of what he might look like in a bathing suit rattled her. "It's really a lot of fun .... the dance thing is a real introduction to Texas ... you'll fit right in."

His response was skeptical. "I find that hard to imagine."

"A lot of Al's employees are transplants. They've got people from all over the world," she suggested then added with a grin, "Including Yankees."

As he turned off the beltway onto highway 249 Catherine began to recognize the route she normally took to get to the Calder ranch but she decided not to ask a question until he turned off the highway on Spring Cypress road and headed east.

With a note of amusement she asked, "Are we going to the airport?" _This must be some place Alex recommended_ , she told herself then looked at him strangely. "What's there?"

"We're meeting someone."

"Alex and El?"

He half-raised a finger from the steering wheel and shook his head. "It's another part of the surprise."

\- # -

Catherine kept silent when she realized he was actually taking her to the airport where the Calders kept their airplanes, but when they got there Kirkland drove directly toward a huge military-looking plane in front of her friend's hangars. "What is that?"

Instead of the typical multi-color camouflage scheme used by the countries that operated almost all of the C-160 Transalls, Kirkland's plane had a matte, non patterned, dark gray-blue blended finish that was lighter toward the lower surfaces. A single royal-blue stripe at the top of the vertical stabilizer and the plane's tail numbers were the only markings; as designed, even on a moonlit night it was almost impossible to see from above or below.

Kirkland didn't answer as he pulled the Suburban up to the ramp then got out and walked around to the passenger side.

"You're not—" she began after he opened her door.

All Kirkland did was grin as he took her hand to help her step out. "You'll want your athletic shoes," he suggested to the now speechless woman.

As he opened the back door for her she tried smiling bravely then reached in and opened her travel bag. "You want _me_ ..." she said nervously as she pulled out her shoes, "you want me to go with you ... in that?"

"Certainly."

"You're serious?" she asked with genuine concern. "In _that_?"

Kirkland said blithely, "As I recall, you said you didn't like small airplanes."

"Okay, okay ... okay, I'll do this," she announced then took a deep breath. "But ... but you ... you have to promise you'll dance with me Monday."

Kirkland froze for a few seconds then swallowed and tried unsuccessfully to mouth something that would let him avoid a commitment. From the look on her face he could tell there was no room to negotiate and he nodded slowly, smiling almost as if he were in pain. "Ooooh ... ohhhkay," he said resignedly then added under his breath, "Oh dear," as he turned and saw Ben Yamaguchi walking down the plane's loading ramp.

"Ms. Catherine Cruz, may I present my associate, Captain Benjamin Yamaguchi, New York Air National Guard, master sensei, chief pilot for the firm and husband of my General Manager, Terri."

"Nice to meet you," Yamaguchi said as they shook hands.

Catherine was now even more bewildered. _Yamaguchi? He doesn't look very Japanese_. "Nice to meet you," she said then added with a note of confusion, "Captain?"

"Ben, please," Yamaguchi said then caught Kirkland's eye as Catherine was looking around at the plane. " _Outstanding!_ " he mouthed with his eyes widened.

Catherine squeezed Kirkland's hand and quietly asked a question in amazement, "You got the National Guard to send a plane for this? Is that even legal?"

"Oh no, no, it's a company plane," he answered casually as Yamaguchi climbed behind the wheel and prepared to drive the Suburban up the ramp into the cargo bay. "We'd be late for dinner without it," he advised and added almost off-handedly, "We bring our own transportation."

_Por Dios!_ She thought. _What have I gotten myself into?_

\- # -

Catherine had never been in the cockpit of a plane as large as the C-160 and the space she found herself in seemed mind bogglingly complex. In a middle seat behind and slightly above Yamaguchi on the right and Kirkland on the left she had a full view of everything they were doing, as well as being able to hear what they were saying through the headset Kirkland had adjusted for her. It took a few minutes before they had both of the engines running and after lifting an earpiece off her ear a couple of times and hearing the sound, she concluded keeping them on would be the best idea.

The nervous excitement grew when she saw Kirkland slowly advance some levers that made the plane begin moving then it turned gradually and rolled along the taxiway toward the far end of the runway. When it made the U turn and was pointed north in the center of the runway the two men spoke to each other as they rechecked several controls then she heard a very brief communication with the tower.

_I didn't think Texans could talk that fast,_ she thought.

She watched them scan the area around and above the plane then she saw Kirkland reach to his right and move the throttles again, bringing the engine pitch to a level she could clearly hear even through the close-fitting headset.

She soon found herself holding her breath as the plane accelerated and she realized it wasn't moving as quickly as the passenger jets she had been on. With the end of the runway still some distance ahead, she saw more than felt the nose rise slightly then the plane gradually became airborne and she finally exhaled.

She heard Kirkland say, "Gear up," and saw Yamaguchi reach forward and move a large lever on the panel that started a new noise as the landing gear raised just as the roads at the north end of the airport flashed by below.

Kirkland swiveled his head quickly to check on her and saw the excited but still-nervous smile. "Hang on," he advised.

"Why ... what for ... what's going to happen?"

"Max climb," she heard Yamaguchi say as if he were bored.

She saw Kirkland's head nod. "Maximum climb," he responded then the nose of the aircraft suddenly pointed steeply upward. Catherine felt her insides pressed downward and her head bent down involuntarily.

Kirkland looked back at her again. "You alright?" he asked with an encouraging and hopeful smile as she lifted her head.

"Sure," she offered with a nod but an unconvincing smile.

Kirkland soon reduced the angle of attack and put the plane in a broad, but still-climbing turn. "You ought to see what it can do in colder weather," she heard Yamaguchi say.

Leveled off and flying almost due west with the sun poised above the horizon, Catherine shielded her eyes with her hand and looked out the cockpit windows at the dazzling array of what looked like scattered coins – brilliant gold-colored reflections off the surfaces of the myriad small lakes, stock ponds and reservoirs of the Texas landscape. The view from the multiple windows was spectacular and she wished she had brought along a camera. "It's beautiful," she said and got two nods in response.

She pointed toward the view in front of them. "I don't know if you guys know this ... but those are all man-made ... we don't have any natural lakes in Texas."

Yamaguchi sounded doubtful. "All of those?"

"Yep ... a lot of them are what we call 'stock tanks'."

"It's good to have a guide in a foreign country," Kirkland noted.

Catherine suggested dryly, "You need a pronunciation guide, too."

Yamaguchi nodded in agreement then said, "I always thought the last letter in 'Colorado' was an 'o' ... 'round here it's an 'a'."

"You'll learn real Texan's are vowel challenged," she responded.

During the flight she also learned some entirely new things as they explained what was going on: Kirkland was the 'pilot in command' in the left seat for this trip while Yamaguchi took the co-pilot role; they were flying at an altitude above aircraft that didn't have pressurization but below the level of the airliners; the autopilot was far more adept at maintaining a straight and level flight than they were and the big plane was actually easier to fly than it looked – "it's not a busy airplane," she remembered Yamaguchi saying but she was not entirely sure what that meant.

In a few minutes she noticed there was quite a bit more radio traffic and as the plane made a banking left turn she saw flashing strobe lights in the distance below and ahead of them. Listening to the rapid-fire communication she was amazed at how any of them could interpret what was being said between the pilots of the forming chain of aircraft and the regional controller keeping them organized and safe.

Yamaguchi took an opportunity to turn and check on her. "Traffic ... more than normal ... it's Friday on a holiday weekend."

She smiled then watched Kirkland for a few more seconds and could tell he was calm but clearly concentrating.

With the orb of the sun just above the edge of the earth to the west, the upper left side of the cockpit and the right sides of their faces were painted in orange light. The glow swung downward and the horizon tilted in front of her when they started a long 'U' turn back around to the north following what Yamaguchi told her was the 'approach pattern'. As they continued to descend she felt minor buffeting motions then reflexively gripped the arms of her seat when some of the movements became more abrupt. The view out the front windows seemed to unnervingly pan back and forth as well as up and down but even with the turbulence she felt oddly calm from her new vantage point.

She heard Kirkland say something about landing lights and flaps then she felt a sensation of decelerating as they continued to descend. Despite her apprehension she found herself simply going along with the motions – and to her it looked oddly like having three puppets on the same strings.

Yamaguchi turned and with a raised a hand depicted a kind of roller-coaster surfing motion. "Flying in the summer! Whoo-hoo!"

"Gear down," she heard Kirkland say and she saw Yamaguchi reach out to what she now recognized as the landing gear control. She could actually feel sensations through the soles of her shoes and another new sound arose. After a few seconds she heard a response, "Down and locked."

She heard a few other interactions that had something to do with airspeed and soon the runway was right in front of them. She felt the bump of the main gear then a downward tilt that stopped when the front wheels touched the runway. Things became busier; she saw hands move on multiple controls and the deceleration that followed was unexpectedly forceful – much more so than she had experienced in airliners and she realized why she had a shoulder harness on when her weight pressed her forward against it.

Kirkland swung the plane to the left at the designated turn-off and was directed to a space by a ground crewman waving brightly-lighted wands.

As she watched them shut the engines down and go through their checklist, she unbuckled herself and realized the entire experience had been far more fun than stressful – her palms weren't even sweating.

"Well done, especially with the hot weather," Yamaguchi said, nodding toward Kirkland.

"Okay ... where are we?" Catherine finally asked.

CHAPTER 22

The Hill Country of Texas, Friday and Saturday, May 23 and 24, 1997

Where Catherine Cruz found herself after a limousine ride from the airport was in her own luxurious suite at a new hill-country resort she had heard of and read about but never been to. Any fatigue from her adventure had lifted after she soaked in the whirlpool tub then downed half an energy drink from the little refrigerator before starting to get ready.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror debating whether or not the summery off-the-shoulder dress and scarf revealed too much. _He probably saw more than this the other night,_ she thought as she remembered the long, low-backed formal she had worn at the museum event.

The gentle knock at the door surprised her and she didn't hesitate to open it.

The man she had seen in jeans was now impeccably dressed in camel-colored slacks, an indigo-blue cashmere blazer and a pale-yellow cotton dress shirt. He was even taller than she remembered and she couldn't help noticing the rust-colored lizard-skin cowboy boots; oddly, he held a blue and gold silk tie in his hand.

"I'm not familiar with the local custom," he said almost sheepishly as he lifted the tie and gestured toward his boots. "Does one wear ties with these or is one of those 'bolo' things de rigueur?"

She laughed slightly at his predicament then looked more closely at the footwear. "Nice boots," she said enthusiastically.

Kirkland seemed to be studying them as he said, "Believe it or not I got these in Arizona some years ago."

"We won't hold that against you ... but personally, I think the bolo thing is outdated ... native dress is not required," she suggested.

Looking at her admiringly he said, "I didn't want to be overdressed for dinner like the other night but I can see I would be underdressed without a tie – may I use your mirror?"

She stepped back into the room as she said, "Sure." As he went by she could detect a bare hint of unfamiliar cologne that made her take a deep breath; if she hadn't been hungry and had a little less self control she might have tried to initiate one of the fantasies that had been running through her mind.

He turned to her after tying the tie. "Now then ... being appropriately attired, may I escort milady to dinner?"

She stepped closer and embraced him, keeping her eyes on his and said sincerely, "Yes, and thank you, for today." She rose up on tip-toe as far as she could and pulled him down and kissed him briefly.

When she stepped back he took both her hands in his. "You're most welcome," he said. "I haven't done that in quite some time."

"What – swept a woman away in an airplane?" She teased.

His face became serious. "Well now ... I have to be _very_ careful here." He looked upward and squinted as if concentrating. "As matter of fact, until this very minute I haven't kissed a beautiful woman since Wednesday night."

She grinned back at him and said, "For some reason flattery is making me hungry," then turned and picked up her handbag and led him to the door. Once out in the hall and walking toward the elevators she asked, "So what is Captain Yamaguchi doing?"

He leaned slightly toward her and said quietly, "By now, I believe he is molding the mind and body and cultivating a vigorous spirit – with which he will soundly thrash me in _hikitate-geiko_ tomorrow at ten o'clock."

The opening elevator door and the faces of the people in it prevented her from asking what that meant.

\- # -

The following morning, a small but gradually growing audience of curious onlookers stood and sat around the large exercise floor in the resort's cavernous spa. They lingered to watch two men wearing elaborate Japanese Kendo armor engage in a long series of alternating attacks in the _nito_ , or two-sword style of training.

" _Zanshin_ ," Yamaguchi reminded his pupil with authority from behind his mask. "Something has taken over your mind," he then mocked after scoring a strike during one of Kirkland's attacks.

Kirkland responded with another, more concerted and effective attack but was unable to score on the four-dan _kendoka_ who had trained him for several years, not only in Kendo but in a variety of martial arts.

"You should have gotten more rest," Yamaguchi said calmly moments before he shouted and leapt forward in a multiple strike attack that Kirkland was only lucky to deflect.

"I slept just fine, thank you," Kirkland said, breathing heavily and not allowing himself to become over-confident.

"Sure you did," Yamaguchi smirked from behind his mask.

Kirkland's next attack was more aggressive and he came very close to scoring, in part because of the goading he was taking. Sometimes he felt his sensei was letting him get just close enough for him to believe he might be truly threatening, but there were also a growing number of moments where he felt he was becoming an effective training partner for a master as opposed to being a mere student.

His battering ended at the thirty minute mark when Yamaguchi called a halt to the training exercise and the small audience applauded, none of them ever having witnessed Kendo before.

"What now?" Yamaguchi asked as they bowed formally then began stowing their equipment in large bags.

"I'm meeting Catherine for lunch," he began then paused in thought. "Want to join us?"

Yamaguchi shook his head. "I'm already in a foursome at twelve-fifteen."

Kirkland laughed quickly then asked sarcastically, "And which handicap are you going to show them?"

As if he were somehow offended Yamaguchi replied, "The real one."

"The real nine or the real seven?" Kirkland chided.

"Eleven."

In mock amazement Kirkland asked, "Eleven? Since when?"

Yamaguchi looked up to the ceiling and shook his head. "I know ... can you believe it? It's my boss ... work has really taken a toll on my iron game."

"You can go to hell for lying," Kirkland advised.

"Jews don't believe in hell."

Kirkland froze momentarily with his equipment bag in hand. "That's two ... cheating at golf and saying you're Jewish."

"I'm not cheating at golf—"

"Eleven?" Kirkland chided more than asked. "How much are you playing for?"

"Don't know yet."

"A Japanese gonif ... who'd a known of such a thing?"

"Hey, mom remarried. And would you have looked for a dojo run by some dude named Ben Epstein?"

Kirkland shook his head and grinned at the familiar explanation as he said, "Wouldn't have been my first choice."

"Well, there you go ... and it is eleven."

They began walking to the dressing room and Kirkland's mood shifted as he thought about the whirlwind of events that had culminated in them being at a resort in the hill country of Texas. "Hey, I'm sorry you're not home with Terri ... especially for the holiday."

"Not a problem ... I really wanted to hang around and see what dropped you like an eight-pound hammer. After seeing her I understand."

Knowing there were few secrets between them Kirkland smiled broadly then his tone became serious. "This is ... this is really different. It scares the shit out of me."

The way he said it gave his _sensei_ , employee and friend pause. "Kinda quick, isn't it?" he asked with a serious note of concern as they entered the locker room. He accurately read Kirkland's less-humorous demeanor and decided to not kid around about the seemingly powerful new relationship. "Hey, only if you want my opinion—"

"I do," Kirkland said quickly. "And Terri's," he added, noting his dependence on the other Yamaguchi's often unflinching opinions. "And your girls', too."

Yamaguchi was surprised and he smiled when he thought of having an un-planned guest at the Kirkland estate, sensing Terri would immediately bond with the woman and his two little girls would treat her like some kind of a new pet. He looked at Kirkland closely. "You're dead on serious about her, aren't you?"

Kirkland put the gym bag in the locker and then froze in thought as it sunk in. After a few moments he nodded. "I am." He looked around and finally admitted, "And this ... I don't want to screw this up. You think Terri and the girls can get here tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Apparently they have a few hundred people over for Memorial Day."

"A few hundred people?" Yamaguchi asked incredulously.

Kirkland nodded. "See what she can do ... I've screwed up your holiday enough," he said as he closed the locker and headed to the showers.

\- # -

After sneaking up behind her and gently kissing her on the cheek, Kirkland took a chair across the table from her in one of the resort's less formal cafés. "Sorry to have you sitting here waiting," he offered.

She sounded reassuring as she said, "Oh, no, I've been here all of a minute." After looking at him a few seconds she noted, "Well, you don't look like you were 'soundly thrashed'."

Kirkland tried to give her a serious look. "Oh, but I assure you, I was," he announced then couldn't resist adding defensively, "It was not entirely my fault – my strength was sapped."

She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a smile and raised the menu to keep him from seeing her face. "Maybe it was the breakfast," she teased, deliberately reminding him of the absurd room-service meal they had ordered just before six a.m. after waking up utterly famished in his bed.

"I assure you it was not," he responded seriously, remembering vividly the eclectic order of oysters, lobster, shrimp and crab claws they had lingered over. "I should have gone for the bacon double-cheeseburger and fries."

She lowered the menu just enough to see the upper half of his face and he continued without looking up, "It's the calories one burns in s—"

Catherine interrupted him gently with her foot under the table and glanced around in embarrassment even though no one was close enough to actually hear them.

Kirkland looked up at her in mock surprise as he continued, "In _seasonal_ flying." When she didn't react he added, "Lots of turbulence. Adrenaline. It causes the body to burn more calories." Seeing the shrewd look on her face he couldn't resist going further. "The arousal—"

The instant nudge on his calf from her foot made him smile as he set the menu down. Before he could say anything more then the waiter brought ice water and took their lunch order as Catherine was trying to not seem embarrassed.

Kirkland had a boyish grin fixed on his face and couldn't help enjoy watching her struggle to not smile. As she pouted in disapproval he said, "I know this is all seemingly happening at once." He moved his water glass and adjusted the silverware absently then looked back at her and hesitated as if he were thinking about what to say. "I'm trying not to make this far too complicated ... bear with me ... I'm, I'm ... I'm not good at this."

She tipped her head slightly then leaned forward and spoke mockingly in a whisper, "Really? You sure had me fooled last night."

The tension he had been feeling drained away with the not-so-subtle compliment and he looked in her eyes again. "Ahem ... allow me to rephrase. I mean to say ... the thing is, this kind of thing can be tricky ... I want you to come to Long Island."

Thoughts raced through her head about all that sudden invitation might entail.

"Not today," he said quickly, realizing he may have jumped too soon. "When you can get away for a few days."

She took a deep breath as her eyes softened. She realized how little she really knew about him but at that moment none of the missing pieces seemed to matter. His sudden vulnerability took her by surprise and it took almost no time to decide. "When the next exhibit is locked in – two or three weeks? I have some vacation time." The pleased look on his face was hard to miss and while she didn't want to raise any issues she had to ask, "What about your schedule?"

"I want you to be a larger part of my schedule."

Her mouth opened slightly as she inhaled and held her breath, trying to imagine the full meaning of what he just said.

Kirkland saw the surprised expression. "I said that rather badly," he said quietly. "I'm assuming too much—"

She interrupted by taking his hand in both of hers and whispered emphatically, "I don't think so ... I don't think you are."

He looked visibly relieved. "I didn't want it to sound as if I could just ... just ring you up and 'fit you in' at my convenience ... it did sound that way, didn't it?"

She leaned back slightly and a very sexy smile formed. _Oh but you can ring me up any time, silly boy_ , she thought recklessly. She knew from not only personal experience but from that of her friends that relationships between people with established careers and divergent schedules were difficult enough; long-distance affairs either failed or ended up with one or the other of the participants uprooting themselves to live with the other – sometimes with unfortunate consequences.

But the emotional high she was on was overcoming her normally well-entrenched doubts about relationships. As if she was giving the idea serious consideration she squinted and looked upward and said with a nod, "You know ... I'm beginning to think the idea of becoming a 'kept woman' has a certain appeal." She leaned forward and gestured for him to move closer to hear what she was about to say. "And that way you wouldn't have to introduce me to your family ... all that formal, you know ... being proper and all ... we can just languish in bed."

He had to suppress a laugh. "They'll know about you soon enough."

Her shoulders sagged and she pouted, feigning exasperation for a few seconds. "Now you want to go and get all 'traditional'," she said making quote marks in the air with her fingers. She glanced through the window at the glistening lake then surprised him by saying, "You know, you've more-or-less met half my family." She could tell he hadn't quite caught on and she added "El's more like a sister ... Al's more like a big brother."

Kirkland nodded and took her hand again and seemed to be studying it.

She wondered what he was thinking and decided to prod him into saying more about the people in his life by suggesting again, "So, _you_ already know half my family. You haven't said much about yours."

As she paused he let go of her hand, took a sip of water then realized she expected him to say more. "Well, I've been somewhat distracted with 'business' in the past few days," he said, mimicking her quote gesture. "Which has been interrupted, 'wonderfully', I must add," he needled with the same gesture again.

Her jaw set and she gave him a warning look but couldn't keep from grinning for very long.

"Sorry, I couldn't resist," he said.

She ignored the phony apology and said, "You were about to say about your family—"

"Oh, yes. I was distracted ... something about arousal, wasn't it?" he taunted again.

She glanced around again quickly to see if anyone in the now-busy café was within earshot and then whispered accusingly, "You have a one-track mind—"

"I have no such thing," he said defensively then closed his eyes. "It's just that my memories are very vivid."

Catherine felt her body reacting to her own erotic memories of the prior night. She swallowed and said with renewed determination, "You were _saying_ about your _family_."

Her almost comedic attempts at maintaining a stern look brought him back to the matter at hand. "Well, my father, Douglas, he was born and raised in South Africa, he was in the military, he flew in the Korean War then went back into his father's mining equipment business."

She gave him a disappointed look as she thought about how perfunctory a son's description of a father's entire life could be. "What about your mother?"

"My mother is from Long Island, she was an editor for a magazine and I believe she found a way to be permanently preserved in her sixties."

"You're really good at the short-story version of life," she said flatly then pursued the question. "You didn't mention her name ..."

Kirkland looked slightly embarrassed. "Oh ... Sarah, Sarah Boyd."

Something triggered a thought in Catherine's mind about middle names. "Boyd? ... your middle initial is 'C' ... what's the 'C'?"

Looking around as if ensuring no one would hear some dark secret Kirkland cleared his throat and whispered almost conspiratorially, "You must promise to never reveal, let alone use it."

Her eyebrows rose and she looked at him with an unsympathetic smirk. "That bad, eh?"

"Well, no, not really ... it's Cedric."

She scowled in confusion. "What's wrong with—"

Kirkland raised a hand. "Imagine being an American going through school in the U.K. with a middle name that actually came from a misspelling in Ivanhoe."

She didn't entirely understand what that meant but grinned at his apparent distress and decided to change the subject back to family. "Do your folks live on Long Island?"

Kirkland swallowed some of his drink and seemed to be addressing the glass after he set it down. "They did ... now they keep a condo and storage space ... it's mostly a mailing address in one of those tornado magnets in Florida," he said and almost chuckled. "They mostly live on a boat ... 'snow birds' ... north in the summer and south the rest of the time."

_Oh good Lord, the family has a yacht,_ she imagined. The possibility of meeting them made her ask enthusiastically, "They're near New York now? I could meet them when I come up?"

He thought for a moment about the calendar. "Right about now they're probably closer to Newfoundland. They go up for the salmon fishing."

Her surprise was apparent as she asked, "They're fishing?"

"Shoal Harbor is about forty-eight hours from the cove. They keep it to about twelve hours of cruising a day."

The idea of an older couple out on the ocean alone was alarming. "They're out there alone? That sounds dangerous," she admitted.

"Not really," Kirkland said. "My father went a little overboard on redundancy – pardon the pun. They have backup systems for everything ... and they take their time. They've done it before," he said then listed off several of their favorite harbors and described a little more about what it was like on board.

He deliberately left out anything to do with the roles the incredibly fast catamaran had played in two of his client scenarios since it had been launched. With its four diesels and two turbines at optimum power settings on smooth water in very cold weather, the exotic 140-foot craft had exceeded seventy-five knots; how far it could go above that speed was known only to his father and a team of two design engineers and a turbine specialist who had accompanied Douglas Kirkland on the speed trials.

Catherine tried to imagine what the obviously adventurous couple's life might be like and after the waiter delivered their lunches she began asking questions again in between bites of her chicken Caesar salad. "Your dad was from South Africa ... how did they meet?"

Kirkland sprinkled some salt on the pile of French fries as he answered. "In London ... as I know the story, it was a train station. She was on an assignment and he was on a training exercise." His smile grew as he added, "He became smitten with her almost instantly." Seconds later he froze with one of the fries halfway to his mouth and announced seriously in a whisper as if it were a major scientific discovery, "It must be genetic."

With mocking sympathy Catherine said, "You poor thing."

He ignored the tease and began eating his club sandwich. Nodding and pointing at it he swallowed and mentioned, "This is really very good ... I _was_ hungry."

Ignoring the attempt to change the subject she pressed on. "So they got married in the U.K.?"

Kirkland took a sip of Perrier then said instructively, "No ... no, _he_ was the smitten one ... not her. But they corresponded. A few years later he became thoroughly disenchanted with South Africa." He shrugged and took another drink and thought before continuing. "The long and the short of it is he sold the family homestead and the business, came to the U.S., became a citizen and married her. I came along about a year later in 1958."

Catherine did some quick math. _Thirty-nine._ She put some additional pepper on her salad and waited for him to finish another section of his sandwich _._ When he didn't offer any more details she prodded again, "Sisters and brothers?"

He made an 'um' sound before taking a drink then answered, "I have a younger sister, a brother in law ... a terrific fellow, by the way, ah ... there are two obnoxious nephews and a darling niece in that family." Pausing with a tip of his head he added, "And I consider Ben and his wife, Terri and their two little girls family."

With that tidbit of information she decided to switch the tack of the conversation. "What's Terri like?"

After a deep breath he said, "Well, her business card says 'General Manager' but an auditor for one of our clients referred to her as 'The Dragon Lady' and that just sort-of stuck."

Catherine sounded as dubious as she looked. "Dragon Lady?"

"Yes. She's all of about five two, maybe a hundred and ten pounds and about as deadly as a Labrador puppy ... oddly enough she actually could pass for part Japanese. And believe me, when it comes to numbers nothing gets by her ... economics and statistics are one thing but business accounting has vastly more serious consequences if it's neglected."

"Or crooked," Catherine said knowingly and decided not to further elaborate on what had happened with her husband's schemes. Instead, she decided to steer back toward the subject of families without being too obvious. "What's your sister's name?"

Around another bite of a French fry Kirkland nodded and answered, "Ah ... it's Beth."

"And is she anything like El, always trying to find you the right significant other?"

Kirkland couldn't help smiling fondly about the connection between Catherine and Elanore and how lucky he had been to be introduced. "No, I guess not ... they live near D.C., but I don't have to worry about her setting up blind dates when I stay with them."

"You're in D.C. a lot?"

"Umm," he said nodding. "It's actually convenient to have family there." He focused on his sandwich for a moment but he sensed Catherine was struggling to find a way to ask a more important question and he decided to clear the air for her. "Yes, I was married." Seeing no change in her expression he went on. "Until about five ... no, it's been six years. And, no, I don't have any children ... and believe it or not, she's still quite close to Beth ... but don't you think that sounds, her being close to my ex ... isn't that kind of oddly familiar?"

Catherine smiled at the coincidence that they shared an unusual sort of post-divorce in-law relationship. "At least you're not in prison," she offered rather pointedly then looked more serious. "How much have the Calders told you about my ex?"

Kirkland finished a bite of dill pickle and sighed. "Just that he is Elanore's little brother and was involved in a variety of financial crimes ... if you'd rather not—"

Catherine put up a hand only briefly. "You should—"

"I don't need to—"

"No, no ... it's okay." She paused for several moments then nodded. "I'll give you the _Reader's Digest_ version," she said then took a sip of tea. "In just a few years I went from working girl—and no, not that kind of working girl—to married and clueless wealthy socialite to criminal suspect to working girl to divorce′... with a brief detour in there near the end for therapy."

As he gazed at her with an amused look, Catherine's mind flashed to the feelings of walking out to the mailbox from the Burnett's ten thousand square-foot home with a growing sense of dread at the next thing she might find in it. The dry taste in her mouth and the twinge in her gut were still faintly familiar.

Worse than the myriad of seemingly incomprehensible letters from attorneys, banks and the IRS were the county constables that had shown up repeatedly in their garishly decaled vehicles in front of the home; answering the door two or three times a week to sign for lawsuit summonses had been nauseatingly embarrassing.

Eventually, as the filings seemed to dwindle in the fall of 1990 she thought there might be a light at the end of the tunnel.

Her husband had assured her the plaintiffs in these suits were just people who didn't know how to run their businesses or they were jealous naysayers or just greedy opportunists – nothing that could actually threaten his carefully contrived operation. He had two attorneys who, he routinely told her, were confident he would prevail. "It's just part of the cost of this business," he would tell her, and she didn't understand enough of what he and his teams of people were actually doing to argue about it.

For some time there had been almost no limit to the money they could tap into to pay the mounting legal bills and still maintain their lifestyle. Little had she known some of his associates and promoters had come to the realization that the house of cards was going to be coming down around them and they were lining up with some of the victims and their lawyers to try and get something before there was nothing to get.

The civil suits were destined to be costly but worthless exercises of the legal system; eventually word spread that suing wasn't going to accomplish much but make the lawyer's BMW and Mercedes lease payments; finding Burnett's assets was harder than it looked.

While Roger Burnett's schemes were starting to collapse, Catherine had no idea the worst was about to happen; luckily, the arrest of her husband on the criminal charges had been effected in secrecy before dawn and none of the neighbors had actually seen him taken away on that Saturday morning.

Although no longer debilitating, the memory was still painfully vivid. Two hours before she normally felt a sense of needing to get up to feed the cats, the sounds of people talking loudly and thumping noises from around their house had stirred her from her medication-induced sleep. The adrenaline had then driven her to her feet and down the hall in a flimsy nightie just in time to see Roger in handcuffs, being taken down the front stairway and out the door to the waiting automobiles.

That horrific morning, after escorting her back to her bedroom and allowing her to put on a robe, a policewoman had more or less kept her penned in a corner of the enormous kitchen. They shared coffee as she heard more than saw innumerable people coming and going through the house executing the search warrant. By the time dawn had made it possible for the neighbors to see what might have been going on there was only one unmarked sedan left in the driveway loop.

When one of Roger's attorneys finally called to let her know what was going on, she was frantic, over-caffeinated and unable to stop crying, let alone understand why he was not coming home then or any time in the near future. Despite Burnett's standing in the community, bail would probably be denied because of the apparent frequent contacts with persons and financial entities in Panama and possibly other off-shore venues. At the arraignment the judge quickly ruled that he presented a clear flight risk.

At the end of the hearing all she really knew was that she was alone and according to the charges on the indictment she could be left alone for most of the rest of her life if he was convicted. What shocked her almost equally was the revelation of hidden assets which the prosecutors introduced into evidence and were steadfast in still trying to find.

At some points in the spiral down into the end of life as she knew it there had been short but peaceful periods of complete numbness. Sometimes they were nothing more than a few lost moments sitting at the kitchen table. She couldn't count the number of the times she just curled up on the bed or the couch and found time had slipped by for disturbingly longer periods.

One afternoon in the office of the attorney Alex Calder had retained for her husband, she had numbly gazed off into the space outside the windows for nearly four minutes. She had been shocked and reacted almost rudely to the small gaggle of worried people that gathered in front of her after they realized she wasn't paying attention – at all.

She had thought of the episodes as simple naps brought on by the fatigue of the whole horrifying experience but had also taken more-than-full advantage of sleeping pills to block out ten or twelve hours of reality at a time. But the experience of waking up on the kitchen floor without knowing how she got there scared her enough to dump every prescription bottle in the house into the toilet.

Her withdrawal from their large circle of friends came about rather suddenly. Only a small handful even tried to call and find out if she needed something and those she gently but firmly advised that the whole thing would be over soon; it was a witch hunt; a prosecutor making a name for herself; the IRS bullying a successful businessman to scare other people in businesses like his; back-stabbing, jealous rivals, etc., etc., all the things her husband was telling her and anyone who would listen.

Knowing little about how their bills were paid and with almost no documents left in their home after the search warrant had been executed, she struggled to piece together what it took to keep all that had been taken for granted. She started opening bills for the first time but until the bank statements arrived she had little idea of how much had been lost and how soon things were going to be disconnected or shut off. While there were several bank accounts there had been only one they shared and it had been frozen the morning of the arrest; they hadn't bothered with her personal account but there wasn't enough in it to make the mortgage payment plus the club dues in addition to paying the myriad of utilities and services they relied on for their—until-then—enviable lifestyle.

One Saturday morning she had been startled by the noise of mowers. The yard workers had descended on the property just as they did every week during the spring but this time she had to tell them not to come back as she handed their crew leader the hundred dollars in cash when he came to the door. Her attempt at an explanation was interrupted with a gently raised hand and an understanding, sympathetic look. Even he knew Roger Burnett was in jail and in their native language he told her he was genuinely sorry – and not just because they were losing a long-time customer. They had spoken often and she knew he had first-hand family experience with what happens to women whose husbands wind up in prison – or deported.

Alone in her kitchen that morning, with the proof of the looming financial implosion in front of her, Catherine Cruz finally admitted to herself that she was not going to be living in their dream home much longer. In tears and unable to see a way out of her nightmare, she got out of the chair and calmly gathered all of the paperwork and left it in a stack on the corner of the table.

Almost an hour later she was aroused by the sound of the front door chime; she had no idea how she had only gotten part way up the main stairs nor why she had decided to lay down. When she got to the door and saw the express-delivery driver through the security lens her stomach lurched at the thought of more bad news.

The startled look on the man's face just before he turned and strode away said much about how she must have appeared and after that embarrassment, opening the heavy envelope with trembling hands and reading the contents only added to her distress. The instructions from the Harris County Sheriff's office on how to visit her husband and the detailed, official-looking rules seemed draconian and complex; despite the fact that she had just learned there was a way to see her husband, the certainty of his being incarcerated was somehow more painfully tangible.

The enormity of being the wife of a jailed defendant in a high-profile tax fraud and conspiracy case reached its peak when Elanore drove her to the collection of facilities that made up the Harris County detention system.

Never having seen the inside of a jail, let alone one of the largest facilities of its kind in the U.S., the experience had been nerve-wracking just from the sheer number of people with a person in custody to visit. Equally disturbing was the sense that many of the visitors might somehow be involved with 'real' criminals. The incongruity of seeing attorneys in suits among small knots of distressed-looking and obviously poor women didn't escape her, nor did the fact that most of the young men milling around waiting were wearing what could only be described as the 'boys most likely to be in jail' look. Underlying all of that misery, the realization that most of the conversations around her were taking place in Spanish was her discomforting introduction to the fact that the justice system was disproportionately involved with the local Latino population.

Once beyond the visitor screening portal, seeing her husband through thick glass and talking to him over a handset with other people being able to overhear their conversation was yet another exposure to a world of indignities. With tears in her eyes and barely able to keep from crying uncontrollably, what she then learned sitting at the hard stainless-steel cubicle made her physically ill – Roger Burnett's ego had mutated and intensified. Instead of just being 'a really sharp guy' and a bit cocky, somewhere, at some point she hadn't been aware of, he had concluded he was not subject to the laws of the United States or Texas. He was convinced he was not only right, but that the entire justice system was conspiring to make sure no one would try to be successful using his business model. He was now a martyr and in his mind he was going to be out of jail and back to business in weeks, not months and especially not the decade or more the attorneys were discussing when the subject of a plea bargain was on the table.

To her utter disbelief he told her he was no longer going to need the attorney the Calders had retained; he was now representing himself—going 'pro se', as he put it—because the lawyers did not really understand the law and only wanted to preserve the corrupt status quo.

No amount of pleading on Catherine's part could have changed his mind and a new fear had begun to nudge its way forward in her consciousness – her husband's 'cause', his determination to 'do this for all sovereign American citizens', had become more important than his life with her.

She could barely remember the ride home from that first visit. One minute they had been downtown then Elanore was parking the car in the driveway and she found herself offering a rambling apology for the way the yard was beginning to look.

The next major shock had come when she learned her husband faced a psychiatric examination to determine if he could represent himself. Even the efforts of the Burnett family were stymied as they watched their son flail against the legal system with nonsensical, seemingly paranoid and even quasi-religious diatribes that did nothing but embarrass them during the competency hearing – a hearing that was notable for the most part from Roger's winding up in the news as a kind of celebrity among a small group of truly odd-ball protesters outside the courthouse.

Eventually, the judge decreed he was competent to stand trial and he acted as his own attorney, despite what the court described as his "fictitious beliefs" that the United States had no authority to prosecute him and the stern warning from the bench that he should retain counsel.

During one of her blank episodes just two days after that hearing she had dialed the Calder's home collect from a pay phone in Sugarland and began a rambling, semi-coherent story about needing to find her husband to get him to pay the electricity bill so the FBI and IRS people would go away and leave them alone.

At that point, the woman that was Catherine Burnett had finally come mentally undone and the Calders had decided it was time to go beyond hiring an attorney for her husband and providing a shoulder to cry on. They managed to convince her to wait for them at the convenience store in Sugarland by promising they would come and take her to Roger; they knew where he was; that everything would be fine as long as she waited for them. When they found her car she had thankfully fallen asleep and they drove her home where Elanore spent the night with her.

The next morning Alex had shown up at the door of the house with two of their ranch hands and a large rented truck. After they cajoled, pleaded and finally convinced Catherine to go with Elanore to meet with a doctor, almost everything she owned other than the furniture had been loaded into the van and taken to the Calder ranch; except for a trip some months later to ensure there was nothing left behind after the property forfeiture, Catherine never saw the interior of the house again.

With professional care she had come to learn there were periods of fantasy her mind created to cope with the stress. Differentiating between them and reality had not been easy at times and it had taken several months to learn to function without the intrusions of those confused memories. There were some she could even now laugh about with Elanore but there were still rare bouts of emotions she had to find diversions around.

Now, being caught up in a very real fantasy she had a sense those feelings and episodes belonged to someone else from another time. She felt an urge to lighten the moment and said, "I've decided I was more clueless than crazy."

Kirkland grinned then looked at the tablecloth absently for a moment. "She was clueless, too – not, not that she was ..." he paused, realizing he might be saying something that would have the wrong implications. "She, she ... I didn't ... I was always chasing the next client ... thinking it would settle into a normal routine once the business was up to speed ... whatever 'normal' is."

Catherine only nodded sympathetically at his struggle to explain what was clearly still an uncomfortable facet of his life.

Kirkland carefully framed his next words to avoid an outright lie about any number of situations that under some circumstances might have been considered bending or breaking the law; there was one simple truth and he felt it was appropriate to use it: "One difference I suppose ... between your husband and me ... I've never been arrested." He noticed the grin on her face and realized she was far enough beyond it to make light of the subject but he turned serious again. "My wife was right about any number of things ... the main one being I never made enough room for her on my schedule. We lived with each other for only weeks, sometimes only days at a time."

She read the somewhat distressed look as he spoke and immediately made the connection with what he had said a few minutes earlier about fitting her into his schedule.

Kirkland sighed before looking her in the eyes and saying in a whisper, "I don't intend to let that happen ever again ... but ... I've also learned to be patient."

Catherine's heart felt as if she were rapidly nearing the top of the first giant hill on a roller-coaster; somehow she knew what was going to happen but she not only couldn't get off –something was telling her she really didn't want to.

CHAPTER 23

Calder Ranch, Texas, Saturday, May 24, 1997

Before lunch, Margaret Calder changed the dressing on Dennis Boland's wound then Marty Calder escorted him out to the barn where he retrieved some of his clothes from the collection of the bags and luggage in his van. Oddly enough he felt he was almost as much a guest as prisoner even though he was still confined to one of the guest rooms.

What puzzled him most was the old woman's almost grandmotherly attitude; he wondered how she could be concerned about the welfare of a person who had tried to rob her at gunpoint.

He also correctly perceived any attempt to get away would most likely be met with disastrous consequences; most of the time the senior Calder was wearing a handgun in a shoulder holster and the huge younger one that was rarely not in sight looked like he played tight end in the NFL.

They had successfully set up and connected one of his computers on a dial up modem and they allowed him to log in and send one very important email they composed for him. During the course of the day he was allowed to dial in and check for a response every hour and later in the afternoon the third check resulted in a message with a phone number.

"I, look, this, the way it works ... I have to call him from a pay phone," Boland told Alex Calder. "If I don't he'll find out the call came from here. We use a forwarding call-back network – it's the only way I can reach him."

Alex thought for a moment. "Send him back a message that you'll call around six. The nearest pay phone is about twenty minutes from here."

\- # -

Alex and Marty drove Boland to a convenience store and pulled in near the phone pedestal at the corner of the property. Marty handed their captive a small stack of quarters then got out and stood, leaning on the fender while Boland stepped over to the phone, made a call then entered a number and hung up.

"Now we wait," he said with a shrug.

The ringing phone startled Boland and he seemed nervous when he answered but he quickly discerned the local traffic noise made his story about being in hiding more believable. He told Bailey the Calders' influence had kept the burglary story out of the news but he was almost certain his disappearance from work would soon become a matter of far more than just coincidence. "If they put two and two together and show the old lady my picture I'm fucked," he reported. "Even more fucked than I already am."

He then explained what he supposedly had in his possession, not just in terms of the items they had expected to find, but something vastly more important – the actual name and whereabouts of the man Bailey's client was probably looking for.

"No ... no fuckin' way," he responded to a suggestion. "Not until I get the money ... and I can't call from here anymore," he added. "Meet me in Austin, on Monday, at the airport ... Shit, that's right ... Okay, Tuesday. Just give me a couple of hours, email me the time. After this call there's no other way to reach me. I can't call the call-back numbers from the room and I'm sure as shit not going out again ... Exactly ... Don't forget the money," he reminded Bailey. "Tuesday ... No, no way, outside in the pickup area, I'm not goin' in there ... No shit! ... G'bye."

Boland hung up the phone and looked at the Calders then shrugged his shoulders and flinched at the pain in his neck. "I think we're set," he said then got in the car. "Sometime Tuesday ... he'll let me know." He looked a little sheepish and asked, "What now?"

"Dinner, dude," Marty announced as Alex started the car.

\- # -

After dinner, with Boland secured in his room, the Calders and their guests sat outside on the covered patio amidst citronella torches, trying to relax in the cooler evening temperatures. Under the circumstances the atmosphere was subdued but a thought about something Catherine had heard made her casually asked Alex, "Did Michael tell you his father flew planes in Korea?"

Not entirely surprised that the professor's very deliberate wall of privacy had been breached by Catherine, Alex responded quickly, "Air Force?"

"I don't know," she answered.

Kirkland overheard and clarified. "Yes, South African."

Alex leaned forward in his chair and looked at him incredulously. "Your dad was one of the Cheetahs?"

_Cheetahs?_ Kirkland thought then looked a little confused about the term he couldn't recall his father using. "He never said much about it."

"He's still alive?" Margaret asked.

"Very much so."

Excited about the possibility of meeting a combat aviation veteran from that era Alex said, "I'm willing to bet he flew P-51's."

Knowing something about military airplanes but not so much about his father's intentionally down-played career with the SAAF, Kirkland couldn't adequately answer the question. "I don't recall him mentioning a unit, not even a plane, but I'd have thought he was in jets at that time."

"From what I remember they went in with Mustangs and transitioned to Sabers," Alex said.

Kirkland thought for a few moments then said almost reluctantly, "To be perfectly honest, my father avoids the subject ... steadfastly."

"Politics?" Marty asked.

Kirkland nodded seriously. "I'm almost sure there's a political component to it ... that was an unpleasant era he makes little or no mention of. I've always assumed it had something to do with apartheid."

Margaret looked at him sympathetically and said, "Avoiding your past is much harder than you can imagine."

They all turned to look at her and Kirkland nodded as he said, "Indeed ... you, of course, _had_ to flee your homeland." He took a drink of wine and seemed to be staring into the distance as he added, "My father didn't have a madman like Joseph Stalin running the country."

Margaret nodded slowly and adjusted her position in the lounge chair. "We were scared, Michael. At least I was. Anton tried not to show it ... but I could tell. Then again, everyone lived with fear of one thing or another."

Catherine scowled slightly and said, "What an awful way to live."

"We had to teach ourselves to act ... it all had to look so normal in those last days," Margaret offered as she looked at the faces of the people around her then tried to make some light of it. "I could barely eat. The only thing I could keep down was tea and bits of dry bread I dipped in a little broth. I was skinnier than you," she teased, pointing at Catherine.

"I'm _not_ skinny!" Catherine responded defensively. She turned to Kirkland for support and asked, "Am I?"

Alex shot a warning look at Kirkland as he said, "You do know you're doomed no matter what you say."

Marty rescued him by returning to the story with a question. "What was grampa doing in Berlin?"

Margaret smiled and shook her head and it took several moments for her to formulate an answer. "It wasn't glamorous ... not a bit ... believe you me, Germany was a sorry-ass joint in nineteen forty-seven."

"It didn't get better for a long time," Alex suggested.

"He would rarely talk to me about what he did – he couldn't. I was just a young woman."

Catherine couldn't help asking, "What was it like? What were you doing there?"

"It's an awful thing to say," Margaret began again then sighed before going on, "but honestly? I would say we were all a bunch of vultures on road kill."

Alex chuckled at his Mother's sometimes blunt way of explaining things. "There was a race for German technology."

Margaret nodded in agreement. "Well yes, that was the rationale."

"Was he a spy for the British?" Yamaguchi asked.

"Oh, Lord, no ... double-oh-seven he wasn't."

Kirkland gave her a questioning look as he suggested, "But he reported to this General Kovpak ... he probably knew what the General knew."

"He ... that's why we were able to get to the U.K. Not the treasure ... it had nothing to do with this treasure ... they knew things about some of the Germans."

Catherine asked after a few seconds of silence, "What about them?"

Margaret shook her head in a kind of resignation about the secrets from so long ago. "He did tell me some things he shouldn't ... there were, there were some of them being taken to Russia and some that weren't."

"It must have been worth extracting you," Kirkland noted.

"It was," she replied then seemed to struggle with any further revelation. "It was ... I also know it involved men who should have been prosecuted."

"War criminals?" Marty asked quickly.

"Uh huh," she began, "Anton told me there were men who should have been tried that weren't. They were being protected."

Alex nodded and said, "A lot of that went on."

"But, we, we were so close to the West ... everyone was watching everyone." Margaret touched her napkin to her mouth and sighed. "People were disappearing."

"Escaping?" Yamaguchi asked.

Margaret shook her head and a pained expression crossed her face. "No, no ... not very many. There were always rumors. We'd hear things about escapes." She sighed and added, "But of course the propaganda focused on how much better things were getting."

With everyone considering the implications of that statement Catherine sipped her drink then looked at her older friend and smiled. "What was he like when he was young?"

Margaret's returned smile was accompanied by a twinkle in her eyes. "Anton? He was tall ... _and so dashing_." She set down her glass and added proudly, "He was taller than everyone around him ... he was also very sure of himself. And once his mind was made up he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."

Elanore grinned as she offered matter-of-factly, "Well, he sure as hell didn't change much."

The patio remained utterly quiet then Margaret raised her hand and glanced at all of them. "Enough of my going on ... the General saved us from that. We had a new life. New opportunities. Now you understand why we have to find him."

CHAPTER 24

Berlin, Soviet Sector and the USSR, November and December, 1946

After returning a sharp salute, Major Anton Nuryev handed the orders to the Lieutenant in charge of security at the isolated section of the airfield where aircraft were kept ready for use by senior officers. General Kovpak's personal aircraft, a white Yak 9U was in view in the distance and Nuryev saw a fuel truck pulling away from it.

"One moment, Comrade Major," the younger officer announced dutifully. Nuryev waited patiently in the rear seat of the staff car, knowing it could take several minutes to reach the General's offices and get an answer. Remarkably, there was almost no waiting.

"My apologies, Comrade Major!" the Lieutenant said quickly as he stepped out of the tiny guard station and passed the orders back through the window.

"Not at all, Comrade ... I would have put you on report had you not sought confirmation," Nuryev advised quietly.

With a signal from the officer a man raised the mechanical barrier gate quickly then the driver pulled onto the tarmac and drove directly to the plane. Another guard immediately came to attention as the vehicle stopped and as the driver climbed out and opened the passenger door Nuryev said, "Put my valise on the wing, Comrade."

Nuryev checked out the General's plane thoroughly then walked quickly to the ready room to get the latest weather report. Gratefully, while it was cold and overcast and even snowing to the north and west, the dense cloud cover reportedly did not extend above 1,500 meters. Back at the parked aircraft he dismissed the guards and quickly loaded his gear and climbed into the familiar cockpit.

Off the runway only minutes later and climbing, he soon punched into the layer of clouds and after flying in what seemed to be a bottle of milk for over a minute he suddenly broke out into a startling, brilliant blue sky that made him squint. Soon the sea of clouds was far behind and below him.

Time was of the essence and he kept the General's plane at higher than normal cruise speeds which necessitated two stops for refueling before he arrived at his former base in Lipetsk. From the ready room he telephoned the hospital in Moscow where Helena was assigned and left a message to call him back as soon as possible then he settled in and tried to not look anxious as other officers came and went.

A few airmen remembered and recognized him; some nodded or gestured on their way to something more important but two that he knew well took the time to stop and get reacquainted, even asking unanswerable questions about his recent assignment in Berlin.

During a discussion with a friend and former squadron mate the orderly brought him a note. Nuryev broke off the conversation and rattled the slip of paper. "I ... it is Helena—"

"Well then, you should not just sit there like a fool ... has Berlin dulled your senses?" his fellow officer goaded, knowing full well who it was.

"No, no ... good luck, Comrade," he said as he rose and walked as calmly as he could to the row of phone cabinets.

"Anton!" he heard her say excitedly after he answered. "You are back!"

Knowing there were always ears listening he was careful about his response. "Only for the day and tonight. I leave again tomorrow. Can I invite myself to supper? I have transportation. Just tell me where to meet you."

"I cannot wait to see you," she said almost breathlessly. "When can you be at the apartment?"

Nuryev knew the answer from experience. "Two hours. Good-bye Helena," he said then breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

\- # -

Because of his status as an officer Nuryev was provided with privileges that enlisted personnel and ordinary Soviet civilians were not, including access to the _zakrytye magaziny_ , the places where shopping for food meant more than just having one or two kinds of bread to chose from in a country in the throes of widespread famine. On the way to the tiny apartment Helena shared with her cousin Adriana and her husband and their one child, Nuryev had the driver divert to one of those stores where he purchased several items he knew she and her family could not possibly afford, let alone find. The presents also included a bottle of wine and a bottle of vodka suitable for a celebration and instead of rubles, those items he traded for with black-market American cigarettes he brought with him from Berlin.

Over their surprisingly enhanced supper, Helena caught him up on what had been going on in her life in Moscow and Nuryev told them of the devastation of Berlin while conscientiously avoiding any mention of what his duties were.

As the meal was ending he decided it was time to do what he had planned for so many weeks. After a toast to the Motherland, Anton set his glass down and nodded solemnly, feeling only slightly inebriated. "Sergei," he said to the man who was the closest thing to a male relative Helena still had, "there is no one left to ask this of but you." He paused while that comment registered. "I have come tonight to ask Helena to marry me."

The big factory worker's eyes twinkled knowingly even before the smile crossed his rugged face. Adrianna covered her open mouth nervously to hide her own joy.

Helena simply looked stunned.

Sergei knew where the younger woman's heart was but he did his best to sound as if he were passing his authority to her to make that decision. "Our Helena ... she is a woman of her own mind, Anton."

Nuryev slid his chair back, took Helena's hand and knelt at her side. "Will you marry me, Helena?"

With tears in her eyes she managed to say, "I will, Anton. I most certainly will!"

\- # -

_You are very sure of yourself, Major Nuryev_ , Helena said to herself, looking again at the packet of official travel documentation he had prepared in advance and left with her.

With Anton away again that evening on his way to some assignment he could not discuss, all she really knew was that he was going to make arrangements for the wedding in Moscow. After their marriage, he would have to return to Berlin and would send for her when he had arranged a suitable place for them to live.

She was buoyed by the thoughts of Anton as a husband as well as the life ahead; she knew what it meant to be a career officer's wife, especially one advancing as Nuryev had. While it pained her that it would take so much time to finally be able to live with him, she knew her existence would become infinitely more comfortable and that evening she found it difficult to fall asleep.

\- # -

Nuryev arrived at the Orsk base commander's office unannounced and after presenting the communiqué from General Kovpak he received immediate cooperation. One of the small, rugged trucks was placed at his disposal to facilitate his transportation to and from supposed highly-confidential meetings at the nearby metal works and rail facilities over the next several days. When he was offered a driver who knew the area well he explained firmly that he had been thoroughly briefed on the environs and, after all, he was a skilled navigator.

A brief stop at the officer's mess for lunch also resulted in a rapid, highly-confidential trade of more of his American cigarettes for a small burlap sack full of apples and carrots – without any questions on the part of the mess cook.

The drive to the small village of Kuvandyk took several hours even in the cooperative weather and near what he thought might have been the center of the seemingly deserted town, he saw a turn-off to a road running northeast. Instead of turning, he continued further until he came to a cluster of two-story buildings that had been cobbled together over time to serve as an inn.

Still in his uniform, he was greeted coolly by a innkeeper with a face that reminded him of a dried, rotted apple; the Great Patriotic War had done nothing to improve the lot of the people in most of the Soviet Union, especially among the ethnic peoples that had been taken from places not unlike Kuvandyk and hurled into near-suicidal combat.

"I am looking for someone," he said to the wizened little man. "Someone with a team of sturdy horses ... I need a work team, one that will allow a rider. I need them for a few days. And I will pay well. I'll also need supplies."

The innkeeper nodded and thought for only a moment, then called out loudly, "Nicholas!"

A young boy quickly clambered into the small area from somewhere behind the wall that divided the front desk and bar from the kitchen. "You, you run to Dimitri's ... someone is in need of a team of horses. Have him come right away." When the boy seemed to stare at the officer and didn't move the innkeeper barked at him, "Go, go!"

With the boy dispatched the innkeeper looked back at Nuryev. "You will need a room for the night, Comrade. There are two with stoves up the stairs. There is firewood in the room and we have coal in that bin," he added pointing to the corner of the room. "Five kopeks per lump. We serve supper at eight."

Nuryev looked at his watch then out the blurry window at the rapidly waning afternoon light. "Very well," he said as he signed the registry with a scrawl and fished out a few rubles for the man.

\- # -

Before supper a knock came at the door of Nuryev's crude, drafty room and he opened it to see a large young man holding a battered cap in both hands.

"You are seeking a team of horses, Comrade?" the man asked meekly.

"I am ... I want one saddled to ride, one pack horse. I'll need their work collars as well. And three days of their work rations."

"Where are you taking them Comrade?"

"You are?"

"Dimitri, Comrade ... Comrade Major. "Dimitri Yakolevich."

"Dimitri ... I am taking them into the mountains," Nuryev said evenly. "I am a geologist. Do you know what that is?"

The question was met with a blank look.

"Do you know what a mine is?"

"Yes, Comrade."

"I am a mining engineer. I am conducting a survey. Looking for ore."

"Yes, Comrade."

"Have them ready, here at dawn," Nuryev added as he handed over several rubles. "You'll get that much again in the morning if they're suitable."

Despite the astonishing amount of money he had just been given a worried look appeared on the young man's face. "You know how to care for them?"

Recognizing how important such things were to the boy and his family Nuryev said, "All of my life, Comrade. I was a cavalry officer. Before I went to school I cared for horses. They will be well treated."

The young man looked at the officer then fiddled nervously with his hat. "Thank you, Comrade. Thank you very much. My father and I will be here in the morning, at dawn ... without fail."

"Something else, Dimitri ... do you have apples and carrots for them?"

Yakolevich opened his mouth and didn't quite know what to say; such luxuries were likely not something that would be given to horses under their present circumstances.

"Here," Nuryev said as he stepped over to a chair where his burlap sack rested. "It will be an early start. Take these," he said, reaching in and pulling out several large carrots and four slightly aging apples.

The young man's eyes widened and when the officer handed them to him he quickly stuffed them into his coat pockets.

"I trust you will share half of them with the horses," he cautioned knowingly. "And do not feed them by hand ... cut them up ... I do not want them to be biting."

Stuttering from surprise as if his thoughts had been read Yakolevich responded, "Y-yes, Comrade. Of course."

"Good night," Nuryev said and closed the door.

\- # -

With a thin line of light beginning to appear above the mountains to the east and moonlight blanketing the snowy countryside, Nuryev finished loading the pack horse with his gear and supplies.

The father of the younger man held the reins of the two large animals as their breath formed large but quickly dissipating clouds around his head.

Nuryev didn't pause in his final adjusting of the tack as he asked, "Comrade ... tell me, do you know anyone from Churaevo?"

The coarse, stocky man with a permanent scowl to match his demeanor shook his head. "No, no, not for many years."

Nuryev stopped what he was doing, removed his gloves and handed the man the rest of the money he had promised. "I make it to be twenty-five kilometers from here. How long a ride would you say?"

The son was quicker to respond. "On these, Comrade, you should be able to get there before nightfall," he said with some pride.

Nuryev looked the horse over again and had to agree. "I believe you are right," he said as he climbed up. "I should return in three days." He reached down and took the reins of the other horse from the old man and said, "Good day, Comrades," then nudged the horse with his heels and started off.

As they turned away the father said quietly, "He does not appear to be a miner."

"Mining _engineer_ , Papa," the son corrected. "A scientist."

The old man shook his head slightly and shrugged as he handled the money he had been given. "It is not our concern ... unless he fails to bring them back."

\- # -

The going was easy and steady enough that Nuryev arrived in the deserted village of Churaevo just before sunset. He rode directly to the small church and once inside he soon found the damage to one of the window sills Kovpak had described making as well as the painting on the ceiling. Never having any exposure to a religious faith he wondered what and who it was that was so important that he needed to be depicted on the dome. The idea that someone would actually depict their God as a man in a painting seemed incredibly pretentious. _How could they know what he looked like?_ he asked himself.

After exploring further he decided to stay the night in the shelter of the dilapidated building rather than camping out in the open. Stepping back outdoors, he unloaded some of his gear and began tending the horses with his mind focused on the details of survival. He was constantly aware of the fact that he was utterly alone in an area few, if any people ventured into. That meant doing everything carefully and correctly just as if he were on a complex flying mission. A man without his wits about him could easily make a mistake that could cost him his life, and particularly now, he had much to live for.

Later, after eating his simple meal of bread and sausage he remembered the letter Helena had given him in Moscow – an intriguing surprise because she insisted he not open it until he was on his way.

She had written it even before she knew he was coming to Moscow but hadn't posted it and now, removing it from his coat and opening it carefully, his heart stirred and thoughts of her seemed to push all else from his mind.

Compared to some of her letters it was brief, just three pages in a small but legible hand that was easily read even in the dim candlelight. As was her style, from the first sentence she refused to dwell on gossip or the misery of day-to-day existence. Instead, much of her writing focused on small, positive things in the otherwise dreary world of life as a citizen of Moscow, including seeing the circus for the first time since the end of the war.

Reading it made him smile broadly and he forced himself to stop after the first page to save the rest for the coming nights alone.

\- # -

As the sky began the transformation from deep to light blue, Nuryev finished his cold breakfast, tended to the team then packed up and rode out in the direction of the Sakmara River.

The faint sounds of flowing water became more evident as he rode and he turned to parallel the river's twisting path, moving generally northwest in search of Kovpak's elephantine mountain.

He was now venturing into what had become an uninhabited wilderness sometime in the last decade. In places he could see remnants of wooden fencing sticking up through the dead overgrowth and snow and could make out the boundaries of what might have been cultivated fields or perhaps pasture. Indeed, nature had taken over completely and no sign of more recent human activity was anywhere to be found; the only tracks in the snow were those of animals.

After working his way through a tree-cluttered, narrow gap between a steep hill on his right and the banks of the river to his left he came to tiny clearing that led to a much larger valley, one with a broad, gently sloping expanse stretching ahead for over three kilometers. A few hundred meters into the open space he stopped and looked back, suddenly surprised to see the image Kovpak had described and he had seen from the air. He laughed and excitedly said aloud into the wilderness, "Your little elephant lives, General!"

He took out his binoculars and scanned the perimeter nearest the river then moved further into the center of the small valley. Trying to imagine the view a pilot in trouble would have had in desperately trying to put an aircraft down in the space available, he decided to concentrate his search on a location that would have been near the end of the longer diagonal, corner-to-corner landing.

As he rode toward the heavy overgrowth sprawling out from the base of a long grove of trees, an unnatural shape started becoming apparent. The closer he got the more defined it became and while completely concealed from above, at ground level from a hundred meters away he could clearly detect the shape of an aircraft tangled among years of forest growth.

Arriving at the site and dismounting, he was utterly amazed at how intact the plane was – and the fact that only one of the propeller blades was bent back from impact confirmed the theory of the prop being frozen in position.

Although the tail assembly was clearly wrecked from the impact into the trees, no major components of the empennage had been torn away. The paint was faded but it still clung to the aluminum skin and even the canopy appeared transparent. After examining it more closely he realized there were no tell-tale signs of skin warping from a bent airframe.

_A week or so in the right facility would have this back in the air,_ he realized based on his experience with aircraft wreckage and resourceful repair crews.

With the sun now high in the sky he looked up, squinting at the large trees and heavy limbs and found several things he was hoping would have been there – plenty of places to affix his equipment.

After unloading the horses he rigged a block and tackle to a junction of a large limb and the trunk of a tree above the starboard wing and another to the base of a nearby tree. Harnessing the team to a length of heavy rope he surveyed the resulting mechanism carefully – considering again the risks of being alone without any hope of assistance if something went wrong.

When the big horses pulled and he urged them forward, the aircraft groaned as the wing tip rose several centimeters. The ratchet in the lower pulley locked in and with repeated urging the team had the wingtip almost a meter above the tangle of accumulated and frozen detritus.

Before crawling into the decaying mess below the plane's wing he took two very large carrots from his supplies, cut them up and rewarded the team for their effort by putting the pieces on the snowy ground in front of them. As the horses devoured their reward, he patted and congratulated them. "Dimitri, you are indeed a man of your word," he said honestly among the snorts from the team.

He slung a large piece of canvas under the wing and crawled into the space then began opening the gun compartment, not knowing what he might find. "Well, General ... now we find out," he whispered.

What he next saw was a precisely-fitted wooden crate held in position by leather straps not unlike belts. Removing it was simple enough and as he examined the restraints he made the decision to remove those as well.

With the crate removed, he closed the compartment door and turned the fasteners to the locking positions. The armament bay no longer contained any trace of having had anything in it.

After lowering the starboard wing and repeating the entire process for the port side, he tended to the horses in preparation for camping at the crash location for the night. Their reward this time was apple chunks and they had become more than comfortable with him, so much so they didn't even react as he set the soft hobbles.

In the light from his campfire he pried open the crates with his knife, finding two brass cylinders in each one that looked oddly like artillery casings that had been cut to length and then sealed by brazing a cap on each end. The thought came to him that they might contain something dangerous and he decided not to shake them, then he scoffed at his concern; whatever was inside had been rugged enough to have survived the crash and was obviously packed to prevent damage – or discharge.

To his disappointment, nothing inside moved or made a sound no matter how vigorously he shook the cylinders; tapping along their length with the handle of his knife gave him the distinct impression they were packed firmly.

_Whatever is in them is not going to be revealed until I get back to Berlin and find a way to cut them open,_ he concluded with some trepidation.

He added the wood of the crates to his fire and took the time to bury the extracted nails some twenty meters away, then after climbing up on the plane's wing and examining the cockpit again he decide there was nothing more to learn and he concentrated on preparing something to eat.

After his supper, with only the crackle of the small fire and the occasional sounds from the horses, Nuryev bedded down for the night, finally reading the next page of his letter from Helena before falling into a deep sleep.

\- # -

In the morning light Nuryev worked diligently to conceal what had been done at the crash site, knowing full well that only time would eradicate all the evidence of someone, as well as two horses, having been there. But without discerning how he had managed to lift the wings, even an astute crash examiner would have to conclude the site might have simply been visited by two people, perhaps hunters on horseback.

A full day earlier than expected he arrived back at the inn in Kuvandyk, but instead of staying the night and in spite of the innkeeper's warning of the risks of getting lost in the dark he decided to return to the officer's quarters at Orsk.

The long drive proved harrowing, not because of being unable to find his way, but due to encounters with convoys of large trucks that seemed not to care about smaller oncoming vehicles on the rolling and twisting roads.

He finally arrived at the base motor pool at midnight and after securing quarters, despite the physical exertion of the previous days, finding his way to sleep was difficult. What might be in the cylinders was more than just an intriguing mystery and as he read the last page of the letter from Helena his heart kept reminding him his now possibly uncertain future was going to include a wife.

\- # -

It was near dark in Berlin when Nuryev taxied the General's plane toward the designated hangar and he could see the staff car parked facing outward just inside the open door. As the plane came to a stop Kovpak stepped out of the car and strode out to greet his adjutant formally.

After his gear was stored in the trunk of the staff car, Kovpak himself drove through the security gate then Nuryev began to explain the mission, describing in some detail the abandoned town and what he had done at the crash site to conceal the removal of the cargo.

"Without a way to lift them they will be forced to dig into the dirt and cut through the roots ... I did not disturb any—"

Kovpak couldn't entirely conceal his frustration and he asked insistently, "Anton, what was there?"

Nuryev realized he had bypassed explaining the most important part of the whole mission. "Containers. Brass cylinders – four of them," he began then gestured with his hands outstretched. "I would say ten centimeters in diameter, sixty perhaps seventy or so in length ... with the caps brazed in place."

Kovpak scowled in thought then commented, "Brass cylinders."

Nuryev nodded. "As if they were cut from artillery shells. And there is something packed firmly inside."

The senior officer thought for a few moments and despite his concern that what was in them might be dangerous in multiple ways he said seriously, "We have to find a way to open them."

"I believe we have one."

Kovpak didn't glance away from driving but he was clearly unaware of his junior officer's instant solution. "We do?"

"In the motor pool garage – they have a machine shop. I saw a lathe. That means there have to be any number of machinist's files."

The General nodded quickly. "We will go there first."

When they neared their office building Kovpak stopped the car, got out and deflated one of the rear tires enough to make it appear to be going flat. As they arrived at the garage the General exited and pointed out the problem with some annoyance and the two men on duty were soon engaged in changing the tire while Nuryev casually disappeared into the machine shop and slipped two large files into his flight jacket.

An hour later they were tediously cutting into one of the brass tubes in the kitchen of Kovpak's new quarters, a small and surprisingly still well-furnished two-story house that had at one time belonged to a Jewish family that had been displaced by a Wehrmacht officer.

With the first tube finally cut open, Kovpak began to pull at the densely-packed wood shavings in it and the room became infused with the aroma of cedar.

The two men looked at each other with a combination of shared dread and resolve; there was no knowing what forces they might have set in motion.

The first object retrieved was a small wooden box and Kovpak decided to keep emptying the tube before examining it. Other small boxes came out as he tapped the end of the tube with the heel of his hand then banged it lightly against the table, scattering cedar shavings and sawdust across the surface with some spilling onto the floor. He looked into the end and assured himself it was empty then they sat at the table and examined the six identical boxes more closely.

Nuryev picked one up and began examining it closely, trying to determine how it was supposed to be opened. "A tiny crate," he offered and noted the lid was held in place with nothing more than four small brass brads. Using his knife he pried them out then set the box down gently between them on the table; after they looked at each other for a few breathless seconds, the General nodded.

Nuryev pried the tight-fitting lid off, exposing yet more cedar shavings that protected a small, gray velvet drawstring bag. Unwilling to go further, he pushed the open box toward the General and they looked at each other with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

Kovpak took a deep breath and held it as he pulled the small bag out, spilling even more shavings on the table's surface. Their eyes were fixed on it as he fumbled with the tied strings, his big digits finally working open the bag, allowing him to look down into it. He turned the bag upside down and the object rolled into his outstretched palm.

Neither of them could find words. For a long time they sat, eyes wide and fixed on the object. Kovpak finally started looking at the other boxes and slid one to Nuryev then set the bag down and placed the fabulous piece on it.

With all six boxes open and their stunning, glittering contents on his small kitchen table, Kovpak's mind was whirling with what this almost dream-like discovery might mean. "I do not understand," he said quietly, utterly mystified and in no small way, genuinely fearful.

Like almost every Soviet citizen, Nuryev had no rational idea what was on the table in front of him and could only shake his head in bewilderment. "What are these?"

Kovpak's mind quickly connected them to the events around the secret mission. "We took these from Leningrad—"

"From Leningrad? Why?"

"To Tehran," Kovpak continued, seemingly ignoring the question.

"But why? Why would you have taken this to Tehran? What could any of this mean to Iran?"

The General looked at him, blinking several times but had no immediate answer.

After several moments Nuryev came to a conclusion and offered a theory. "This ... then this was to be a, a, trade, a payment?"

Kovpak kept looking at the pieces as he considered what he remembered of the mission. After a long, troubling silence he said, "We were sworn to secrecy ... but, but this ... these, Anton ... I cannot help but believe Comrade Stalin was doing this for some purpose. Perhaps his own purposes."

Nuryev looked uncertain. Buying weapons or war materiel with what must be the Motherland's priceless, historic jewelry seemed utterly absurd, even for the Bolsheviks. "But what could that be?"

The General rose and went to the serving table, poured two glasses of vodka and brought the bottle back with him. He sat down heavily and downed a considerable portion from his glass and sighed deeply. "Consider for a moment, Anton," he said frowning and rubbing his hand back through his hair. "What if ... what if we had not prevailed?" He paused to let his younger friend think about that as he poured more vodka into their glasses. "What if you are in Comrade Stalin's position ... in nineteen forty-two ... and for some reason you believe the war cannot be won?"

It was far too much for Nuryev to sort out with a simple answer but he did his best. "What if, what if it was to protect them? To keep them from the Nazis? Maybe Comrade Stalin believed both Leningrad and Moscow would fall ... these would be lost? You are suggesting this? I would ... I would formulate a plan. Yes. That would have been wise," he noted but then shook his head in confusion as he realized something. "But Hitler had turned away ... to Stalingrad."

Kovpak nodded slightly as he asked himself, _was what Krylov had told them about something that would advance the Allied invasion possibly just an inducement ... just another lie?_ He took another gulp of vodka then leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand. "Stalin may have been even more cunning than I believed."

He turned to his friend as the depth of the danger they could be in continued to creep in on him and he soon came to a grave conclusion. "No matter ... for us, ' _why'_ no longer matters, Anton ... we have much to do," he said as he stood up and grasped a file and another cylinder, "including making arrangements for your wedding."

\- # -

The wedding of Major Anton Nuryev and Helena Ulanova took place on December 2nd, 1946, in Moscow, attended by over a dozen Red Air Force officers and a handful of wives as well as a small number of friends and Helena's only living relatives. General Kovpak hosted a party for them at a dacha which then became their own private residence for three wonderful, luxuriant but all-too-short days.

For the new bride, the return to her cousin's tiny room in the shared apartment was depressing; Anton's departure for Berlin had been bad enough but the uncertainty of not knowing how long before she could join her husband gnawed at her. He had done his best to assure her it was now a matter of weeks, not months, but as the first days apart passed slowly, even her work at the hospital became drudgery and the apartment seemed even more prison-like.

Only a week before Christmas, as she walked in the falling snow from the trolley station to her building, she saw a car on the street and recognized it as a military vehicle. Her pulse picked up as she thought of why it might be there and she practically ran up the stairs and flung open the entrance door.

To her surprise, instead of Anton, a young Lieutenant rose from the bench in the tiny, decrepit lobby and asked, "Comrade Nuryev?"

Her heart leapt to her throat; _something has happened._ "Yes," she managed to eke out fearfully then quickly added, "I am," without being able to continue.

"My orders are to escort you to ensure your safe departure," the officer said almost mechanically. After making his formal announcement his demeanor relaxed slightly. "Comrade Nuryev indicated you are prepared to leave at any moment, but we have plenty of time to get to the aerodrome. I have a car outside. Please, take your time, Comrade."

Still stunned and flustered with the news, she took a deep breath and sighed in relief. "Thank you Comrade Lieutenant ... I thought it was bad news ... how silly of me," she said almost laughing at herself. "I will not be more than a few minutes," she added as she turned and moved briskly up the stairs.

When she began packing what little she owned into a single battered suitcase her joy was suddenly overcome by the fact she wouldn't be able to say good-bye to her only remaining family; they would not be home for well over an hour. She hurriedly wrote a letter, gathered her documents and with sadness and excitement wrestling in her heart, hurried down the stairs for the last time.

"Where did you say you are you taking me?"

"To the aerodrome," the officer said quietly, glancing around as if to ensure no one in the open space above them might overhear. "There is a transport leaving for Berlin at first light. General Kovpak has issued orders for you to be on it."

Having never been on a plane her look of concern was hard to hide, but she managed to say, "Thank you ... thank you for finding me."

"You are welcome, Comrade. Now please," he gestured, "this way?"

\- # -

Just before the DC-3 landed the third and last time, Helena awoke and overheard someone mention Berlin which made her realize she had dozed or slept through most of her first flying experience. As the plane taxied into position she tried to see out one of the small windows but could not catch a glimpse of anyone other than a few approaching ground crewmen.

With the single piece of luggage containing everything she owned in her hand, she climbed down the short flight of steps and was quickly and joyously swept into the arms of her husband.

The two made an incongruous pair, locked in an embrace as others moved away from the plane but he managed to get her moving toward his car. Once inside, with tears of joy still marking her face and the relief of having the experience behind her beginning to settle her nerves, she listened as he drove and tried to prepare her for what their life was going to be like.

Her overwhelming joy did not last; not long after their joyous first supper in their apartment she was numbed with alarm as Anton explained what was going to happen to them in the coming weeks.
**CHAPTER** 25

Calder Ranch, Texas, Memorial Day Weekend, 1997

A moment after explaining why finding the General was so important Margaret Calder looked Kirkland squarely in the eye. "We had to hide, Michael. Your father shouldn't," she said authoritatively. "A man with his experiences should be writing a book."

As Kirkland seemed to acknowledge the advice Alex said, "I know a lot of guys who own warbirds ... you get your dad near a P 51 and just watch what happens."

Elanore asked the more practical question, "Do they travel?"

"Uh huh ... constantly. They shuttle. Winter in the south, summer in the north."

"Snowbirds," Catherine offered.

Alex sounded determined. "You let me know when he's near Florida and we'll get him strapped into a dual-control Mustang."

Kirkland looked at Alex in genuine surprise. "That sounds like an offer I don't believe even he could refuse," he said then turned to Catherine and added, "There are also some people I want to meet in Florida."

Elanore saw Catherine's eyes light up and she tried to not let her mind wander too far into the future – a future with her closest friend living somewhere far away.

\- # -

With their guests and family gone or otherwise engaged and the dark swimming pool to themselves, Alex and Elanore laid back on the steps in the water enjoying the privacy and the chance to relax.

The overcast had finally thinned enough to reveal a canopy of stars and they both watched aircraft strobe lights tracking across it in familiar paths into and out of Houston's recently-renamed Bush Intercontinental Airport. The barely audible rumble of jet engines climbing some two or three miles above them was erratically accompanied by an infrequent crescendo and diminuendo of cicadas in the distance; the only other sound came from the occasional disturbance of the pool's surface as the automatic pool cleaner climbed to the edge then turned around and submerged.

As she slid behind him and began to massage her husband's neck and shoulders she decided to remind her husband of something he may have forgotten with everything else going on. "You have to be up early ... you have that formation rehearsal."

"Yea ... but we're doing it out of Hooks this year instead of Ellington." After another moment he added, "I think I'll ask the Captain to come along."

She nodded, recognizing her husband's interest in getting experienced pilots involved in the warbird movement. "That's a good idea ... I just wondered ..."

When she didn't continue he prodded, "About what?"

"He doesn't look very Japanese."

Alex considered that oddity for a few seconds before responding, "You're right ... and he's too tall."

"Well, I'm not gonna ask ... that would be rude, wouldn't it?" She didn't wait for an answer and continued. "His wife and their two little girls are coming in tomorrow afternoon."

"I think Dana told me," Alex said of the woman who often prepared weekend and evening meals for the family. Realizing he had forgotten that bit of information provided him with yet another example of how much could be going on without his being involved. With a note of apology in his voice he offered, "I've been a bit preoccupied, haven't I?"

"Oh just a bit."

He moved his hands down to the step and let his body float toward the surface. "All of this on top of the holiday," he said then quoted, "'Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, for thee and for myself no quiet find'."

He lowered his feet then maneuvered behind her and took her shoulders in his hands. "Your turn," he said.

She wanted to put her mind on less worrisome things as her husband kneaded her neck and shoulders but an even more ominous thought wouldn't dissipate. "Is he going to take her away from us?"

Alex thought carefully before answering the not-so-delicately loaded question. "I don't know ... but I think she hopes so." From behind her in the darkness he saw his wife's hand rise up and wipe something away from her eyes. "It's happening pretty fast, isn't it?" he asked gently.

She didn't say anything and he felt the muscles in her shoulders start to quiver slightly. All he could do was move around her and pull her off the step with him, moving into some deeper water where he could stand and wrap her in his arms as he tried to think of something to say. A few moments later he felt the gentle sobs and then heard her inhale and sigh deeply as she tried to fend them off.

In an unfamiliar voice forced through the tightness in her throat she finally said, "I think I'm getting what I wished for." After some deep breaths she pulled away slightly and rinsed her face with pool water then turned and looked toward him in the darkness. She sniffled and said miserably, "She looks so damn happy."

Alex tipped his head down and tried to catch her eye. "And the problem with that is?"

The last of the tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped into the pool as she shuddered, sighed again and looked toward the sky above the tree line. She bit her lower lip while looking down then said almost inaudibly, "You know this is your fault."

He couldn't help but grin and take her into his arms again. "What? Her being happy? I plead guilty. Willingly. Absolutely. Without question. Unequivocally—"

She pushed water at him and hissed, "Stop!"

"I'm just trying to take credit for the good part while I still can," he pleaded. "If this works out for her you'll blame me for it forever." After several moments he asked familiarly, "Over it?"

She reached out for him and he pushed forward through the water and pinned her against the steps then whispered teasingly into her ear, "I've seen how you look at him ... you're just insanely jealous."

She half-struggled for a few seconds then giggled and accused him of being a dirty old man as she moved against him.

\- # -

At about 5:00 p.m. on Memorial Day, after showering and changing quickly, Alex Calder knocked on the Yamaguchi's guestroom door and called out, "Just follow the barbeque smoke Captain – I've gotta go play host."

He heard an affirmative something from behind the door then left the house and began moving toward the tents on the expanses of grass to the east. In minutes he was working his way through the still-growing crowd of guests, moving in the general direction of one of the bar tents and intent on a cold beer. After greeting and speaking with several of his employees and friends along the way, he spotted and waved to Elanore and pointed in the direction he was headed. When they met up he asked, "How are we doing?"

"It's déjà vu all over again ... lots of applause on the missing-man."

"Did we get it right?" he asked seriously.

"Danny pegged it ... right at the last measure," she said about the trailing pilot's timing to match the bag-piper's final bars of _Amazing Grace_.

Alex nodded, pleased the show had gone as planned. "It looked like the parking area was pretty full," he noted then asked the bartender for a Shiner Bock. "Thanks," he said to the young woman and slid it into one of the 'Calder Ranch – 1997' foam bottle holders then turned and looked around. Before someone could get close enough to interrupt or overhear he asked, "How's our guest?"

Elanore shook her head slightly. "Marty's been checking on him – and you can tell he's a guy."

After a few seconds of trying to decipher the comment he took the bait. "How's that?"

"The satellite dish never stops moving."

"Ah ... so where's the Professor?"

"Cath is showing him off like a—I was going to say prize bull ... that wouldn't be very ladylike now would it?"

Alex laughed. "Speak for yourself – I have no way of knowing," he admonished.

Elanore glowered at him and tried not to grin. "She's so pleased with herself she can hardly stand it."

While it was warm, the high-overcast was keeping the direct sun from scorching the crowd and there was a fairly consistent breeze coming across the fields from the southeast. Alex took a long drink then sighed contentedly and decided to not explore the subject that was distressing his wife. "Well, I'm getting hungry – shall we?"

\- # -

Kirkland stood in the shade of one of the crawfish-boil tents talking with Catherine and a couple she had introduced him to when he suddenly saw one of the men he had met in the parking ramp in Houston – the bulky driver of the Lincoln. Without revealing any concern he squeezed Catherine's hand gently and asked, "I need something cold ... can I get you something?" The look he gave her seemed to indicate he wanted her to say yes and she nodded and asked for a virgin strawberry daiquiri, frozen.

Kirkland's dubious look resulted in a helpful suggestion from one of Catherine's friends. "There's a bar tent on the other side of the dance hall. They have the real stuff, too."

"Your wish is my command," he offered then turned and walked off. Once reasonably out of sight he took out his cell phone and called Ben Yamaguchi. "The Russians are here," he said calmly.

Stepping away from Terri and several people chatting with her near the edge of the pool Ben replied, "We should have expected that. Did they make you?"

"I don't think so. But he will. He's Silayev's driver – that means Silayev has to be here."

"Where are you now?"

Kirkland answered as if he almost couldn't believe what he was saying, "Getting a strawberry frozen virgin something-or-other ... something-berry daiquiri."

"You? You're getting a—?"

"East of the music tent."

"—virgin strawberry daiquiri ... did I hear that right?"

Kirkland heard the needling disdain in the question. "Frozen ... for Catherine," he corrected.

"Wow, you had me worried there ... what does the Russian look like?"

"Lyle Alzado, literally."

"That big? Ben asked as he moved closer to the fence to scan the area from the slightly higher vantage point.

"No, but same hair and beard. Maybe two fifty, six two."

"I'm headed that way," Ben said. "Wait up."

Kirkland's question sounded confused, "Why? I'm just getting a drink."

"I want to see the look on the bartender's face when you order it."

\- # -

After watching the big man for a few moments Ben said quietly, "He's not carrying."

Kirkland nodded and raised the very pink drink the bartender had just handed him. "I'd better get this to where it belongs before someone sees me with it."

"Yea ... you do look really weird holding that."

Kirkland ignored the comment then walked back to Catherine and her friends and delivered the concoction with a smile. Just then the final round of applause and cheers went up in response to Alex Calder's welcoming announcement from the stage. Over the noise he leaned to Catherine and said, "Don't be obvious, but tell me if you see Silayev."

Catherine scowled slightly in confusion. "Why?"

"I didn't realize we'd run into them here."

Catherine gave him a look as if he should have known better. "They were invited."

Kirkland thought about that for several seconds and relaxed somewhat. "Ah ... my bad ... actually I don't think it's a problem."

"Matt will probably be with them," She said then dialed her boss' cell number. An odd look appeared on her face during the ensuing conversation and after disconnecting she looked up at Kirkland. "Matt's almost here ... he's bringing Dr. Kurtz but he doesn't know if Silayev is coming."

"His driver is here," Kirkland said casually as his phone buzzed. After nodding at what he heard he replied, "Coming your way," then looked around again. "Let's see who just joined up with his driver."

When they met Ben in a tent near one of the large cooling fans both Kirkland and Catherine began watching the man now accompanying the driver.

"Are you sure the big one is his driver?" Catherine asked.

"I wouldn't bet hearth and home on it but it's him or his twin brother."

Ben kept looking around casually and asked, "And that's not Silayev?"

"No," Kirkland and Catherine said in unison.

Ben rolled his eyes and asked, "Is that no it is or no it isn't?"

Kirkland added. "I've never seen that one before."

"Neither have I ... and it's not Dr. Kurtz," Catherine advised.

Remembering meeting the doctor at the museum exhibit Kirkland said, "Kurtz looks like Rip Torn in _Men in Black_."

"Agent Zed?" Ben asked with a snicker. "Okay, speaking of movies, what about Silayev?"

Catherine thought for several moments. "Frasier's dad."

Kirkland snapped his fingers. "Yes ... you're right ... what's his name? Younger and without the limp."

They then heard Elanore's soft drawl from a few yards away, "Captain ... where's your wife and your little girls?"

Ben pointed toward the house with his jaw. "By now I hope she's trying to get them out of the pool – they'd probably rather swim than eat."

"Well there's plenty to choose from," Alex said then held up both hands. "For the next hour I'll be unable to talk on the phone – it's crawfish time!" he added enthusiastically.

"I'll go along with that," Kirkland said then looked at Catherine. "You?"

She shook her head and held up a hand, "Not with these nails – I'll stick with something I can eat with a fork ... you can feed me some, though."

\- # -

Once he saw a small number of people finding their way to and from the Calder's home some eighty meters to the northwest of the biggest tent, trying to drift away from the large crowd was easier than the Russian had expected.

Most of those he encountered on the path were parents with small children or guests seeking a break from the heat in the home's large, air-conditioned solarium, but with the serving of the food now underway he was the only one moving toward the house.

Once through the door into the glassed-in area he noticed the two women who appeared to be house staff were only paying attention to the handful of guests and he gradually moved toward a door that led into the home. When he was certain no one was watching, he slipped into the long corridor then began moving quickly through the enormous residence, ascertaining the best locations for the sophisticated listening devices he brought with him.

\- # -

Marty approached a paper-covered table where his parents were seated with Kirkland, Catherine and the Yamaguchi family surrounding a large mound of crawfish and bowls for the leftovers. "Ah – that's why you didn't pick up," he said as he crouched down next to his dad then added quietly, "I think somebody was in the house."

Alex didn't catch what was behind that statement immediately, then his senses tightened and he looked directly at his son. "Was in the ... what d'you mean?"

"I was checking on you-know-who and there was this dude in the front hall going into the solarium."

"Leaving?"

Marty nodded. "Yep."

His father took another of the crustaceans from the pile and as he squeezed and separated the tail from the body he asked, "What does he look like?"

Marty looked around casually. "Little ... skinny little dude."

Elanore gave her son a displeased look at his habitual use of the term 'dude'. "Compared to you, everyone is a skinny little dude."

"That's all?" Alex prodded.

"Can't be more than five ten and one fifty ... sort-of sandy-red hair."

Ben avoided looking around and tossed a tail shell into the nearest bowl. "How old?"

Marty answered with a shrug. "Maybe thirty, thirty-five ... hard to tell. I only saw him for a few seconds."

"Can you find him again?" Kirkland asked casually.

"Probably ... if he's still here."

Ben asked quietly, "What's he wearing?"

Marty realized he hadn't paid enough attention but focused on the question and the answer came to him. "I think it was green cargo shorts – khaki polo shirt, tennis shoes."

Kirkland's face revealed his conclusion. "That's the man with Silayev's driver," and Ben nodded in agreement.

"The Russians," Alex said disgustedly.

Elanore's mounting concern was obvious as she asked, "What about the Russians?"

"Something tells me they're both gone," Kirkland offered.

Alex nodded. "I think you're right."

Ben leaned toward his hosts and said casually, "That's what they came for ... you have to assume they've planted listening devices in your house."

"They what? They bugged the house?" Elanore asked.

Alex gave her a sideways glance then nodded as if he had come to a conclusion. "I can get my security people to sweep it."

"We've got a spec-an in the plane," Ben said. "If they're giving off any kind of signal I can find them."

"Wait a second ... this is BS," Marty began with a confused scowl, "what the hell do the Russians want to know?"

Alex pointed a crawfish tail toward Kirkland. "Silayev can't possibly know about our guest ... they're still interested in _you_."

Catherine added quietly, "They know _you_ know their exhibit pieces are fakes."

Both of the Yamaguchis nodded and Terri said, "And they probably know you're staying here with the Calders."

Alex nodded and suggested, "Could be ... or they sent these two out to find out if you were, and came prepared to bug the house if you were."

Ben looked at Alex and said, "We don't want them to see the Suburban leave. If I can borrow a car I'll get the spec-an from the plane."

Alex leaned slightly toward his son and said quietly, "Look around, see if you can find your lost sheep-dude."

"He was with a guy that looks like a reduced Lyle Alzado," Kirkland advised.

Marty grinned and quipped as he rose up, "Ah, the non-steroidal version."

Ben held up a seasoning-stained hand. "About one more pound – if I can borrow a map I can have the analyzer here in about thirty minutes."

"I'll get the keys," Marty said then added, "and a map."

\- # -

At 7:00 p.m. Ben Yamaguchi heard the distinct, bass-driven sound of the first band starting to play then he and Marty entered the house from the garage. As they walked through the mudroom toward the kitchen he whispered, "If they haven't activated them we may not be able to find anything," then he stopped as he slowly rotated the antenna array and swept through a set of frequencies he had selected.

"You think they might turn on later?"

"Probably sound activated – that's why I waited until the music fired up."

"They'll probably hate this stuff," Marty said with a thumb jerked toward the source of the sound.

Yamaguchi grinned in agreement and watched the screen on the device as he turned the array for several moments then changed some settings and froze. Nodding in admiration he whispered, "Ah – pretty sophisticated stuff," then pointed to the display. "Very short range, GSM mini cell – it connects to a hub that connects to a receiver base station somewhere off the property."

"Cell phones?"

Yamaguchi put a finger to his lips and kept his voice low. "European system ... you folks now have one of the worlds' smallest cell phone networks right here in your house ... and these phones are always connected ... but ... they don't actually send much traffic unless there is sound."

Marty nodded with only basic understanding.

"We need more noise – can you open some of those?" Yamaguchi asked pointing toward the windows.

Marty moved around the furniture and cranked one open and when Yamaguchi pointed and nodded asking for more, he opened another, eventually raising the level of the music three-fold.

Yamaguchi gave a thumbs-up in approval then focused again on the device he held. Almost instantly he turned toward a large table behind a sofa and pointed to it. The two of them searched around and below it and when Marty found the cigarette pack-sized device Yamaguchi held up a hand to keep him from touching it. "Not yet," he mouthed and Marty nodded in understanding.

During the next several minutes they counted four more and found three, including one in Alex and Elanore's bedroom suite, one in the kitchen and one in the entry foyer. There was a signal from another device coming from the solarium but because there were still a few people there they decided to keep looking for the hub and found it behind a curtain with a small line-of-sight antenna aimed through the window toward the southeast.

They retreated to the laundry room and Yamaguchi asked, "Where's the house phone system?"

"A closet next to Dad's office."

"All we have to do is remember to not move around when the music stops. We're covered as long as it's loud."

"What are you going to do with them?"

Yamaguchi gave him a conspiratorial grin and said, "It may be useful to leave some of them working."

Marty nodded in realization and they moved down the hall to his father's office. "Over there," he mouthed and pointed toward a closet door.

Yamaguchi tried the door and found it locked. He examined the biometric access control device and turned to Marty. "He couldn't have gotten in here," he whispered. "We'll have to assume he put some bugs on the phones themselves."

Marty shook his head in frustration. "That'll take some time ... there's ... shit, there's at least ten extensions," he said then paused to count. "Fourteen if you count the one in the garage."

It took nearly thirty minutes to examine all of the phones in the house and they both sighed in shared frustration when they were unable to find anything.

Yamaguchi led Marty back to the Calder's suite and pointed to the windows. When they were opened the volume rose considerably and Yamaguchi delicately removed the detector they had found behind the headboard, taking care to not make any sound from the movement of his fingers on the surface. He gestured with his head to the windows and mouthed, "When the music stops, close them."

The chorus at the end of Brooks and Dunn's hit version of _My Maria_ came to an end and as the sound of the applause diminished Marty closed the windows then watched Yamaguchi put a large drop of some kind of adhesive over the small holes that led to the microphone inside the package. With the device effectively muted, Yamaguchi put it in his pocket then nodded in the direction of the hall.

They walked quietly through the house, slowly closing the windows, disabling one more device from the living room in the same fashion and finally winding up on the front porch.

"All we have to do is remember where they can listen in," Yamaguchi said.

\- # -

"There were five," Marty told his father over the noise of the music after he walked up next to him. "We're definitely bugged."

Alex avoided revealing how he felt but still muttered, "Shit!" under his breath.

"Ben disabled the ones in the living room and your bedroom ... the kitchen, the dining room and the solarium are still live. He's going to give two of them back ... make them think we don't know about the others."

Alex thought for a moment and had to suppress a grin as he recognized the strategy. "This could get interesting." Despite the concerns nagging at him he nudged his son and pointed toward Kirkland and Catherine as they moved into position in one of the lines of experienced and would-be dancers. "I'd better find your mother and get out there," he said. "Have you seen the guy?"

Marty continued glancing around and leaned toward his dad. "Yep ... he's still here."

"Where?"

"Far right end, third row up," he answered without pointing to the section of bleacher seating on one end of the dance floor.

"You sure?"

"Yep. I saw him with the Alzado-looking dude."

\- # -

With the loud music blaring and the crowd paying attention to the more courageous participants subjecting themselves to instruction on one of the latest western line-dance crazes, Yamaguchi homed in on the man Marty identified as the one he had seen in the house.

The other Russian, the driver/bodyguard, was now falling down on the job; a few too many drinks, lots of food and the afternoon Texas heat had dulled him into becoming little more than a grinning spectator, watching the women in tight denim jeans moving in semi-unison on the dance floor.

Marty deliberately stayed back out of the man's line of sight to avoid alerting him and he only saw what happened from a distance.

Instead of maintaining his cover and his cool, the agent's reaction to Yamaguchi walking up beside him, holding out the two disabled monitoring devices and raising the man's hand to take them panicked him; his flee-or-fight response was ill-considered given that his physical backup was inattentive as well as some distance away.

If there hadn't been a crowd of people around them he would have suddenly found himself on the ground but the situation worked in his favor in trying to escape. Soon enough though, his rushed movement through the rows of standing people seemed to create a parting like a bow wake until he was just about to exit the huge tent. Just as that path seemed to offer escape he saw a very big young man step into the opening; worse, the man seemed to recognize him. Much to his later aggravation, his fight reflex took over.

Marty watched him stop and look around quickly, then with Yamaguchi calmly walking toward him from behind, the man turned, reached down and picked up a small length of scaffolding conduit, wielding it like a threatening bat.

Yamaguchi continued at the same pace and emerged from the still largely unperturbed crowd; only a few were detecting something amiss and turning to see what was happening.

Seemingly pinned between the smaller Yamaguchi and the big man blocking his way, the Russian decided to force his way to freedom, unaware of how rapidly his pursuer had picked up an eight-foot section of the same metal tubing. As he raised his pipe like a bat to threaten the man at the exit, he felt and heard a clanking contact that disrupted his backswing and put him off balance.

For the next sixty seconds the Russian flailed away with the section of pipe in mounting panic, trying to somehow knock Yamaguchi out of the way and maneuver toward the exit. Under the gaze of a small but gawking crowd around them, he soon came to realize he was being toyed with; the man with the longer pipe was doing seemingly impossible things with it. Twice he had his feet swept out from under him and although he was skilled in hand-to-hand combat and recovered quickly, the man spinning the heavy length of pipe as if it were a giant weightless baton was now in complete control of the encounter.

Unaccustomed to being made a fool of, he became even angrier and his efforts more erratic. After swinging wildly again and being frustrated at every attempt, he stopped, gasping for breath and rested the end of the pipe on the ground. He watched Yamaguchi warily then to his utter shock the long length of pipe suddenly spun at unbelievable speed and tore the agent's weapon out of his hand. "Perhaps you should withdraw," he heard the man call out calmly over the booming music.

With no other option the agent looked in the direction of the big man and saw him relax and tip his head toward the exit. Obviously he was being allowed to leave; realizing any further disturbance was not only ill-advised but perhaps dangerous, he turned and cautiously walked out of the tent then ran in the direction of the parking area.

Marty smiled as he moved inward and waved the handful of spectators back to enjoying the party, leaning over and mentioning to several of the guests that there had been a misunderstanding earlier and the man that left was probably a little too inebriated.

"What an asshole," a man he knew said in disgust.

"That's the problem with free drinks," Marty confided. "The dude was wasted."

After everyone seemed to be ignoring what had happened he went over to Yamaguchi. "What do you call that?" he asked, pointing to the pipe.

As Yamaguchi held it out he said, "About eight-feet of two-inch scaffolding pipe."

Even with Marty's own physical strength, when he took it he was stunned at what he had just seen the man do with a length of pipe that weighed at least twenty pounds. "Jesus ... you could have killed him with this," he said with newfound respect.

"Sōjutsu ... the art of the spear. This would be the yari," Yamaguchi said, taking the pipe back. "The Europeans would refer to it as a pike. Very effective if you have space to work in."

"Dude," Marty said shaking his head. "That was incredible!"

"I couldn't let him go at you with that pipe and I didn't know if you were going to try and stop him."

"No shit ... thanks," Marty said gratefully.

Yamaguchi laid the pipe back on the stack and tipped his head in the direction of the dance floor. "Terri's over there with Mrs. C. and the girls ... c'mon, the boss is supposed to be dancing ... this I've gotta see."

\- # -

From the raised platform at the back of the tent where the technicians were running the sound system, Houston Police Sergeant Adolpho Gutierrez had caught a glimpse of a small group of people moving off to his left and stood up from his chair. From that vantage point he witnessed the last thirty seconds of the would-be 'fight' and deliberately decided not to intervene. In the first place, he was not on duty, just a guest with his date – a girl who just happened to be playing and singing with the band. Secondly, by the time he could have gotten involved the incident was over. But more than anything, it was apparent the man with the long pipe hadn't been trying to physically harm his opponent – instead he had toyed with him, making a point rather than using the potentially deadly weapon as it could have been.

After seeing the obviously frustrated losing contestant run out through the opening unmolested, Gutierrez saw a very large younger man talking with the one that had expertly handled the long pipe. He watched them moving through the crowd then reappearing next to the couple he recognized as the hosts of the annual party and he stepped over to one of the sound technicians. After getting the man's attention, he pointed and asked over the noise, "Who's the big guy?"

Without turning from the console the man put a hand over his headset microphone and said, "Lucky sperm club ... that's the Calder boy."

Gutierrez nodded and stepped back over to the edge of the platform. _The son has an interesting friend_ , he thought to himself. _Bodyguard maybe_?

\- # -

As Kirkland and Catherine walked off the dance floor Alex Calder smiled broadly and said, "Pretty good for a Yank."

"Well I don't think I did any serious damage," Kirkland offered. "Nothing broken?" he asked, exaggeratingly looking at Catherine's feet.

"Give him another chance," Ben smirked then saw the quick, distressed and stern, 'oh no' look on his boss' face.

Catherine squeezed Kirkland's hand and warned, "The night is young."

Terri and their daughters grabbed on to Ben and Terri announced, "Our turn," as they pulled her reluctant husband out on to the dance floor.

"Payback time," Kirkland called out.

Alex turned to his son and asked quietly, "What'd our guy do?"

As the Yamaguchi's moved away Marty leaned close to his dad and whispered, "Took off," he began then looked around to see if anyone might overhear. "I'll tell you later ... remind me to explain _the art of the spear_."

A number of odd ideas made Alex appear nonplussed but he realized it was not the time or place for an explanation. "Okay," he agreed almost reluctantly.

Not having heard anything of her son and husband's conversation, Elanore turned to Catherine, "Are you here with us again tonight?"

With an apologetic look she shook her head. "No ... I can't, I have a contractor's bid meeting right after lunch and I'm not ready ... Ronnie's taking me home."

With a look that told him there wasn't an option Elanore turned to Kirkland and said, "So, you're still with us."

He nodded. "Yes, thank you. We have a busy day of fishing planned."

CHAPTER 26

Berlin, Soviet Sector & the USSR, January, 1947

Kovpak passed the document across his desk to Nuryev. "It would appear I am going to Moscow sooner than I had thought."

Nuryev didn't detect any concern in that statement but he read the orders.

"Comrade Olnikov has been busy of late," Kovpak said rattling a two-page communiqué that accompanied the orders. "Now it would seem I was taken to Orsk by a physician from the village of Kuvandyk."

Nuryev's stomach tightened. "Olnikov went to Kuvandyk?"

The General shook his head then pointed at the paperwork. "I do not know. He is still in Moscow ... but he must have found someone or some records." He drew on his cigarette as he thought then continued explaining what was on his mind through the smoke. "As I thought, Olnikov wants me to accompany him to the area ... to lead him as a guide. I have to assume Comrade Stalin is once again intent on finding the plane. Unfortunately this changes our schedule, Anton."

Nuryev looked up with concern and nodded. He knew that in order for them to have any chance of successfully disappearing they must both be gone within hours, preferably minutes, of each other.

"Will Helena be strong enough?" Kovpak asked quietly.

Nuryev considered the situation they had been living in during the past few weeks since his new bride had arrived. The stress of being wary and playing their dutiful roles while they knew they were going to escape had worn on both of them. Helena was beginning to appear physically drained at times although she somehow managed to deflect undue attention when her presence was needed.

At one point she had revealed to another officer's wife in some confidence that she might be pregnant; the ruse worked and the resulting rumors were useful when an excuse for her not being with him had been needed.

"How long will you be gone?"

"One week. Perhaps two at the most, weather permitting," Kovpak assured him. "Once I lead him to the site I will leave them to their own imaginations. It could be a matter of just days."

Nuryev looked hopeful. "I am sure it would strengthen her to hear it from you, General."

Kovpak leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Well then ... I have some appropriately good news ... your promotion to Lt. Colonel has been signed ... thus we need a celebration. We will have supper here tomorrow evening," Kovpak said. "It may be our last together for some time."

\- # -

After four difficult days in the frigid conditions of the southern Urals, Olnikov dropped off his two men and General Kovpak at the inn then drove further into Kuvandyk to the local telegraph office. From there he dispatched a coded message to Stalin's adjutant in the Kremlin, much to the confusion of the telegraph operator; had the man known the cipher, he would have been able to read the contents:

Objective found. Equipment required to excavate and recover cargo. Expect five days.

When he returned to the inn he was not surprised to find Kovpak already prepared to leave, the GAZ M1 staff car waiting with its engine warming up in the light snowfall.

"Once again, Comrade General, my thanks for your assistance," Olnikov said, the vapor from his breath dissipating slowly in the frigid, windless air.

"I do not envy you your task," Kovpak responded honestly. "This is not a good time of year for civilized men to be touring about the woods ... three nights was more than enough."

Olnikov seemed resigned to his fate and simply nodded in agreement.

Kovpak casually offered the man a cigarette and when they were both lit he suggested, "Had I been able to remember how embedded it was I would have suggested we go properly equipped ... we would have been able to dig under and open the gun compartments."

Days of camping in the rugged conditions led the agent to trust Kovpak and he decided to confide in him. "In truth, whether we even return to the site is up to Comrade Stalin ... I am awaiting his orders."

Kovpak nodded slightly in understanding then glanced around at their surroundings and inhaled the smoke deeply before he spoke. "Can you find what you need to retrieve it here? Whatever it is I could have it sent to you as soon as I reach Orsk."

Olnikov shook his head. "Thank you, Comrade ... that will not be necessary." He took another drag on the cigarette then leaned slightly closer. "It would be better for all concerned," he said confidentially, "if I can tell Comrade Stalin that you do not even know whether or not we returned to the plane."

Kovpak's eyes squinted as he studied the agent's expression then he tilted his head slightly and grinned. "You are quite correct, Comrade ... quite correct."

"And I trust you will say nothing about this."

"Of course," Kovpak said as he turned and opened the rear door then picked up his travel bags and swung them inside. "I am led to believe the weather in Orsk may soon be deteriorating ... good luck to you, Comrade."

"And to you, General."

\- # -

When Olnikov and his men returned from the crash site two days after Kovpak's departure, his next coded wire to the Kremlin was as frustrating to him as it was to Stalin:

No cargo on board.

Exhausted from the days outdoors, he ate and then went directly to his room and slept for over twelve hours, only waking when the innkeeper knocked on his door and advised that breakfast would only be available for a few more minutes.

Without fully dressing he went downstairs and as he ate at one of the two tables, the innkeeper tried to strike up a conversation from behind the counter.

"Comrade General Kovpak is the most senior officer we have ever had here."

Olnikov was still somewhat groggy and it took several moments for his mind to process the little man's comment. _Most senior? Why would any officer ever stay in a shit-hole like this_? he asked himself then swallowed. "I would not expect you to have many."

"The General is the second in recent months," the man said almost proudly.

Olnikov looked up and paused before taking a bite of potato. _Another officer ... here_? He put down his spoon and stood up from the table. "When was this other officer here, Comrade?" he asked almost casually and moved toward the counter.

The old man removed a small, aging ledger book from somewhere and opened it, turning just one page back from the marker. "November ... there," he said, placing it on the counter to allow Olnikov to read the handwritten names.

The signature was illegible and he looked at the man impatiently. "How do you know he was an officer? You cannot make anything out from that," he insisted, tapping on the ledger.

The man looked at him defensively. "I know such things, Comrade. I was once in the Army," he said almost indignantly. "He was a Major in the Air Forces ... he was a big man," he added with his hand raised well over both their heads.

Olnikov was now completely alert and curious. "What was his name?"

The innkeeper looked more closely at the ledger and shook his head. "I ... I cannot remember now. He was here only one night ... see there," he pointed to the date.

Olnikov sighed in frustration and pushed the book back toward the innkeeper. _Just one night_? He thought for a moment and asked, "Why was he here? Where was he going?"

"Into the mountains. With two horses. I think he, I think he was a scientist ... it was mining, something to do with mining."

"He left from here?"

The innkeeper nodded.

_Odd_ , Olnikov thought. Although they stayed at the inn in Kuvandyk, he and his two men and General Kovpak had to drive several kilometers further to Ibragimovo to obtain horses.

A more pressing question came to mind. "Where did he come from?"

The man shook his head. "I do not know."

"How did he get here?"

"How did he ... I ... yes, yes it was ... it was a military truck."

Olnikov ignored the rest of his crude meal and went quickly up to his room to dress again for the cold. _Something is wrong here_ ... _someone else knows about the plane and may have even been to the crash site._

He hurried back down the stairs and out of the inn then drove to the telegraph office with his mind in a flood of nagging worry. Almost storming into the barely-heated office he ordered the lone operator to establish a connection to the Commanding officer of the Orsk airbase. While he waited for the connection he paced in the small entry area, smoking almost continuously.

It was just too much of a coincidence. _Someone else is looking for the plane_. _But did they even find it? Did this unknown officer somehow find it and take the cargo? Or was there no cargo to be found? By himself? Impossible ... no one had been digging at the crash site ... or had they?_

The phone operator interrupted his troubling thoughts by calling out and pointing to one of the two phone cabinets. Over the frustratingly noisy connection he instructed the Colonel's aide that it was imperative he find the name of an officer who had taken a truck from the base for a few days in November and to wire that name to him at the telegraph office in Kuvandyk within the hour.

After he stepped out of the booth he turned to the operator's window and ordered, "I am expecting a message within the hour ... when it arrives have it brought to me at the inn, Comrade."

He was now more on edge and having to wait was not helping. After driving back to the inn he found the old man tending the stove in the corner of the dismal space and took a rickety stool at the bar as the smell of coal smoke began to permeate the air.

"Tell me, Comrade," he said loudly enough to divert the man's attention from his task, "why would the Major not go to Ibragimovo for his horses?"

The question appeared to confuse the innkeeper but after a moment he remembered what the Major had actually asked for. "Ah ... I ... I believe he said he wanted a work team, not riding horses."

Olnikov's suspicions were instantly amplified by that odd piece of information. _He was going to try and pull the plane out if he found it._ Recalling the way the plane had been situated he quickly concluded that would have been impossible even with two draft horses. And he had seen no signs that someone had been there recently. _He must not have found it_. "A work team?" Olnikov muttered almost to himself.

"He had equipment ... a big pack—"

"Of what?"

The little man shook his head quickly and shrugged. "I could not see what was in it ... it was loaded on one of the horses ... I saw him put it in the truck when he returned."

Far sooner than he expected a young boy came through the door and immediately handed him a folded piece of paper then dashed out without a word.

The message listed three names. _Three? This should not be a surprise_. There could have been any number of reasons for an officer to requisition a truck around a major air field.

He read off the names to see if the innkeeper recognized them but that proved to be unproductive; the old man couldn't remember if the officer even gave him his name.

_There are no more answers here,_ he concluded. The frustration of possibly being out-maneuvered on this critical mission gnawed at him even as he decided what must be done.

Knowing he would be returning to Moscow via Orsk, he quickly packed and departed, stopping again for a few minutes at the telegraph office to wire the Kremlin that he could be reached through the base Commander's office in Orsk.

\- # -

"This one, Comrade," the motor pool Lieutenant said as he pointed to the truck. "But the trucks, they are all the same."

Olnikov handed back the paperwork the three officers had completed to obtain the use of the vehicles. He now had one name that fit the date at the inn but none of the other typically-required details had been filled in on the requisition.

He first climbed in and looked in the cab, not really expecting to find anything.

"It has been used any number of times since the Major drove it," the Lieutenant offered.

Olnikov got out then walked around and looked into the back, leaning in under the canvas canopy. "What is in this, Comrade?" he asked, pointing to a heavy canvas bag.

The Lieutenant looked quickly and said, "A towing and recovery set. All of the trucks have them."

_A towing set_? He reached in and dragged the heavy bag toward him. "And this, this is the truck Major Nuryev used. You are sure?" he asked as he untied the heavy rope.

"Absolutely, Comrade."

Olnikov raised a hand slightly above his head. "A tall man?"

The officer nodded. "Very tall."

The nagging suspicion Olnikov had been dealing with suddenly made perfect sense when he saw what was in the kit. _A block and tackle?_ He heaved and dragged the heavy equipment out of the bag and spread it out onto the ground of the motor pool parking area then saw the lever and ratchet locking mechanism. Given the effort required just to handle the equipment he wondered if it could have been used to somehow move the plane. Then a thought came to him. Turning to the young officer he asked, "How much can a man lift with this?"

"Comrade?" the now bewildered officer asked.

"How much can one man pull, or no, how much can a man lift with this?" Olnikov almost demanded.

The Lieutenant was still baffled. "This is not for pulling or lifting by a man," he said. "This," he kicked at a large hook with his boot, "this attaches to a point ... a, a, a tree or perhaps another vehicle with a length of rope. Then this," he pointed at another component, "this goes to the vehicle to be moved ... and this hook is attached to a vehicle, a vehicle that does the pulling."

Olnikov shook his head as he thought. "What if I wanted to lift something off the ground? How much could I lift?"

The Lieutenant had an immediate answer. "You, how much could you lift ... just one man?"

"Yes, alone. Just one man."

"Properly rigged, four times your own weight."

Olnikov thought for a moment and shook his head. "That's not enough," he murmured – then the answer dawned on him: "The horses!" he almost gasped then whispered to himself, "A team of horses ... he is one clever fellow, this Major Nuryev," he said as he began jogging toward the base headquarters.

The Colonel barely remembered Nuryev, having met him for only a few moments but he did recall he was tall and carried orders. Unfortunately he could not say with any certainty where those orders had come from or what unit the Major might have been with.

Olnikov had a wire dispatched to the Kremlin to find the current duty station of "Anton Nuryev," then waited impatiently near the base communications center for an answer, smoking cigarettes and avoiding the opportunities for idle conversation as men came and went.

After an hour he decided there was nothing more to be gained by staying at the air base and found the last transport of the day leaving in the direction of Moscow was scheduled to take off in a matter of minutes. Rather than waiting for the response from the Kremlin he boarded the flight.

As the plane lumbered into the air an enlisted man ran into the waiting area. "Comrade Olnikov?" he called out.

A dispatch officer waved him over. "He just left."

"To where?" the breathless man asked.

The dispatcher consulted his board just to make sure. "Samara. It should be there in three hours."

Back in the Commanding Officer's office, the young enlisted man handed the message to a Sergeant. "He is gone. He will be in Samara in less than three hours."

The Sergeant thought for only a moment. "Take this back to communications and have it sent to Samara. Then phone the dispatch office and make sure they know it must be given to him as soon as he arrives."

\- # -

Through the small windows of the DC-3, Olnikov saw an enlisted man jog across the Samara field tarmac then take up a position outside the rear of the plane. He thought he heard the man saying his name as he navigated the aisle toward the rear door and once down the short stairs he raised his hand. The young man came forward and handed him an envelope then dashed away toward the hangar.

As soon as he read the short message about now-Colonel Nuryev, adjutant to General Alexsandr Kovpak, a bolt of recognition struck Olnikov: he had probably met the man in the lobby in Berlin – the tall Major that gave him directions to Kovpak's office!

He grabbed his baggage and began running toward the hangar. Once in the waiting room he went immediately across to the dispatch office and found the senior officer on duty and was quickly escorted to a telegraph operator's station. It took Olnikov only a few minutes to encode his message to be sent to Stalin:

_Imperative General Alexsandr Kovpak and Colonel Anton Nuryev be detained. Believe they know whereabouts missing cargo_.

\- # -

When Olnikov finally reached Moscow he was more than just alarmed to learn that while Kovpak's personal fighter plane had left Orsk, it had never reached Berlin and no trace of it had been found.

Worse yet, Nuryev and his wife had apparently vanished from Berlin.

To his utter amazement, he wasn't taken directly to a cell and summarily shot. Instead he was ordered to report to the General Secretary's office the following afternoon and he spent most of the evening and a good part of the night preparing and rewriting a report.

At the appointed time, as he stood in the General Secretary's office he waited in fear for his life as he answered a few questions, noticing that Stalin barely read the report and made no notes. Finally, after Olnikov had nothing more to explain, the man surprised him again.

"Your work is not finished."

Olnikov was stunned and he refused to let himself believe the General Secretary was forgiving him for the failure of the mission.

"You were sent two months too late, Comrade. General Kovpak was very clever. I gave him far too much time. I thought they would have waited until next spring at the earliest."

All Olnikov could do was nod slightly; he was still struggling to control his breathing.

"You are an experienced agent," Stalin began again. "You have had foreign assignments. You, Comrade, you and you alone are going to find General Kovpak and Colonel Nuryev. We must assume they have been expatriated to the West."

"I agree."

"Find them. Do not take any action ... find them and again, report only to me."

Desperately trying not to tremble as he spoke but finally believing he was going to remain alive, at least for the time being, Olnikov managed to make his dry mouth work. "I believe I can find them, Comrade."

"Belief is not satisfactory."

"I will find them, Comrade Stalin."

"See that you do."

"And the contents, the things that were taken from the plane?" he managed to ask.

"Concern yourself only with the men, Comrade. The rest ... anything else is no longer your concern."

CHAPTER **27**

Texas, Tuesday, May 27, 1997

Dennis Boland sat nervously behind the wheel of the rental car in the passenger pickup lane just outside Austin's aging, downtown Mueller airport, waiting for Nelson Bailey to appear among the crowds of travelers coming into the capitol of Texas. By moving with traffic and looping around a couple of times he'd successfully avoided being noticed by the infrequent police foot patrols but his stomach was still in knots.

As Bailey stepped out through the doors into the heat and scanned the lines of vehicles, Boland spotted him and got out of the car just enough to wave to get his attention. A minute later they were maneuvering away from the curb jostling among the gaggle of other cars.

"I didn't see anything on the news," Bailey said as Boland slowed to negotiate the traffic.

Boland didn't react or show any emotion to what might have been a challenge to his credibility. "They probably decided to keep things quiet ... keep it out of the news ... those kinds-a people can do that kind-a shit around here."

Unconvinced that such a thing could be done in this day and age, Bailey let the man think he agreed. "If you say so."

"I gotta get the fuck out of Texas."

Bailey was looking around and noticed the bandage above the nape of Boland's neck. "What happened to you?" he asked, then turned and studied the images in the side rear-view mirror.

"Somebody owed me money ... they weren't happy to see me," Boland lied, trying to make an impression. He glanced over at Bailey and saw the wary look. "I couldn't wait."

Bailey didn't react to that and looked around the interior of the car. "Where is it?"

Boland jerked his thumb toward the rear. "Briefcase in the trunk. You have the money?"

Bailey patted the computer bag on his lap then asked, "You don't think they'll tell someone at the CIA they got broken into? That shit is toxic."

Boland huffed derisively. "What's the point? It's been fifty fuckin' years ... Calder's dead." He changed lanes and swung the car into the loop that led back to the terminal to the short-term parking. "We'll park in here ... I'll get it and then take you back around." He pulled the car into a space then took the keys from the ignition and got out, leaving the door open.

The trunk clunked open seconds later and Bailey couldn't see what was about to happen.

Someone opened the left-rear passenger door, shoved Boland inside and slammed it. Before Bailey could even react, another man had gotten in the seat directly behind him and a powerful hand gripped his throat from the right-hand side, pinning him against the headrest. Something was then pushed against his neck that felt very much like the barrel of a gun but despite the hand on his throat he managed to ask, "What the hell—?"

Kirkland silenced him by jamming the object harder against his neck. With a thick Russian accent he said, " _Meester Booland iz preezzoner noomber won. You are preezzoner noomber two_."

At the sound of that voice Bailey's body involuntarily reacted as fear swept through him. He had to concentrate on squeezing his pelvic muscles and legs together to avoid wetting himself and in desperation he blurted, "You can have the money, take it, take it."

He heard a click and felt a sharp sting in his trapezius muscle, followed by an odd hissing sound. Only seconds later he realized he was being rendered unconscious and a terrifying thought came to him that his captors might have decided to kill him; there was no time to consider it further.

\- # -

Nelson Bailey tried to make his eyes focus but there was nothing in the dim light that would solidify. He only gradually realized he was lying down on a hard surface and then became aware he couldn't move his hands or feet. Initially he assumed he was in some kind of bad dream and thought he'd be able to tell himself to wake up, then someone removed something from his head and the still-blurry light became almost painfully brighter. The sound of an odd, echoing voice disoriented him even more; there was a menacing and somehow foreign quality to it and when he heard it again he decided he was in a large space, like a vacant warehouse.

The sound was repeating and he began to somehow decode the words in it.

"Mr. Bailey," he heard the voice say. _That's me. They're calling me ... I should ... what?_

He unsuccessfully tried to raise his head in the direction of the sound and suddenly felt two sets of hands gripping his arms, lifting and dragging him backwards then raising him upright into a sitting position against something hard.

"Nelson Bailey," he heard more clearly and looked around in an effort to locate more precisely where the sound was coming from.

"Whaa?" he managed to get his mouth to ask groggily then he raised his hands to shield his eyes from the glaring light. He winced when the nylon ties cut into his wrists as he tried to pull his hands apart. "Whadr ... whadrudoey t'me?"

The foreign-sounding voice from somewhere in the dark behind the bright light said, "Mr. Bailey, you have a very limited amount of time."

Bailey did not understand what that meant but after a few breaths he found he was more in control of his tongue. "I do? Ferwhat? What time ... I ... is it time?"

"You have very little time left. You must do exactly what you're told to do, Mr. Bailey."

With his head only nodding loosely he realized he should respond and he asked, "Why? Do what?" What he thought he saw next was a hand with some kind of tool in it as it moved near his hands then he heard the 'click' of pliers cutting something. His hands weakly fell free and he rubbed his wrists gingerly then tried to shield his eyes and find the person speaking to him from beyond the light.

"You have a message you're going to send to your client, Mr. Bailey."

"My ... my client ... what client?"

"The client looking for Cecil Calder."

Bailey's head righted more firmly as that clue seemed to alert him to the danger he was in. Then his Compaq laptop computer seemed to swim into focus on the floor next to his left thigh and he saw a telephone connection cord that seemed to lead off somewhere. A hand came into view and opened the computer then turned it on.

Bailey was not only confused and scared, he was struggling with trying to understand what had happened to him; try as he might the last thing he remembered was walking out of an airport ... w _here_? "Where am I?" he asked thickly. "I'm ... I'm supposed ... I'm supposed to meet someone—"

"No, Mr. Bailey. The person you were supposed to meet is gone."

"It was ... his name was ... I was supposed to get—"

The voice interrupted him almost rudely. "Mr. Bailey, can you read your computer screen?"

He looked downward to his side and tilted his head as he squinted. The Windows logo was semi-legible but seemed to be drifting on the screen. "Sort of," he answered dully.

"Time is short, Mr. Bailey. What is the name of your client?"

Bailey was more than just confused but by now conscious enough to realize he was completely at the mercy of whoever had put him in this predicament. He had little or no confidence in his ability to argue let alone mount some kind of physical resistance. He nodded slowly as if his head weighed more than it normally did. "Client? The Russian? The Russian is ... is that it, if that's ... it's Go, Golikov ... his name is Golikov."

"Spell it," the voice ordered quickly.

"That's the name. Nicholas. It's Nicholas Golikov."

"Spell it."

Bailey complied, struggling as he spelled the name slowly.

The voice abruptly changed subjects. "Who is Pavel Silayev?"

It took several seconds for Bailey to respond. "A Russian ... he works for ... he's a security agent."

"And Golikov, he's a security agent?"

Bailey shook his head but said nothing.

"They work together?"

"It's not for the Kremlin ... they ... they have this, this, other thing."

"And this Golikov isn't part of Silayev's agency."

The voice hadn't formed it as a question but Bailey nodded slightly. "Yes, no, I mean he isn't. Golikov isn't ... but the other one, Silayev, he is."

The topic changed again. "Can you read now?"

The now more alert man squinted heavily, rubbed his eyes then blinked several times as he tried to glance around. When he concentrated on the computer screen he said, "I ... no, no ... sort of."

"You have an urgent message for Mr. Golikov."

Bailey took a deep breath and asked, "I do? ... what's that?"

"The one you were going to send, of course. After all, you paid twenty thousand dollars for the information ... it's a simple name and address, Mr. Bailey. Your Mr. Golikov will be impressed."

"He will?"

"Certainly."

The survival instinct seemed to raise Bailey's level of consciousness and he asked, "And I can go? You'll let me go?"

"If you're telling the truth and you send the message to Mr. Golikov."

Bailey's head was not spinning as much and he managed to put the computer on his lap. Although he struggled with his vision he looked up into the lights and asked, "What do you want him to know?"

Kirkland explained the content of the message, slowly reading off and spelling the name then an address in England. "Don't send it yet," he ordered then repeated the information.

"Don't? Okay. I won't ... when?"

"Schedule it, Mr. Bailey. To be sent twenty-four hours from now."

After several seconds the still-groggy man looked at the date and time displayed on the computer and tried to think. He nodded then glimpsed something move at his left side and could tell there was a man behind him now, watching the screen as he finished the message and set the dispatch time and date on the server.

"Send it," the man behind him with the different voice said.

He clicked on the icon and waited for the verification. "It's done. You're letting me go now, right?" he asked tiredly.

"Certainly," he heard, followed by a feeling of a sharp sting below his neck.

\- # -

Even knowing they were being monitored in their kitchen, breakfast the following morning at the Calder Ranch was more than somewhat subdued with everyone in varying states of shock and grim fascination, watching the continuing coverage of the almost unbelievable F5 tornado that had struck Jarrell, Texas in the afternoon of May 27th.

In an area some thirty-five miles north of where Kirkland and Yamaguchi had recently been in Austin, multiple tornados descended and one of them killed more than two-dozen people as it scoured a subdivision from the surface of the earth, leaving nothing behind but concrete slabs.

Not only stunned by the news, the knowledge they were being listened to meant comments about the story and the Texas weather in general formed the basis and substance of their conversation.

After Elanore finished helping Marty put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, she took a pot of coffee outside and they joined the others gathered around the large umbrella-covered table in time to hear Kirkland's explanation of what had been done with Dennis Boland and Nelson Bailey.

"So," Elanore began as if she wasn't entirely sure she understood, "we hope Boland is off to Panama, and this guy Bailey sent whoever this Russian is off on a snipe hunt in England."

Kirkland shot her a roguish grin. "Indeed."

"That's the idea," Alex said.

Marty noted dryly, "Whoever this Golikov dude is he's going to be really pissed at Bailey."

Kirkland's response sounded unconcerned. "Mr. Bailey deserves whatever happens to him." He saw the uncomfortable reaction on Elanore's face and added, "He operates in a shadow that can use a good dose of sunshine. And we ... we've created a window of opportunity in which to maneuver to find General Kovpak."

Alex nodded and quoted rather formally, "On such a full sea are we now afloat, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures."

"Cassius?" Kirkland offered uncertainly.

"Brutus," Alex corrected.

Marty held up a hand and said, "Dude, go with the flow while the iron is hot."

Alex scowled at his son and said playfully, "You have a way of butchering a good metaphor."

The light breeze was just enough to keep a few hands busy preventing Kirkland's sectional charts from being scattered on the table as he laid them out. "It'll take a little over twenty-four hours in the air from here," he said as he tapped on the location of the Hooks airport.

Elanore set down her coffee cup and gave him a questioning look. "Twenty-four hours?"

"It's about forty-three hundred nautical miles. That's four legs at about two hundred and fifty knots depending on the winds aloft. We can probably beat that going that way. But to stay in the air that long we could use some instrument-rated co-pilots to fly right-seat. We need to coordinate some breaks."

Now even more curious Elanore asked, "Where are you going?"

Kirkland pointed again at the map as he spoke. "We'll stop first at our hangar at Republic and drop off the Suburban." He then looked at Elanore to answer her question and pointed again at the chart. "Once we restock the galley then it's Gander for fuel ... then we clear customs in Glascow and finally, Cambridge."

"Cambridge?" Marty asked.

"Why do you have to get there in just twenty-four hours?" Elanore asked.

Kirkland looked at her and smiled. "You don't want to go?"

Elanore didn't know how to answer and looked bewildered. "Me?"

"I'm sure Mrs. C. will want to come along," Kirkland said.

Margaret paused with her coffee cup close to her mouth. "Why's that?"

"Ben and Terri have quite possibly determined where General Kovpak is," he said then pointed at Margaret, "and he sent you an invitation."

The entire Calder family looked stunned; the only sound that could be heard for several seconds was a squawking blue jay somewhere off in the trees.

Margaret's hand began to shake and she quickly set the coffee down before it could spill. "You found him?" she whispered in disbelief.

"How on earth?" Elanore gasped.

"We _may_ have," Kirkland cautioned.

Alex looked as if he finally understood. "Then it _was_ the packages, but—"

"Sometimes it's best to have someone approach things with a completely blank slate," Kirkland said then pulled a file folder out of his flight case and removed copies of the concocted eBay pages. "We were operating on the assumption that the four packages had been sent from four cities in England," he began, "but ... Ben examined the bar coding on the handling labels – the ones FedEx puts on the packages. They're read by automated scanners. Turns out all of them came from the same physical location – Cambridge. A drop-off counter at their airport facility."

"Then the addresses on the labels, those were just a diversion," Alex said.

Kirkland nodded. "And I wasted a lot of time trying to read something into them. I have a map with lines drawn all over it." He placed the four copies of the eBay mock-ups on top of the charts. "I have to give credit to Terri for this. Before Ben took them to the airport this morning she showed me this and it all came together.

"See these," he said as he held up a page and pointed at a line near the top. "The eBay system uses an incremental sequence of item numbers. Terri says these item numbers should increase by several thousand from the first package to the fourth," he said pointing to the numbers. "But there's no sequence at all. So she actually checked on eBay. They're all just made up."

Marty pointed at one of them and said, "Whoever they were they went to a lot of trouble to make these pages look authentic."

"With the right software anybody could make them," Alex suggested.

Kirkland nodded. "Terri explained that to me, too. Whoever sent them was counting on someone getting all four and figuring it out."

He picked up the page from the first shipment and showed them the circled item number:

052182794

Then the second shipment's page:

000015783

When no one seemed to grasp what they were seeing he turned the paper over and pointed. "Put in some proper punctuation ... and this should look familiar:"

52°18'27.94"N

0°15'7.83"E

"Dude, it's a location," Marty said.

"It is," Kirkland said with a grin.

"How on earth did you come up with that?" Margaret exclaimed.

Kirkland shrugged. "I don't really know how. I guess because I look at a lot of navigation coordinates."

Alex didn't have to look at the sectional charts. "That's the U.K.—"

"Five Miles from Anywhere," Kirkland said instructively.

The Calders all appeared perplexed and he continued. "It's a real place. North of Cambridge University. It's actually an inn on the River Cam. The actual town is Upware ... if you want to call it a town. In fact, the best way to get there will be by boat. We'll take along a Zodiac and hire a van to tow it from the plane to the dock."

"When?" Margaret asked.

"He gave us a date on the third page," Kirkland said and pointed again:

24506000208

"That looks like a Julian date," Alex announced.

"What is that?" Margaret asked her son.

"It's for calculating dates ... the number of days since January one, forty-seven thirteen B.C."

"And," Kirkland acknowledged, "if you put a decimal point before the zero-two zero-eight it computes to May thirty-one, nineteen ninety-seven ... which means he even gave us a time ... twelve-thirty p.m."

"What about the last one," Marty asked.

Kirkland looked at Alex expectantly. "That's another date," he said reading off the number:

242278300

"It's this century," Alex suggested. "I'd need a calculator—"

"April seven, nineteen twenty-one ... does that mean anything to any of you?"

Margaret's eyes widened in sudden realization and she whispered in awe, "That's my birthday ... my real birthday!"

"Well, given that I think it's pretty clear we're on the right track," Kirkland said.

Elanore gasped, "Oh my God ... this Saturday at twelve-thirty ... but couldn't we book flights ... wouldn't it be faster?"

Kirkland raised a cautioning hand. "Within a few hours of you doing that they'll probably know exactly where you're going," he said tipping his head toward the house and reminding everyone that someone more than just a little interested was listening to what went on in their home.

After a moment Alex nodded. "He's right. That's not such a good idea."

"Can't we call from out here?" Margaret asked.

Kirkland shook his head. "No, it's not just that ... it's not just them listening in ... we also have to assume that some time ago Nelson Bailey set up a way of being alerted to every credit card or airline ticket transaction you make."

"How the hell can he do that?" Elanore demanded.

Kirkland looked at her sympathetically. "As I'm sure your husband can attest, information is a commodity. There are sellers because there are buyers."

"It's how Bailey makes a living," Marty said. "The law hasn't kept up."

Alex looked at his wife glumly. "We don't have any choice."

"When do we leave?" Margaret asked.

As Kirkland offered to pour more coffee he said, "Well, I suggest we prepare to leave tomorrow and get a good night's rest." He looked at Margaret and Elanore and added, "And we have all the comforts of home on board. It's not as fast as a widebody but it's infinitely more comfortable."

"Really?" Marty asked.

"We have a galley, head, a shower ... even seats for four that convert to beds. We sometimes have to travel self-contained ... and you can all be my guests at the cove tomorrow evening."

CHAPTER 28

The U.S. and U.K., Thursday, May 29, 1997

The sunset dancing off the almost-smooth surface of Oyster Bay splashed the upper parts of the large dining room with dancing arrays of white and gold as Elanore Calder tried to imagine what Catherine Cruz would think when she got her first glimpse of the view and the Kirkland estate.

Expansive windows had been included in the design of the home to ensure spectacular views of the shore and the architects had accomplished their goal of providing places where a resident or guest could become preoccupied or even enchanted.

While the property was nowhere near the size in terms of the sheer acreage of the Calder ranch, the enormous old two and three story stone and wood manor house on the western shore of Cove Neck gave Elanore the feeling she had stepped back in time. Aged and polished wood floors with their signature sounds muted by dense artisan rugs were foreign to her. The paintings and sculptures that dominated almost all of the flat surfaces lent a feeling of needing to repeatedly search the home to mentally catalog what was there.

Despite their involvement with the museum over the years, Elanore Calder's tastes in art were far more pedestrian than the artsy-crowd and she only half-cared about her husband's insistence on having certain notable pieces in their own home. But despite her lack of in-depth understanding, she knew within minutes that the Kirkland collection was more than just eclectic – even though it seemed almost random in selection and display. _This will drive Cath nuts_ , she had told herself during Kirkland's rather abbreviated tour through the house.

Outside on the grounds she had experienced some almost claustrophobic sensations under the veritable canopy of huge trees, but soon enough the entire setting seemed powerfully serene and somehow comforting.

Several other buildings appeared to be almost scattered without reason around the property, including a garage with five doors, a boathouse nearer the beach with what looked like railroad tracks leading from it to the water and a greenhouse the size of a small hangar. There was also something that had once been a horse barn and a large home down the drive where the Yamaguchi family lived.

The only truly open space where someone could maneuver into a position to find a large portion of unobstructed sky was the lawn that extended the width of a football field toward the pier at the beach.

Seated in one of the indeterminably ancient chairs at the long dining table, Elanore tried to refocus on participating in the discussion by asking, "Why did you send them to Dunsfold?"

Kirkland took a long drink of Perrier before answering. "For one thing, it's some distance away from where we're actually going ... but mostly because there's a pub ... the Sun Inn ... _and_ I know the owner. She's going to let me know if and when someone comes looking for our 'Albert Drummond' – and I'll get a pretty good description from her."

Ben chuckled. "No kidding ... Mrs. Coltishall is a retired reconstructive forensic artist—"

"One of the best in the world with faces," Terri chimed in.

Kirkland nodded as he said, "Every bit as good as a camera. There is a possibility I may recognize him if he's been operating in the art or jewelry market for any length of time."

Marty set his glass down and rotated it back and forth by the stem as he asked, "Who do you think this Golikov dude is?"

"What if ... couldn't it be a made-up name?" Elanore offered.

"Uh uh, I don't think so," Terri said. "Our mister Bailey's been in the business for quite a while. From what we know he's been a mostly legitimate broker. Legit or not, either way he couldn't risk taking money from an unknown overseas client."

"That makes sense," Marty said. "You'd run the risk of it being a sting operation."

"But what happens when this Golikov goes to Dunsfold and finally figures out he's been taken?" Alex asked.

"To Bailey?" Kirkland asked then shrugged slightly. "He loses a client. Mistakes are expected under these circumstances."

Marty cocked his head slightly as he advised, "It's not like he can sue. Anyone playing that kind of game comes to court with unclean hands."

"He's also got a slight memory problem," Ben pointed out with an unsubtle smirk. "He'll know he went to Austin to meet Boland, he'll know he's out the twenty grand ... but he's not going to remember much about sending a message to Golikov."

Kirkland nodded. "All he'll know for sure is the message was sent from his system ... it'll confuse the hell out of him."

Elanore's eyes widened and she glanced back and forth at Ben and Kirkland. "You drugged him," she said more than asked.

"And Boland," Ben added with a nod, "he and Bailey woke up in motels. Boland down the road in San Marcos with his stuff in his van and a wad of cash from Bailey ... and a ticket on a cruise ship out of Galveston next week."

"To Panama," Alex added.

Kirkland swallowed then said, "Bailey's room was near the airport and he woke up and found a ticket – he'll also be a bit confused about missing his first flight back to Virginia."

Ben nodded again. "And finding the money gone, he'll probably blame Boland for the whole thing."

Margaret gave her son a worried look as she suggested, "But he knows about us."

"But he also knows he was poking around in top-secret territory," Terri noted. "He'd find himself the center of way too much attention if he tried to do anything with what he knows."

"But is there any way Bailey can still find out where we're going?" Marty asked.

Kirkland shook his head. "Not in time to be useful to his client."

"And all they know is we're not home," Alex added.

"Speaking of where we're going," Margaret began and turned to Kirkland, "why Glascow?"

"If they can't follow us, why not just go to Cambridge?" Elanore asked.

"In case they have an inside source in British customs," Kirkland answered.

Marty looked doubtful and asked, "They could do that?"

"We have to assume they could," Terri answered. "We have," she announced as if it were just another facet of routine business.

"There are certain people the authorities like to know are on the move," Kirkland suggested.

Elanore and her husband looked at each other in muted concern as they simultaneously processed yet another revelation about the Professor's business.

"Can you track this Golikov?" Margaret asked.

Kirkland shook his head. "Not in this short a time frame. We'd need to know where he was coming _from_ in order to get a source to watch for him."

"And we won't file a flight plan out of Glascow," Ben added.

Kirkland looked at his clients and advised, "If they do have a contact in customs or even Interpol, all they'll know is we arrived in Glascow."

"And you'll have an afternoon and night to rest up near Cambridge," Terri offered. "I found you a bed and breakfast."

"That should help with the time change," Alex suggested.

Margaret looked at Terri with growing respect and pointed at Kirkland and Ben then leaned toward her. "Not your first rodeo with these two, is it?"

Terri tried her own version of Texas twang as she said, "We'all specialize in _exigent circumstances_ , Ma'am."

\- # -

Pavel Silayev's cell phone vibrated and he answered quickly. The report from his man confirmed his growing suspicions – nothing useful had been heard on the elaborate monitoring system since earlier in the day and he gritted his teeth in frustration. _Where did they go?_

In the last year little had gone according to their original plans with the exception of Bailey finally locating the former Anton and Helena Nuryev. But, to their extreme frustration, that discovery had come about only after Cecil Calder's death.

The plan had been to come to the US with the Romanov tour then pose as Russian _Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye_ (GRU) agents and confront the old man privately, threatening to reveal his family's secrets and worse, making added accusations that he had been an active Soviet spy for many years while working as a defense contractor. They had been sure the threat of criminal investigation as well as the devastation of the family's reputation would have forced Calder into cooperating in their efforts to find Kovpak and the treasure. But now, such an approach would be fruitless and the hastily revised plan to monitor and follow the Calders for clues had been their only viable opportunity.

The almost unbelievable message he received earlier that Nicholas Golikov had somehow found who and where Kovpak was had made him suspicious; he was now almost certain the younger man would do something foolish – and fall into a trap that could jeopardize the entire project and land them all behind the walls of a Russian prison.

Another disturbing thought wouldn't go away – his partner might even be playing another game entirely, perhaps even scheming to place the blame for the failures on him and cut him out of the deal entirely.

Golikov seemingly ignored the coincidence of a man like Kirkland suddenly appearing on the scene and then disappearing with the Calders. He had also rejected the warning that the Professor was not who he said he was. _Men like him are not to be taken lightly_ , Silayev had cautioned – apparently to no avail.

Kirkland's presence might even indicate there were more people aware of the stolen treasure than they had initially believed. If there were, the playing field might now be populated with any number of would-be treasure hunters. Among them might be people who had attracted the attention of other Russian agents. Inevitably, if an investigation were to come about, there would be questions he didn't want to have to answer.

Standing outside the museum in the damp heat of the late Texas afternoon, Silayev came to the conclusion he could no longer trust Golikov; action had to be taken to rescue the plan, and in particular, demonstrate to the men who had financed their project that _he_ , the experienced and implacable professional—not the unpredictable amateur Golikov—had the keys to their success.

_The simplest answer is often the best_ , he reminded himself. _Find Kirkland and the Calders and we'll find Kovpak ... find Kovpak and we find the treasure._

"You are sure they are all gone?" he asked the man on the phone as the new and dangerous plan continued to gel in his mind. He turned to walk back into the museum and through the glass saw his solution to rescuing the operation from the clutches of a fool.

"Get everyone to the hotel at once," he ordered then cut off the connection.

CHAPTER 29

Cambridgeshire, U.K. and Houston, Texas, Saturday, May 31, 1997

With her grandson's help, Margaret Calder managed to get safely aboard and take a seat in what was to her, a large, odd-looking inflatable boat equipped with two over-sized outboard motors. "This sure as hell ain't a fishing rig," she said to no one in particular.

"Sorry it's a bit utilitarian," Yamaguchi answered as the party began settling in for the trip down river. "But it's perfect to bring along in the plane."

Alex Calder couldn't help grinning as he evaluated the very specialized craft and the twin Mercury 125HP motors lurking at the rear. _Why do I get the feeling this thing has been shot at?_ he thought then suggested knowingly, "Yea ... just the thing for high-speed exigent circumstances."

Margaret reached over and touched Kirkland's arm as he stepped toward the center console. "Don't spare the horses ... I'm not worried about my hair."

Kirkland smiled at her warmly. "More apologies, Mrs. C., sometimes we're obliged to follow the rules."

" _Sometimes_ being the operative word," Margaret suggested quietly to Elanore. A comfortable night in the quiet guest house in Cambridge hadn't diminished her excitement – or worry. The fatigue from the time change weighed heavily but now the possibility of seeing Alexsandr Kovpak in the coming hours rejuvenated her; impatience was beginning to set in.

"Since when did you start following the rules?" Elanore quipped.

"We have an image to maintain on this trip," Kirkland advised.

Yamaguchi looked at all of the Calders and said, "We're just weekend tourists ... we don't want to attract any attention."

Kirkland added as he started the motors, "It's a bit cooler than what you're accustomed to ... obviously we don't have heat on board."

"Thanks for the warning about warm clothes," Elanore said with obvious relief as she pulled the collar of her jacket up around her neck.

Once out of the small harbor the boat started moving more briskly and as Marty zipped his windbreaker up he asked, "Does it get any warmer than this with the sun higher?"

Kirkland turned and grinned at him. "'Fraid not," he said, raising his voice above the noise, "But we're lucky today ... this is warmer than usual."

"Keep in mind, we're about fifty degrees north," Ben suggested.

As they accelerated, Elanore turned away and watched the scene receding to the rear instead of facing the chill forward. Leaning closer to her mother in-law she asked, "You okay?"

"Sure," Margaret responded somewhat uncertainly. "Long as nobody pokes a hole in this thing," she added with a gesture toward the inflatable's twin hulls.

"No problem," Alex offered. "Compartments ... it's what the Navy Seals use ... they don't sink."

As excited and nervous as she was, Margaret soon found comfort not only in the advice but in taking on the role of a tourist, marveling at the significant and interesting sights of Cambridge from the river; at one point the thought came to her that she would really enjoy returning to see things from a different and slower perspective.

Sharing the narrow Cam with any number of punts and racing shells along the way meant slow going in places but there were stretches where the powerful motors could be used to make up for delays. The transition at Baits Bite lock took little time but just past the Clayhithe Road Bridge they were slowed by several long rows of docked, odd-looking, narrow 'live-a-board' boats where the wake from a speeding Zodiac would have been more than just rude.

Once they cleared the Bottisham Lock the traffic thinned and somewhat ahead of schedule Kirkland pulled into a slip at the Five Miles Inn harbor.

Margaret did her best to describe to the group what she remembered about the General but accounting for fifty years of aging made it almost impossible to predict what he might look like. As they stepped up onto the dock, the best suggestion she could come up with was to tell them to try and imagine the actor Gene Hackman in his eighties, but not as tall or heavy. "He never had much hair," she noted.

"Okay, let's see if we can find him," Alex offered.

"He won't be alone," Margaret advised. "At this age we don't do this kinda thing by ourselves."

Marty smirked, "How many old bald dudes with someone along side can there be?"

"Hard to tell," Elanore answered as she looked around. "They probably have a hat on."

After spreading out and casually searching the inn property without seeing anyone who looked anything like Gene Hackman, they regrouped and picked an umbrella-covered table outside among the growing lunch crowd.

"We're early," Alex said after looking at his watch as they took chairs around the table.

Margaret removed her scarf after sitting down. "I don't think I can stand it," she said anxiously, glancing around and wringing her hands nervously.

Elanore covered her mother in-law's hands with one of hers and hugged her with the other. "You're doing fine—"

"The hell I am," Margaret said quietly. "If he walks up to this table I'll faint dead away."

"No you won't," Elanore scoffed then added, "it's kind of exciting."

They ordered tea and coffee then Margaret stopped the waitress with a hand on the girl's arm. "'Scuse me dear – I'll take a Bloody Mary, with salt on the rim and a wedge of lime ... and can you bring a little bottle of Tabasco? Can y'all do that, please?"

"Make that two – with extra olives, green olives," Elanore said then looked at the men sympathetically. " _You_ boys might have to fly but _we_ don't."

The waitress noted the request with a smile. "Of course, Mum," she said then turned away while still writing.

Marty got up from his chair. "I'm gonna' look around."

Yamaguchi nodded. "Me too. 'Til the coffee comes."

At 12:33, with their cups refilled just once and small plates of pastries barely touched, Kirkland noticed a hostess walking among the tables carrying a cordless phone and pausing wherever an older woman was among the patrons. "Don't turn around, don't react, but I think you're being looked for," he said quietly.

When the woman was closer they heard her ask pleasantly, "Mrs. Calder? Margaret Calder?"

Margaret managed to raise a hand and nod despite being barely able to breathe.

"A call for you, Mum," the woman said, pulling up the antenna and holding the phone out. When she saw her guest's trembling hand she smiled and pressed the proper button before handing it to her.

"Thank you," Margaret managed to say then put the phone to her ear. "Hello?" she asked, her hand and voice trembling. After listening for a moment she replied, "No, no, I'm not ... No, I'm with my son, my daughter-in-law, my grandson and two of our friends are with me ... No, in a, a, ... yes, a boat ... Please, please, who is this? Is Alexsandr alright?" A visible wave of relief came over her face and she sighed heavily. "Oh, thank you, thank you, I ... Yes ... No, that's okay ... Okay." With that she handed the phone to Kirkland. "She wants to talk to the boat pilot."

Kirkland took the phone and said "Hello?" then listened and shifted his eyes around without turning his head and soon disconnected the call. "Well, it appears we passed the first test. Try not to look too excited – just in case someone else is following and watching."

The group took the instructions seriously and seemed almost paralyzed.

Elanore whispered, "Who was on the phone?"

"Is he okay?" Alex asked.

With relief and considerably more strength in her voice Margaret answered, "She said she's his daughter, and he's ... she said something about 'quite sound,' ... something like that I think." She then turned to Kirkland. "What are we supposed to do?"

Kirkland lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "In about ten minutes we get back on the boat and go almost five kilometers north to another pub."

"Dear God, another pub?" Margaret asked with so small amount of despair.

Kirkland gave her a sympathetic look as he nodded. "'Fraid so."

"They're cautious," Yamaguchi said.

"They should be," Marty added then reminded everyone in a whisper, "Smuggling stolen jewels is not a minor crime."

Alex put his hand on his son's huge shoulder. "Though this be madness, yet there is method in it."

Marty looked at Kirkland and asked jokingly, "Do they even have a madness defense here?"

Kirkland only grinned back then Alex signaled the waitress.

\- # -

With the good weather, the busy Saturday afternoon river traffic slowed them considerably and it took nearly thirty minutes to reach the harbor of the Fish and Duck pub, stationed where the River Cam joins the Great Ouse. Kirkland deliberately went past it at speed by more than a hundred meters then slowed and turned the boat around sharply, heading back to the opening to the small harbor at what amounted to a crawl.

Marty touched his dad's arm to get his attention and pointed his jaw slightly toward the eastern sky.

Alex had to put his hand up to shield his eyes then he quickly spotted the helicopter in the distance.

"It's been paralleling us since the other place," Yamaguchi advised.

They watched nervously then began to relax as they determined it was continuing north instead of reversing to follow.

"Not anymore," Alex advised.

A number of large houseboats and cruisers were docked in the harbor, some appearing to have been there almost permanently and Kirkland steered the Zodiac into one of the temporary spaces. If the handful of locals in the harbor area were suspicious they didn't reveal it.

Yamaguchi leapt up to the dock and tied off the Zodiac, taking his time with the line while he scanned the area. When he nodded at Kirkland the party climbed up and stood waiting, looking around awkwardly.

Elanore spotted the woman first and nudged her husband with her elbow. "I'll bet this is her," she suggested.

Margaret fretted impatiently as the woman passed by, apparently keeping to herself and not even interested enough to offer a greeting.

But instead of continuing toward the pub entrance, the woman turned and walked back toward the dock area. She appeared to be in her late forties with a visor cap that had trapped her neck-length, grey-brown hair behind her head. If she had been trying to melt into the regular weekend river crowd she had done a perfect job of it, wearing casual slacks, a light windbreaker and deck shoes. "Margaret Calder?" the woman asked as she approached them and removed her dark glasses.

Margaret looked expectantly at the woman and answered in a strained voice, "Yes?"

"I'm Grace ... Grace Alberton, I'm so pleased to meet you," she said in a crisp British accent, smiling broadly and offering her hand to Margaret. As she held the obviously stunned older woman's hand in both of hers she leaned slightly forward and said quietly, "There is someone who has been waiting to see you for a long time." When it was obvious Margaret was struggling to find words she added, "And I wouldn't dare keep him waiting any longer ... we'll get introduced shortly ... shall we?" she invited to the group then turned and gestured toward the dock.

Still holding Margaret's hand she led them to what appeared to be the largest boat in the harbor and Kirkland recognized it as a vintage trawler-style yacht. "That's quite a ship, he said admiringly."

"How did you get it under the bridges?" Marty wondered.

Grace looked slightly confused for a moment then almost chuckled. "Ah – you're turned about ... the Cam flows into the Ouse here ... then to the North Sea. This is about as far up-river as we can navigate much of the year," she explained then guided them to a platform at the transom of the well-tended yacht. When they were all assembled on the rear deck she opened a sliding glass door and graciously motioned them inside.

Margaret went first, removing her dark glasses then stepping carefully down the steps into the spacious salon. With the curtains closed over the windows it took some time for her eyes to adjust but she soon saw an unfamiliar older man seated in a wheel chair with a blanket across his lap. _Oh my god ..._ _Alexsandr? He's in a wheel chair, oh, but he's alive!_

His receding hair was thin, pure white and wavy in a seemingly unruly manner as if it had been brushed back then rearranged by wind. In the dim light the smallish eyes were too concealed to make out the color but the large, domed forehead and slightly-broad nose above the thin lips and prominent jaw created a shape that Margaret's mind soon connected with. Struggling to overcome the tightness in her throat she asked breathlessly, "Alexsandr?"

Despite the pleasantly surprised look that had taken over his face as she got closer to him, the old man's voice seemed almost unimpaired by emotion or age. "Helena!"

Margaret was visibly trembling as she moved toward him. "Alexsandr," she said as she bent over and reached out her hands.

He took both of them and smiled broadly, revealing a perfect set of dentures. They embraced for several moments then he gestured to a sofa on his left. "Please, please, won't you sit down," he said in a very English accent.

Margaret's voice had none of the strength his demonstrated and as she sat, tears were welling up in her eyes. "My God, Alexsandr, how on earth did you find us?"

He scanned the group and repeated the invitation to find a place to sit in the comfortably-furnished salon. "Grace, dear, the tea, would you please?"

He patted Margaret's hand as he said, "We had no way of knowing you'd actually come." He turned and gazed at all of them for several moments with a huge smile, his twinkling eyes trying to discern who was who. "Remarkable! Well – introductions are in order. Ah ... come to think of it ... I don't believe I've ever said this before —" He paused and seemed to be talking to himself as he said, "How odd." He shook his head slightly as he scanned the faces. "Until fifty years ago I was Major General Alexsandr Kovpak ... an officer of the Soviet Air Force." He turned to Margaret as he added with some undercurrent of emotion. "And Colonel Anton Nuryev was my chief of staff." He cleared his throat slightly then said, "But ... since the late forties I have been Malcom Grey – you have of course met my daughter, Grace Alberton."

Grace continued preparing the tea service as their guests introduced themselves and while setting the tray on a low table in front of the sofa she turned to Margaret. "You apparently don't know, but Father and your husband remained in contact for many years."

"But ... I know we got a few letters in California ... but after that ... nothing," Margaret said incredulously, looking back and forth between the former Soviet general and his daughter. "We were so careful, we, we, had to ... it was the rules."

A sly look crossed Grey's face and after a moment he gestured with his thumb and forefinger close together. "Little advertisements," he said.

Alex's mouth opened as the revelation set in then he managed to say, "The classifieds!"

Margaret was shocked for only a moment more then she raised a finger in the air in realization. "The Boston Globe, the Miami Herald and ... the Times, the Los Angeles Times," she listed off in amazement. " _That's_ why we always had them."

"On weekends," Alex added. "He insisted. Every weekend."

Grace nodded. "Indeed, I think Mum and I disposed of thousands of kilos of excess newsprint over the years."

Grey looked at Margaret and smiled then addressed the group again. "We rotated among the papers ... little meaningless ads in the numismatic section. It's a code Anton developed while we were in Berlin."

"The numismatic section," Margaret whispered. "I always thought that was just him buying and selling those fool coins."

Alex had a sudden realization that his father had been involved in a decades-long game of long-distance subterfuge. "Old school spy-craft," he said admiringly.

Margaret's eyes welled again and she had to struggle to keep from sobbing. "But I didn't know ... after we moved ... he never told me you were still alive."

She sounded so pained Elanore moved to sit in the adjacent space to comfort her.

Grey took her hand again and leaned closer. "It was safer for you ... and your family to not know. But ... you must tell me," he began with a broad, curious smile, "how did you discover Grace's inscrutable secret invitation?"

Margaret pointed at Kirkland and Yamaguchi without saying anything.

"Ah, I should have known," Grey said.

Yamaguchi grinned slightly before answering. "My wife uses eBay ... she saw the discrepancy in the item number sequence."

"That was the key," Kirkland added. "Before that I was trying all manner of geometric theories involving the four cities."

"I was hoping that was an effective diversion," Grace noted then looked at Margaret. "My father is far more patient than I, Mrs. Calder. I told Father if you hadn't shown up at Five Miles today I was going to Houston and just show up at _your_ door."

"It's a good thing you didn't," Kirkland advised then went on to outline the events of the last few days for them.

With a look of grave concern on her face Grace asked, "You're sure it's the Russians?"

As the group nodded, Grey said in agreement. "Of course ... it has to be."

Grace looked almost frightened as she asked, "The government?"

"No, oh no," Kirkland said assuredly. "This is well outside official channels, and we've successfully diverted whoever it is ... but you need to know you're dealing with a determined opponent ... one who has been more than willing to spend considerable sums and break any number of laws in an attempt to find you."

Grace didn't seem reassured. "Could they have followed you here?"

"Highly unlikely," Yamaguchi answered.

"We have a plane at Cambridge," Kirkland added. "We spent the night in a guest house and came directly down river. And your setup at Five Miles would have exposed them if they had been anywhere around."

"We would have gone back up-river if we'd seen anything unusual," Yamaguchi advised.

Alex looked at Grace with a knowing smirk. "That was a very clever checkpoint."

"That was my husband's idea," Grace responded with a smile.

"Your runabout was the only thing we saw following us on the river," Yamaguchi noted.

Grace looked disappointed. "I was that obvious?" she asked as she set the teapot down after pouring a cup.

Kirkland smiled at her. "You were alone ... and you stopped to watch us as we went past the harbor entrance."

"I suppose I failed the cloak and dagger test," she said lightly.

Elanore couldn't resist asking a more pressing question. "Are you safe here?"

"Very," Grey said reassuringly then his face lit up with a wry smile as he eyed Kirkland and Yamaguchi. In his life he had known a number of men who had that kind of physique and carried themselves in the same assured way. "Professor, is it?" he asked then let go of Margaret's hand and removed the thin blanket from his lap to reveal a large revolver.

In a blur of motion Yamaguchi moved across the small space and the weapon disappeared before the man could even touch it.

Only momentarily stunned, Grey quickly appeared as if he were amused. "I somehow knew that would happen ... nevertheless ... I must say, remarkable, Mr. Yamaguchi."

Yamaguchi looked at Kirkland for guidance in what to say and Kirkland offered simply, "It's what he does."

"Obviously ... you'll have to pardon me, but I had to be prepared," Grey announced as he stood up and stepped away from the wheel chair. "My apologies for the ruse, but I'm sure you understand – Grace and I are here alone."

"So," Elanore began, pointing at the wheel chair, "you don't need that?"

Grace pointed at her father and answered with a sly grin, "Clever this one is."

"You're here alone?" Margaret asked worriedly then thanked Grace for the cup of tea poured for her.

Grey nodded. "Oh, dear, yes, quite. Obscurity, especially here on the river ... we're quite remote. It has its virtues." He smiled broadly as he added, "This is the most excitement we've had in ages." He looked again at Kirkland and Yamaguchi. "You are ... you are with the CIA?"

Kirkland shook his head gently. "No, Sir. The US government has been a client from time to time and probably will be again in the future," he said evenly. When he saw Grey's look of curiosity he added, "The Calders are our clients."

Grey's look changed to one of knowing satisfaction. "You're a mercenary?" he asked without a hint of derision. "No offense at all implied in that question, I assure you."

"None taken Mr. Grey," Kirkland said honestly then nodded to Yamaguchi to return the revolver to Grey. "But no, most of what I do is appraisal work on behalf of insurers."

As Grey took the weapon and put it in a drawer, he balanced that assertion against his sense of the two men then he heard Alex say, "Professor Kirkland came highly recommended by someone we trust."

Grey nodded without revealing he knew the source of the recommendation.

"You haven't had anyone looking for you before?" Elanore asked.

Grey shook his head then thought for a moment and said, "At least none we're aware of ... it's been half a century."

"We're actually quite isolated," Grace added as she picked up a cup and passed it to Elanore. "There are few people living aboard the boats for any stretch of time ... tea?" she asked holding up the pot and pointing to the cups on the tray.

Kirkland picked up a cup and held it for Grace to pour as he said, "Obviously, someone has become interested in finding you."

"I suppose it was inevitable," Grey said quietly.

"Russia is, to say the least, dynamic," Kirkland advised. "There are new players in the game."

"And axes to grind," Margaret said worriedly.

Grey seemed to be studying something on the floor then looked at Margaret solemnly. "I would have to say the world did not turn out the way Anton and I thought it would." With the salon silent he scanned the faces again. "Predicting the future is, as I have come to learn, something of a fool's errand ... the fact is," he said then sighed heavily, "Anton and I always believed the Soviet Union would collapse ... only much earlier." He shook his head and his lips pursed before he made a _tsk_ sound and said, "Our hopes, our hopes from the outset were to restore the treasure to the Russian people and expose Stalin for what he was."

He took a deep breath and seemed to hold it before looking around at his new acquaintances. "But age ... age has a way of changing one's perspective. The years passed. We were old men when it finally disintegrated. And then ... then we see the new Russia ... it's tumultuous as you pointed out, Professor ... unstable, unpredictable. No one trustworthy ... thus we could see no opportunity that would produce a positive outcome. Not to mention, a safe one.

"Then of course the tour to America is announced. To celebrate they're going to show the world the counterfeits. The gall of these men has no bounds." His voice softened slightly with sadness as he added, "And then Anton passes."

The salon remained quiet and Margaret seemed to be struggling to not break down in tears.

"I had no idea what to do," Grey said dejectedly. "It was very sudden ... he didn't tell me he was seriously ill."

"He hardly told a soul," Margaret suggested. "Hell, he tried to hide it from me for months."

After sipping her tea, Elanore asked Grey, "What on earth gave you the idea to send those to us?"

"Your husband," he answered pleasantly as he turned to Alex. "Anton had told me you were a trustee of the museum." He then looked back at Margaret. "I ... we, we both made the assumption you'd turn to him ... and that you'd see the similar pieces in the exhibit."

Margaret shook her head slowly. "You know ... I decided not to go ... I wasn't ready to have all those folks going on and on about how sorry they were about Ceece ... I've had quite enough of that." She sighed and looked a little sheepish. "And I didn't know how to tell Alex the truth," she said as she looked at her son. "I didn't talk to him until after I got the fourth one."

Alex then noted, "I was clueless until a few weeks ago."

"We sort of had to rush to get here in time," Marty suggested.

Grey chuckled as he turned to Marty. "I should have anticipated that. They trained your Grandmother the same way they trained me." His voice took on a more serious tone. "Silence is life. The least little thing could put you in jeopardy." He waved a hand in the air as he went on. "You could put others in jeopardy. You could put your new country in jeopardy. They put the weight of the very future of the world on our shoulders."

Margaret nodded almost imperceptibly and received another tissue from Elanore.

"Forgive me," Grey said apologetically, glancing at all of them. "It was part of the small price we paid for new lives ... as Grace can attest ... forgive me, I can go on at times."

Alex cleared his throat and said quietly, "A lot of good has come from what you did."

Grey nodded solemnly and his forehead lined as he raised his eyebrows. "I find great comfort in that, I assure you."

"I know I wouldn't be here," Marty said lightly.

"I'm in that category as well," Grace agreed.

Grey's demeanor began to soften even more and he spoke directly to Margaret. "We've been blessed in many ways, haven't we?"

She reached out and took his hand and squeezed it, unable to formulate words at that moment.

"Well," he said, seeming to gather himself. "There will be more time for this, but we also have business to attend to ... it is most appropriate you brought an appraiser. So ... the treasure. What can I tell you?" he asked as he reached over and picked up the cup of tea Grace had poured for him.

Kirkland set his cup back on the saucer. "Other than the four packages you sent to Mrs. Calder, what remains?"

"All of it," Grey said off-handedly as he stirred his tea briefly. "We didn't divide it."

"I don't think we could have brought any of it with us," Margaret said.

"God, that's a relief," Alex exclaimed. "I have no idea where he would've hidden it ... at least we won't have to tear the ranch apart."

Grey nodded and said jokingly, "Knowing Anton, if he had hidden it you'd never find it without solving some kind of diabolical puzzle."

"So it's all here in England?" Elanore asked.

"Yes ... of course ... but I suppose you'll have to take my word for that," he said with a mischievous grin then added teasingly, "for all anyone knows I could have sold millions of pounds of it over the years."

"That would have been extraordinarily difficult to do," Kirkland advised.

Grey nodded in agreement. "Indeed. There is no trustworthy customer for such things."

Kirkland nodded. "And there is an inventory ... at least there is a record ... of sorts."

"What does that mean?" Marty asked.

"Umm," Kirkland began as he was sipping some tea. "For shipment, as I understand it, the items were divided into packages of roughly equal weight, not value. Apparently they knew what was sent but, the problem is, which package went in which plane was never recorded, or if it was, no one has been able to find that record."

Grey looked at him quizzically as he realized how much Kirkland seemed to know. "And, I can tell you there were no identifying marks on any of the containers."

Kirkland's mouth opened then formed into a slight smile and he looked as if a sudden revelation had come to him. "Ahhh. That confirms another one of my theories ... a reason they've had disagreements with the cartel for all these years."

"The cartel?" Grace asked.

Marty's legal sense made him add to the question. "What cartel?"

Alex remembered what Kirkland had told him in his office and he thought aloud while ignoring the questions, "De Beers knew what they received ... and the Russians knew what they sent ... but—"

"De Beers?" Grey asked in confusion then came to a realization. "So it _wasn't_ the Allies!" he said in amazement. "Even Krylov was misled."

Kirkland nodded. "You couldn't have known at the time, Mr. Grey," he said then explained the fractious situation between Stalin and the cartel as well as the complicated collateral, diamond mining and marketing relationship.

After listening to the story, Marty immediately picked up on the issue they were facing. "And they've been arguing over what was missing."

"Somewhat more complicated than that," Kirkland noted. "Well, it was ... at the time, the head of the State Diamond Fund tried to convince the De Beers agents that what they got was a much larger portion of the shipment in terms of _value_. The real problem is, once he saw the list of what De Beers reported as received, he doctored the inventory to minimize the value of the missing items."

"Sounds like something Stalin would do," Alex suggested.

Kirkland nodded. "But ... they didn't take the bait."

Squinting in concentration Grey asked, "So they only paid three-fourths of the total?"

"Exactly. In the end it got priced out by plane load, not actual content. And the record of what's missing, at least for the Kremlin, has been more than confused."

"So they don't know for sure what is or isn't missing?" Marty asked.

Kirkland shook his head. "Yes ... well, yes and no ... at least not with complete certainty. I'm led to believe there are two other versions of the inventory that have appeared over the years. There are even rumors of other thefts. But as I understand it, the De Beers advances are nearly paid off – the diamond production has been successful to say the least."

Grey shook his head in amazement as he sighed. "To pave the way for diamonds ... all of this ... we could never have known."

Kirkland nodded. "I don't know what's still in the cartel's vaults, but at some point not too far in the future the Russians should have it all back ... if they don't already."

"Well, at least we've put none of it on the market," Grace assured them.

Grey chuckled then said, "I've had what most would consider a life of wealth and privilege. The British aerospace industry was very good to us. Not unlike Anton's experience in the states. We never saw any need to try and sell any of it."

"It would have been dangerous," Kirkland advised.

"Quite correct, Professor," Grey agreed. "Particularly while we were still alive."

Kirkland nodded then decided he should ask another question. "Other than the four items you sent to Mrs. Calder, what is our determined opponent after?"

Alex interjected, "Or at least what is it these Russians _think_ they're after?"

Grey didn't visibly react but after a few moments he looked at Kirkland. "I think it best to simply show you."

"It's _here_?" Elanore asked incredulously pointing downward.

The elderly man flashed a quick smile and said, "Certainly."

\- # -

In response to the chime of the doorbell, Catherine Cruz paused briefly to look out the window of her living room and saw an overnight-delivery truck at the curb in front of her house. _Saturday morning delivery no less ... somebody sure as hell thinks it's important_.

The youngish deliveryman on her porch was dressed in shorts and a collared shirt and he smiled pleasantly. As he handed her the clipboard and pen he pointed to the box and asked, "Take it inside for you? It's about fifty pounds."

She looked at the box and then at him. "Would you?" she asked gratefully. "That's nice of you ... just put it here in the hall."

He bent down, lifted up the box easily and she stepped back behind the door as he brought it in.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move outside and turned to see another similarly-dressed deliveryman approaching up the walkway. _Two_? She didn't sense anything might be wrong until she saw the delivery truck pull away from the curb and turn into her driveway.

The struggle was short and terrifying and she soon found herself bound, blindfolded and gagged, sitting on the floor of her living room with her back against the sofa.

Almost unable to breath from panic, she listened in darkness for several minutes while the men searched the house without a word being spoken. After what seemed like several minutes she began to think it might be nothing more than a well-orchestrated, albeit misguided burglary; _they must be thinking a museum curator has the wherewithal to keep a fortune in art at home._

She sensed as much as heard one of them come across the carpeted floor and say, "Just nod or shake your head yes or no. Do you have a phone number where Professor Kirkland can be reached?"

Her heart jumped at what that question might mean but she tried not to visibly overreact. She simply nodded and tried to talk through the gag.

The coldness in the voice was unmistakable. "If you scream or call out I will hurt you. Do you understand?"

She nodded again and the man untied the gag. "The number?"

"It ... it's on a card ... in my handbag," she said nervously.

A powerful hand gripped her throat suddenly. "Do not lie again," the man warned. "We've already searched that."

As the hand relaxed its grip she struggled to think and then realized they had probably gone through the larger purse in the kitchen. "It's not in the one in the kitchen," she said fearfully. "It's in one in my bedroom. A smaller one – it's brown with a pattern. On a shelf in the closet, upstairs."

She heard footsteps on the stairs and after a very long minute a voice echoed from the hall, "Got it!" then whoever had just been searching through her closet came running down the stairs.

"Which number is it?" the man asked, obviously looking at both sides of the card.

Still terrified that she would be hurt she answered immediately, "On the back. That's his assistant. She knows how to reach him."

"And where is he?"

"He went back to New York," she answered honestly.

She could feel the presence of someone closer and lower as if crouching down.

"When I untie your hands you're going to talk on the phone. You will do exactly as I say. Is that understood?"

When Catherine nodded the man said, "You're going to tell his assistant to have him call you back immediately on this phone." He cut the ties on her wrists then began dialing the number. When someone answered he put the phone to her ear and she took it from his hand.

In an unsteady voice she asked, "Hello? Is this Terri? This is Catherine Cruz ... Hi, I need to talk to Michael as soon as I can ... Oh ... No, I ... When? ... No ... It can't wait, really, please ... My home number, yes ... Okay ... Oh, thank you," she finished, realizing she had been unable to conceal some of the desperation in her voice.

The man took the phone from her and ended the call.

"He's in Ireland," she said then asked herself, _Ireland? He didn't mention Ireland ... It was England, wasn't it?_

"Let's hope he really cares," the man said coldly.

\- # -

On board Grey's yacht, Kirkland's pager vibrated as he was examining an almost unimaginable fortune in Romanov jewelry and gemstones that Grey had laid out on the galley table. At moments the yacht and everyone around him seemed to have receded into a fog.

He had held fabulous things before and appraised substantial private collections but never in his life had there been something assembled in one place like this. Even without the pieces Grey had smuggled to Margaret Calder, what was displayed on a table in a yacht docked at a pub on the River Cam was worth more than the total domestic product of some small nations.

He ignored the pager the first time it went off but when it buzzed again he leaned back from the table and looked at the code on it with a bit of frustration. There were still things to look at but he knew Terri didn't repeat a page unless it was urgent. He turned to Grace. "Is there a phone on board?"

"Just a radio," she said and looked concerned. "The pub has pay phones. Mobile is spotty out here."

"If you'll excuse me for a few minutes," he said as he got out of the seat. "I have to call the office."

"Everything okay?" Yamaguchi asked.

"Maybe we had a nibble at the bait," Kirkland suggested.

Elanore looked hopeful. "In Dunsfold?"

"Not sure yet," he answered as he went to the door and slid it open. "I'll be right back."

It took only a minute to reach the pub and find one of the telephone booths and another minute to reach Terri. What he heard made him distinctly uneasy and he quickly placed another call to Catherine's home number.

"Hello?" he heard the distant but obviously stressed woman's voice say. "Catherine?" he asked loudly. "What's wrong?" The next thing he heard made him stop breathing.

"Mister Kirkland," a man's voice said. "There is very little time so listen very, very carefully. Do you hear me?"

_Oh dear God!_ Kirkland gritted his teeth then took a deep breath before answering. "The connection isn't good. You'll have to talk slower – but I can hear you," he said preparing to listen and memorize every note, expression and syllable of what he decided was going to be a dead man if and when he found him.

"You and I, we're going to make a very simple trade. You have about sixty hours Mr. Kirkland. Sixty hours to deliver the Kovpak treasure. Ms. Cruz will be released unharmed after I have it."

There was no point in trying some kind of deception nor could he let the rage that was building inside him come through in the conversation. "Where does this trade take place?" he asked simply.

"Do you have something to write with?"

After a moment Kirkland said, "Yes," and began writing as he listened, then read back the unfamiliar address somewhere in Houston.

He then heard the man say, "Tuesday, ten p.m., Houston time. And just so there is no confusion about what we expect to receive, we have an inventory."

The deadly-cold response was intended to be unmistakable despite the imperfections in the connection. "So do I," Kirkland said as thoughts of Catherine rushed through his mind. "And if I don't see her there, unharmed, you and everyone involved will be hunted down ... you won't be arrested or turned over to the authorities. There will be no quarter. There will not be a place on the earth to hide that I can't find you. There is no one, nor is there any thing that can protect you. Do you understand?"

There was no delay in the response. "Do not be early and do not be late and do not do anything stupid that would put her life at risk. All we want is the Kovpak treasure. It is a simple business transaction. Once we have it you'll have Ms. Cruz, unharmed. Is that perfectly clear?" the man asked.

After a moment Kirkland said. "It is." There was no response and Kirkland added calmly, "Then we understand each other."

"Tuesday, ten p.m. Mr. Kirkland."

Kirkland hung up then placed another call to Terri.

\- # -

A visibly distraught Kirkland stepped into the yacht's salon. "We have a problem," he announced.

Yamaguchi became alert at once but asked calmly, "Company?"

Kirkland could only shake his head and his dismay carried through in his voice. "They have Catherine."

Yamaguchi looked confused."They?"

"Who?" Marty asked.

"Catherine?" Elanore gasped in horror and stood up. "What does that mean?"

"Oh dear God," Margaret whispered.

Looking directly at Margaret, Kirkland responded, "That's exactly what I said ... I should have invited her along."

"How did they even know?" Yamaguchi asked.

That thought brought Kirkland around. "It has to be Silayev."

Alex shook his head as he suggested, "Or someone working with or for him."

"Our uninvited guest!" Marty noted.

Kirkland and Yamaguchi nodded in unison as Kirkland pointed out, "He has several people on his team."

Elanore was close to all-out panic. "Where is she?"

"Who is she?" Grace asked in some confusion.

Four voices started speaking at once and Grace discerned quickly this Catherine person was someone very important to their American guests.

Alex got the last word in, "She's family – and the curator at the museum."

Elanore sounded more insistent the second time she asked, "Where is she?"

Kirkland decided not to explain what he was actually feeling. "When I spoke with her she was at her house. I'm sure they've moved her by now."

Grey had been nodding as he watched and he sounded gloomily pessimistic. "Of course they want the treasure."

Kirkland agreed. "Rather than waste their resources hunting for you they decided to set up an exchange." He didn't finish by elaborating on what he was thinking: _But I'm afraid that won't save her life_.

"We have to give it to them ... we can't let—" Grace began.

"That's not going to happen," Kirkland announced flatly. Ignoring the shocked stares on their faces he added, "Don't think for a moment they'd be concerned with her life after they got their hands on that," he advised with a gesture toward the table.

Yamaguchi nodded in agreement as he said quietly, "She's a witness."

Kirkland handed the piece of paper with the address on it to Alex. "Do you know where this is?"

"But—" Elanore began in desperation.

"I think its east of Hobby," Alex said then passed it to Marty.

"My guess is warehouses."

Elanore was not going to be ignored. "Michael!" she said desperately and moved toward him. "We have to call the police – tell them, we have to tell them what's happened – what this man has done!"

Marty raised a hand as he said, "Mom, they won't even consider her a missing person for a couple of days." When he saw the shock and disbelief on his mother's face he quickly added, "And they sure as hell won't take a Russian national into custody for questioning."

Elanore was unwilling to accept that theory and her voice, despite the desperation, sounded like an order from a drill sergeant. "Al, we have to call Dickey! We have to call Dickey now ... he'll be able to—"

"We can't get them involved," Alex said firmly as he reached out and touched her shoulder. "That's not an option."

With an oddly measured calmness Grey looked at Kirkland and asked, "What do you intend to do?"

After taking a breath and gritting his teeth as he fought to focus on what had to be done, Kirkland answered with what seemed to be implacable calm. "Terri has a plane for us ... it will be at Cambridge in three hours. She'll meet us at LaGuardia ... then we'll take the Astra to Houston Tuesday ... early."

"Tuesday? Why the hell Tuesday?" Elanore asked, in near panic.

"They want to do the exchange on Tuesday night," Kirkland answered. After a few more moments of thought he looked at Grey and his daughter, "You're welcome to come and stay at my home."

"With the jewels?" Grace asked.

Yamaguchi said, "No, we'd never get it through customs on a private jet."

Kirkland appeared to be deep thought then looked up at his hosts. "My apologies Mr. Grey – Mrs. Alberton. That will have to remain a piece of unfinished business. We have something to do first."

Margaret looked truly frightened. "What are you going to do?"

"We're going to get Catherine," Kirkland answered calmly.

"You're what?" Elanore asked incredulously.

Yamaguchi moved closer to Elanore and touched her arm gently. As he looked into her panicked eyes he spoke barely above a whisper, "We will, Mrs. Calder ... we know how to do this. We'll bring her back safely."

For Elanore it seemed she was looking into face of an impossibly assured madman. _How could he say that?_ Despite her profound doubts she could detect no attempt on his part to exude simple machismo or over-confidence; instead, Elanore Calder saw something in the eyes of the man that sent a chill into her she had never felt before. _This is not his first rodeo,_ she told herself.

Having seen the man in action Marty put his arm across his mother's shoulders and said, "My money's on them, Mom."

\- # -

On board the almost absurdly luxurious private jet one of Kirkland's clients had dispatched for their emergency return to the U.S., Kirkland filled the group in on their benefactor, Pierre Bissett, the eccentric life-partner of a reclusive French billionaire.

After hearing the story Alex noted, "I like his taste in aircraft."

"Wait 'til you try the food," Yamaguchi suggested.

Kirkland nodded in agreement. "They have a world-class chef ... a former French Legionnaire ... he's actually how I came into contact with the party who sold me the Transall. But that's a long story – let's see what they put on board."

Over a magnificent French-style picnic meal Kirkland began to lay out what he had in mind for the coming days. He also explained that he and Yamaguchi were using a set of British ID's; as far as U.S. customs or any law-enforcement entity would ever know, Michael Kirkland and Ben Yamaguchi were still in the U.K.

Elanore's discomfort mounted as she realized how routine all of this seemed to be to the two men, but instead of asking the questions rolling through her mind she sampled a bit of duck pate and olive tapenade on a piece of bread. After savoring a second, larger bite she announced, "This is unbelievable!"

After trying to discern his wife's meaning Alex asked, "What is?"

She closed her eyes and sighed then spoke softly while still chewing, "Oh my God, you can cure anything with this."

Margaret pointed at one of the cheeses she had taken a slice of. "Someone tell me what that is—"

"I don't think you can get that in the states, Gram," Marty said as he spread another mysterious something on a cracker.

"Your client has excellent taste in more than just airplanes," Alex noted.

Kirkland looked at the cheese more closely and took a small amount with a knife. "Reblochon is my guess, Mrs. C."

"Dude, the only way you can get some of this through customs is if you've eaten it," Marty smirked.

Yamaguchi nodded and suggested, "We'll do our best to prevent them from finding anything left on board."

"I'll have to swim an extra fifty yards per bite," Margaret said as she cut off several more servings.

With the excellent food and samples of never-before-tasted wines, the mood lifted slightly, despite the nagging worry of what Catherine Cruz might be going through.

Yamaguchi refilled Elanore's wine glass as he said, "When we stop for the customs check, as far as anyone knows, you've had a nice trip to England and we're all here now to be guests of Professor Michael Kirkland—"

"Who will be arriving in a few days," Kirkland advised.

Margaret managed to ask first, "Then who the heck are you?"

"Just friends of the Kirkland family," Yamaguchi said.

Kirkland set his wine glass down as he said, "We have an alternate set of documents—"

Elanore raised a hand in protest. "I don't think we want to know this—"

Alex pointed at the two men and said, "We can't just say we don't know who they are."

Yamaguchi reached into a shirt pocket, retrieved a small stack of business cards and passed one to each of the Calders. "Thomas Barclay," he said as if introducing himself for the first time.

Elanore looked skeptical as she read the card aloud. "Dealer in fine arts?"

"Who better to be visiting a well-respected appraiser?" Yamaguchi responded.

The Calders all turned and looked expectantly at Kirkland.

"Carl Jorgensen," he said then as if he were being interrogated, Kirkland raised his hands defensively and added with a smirk, "Hey, I'm just his driver."

Marty didn't seem convinced. "What if someone recognizes you?"

Kirkland swallowed his wine and paused to appreciate just how good it really was before answering. "We've never come through customs at La Guardia."

"We almost always go through Bangor," Yamaguchi noted.

"Until after this trip," Kirkland began, "you'd have no idea how easy it is to come and go across the US borders."

Marty looked at him warily and said, "So whatever happens ... like in Houston?"

Kirkland nodded. "We can't be connected to it."

"But what about your plane?" Alex asked. "No flight plan?"

Kirkland shook his head as he was chewing something and looked at a grinning Yamaguchi and gave a shrug that suggested it was okay to explain.

"A little trim and tail number creativity is in order for Monday," Yamaguchi said.

The three Calders with pilot's licenses glanced back and forth at each other in amazement.

"Sometimes we have to protect things, including the privacy of a client," Kirkland said after swallowing.

Alex looked at the two men skeptically as he asked, "What about the transponder?"

Kirkland tipped his head toward Yamaguchi and shrugged again as he answered, "I have no clue how that happens ... it just does."

Yamaguchi nodded. "Diversion is often preferable to confrontation."

Margaret shook her head worriedly. "Just as long as you get our Catherine back."

Kirkland raised his glass in her direction. "We will."

As Alex raised his glass he quoted Shakespeare: "'Strong reasons make strong actions ... let us go.'"

"That one I know," Marty announced. "What's his name in King John."

"Lewis ... and here's to exigent circumstances," Alex noted dryly as he raised his glass.

CHAPTER 30

Houston, Texas, Sunday, June 1 through Tuesday, June 3, 1997

Catherine Cruz woke up again in the small travel trailer when the noisy little air conditioner started up and began stirring cooler air around in the cramped space. She had no idea where she was and although she wasn't physically injured the fear that gnawed at her meant sleep was intermittent, at best.

The sounds she could barely make out from time to time and the continuous darkness of the covered windows hinted that the trailer was inside a building; a large, empty one like a hangar or warehouse. She could hear jet airplanes taking off and landing in the distance which told her she was somewhere near, if not actually on an airport.

At some point she concluded the trailer itself had been rented; the instructions on various parts of it were designed for people like her who had never been in one let alone attempted to use one to live in, no matter how briefly.

Although she had been terrified to the point of nausea, the men at her house had been civil enough to let her take off her blindfold and haphazardly pack some clothing and personal items, then, with the blindfold back on they led her into her a vehicle they had parked in her garage. She guessed they had driven for more than an hour before pulling inside the building where they more-or-less lifted her out of the vehicle and into the trailer where she took the blindfold off.

Once inside her makeshift prison cell she resigned herself to spending three nights in captivity but since they didn't let her keep her watch, not being able to tell the time became more than just annoying.

Worse, she discovered their choices of food for her; if there was something she didn't like they had somehow managed to include it among the cheap frozen microwavable packages that looked as if they had been purchased at a convenience store. Her first meal she considered breakfast and it consisted of a frozen waffle and instant coffee made with bottled water heated in a cup in the tiny microwave.

With nothing to do but worry, she reasoned that somehow, someone involved with the Kovpak treasure wanted Michael to deliver it in exchange for her but she didn't really know if he could find it, let alone deliver it.

Everything she thought she knew about these kinds of situations was from lurid fictional accounts and she unsuccessfully tried to put all the ugly scenarios out of her mind. A recurring sense of imminent danger kept rolling over her when she remembered that at any second the door might be unlocked and one or more of the thugs might do what thugs do to women in captivity. She kept telling herself that these men were somehow above that; the two she had actually glimpsed in her home were cold, calculating and business-like but gave no signals they were sexual predators.

Next to the psychological punishment of fear, boredom was close in terms of being the most difficult thing to cope with. She could have kicked herself sometime during what she thought was the second night when she started looking around more closely and discovered a very small color television in a compartment behind a sliding panel above the table. Even though the reception was marginal it was like manna from heaven just to be able to find out what day and time it was but she kept the volume very low to avoid letting her captors in on her secret.

Unfortunately, it was devastating to learn she had been in the trailer for just eighteen hours. After a short crying spell her mind seemed to adapt; nothing more than the stimulation from the small screen seemed to matter and she blanked out almost everything else.

Interspersed with the numbness, the memory of the good parts of the past several days gave her hope but then any thoughts of what might happen on Tuesday night only made her insides churn with fear.

Once on Sunday and again on Monday night, a man wearing a mask knocked on the door, waited a few seconds then stepped into the trailer and handed her a cell phone. He ordered her to check the messages on her home answering machine with him listening. Her heart leapt when she heard her brother's voice on the only Sunday message; the fact that it was in Spanish irritated the man and he angrily questioned her translation with a warning that there would be consequences for trying to make fools of them. After the initial fear wore off, a wave of guilt hit her for not being able to respond as soon as she normally would. She worried about him worrying; they always returned each other's calls.

The messages from Monday started arriving shortly after she failed to show up for work. Shannon Liu's two calls were eventually followed by one from Matt Dunlap, hoping nothing was wrong and trying to reassure her that they were just concerned and hoped to hear from her soon.

At one point during what she determined was the third day, she decided to see if doing something relatively normal would help her sleep. After assuring herself no one could see in the bathroom's window, she tried the tiny shower and was pleasantly surprised there was hot water. Just getting clean and changing clothes raised her spirits for a few minutes and she fell deeply asleep sometime after four in the afternoon on Tuesday.

\- # -

With two days of intense but necessarily hasty preparation behind them, Alex and Marty Calder sat inside a rented car and watched from nearly a block away as Kirkland drove a windowless van onto the empty lot of the designated address at 9:56 p.m. At 9:58 they saw two cars without lights rapidly converge on the space, one pulling around in front and one in back of the van.

Marty stretched his hands and tightened his gloves then pulled the semi-auto .40 caliber Berretta from the holster

"Wait," Alex whispered.

"I'm waiting," Marty murmured nervously then rechecked the round in the chamber and put the safety back on.

"You're going to wear that out," his father chided, trying to take some of the tension out of the situation.

Even with the night-vision binoculars Kirkland had given them, from their vantage point it was hard to tell what happened next but there was suddenly a lot of movement.

"What the Hell?" Alex said under his breath as he put the car in gear and gunned it forward. "Something's wrong – get ready!" he warned. He slowed only slightly as he jumped the curb diagonally, not really caring what happened to the tires or suspension. The car dashed through the opened gate then skidded to a stop as Marty exited with his weapon raised. By the time Alex was out from behind the wheel and around the front of the car he saw Kirkland dragging a limp man toward the back of the van and Yamaguchi doing the same with another; a third man was still lying half-in, half-out of the passenger door of the car in front of the van.

The only man still alive was attempting to crawl away and Alex saw something protruding from his thigh. As he moved closer with his gun raised he recognized the object as a martial arts throwing star. "Stop!" he ordered as the man looked to him, gasping in pain.

"Pleece, pleece, don' shoot me!" the man pleaded in a thick accent.

Kirkland strode in front of Alex, pressing the pistol downward for safety. "We need him," he said calmly then seized the man by the ankle of the injured leg, swiveled him around and began dragging him toward the van. "He's the driver."

The man gripped his thigh with both hands and screamed through his teeth in agony then opened his mouth and begged, "Stop ... stop!"

Kirkland dropped the leg and looked at Alex blithely. "The drivers always know where to go." He turned to the whimpering man on the ground and reached for the leg again. "You know where to go, right?"

"Yes! Yes!" the man squealed as he reflexively tried to pull his leg up out of reach, stopping instantly as the pain amplified from his own movement.

"Good," Kirkland announced then reached down and yanked the man up from the ground by his arm as if he were a small, recalcitrant child. Another moan resulted and Kirkland hoisted him high enough to not have to use the injured leg as he half-carried him to the side door of the van. "Don't worry ... you won't have to drive," he whispered harshly.

Yamaguchi had the other two dumped in the back and was dragging the man from the car to the back of the van when Kirkland shoved the injured driver inside. The Calders saw the man recoil in fear as Yamaguchi hoisted the last body into the back, then the doors closed and Kirkland turned and looked at the father and son who were both staring at him uneasily. "Ready?"

Kirkland saw them nod but it was obvious they were shaken and he consciously avoided acknowledging the looks. "Park these two cars over in those spaces," he advised pointing toward a fence, "then follow us. When we get there, stay back, stay covered and stay alert. Look on the roofs of other buildings especially," he said. "Unless you hear one of us say otherwise on the radio, _do not_ go inside. No matter what ... got it?"

The Calders both nodded then turned and ran to move the cars away from the scene of the carnage.

\- # -

With the injured man more or less jammed between the front seats and giving directions between moans and gasps of pain, Kirkland drove to a row of large empty warehouses and stopped when the man pointed and announced painfully, "There! That ... that eez eet ... that eez the door."

"How many men are in there?" Kirkland asked.

The answer was strained. "Four."

"Where is the woman?"

"A, a, a, a _rulotă_ ," the man finally got out.

_Romanian_ , Kirkland realized. "A _trailer_ , she's inside it?"

The man nodded while grimacing in pain.

"Alone?"

"Yes, yes."

"No one outside?"

"No ... no," the man said miserably. "Not yet ... not now. We were to drive you ... for an hour."

Kirkland shook his head and said disgustedly under his breath, "Morons."

\- # -

Minutes later the father and son waited again, watching the van from their vantage point some fifty yards from the warehouse door. As Marty fidgeted Alex cautioned, "Stay focused on your side."

"I am," Marty responded quickly, thinking and re-thinking about their rapid indoctrination to close combat and the handgun practice Ben Yamaguchi had taken them through in the indoor training range on Kirkland's estate.

Hearing the stress in his son's voice Alex said, "Take it easy."

"The dudes in the back of that van are dead, Dad."

Knowing what was going on in Marty's mind but still concentrating on the objective of the safe rescue of Catherine Cruz, Alex responded casually as if he were briefing his squadron on the risks of an upcoming mission, "That shouldn't come as a surprise."

"We're involved in a killing, Dad. Maybe four," Marty whispered anxiously as if his father hadn't fully grasped the enormity of the situation.

Without looking toward him Alex advised steadily, "When she's safe we'll worry about it."

They heard an engine rev wildly and watched the van charge forward across the concrete and crash through the overhead door into the dark warehouse space. Alex gunned the car through the open chain link gate and skidded to a stop where the van had been then the two quickly exited and crouched behind the doors, scanning the corners and roof edges with their guns aimed. After a long, agonizing minute the loud, cracking sounds of gunfire from the barely-lit interior of the building made Marty instinctively duck down.

"See anything on your side?" Alex asked.

To Marty, his father's voice sounded as if they were sitting in a deer blind sipping coffee, not crouched behind the doors of a car with handguns drawn and waiting for armed human targets to suddenly appear. "Uh uh," he answered as if he weren't scared, trying not to pay attention to the nagging worry about what an arrest and conviction would mean.

Without looking at his son Alex suggested lightly, "Just be glad your mom's not seeing this."

"I'm more worried about the cops."

"Your concern is misplaced ... trust me."

What happened next was a baffling and nerve-wracking combination of sounds they couldn't identify mixed with more gunshots followed by another long quiet pause. Then came the roar of an engine followed by a sedan bursting out backwards over the rubble and swinging 180 degrees to a lurching stop.

Alex saw a very-much alive but dazed Catherine Cruz with Kirkland in the rear passenger seats and Yamaguchi behind the wheel.

"Follow us," they heard Kirkland say over their earpieces and when Alex had the car pointed the right way the two cars sped out of the parking area. After several turns on the barren streets at normal traffic speeds, Yamaguchi pulled into an alley and drove for half a block then swung into a gap between two buildings.

"We're coming to you," Alex heard over the radio, then saw Kirkland guide Catherine into the back seat while Yamaguchi lagged behind, scanning the area for any hint of trouble.

With all three in the back seat, Alex backed the car out as Marty turned and looked at Catherine. "You okay?" he asked gingerly.

She did her best to respond with a quick nod. "I'm okay ... really, I'm okay."

"You're sure?" Alex asked insistently as he glanced in the mirror.

Marty hadn't taken his eyes off the obviously frightened woman. "Do you want a doctor?"

She shook her head slightly. "I'm okay." She insisted then smiled quickly at him and shook her head more aggressively as she realized the meaning behind Marty's question. "No, no ... I'm okay." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Wow ... it's ... this is ... this is like waking up from a nightmare ... how did you find me?"

"The Professor convinced the driver to take us to you," Alex said then turned and glanced at her directly; even in the darkened interior of the car she didn't look well. "You're as white as a sheet – and that's a lot for you," he said teasingly.

She grinned weakly then chuckled at Alex's dig about her normal coloring. "I could go a long time without ever seeing something like that again," she said weakly and leaned closely into Kirkland's chest. With his arm securely around her she began to try and slow her breathing.

Before starting out from a stop sign, Alex looked back again and smiled at her. "I'm just glad you're in one piece."

She closed her eyes and a squeamish sensation made her cringe. "Do me a favor," she said, gathering her strength. "After tonight ... I would really appreciate it if no one ever uses that phrase around me again."

"Sorry," Yamaguchi said quietly.

In the dark of the back seat she managed to give Yamaguchi a faint smile, then the intermittent street lights revealed some mottled stains on the odd, dark-gray pajama-like clothes he was wearing. _Oh, God, that's blood_ , she admitted to herself then closed her eyes and tried to focus on anything other than what had happened. _He cut off a man's arm!_ Unsuccessful at avoiding the sensations and emotions of the moment, a part of her mind finally provided an important rationale: _They saved my life! They risked their lives for me._ She took in a deep breath and exhaled through her nose then reached over to Yamaguchi and gripped his hand. "Thank you," she said resolutely.

"It's part of my job," he responded lightly.

"They would have killed me, wouldn't they?" she asked as her nerves steadied.

Kirkland hugged her gently but didn't suggest a different train of thought. "That wasn't an acceptable outcome," he said very quietly.

\- # -

After quickly changing clothes, Yamaguchi joined Marty in the cockpit and in minutes the much smaller but decidedly faster Astra SPX was taxiing in line with three other planes toward the end of the Hobby runway. As they waited, Kirkland leaned back slightly and studied Catherine's numb expression. "I didn't intend for you to see any of that," he said. "We didn't expect that many of them."

She grimaced slightly then she realized she didn't know what was going on. "By the way, where are we going?"

Kirkland smiled slightly. "Long Island – not exactly the way I planned to have you come visit – Elanore and Mrs. C. are still there."

Glancing at the two men she gathered strength in large part from their seemingly unfazed demeanor. Just as the engines roared and the plane shot forward she raised her voice considerably to be heard and gestured at her clothes. "I'm not packed for a trip to New York."

Kirkland smiled at her and said, "Terri will take care of it."

Once in the air Kirkland configured the seat to allow her to rest comfortably and in minutes the exhaustion caught up with her and she gradually drifted off to sleep.

Although relieved and tired, Alex was nowhere near sleep and thought of yet another issue. "What about the rental cars?" he asked Kirkland quietly. "Won't the police find out you rented them?"

Kirkland shook his head. " _We_ didn't."

Having seen Kirkland and Yamaguchi go into the rental car agencies at Hobby Airport, Alex gave him a puzzled look.

" _Arthur Gibbons_ rented them—and no one will ever be able to find him because Mr. Gibbons is nothing more than an ID and a credit card account ... his credit is good. And ... the credit card company will even get an untraceable money order out of a bank in the Caymans before the thirty days are up."

Alex chuckled slightly and shook his head. "That would be one of mister Barclay's associates. I get the feeling there are more like him."

"Oh they don't know each other, I assure you ... but yes, there are more of them. Diversions are a necessary part of—"

"Exigent circumstances," Alex finished for him.

CHAPTER 31

Long Island, New York, 0230, Wednesday, June 4, 1997

Despite the late hour, having received the very brief call that Alex placed from a pay phone letting her know everyone was safe, Elanore Calder was almost desperate to meet the plane when it arrived at Republic Airport and Terri Yamaguchi readily agreed to take her rather than wait together at the estate. About thirty minutes before the plane was scheduled to land, they left Margaret with the sleeping girls at the Yamaguchi's house and headed off in Terri's minivan.

With Elanore fidgeting nervously in the passenger seat but relishing the relief of Catherine being safely rescued, Terri finally felt it was safe to raise the subject of the new relationship her boss had dived headfirst into. "I can't tell you how much I've been hoping something like Catherine would happen to the boss."

Elanore was only slightly surprised and couldn't help grinning at the younger woman's overtly honest opinion. Despite the reassurance of finding another person excited about the possible relationship, a flood of conflicting emotions came rushing at her again. "Oh, I know what you mean," she managed to say quickly, but after a longer moment her voice became strained. "As neat as it seems for them ... I'm not dealing with this very well ... not at all." As she looked around at the trees sweeping by in the headlights she swallowed a few times but her voice was still tight. "She's s just so damn happy."

Terri smiled and reached into the console between them, took out a tissue and offered it across the space.

"Thanks," Elanore managed.

"Don't count her out yet ... he already knows he's not going to be able to just yank her up by the roots and transplant her."

"Umm ... I don't know ... he looks strong enough to rip out a tree," Elanore countered.

Terri grinned broadly. "He is that ... but he's a realist, too." She slowed and stopped at an intersection and while waiting for the minimal late-night traffic she began an explanation of how and why Kirkland's first marriage had come apart.

As Elanore digested that new information she sighed, then suggested quietly, "Cath told me he blamed himself for not making enough time for a marriage."

Terri nodded slightly as she slowed to make a turn at a flashing light. "He was running the business by himself ... not exactly a recipe for a successful marriage, eh?"

Elanore sniffed and nodded, then, trying to balance that situation against her own unusually-successful marital experience, she related the story of how she first met Kirkland at the museum then said, "If I was married to him I'd never let him out of my sight."

"He really doesn't see himself as a ladies' man," Terri confided. "He's not shy but there is an inner-geek you haven't seen yet."

Elanore told her about the surprise meeting at Margaret's house then the 'interview' the next day with Dennis Boland. After taking a deep breath she added, "Honestly ... I was scared ... I had some thoughts going there he might be Hannibal Lecter _._ "

Terri snickered and lightly pounded the steering wheel with one hand. "Now, see, _there's_ an example of what you see isn't what you get," she advised slyly. "I guarantee he's never even seen the movie – he hates horror movies."

Elanore was taken aback by the thought that the Michael Kirkland she knew, albeit briefly, could be afraid of anything. "You're kidding," she scoffed.

"No ... I kid you not," Terri said. "The scariest thing in his video library is _Beetlejuice_!"

Elanore couldn't help but chuckle. "That is just wrong in so many ways."

"He'll tell you it's so the girls don't accidentally see one in the entertainment room ... but he just doesn't like 'em, especially if it's something really dark."

Elanore shook her head in disbelief and an odd thought came as she tried to formulate the best way to ask a question that she didn't want to ask her husband. Finally she decided to emulate Terri's frankness. "This is going to sound sort of out of place, so just tell me if it's none of my business ... but did the museum hire you or did Alex?"

Terri smiled again. "Your husband ... and to anticipate your next question that you're too nice to ask, yes, he's expensive."

"I could tell that from the moment I laid eyes on him."

"Oh, yea ... he does have good taste in clothes, and he can afford them. We quoted four thousand plus expenses for the assessment of the museum pieces," Terri said. "But a part of the trip expense is billed to another client – the trip to Dallas was already on the schedule. After that, well, I have no idea how to account for all of this and I'm sure he doesn't either. At this moment I can't think of how to turn it into a tax deduction ... but I will."

Elanore smiled again. "I know the price of 'jet A' fuel and suites at Horseshoe Bend ... she hasn't exactly been a cheap date."

Terri's tone became only slightly more serious. "He's aware, believe me ... that's part of my job ... but he wasn't always. You realize ... this is a man people all over the world trust to tell them what their pretty things are worth ... but, get this, a little while after Ben went to work for him to fly that plane, Michael found out I did people's income taxes ... and he asked me if I could ' _help around the office_ ' as he called it." She paused and then as if someone else might overhear a juicy piece of gossip she said quietly, "He was losing money and he didn't even know it."

When Elanore looked at her with a stunned expression, Terri raised her eyebrows, nodded very slowly and turned quickly with a 'just-between-us' look. "Yep ... Michael got his money the old-fashioned way," she said instructively. "He inherited it ... at least at first."

_Well that answers one question_ , Elanore thought. "If I remember this right he said his father moved here from South Africa ... they live on a boat?"

Terri almost giggled. "Sheesh ... if you want to call a hundred-something-foot yacht a _boat_. They got tired of winters here ... the boss was gone so much ... it took them two years just to have it built. But they still have their suite at the house."

"Really?"

"He didn't make it part of the tour ... they haven't used it ... it's been over a year ... no, it'll be more than two this October."

Elanore considered what that kind of life might be like for a few moments then her curiosity rose again about the man Catherine was apparently smitten by. "So the money was from which side of the family?"

"Both – well, mostly Michael's dad but his mother's side of the family was well off ... but ... and please don't mention this," she almost pleaded, "there's a major disconnect there." She paused to glance around and signal before changing lanes then continued. "His grandmother didn't approve of her daughter gallivanting all over the world and meeting up with _foreign_ men."

Elanore's mouth opened and she nodded in realization. "Sounds like my dad's mom ... gramma Ginny didn't think much of Al ... especially when she found out he was from California ... he might as well have been from Mars. I'll tell you ... that made for an interesting first Thanksgiving."

Terri snickered again with a 'that's nothing' expression. "Oh, get this ... me coming from a half-black, half-Thai father and a half-Caucasian, half-Hawaiian mother, try imagining what holidays are like for Ben and me – if you hadn't noticed he's not exactly oriental looking."

"Well, I was trying to be polite—"

"Ah ... here's the scoop. Ben, when he was a baby ... Ben was adopted by a Jewish couple ... then there was a divorce and he wound up with his mom, so then, his mom eventually married a guy who was Japanese on his dad's side ... and, well, he kept that side of the family's name."

"No offense ... why?" Elanore asked in confusion. "Wouldn't that ... I mean ... wasn't that a problem? For a kid ... like in school?"

"Maybe. You've got to admit he doesn't exactly look Jewish, either. And can you imagine trying to be a sensei ... we're in New York. Think about it ... a martial arts instructor with a name like Benjamin Epstein?"

A laugh preceded a "Good Lord," in response.

"And, you talk about family issues – are you ready for this? Michael was in his grandmother's will ... but his _mom_ wasn't."

Elanore inhaled and exhaled then said, "Ooooh." After a few moments she added, "That's a twist ... so it took him a while to get the business started?"

"Oh, no, no. He was busy all the time. Business was great. Just between us, Michael's problem was he took too many things in trade ... then forgot about the part where he had to sell some of them."

Elanore thought of some of the fabulous artwork she had seen in the house during their visit. "So, what you're saying is he's just an exceptionally attractive packrat with expensive taste?"

Terri grinned and looked relieved to be able to talk about it. "Elanore, you have no _idea_! It's worse than that. He's a rich boy with way too many toys ... mainly because his clients would sometimes rather give him something than pay cash."

"Uh ... I know how that works," Elanore said in agreement. "We've done our share of trading over the years – a lot more when we actually ran the ranch."

"That barn you saw ... the horse barn on the property?" Terri asked then saw Elanore nod. "That thing is full of stuff, all kinds of shit ... well, not shit, God-awful expensive stuff I weed through twice a month ... then I practically have to nail his feet to the floor to get a price on something."

"God awful expensive shit," Elanore noted laughingly. "I like that."

Terri nodded. "The batches of little stuff I've finally started doing on that eBay Internet thing—"

"Really?"

"Yea ... it's great for some things, but the valuable stuff I have to take into the city to the auction houses. And there are bigger things ... things you have to pay frickin property taxes on ... and insure."

"Like cars and airplanes?" Elanore mused knowingly.

"Oh, God, don't get me started on planes!" Terri said with real exasperation. "The Astra is just the newest toy."

At the mention of the jet they were heading to meet, Elanore's thoughts turned back to Catherine and what had happened to her in the last four days. She had to take a deep breath and try to relax as a giant sliver of worry wedged itself into what had been a really fun and revealing conversation. She looked out again to the sides at the commercial and industrial facilities sweeping by then looked at her watch.

Terri glanced at the clock on the dash and asked, "Did your husband tell you anything about what happened?"

Elanore shook her head. "Uh uh. Just that everything went as planned." As she said it the worry crept back into her mind and although she decided to not let her imagination run wild she had to ask Terri another delicate question. "Do they ... do your husband and Michael do things like this a lot?"

Terri turned and looked at her innocently. "Like what?"

"Oh, hell, little things. Use blowtorches to scare people into telling them things ... drug people, change tail numbers on airplanes ... rescue damsels in distress, leap tall buildings in a single bound ... the usual stuff."

Terri smiled but the answer didn't come quickly or easily. "Ben ... Ben doesn't tell me some things but ... he's a wee bit more than a company pilot. Part body guard you could say. You saw some of what they did getting ready ... I really should let Michael say more if he wants to ... but we, well, they sometimes have had to deal with what he calls—"

"Exigent circumstances," they said in unison.

\- # -

Elanore and Terri waited impatiently inside the open hangar as the jet coasted to a smooth stop inside and the engines quieted. Moments later a mechanic put chocks on the wheels as the plane's door stairs swung down then Alex Calder stepped off first and hugged his wife tightly.

When Kirkland climbed out and helped Catherine negotiate the stairs Elanore quickly became alarmed at how tired and strained her friend looked. Words didn't work and she simply held her as the tears of gratitude and relief began.

Terri glanced at Kirkland and whispered, "She okay?"

He tipped his head toward the former captive and noted, "She hasn't slept much for three days – she fell asleep on the plane."

"Should I call Doctor Connor?" Terri asked quietly.

"I'll be okay," Catherine insisted as she let go of Elanore and sniffled. "Really."

Alex looked at his wife and suggested, "Let's let Mom have a look at her."

After Marty and Ben came down the stairs Terri hugged her husband and waited while Kirkland led Catherine toward the Suburban before whispering, "What happened to her? She okay?"

Ben avoided her eyes and then realized letting his wife's imagination go too far would be worse than the truth. "It's—"

Terri's eyes widened as she interrupted him. "They didn't —?"

"No, no, no. Nothing like that. They stuck her in a little camp trailer for three days inside a warehouse," he said disgustedly.

Terri took in a deep breath then whooshed it out.

"But she saw some ugly stuff, babe."

Terri turned and looked at her husband. "Bad?"

"Bad enough. There were only supposed to be two in the warehouse but there were four."

"Four?"

Ben nodded grimly. "Yea, and the boss got to meet the guy on the phone ... the one at her house. And the Russian, Silayev. Plus we already had four in the van when we went in there."

"Shit!" Terri whispered as she detected the finality in his voice. She almost shuddered at what the woman might have seen. "That's not so good." She felt her husband's arms around her again and said, "Mrs. C. is watching the girls ... you should see it ... a whole new kind of grandma ... it's pure Texas white bread." She pulled back and looked more closely at her husband's eyes. "You're tired, aren't you?"

"Ah ... mostly tired of cockpits," he admitted. "And I'm hungry, and I miss the girls, and you, and there's this kink in my neck, and I want to sit in the hot tub, and I have this boo-boo on my elbow, see," he said as he took his arm off her shoulder and pointed with the other hand, "and on this hand, look, see ... I really—"

Terri tried to shove him toward the waiting cars but it was like trying to move a boulder with a tiny shovel.

"No, really," he protested teasingly, "I need some new contacts, and—"

She shut him up by kissing him quickly.

"Okay, that's what I really needed."

"Here," she said as she handed him a plastic container of tiny mints. "You taste like potato chips," she teased with a grimace then they walked quickly over to greet Catherine before Kirkland closed the door on the Suburban.

\- # -

In response to Catherine's insistence that she was just tired, Margaret Calder looked down at her sternly. "I'm sure you're tired Hon but the real problem is you're dehydrated. I'd be willing to bet you haven't peed since yesterday," she added scoldingly as she carefully inserted an IV needle in a vein in Catherine's outstretched arm.

"Didn't they give you any water?" Elanore asked with a mixture of concern and disgust as she watched Margaret set the catheter in the vein, tape the assembly in place and adjust the drip rate.

Catherine nodded. "I even made some god-awful instant coffee." She thought for a moment and realized she wasn't a hundred percent sure how much she had had to drink while in the trailer. "I guess I didn't drink enough."

"Next time you find yourself kidnapped by brigands remember to drink more," Margaret admonished as she patted Catherine's shoulder. She drew a small amount of something from a vial and injected it into one of the taps on the IV set. "That will help y'all sleep for just a bit," she said quietly, then added a warning, "but I want you up and peeing in the morning."

"Thank you Mrs. C.," Catherine said gratefully, unable to conceal a smile.

"I can always use the practice," Margaret noted as she removed the blood pressure cuff from Catherine's other arm. She looked around at the group and warned them, "But I'd prefer regular office hours and not have to work on my loved ones."

"You always carry this stuff with you?" Ben asked and gestured to the IV and the small suitcase-sized lockable shipping container she had taken things out of.

Margaret smiled at him. "Don't leave home without it."

"We had a pretty good-sized crew at the ranch," Alex said. "Put young men, cows, horses and equipment together and you have accidents."

Margaret said to everyone in the room, "I'm going back to bed – and I don't want to know what time it is."

"Excellent idea," Alex offered.

Elanore patted her friend's hand and smiled, trying not to cry with relief. "See you tomorrow," she said quietly.

As his bedroom emptied, Kirkland remained with Catherine and took her hand when he sat on the side of the bed. "I wish I had known about ... about your ... your not ..."

"Not peeing?" Catherine finished for him and grinned at his apparent embarrassment.

"Well, yes, that," he said trying to not look flustered. "I would have chosen the term _dehydration_ but that does make me sound too clinical ... I'm going to have to get used to Mrs. C.," he noted.

Catherine smiled back at him warmly. "I don't think there's anything she can't do."

"She also swings a mean tailhook ... the kid's hitting must be genetic."

She chuckled and Kirkland looked at her worriedly as he shook his head. "I should have shoved a water bottle in your hand the moment we got you on the plane."

"I guess I was so tired I wasn't thinking about water," she admitted. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek then she pulled him to her and kissed him longingly. "Thank you, Michael."

As he raised up slightly and eyed her he whispered, "You really are a lot tougher than you look." He gently brushed some hairs back from her forehead and made a _tsk_ sound then sighed before quietly saying, "The things one has to do nowadays to get a woman to visit—"

"All you had to do was ask," she said almost defensively.

"I can't wait to show you around."

She smiled and whispered sleepily, "I feel like I need a little nap first," then her eyes closed.

"I'll wake you in plenty of time for brunch," he promised. He watched her breathing for almost a minute, his mind racing with what she meant to him and what the future might entail.

"Michael?" she slurred without opening her eyes.

He put his hand back on hers and answered, "I'm still here."

With her eyes still closed she said softly but definitely, "I don't want to be alone tonight."

He leaned closer to her again and whispered, "You won't be," then kissed her cheek.

\- # -

A few minutes after ten a.m. Alex walked into the L-shaped entertainment room that bordered the expansive kitchen on two sides and looked at the huge television Marty and Ben were focused on.

"Nothing on the news," Marty said as he shook his head and pointed the remote, continuing to surf through the satellite channels.

In an overstuffed leather chair to Marty's right Ben Yamaguchi sipped some coffee then looked at his watch. "You'd have thought we would see something by now."

Alex looked into the kitchen to ensure his mother and the two Yamaguchi girls couldn't hear him before he moved closer toward Ben. In a whisper he broached the question he had been holding for almost twelve hours, "Those men in the van, and the others in the warehouse, they're all dead, aren't they?"

Before he could answer Marty raised a hand. "If we _don't_ know what happened we won't be lying when we say we _don't_ know what happened," he warned quietly.

As he took a seat on the sofa next to Marty he said, "You'll have to excuse my son the first year law student."

Ben thought for a few seconds then said calmly, "He's right."

CHAPTER 32

Houston, Texas, Wednesday, June 4, 1997

Houston P.D. Detective Ron Short and Sergeant Adolpho Gutierrez revealed their badges to the two uniformed officers then ducked under the yellow and black warning tape that barricaded the large truck transit area fronting a tall warehouse. After crossing the expanse of cracked concrete sections punctuated by protruding weeds, they stepped cautiously through the debris of what had once been an overhead door. Large, buckled sections of aluminum, twisted framing and track were scattered toward the inside from something that had obviously torn the door down and run over it at considerable speed. Further in they saw what must have been the tool of destruction, a battered full-sized Ford Econoline van with its doors open. Two other sedans were parked off to the side near a pair of tables and a scattering of folding chairs but most of the other parts of the space were harder to see in the limited light.

Gutierrez sniffed and detected the odors of leftover food that had been sitting around too long. "Somebody living in here?" he asked casually, gesturing in the direction of the travel trailer that had lights on inside and a large power cord running to a wall. "They have a guard?"

"Electricity's on," Short said then noticed none of the overhead fixtures actually had lights in them. "Been empty for a long time ... or somebody stole all the lights," he added glancing upward.

"Short!" an echoing voice called out from an area illuminated by portable work lights on stands.

Short and Gutierrez swiveled to see two men in suits and a crime scene technician standing over two bodies. "Yo, Felix," the big detective called out then added loudly, "You find one of our lost sheep?"

The man that had called to him was wearing an expensive straw cattleman's hat that seemed too large for someone of his diminutive size. He took a plastic evidence bag from the technician next to him and started walking toward Short, dodging a puddle of something along the way.

"Who's that?" Gutierrez asked quietly.

"Ranger Alvarado ... Felix Alvarado."

The Texas Ranger wasn't smiling when he got to them but he shook hands when Gutierrez was introduced. "Get this shit," he said then handed the evidence bag to Short. Tilting his head back to see beyond the brim of his hat while looking up at the much taller and bulky black detective he asked, "Look familiar?"

A rush of possibilities went through Short's mind as he saw one of his business cards through the transparent plastic. He had probably given out hundreds of identical cards over the years since making detective and there was no way to date them.

"Inside suit pocket," Alvarado said swiveling and nodding in the direction he came from. He turned back to Gutierrez. "One of yours is in there too ... You guys take a look at him?"

Short glanced around again and shook his head glumly. "Jesus. Glad I skipped breakfast."

"This sure as shit is one of those," the Ranger agreed.

"And you just had to call _me_ ," Short complained scornfully.

"Over here, take a look," Alvarado suggested as he took a few more steps. "This is the one with your cards ... took two ... one right through the heart."

Short and Gutierrez followed him a few yards then as they stood over the body they both said at the same time, "The Russian."

The Ranger gave them a cold look. "The who? What the fuck's goin' on?"

"Jesus H. Christ," Short murmured then took a deep breath and blew it out quietly with his cheeks puffed. He looked at Alvarado and shook his head. "Call the FBI, Felix ... and the State Department."

The Ranger looked back and forth between the two missing persons specialists.

"I think his name is Sayev ... something like that," Short suggested.

"Yea, I can't remember the first ... he's a Russian," Gutierrez said flatly with a sour expression on his face as he kept looking at the dead body.

"A Russian," Alvarado said in disbelief. "A fucking Russian?"

Short looked around again. "He's the guy in charge ... ah shit, w _as_ the guy in charge. The security for that Russian jewel thing."

Alvarado eyed them both with a suspicious expression. "What thing?"

"He's with the Russian state ... something, something department ... security for that artsy-fartsy royal jewel tour at the museum," Short said still glancing around while trying to recall exactly what the title was.

Before Alvarado could formulate a question Gutierrez asked casually, "Why would somebody be _living_ in here?" He pointed at the trailer as he added, "That their restroom?"

The Texas Ranger seemed distracted by the question. "We're still dealing with bodies. Some of 'em are cut up pretty bad."

Short winced. "Cut up?" He turned slightly toward his partner and frowned. "This is why I don't like homicide – give me a nice clean disappearance any day."

The almost painfully thin-faced Ranger didn't expose any change in his mood or demeanor. "This is right out of a fucking bad B movie, Ron." He pointed to two indistinct shapes on the floor a few yards away. "One of them is cut damn near in half." He tipped his chin in the direction of the van and began walking toward it with the two men following grudgingly. "There's four—"

"Shit," Gutierrez whispered but couldn't tear his eyes away from one of the bodies. "That one—"

Alvarado didn't seem to pick up on what the Sergeant seemed to be thinking. He turned and pointed. "Shit, that's nothin' ... there's one over there with his arm cut off and the goddamn hand is still holding a gun." He waved over the HPD technician and passed another evidence bag to Short. "Recognize that?"

"Uh-uh," Short said and handed the bag to his partner.

"Careful, it's sharp," Alvarado warned.

Gutierrez examined it closely. "It's a throwing star ... it's been used, too."

Short looked around again and sighed. "No shit? You believe in ninjas, Felix?" he asked, only half-joking.

The Ranger who had seen almost everything in his long career didn't seem amused. "I'm starting to. Best we can tell, looks like the poor bastard somehow pulled it out of his own chest before he clocked out ... some of the others were shot. We've also got three guns ... two with suppressors." He was looking at Short intently when he took the bag back. "You sure on the ID of that one?"

Short thought for a moment and nodded. "No, not sure on the name, but that's him."

"I'll get it for you. It's in my case notes," Gutierrez offered. "He and this Russian embassy liaison came to the station and wanted a rundown on some guy."

Short added, "We did robbery a favor and ran a background check on him. They thought he was scoping the security system at the museum."

"Slow day in missing persons?" Alvarado asked smugly.

Gutierrez glanced around at the carnage again. "We have better intel on non-criminals. He was some professor."

"He was legit," Short noted.

Any further discussion was interrupted by a sudden, loud hissing and spraying noise that startled everyone in the space. All eyes turned in the direction of the trailer and saw sparks dancing across the concrete floor from underneath it.

Alvarado sounded more annoyed than fearful as he said, "What the fuck now!"

"Everybody out!" someone shouted and others repeated the order.

"Out! Everybody out!" Alvarado repeated.

"Go, go, go!" another voice ordered.

Amidst the running and yelling the hissing sound stopped but the men kept going, putting life-saving distance between themselves and what some of them knew should have happened. But instead of the trailer blowing up immediately, another shower of sparks emanated from below the back of the van and in a few moments dark smoke was beginning to roll out from the top of the open door as the trailer burst into a flaming ball. Almost thirty seconds later while some of them began to relax, a short series of thumping explosions made them duck down behind vehicles again. Then they heard the sounds of wrenching metal and large pieces of steel slamming onto the concrete like giant, horribly out-of-tune bells.

Some of the men were trying to steal a glimpse of what might be happening when the building's walls were forced outward by an enormous blast that sent a hail of flaming debris in all directions. The resulting lack of exterior wall support let the roof structure collapse onto the burning contents and a cloud of acrid smoke boiled out and upward.

"Jesus!" Alvarado said with his ears ringing. He stood up and looked around at the other officers and technicians in the area. "Anybody hurt?" he shouted.

Several men were already talking on cell phones and the uniformed officers were on their radios while others were helping a couple of men who had been thrown to the ground.

Still breathing hard from the sprint, Gutierrez turned to look at Short. "That shit was thermite – that was thermite! I know thermite!" he yelled.

Short was shaking his head. "Damn, would you look at that!" he said as the smoke billowed into the sky and flames wafted up through the twisted metal. He spotted dozens of things sputtering as if they were backyard fireworks and watched one of the HPD crime scene technicians running around putting out pieces of burning debris with a small fire extinguisher. "Son of a bitch!" he growled then another smaller explosion made them all crouch or run further away.

Gutierrez coughed from the acrid smoke and surveyed the scene. "Glad this one isn't ours."

Short shook his head and noted, "There's not gonna be much of anything left in there."

"I didn't think ninjas blew shit up."

Short let out a short, grim chuckle. "Sure as shit looks like they do."

**CHAPTER 33**

Long Island, New York, Wednesday, June 4, 1997

Elanore Calder walked in to join the others for late breakfast just as she heard Marty say something about what he was watching.

"Dude! Look ... there!" he said as he reached for the remote to turn up the volume.

"What's that?" his mother asked.

They could see a newsman in a corner frame of the screen, standing not too far from a yellow and black police tape line with the in-studio anchor looking poised and serious, nodding as they did their back-and-forth coverage. When Marty turned up the volume they caught the middle of an exchange:

"— _we just obtained from the control tower at Hobby airport. You can clearly see the amount of smoke rising in the air ... I'm told the tower is about two miles west of you, Tom._ "

" _That's correct, Roger, in fact the tower is just across the airport on the west side. One of the fire officials here told us FAA personnel were among the first to call in and make the report of the fire_."

The scene changed to a camera shot from a truck-boom some thirty feet off the ground showing the collapsed building and police and fire personnel examining parts of the charred wreckage.

" _We're switching to the boom camera, Tom, and as we told our audience, ah, this is all happening too close to Hobby airport to have Chopper Eleven on the scene ... but as you can see from this shot, the entire roof of that building looks like it is literally on the ground_."

" _That's right Roger, we've been moved back ... we're some hundred yards away from that area but clearly, the explosion has made the on-going investigation more difficult as News Eleven's Richard Banks found out at a press conference at police headquarters just minutes ago_."

In barely more than a whisper Alex asked, "You blew it up?" then the scene switched again to an official in a police uniform standing at a podium before a small forest of microphones.

A caption identifying the location as the Houston Police Department appeared in position near the bottom of the screen as the man began in a decidedly native drawl, " _Thank you. I have a statement to read ... then I'll answer a few questions ... with the caveat that this is an on-going investigation._ The officer paused and then began reading. _"At six forty-nine this morning, Houston nine one one received a call from an as yet unidentified person reporting that shots had been heard in the area of an empty warehouse on Scranton Street, east of Hobby airport_."

They saw the man look up into the glare of lights and the flashing of strobes as if he were mechanically required to make eye contact. After another moment he continued reading:

" _Houston PD dispatched two units and at seven oh two, officers reported finding a building in the area had been broken into. The officers entered the building and at seven oh six reported the discovery of the bodies of eight, as yet unknown persons. At eight twenty, Houston PD, homicide and crime lab personnel accompanies by two Texas Rangers from Company A were at the scene conducting the investigation. At that time personnel inside the building became aware of the ignition of multiple incendiary devices and they proceeded to evacuate the premises. Shortly thereafter multiple explosions caused the collapse of the structure and the resulting fire. As far as we know at this time, no law enforcement or fire personnel sustained injuries in the explosion or fire and the investigation is ongoing ... I'll take a few questions._ "

Elanore began whispering as she sat down next to her husband. "Jesus ... that's where you ... that's where they had Catherine?"

"There were four in there?" Marty asked looking at Ben in amazement.

The microphones at the podium couldn't pick up the questions and the officer had to put his hand to his ear to make out some of them. He wound up shaking his head negatively after almost every question:

" _We don't believe there were hazardous chemicals involved ... No ... The coroner has not given us a time or cause of death ... I can't say if it was the explosion or not ... We haven't been able to identify any of the bodies ... I can't say if they were all males ... No Bill, I can't tell you ages or nationalities at this time ... No, look, y'all need to know the company you're going to find listed at that address is no longer in business. As far as we know, the building has been empty for some time ... Yes, the equipment is now on scene but we don't know how long it will take to get back in there to recover the bodies—_ "

"Jesus," Elanore whispered again. "That was you?"

A voice came from the archway behind them. "They crossed a line, Mrs. Calder." As they all turned to look, Kirkland walked further into the room and added, "They threatened the safety of my clients, not to mention Catherine's life. That's simply not acceptable."

Elanore began to feel as if someone had just announced the tiger cage at the zoo had been found open; the hair on the back of her neck seemed to tickle.

"Fortunately, in this case my clients were prepared to do some of the heavy lifting," Kirkland said pointing at Alex and Marty.

Alex was still watching the scene on the TV as he said, "We didn't fire a shot."

"I didn't even see anything," Marty added.

"With you outside we didn't have to watch that direction," Ben advised. "We had a one-eighty degree field to deal with instead of three-sixty."

"And you blew up the building?" Marty asked.

Ben shook his head then explained, "They had it wired ... I adjusted their timing ... and set a couple of fireworks devices I brought along to warn anyone inside that it was going to go."

Marty looked at the man and a realization began forming. "They wired it? To blow up?"

Ben nodded. "Not just that – burn to the point of leaving nothing behind."

"They would have left her to die in there!" Elanore gasped.

Ben shook his head. "I don't think so ... they probably would have taken her along to make sure they got out of the country safely."

" _Then_ they would have killed her," Alex said resignedly.

Margaret stepped into the room and glanced at the group then said, "Catherine's not the only one that needed some rest ... I know tired when I see it."

Kirkland nodded. "Mrs. C., as usual, is correct – it's a good day for some R&R."

Margaret looked at her watch. "Is sleeping beauty awake?"

"I think so," Kirkland answered.

Margaret said as she turned, "I'll go check on her – you boys probably don't know what it's like to worry about having a bladder infection."

"She's going to need some clothes," Elanore suggested.

Terri looked at her with a conniving grin and raised eyebrows as she suggested, "You realize we're only thirty miles from Manhattan."

A smile began to form on Elanore's face as she considered how much fun an afternoon of shopping in New York might be. "Mrs. C. hasn't been there in years."

Alex put a hand on his son's shoulder and said in mock despair, "Your inheritance is in jeopardy."

\- # -

Despite the minimal hours of sleep, Catherine Cruz felt rested and well as she came into the kitchen. "Where is everybody?" she asked brightly, relishing the breakfast smells.

Margaret poured a cup of coffee and looked at her carefully as she handed it to her. "Everything's in the warming drawers," she said pointing. "You need some real food," she added almost as an order. "The boys went with Michael ... he said he was arranging transportation for us."

With a puzzled look Catherine asked, "For us? Where are we going?" She then thanked Margaret for the coffee and started opening one of the drawers as the hunger pangs mounted.

"Manhattan," Margaret said then sat down and returned to reading the morning newspaper.

"Manhattan?"

"You don't want to go to England with nothing else to wear." Elanore advised.

_England? Why would I go to England?_ "England?" she asked in confusion then sipped her coffee. She dished up several strips of bacon and a pile of hash browns then took a seat across from Margaret. "What's going on in England?"

Margaret didn't look up from the paper as she said, "There's going to be some kind of formal dinner while we're there ... here, have some cranberry juice, Hon," she added, sliding a glass and a pitcher toward Catherine.

"I've got to get back to work—"

Elanore raised a hand as she interrupted, "Uh uh – the exhibit's closed for now."

"Closed?" Catherine asked in confusion. "Why?"

Elanore nodded. "Two of those men in Houston were Russian security people."

Catherine nearly choked and she turned to look at Elanore. "They what?" she asked incredulously then managed to swallow.

"And," Elanore began then gave her friend an 'are you ready for this' look as she reported, "Silayev was one of them – but that hasn't hit the news yet."

Catherine felt suddenly weak and set her fork down slowly. "I—" she began then couldn't formulate words.

"It's closed until the Russians bring in replacements – at least a week according to Matt."

"Silayev was in on this ... this whole thing?"

Margaret didn't look up from her paper as she answered, "That seems to be the consensus."

The stunning realization bred another series of disturbing thoughts as her appetite vanished. "Does Matt know? About what happened?"

Elanore shook her head. "Nada. Al told him you and I were tied up with a Roger and family legal thing for a couple of days."

Catherine immediately saw the viability of that story but her mind was reeling with the implications of what she had just learned. "But ... this ... what about Dr. Kurtz?"

Elanore set her coffee down and shook her head. "Apparently not – at least he wasn't there."

_Why didn't Michael tell me this?_ "Silayev? It's hard to believe ... I can't ..."

Her friend responded with a note of sympathy, "I know, it's a confused mess," then after a few moments added with obvious relief, "but no one knows anything about you, or us."

Margaret set her paper down and looked at the young woman as she teasingly asked, "You've been a bit out of the loop, haven't you?"

The idea that someone she had seen as a professional—albeit an obnoxious one—was capable of being involved in her kidnapping and perhaps even murder was inconceivable.

Elanore changed the subject and the mood. "What time did Michael say we're going into New York?"

"He said he'd be back before noon." Margaret answered.

Before Catherine could ask another question, an oddly familiar sound that had begun to build from somewhere in the distance suddenly erupted in a roar that crossed very low over the house.

"My God, that was low," Elanore said, then set her coffee cup down, trotted to the door and went outside onto the rear patio.

Catherine and Margaret trailed after her and the three moved out onto the lawn where they stood watching a glimmering blue and white twin-engine flying boat bank and turn in line with the coastline. At a point just north of the house it turned again and landed into the gently lapping waves then pivoted around and taxied back toward the dock that extended out into the bay.

"Visitors?" Margaret wondered aloud.

"Our taxi has arrived," Terri Yamaguchi said enthusiastically as she trotted up behind them.

Catherine looked at her with serious concern as her fear of small planes rose up to ruin the moment. "Our what?"

"It's that or we could wind up fighting traffic for more than an hour each way," Terri said then noted Catherine's visible concern. "Girlfriend, we need that extra time ... it saves two hours, at least."

To Catherine's enormous relief she realized it wasn't some taxi service when she saw three men climb from the plane. When they walked up to the grass she stepped to Kirkland and kissed him quickly as his arms wrapped around her.

"That's a ball to fly," Alex said as he looked at his wife. "The only problem is it's going to give you extra time to spend money."

"Hey, _I'm_ thrifty—" Terri began defensively.

"I can vouch for that," Kirkland interrupted in agreement then gave Alex a wary look. "On second thought, no guarantees. When I get back, I've got some office work to catch up on ... if you're interested, take one of the cars and run up to the Roosevelt estate, or if you want to get out on the water, we can get the boat out."

Both of the Calders shook their heads and Marty said, "Thanks, but I'm going to vegetate in front of the TV."

"I think I'll do the same," Alex agreed.

"Make yourselves at home," Kirkland offered. "Ben's around down at the other house if you need something," he suggested then looked at the women. "Your magic carpet departs whenever you're ready."

\- # -

After bringing the seaplane back from Manhattan and with Terri off in New York playing host and guide for the three women, Kirkland dived into the phone messages, emails and correspondence and around two o'clock discovered the notification email from Martha Coltishaw in Dunsfold. He froze in aggravation when he realized there should have been a fax sitting in the tray by now and it took him a few seconds to find the problem. _The damn thing is out of paper!_ "Shit," he whispered.

He picked up the phone, dialed the Sun Inn from memory and waited impatiently as the international connection was made. "Mrs. Coltishall, please," he asked pleasantly as he fumbled with a new roll of fax paper. "I know ... Yes ... Please, this is Michael Kirkland ... Yes, Kirkland ... I'll hold the line ... That's fine ... Yes, of course, thank you."

By the time his old friend came on he was seeing the first pages crawl out of the machine at a frustratingly slow pace. When he heard her voice he did what he always did to greet her – sang along with the old Beatle's tune, "Martha, my Dear!" then as her laughter faded he went on, "Martha, I haven't got time to explain – the fax machine paper was out but it's printing now ... you had a visitor?"

He listened to the woman's thorough explanation of what the man had said and his seemingly ready acceptance of their story about holding mail for 'Albert Drummond'. "God bless," Kirkland said warmly. "I'll be seeing you very shortly ... Yes, I'll do that as soon as I have an itinerary ... Thank you, again ... Yes ... Bye for now."

He looked at the time on the computer as he waited for the series of faxes to print. "Damn," he said out loud. As the fax he was looking for finally began to feed itself into the tray he was studying it impatiently; he knew even before the machine cut off the paper that he had never seen the man before.

After making several phone calls Kirkland strode from the office and worked his way downstairs to the TV room. "Gentlemen, we have a situation," he announced. "We have to leave for the U.K. tonight."

"Tonight?" Alex asked.

"We had a strike at the bait in Dunsfold," Kirkland advised.

Marty shared in his father's surprise. "In Dunsfold?"

"I think the mysterious mister Golikov may have surfaced," Kirkland said flatly as he handed the page to Alex.

\- # -

"Slight change in plans, ladies," Terri said pleasantly after taking the call from Kirkland. "We have to leave for England ... tonight."

Elanore looked at her closely. "Why tonight?"

"What's wrong?" Margaret asked.

"Just logistics ... I wasn't there to handle something that came up," Terri smirked. Glancing back and forth among the three women she said, "We only have about two hours before we have to be back at the dock. So ... Elanore, you and Mrs. C.? You're good to go?"

After a few seconds of bewilderment Elanore answered, "I think we're good," and raised her collection of bags and boxes on their straps.

Margaret gestured at the two younger women. "But y'all and the princess here aren't ready for the ball."

Catherine smiled, trying not to look as uncomfortable as she felt. Some years ago she would have been more than willing to spend a few thousand dollars or more during a day like this but financial reality had changed for her. The idea of putting something expensive on a credit card made her more than just uncomfortable – she dreaded what would happen if her only personal card wouldn't cover something like the other women probably had in mind for her and she suddenly felt oddly out of place; how to avoid the embarrassment dominated her thoughts.

Margaret instantly discerned the change in the look in Catherine's eyes; something was wrong and to save the young woman any more distress than she had already gone through, the matron of the Calder family decided to do something much sooner than she had planned over the years. Putting her hand on Catherine's arm she said, "Just so there's no confusion, don't you dare try to pay for any of this ... I'm the reason we're in this damn goat rodeo – that means it's also my fault you're stuck here with nothing to wear."

When Catherine's eyes widened and her mouth opened in an attempt to protest Margaret cut her off with a gentle wave. "If it makes you feel better, I'll keep the receipts and take it out of your inheritance – but I'd rather not fuss with the records."

It took a moment for Catherine to even partially comprehend what she had just heard. _Inheritance?_ The idea that she might be considered an heir had never occurred to her despite the relationship with the Calder family. They had sometimes given her what she considered expensive birthday and Christmas gifts over the years and at one point had paid for two attorney's from Barton Commoner's firm to advise and represent her during her husband's ordeal, but the idea of being an heir was astonishing. She felt her knees slightly weaken and had to take a deep breath as she looked back and forth between Elanore and Margaret.

The older woman put slight pressure on Catherine's arm as reassurance. "Y'all've got him hooked ... let's not worry about what it costs to land him," she said then winked at a beaming Terri. As her younger friend seemed to gather her wits Margaret added, "I didn't really want you to know until you were serious about someone."

Catherine tried to think of something to say but gave up in fear she'd start tearing up and melt down into a sobbing mess. _Ah, shit, is it that obvious?_ she wondered then finally managed, "But—"

"And yes, it's that obvious," Margaret confirmed. "And the will was done after the divorce, Hon. You'll have to talk to Alex," she added lightly then turned to Terri. "We don't want to be late so lead on," she directed.

\- # -

At the Kirkland estate the early dinner was casual and over a plethora of delivery Chinese food and gesturing with chopsticks in hand, Kirkland explained what was going to be happening. "We leave LaGuardia at nine-thirty tonight and land at Stansted about six hours later."

"Where's Stansted?" Marty asked.

"Roughly half-way between London and Cambridge," Kirkland pointed out. "That's four a.m. for us, eight in the morning their time." From the looks he saw he felt the need to offer an apology. "I know that's waking up early ... but we really don't have much choice."

"We're sort-of hitching a ride," Terri explained. "It's a freighter with a nice passenger compartment – even beds and all the comforts of home."

Kirkland nodded. "Grace Alberton will take you to the Grey's ... you can rest up there."

Margaret's question sounded enthusiastic. "We'll be staying on the yacht?"

Terri shook her head as she raised a hand. "We're guests at Grey Manor."

"Grey _Manor_?" Marty asked.

"Old school," Terri responded. "From what Grace said we should set our watches back a few decades."

Catherine looked directly at Kirkland and asked with obvious concern, "But you're going to Dunsfold?"

Kirkland nodded. "Mrs. Coltishall told our mysterious visitor that 'Mr. Drummond' had his mail dropped at the inn when he left for a few days and he or his nephew usually picked it up on Thursday or Friday."

Elanore was the first to ask a question. "Any idea who this guy is?"

Kirkland shook his head. "I don't recognize him from her drawing – she said he didn't have a recognizable accent but I suspect he's the man Bailey identified as Golikov."

Margaret asked seriously, "What are you going to do when you find him?"

Kirkland thought for several moments before he answered with a sly smile, "Make him an offer he can't refuse."

"Like what?" Elanore asked worriedly.

Marty's suggestion was blatant. "How about the dude goes and finds another hobby or winds up like his friends."

Alex raised a finger and in agreement said, "And therefore think him as a serpent's egg, which, hatch'd, would as his kind grow mischievous, and kill him in the shell."

Elanore felt her stomach twinge slightly as she considered what Alex was suggesting and given the recent events she sounded worried. "Brutus' way of saying nip it in the bud ... so you're saying get rid of him?"

Alex nodded in agreement.

Kirkland was shaking his head slightly then he said, "Maybe a healthy dose of clever diversion will accomplish more in the long run."

At that Catherine actually felt some sense of relief and she sighed then asked, "Can we divert them off the planet?"

Margaret raised her hand slightly and everyone turned to look at her. "I like Marty's idea better. And there's a reason ... there's an old Russian saying ..." she paused while she set her glass down before speaking in her native language: " _Beregitesʹloshadi szadi, osteregaĭtesʹkozu s fronta, no budʹte ostorozhnycheloveka so vseh storon_."

A grin of admiration formed on Kirkland's face as he saw the mischievous but also serious intent in her look. He took everyone else out of suspense by translating: "You worry about a horse from behind and you worry about a goat from the front, but you have to worry about a man from all directions."

As the group chuckled in amusement Ben noted, "In the long run, we have to somehow convince whoever is behind him that what they're seeking is a myth."

\- # -

The Airbus long range cargo jet climbed out of the LaGuardia airspace at 9:50 p.m. with everyone comfortably aboard what Marty had described when he saw the plane as " _the weirdest airline nobody's ever heard of._ "

The well-appointed passenger section was designed for race or specialized engineering teams who could rest, work and eat during the long, non-stop intercontinental freight flights the plane's operators specialized in. Just over forty feet in length, the space had comfortable seating for eight that reclined fully into flat beds, a conference area, a lavatory with a compact shower and a well-equipped and very-well stocked galley and bar. Behind them on this flight, the cargo space was filled with almost ordinary freight containers instead of pallets and crates of equipment or more often, exotic race cars.

As soon as the cockpit crew turned off the seat belt lights, most of the group started getting comfortable and prepared to at least try and sleep. With the drone of the engines to help cover their conversation, Alex decided to learn more about what was planned for Dunsfold and he signaled Kirkland to move forward to the conference table in the front of the cabin.

"When we get there ... do you want Marty and I to come along?"

Kirkland shook his head and kept his voice very low. "Actually, when we get to the Transall, I'm going to give you and Marty some weapons."

Alex didn't react with any surprise but asked, "Weapons?"

"Grace told me they're secure at the house but I'll feel much more comfortable knowing you two are there and equipped to deal with any—"

"Exigent circumstances," the two men said simultaneously.

Alex inhaled deeply as he thought for a moment before leaning back and nodding. "Assuming you derail this Golikov ... then what about Grey? What about the treasure?"

The answer came back surprisingly quickly. "That is entirely up to you."

Alex turned his head and looked back at his mother as he considered that suggestion. "Actually, I think it's up to Mom and the General – Mr. Grey."

Kirkland watched his client for several seconds. "I believe you're correct."

They both saw Marty rise from his seat and move toward them then duck further as he stepped to the side into the galley. "Want anything?" he asked in their direction.

"What do they have?" his father asked.

Marty raised his eyebrows and cocked his head as he read the guest menu cards. "More like what don't these dudes have – Gram just wants a brandy."

Kirkland leaned over slightly and pointed to a cabinet. "It should be in there."

"You been here before?" Marty asked with his head down to avoid the cabin ceiling.

Kirkland smiled slightly. "I used to use these every once in a while – which is one of the main reasons I got the Transall." He went on to explain how scheduling one of the big planes was pretty much matter of timing and luck and how it was almost impossible to book a trip during the racing season. "They're picking up an F-1 team in London day after tomorrow; they were able to offer a broker a discount rate to send some freight with us tonight."

"Then we got lucky," Alex suggested.

"That too ... but some of the F-1 backers include clients," Kirkland advised. "It doesn't hurt to have friends in this business."

Marty found three bottles and showed them to Kirkland who nodded, pointing to one and saying, "That's the good stuff."

After pouring some into a small crystal snifter and carrying it back to his grandmother, Marty returned forward and slid his bulk into a seat. "Bar's open," he announced gesturing toward the galley space.

A simple round of beer was soon settled on and Marty got up and did the bartender chores, ducking in and out of the galley and setting down chilled mugs on square paper napkins on the conference table. When he sat down again he looked across at Kirkland. "How did you get into this ... just whatever this _business_ is?" he asked quietly as he poured his beer.

Kirkland hesitated to answer quickly then he looked back and forth at the father and son. After he filled his glass he sipped some of the foam then said, "I've never actually brought a client into an operation this way ... this ... this _engagement_ ... this has introduced some unique issues," he said as he gestured toward the other passengers. "It's hardly ever this complicated."

Kirkland's earliest functions as an appraiser were uneventful if not simply boring but over time, encounters involving seriously exigent circumstances had convinced him his physical size and natural athleticism weren't sufficient to deal with people who were more than a little willing to commit acts of violence. The first incident had been a painful and embarrassing encounter even though his client's property had remained safe; he considered himself lucky to be alive after the second and credited authorities in Italy for his good fortune in the third.

He explained to the Calders how those experiences led him to make discrete inquiries into firms that offered personal protection services. But in too many situations, those became more of a clumsy impediment, often attracting far more attention than he or his clients cared for.

Following a recommendation from a client's personal trainer, he wound up at Ben Yamaguchi's dojo in Queens. "I'm still alive because of what he's taught me," he said.

Marty's head tipped slightly to the side as he asked, "More exigent circumstances are involved than we thought, is that it?"

Kirkland looked at the two men and nodded slightly in the young man's direction. "It's not as dull as your mother initially assumed." He smiled but sounded only slightly sarcastic as he added, "Catherine told me that was your mother's assessment the first evening we met."

Being robbed and abandoned by two guides deep in a cave in France had been, as he related, the most terrifying three days of his life and he explained that as the reason he was unable to deal with underground spaces and couldn't sit in a dark theater or room and watch films with underground scenes. "I don't use subways or tunnels if at all possible," he noted. Other than pointing out the people responsible had been dealt with by the French la Douane he didn't elaborate further and the Calders quickly realized he had no desire to say much more about it.

But as far as how he got into the business Kirkland had a rather mundane explanation – an insurance company executive came across his doctoral thesis and he found himself lured into something called 'loss mitigation'. "It started by being a glorified advisor to a bunch of claims adjusters," he said with a smirk. "But too many appraisals are done by people with an interest in a subsequent transaction, so I put together a network of experts in multiple disciplines – but from outside the insurance and auction industry. Now for anything other than artwork and jewelry I broker their expertise when a client needs it."

After a few more seconds of listening to the plane's noise Marty said, "You're their rep firm."

Kirkland considered the assessment and realized there might be more to Marty's knowledge of business than the young man had as yet demonstrated. "That's actually a very good analogy. Add in the secure transport and risk mitigation for insurers and it is very much like that. A few of the experts are serious academics ... not the _Nutty Professor_ type but some of them are unusually reclusive." After another drink he added, "They might never have had a way to offer their incredibly specialized expertise for the value it deserves."

"And some of them attract black hats," Alex remarked.

Kirkland's eyebrows knitted for a moment before a smile wrinkled the edges of his mouth. "Yes ... well ... no actually. It's almost always the _client_ that attracts the black hats."

Marty snickered quietly. "That sounds about right ... especially in our case."

Alex made a kind of grunt in agreement, lifted his beer and said casually, "Well, there's sure as hell eight fewer of them."

CHAPTER 34

U.K., Thursday Morning, June 5, 1997

Grace Alberton picked up the group at Stansted airport in a boxy vehicle that was something between a van and a small bus. Their trip up the M11 motorway to Cambridge took only half an hour even in morning traffic and after another fifteen minutes they had wound their way to the airport and the ramp where the Transall was parked.

Ben led Alex and Marty into the plane and they soon emerged with four large and heavy-looking athletic bags that they hefted through the back door of the van.

"We'll join you tomorrow at the latest," Kirkland promised the group then turned to Grace. "Give your father my regards," he added, then kissed Catherine and held her hand. "Gentlemen, I leave them in your capable hands," he said then turned and stepped out of the bus.

Ben kissed Terri quickly then they exchanged a quick, obviously choreographed series of handshakes and fist bumps before he leapt off and jogged toward the plane.

As the van started moving, Catherine turned, watching the two men until they were blocked from view then she looked back at Terri and asked with some amazement, "You go through this all the time, don't you?"

Elanore added to the question, "Don't you worry about him?"

Terri smiled at them and gave a deliberately smart-assed answer. "Nope ... I don't start to worry until I have to account for everything."

The nonchalant response was disconcerting. "But," Catherine began, "they're going after—"

Alex interrupted her. "The people who should be worried are the ones who show up in Dunsfold."

Catherine thought about that for a moment and her memory of the recent events in Houston made her stomach churn again. "I'd rather not think about that," she said shakily and resigned herself to watching the sights around Cambridge and trying to keep her mind on other things.

Grace drove the tortured route to get to the Grey property and the Americans soon realized why taking a boat up the river had been a more expeditious way to travel. Given the almost ancient property borders in the heavily agricultural area, there was no such thing as a direct route; without a detailed map or first-hand directions from a local, a stranger could wind up many kilometers away from their intended destination.

Even the entry to the estate had been designed to mislead anyone trying to find the residence of Malcom Grey; the driveway off the unmarked road eventually led through a stand of trees that shielded any view of what was beyond them and as the van rounded a curve they saw an imposing stone gatehouse that arched across the drive with massive double gates below it. Grace slowed and pressed a button on a wireless remote device and the left-side gate swung inward. Another curve led to a long, straight drive that extended for well over a hundred meters, lined by seemingly ancient trees and tended lawns. The drive split and blended into a circular loop around a pond with a small island in the center that was a mass of colorful flowering plants.

As they got closer to the pond and out from under the canopy of trees the enormous house came further into view.

"Oh my God," Elanore whispered.

Marty quipped at his parents, "I thought _our_ lawn was too big."

"It's beautiful," Catherine said.

Grace smiled as she glanced back at them. "It was started in the nineteenth century ... quite a bit of the ground floor was completely redone in the fifties ... the second floor was put on in nineteen sixty."

"What about the third?" Marty asked noting that there were three.

Margaret put her hand on her grandson's arm and said, "Over here their first floor is our second."

Under the cover of the large portico, a beaming Malcom Grey stood waiting to greet them. "Welcome, welcome back!" he said as the door of the van opened. "You've had an eventful week, Helena," he pronounced as he helped Margaret step away to let the others off the van. He took her hands, leaned over and kissed both her cheeks then looked toward Alex. "I can only imagine what you've been through. We've tried to follow what little news there was," he added gravely.

He gave everyone another welcome smile then turned to one of the young women he'd never seen before. "You must be the Professor's ' _Dragon Lady'_ ," he said with a tease in his voice. "A most inappropriate appellation," he added sternly. "You're positively lovely."

Looking somewhat embarrassed Terry asked, "How did you know that?"

Grace answered, "The Professor told me and I couldn't resist telling Father."

Grey then turned to Catherine. "And this," he said admiringly, "this must be the lady for whom the hands of time were stopped by Sir Galahad." He stepped toward her and reached for her hand and paused.

Catherine smiled shyly and reached out to him. "Catherine Cruz, it's an honor to meet you Mr. Grey."

"One can only respect the Professor's rationale," Grey said with a sly smile then looked down briefly without releasing her hand. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you here ... we were terribly worried."

Catherine tried to not appear concerned as she said, "I'm hoping it's going to be over soon."

Grey gave her a reassuring smile. "If you want an old warrior's opinion, your Professor and Mr. Yamaguchi are formidable men ... I fully expect them to join us shortly."

_Formidable_ , Catherine considered. _That's a nice way of putting it_.

"Where are we?" Marty asked as he looked out across the flat expanses beyond the gardens to the south.

Grey looked at the over-sized young man he had met on the boat. "Well now, we're several kilometers away from where last we met," he said, pointing toward the southwest. "But the nearest town of any real size is Soham and to the north is Ely," he added with a tip of his head.

"I'll have to take your word for that," Marty kidded.

Elanore asked, "This is a working farm?"

"Indeed ... farm and orchards," Grey answered then laughed slightly. "Today, I worry more about commodity prices and weather than my history." He then turned his head and looked around at the group. "Please, Helena ... I'm sorry, Margaret, please, let's get you settled in ... then we'll gather in the library and show you about."

\- # -

Just over 130 kilometers southwest of Cambridge, Kirkland and Ben Yamaguchi sat in a hired sedan, watching the exterior of the Sun Inn from about 500 meters away. After a relaxing breakfast and lots of catching up with Kirkland's old friend from his years at Oxford, the two men had lingered in the pub then left to watch from the outside.

Yamaguchi yawned then adjusted his position in the driver's seat and asked, "Remind me what plan 'B' is if they don't show up?"

"I don't have one ... other than staying and sleeping on the plane and trying again tomorrow ... but only after a few pounds of Martha's fish and chips."

Yamaguchi huffed in derision. "You realize the physiological consequences of what she probably fries them in?"

Kirkland countered, "How many years did we all eat McDonald's fries? In what? Fat?"

Yamaguchi couldn't resist smiling. "Beef tallow ... but at least I've effectively countered it with seaweed and sashimi."

"Good. You're equipped to indulge. Nothing like it. She's kept it a secret from before we met in one of her classes."

"The KFC of fish and chips? Eleven secret herbs and spices?"

"I wish I knew ... I'd probably have a chain of fish and chips outlets ... back then the only way to get some was to be invited to her place. Now all you have to do is know how to find this pub and wait until evening."

"Well, then I'm not going to pass up the opportunity," Yamaguchi said as he glanced around, scanning the area again. "It's not tempura but like they say, when in Rome."

In the distance, they saw a Mercedes sedan came slowly to a stop then back up some distance and pull into a space along the grass across from the inn.

"Do you have a plan 'C'?" Yamaguchi asked as they watched three men get out of the car and walk across the road toward the entrance. The driver remained in the car and one of the three waited outside the door. "He's not alone."

"I need to get a better look. Give me one minute to go in and talk to Martha then come in as if you don't know where you are."

Yamaguchi scoffed, "That won't be hard ... I have no freakin' idea where we are. Who the hell set up the roads 'round here?"

"Wandering livestock is my guess," Kirkland said then got out of the car and walked away, soon rounding the curve and ignoring the man leisurely standing outside the pub as he went inside. With more than a day's growth of beard, a well-worn soft cap and wearing the aging, disheveled work clothes he brought specifically for this part of the trip, he looked the part of a local tradesman as he took a stool at the bar.

Martha Coltishall did an effective acting job, smiling quickly and waving as one would greet a regular before she resumed talking to one of the two men who had come from the Mercedes. "Well now," she said to them while looking at her watch, "your timing this day is fortunate ... Mr. Drummond hasn't come by as of yet."

"We'll just take a booth," the man said. "Tea, if you would, please?" he asked then he and the man with him turned and walked to a booth along the far wall.

Yamaguchi stepped in through the door in his obviously-tourist garb complete with a Nikon camera hanging around his neck. He glanced around, looking undecided about whether he should stay then Martha welcomed him as a stranger and pointed to the bar as she went by with the tea for the two men in the booth. "Be right with ya," she said with a smile. When she returned to the bar she filled Yamaguchi's accented request for a pint of ale then turned and resumed her quiet conversation with Kirkland.

After a few minutes Kirkland rose from his stool and walked over to the occupied booth. Taking a chair from a nearby table and spinning it around, he straddled it and sat facing the table with his pint still in his hand. "Martha here tells me you've been askin' 'bout a friend of mine," he said casually. "And just who might you be?"

The older of the two asked hopefully, "Albert Drummond?"

"I'm just in for a pint," Kirkland said as a non-responsive answer. "And who might be askin'?"

"We're with James, Lofton and Edwards, solicitors, of London," the other said lowly then leaned closer and whispered urgently, "We have some documents ... insurance papers Mr. Drummond absolutely _must_ sign. He's been terribly difficult to reach by courier ... for his family's sake," the man added with an emphatic look and nod.

Neither of the men seemed physically imposing; the older one could have carried off the role of a Threadneedle Street barrister if it weren't for the bungling attempt at an accent. The younger man had a local's command of the language but if he were a solicitor his wardrobe was in need of an upgrade. Kirkland grinned and chuckled sinisterly. "He's done a Lord Lucan on you has he?"

Both men looked completely unaware of what that meant but the younger one replied, "This is the post address he gave."

The other shook his head and said, "We don't know quite what to make of that."

"We're hoping he's not trying to skirt the law," his companion said gravely.

Kirkland squinted slightly at the man and shook his head. He leaned in and almost whispered, "Seems everybody's gone Nosey Parker for him of late."

"Everyone?" one of them responded but Kirkland didn't react at all.

"It's an insurance matter," the first man said, then after quickly glancing around he lowered his voice even more and practically whispered, "It's important we speak with him."

"And just who is 'we' again?" Kirkland asked. When no immediate answer came he continued. "I can tell 'im you're about." _Not even a business card_ , he thought as he saw the man's reaction. _He's making it up as he goes along_.

"It's best that we speak with him directly. There are things even family should not be privy to."

"Well then, it's off to Coventry with you," Kirkland said.

Hearing the prearranged phrase brought Yamaguchi off his stool.

When the two men looked at each other and seemed to reach a conclusion Kirkland said coldly in a completely different voice with no English accent, "I wouldn't advise it, gentlemen – you see the man over there?"

Both looked in Yamaguchi's direction.

"You'd never make it to the door."

The cold look they saw and the situation they were in somehow convinced them to not move. The one who had done most of the talking finally asked, "How do you know Drummond?"

"I invented him," Kirkland said flatly and paused to let that sink in. "And you fell into the trap, Mr. Golikov."

The stunned look on the man's face was replaced by an attempt to shift the balance. "There are two armed men outside."

Kirkland looked disdainful. "I know. One in the Mercedes and one outside the door." He paused and gestured toward Yamaguchi by tilting his head. "But I have _him_." As the two looked across the space at Yamaguchi again he added, "You'd need at least four and most of them would wind up in hospital with life-altering injuries – if you don't believe that consider what happened to your friend Silayev."

The two men in the booth exchanged even more guarded looks and glanced around, considering their situation again. Golikov looked up and blinked a couple of times then came to a realization. "You must be Professor Kirkland."

Kirkland gave no visible response. "There is someone who wants to speak with you, Mr. Golikov."

The man looked across the table with his eyes widened in expectation. "Who?"

"If you want to live through this you'll have to come with me ... alone," Kirkland answered, glancing only briefly at the other man.

Golikov's mind raced as he thought of possibly meeting General Kovpak; there was so much at stake and he was _so_ close – but what had happened in Houston made him more than just wary and as a result of this whole encounter he could feel a trickle of sweat on his lower back.

During months of cautious encounters and information exchanges in Russia, Golikov's partnership with the secretive Pavel Silayev had eventually solidified; the older man had been not only well positioned in the post-Soviet security apparatus, his motives involved the fact that he was facing a retirement bereft of economic security. The two had thus devoted much of their free time to secretly piecing together clues and trying to discretely verify rumors. Once they thought they had enough information to interest some financial backing, they approached Golikov's wealthy employer – one whose older brother's reputation for excess and avarice proved accurate.

The prospect of recovering hundreds of millions of dollars of authentic Romanov-era jewelry was inescapably alluring to the nouveau riche and power-hungry Arkady Lebedev and things moved much more rapidly with his seemingly limitless resources. But they also brought inherent risks; their backer had a reputation for ruthlessness and having the connections to enforce his decisions.

Golikov's engagement of Nelson Bailey in the U.S. had at first been slow and frustrating then suddenly rewarding, but now, because of Silayev's catastrophic blunder in Houston and his own falling for this 'Albert Drummond' scheme, Golikov felt he had no choice but to go with Kirkland. "Where are we going?"

Kirkland just shook his head.

"We'll come back here?"

Kirkland looked at the other man. "He'll call you."

Golikov turned to the man that had accompanied him. "Wait for me at the hotel – go. And keep your mouth shut until you hear from me."

\- # -

After unpacking her things in the lavishly antique-appointed guest room then showering quickly and changing into fresh clothes, Catherine made her way back down the two flights of sweeping stairs and stood in the entrance foyer admiring the view of the gardens through the windows that framed the front doors. Faint voices echoed from a very long hallway and she moved toward them, noting the elegant furnishings staged along the walls and the incredible richness of what she recognized as very old middle-eastern rugs. _God, this place is a living museum_ , she said to herself. As she got closer she recognized the voices of Alex and Marty in addition to Malcom Grey's.

"Ah, Ms. Cruz," Grey said as he saw her walk in to the large library that occupied a substantial portion of the southwest corner of the house. "I trust Grace has made you comfortable?"

"It's wonderful," she said emphatically. "I feel like some kind of princess in this house."

Grey responded with a touch of formality. "Catherine Cruz, may I introduce my son-in-law, Leonard Alberton."

Catherine then shook hands with the somewhat short and wiry-looking Englishman but couldn't help looking at her surroundings. "This is a beautiful room," she said admiringly then looked more closely at a few of the contents of the shelves arrayed above the glass-doored lower bookcases. "Some of these volumes ... do you mind if I ... may I—?"

"Please, make yourself at home," Grey insisted. "Leonard is the bibliophile ... I don't even pretend to know all of what's in here."

"My husband flies helicopters but prefers old books to computers," Grace advised as she walked in with Margaret on her arm.

Alex gave her a knowing smile and said, "In a decade or so everything that was ever put in print will be available to anyone with a connection to the Internet."

As if her husband weren't there Grace quipped, "Oh, dear – he'll not want us to know that! All of this is going to plummet in value."

"I hope not," Catherine said as she selected a finely-bound volume of _Howard's End._ She wasn't entirely surprised to find it was a first edition, then she saw E. M. Forsters's autograph in it. "I think there will always be a market for great books – physical ones, especially literature." She turned to Grey and asked out of curiosity, "Did you meet him?"

"Um, I did indeed. He was at Cambridge at the time. It sounds utterly odd now ... but I have to say I was attracted to the humanist view of life in that era." He turned to Margaret and said, "Suffice it to say he was something of an odd duck ... but for a former Soviet military officer trying to fit into an entirely new world, well, his writing was a revelation of sorts ... a kind of intimate introduction to the lives of the British classes ... shocking as it was. I have to admit I finally found Huxley and the eugenics bent intolerable and, well, frankly, in time I became more absorbed with business and my own family."

Catherine closed the aging volume then gently replaced it in its space on the shelf, noting similarly significant pieces. "This is a remarkable collection."

Grey swung a hand in a circle. "A small part of what you see around you is essentially the reeducation of what had been a loyal communist officer. You might say I am today a product of some of what is on these shelves."

Margaret looked at her son and said with a laugh, "Sorry to tell you but your father and I are products of Life Magazine, Popular Science and National Geographic ... and Better Homes and Gardens."

"You must have been utterly amazed," Grey suggested with a grin. "I had the advantage of spending a few months here in nineteen forty-two with the RAF and some exposure to a group of Americans."

"England was surprising enough," Margaret began, "but America ... America was ... it was another world. Unbelievable ... my first time ... you should have seen me in a Safeway ... I walked around gawking like an idiot."

Grey nodded solemnly and looked at his guests as he said, "Imagine coming from a world where less than twelve hundred calories was a typical daily ration, and a lot of that was bread."

"I'd never even seen a grapefruit," Margaret noted. She turned to her son and said, "You don't know this, but your dad got hooked on corn flakes, those Kellogg's corn flakes ... he'd walk around with the box and eat handfuls of them. And Spam, we had to have Spam in the cupboard!"

Marty grimaced as a childhood memory flared about the smell of frying Spam and how the only way he could eat it was if his grandpa cut it into tiny squares on his plate. "Spam! I, I remember—"

Elanore grinned at the memory of those infrequent weekend breakfasts of years past as she said, "You'd only eat little bites and you had to have ketchup on it."

The memory triggered a laugh from Margaret then she said, "And then eggs ... we could just go to the Safeway and get eggs any time at all ... you have no idea how much of a luxury an egg was where we came from."

Grace raised a hand and suggested with a pleasant smile, "Well, you'll be happy to know we have our own hereabouts every day, too, Mrs. Calder, as many as you'd like—"

She was interrupted as Elanore and Terri came into the room and after Grey introduced them to Leonard he announced, "Ah ... since everyone is here, it would appear our tour should begin. Would you be so kind?" he asked of his son-in-law.

Leonard placed his cup of tea on a nearby tray and gestured to the various comfortable chairs and couches. "If you'll find a place to sit, please." When they were all seated he picked up a small device and pressed a series of buttons on it. Without any accompanying sound, a gradual downward movement began and as his guests looked around in surprise Leonard said casually, "We'll start the tour below."

With only the floor of the library and the furnishings placed on it lowering slowly and silently, the rest of the room's walls remained in place. The newcomers found themselves gawking upward at the massive walnut bookcases, shelves and windows as the floor descended into a slightly larger, barely illuminated space some eight meters below the floor above them. On the east wall, a heavy metal roll-up door had already been raised, revealing a space that looked something like a large underground parking garage, inhabited by a few compact electric golf-carts instead of cars and trucks.

Marty's eyes swung back and forth between the elegant furnishings and the utilitarian concrete of the parking area and suggested admiringly, "Dude, neat way to get to your garage."

Leonard grinned and like an official tour-guide announced, "Welcome to Boozler-Grey Defense Industries—"

His father-in-law interjected, "At least the cold-war remnants thereof."

As the platform came to a graceful stop, Grace rose from her chair and asked, "Martin ... Mr. Calder, would you be so kind?" then she pointed toward the collection of electric golf carts in marked spaces and began walking toward the opening. "If you'll collect two of them. Just follow me."

Leonard added happily, "We actually put new batteries in the carts."

Like all of the guests Elanore was looking around in a kind of confused wonder. "What on earth is this?"

Catherine added, "Where are we going?"

"At one time this was a strategically important facility," Grey answered.

"A bomb shelter?" Alex asked.

"More like a missile silo?" Marty suggested.

Leonard shook his head. "No, but just as protected."

Once in the much-cooler garage area they could see a five-meter-wide concrete passageway sloping away into darkness.

"You'll be glad you kept your jackets and sweaters on," Grace said then gestured for them to board the carts. When everyone was ready, she climbed into a cart and started off, leading them all into the dim passageway. Florescent lights along the apex of the arched ceiling came on and they could see the tunnel continued gradually downward for over a hundred meters then leveled off, blocking any view of how much further it might continue.

Over the hum of electric motors and the sounds of rolling tires on the painted floor Leonard's raised voice echoed off the hard surfaces as he explained, "It's a genuine Cold-War relic."

Terri looked to Catherine with her eyes wide and said with no small amount of concern, "Michael would not like this at all."

Catherine gave her a confused look and asked, "Why's that?"

When Terri didn't elaborate immediately Marty answered by retelling the story of Kirkland being robbed and abandoned by guides in a cave in France.

Catherine's imagination threatened to run away as she tried to fathom the horror of what it might have been like. "Oh my God," she whispered.

Elanore looked at Terri with a suggestive raised eyebrow as if she should explain more about the Professor's fear of being in the dark.

"It's not claustrophobia," Terri advised. "It's not the same thing ... but you won't find him parking underground or using the subway, let alone taking the tunnels into town ... this ... this place would not be any fun at all."

Catherine could only wonder what that kind of fear might involve but she decided not to explore the subject by asking Terri questions. _He'll tell me when he wants to_ , she concluded.

Arriving at the leveling-off point in the corridor, they could see it continued for an even longer distance. Passing several smaller off-shoots bracketed by pairs of parking spaces, they eventually approached a widening where a formidable metal roll-up door blocked the way. Grace pressed another button and as the door rose with a powerful grinding sound they could see there was another much larger lift in the center of the next space. Two more large corridors, one continuing in the same direction and another to the right extended from the huge room; staircases in two corners led both up into the dark but open space above and down into the unknown.

As they came to a stop in the center of the lift Alex asked, "How far down are we?"

"We're a hundred and sixty meters below ground," Grey announced. "This is the intermediate level junction lift ... it's the materiel level."

Leonard pointed at the corridors and said, "Those lead to warehouses."

"Warehouses for what?" Marty asked.

"Raw materials," Grey replied. "Anything we needed. We built weapons here, including missiles."

As he pointed above them Leonard said, "That's the upper level junction and there's another below us."

Grace pressed the remote again and the platform began to rise as Grey continued. "Below are all the old shops and labs and mechanical facilities. We're going up to the residence area first."

"You built missiles here," Catherine said then asked. "Are we talking ICBM's?"

Grey and Leonard nodded and as the lift slowly moved upward, Leonard explained how the company and the British government had constructed the enormous underground complex in the early fifties for the top-secret work of developing weapons, mostly guided missiles and some specialized non-nuclear warheads.

Fearing Soviet advances in rocketry would result in that part of the United Kingdom being targeted to destroy the facility, Grey had later relocated the company facilities into to multiple, scattered locations but kept the surface property and expanded the home above it.

"At one time we had everything here but the fused warheads themselves," Grey said.

Leonard chimed in with a broad smile, "Not to worry, you won't glow."

When the lift eased to a stop Grace pointed to their right. "That corridor leads to the flats and the canteen – or as you folks would know it, the apartments and cafeteria. At any one time there could have been well over two hundred people working here plus twenty or thirty foreign guests staying overnight. Behind us," she said as she swiveled around and pointed, "that leads to what they called 'the community room' which is essentially an old gentlemen's club – there's a small theater in there as well." She grinned at the women and commented dryly, "If you can imagine, _ladies_ were not allowed to stay after hours – but being the boss' daughter I was known to enjoy a picture show from time to time."

"Does everything still work?" Marty asked.

Leonard nodded. "There's a projector and quite a collection of films but I've moved all the books up to the library."

"Who on earth cleans all this?" Margaret asked in amazement as she gazed around.

Grace laughed quickly. "Not me!"

Leonard added, "The air system keeps it almost dust free – but under duress, I'll run one of the sweeper machines about."

Grey pointed forward again. "There's a swimming pool and exercise facility that way ... nothing fancy like today's machines. Rather quaint, actually."

"A pool? Down here?" Margaret asked.

"We no longer heat it, but it doubles as the holding tank for the fire sprinklers below," Grey said.

Thinking again about her boss' profound fear of being underground, Terri asked simply, "If something ... something like a fire happens how do you get out?"

"Oh, yes, I should have said something," Leonard began, "if you look on the floor there," he said, glancing around then pointing. "See the line – the red arrows? Just follow any one of those and you'll wind up at a safety hatch – like that one," he pointed again behind them. "Inside is a small hydraulic lift that will take as many as six at a time. Once you're in it and close the hatch they start up automatically – up to a small compartment just below the surface. There's another hatch to the outside just under a few inches of dirt."

Grey smiled and looked at his guests. "Should you become curious enough to try one I'm afraid you'll have quite an extended tour of the fields – you can't get back down that way on your own."

"And this has been empty for ... what, thirty or forty years?" Catherine asked.

Grace thought for a few moments. "Of people, yes. It's not entirely unused ... Leonard uses the machine shops below."

Alex turned to Leonard and asked, "The tooling is still there?"

Leonard nodded. "Quite a bit remains. I produce large things like organ pipes and sailboat masts."

Marty looked somewhat confused. "Sailboat masts?"

"Where do they sail around here?" Alex asked.

Leonard pointed in a direction that the Americans could only assume he knew. "We're not far from the river. You can get a twenty-meter mast to the North Sea without any bother at all."

"I keep forgetting the river runs north," Marty admitted.

"Right now though, I'm working on some large-scale wind generator blades."

"Really ... can we get a look at them?" Alex asked.

Leonard immediately agreed. "It's in the early test stages but you're welcome."

As she looked around Terri said admiringly, "This would be the perfect set for a movie."

Grace nodded. "I've always thought that, but we certainly don't need any publicity."

"There is something more to see – this way," Leonard said as he pointed again.

The small procession drove up another long sloping corridor and came to what was a similar-looking parking area with more marked spaces for the carts. As they entered a huge double blast door began parting, rolling on what looked like railroad tracks into recesses at the sides.

"This is the main garage – and the primary entrance and exit," Leonard announced.

"This is as far as internal combustion vehicles were allowed," Grace pointed out as a few lights in the expanse beyond the doors came on with a buzz.

The center area of the chamber was dominated by four huge lift cylinders and in the spaces to the sides they could make out any number of trailers and pieces of equipment, including a nearby propane-powered fork lift and an aircraft tug. When Grace pressed another button the twenty-meter square platform in the center of the space began to descend, exposing the meter-thick floor of the surface above. The interior walls of a building gradually came into view above the opening as sunlight filtered through a few painted-over windows.

When it stopped in the lowered position, Grace led them onto the middle of the platform and as it started toward the surface, Marty elbowed his dad and pointed toward a rear corner at a low-slung trailer where a Hughes 500D helicopter rested.

Alex looked at his son knowingly then asked, "Did we see that near the river the other day?"

Grace smiled broadly and Leonard looked at her and shrugged. "I thought I was being rather discreet," then turned to Alex and said, "That was me shadowing you."

Alex grinned at him and said, "If you had turned around with us we might have kept on going back to Cambridge."

"The hell we would of," Margaret said flatly. "Well, y'all might have ... I'd have jumped in and swam to the pub."

As the laughter died quickly Leonard pointed to the walls of the large surface-level enclosure. "From the outside and above, it's an old, rusty barn."

"Amazing," Alex said.

"It was designed to be unremarkable," Leonard said.

"It's the main entrance to a self-contained facility that was designed to survive a nuclear war – at least until the more powerful warheads became practical," Grey advised.

"No wonder you felt safe the other day," Alex said looking at Grey.

"Well ... lunch will be ready shortly," Grace suggested as Leonard walked over to the barn door and began pushing it open. "We'll show you some of the farm and grounds on the way back to the house."

\- # -

With Golikov secured in a jump-seat in the hold of the Transall, Kirkland returned the hired car and climbed the stairs into the cockpit. Before he took the right seat Yamaguchi pointed in the direction of the car they had seen following them onto the airport property. "Our shadows from Martha's are still there."

Kirkland paused and asked, "Think they'll try to stop us?"

"I don't know ... that would be really bad ... and really stupid ... but these folks seem to have a room-temperature IQ."

"Well, let's not keep you in suspense," Kirkland said then opened a compartment and removed a Browning semi-auto hunting rifle. He leaned over the seat and slid open the side cockpit window and said, "We'll see if you're right about your magic bullets," as he put three custom-loaded armor piercing .300 Winchester magnum rounds in the magazine, any one of which could, according to Yamaguchi, completely disable a vehicle if correctly targeted.

"As long as the shooter doesn't screw up," Yamaguchi warned as he watched Kirkland dial the variable scope down to 6X magnification.

With the forward part of the stock resting on a glove placed over the bottom frame of the window, Kirkland aimed at the radiator of the car, let out his breath and squeezed off one round. Yamaguchi snatched the ejected brass out of the air after it careened off the engineer's console behind them. Wincing at the concussion of the next round and catching the second casing Yamaguchi said, "Damn good thing we've got headsets."

Kirkland was observing the action through the scope. "I think they just realized ... yep, they're running," he said then pulled the rifle back inside. He turned to look at his armorer and smiled. "Nice work ... they kick like a mule, though."

"Aw, I almost feel sorry for you," Yamaguchi smirked then added, "I'd love to hear how they explain that to the rental car place."

"That's 'hire' over here," Kirkland corrected then shrugged and mocked in a Russian accent, "Eet jus stopped runnink."

\- # -

The flight from Dunsfold to Cambridge was short and uneventful and when the plane finally came to rest and the engines were shut down, Golikov watched from his restrained position on a fold-down seat as Kirkland open the rear ramp. In the bright light, the only thing he could see was an exterior wall of a metal hangar, then a minivan pulled inside and after its engine shut off the ramp soon closed. The ties on his ankles were cut and the big man that got out of the van escorted him into the rear compartment of the vehicle where Kirkland bound him again to a seatbelt – this time on his back without any way to sit up.

He could see the increasing light as the plane's back end opened again then the van backed out down the ramp and was soon on its way. After an indeterminable period of time and dozens of turns and stops the vehicle came to a final halt and he saw Kirkland lean over the back seat.

"We're going to untie you. If you do anything unexpected, the large fellow there will break you in two," Kirkland said, pointing at Marty. After a few seconds he asked, "Do you understand?"

Golikov nodded and murmured, "Yes."

"Good. Do you have your passport?"

"Ahh ... yes ... why?" he asked with a mixture of confusion and concern.

"Because we're going to take you to France in one piece if you behave yourself."

A cloth bag was slipped over his head but not tied and after the rear door opened he felt hands helping him out and onto his feet. He decided it wouldn't be unreasonable to ask a question. "Who am I going to meet?"

To his astonishment the voice he recognized as Kirkland's said in Russian, " _terpénije_ , (patience) Nicholas."

The hands on his arms led him across what seemed to be a concrete surface with a few loose bits and pieces of gravel or grit on it. He perceived a slight change in the light and felt as if they had walked into shade in some kind of structure where he was held in place for a few moments. He heard the approaching sound of tires rolling on the surface and the whine of an electrically-powered vehicle as it came to a stop close by and was soon awkwardly guided to a position between two men on a padded seat. The vehicle began moving at some speed on a gradually winding path and the smells coming to him were unidentifiable but obviously agricultural; wherever he was it was eerily quiet as if it were a very long way from any street or highway.

He felt the cart turn as it pulled off the paved surface onto what sounded and felt like an uneven dirt path. A minute later the terrain changed again and he began to hear the faint sound of sprinklers and smelled wet grass then the fragrance of flowers came to him. When the cart tilted upward and topped a slight rise onto another paved area he could hear what sounded like the diesel engine of a heavy-duty piece of equipment laboring off in the distance.

Finally the cart turned through a shallow dip and stopped after only a few meters. He heard a mechanically-driven door mechanism start up then they moved forward into a darker interior space where he heard the closer activate with a 'clunk' and the metal door rattle and grind into position behind him. The cart rocked as the two other men got out then someone took the bag off his head and he found himself in a dimly-lit two-car garage with Kirkland standing in an open doorway leading into what he quickly realized was someone's home.

"This way," Kirkland said.

Golikov soon found himself escorted into the what appeared to be the living room of a modern but unremarkable home, but with the drapes closed he still had no clue where he was. Someone had prepared tea and he gratefully accepted a cup.

"You do realize why you're still alive, Nicholas?" Kirkland asked evenly then pointed to the couch as he sat down in an upholstered arm chair opposite a low table.

Golikov sat down on the couch, took a sip of his tea then set it down shakily, the cup and saucer making a tell-tale rattling sound as he did. "You said there was someone I was to meet."

Kirkland leaned forward and tilted his head slightly, locking his eyes on Golikov's. "Precisely," he said then gestured with the tip of his head to Yamaguchi, who turned and left through the adjacent dining area.

"You are going to let me go?" the Russian asked nervously.

Kirkland nodded only slightly. "I'm a man of my word, Nicholas. We'll keep you out of the hands of the authorities and even get you to Calais." He paused and added, "And for that, we'll have no more difficulty with you and your absurd treasure hunt."

Golikov's eyes widened and his mouth opened as if he were going to say something then a movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn. On instinct he stood up as he saw an old man walk slowly but steadily into the room.

"General Alexsandr Kovpak, _mozhet ya predstavlyayu_ , (may I present) Mr. Nicholas Golikov," Kirkland said formally in Russian.

Golikov stared with an odd look of near-comprehension on his face; the last picture he had seen and studied so carefully was over fifty years old. _There is definitely a resemblance_. It took him several seconds to speak. "You _are_ alive, General Kovpak ... I _knew_ it!"

The former General nodded and tipped his head slightly as he studied the younger man. "Indeed – I have survived all these years. You don't look like him but ... I knew your grandfather." The elderly man then turned to the tea tray, poured himself a cup and added lemon to it. He stepped sideways and set the tea down, then pulled slightly at the knees of his slacks and sat down in a fabric-covered arm chair across from the stunned Russian. "He was a great officer," he continued as he crossed his legs and picked up the tea again. "He was remarkable ... a mind that could manage and recall seemingly endless detail."

_He was sent into the gulag because of your escape,_ Golikov wanted to say but thought better of it.

"Sit, sit," the General offered. "For a civilian, you have been _extraordinarily_ persistent," he added as he stirred the tea gently and silently with a spoon.

Now speechless, Golikov managed to sit back down, his eyes fixed on the man he had been searching for for so many years. The incongruity of the man's very British speech was only adding to his confusion – he knew all-too-well how hard it was to lose an accent, especially Russian.

"Your grandfather was quite a bit older than I," Grey said casually then paused to sip and test his tea. "He and another man, a General Krylov ... they were in large part responsible for the success of a mission I led ... I suspect ... but ... well, you probably believe you know something of it."

The Russian managed to nod but didn't know what to say or ask.

Grey continued eyeing him. "Did your grandfather tell you of the mission?"

Golikov shakily picked up the tea and took a sip to wet his mouth before he spoke. "I never met my grandfather," he said with some strain in his voice then set the saucer and cup down.

Grey sighed slowly and asked, "So you learned of the mission from your father?"

"No, no, I did not," the Russian corrected and looked around at the other men in the room as if trying to decide how much he should say. "No, I discovered it ... quite by accident ... my father worked in the Kremlin when I was young." When no visible reactions to that statement resulted he swallowed and took a breath before continuing. "No, he got my grandfather's name restored ... after Stalin died. That's how my father acquired the records, the records of a man by the name of Igor Olnikov." At that he saw the recognition on the face of the old General and added, "I found them concealed in my father's apartment after he passed away. I never had the opportunity to ask him about them."

The old man smiled and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Did you know Olnikov?"

Golikov shook his head quickly. "I never met him. I know he was reporting only to Stalin for some time. Then he apparently went back into the KGB."

The General nodded as if he understood and Golikov decided to continue. "He searched for you ... and Nuryev ... he did it very quietly for several years." Golikov's lips formed into a straight line as he thought about what he was going to say next. "Stalin never told him the real purpose of your mission, or he never recorded it if he knew. I know he was reassigned to his normal duties at the outbreak of the Korean conflict. Then he was called ... in 1956 he was ordered to explain what he had been doing for Stalin."

"Ordered by whom?" Grey asked curiously.

"My father worked for Nikita Khrushchev."

CHAPTER 35

The Kremlin, Moscow, USSR, January, 1956

Standing in the large private meeting room of the man some expected to become the next Premiere, Igor Olnikov gathered his old photographs and diagrams from the easel next to him after concluding his confidential briefing before Nikita Khrushchev and several of his closest confidants.

Fully recognizing the risks in disclosing what he knew, he was also confident there were going to be inevitable changes as Stalin's cronies lost their grip on power. Knowing certain things could be useful in any number of ways if one made the proper connections.

Khrushchev's desire to remove the stain of Joseph Stalin from the history of the Soviet Union included numerous highly covert investigations into the atrocities and mysteries that had been promulgated under the ruthless tyrant. Men who had been banished into the gulag were returning with their secrets; the truths about many things were threatening to percolate through the Kremlin and be dangerous for certain members of the party power structure.

As always in the USSR, dangers for some could mean opportunities for others.

Among the returnees was General Andreyev Golikov, the only survivor of the planners of Stalin's mysterious secret mission that served as the apparent nexus of some persistent and potentially hazardous rumors. Sometime after his return to Moscow, Golikov had managed to steer one of those investigations toward a potentially knowledgeable source – a senior KGB officer, Igor Olnikov.

Without alerting him to the purposes, Olnikov had been quietly interviewed and soon after, summoned to report to Khrushchev with all of his records in the Golikov matter.

After Olnikov's presentation seemed to have ended Khrushchev said, "I knew Leonov well ... everyone knew of Krylov but I do not remember Golikov."

"General Golikov's story matches what we have just heard," one of the advisors who had helped arrange the meeting said.

Khrushchev pursed his lips for several seconds. "And you are convinced, Comrade Olnikov, you are certain that it was _not_ secret weapons components on those planes?"

Olnikov thought for a few moments, put one hand under an arm and rubbed his jaw with the other while scowling at the floor. He sighed quietly and looked up. "Even beyond what Comrade Stalin told me about it being a convenient ruse, I have my own doubts about the weapons secrets or the plans or documents or such theories, Comrades."

Khrushchev continued to look displeased. In formulating his plan for denigrating Stalin at the upcoming twentieth Party Congress he had hoped to point to Stalin as the architect of a treasonous plan that accelerated the West's nuclear weapons development. That revelation would have reverberated among many in the USSR and would doom those who still supported Stalin's policies. "I believe you should elaborate on those doubts," he said.

Olnikov nodded and raised then retracted an index finger. "Consider the fact that the mission originated in _Leningrad_. Comrades, you should know that the city was hardly one of the _Naukograds_ ," he said, referring to the specially constructed scientific and weapons research cities hastily established far away from the western front. "There were no secret weapons research or development facilities anywhere near Leningrad at that time. Why then would Leonov risk having such things taken there?" He paused for a few moments to let them consider their own answers to the question then continued. "Taking such things into a city under siege ... almost completely surrounded by Hitler's forces? If they were weapons, parts of weapons even ... why not simply dispatch the planes from Keg Ostrov to the real source and depart from there?"

The men at the table were suddenly put in various stages of thought and curiosity.

"I fear the dead have taken their secrets with them," one said.

"A diversion?" another offered.

Olnikov saw the combination of reactions, most of them unsure. "A diversion, yes, perhaps," he said nodding. "But most importantly, Comrades, I found—and am relying on what I consider to be sound intelligence—that at that time our technology was not advanced enough to have anything of importance to offer the West."

One of the older men raised a hand slightly, examined his cigarette momentarily and said, "At that time, if I recall, he was adamant the British and Americans advance the date of their invasion of France."

"Perhaps this was some kind of ... ah, ah, a payment of some sort," a younger Red Army officer suggested.

"No ... the time was not right," the older man said as he crushed out his cigarette. "That was years before the invasion of Normandy."

"Then what?" someone asked.

There were several looks of concern among the men and they wound up looking at Khrushchev as Olnikov added, "We may never know. But whatever it was, perhaps it was enough to move the Allies to advance their invasion of Africa. At least the time frame was closer ... the strategy might have been to save Stalingrad."

Khrushchev's face soured even more as memories of the horrors of the battle of Stalingrad raced through his mind. "I'm not so sure of that, Comrade." He shook his head and added, "No, no ... I believe it to be more of a coincidence. Given the timing ... the mission was completed only weeks before the African invasion. The ships from America would have been almost, if not already underway."

Several heads around the table nodded.

"It had been planned many months before that," another officer advised. "That would have required the Allies to trust Comrade Stalin and prepare the invasion in advance ... I do not see that as a possibility."

"Which means there must be another explanation," Khrushchev said, looking at each of the men expectantly then turning to Olnikov. "What alternative theories are there? That you know of ... you are the only one with insight into this, this ... secret mission. What have you thought of?"

Olnikov slowly shook his head. "I have none that I can support with evidence, Comrade Khrushchev. Primarily because we were unable to locate the men involved. General Kovpak nor Colonel Nuryev were ever located ... and with the events of Korea my investigation was closed in nineteen fifty," he said then sighed and shrugged slightly. "I found nothing that offers a clue as to what Stalin actually may have sent in those planes ... if he sent anything. If there was something, I do not believe it had anything to do with weapons. And I do not believe Golikov knows."

A question with a tone of sinister distrust came from a man that had been silent thus far. "And why is that, Comrade?"

Olnikov recognized the attitude of not entirely trusting the stories of men who had been sent to the gulags; such sentiments were widespread among the party stalwarts. He looked at the man steadily and as someone with authority on such matters he said quietly, "If Comrade Stalin had thought Golikov knew, Golikov would not be alive." He glanced at the officers who seemed in complete agreement and added, "Perhaps with more time ... what it was might be found."

A man who had just lit a cigarette asked, "You say more time ... what do you mean by more time, Comrade?"

Khrushchev began shaking his head. "We do not have the luxury of time."

"Months ... months at best," Olnikov offered.

"Months?" another asked incredulously.

Olnikov nodded and added forcefully. "Yes, of course. Starting in Leningrad."

With his decision already made as to the immediate matter, but with a longer-term thought, Khrushchev decided to ask, "What do you hope to find in Leningrad?"

"Someone who knows ... someone still alive," Olnikov answered coolly. When no verbal challenge seemed forthcoming he felt it appropriate to expand on his idea. "The longer we wait the colder the trail will become."

One of the men from the security apparatus shook his head and said, "I must say, I believe proceeding using divisional resources invites possibly unwanted attention."

The men around the table looked again to Khrushchev who spent nearly a minute in deep thought then shook his head and looked at each man individually. "This will go no further." He turned then to Olnikov and said, "You are dismissed, Comrade. And you do not speak of this to anyone."

"Understood, Comrade Khrushchev."

CHAPTER 36

Cambridgeshire, U.K. and Calais France, Thursday Afternoon, June 5, 1997

"Obviously that wasn't the end of Olnikov's investigation," Kirkland said knowingly.

Golikov squinted at him in distrust but nodded. "Oh yes, _officially_ , it was, but, but ... understand he always believed the answer was in Leningrad. He didn't give up ... no, he even arranged to be assigned there in nineteen fifty-nine."

Knowing most of the story from the side of the De Beers cartel, Kirkland decided to begin laying the foundation of doubt in Golikov's mind. "That explains where the legend of the Romanov treasure originated ... in Leningrad, with Olnikov."

"It is not just a legend!" Golikov shot back almost indignantly. "Olnikov was experienced, an experienced agent ... very resourceful. He found Ivan Yeremenko's records."

"I recall the name," the General said without a hint of curiosity.

"The Director of the State Diamond Fund," Kirkland announced.

Golikov became more animated as he nodded and went on, feeling that he was going to get a chance to explain himself. "Yes, yes, you see ... not only Yeremenko's ... Olnikov found that General Leonov was there ... he had been there ... he even assumed command of an armored unit and took it to the Winter Palace ... and Yeremenko's personal communications were intact ... there was a message, a message to Stalin saying his _order was filled_." He looked back and forth for a reaction or response but there was none. "Don't you see?" he asked with a hint of desperation. "After only a day Leonov personally led that armored column from the Winter Palace to the Smolnya airfield! Just one day before your mission began – from that very airfield."

After several seconds Grey asked evenly, "We saw them, the tanks ... they surrounded the airfield. Our mission was highly secret ... no one could come anywhere near us or our planes. But from that you surmise what?"

Golikov sounded impatient and frustrated as he answered. "Don't you see? Olnikov also learned much more. Before your mission, General ... he learned Yeremenko had secretly taken the treasure from the Kremlin back to Leningrad, to the Hermitage—"

Kirkland interrupted him, "Because of OMSBON ... Moscow being rigged to be literally blown off the face of the earth if the Nazis got in—"

"Yes, yes, of course ... you see," the Russian said looking at Kirkland incredulously as he began to realize how much the American seemed to know. "It wasn't safe there ... and then from the Hermitage, Leonov took it to Smolnya, then you," he said to the General, "your planes, you took it to Tehran." There were still no nods of agreement but Golikov kept going. "And we also know from Olnikov that your plane crashed near Kuvandyk ... you did."

The older man looked at him evenly and said, "There is no question of that."

Golikov was further encouraged. "You see then ... you see, Olnikov found Major Nuryev had been there, he had been in the mountains near Kuvandyk ... _he_ recovered the cargo from it ... _he_ went there months before ... at some point _before_ you led Olnikov to the plane, General."

_That's a pretty good guess_ , Kirkland noted to himself.

Grey then set the final baited hook – the story they had agreed on as they met while Marty Calder and Yamaguchi were driving Golikov around on the property to confuse him. "Did you know the items Leonov took from the Hermitage were just copies?" he asked calmly then sipped more tea.

When the again-stunned Golikov couldn't formulate a response Grey smiled at him slightly and asked, "What did you think ' _the order being filled'_ message really meant?"

Golikov's mouth was open and his eyes darted back and forth. "That's not possible! They can't be _copies_. The _copies_ are now in the Kremlin ... or on the tour in America ... Silayev has a detailed inventory—"

"Nicholas, come now," Kirkland interrupted dismissively. "Silayev was certainly not qualified to determine their authenticity."

The Russian couldn't believe what he was hearing and his mouth hung open again. _This cannot be_ , he told himself.

Kirkland tipped his head and added, "Your friend Silayev was just a security operative. And not an expert in valuations, I should add. And he was never in a position to know."

While Golikov's mind was obviously reeling, Grey squinted at the dumbfounded man. "Did you know Olnikov defected to the West in nineteen sixty?"

The Russian felt as if he was being bombarded and found it hard to answer. "That's not possible," he said in a whisper.

"Oh, but it is ... that's why you have nothing from him after nineteen fifty-nine," Kirkland advised.

"He can't possibly still be alive!" Golikov said incredulously.

Grey shook his head. "I was told he died in nineteen sixty-five." He let that sink in for a moment then added, "They brought a collection of his files to me not long after he had been arrested—"

"Arrested?" Golikov whispered.

Grey nodded. "Yes, here ... to provide cover for him. As far as the Soviet Union is concerned, he was arrested on an espionage mission in the U.K. in nineteen sixty ... but as I said, he defected. And, because a considerable amount of what was in the files he brought with him involved me, they naturally came to me with them. He was kept at Huntercombe for a considerable period."

Golikov was visibly shaken; this was too much to comprehend.

"Among those records was something you have never seen, Nicholas," Grey said as he reached out and took an aging manila envelope from Yamaguchi. "The thing that brought Olnikov to this country was something else ... something Yeremenko had tried to conceal." Grey opened the envelope and fished a single piece of paper from the thick stack inside it. "Olnikov foolishly took this information out of the Soviet Union and tried to sell it to MI5. But it turned out to be worthless, just as what you think you know is worthless now." Grey extended his hand and handed it to Kirkland to pass to Golikov.

The Russian examined the detailed ledger page taken from a bound register for nearly a half-minute then asked another question. "This is what Olnikov found ... he kept these?"

Grey sighed slightly then explained the collection of records of dozens of elderly former Fabergé craftsman and artisans who had been rounded up around Leningrad and taken to new jobs at the Hermitage early in 1942. He fished in the envelope again and removed a few smaller forms and handed them directly to Golikov. "He also found these ... pages and pages of materiel and food requisitions ... unbelievable amounts considering what the rest of the population was dealing with. They worked in relative comfort while their comrades starved and froze to death."

When Golikov started realizing how the story was unfolding his demeanor became one of having been dealt a severe blow.

"Olnikov never found even one of those men alive, Nicholas," the former General said gravely. "In all the time he was there in Leningrad. And I spent enough time with him to know he was a good operative. He even tracked down a handful of living relatives of the men ... but not one ... not one of them was still alive."

Golikov was now just staring into a space on the table in front of him.

"After they were picked up in January and February of nineteen forty-two, none of them were ever seen again," Grey added. "Their secret died with them."

"What other purpose could they have served?" Kirkland asked pointedly. "No one got rounded up and sent to the gulag just for having worked at Fabergé all those decades before the war."

Golikov looked at the tea on the low table in front of him and handed back the pages.

"Stalin ordered Yeremenko to have copies made," Kirkland continued. "Copies good enough to be indistinguishable to most people in those days. His, Olnikov's mistake was he assumed there was an arrangement in nineteen forty-two and that the British would be more than happy to pay him to find out what Stalin had delivered to them was counterfeit."

Grey nodded seriously. "Not only did he want them to pay him for the information ... he wanted to protect himself."

"But his mistake was there _were_ no such arrangements with the Allies," Kirkland added.

After thinking a moment Golikov asked numbly, "If, if, if not the Allies ... then who? Who was getting these copies?" He shook his head and seemed to be almost pleading as he asked, "That cannot ... it makes no sense ... why?"

Kirkland relaxed in his chair and crossed his legs. "It's really not that complicated, Nicholas. They were used to assure a certain group of western financial entities that the Romanov treasure was indeed safe – so much so as a result of it being out of the country."

Olnikov's next question was presented in a near whisper. "Out of the country?"

"To be out of Hitler's reach," Grey said authoritatively.

"What it really meant was the USSR would eventually be able to repay its war debts," Kirkland added.

Golikov was paralyzed in thought. "But ... they were just copies! If they were just copies, how—"

"Nicholas ... think for a moment. How would anyone outside of the USSR know they were copies?" Kirkland asked simply. "They weren't just inexpensive paste replicas ... in some cases maybe not even real gemstones," he lied then added, "but some of the finest craftsmen in the world made them."

"Financial entities?" Golikov finally asked then shook his head again. "What financial entities?"

"Better that you not know," Kirkland warned coldly. "There are things even more dangerous than MI5."

Golikov looked at the man that had thwarted his plans with a mixture of fear and grudging respect but saw no change in expression. He turned again to the General. "But ... what happened ... what happened to it ... the cargo from your plane?"

Grey sighed heavily. "Nicholas ... we were fighter pilots. None of us even knew what the cargo was ... and later on, to stay alive, we had to make sure if they found the plane, they found _nothing_ in it. That was the only way to protect everyone involved." He paused and sighed then went on. "You were right about Colonel Nuryev ... he did get there first." Grey let the man digest that then added, "If Olnikov had found anything we would all have been hunted down and executed to protect the secret."

The Russian closed his eyes momentarily and sighed. "My grandfather was sent into the gulag," he said sourly.

The former Soviet officer looked at him without sympathy. "If you want my opinion it was more likely the enemies he made, not the mission itself. But, you need to know this ... if _anything_ had been found in that plane ... anything at all, it would have meant immediate death."

Golikov looked again at the old General then glanced down at the table and shook his head.

Grey sipped tea again then said quietly, "Not finding any cargo ... with nothing in the plane, it meant the simple story of expediting the delivery of warplanes would stand up to any scrutiny. You see, no one was guilty of anything. There was no conspiracy ... everyone was protected, including the First Secretary."

"Stalin was content to not have anything that could point back to him," Kirkland said. "That was the end of the story."

Golikov still couldn't simply abandon the theory he had been working under for so long. "So what happened to it? What the Colonel took from the plane? How did you get it out of the country?"

Grey shook his head and chuckled slightly as if the Russian were a fool. "We didn't. What do you think would happen to us if we had defected with it, Nicholas? Do you think we'd be hailed as heroes?" He paused to let the bewildered man consider the story. "Do you think either one of us could just walk into a pawn broker or jeweler with such things?"

After a few moments of consideration Golikov's mouth opened but no words came out and shook his head slowly.

"I had no desire to be thought of as a common thief," the General said firmly.

Golikov was clearly despondent as he lowered his head again. He ran his hands through his hair, looked at the floor and sighed heavily. "But why did you leave? Why did Nuryev leave? If you had nothing to hide?"

The General paused in thought as if a weight had just been placed on him. When he answered he was not looking at Golikov. "With Stalin's propensities and Olnikov investigating we determined we would never be fully safe ... I can only tell you the cargo had nothing to do with the British and American's involvement in our leaving ... but I can't tell you or anyone else why we left."

"And you – and he, took nothing ... you and he got nothing?"

"Does this appear to be the home of a wealthy man?" the General asked, gesturing with his hands barely lifted. "I have had by all measures a comfortable life – but certainly not one on the order of a man with hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of copies of precious jewelry in his possession."

Golikov didn't study the room but he had already noted it was hardly ostentatious. He was now so uncertain about what he had devoted so many years to that he was almost overwhelmed by the realization of how close he had come to being killed over it. It was sinking in; he had been risking his life for what could very well be a myth – a myth of his own creation. He thought of reaching for the tea but knew he would be shaking too much; he now had more pressing fears. _The boss is not going to like this at all,_ he thought nervously.

The old man drove home the point. "Nicholas—understand this also—the _only_ reason you are still alive is because you are the grandson of a man I admired very much." His tone became more intense as he continued. "I wanted to give you the opportunity to get word to whoever is with you in this ... you must abandon this ... this, this, this absurd venture." When the Russian seemed to be vacillating between acceptance and denial Grey hammered home the reality. "Before more people die, Mr. Golikov ... including you." He let Golikov consider that statement for a few moments then added, "Understand this ... Professor Kirkland acquiesced to my wishes ... I did this to save your life ... and he assures me he will get you out of the country safely."

The General then rose, indicating the end of the discussion. "I hope you know ... you are a fortunate man, Nicholas. I also hope you do not attempt to come back." He set his tea on the tray then fixed his eyes with Golikov and said firmly, "If you do, you will either be killed or arrested and imprisoned for espionage."

Golikov watched the man begin to leave the room and realized the audience was over; life as he knew it was never going to be the same and uncertainty about what he would tell the man who had financed the entire scheme almost overwhelmed him. He stopped short of blurting out something that would reveal how afraid he really was about his backers. _They're not going to believe this_. _They're not going to give up – they have too much at stake._

"By the way, Nicholas," the old man said as he paused near the table, "you should know that the deepest lake in Poland is known as _Hancza_. It is over a hundred meters deep. It is along a direct route from Moscow to Berlin ... that is, if you are foolish enough to go looking." With that the General turned and walked out of the room.

"Time to go," Kirkland said to the bewildered Russian. "They've even packed a lunch for us."

\- # -

Nicholas Golikov was physically trembling as he placed the call from the private aircraft area of the Calais-Dunkerque airport. After a painfully long time, his ultimate employer came on the line and sounded surprisingly calm, but when he began to explain what had transpired in Dunsfold and the meeting after the flight he had been taken on, he was interrupted.

"Where is the device?" he heard Arkady Lebedev ask bluntly.

"In a van, at the General's home," he answered.

"You are certain it was General Kovpak?" Lebedev asked almost casually.

"Yes ... I'm certain," Golikov began, "he related the entire story—"

Lebedev interrupted but without any hint of agitation. "How long were you in the air?"

It didn't take long for Golikov to come up with an answer. "Less than thirty minutes," he responded, recognizing quickly where the discussion was leading. "But we may have been misinformed about the treasure—"

Lebedev cut him off bluntly, "No, Nicholas, _we_ have not been _misinformed_ – _you_ may have been _misinformed_. Or _you_ may have decided to do something stupid like your friend Silayev." The voice lowered and became icily threatening. "I am left to wonder which it is."

Golikov's mouth dried as he heard the blatant accusation and realized he was now suspected of trying to do more than just rescue a failing mission. The enormity of the danger he was now facing mounted as the cold silence from the seemingly unperturbed man with a reputation for volatility ended with a disconnected call.

\- # -

At the Cambridge airport with the sun still well above the western horizon, Leonard Alberton smoothly set the helicopter down in a space not far from the parked Transall, much to the surprise of Yamaguchi and Kirkland.

"That's Leonard – Grace's husband," Marty yelled over the whine and rotor noise. "You guys haven't seen much of anything but their house."

Alberton climbed out as the blades began to slow and they met half-way across the space between the aircraft. After introductions Marty showed him around the Transall while Kirkland and Yamaguchi quickly packed for the coming stay at Grey Manor.

As Yamaguchi selected items from their concealed stores, Kirkland realized his sensei was still operating in full-alert mode. "You think they won't get the message?" he asked.

Yamaguchi paused then turned and looked at his boss. "What's that old Russian thing about goats?"

Kirkland was tempted to laugh it off but the look on Yamaguchi's face told him the man's sense of potential danger was appropriate. "Okay, we go light tactical?"

"That 500 won't carry all of what I'd like to have," Yamaguchi noted as he selected clips of ammo and tucked them into the carrying bags. He looked at what Kirkland had chosen and suggested, "Don't forget the night gear and the comm set."

"Okay," Kirkland said as he took several pieces of equipment from the concealed space and added them to the weaponry in his bags. "Think we're overloaded?"

Yamaguchi looked up in concentration. "I saw him approach and put it down ... no, my guess is he can stretch the envelope ... how about four more clips for the M4's ... or we add some grenade launchers and leave Marty."

Kirkland chuckled at the idea for a moment then suggested, "I'd just as soon have him."

"Agreed," Yamaguchi announced. "Let's go with this," he said after looking over the assortment of weapons they had put into the bags.

Out on the ramp where they were loading the helicopter Leonard Alberton didn't ask questions but guessed his takeoff weight would be somewhat above the craft's rating. What he had going for him was the fact the flight was short and his fuel load was much lighter than it could have been.

The roughly twenty-kilometer flight didn't last long and after circling the huge property once and pointing out the manor, fields and distant features—including the Alberton's home they had taken Golikov to—Alberton swung back toward the southeast.

Kirkland was surprised at the apparent landing location as the helicopter slowed and hovered near what looked more like a barn than a hangar. The building itself seemed dilapidated, with streaks of rust on the corrugated metal roof and sides and glancing around the area he couldn't see anything other than narrow, indirect roads leading from it to other unseen parts of the property.

From the co-pilot's seat, Marty pointed at a low-slung dolly that was positioned in the center of a large concrete pad. "That's what they use to pull it in and out of the barn," he told Kirkland over the intercom.

Alberton set the helicopter precisely on the rig and began shutting the machine down then reminded Marty that the tips of the slowing rotor were not that all that far above his reach even on the wheeled dolly.

After stepping out and approaching the building's door Kirkland realized the rust on the galvanized metal wasn't rust at all; someone had gone to considerable lengths to make this very sturdy building look like a disused metal barn. He also noticed from their position there were large stands of trees that blocked the view from every direction. "I like the camouflage," he commented as they helped Alberton move the rig inside.

"It does deter the random curious aviator," Alberton said.

Noting there were no vehicles in the space Yamaguchi asked, "How do we get from here to the house?"

"Dude, you're in for a surprise," Marty confided with a grin.

When he seemed satisfied with the position of the helicopter Alberton said, "Hang tight, gents," then pushed a button on a remote control device. "Welcome to Boozler-Grey Defense Industries," he announced as the lift began descending. "Mrs. Yamaguchi briefed me on your distaste for being below ground," Alberton added then pointed ahead of them, "Once we park the bird we'll take two of the carts back up to the surface and drive to the manor house."

Kirkland looked around into the huge space and pointed at the blast doors. "Where does that go?" he asked.

"Well, you can get there, to the house," Alberton answered. "It's about five, perhaps six minutes that way ... about fifteen or more up top."

Kirkland swallowed and took a deep breath as he struggled to ascertain what kind of danger his body was telling him to avoid. Finally he offered with some reservation, "I think I'll be fine ... as long as the lights don't go out."

"Ah ... well, let me assure you they won't, and we'll keep this as short as possible, Professor," Alberton replied.

\- # -

If Kirkland hadn't known he was on his way to see Catherine again he might have taken his host's offer to return to the surface and ride in a cart to the manor house. The clammy palms were unavoidable but by very deliberately revisiting and exploring vividly pleasant memories of Catherine Cruz, the ride further and further beneath the surface of the earth became something less than debilitating; for the first time in his life since the incident in the cave he found he could manage the panic that was nibbling at the edges of his rational mind.

True to his word, Alberton wasted no time during the non-stop version of the tour – the doors were opened in advance, more lights were already on and even the library floor was in the down position as they sped up the slope toward the parking area.

Kirkland was visibly relieved when he saw Catherine, dressed in a spectacularly fitting goldenrod evening dress with a slit that went above the knee, sitting with her legs gracefully crossed in a high-backed leather chair. Amidst a powerful sense of relief a thought struck him: _All she needs is a cigar and a martini_.

In a slinky turquoise gown and seated in an identical adjacent chair, Terri Yamaguchi quipped in a haughty and far over-the-top English accent, "Oh look, deeah, some workmen have arrived."

Catherine turned her head slowly and looked at Kirkland's disheveled disguise with an air of disdain. "Ooooh – do you think it's safe? They look positively dangerous."

Ben gave Kirkland a sinister look and squinted one eye closed. "Argh, Cap'n ... here there be wenches!"

Amidst the laughter Kirkland looked at the two women admiringly as they stood up. "Wow!" was all he could think of to say and he also recognized the approving look on Ben's face.

After struggling to take his eyes off his wife, Ben finally managed to study the surroundings then pointed at the floor and then above him, "I assume this goes up there?"

"Indeed, Mr. Yamaguchi," Alberton said. "This is the gateway between the facility and the residence."

Kirkland looked upward gratefully as the floor of the room began to rise and he soon saw the rest of the Calders and Grace Alberton standing back a few feet from the edges above them, all dressed in evening wear.

"Welcome back!" Alex said enthusiastically.

After hugging her son Elanore stepped to Ben and admitted quietly, "I love Terri to death," she said as she reached out and hugged him, "but no matter how many times she tells us not to worry ... well, never mind, you're here—"

"And in time for dinner," Catherine noted.

Kirkland smiled as he looked around the incredible library then asked, "This is stunning ... absolutely stunning."

"So's the library," Ben quipped with his eyes back on his wife.

After a few moments Kirkland looked at Grace. "Where are Mrs. C. and your father?"

"They're watching a movie down in the theater," she answered, pointing in the direction they had come from.

_A theater underground?_ Kirkland thought as two really bad ideas seemed to converge. "Down there?" he asked flatly.

"It's part of the facility," Leonard offered. "We drove right by the corridor to it on the way up."

"It must be ... interesting," Kirkland managed to say.

"You boys get situated," Grace said, "then after dinner we'll give you the tour ... or maybe not," she said toward Kirkland.

"The garden would be interesting," Catherine suggested teasingly.

Recognizing that someone had apparently explained his dread of being below ground to Catherine he gave her a leering gaze and said, "I'm sure I can find enough to be interested in above ground."

\- # -

In their guest room Catherine gritted her teeth, took deep breaths and balled her fists a few times to resist the temptation to push the bathroom door further open; then she heard the shower water turn off and realized she was actually breathing more quickly at his proximity. After Kirkland stepped to the threshold with just a towel around his waist and swung the door back and forth to try and reduce the fog on the mirrors, she counted to ten then slipped out of the dress and hung it carefully.

"Do you really like formal dinners?" she heard him call out.

"With the right company," Catherine answered then smiled to herself as she checked the full-length mirror to see for at least the tenth time what the stunning, new lacy underthings did for her figure.

As Kirkland wiped an oval space on the mirror and prepared to shave, she took the opportunity to move behind him before he could actually see what she wasn't wearing. "I missed you ... I was worried," she said then put her arms around him and inhaled, focusing on the simple, lusciousness of his still slightly-damp body.

As he tried to concentrate on what he was doing she began teasing him with her hands and light kisses, alluringly trying to interfere.

Through barely-moving jaws he warned, "If I cut myself I'll tell everyone it was your fault ... and I'll spare no details."

On tip-toe she managed to get close enough to his neck to whisper threateningly in his ear, "I'll confess," then she hugged him more firmly, relishing in the fact that she wasn't going to be alone. He continued shaving and she moved beside him, leaning slightly with one hand to his shoulder and posing for his benefit, letting him have an early look at one of her carefully-chosen purchases from New York.

Kirkland froze, gazing at her figure in the clearing mirror. "You," he began then cleared his throat, "you ..." he took a deep breath and rinsed the razor then turned and looked directly into her eyes and added sternly, "If you don't get dressed immediately we could miss dinner entirely."

When he turned back to the mirror she noted the paths his eyes were still following. "You should pay more attention to what you're doing," she warned coyly then dropped her hand from his shoulder and practically glided away into the bedroom. "I have your clothes ready," she called out as if nothing had happened.

"It would be tacky to miss dinner," Kirkland advised with his voice slightly raised, then added in a whisper, "Fun but tacky."

\- # -

It was obvious to Elanore that the huge dining hall Grey had decided to have opened for this special occasion had at one time been the focal point of major British Empire business and social functions; most of the fixtures and furnishings seemed to be drenched with the appearance of luxuriant age even though she knew the home had been expanded over the years.

Most of one side of the hall was dominated by windows that rose from the floor to the very high ceiling, the center set having a pair of doors that led out to a to a large covered patio where the flames of gas torchieries drifted slightly in the breeze. Across from the windowed wall a series of built-in recessed spaces held artifacts from Grey's company, a myriad of odd and hard to recognize things, unless that is, you were familiar with the components of guided missiles and rocket motors.

Flags from all the NATO nations were hung from the rough-hewn beams some two stories above the floor, each illuminated by a pair of small spotlights. The far-end wall was almost covered by a vast collection of framed photographs, many of them signed by significant political, military and scientific figures of the mid-twentieth century.

Stepping further into the room with Alex wearing his dreaded 'monkey suit', Elanore realized how much she appreciated the classic, old-world charm and grace such formal dining events represented. Unlike the artificially-old events put on by the Houston social set, it was as if they were in some period-piece movie; handsome men in tuxedos, glamorous women in dresses – although on the part of Catherine and Terri there was more leg showing than would have been in earlier years.

She thought for a few moments and realized it was only the second time she had ever seen her son in a tuxedo; the first had been when he was a gangly twelve-going-on-sixteen-year-old at Catherine's wedding. This time, despite his size, the perfect English fitting had been accomplished in just one visit to Grey's recommended tailor and she was struck by how old he looked as he stood talking and laughing with Leonard Alberton. From their gestures she surmised the discussion was about flying – and her nerves were alerted that it might involve helicopters. Memories of her nervousness at his first solo flooded over her but she quickly refocused on the evening.

The staff of three formally-attired women and one man came and went with trays of hors d'oeuvres and drinks; Leonard and Grace addressed them all by first names as they introduced them to everyone, instilling a comfortable familial sense that put everyone at ease.

A magnificent chandelier glimmered above the long, impeccably set table with calligraphy-written place cards on each plate and various small gift-boxes aligned along the center, among which Elanore couldn't resist snooping a little to see where their hosts had decided to seat everyone. She didn't notice as Alex drifted away to talk to Kirkland and Ben.

Catherine moved to her side and said, "Can you believe this place?"

Elanore glanced around then shook her head. "No ... I know. This is like going back in time." She looked at Catherine and sensed something that took a few seconds to identify. "Hey ... you look more than just a little radiant, Hon ... would _satisfied_ be the right word, maybe?"

Catherine glared back at her but there was little resolve behind it as a fleeting smile followed. "Ah, no," she said almost scoldingly. "Just so you'll know ... there wasn't time ... I'm just glad he's here."

After a few seconds Elanore saw the intensity of the emotions in the soft, dark eyes. "Fun being in love, isn't it?" she said gently but knowingly.

Catherine looked at her friend and tried to make it appear she didn't understand what she just heard. Her world seemed to be taking on a more intense set of emotional parameters and it was becoming clear that it was more than just fun – and it was more than just physical pleasure; in an odd, newly discovered way it was almost blinding.

Her sister-in-law tipped her head slightly and grinned. "You should see yourself." When that didn't seem to generate a reaction Elanore looked around to see if anyone was in hearing range and said, "Hon, if they had a detector for a love aura you'd have burned the damn thing out."

With her friend's rather blatant corroboration of what she had been feeling, Catherine's image of her future existence seemed to clarify around the man she believed she was in love with. The resulting sensation was so comforting she couldn't find fault with simply enjoying it; the electricity had indeed been switched on. "I love him, El," she admitted with a slight gasp. "God," she added after taking a breath, "I really, love him."

"He's that good?" Elanore teased in a whisper.

Catherine gave her another petulant look. "If you must know, yes, he's _un hombre experto del mundo_ ," (a skilled man of the world) she bragged quietly. "But that's not it."

Elanore's throat began to tighten and her eyes soon started burning. She tried to avoid looking at her friend by turning and examining the table settings again.

Even in her mild state of euphoria Catherine knew exactly what was going through her best friend's mind and she reached out and took her hand and practically forced her to make eye contact. "Hey, El ... Earth to El ... I'm not packing up and moving to Long Island."

Elanore's lips pursed then formed into a kind of nervous, trembling grin and after a few seconds her throat loosened enough to allow her to say, "You should, you know ... I've seen the way you look at each other ... and trust me, y'all's switch is definitely flipped."

Catherine took a deep breath and sighed as she squeezed her friend's hand. "It's a little too soon for that, dontcha think?" she said more than asked, trying to be convincing even though she recognized saying it was a lie.

With her emotions more under control she squeezed back on Catherine's hand. "Listen, you go where you need to go – you're only five hours out of our reach in the P-12, you know – and I can fly it all by myself."

"And I'm getting used to flying," Catherine confided.

Before Elanore could respond they heard Grace announce, "They'll be here in just a minute," and saw their hostess looking at a little remote device she carried. "The lift just started back up."

Kirkland looked a little uncomfortable as he asked Grace, "Is the lift really the only way to the theater?"

She set the device on a sideboard and smiled at him. "No, there's a small elevator in the garage that connects to some walkways ... there are the ladders and stairs in the air handling system – I suspect you'd like those a bit less."

Kirkland grinned in spite of the brief thoughts in his head about long, dark tunnels. "I'll stick with company like this," he said as he gestured and looked around.

Ben asked quietly, "Does your staff know about your father's history?"

She shook her head. "Just the company and defense secrecy parts. There's never been any need to tell anyone about Father's real origins. And there are the Ministry rules to follow." She took a sip of her drink and added, "Even though he's had no communication with anyone from them in ... well, I think it's been almost ten years."

"Pardon a bit of professional curiosity," Kirkland began subtly, "but you don't really keep the Romanov jewelry on the yacht, do you?"

She laughed lightly then reached out and put her hand on his arm. "No, no ... I really don't want to keep making you think of things underground," she said apologetically, "but there is a very large vault in the complex. There's even a guard station you have to go through to get to it."

"Down there?" Ben asked. "A guard station _inside_ the facility?"

"Isn't that the department of redundancy department?" Terri asked.

After a chuckle Grace explained, "We had people from most of the NATO nations here at any given time – but remember even allies don't share _everything_."

Alex held up a hand and added, "Will Rogers said diplomacy is the art of saying 'nice doggie' until you can find a rock."

Kirkland was going to ask another question when Malcolm Grey and Margaret Calder walked through the huge doors at the west end of the room.

"This is just too wonderful for words," Grey announced enthusiastically then took a glass from a tray and passed it to Margaret. "We haven't had an evening like this in far too long," he said, taking a different drink for himself before continuing. "I didn't realize until now how much I have missed this ... ah, but ... but I have put you all through quite the ordeal," he finished with an apologetic sigh.

"Now," he said with obvious relief, "I trust our plan has finally brought that rather unsettling chapter of my life ... and your lives, to an end." He lifted his glass toward Kirkland and toasted, "Here's to you, Professor."

"Hear, hear," Leonard announced.

After sipping his drink Kirkland said as he gestured toward Ben and the Calders and Yamaguchis, "I was hardly alone."

Margaret put her other hand on her host's arm as she said, "This is all still too much like a dream."

Grey patted her hand graciously and looked at Kirkland. "Well now, can we assume Mr. Golikov arrived safely in Calais?"

"Sound as a pound, Sir," Kirkland answered.

Catherine cocked her head toward him and said quietly, "You're sounding more and more English."

"Old habits," he admitted lightly.

She squeezed his arm a little and said, "I'm not complaining ... it has a certain amount of charm."

The tuxedoed headwaiter, Jeremy Rounds, walked up next to Grey and said, "If everyone is ready, _we're_ ready."

At that, they sorted themselves out on either side of the table to their assigned places while Malcom Grey remained standing at its head. "There is a small token of my appreciation for your visit to Grey Manor ... in the boxes in front of you," he said then reached forward and took one of them and handed it to Margaret. "If you would, please open them now."

Smiles of anticipation were exchanged as they opened the small, formally-wrapped gift boxes then looks of amazement and curiosity appeared as they examined the contents.

"While they certainly aren't Romanov treasures," Grey began almost jokingly, "we hope they will serve as a reminder of your time here."

Each of them examined small, beautifully detailed and accurately-rendered resin eagles, poised with wings spread and talons prepared to strike and mounted on a round onyx base.

Most remarkable were the colors, and it was Alex that first realized what the artists had created. "Are these the markings of your plane?" he said as he turned the eagle around and examined it closely.

"It's beautiful," Margaret whispered.

"In fact, Alex, they are prepared in your father's livery," Grey noted. "From the last fighter squadron he led."

Terri held hers up into the light and turned it as she said in admiration, "The detail is incredible."

Ben nodded in agreement. "It's almost microscopic."

"It's like they've been morphed from planes into eagles," Marty said as if everyone at the table would understand the term.

"I'll have to take you word for that," Grace admitted.

With their collective fascination on the exquisite pieces, Leonard Alberton removed what looked like a pager from inside his jacket. As he looked at it his face registered only a modicum of concern but he turned and locked eyes with his wife. "Excuse me, I won't be a moment," he said as he rose then walked across to the corridor leading to the kitchen, out of earshot from their guests.

Grace noticed the look on Kirkland's face and touched his elbow gently. "One never knows what can happen on a farm – even on a weekend evening."

Grey nodded. "I suspect it's the dock – some people can operate a boat but simply cannot read signs."

"You mean at the river?" Elanore asked.

Grey nodded. "We keep a runabout in a boathouse."

"The one you used to meet us?" Marty asked.

"That's the one," Grace answered.

Elanore looked at Catherine and Terri and suggested, "You and Terri really need to see the yacht."

Margaret nodded with a smile. "It's fabulous."

Kirkland looked at Grey and said, "I make it to be a vintage Burger."

Grey smiled in recognition and some surprise. "Indeed, you are correct Professor – it's a fifty-nine, twenty-one meters."

"Do you take it out, I mean out to the ocean?" Margaret asked.

Grey shook his head and answered with a note of disappointment. "We did ... but not in some time ... the business of agriculture makes motor-yachting a rare pleasure."

"And the North Sea is fickle, to say the least," Grace added.

The conversation came to an end as Leonard walked back across the dining hall and took his chair. "Jeremy will ring Morgan and David ... they'll go see what it's about," he said casually.

Grey nodded in approval then explained to his guests, "David is our resident irrigation man and Morgan is our factotum for all things mechanical."

"He's a what?" Terri asked.

"Guru," her husband answered, pleased that he finally got to demonstrate he actually knew something his wife didn't.

"Someone who can make or do anything," Alex advised.

"They live only a kilometer or so from the boat house," Grace added.

Kirkland tried to recall the layout from the brief helicopter tour. "How far is the harbor from here?"

"Two-and-a-half kilometers," Grey said knowingly.

Ben glanced quickly at Kirkland then turned to Leonard. "You have an alarm system all the way out there?"

Leonard nodded with a glass in his hand. "Oh, yes."

"It was a military weapons factory," Grey reminded them. "They're not sophisticated by today's standards but properly maintained they're quite reliable."

Grace added, "At one time there were special boats coming up river in the dead of night to be loaded with missiles at that dock."

Two of the servers moved around the table, pouring water and offering selections of wine as Leonard said, "Jeremy will let me know what they find."

"Good, good," Grey said cheerily. "Now then, Chef Duvall assures me we have choices for everyone's palate," he paused as the servers began passing out menu cards, "and you'll be happy to know she was trained at your CIA—"

"CIA?" Margaret and Elanore asked together in surprise.

Grey chuckled slightly. "Your Culinary Institute of America – in New York."

"She's been with us for over five years," Leonard noted as he patted his stomach and smiled broadly.

Terri's eyes widened slightly at the array of appetizer choices. "Scottish salmon sashimi ... Fresh mussels steamed in white wine and citrus beurre blanc or – what is that?" she pointed and showed the menu card to Marty, seated next to her.

Marty shook his head slightly then looked across to Catherine and asked somewhat haltingly as he read, " _Pato a la Naranja ... puerros y setas morel_ ... okay, that part is mushrooms?"

"Duck with orange, morel mushrooms and leeks," Catherine translated, noting that several of the offerings that evening were definitely Cuban and Caribbean-influenced.

Margaret slowly and carefully pronounced what she was reading: " _Brasa Medallones de solomillo de cerdo con chutney de plátano_?"

Catherine smiled again. "That sounds wonderful – barbecued pork tenderloin medallions with plantain chutney," she answered.

Margaret noted, "It does, doesn't it – and I'll warn y'all in advance, no matter how formal, I intend to share."

Alex nodded and said almost indecisively, "Well, I think ... at least for me it's _Pargo ... rojo a la plancha con salsa ... criolla y limón_ – I think that's snapper in lemon something."

"Grilled ... with Creole lemon sauce," Catherine added.

"Ah, even better," Alex agreed.

Grey leaned toward Catherine and said with a twinkle in his eye, "How fortunate it is to have you here to translate ... and you, Mr. Yamaguchi, what strikes your fancy this evening – other than your lovely wife?"

Ben smiled while still looking at the menu then looked at his wife and pointed to the only classic American meat offering. "I don't even have to ask Catherine to translate – after the orange duck thing it's going to be the prime rib, rare."

Grey said, "Excellent, my choice as well – and you Mrs. Yamaguchi?"

Terri was having an obviously difficult time choosing. "I can't decide—"

"No rush," Grace offered. "I've changed my mind twice already – and I knew what was on the menu two days ago."

"And you Martin?" Grey asked.

"Well ... I've narrowed it down to about five things," he responded with a shake of his head.

Catherine nodded and set the card down. "I'm with Ben on this one," she announced almost smugly.

Elanore glowered at her friend. "At least you can get away with it."

Kirkland thought of saying something about the perfect figure he had recently seen in the mirror but resisted the urge to tease her. He took a generous sniff of the glorious red wine then swirled it slightly and sipped it, savoring the complex flavors as he read the menu card again. Giving Catherine an approving look he said, "I'll have to agree with you on the prime rib."

"A man after my own heart," Leonard announced.

Without taking notes, Jeremy Rounds moved unobtrusively around the table, querying each of the guests and answering their questions as final choices were made.

Despite the slightly heightened sense of unease of mere minutes earlier, the elaborate menu, the fine wines and especially the smile on Catherine's face were enough to focus Kirkland's mind on less worrisome things than what might be going on at the Grey's dock.

**CHAPTER 37**

The Battle of Grey Manor

Cambridgeshire, U.K., Thursday evening, June 5, 1997

Just before the first appetizer course was brought out from the kitchen, Jeremy Rounds returned to the dining hall and approached Leonard Alberton then bent down and whispered something the guests weren't meant to hear. Leonard didn't react with concern but simply nodded and rose, saying, "Excuse me for just another moment."

"What is it?" Grace asked her husband.

"Nothing ... I need to talk to Morgan," Leonard said then added casually, "at the boathouse."

Once away in the privacy of the kitchen Rounds advised quietly, "Morgan rang from the boathouse but was cut off."

"Cut off?" Leonard asked in surprise. "What do you mean ... what did he say?"

"All I heard was 'Mr. Rounds' then it went dead ... perhaps I should have a drive out there."

Leonard shook his head. "No ... not alone, Jeremy ... not with all that's gone on of late." He turned and strode back to the dining hall with Rounds in his wake. "My apologies to everyone," he began as he neared his chair. "We may have more of a problem than we first thought."

"What's wrong?" Grace asked.

"It would appear the boathouse intercom line was cut," Leonard said. "I'd wager someone is stealing the runabout," he added almost lightly to minimize the sense of concern that might have been raised among their guests. Despite the casual assessment, the direct, almost imploring look he gave Kirkland was intended to alert him to more than a simple potential boathouse incident.

Kirkland rose from his chair while asking, "You said it was two kilometers from here?"

Leonard nodded and looked more closely at the remote device. "Closer to three. Whoever they are, they're still there ... at least they haven't gone over the perimeter ground detection line – the fence around the harbor."

Kirkland turned and nodded at Yamaguchi who was already getting out of his chair. "Leonard, if you will give us a moment to gather some things ... we'll need a vehicle."

"Take the van," Grace said. "It's out front ... the keys are in it."

Leonard nodded his approval and said to Kirkland, "I'll meet you in the foyer."

As Yamaguchi jogged toward the door Kirkland looked at Alex and Marty. "Where are your bags?"

"In the room," Alex answered and Marty nodded.

"Just in case, have them down here close at hand," Kirkland said then moved quickly toward the door with the two men following.

Malcolm Grey rose and turned to Rounds. "It appears dinner will have to wait until we know what it's all about."

Rounds noted graciously, "We'll be prepared, Sir."

"We can call the constables," Grace offered.

"How long does it take them to get out here?" Terri asked.

Grace sighed. "It's been so long—"

"I don't think any one of them is old enough to remember how to get here," Grey noted dryly.

"It's been quite some time," Grace acknowledged.

"You'd best get Leonard a wireless," Grey suggested to his daughter.

His daughter nodded. "Yes ... if you'll excuse me for a moment," she said then headed into the kitchen.

Grey picked up his glass and turned to his remaining guests. "Well then, why don't we retire to the library while the Professor and his merry band deal with the miscreants – if there are any about, of course."

Elanore stood then picked up her wine. "Here's to no exigent circumstances."

\- # -

Yamaguchi came down the wide, sweeping staircase silently, dressed in mottled dark-gray camouflage and wearing a small back-pack that held double swords in scabbards between his shoulder blades. "Do you have any weapons?" he asked Alberton as he set down a heavy bag.

Alberton regarded the man's outfit quizzically as he answered, "Shotguns and hunting rifles – they're secured in a case upstairs."

"Here," Yamaguchi said as he took a holstered 9mm Beretta out of the bag and handed it to Alberton with two clips. "Are you familiar with one of these?"

Alberton un-holstered and checked the gun expertly, inserting a clip and sliding a round into the chamber then setting the safety on. With a quick grin he noted, "The RAF also taught me how to fly helicopters."

Pointing at the gun Yamaguchi offered lightly, "I'll trade you that for a few hours of instruction in the Hughes."

With no small amount of concern Alberton asked, "You do realize these are absolutely illegal?"

"I plead ignorance."

"I don't know if—"

Before Alberton could continue he was interrupted by footsteps coming down the stairs then Kirkland and the Calders joined them at the front door carrying similar heavy bags.

Alberton looked on aghast as the Calders unzipped the bags and readied the M4A1 automatic assault rifles Kirkland had supplied them with. "You normally go about with those?" he asked almost jokingly.

Marty smirked and pointed a thumb at Yamaguchi, "They're just loaners."

Kirkland slung the magnum hunting rifle into position behind his shoulders and looked at Leonard calmly to explain. "This has a significant range advantage."

"Several hundred yards," Yamaguchi advised.

Before Leonard could ask another question, Grace came running down the hallway without her shoes and handed her husband a small walkie-talkie. "Please ... let us know what is going on," she said then stared in shock at the elaborate array of weaponry. "Here now ... what is all this?" she asked then her eyes widened even further as she took a closer look at Yamaguchi's outfit and the swords. "What are—"

"Ben is something of a specialist in—" Kirkland interrupted.

"Exigent circumstances," Alex and Marty finished together.

The overly-casual tone of the brief conversation was troubling and after a moment's consideration Grace suggested somewhat warily, "We'll go below," as she pointed down the hall.

Kirkland smiled and nodded in agreement. "I'll feel better if you'd do that."

After taking a breath and glancing at the men again Grace couldn't conceal her real fears. "Please, find out about David and Morgan ... and be careful," she said then kissed her husband quickly and hurried toward the library.

Kirkland gestured toward Alex and said, "Why don't you and I stay here until we know what's going on."

Alex considered the situation and the uncertainties; they really didn't know what they were up against but he knew without any doubt that Yamaguchi was the right man to send against anything but a mechanized battalion. The thought of a couple or even a handful of thieves encountering the man in the dark was somehow grimly amusing. "Good idea," he responded then turned to his son. "Stick close to him," he added with a tip of his head toward Yamaguchi.

"No shit," Marty said emphatically. "But about six feet beyond those," he added pointing at the swords on Yamaguchi's back.

With his eyes fixed on the assault weapon in Marty's hands Leonard suggested dryly, "Son, if our typical trespasser were to encounter someone of your size armed with that they would pass out in abject terror."

With a grin Marty suggested, "Dude, let's go scare 'em off."

Yamaguchi turned to his host, "Can you do anything about the outside lights?"

Alberton nodded and took a small remote device from his pocket. "I don't know the codes as well as Grace but," he began while studying the remote. "Outdoor ... yes, outdoor ... west ... all," he said as he pressed several buttons. "There," he added with some satisfaction as the light coming in from the windows around and above the massive front doors went out.

Kirkland and Yamaguchi simultaneously reached into their bags and removed pairs of night vision goggles then a set of wireless communication earpieces and microphones and the Calders did likewise. "Sorry, we only have the four," Kirkland said to Alberton as they adjusted the fit.

"You're sure you're not with the CIA?" Leonard asked curiously.

As Kirkland shook his head, Yamaguchi ignored the question by asking, "What's between us, between the main drive and the river?"

"Ah ... once you get down the drive and past the gatehouse, about twenty hectares of maize – corn silage."

Even in the dim light Alex saw the confused look on Kirkland's face and interpreted. "Cattle feed."

"Chest deep," Alberton noted holding up his hand. "And dense – hard to move through unless you're going east and west between the rows."

"Let's go see what we're dealing with," Yamaguchi said turning to Marty and Alberton.

Kirkland nodded and tapped his earpiece to do a communications check. "Stay in touch."

Alex looked at his son and gave him the traditional fighter-pilot's farewell warning: "Check six."

Marty responded with a thumbs-up and Leonard opened the door.

\- # -

When the three men were in the van Yamaguchi said, "Here," as he handed Alberton the goggles.

Alberton donned the equipment and grinned broadly at the precision of the image. "Very nice – very nice indeed," he said as he started the motor. "Things in the technology seem to have progressed considerably."

"Any idea from your alarm thing on how many there might be?" Marty asked from the seat behind them.

Alberton shook his head. "No way to know with any certainty ... we can't tell if they move across the sensors at the same time."

"Where should your men be?" Yamaguchi asked.

"The boat house ... Morgan called and got cut off," Alberton said as he drove around the pond toward the main drive.

As they neared the gate house Yamaguchi pointed at the goggles. "If they are bad actors we should assume they have those."

Alberton nodded in agreement and turned off the van's lights and quickly became accustomed to driving with the monochrome image in front of his eyes. A few minutes later he pulled to the side of the road and shut off the van.

As they climbed out Yamaguchi asked, "How much farther to the river?"

"Perhaps a hundred meters."

Yamaguchi pointed at Alberton's pocket. "No more movement?"

Alberton removed the alarm device and studied it momentarily. "Not yet."

"What's at the river?" Marty asked.

Alberton thought momentarily then crouched down and answered as he drew a crude map in the dirt. "It's a small harbor ... there's a clearing ... about twenty meters from the river to a hedgerow ... maybe a hundred meters long ... the road, this road, is at the south end, here ... once through the gate it leads to the boat house, here and the launching ramp, here, and there's a dock at the midpoint, here. We don't bring the yacht to dock here anymore ... it attracts too many of the curious."

Yamaguchi pointed at the depiction on the ground and asked, "Any cover?"

"It's surrounded by trees and vegetation," Alberton answered. "All three sides."

"What's in the boat house?" Yamaguchi asked.

"There's the runabout and some tools ... equipment spares, fuel and oil and the like."

"Locked?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Alberton answered then fished a key off the ring and handed it to Yamaguchi.

As he took it Yamaguchi said, "Okay – are your men armed?"

"Morgan will most likely have his shotgun ... he's not the aggressive sort but chances are it's loaded."

_Shit_ , Yamaguchi thought. _Just what I need_. "And they don't know we're coming, do they?"

Alberton shook his head. "I can't see how."

"Okay – follow me as far as the gate and take cover out of sight. I'll go take a look."

"Whatever you say," Leonard agreed.

Yamaguchi nodded then the three stepped behind the first row of corn and began jogging west. He keyed his microphone and said, "We're on foot approaching the harbor." Seconds later he heard Kirkland click his mike key twice in acknowledgement.

At the end of the road, with Marty and Alberton in position on either end of the large swing-gate, Yamaguchi climbed over and dashed along the shrubbery toward the one-story wood-framed boat house. Once on the covered porch he stopped at the door to listen and examined the door lock.

"The door's been forced," he whispered with his hand over his microphone then moved away and crept toward the river end of the building where a folding overhead door remained in the closed position with its bottom just inches above the water. To the north he could see the empty dock but could not make out any signs of intruders. "Going inside," he announced in a whisper then unsheathed a short sword and returned to the small porch. With the tip of the sword he slowly pushed the door open and stepped silently inside what appeared to be an office and small machine shop.

The familiar smell of motor oil and gasoline reached his nostrils as he scanned the interior, noting the workbenches, shelves and tool rack then spotting the door to his right. Pausing only briefly to listen for sounds beyond it, he soon found it led to the large space that housed a single dock slip where the runabout floated at its mooring. Within seconds he had searched the space and the boat and concluded nothing had been disturbed. "Nothing in the boathouse," he reported quietly then turned to leave through the office. A sudden sound ahead of him made him freeze and he changed his grip and sword position then crept forward, listening intently.

The scraping sound he now recognized as something against the wooden planking of the floor stopped, then started, then stopped again. Crouching low, he dashed into the room but saw nothing until he rounded a workbench and saw two men bound together on the floor. "We have two men down," he announced then examined the men more closely. "Both are alive but one has head injuries."

He leaned closer to the man that had apparently managed to move his feet slightly and spoke quietly. "Be very quiet – I'm going to untie you – do you understand?"

The semi-conscious man managed to nod and made a verbal sound behind the gag in his mouth.

As Yamaguchi cut the nylon zip-ties around the man's wrists he asked, "Are you David?"

The man shook his head gingerly then worked the gag out of his mouth. "The name's Morgan – who the hell'r you?"

"One of Mr. Grey's guests," Yamaguchi answered in a whisper with a warning finger to his lips. "How many are there and where are there?"

Morgan twisted slightly to check on the other man and seemed to ignore the question. "David ... he wouldn't go down ... they went at him with the butts of their guns."

Yamaguchi cut the ties of the unconscious man and quickly examined his injuries. _Shit_ , he thought as he turned the man's head. "We have one in serious trouble – stand by," he radioed.

"Who are you talking to?" Morgan asked groggily.

"Shhhh ... friends," Yamaguchi said quietly then flipped up the goggles and tried to make eye-contact with the older man in the dark. "How many of them are there and where are they?"

Morgan took a deep breath and nodded, looking around, "We came upon four in here ... don't know where they went."

"We, we and Mr. Alberton have a van just down the road. Can you make it to the gate?"

The older man looked up toward the workbench and said, "Buggers tore out the blower."

Yamaguchi rose up and quickly found the instrument and noticed its torn out cable then turned back to help the man up onto his feet. "You sure you can make it to the gate?" he asked again.

"I will," Morgan said more resolutely as he nodded and put a hand behind his neck and rubbed.

"You said gun butts – what kind of guns?"

Morgan thought for only a second and said, "Small ones," and held his hands up about a half-meter apart. "Little machine guns."

"How about these?" Yamaguchi asked as he pointed to the goggles. "Night vision equipment?"

Morgan shook his head. "Nah. Not that I saw," he said as he rubbed his wrists and wiped the back of his hand at the sticky remnants of the tape around his mouth

Yamaguchi nodded, stepped to the door and checked the exterior then returned and picked up the smaller man, cradling him to keep his head elevated. "Let's go," he said.

\- # -

Marty was the first to spot the men hurrying toward the gate and soon realized Yamaguchi was carrying what looked like a body. He climbed up and straddled the top rail then reached down and lifted the injured man from Yamaguchi's arms.

"You need to get him to the house," Yamaguchi said as he swung effortlessly over the gate onto the ground. "He's got some serious head injuries," he added to Alberton then began following Marty to the van.

"What happened?" Alberton asked in alarm.

Morgan climbed down from the gate and began following his boss. "We went to check the boathouse, Sir ... they commenced to bashing us about ... beat David senseless and tied us up like hogs."

Marty carefully set the limp figure in the back seat of the van then turned to Leonard and said, "Gram's a trauma nurse—"

"We have an infirmary below," Alberton noted as he looked at the injured man with pained concern.

"You hurry, then, Marty and I will find them—" Yamaguchi began.

"Perhaps we should wait for the constables?"

Yamaguchi held up a hand and shook his head. "These folks didn't come to steal a boat."

Alberton thought for a moment and glanced around somewhat nervously. "Where are they?" he asked.

The answer came over their radio earpieces from Kirkland: "We've got company." The next sounds they heard were the faint chatter of far-off automatic weapons fire and the boom of a heavy rifle.

\- # -

Kirkland didn't wait for a response to his warning; there were at least a dozen armed men moving through the trees in the distance to the west of the manor; worst of all they were organized and cautious. Fortunately, their armament did not have the kind of range he and Alex Calder had. The .300 Win Mag rifle, loaded with soft-nose hunting rounds blasted into and through the outer portions of even the largest tree trunks, scattering chunks and splinters like shrapnel toward the men nearby who dove for better cover.

Spotting a man ducking behind a tree, Kirkland loaded two of Yamaguchi's armor-piercing rounds into the Browning and proceeded to drill two rounds through it, then watched as the intruder fell over in a heap.

"Jesus," Alex said quietly. "What the hell's in that?"

"Ben's handiwork ... that should slow them up a bit."

"No shit," Calder whispered in admiration then touched off a pair of short bursts that made two other men dive to the ground without advancing.

With the element of surprise and some judicious and accurate shot selections Kirkland and Calder had apparently not only halted the intruder's advance but driven them back to the safety of the trees beyond the gatehouse.

"We can't keep them pinned down forever," Kirkland said into the radio. The response he got from Yamaguchi was unnerving to say the least: "What about from the south?"

Alex looked quickly at Kirkland and said, "Shit! I'd better go look," and got a quick nod in response.

"Checking," Kirkland radioed then pulled up the M4 and fired four quick three-round bursts into the spaces around the trees as Alex dashed back into the house.

\- # -

Yamaguchi looked toward the fields south of the road, knowing full well he wouldn't be likely to see anything if a small team was moving that far away. "I don't see anything here—"

"What about David?" Morgan asked, not fully realizing what was being talked about.

Alberton glanced around and shook his head. "We have to get him below or to hospital."

"Or both, most likely," Yamaguchi noted then keyed his microphone again. "The boy needs medical attention ASAP."

"We can get him below," Alberton said quickly. "Through the main entrance."

"How far is it from here," Marty asked.

"Two kilometers," Alberton said pointing to the south.

Yamaguchi didn't waste any time deciding. "Take the van and get him in there as fast as you can," he said then clicked the microphone again. "Injured coming in through the main entrance in just a few minutes."

\- # -

Kirkland quickly understood what was happening and hoped Alex had heard and would find a way to get word to the others below. "Mr. Calder?" he asked quickly between checking his field of fire and touching off short bursts. He switched to the Remington and after watching for a few seconds put another heavy round through a tree trunk. The man behind it couldn't help reacting and the dark shape that dove for the ground met an instant death with the second round.

"Alex?" Kirkland asked again. When no answer came back he began hopefully assuming the difficulty was that their radio signals couldn't penetrate into the underground facility.

"What's your situation?" Yamaguchi's voice said in his ear.

Kirkland raised the M4 and fired another burst then keyed his microphone. "This is a very short-term position."

"We're coming up behind them," Yamaguchi announced. "Don't shoot the hired help."

"Or the client," Marty suggested.

"Roger that," Kirkland responded.

\- # -

On his way to the patio to the south of the manor, Alex Calder's pell-mell dash into the dining hall was abruptly halted when the large exterior glass doors disintegrated as the men outside bashed their way in, scattering pieces and shards of glass across the polished floor. Off balance, Calder turned and scrambled around the table and dashed through the kitchen door then spun and took aim at what might be coming toward him. For a few moments he thought he had been lucky enough that they hadn't seen him through the windows but the next sound he heard and the feeling of having the hard muzzle of a firearm pressed against his head changed his mind completely.

"Do not turn around," a thickly-accented voice said. Calder remained frozen in position with the automatic still pointed across the dining hall toward the doors. The man spoke again, very slowly. "Take your hand away from the trigger ... raise it above your head ... slowly ... hold the weapon out to your side."

As soon as he extended his arm, someone snatched the weapon away and two hands gripped his arms and turned him around roughly, slamming him against the door jamb. Another man reached out and took off the goggles and examined them, looking closely at the microphone and earpiece.

"Who are you?" the man asked just as several more came running through the doors from the patio and took up positions around the dining hall.

Calder ignored the question and the man removed his own communications set and moved closer. "Who are you?" he repeated with some menace in his voice.

"A guest," Calder said coolly.

The man cocked his head to one side slightly then backed away enough to glance at the tuxedo and running shoes. Turning to two of the men who had just entered from the dining hall he pointed to the kitchen table and said, "Put him over there ... _ostalʹnyye, nayti drugiye_ , (the rest of you, find the others)."

Calder could hear more footsteps in the dining hall as the two men holding his arms took him across the kitchen and shoved him into a chair then watched as their leader examined the communications set he had taken, put the earpiece to his hear and pressed the transmit button.

\- # -

The voice in Kirkland's ear was unfamiliar and laced with a foreign accent he quickly placed as Russian. The shocking realization that something was terribly wrong tightened his gut and he could think of nothing to say – nor whether he should say anything at all.

"Mr. Kirkland," the voice repeated.

It wasn't a question; it was coming from someone who knew far too much and didn't need to ask.

\- # -

Marty asked as he froze in mid stride, "Dude, what the hell is that?"

Yamaguchi had also halted then he turned to Marty and shook his head. "I don't know, but I don't think it's a good sign."

"Could they have a radio that works with yours?"

"Not a chance."

"Somebody's got Dad's set," Marty hissed.

After a few seconds of thought Yamaguchi nodded. "They can hear us ... don't go into transmit for a minute."

Marty quickly understood and nodded in acknowledgment then watched Yamaguchi press his microphone key several times. As he listened to the short series of clicks in his earpiece he whispered, "Morse code?"

Yamaguchi answered quietly, "We're changing transmit channels. There's a little roller switch on the side of your microphone control ... roll it back all the way then one step forward. We'll hear both but transmit only on a new channel."

Kirkland's voice came to both of them. "Alex is—"

The foreigner's mixed-in voice made the rest of Kirkland's short sentence unintelligible.

"Mr. Kirkland, I know you can hear me so I'm going to be very clear. You will put down your weapons and return to the house or one of your host's ... ah ... _dinner guests_ will be killed."

After a few moments they heard Kirkland say, "Tell your men to cease fire and I'll comply."

\- # -

Alex Calder looked up quickly as a man dashed in through the kitchen door and reported urgently, " _Oni ushli dom pust._ " (They're gone – the house is empty.)

After issuing an order to cease firing the leader took a deep breath and sighed then turned to Calder. "Where are they?" he asked as if he were somehow amused.

Calder quickly realized the rest of their group must have gotten below before any of the intruders had reached the library. "I have no idea ... it's a big house and I'm just a dinner guest."

The leader laughed quickly in disgust. "Ah hah ... A dinner guest ... with an American automatic assault rifle and a sophisticated wireless ... a dinner guest? I think not." He spoke again into the radio. "Mr. Kirkland, you have sixty seconds to join us or your security man will be killed."

\- # -

Yamaguchi and Marty heard that message then heard Kirkland ask, "Who is this?" followed by the foreigner's reply of, "Don't waste precious time. Leave your weapons outside. My men will meet you at the door."

"They think Dad's a rent-a-cop," Marty suggested.

Yamaguchi nodded. "And they don't know about us."

\- # -

Kirkland strode toward the house and quickly noticed several well-armed men waiting at the doors. Two of them quickly and efficiently frisked him then escorted him at gunpoint to the dining hall and into the kitchen.

The leader of the intruders smiled at Kirkland as he said, " _Dobryĭ vecherʹ, gospodin_ Kirkland." (Good evening, Mister Kirkland.)

Kirkland didn't respond and glanced at Calder. "You're good?" he asked, knowing with his comm set transmitting on the channel that while the Russian couldn't monitor, Marty and Yamaguchi were able to hear everything.

Without nodding Calder grumbled, "Sure. Just great."

"Sit down over there," the Russian ordered, pointing to a chair across the table from Calder. When Kirkland was seated the man took a chair at the end. "We have very little time ... you know what I am here for ... and it appears General Kovpak and the rest of his guests have gone into hiding."

When Kirkland didn't respond the Russian shook his head disgustedly. "You didn't really think we would have been fooled by that tale you told Golikov, did you?"

Kirkland shook his head slowly as he said, "It doesn't matter if you believe it or not ... it's true ... there's nothing to find."

"We shall see. Where is the General?" the Russian asked calmly.

"By now, they're probably at least half way to Soham."

The Russian cocked his head slightly and squinted as he considered that possibility. "You know, I would almost believe that ... but none of my men watching the roads or the river have reported seeing anyone leave." The man leaned back slightly and waved a hand behind him toward one of the men who took a large automatic from his shoulder holster and handed it to his leader. "I don't have time to waste," the Russian said as he pointed the gun at Calder's knee. "Where is the General?"

"Somewhere out on the property," Kirkland offered without hesitating. "They know the layout, I don't."

"It was our job to buy time," Alex offered calmly.

The Russian's jaw clenched and Kirkland could see the frustration building but he could also tell the leader was now thinking about what had to be done in this new, highly plausible scenario.

The leader rose from the chair quickly and ordered two of his men to keep Kirkland and Calder in the kitchen then strode into the dining hall and began giving orders.

\- # -

"He has a skull fracture ... there's not much I can do for him other than to immobilize him ... he should be in an emergency room," Margaret said worriedly as she examined the young man they had brought into the infirmary. "My kit is in my room," she added as she glanced up at Grace.

"We can't go up into the house now," Catherine said.

Leonard shook his head, "Actually we can ... assuming they're not up there waiting ... Jeremy?"

"Sir?"

"Can you retrieve Mrs. Calder's kit?"

"That's an excellent suggestion, Sir," Rounds said.

"I'm going to get the helo ready ... bring him to the hangar on a stretcher and I'll take him directly."

"How's he going to get back into the house?" Elanore asked.

"There's an air-handling corridor that connects to a central shaft in the house," Grace noted. "It leads to panels, one behind one of the refrigerators in the kitchen and the others in the linen closets on the upper floors."

"Does Michael know about those?" Terri asked then warned, "Under the circumstances you don't want to surprise either one of them."

"I'll be careful," Rounds advised calmly. "I'll take a wireless and keep you apprised."

\- # -

Yamaguchi crouched down and motioned Marty to do the same. "They're going to come out and spread out," he whispered. "They're hunting for the General ... we have to take them quietly."

Marty cringed inwardly, realizing what Yamaguchi fully intended to do; as in Houston, mayhem and death were about to be loosed. "Got it," he said with a nod then watched as Yamaguchi drew out what looked like a black tube and with a few practiced movements, turned the object into what Marty recognized as a police baton.

"It's very effective," Yamaguchi said as he handed it to Marty.

"Dude ... it's heavy."

Yamaguchi grinned slyly and quipped, "Dude, you're big."

Marty chuckled for a second then experimented with a few grips and movements.

Yamaguchi touched the big man's arm and said seriously, "From behind, against an armed opponent, destroy his ability to use his weapon ... break his trigger hand first then render him unconscious."

"From the front?" Marty asked.

"Block the gun hand outward and knock the sum'bitch out."

"Sounds simple enough."

"It's that or I give you a knife ... no offense but I think you'd hesitate ... that might get you killed."

Marty only nodded in agreement.

"Stay close and watch my back," Yamaguchi said as he rose and began moving in the direction of the manor.

\- # -

Jeremy Rounds listened intently with his ear pressed to the movable wall directly behind one of the massive refrigerators in the kitchen. Unable to hear anything from that position, he slowly pushed on one edge of the panel, making the refrigerator move silently on large rubber rollers. The one-inch gap let in a stream of light as well as air but he was unable to see anything from that vantage point.

The slight movement of the refrigerator caught Kirkland completely by surprise but he avoided paying attention to it. Neither of the guards faced that direction and he didn't want to change that dynamic in any way. He quickly surmised there had to be some kind of connection between the facility and the house other than the library and someone was trying to find out what was going on – and risking a lot of lives doing it. The guards weren't hardened veterans by any means but they were alert and had automatic weapons at the ready - worst of all they were several feet beyond his or Calder's reach if they did become aware of something moving behind them.

As the refrigerator rotated further out into the room Calder, too, noticed it and looked at Kirkland in surprise. Seconds later they saw Jeremy Rounds standing behind the two guards and watched in stunned silence as one of them fell to the floor as if he had simply passed out. The other guard turned and looked down at his partner in more confusion than alarm but before he could do or say anything, Rounds struck him in the side of the neck with a crushing blow.

The still elegantly attired older man was not even breathing hard as he whispered, "Sir, Sergeant Jeremy Rounds. Four Two Commando, Bickleigh Barracks, retired – in eighty two."

Kirkland's jaw dropped and he saw a look of misunderstanding on Alex's face. "Royal Marine Commando," he explained recognizing the gift fortune had just handed them.

"Correct, Sir, I don't make a habit of telling anyone ... the troubles and all," he said referring to what had gone on in Northern Ireland during his career. "Sometimes it puts people off ... we should hide these quickly," he suggested as he reached down and began dragging one of the men toward a laundry alcove.

As Kirkland hauled the other man off, Calder rounded up their weapons from the other side of the kitchen as well as the intruders'. When they had the men bound and covered in laundry sacks they slipped back into the space behind the refrigerator.

Rounds looked at the weapons the two men were carrying. "Good Lord man, how did you get this into the U.K.?"

"We handle our own transportation," Kirkland said quietly.

Alex chuckled slightly. "The Professor sometimes deals in exigent circumstances."

Rounds looked at Kirkland curiously. "Indeed."

"You okay?" Calder asked Kirkland as Rounds pulled the refrigerator back into position, effectively closing them in a small, very dimly lit room.

"So far, so good," Kirkland responded, then asked, "How's the boy?"

"Mr. Alberton is going to medevac him in the Hughes ... I've retrieved Mrs. Calder's medical kit," he said pointing at the large case near the opening in the floor.

"That leads to the facility?" Kirkland pointed and asked somewhat warily.

"Yes, Sir. What's been going on?"

"We have a force of approximately twenty well-armed intruders," Kirkland reported. "They captured Alex and myself and believe Mr. Grey and the rest of the party are in hiding somewhere out on the grounds. Their team leader knows who I am but apparently believes Alex is a security operative."

"So they're about hunting for Mr. Grey?"

"That's the long and the short of it. What they don't know is Marty—"

"The big fellow," Rounds interrupted.

"Yes, and Ben—"

"Mr. Yamaguchi."

"—are still out there."

Rounds looked deeply concerned. "Oh, dear. Perhaps I can be of assistance."

"We're going to need more ammunition," Kirkland suggested. "Our weapons bags are in the front ... the foyer near the front doors. I don't think they noticed them."

"Let's go get them," Rounds suggested pointing to the ladder leading upward. "We can come down the front stairs without attracting any attention."

\- # -

Yamaguchi turned in the direction of a familiar sound and held his hand up to signal Marty to stop. In a matter of seconds the answer to the question of why there had been four armed men at the boathouse seemed to gel. "Shit ... here comes the parade," he whispered then pointed into the sky to the west across the river. "We have company coming," he said into his microphone as he kept his eyes on something above the horizon. "Helos ... two, I can see the heat signatures ... no running lights ... three, maybe four clicks out ... descending ... my guess is they're headed for the dock."

\- # -

Kirkland put his hand to his earpiece as he listened to the somewhat impaired signal. "Helos," he said then turned to Rounds, "No running lights but Ben saw the heat signature – he counted two. About three, maybe four kilometers to the west. Descending."

"Constables?" Alex asked hopefully.

"Not a chance. Those can't be friendlies this soon," Rounds suggested.

Kirkland nodded. "Especially without lights."

"It's probably their extraction transport," Alex offered. "Where would they put down?"

Rounds thought for only a few seconds. "There's too much water to the north and northwest ... if they try to land to the east they'll be in the apple orchard."

"What about to the south?" Alex asked.

Rounds thought for several moments then nodded. "It would have to be south of the road, and the soil is extremely soft so the dock makes more sense ... we can get close to the dock from the facility," Rounds suggested.

"How close?" Kirkland asked.

"Approximately fifty meters from the boathouse."

"How long to get there?"

Rounds shook his head as he thought. "If the lifts work properly I'd say fifteen minutes."

Kirkland swallowed his panic and keyed his radio again. "We're coming to the boathouse from below. ETA thirty minutes. Disable their helos as soon as you can."

\- # -

"New plan," Yamaguchi said as they watched two helicopters on their approach to the river. "We're going to disable their transportation. Your dad and the boss are going to meet us at the boathouse in thirty minutes."

Marty nodded, not fully understanding what Yamaguchi was going to do but glad they weren't going to be out in the dark hunting down armed men.

\- # -

The team leader with the call sign 'Zephyr One' cursed under his breath. _Silayev was not a complete fool, after all._ The American professor and his one security man had managed to thwart what should have been a rapid in-and-out mission. And now time was becoming a critical factor; because of his older brother's insistence on proceeding at this unfamiliar location against unknown foes, he and the team were in a very risky position. Loss of life was not so much a concern as was the fact that some of the men might lose their nerve if more trouble ensued; as motivation, money had certain limitations.

From their base of operations in Shoreham they had watched Golikov's tracking device move north-northeast out of Dunsfold and had scrambled to their helicopters to follow it. Once they had finally pinpointed the signal after it stopped moving, the recon above the huge property was all-too brief – stealth was not something their big helicopters were adept at.

He switched to the helicopter's frequency and told the pilots, "We have a delay. What is your fuel status?" A few moments later the bad news only added to his frustration. There would be no help from the helicopters in their search; there was only sufficient fuel to return to Calais and the last leg of that trip was over water with little or no margin of error. _We've got to be out of here in sixty minutes_ , he told himself.

\- # -

Rounds dashed across the front foyer in his stocking feet and snatched the weapons bags as Kirkland and Calder watched from cover positions on the stairs. In almost complete silence the three returned to the first floor linen closet then proceeded down the ladders into the section of the facility air handling system leading to the parking area.

"We're on our way Mrs. Alberton," Rounds announced via the wireless intercom.

"We?" came the return question.

"I managed to collect the Professor and Mr. Calder along the way ... be there momentarily," he added as they stepped into the parking area and jogged over to the carts.

When they arrived at the infirmary, Leonard was waiting and took the medical kit from the cart and rushed into the treatment room as Elanore and Catherine came out and greeted the two men anxiously.

"Where's Marty?" Elanore asked.

"He's with Ben, out by the harbor," Alex advised.

"Our radios won't work down here but they're waiting for us at the boat house," Kirkland added.

"Are you okay? Catherine asked.

He took a deep breath and said somewhat unsteadily, "I think so, as long as the lights don't go out."

"Did you find the men that did this?"

Kirkland nodded but looked as if he was trying to find a way to answer the question without revealing the dangers involved ahead of them. "Some of them, yes."

Elanore's and Catherine's eyes widened in unison. "And?" Elanore pried.

"They're on a snipe-hunt," Alex offered. "Out on the grounds looking for Mr. Grey."

"Mr. Rounds found us," Alex began ... we were—"

"Hiding in the kitchen," Kirkland interjected to derail any further explanation of what was actually going on.

Catherine was having none of it. "Hiding in the kitchen?" she asked with a glare at Kirkland and the weapons they had.

"Is anybody up there still alive?" Elanore asked warily. "I know what guns smell like when they've been fired."

"I promise we haven't killed anyone," Alex noted defensively.

Kirkland quickly changed the subject as Grace and Rounds came through the infirmary's double doors. "We need to get to the boathouse," he said.

"I'll have to take you to the proper exit," Grace said. "Leonard is going to take David and I'm the only one who knows the way to that exit."

"The munitions are on a trailer near the vault," Rounds explained.

Kirkland turned to Catherine and Elanore. "Sorry ... have to be going," he said just as Terri came through the doors and looked expectantly at him.

"Where's Ben?" she asked, the concern obvious on her face.

"We're going to meet him right now," Kirkland answered. "He and Marty are staying out of sight near the river."

Terri narrowed her eyes and appeared dubious. "Yeah, right ... why do I always miss out on the fun stuff?"

\- # -

"I assume it doesn't take many rounds to take out a helo," Marty whispered.

"Not a good idea," Yamaguchi whispered back. "That would attract too much attention."

"Ah," Marty responded as he set down the M4, realizing one burst from the loud .223 would result in a quick report via radio, bringing the entire group of intruders down on them.

As they sat in the boathouse looking through the window with their night-vision equipment, they could see the two pilots sitting on the edge of the open rear compartment of one of the big helicopters, apparently unconcerned about any potential danger.

"I'll come around from behind them. Just keep me posted if you see anything," Yamaguchi said.

Marty decided not to ask what the man intended to do. "Got it," was all he said.

\- # -

With his palms sweating while telling himself over and over that this was just the interior of a building and not many, many meters below ground, Kirkland endured the ride through the tunnels and spaces to the vault where they donned vests and loaded ammunition boxes from the guard station onto the cart. Fortunately, having something mundane to do during the ride like putting rounds into magazines helped keep his mind off where he was. By the time he had every possible magazine filled and stashed in the vest's pockets Grace turned slowly into a huge and dark expanse that had once been some kind of assembly line; the small headlight from the cart created eerie shadows as they continued.

Grace saw the look on his face. "Sorry about the lighting, Professor."

Kirkland nodded but his face was grim and he gripped the roof support of the cart as if he were going to somehow crush it.

"We don't keep the lights or the air system on in this section," she advised as they sped down a row between empty workstations with dust churning up behind the cart. "But it's right up here ... there," she said and pointed.

Grace braked hard and swung the cart close to what looked like the hatch on a ship. Large red lettering on the door in the typical stencil pattern showed 'W3 EMERGENCY EXIT' and there was a placard with numerous instructions on the wall next to it. She inserted a key and opened a metal panel below the instruction sign, revealing a six-inch spoked wheel. "The lifts are hydraulic. That's the cycle control valve," she said as she pointed then reached in and turned the wheel several times. "Now you can control going up and down from inside ... otherwise it's a one-way trip."

Grace paused to read something on the placard then turned and said, "Okay, this one takes twenty seconds to reach the surface compartment." She looked at an obviously distressed Kirkland and asked, "You'll be alright in there?"

Kirkland swallowed and took a deep breath before answering. "I don't have any choice."

"What do we do when we get up there?" Calder asked.

Grace stepped over to the wheel of the hatch and spun it counter clockwise. "There's a small room up there with a hatch in the ceiling that goes to the outside surface—"

"Just what I need ... another small underground room," Kirkland noted glumly then actually held his breath when he saw the size of the elevator car as the interior light automatically came on then flickered and went out. _Shit ... not in the dark_.

Rounds saw the reaction and then turned to the cart and retrieved a small torch. "We'd better get moving."

"The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes," Calder said as he studied Kirkland's reaction.

Kirkland grimaced and concentrated for a few seconds, realizing the relief of trying to remember some obscure Shakespearian quote. "That's ... that's from ... it's—"

"I'll tell you when we get outside," Calder said.

As Kirkland followed Rounds into the cylinder he asked, "Cymbeline?"

Calder stepped inside and said, "No," then nodded to Grace to close the hatch.

"God's speed," she offered genuinely.

"I know this ..." Kirkland said, concentrating with his eyes tightly closed. "I should know this ... Henry?"

The cylinder immediately started moving upward as Calder watched the man's painful expression. "Not a king."

Kirkland began muttering, "Not a king ... not a king ... okay ... ah ... he's Greek?"

"You're closer," Calder said.

"Roman! ... Roman ... ah ... I know this," Kirkland said. "Don't tell me," he added holding up a hand just as the cylinder came to a gentle stop.

Rounds spun the wheel and pushed the hatch open, pointing his torch into the space as he exited and stepped over to a switch on the wall. As the small bulb illuminated he said, "Better luck with this one," then reached above his head and began turning another hatch wheel.

Calder pointed to the hatch and looked at Kirkland. "After you."

Just as Kirkland stepped out of the lift cylinder, Rounds made the last turn of the wheel and the round hatch swung down, its springs grinding in protest.

"Now what?" Calder asked as he looked at the packed dirt still holding together above the open hatch.

"Let's not wait on the law of gravity," Kirkland said and swung the butt of his M4 against the soil. The damp chunk that dropped away revealed tangled roots and the dank smell of compost permeated the small room. Another strike brought down several more globs then a sudden rush of drier dirt flowed down.

"This area is fallow," Rounds noted. "There's no cover but we're close to the harbor gate."

Kirkland clambered up the ladder and cleared more of the dirt away from the opening until he could get his head and shoulders above the surface and see where they were. He keyed his microphone and said, "We're almost there ... hold your fire ... three coming to you."

Marty's voice came back to them, "Roger."

\- # -

When the sound reached his ears at his vantage point near the front portico of the manor house, Zephyr One began realizing the mission was probably over; when he turned to the south the silhouette of a small helicopter rising in the distance above a row of trees convinced him Kovpak was being taken out of his reach. Radio messages from members of his team reflected similar views and he quickly changed his plan again; as far as he knew he still had Kirkland and could take him to their safe house in Calais to extract whatever information he might have.

" _Snimatʹ svoyu kandidaturu_ ," (stand down) he ordered via radio. " _Svidanie na skamʹe podsudimyh, nemedlenno_!" (Rendezvous at the dock immediately!)

Hurrying back through the house and into the kitchen he quickly discovered yet another plan ending in failure; his valuable captive and the security man had somehow managed to escape and he was now going to face his older brother's predictably bad temper with nothing at all to show for it. And while Arkady Lebedev would not abruptly kill him as he had the unfortunate, bumbling Golikov, the lengths his older brother might go could involve him in even more risky endeavors in order to somehow satisfy his fixation with the Kovpak treasure.

He stepped into the dining hall and took a few seconds to look at some of the displays as he considered how he would explain how Kovpak literally slipped through his fingers. As he turned, something on the ornately laid table caught his eye and he walked over and picked it up. As he examined the delicate eagle he said aloud, " _Razve eto ne interesnyĭ?_ " (Isn't this interesting?). _Our General honors his secret past_ , he thought as he recognized the intricate soviet aircraft markings. Glancing at the others around the table he also came to another conclusion: _And his guests do as well_.

Grinning and nodding as he decided what to do, he located a gift box one of the small eagles had apparently come from and repackaged it. " _Arkadiĭ, vam ponravit·sya eta_ ," (Arkady, you will like this) he said quietly to himself with certainty. _We have an interesting little piece of proof here_ , he thought as he slipped the box into his small backpack.

Wary that Kirkland and his security man might still be around but wanting to know more about the layout of the house for practical future reasons, he checked his watch then began moving quickly and quietly, his weapon at the ready, taking mental notes of the layout.

\- # -

Through the night-vision goggles, the only movement Marty could really make out from his vantage point in the boathouse was something he assumed was Yamaguchi, running at considerable speed across the open grassy space behind the furthest helicopter. The two men sitting in the opening rose up and began looking at something to the south just after the sound of a helicopter lifting off some distance away reached them dock area. Neither man reacted to the shape he saw move directly in front of them and while he was unable to make out exactly what happened, the two men toppled over onto the grass.

"Dude," he whispered tensely then dashed out of the boathouse and across the space. As he ran he radioed, "Coming behind you." When he arrived and saw what had happened he took a few deep breaths and said, "Dude ... we're going to need to hide the bodies."

"They're still alive," Yamaguchi corrected as he showed Marty the baton he had used to take the pilots down. "Let's get them into the boathouse and tie them up."

Marty grabbed one of the men by his flight-suit collar and began hauling him away toward the boathouse like a heavy duffle bag with Yamaguchi not far behind.

"Thanks for taking the little one," Yamaguchi complained sarcastically then radioed Kirkland. "Pilots out."

"We can see you," Kirkland responded.

"What's that?" Alex asked his son jokingly as he pointed at what Marty was carrying.

"It was a helo pilot ... now it's about a hundred and fifty pounds of unconscious dude," he said with an emphasis on the unconscious.

"We're tying them up in the boathouse," Yamaguchi said as he set his man down.

"That's fitting," Kirkland said.

Yamaguchi looked at Rounds. "Evening. At least we now have a guide."

Kirkland huffed a quick, suppressed laugh. "We now have a Royal Marine Commando," he corrected.

Yamaguchi froze in amazement for a few seconds as Rounds introduced himself.

"Sergeant Jeremy Rounds. Four Two Commando, Bickleigh Barracks, retired – in eighty two. Sir."

"Outdamnstanding," Yamaguchi said then unzipped a leg pouch and retrieved a Kabar knife and sheath. "I assume you know how to drive one of these," he said as he passed it to the older man.

Rounds smiled in approval as he quickly examined the knife. "Indeed ... my compliments to the smithy."

"What is that?" Yamaguchi asked, pointing at the small automatic Rounds was carrying.

"Russian automatic, Sir ... 9A-91," he noted then tapped the cylindrical area at the end of the barrel. "With a suppressor."

"Did you hear Alberton's five hundred take off?" Kirkland asked the team. "Was that Alberton getting the boy out?"

Alex nodded. "That's what it sounded like to me."

"Then we're going to have a lot of company out here very soon," Kirkland advised, then pointed at the man on the ground. "Let's go," he said and helped Yamaguchi haul the pilot to the porch of the boathouse with Marty right behind them.

\- # -

Grace pulled the cart into the parking area near the infirmary and picked up her father and Margaret. "David's on his way to hospital and the men are on the surface," she said. "Have we heard anything?"

Grey shook his head as he raised one of the intercom devices. "Jeremy has a wireless but he hasn't reported anything."

As Grace pulled to a stop in the parking area next to the library Terri approached the cart and asked, "Is there any way to find out what's going on up above? Are there cameras?"

"No ... we've never had need of such things," Grey answered.

Grace shook her head and added, "Without climbing ladders up into the house and sneaking about there's no way to know what's going on."

"I'll go," Catherine said excitedly.

Elanore looked at her friend in wide-eyed shock. "You're out of your mind!"

"I'll go with her," Terri offered quickly.

Margaret pointed at their shoes and scoffed. "Climbing ladders in those shoes is a really bad idea."

One of the kitchen staff pulled off her tennis shoe and said, "You thinking about going up there? These will do ... size four-and-a-half?"

Grace quickly added, "I think that's about a seven for you ladies."

"May I?" Terri asked the woman then tried them on. "They're a bit too big—"

"That won't be safe on the ladders," Margaret insisted.

Catherine took them from Terri. "They'll work for me."

The chef said, "Well, with these gunboats I'm of no help," then turned to another one of her helpers. "Dolly? What have you got on?"

"Three-and-a-half's, Ma'am ... here, try these."

Terri slipped on then laced the shoes. "Perfect!" she announced as she stood up. "Okay," she said. "Now what do we do?"

"I'll show you the way," Grace offered. "But I'm not up to climbing."

Looking at the worried faces of her friends Terri grinned. "We'll be fine."

"There's another wireless in Father's suite, on the first floor—"

"On the bedside table," Grey added.

Terri smiled back. "Good idea," she said then turned to Catherine. "Ready?"

"Why the hell not," the obviously nervous woman responded with an attempt at humor.

"You should take these," Grey offered as he passed two battery-powered torches to his daughter.

"Wouldn't get far without them now, would we?" she answered then leaned in and kissed her father on the cheek. "Thank you."

"You be careful ... and you," he said as he pointed at the two women with a serious look, you be quiet."

"God, yes, please ... no exigent circumstances!" Elanore added.

\- # -

Vasily Lebedev was accustomed to luxury; his brother Arkady's rapidly-amassed fortune had provided him with the means to live well, and he did, but there was something fascinating about the old-world style imbued in the aging manor house. With his personal taste running toward extremely modern and edgy art-deco surroundings, he had no real appreciation for the architectural style and the craftsmanship involved but it was obviously the house of a man of incredible wealth, and that only reinforced his belief that the Kovpak treasure was not only real but largely responsible for the opulence.

As he quietly hurried up the staircase his thoughts surrounded a question: _I wonder how much of it he has sold to have all of this?_ After a minute of searching the top floor another thought nudged its way into his reasoning, there was something wrong, something from earlier in the day – _the place Golikov described when he met with the General and Kirkland – where is it?_

Lebedev knew time was running out but he froze as he thought. _A modestly-furnished living room with the drapes drawn? And a garage ... they took him into a garage? Where?_

\- # -

"We've got two men approaching on the road ... about a hundred yards from the gate," Alex whispered as he leaned in through the boathouse door.

"Do we let them get to the helicopters?" Marty asked to no one in particular as they stood in the office.

The other four men shook their heads and said "No," in unison.

"They have radios," Yamaguchi advised then looked at Rounds.

"There's always the possibility that there are more pilots among them," the older man offered.

"Really?" Alex asked.

Rounds nodded. "They're obviously mercenaries ... one never knows what kinds of experience they might have."

Yamaguchi was obviously in agreement. "We'll take them at the gate," he said almost too casually then Rounds nodded and the two left the boathouse without saying anything.

"What if ten or fifteen show up?" Marty asked.

"If any get past them we need better cover than this," Kirkland noted as he tapped the wooden window frame.

"Can we get to the roof?" Marty asked with a finger pointed in the air.

Kirkland thought only briefly. "Good idea," he said looking around. "Now all we have to do is find a way up there."

After searching quickly Kirkland radioed, "Ben, ask the good Sergeant if there's a way onto the boathouse roof." A few seconds later Kirkland began nodding and pointed into the section housing the boat slip. "There's a ladder hung up in there."

In less than a minute the three men crept up the south side slope of the asphalt-shingled roof and lay prone at the peak with a clear view of the gate.

"Where are you?" Kirkland whispered to Yamaguchi.

"I'm north, Rounds is south," came the almost inaudible response.

The two intruders walked briskly up to the gate, slung their weapons over their shoulders and began climbing. Swinging over the large metal pipe top rail, neither of them was the least bit alerted to any danger and had no idea what was about to happen to them.

From their vantage point on the roof, Kirkland, Alex and Marty watched in quiet fascination as two shapes converged on the two men landing on the ground. Unlike the two pilots, these two at least made an attempt to respond to the surprise attack but neither had a ready weapon.

"Dude," Marty whispered.

"They make it look easy," Alex said quietly then made a 'whew' sound.

Kirkland was looking toward the road as he clicked his microphone. "Better move quick ... four more on the way ... I'll be right there," he said then rose and quickly returned to the ladder and scrambled down.

With two more in the boathouse the three men returned to the gate and waited. "How far?" Kirkland asked into the radio.

"Fifty yards," Alex whispered back.

Kirkland stationed himself with Rounds on the south end of the gate and crouched down in the brush. In seconds, he could make out the four men, apparently still at ease and unwary as they walked quickly up the road.

\- # -

After following Grace through the maze of metal corridors Terri and Catherine gathered at a ladder leading upward into a dark space at least fifteen feet above them. Grace put her finger to her lips and whispered, "This ... this sounds confusing, but when you go up this ladder, you'll be in a small room right behind one of the refrigerators in the kitchen ... there's a big bar thing on the wall and if you push it hard enough, it will roll it outward, like a swinging door," she said gesturing with her arm. "But it's really heavy, if you manage to get it open it may take the two of you to pull it back."

The two women nodded and Terri said, "It's probably safer to go to the upper floors."

Grace nodded and said, "I believe you're right ... truth be told, you can listen from the stairs and hear almost everything going on in the front of the house." The other women seemed to nod in agreement and she continued. "Well, at the top of the second ladder, you pull the handle ... toward you," she said gesturing with a pulling motion, "then step into the little linen closet ... out the door to the right and all the way to the end of the hall ... the intercom is in father's room by his bed."

Terri and Catherine nodded as they took the small torches from Grace and fiddled to turn them on. Catherine managed to get hers on first and practically night-blinded Terri.

"Sorry," Catherine said worriedly.

Terri closed her eyes tightly and grinned. "Okay, you'll go first and I'll try not to trip over you," she quipped.

"No, really—"

Terri cut her off with a raised hand. "It's okay, it's okay ... just give me a few seconds ... don't worry," she added, patting Catherine's hand, then turned to Grace. "We'll be back in just a few minutes—"

"A very few minutes," Catherine agreed heartily.

Grace nodded. "Get the intercom and keep us apprised," she said then smiled.

The two nodded then Terri turned to the ladder, slipped the torch into her bra and quipped, "It would help if I had boobs," then began climbing quickly.

"Just don't slip and fall on me," Catherine whispered loudly at the figure moving upward ahead of her.

Terri looked down and said sarcastically, "I'm counting on you to break my fall."

"Great," Catherine groaned as she continued up the ladder.

At the ground floor, Terri stepped into the space and tried listening with her ear to the wall then turned and looked at Catherine and shook her head. "I can't hear anything," she mouthed, then pointed upward with a questioning expression.

Catherine nodded and they proceeded up another, slightly shorter ladder to the first floor. When they reached the vestibule, Terri opened the panel into the linen room without effort. Listening again at the thick hardwood door to the hall, she turned and whispered, "I don't hear anything," then slowly twisted the knob and began opening the door. The faint creaking of the hinges made her freeze momentarily then she scared Catherine by rapidly swinging the door inward without a sound. "Old hardware," she whispered with a satisfied grin. "We've got lots of it," she added then leaned out into the small corridor that connected to the central hall.

With no evidence of anyone else around they quietly moved down the hall and into Malcom Grey's suite, closed the door quietly and found the intercom. Terri examined the unfamiliar instrument for a moment and found the power switch; both of them nearly jumped out of their skins when a loud beep emitted from the small speaker.

\- # -

"A garage," Lebedev hissed in sudden realization. "A living room," he added slowly, turning on his heel as he tried to assemble more pieces in the puzzle. _Servant's residences_ , he concluded as he began moving more quickly toward the stairs. _They took Golikov to one of their servant's residences._ He touched his microphone button and broadcast a message to his team: "Hold your positions," then quietly ran to the central stairs and descended them rapidly. The faint beep he heard from somewhere above made him freeze in mid-step and he turned and looked upward with his weapon raised and his finger on the trigger.

_Kirkland_ , he thought with a mixture of anger and excitement as he began creeping back up the stairs with his eyes fixed on the spaces above him. He discarded the idea of calling his men back to the house – there wasn't time for them to get this far and in the echo-chamber of the three-story stairwell and foyer it could instantly take away his element of surprise. A moment of doubt swept over him as he thought the beep might simply be some harmless appliance on one of the floors above him but he continued climbing.

If it was Kirkland, or even the security man with him, Lebedev realized he no longer had the overwhelming force of numbers – this was now very much a life-or-death matter, and while he had been personally trained by men hired from the former Soviet military, the man he might be facing was a highly-dangerous unknown. Sweat trickled down his sideburns as he considered recent events in Houston and those of the evening; his nervous system was reminding him he was in grave danger and he could feel his pulse pounding as he climbed.

\- # -

Kirkland's eyes were fixed on the four men and he scowled and held up a hand in Yamaguchi's direction when they stopped in their tracks and began looking at each other, gesturing as if they were confused and annoyed. While he couldn't make out what they were saying, the tone of it made it obvious something had changed and they seemed uncertain about what to do.

On the roof of the boathouse Marty asked his father in a whisper, "What the hell are they waiting for?"

Alex shook his head slowly then quietly brought his weapon into position and aimed in the direction of the men on the road.

Marty followed suit but Alex raised a cautioning hand. "Looks like a change of plans," he said then keyed his microphone. "The four stooges can't make up their minds."

Kirkland clicked back twice in acknowledgement but said nothing, then he saw one of the men point and wave in the direction of the helicopters and say something to the others. "Looks like they're coming our way again," he announced over the radio.

"Yep," Alex confirmed.

As the group of men arrived at the gate, they repeated the same pattern as their predecessors and slung their weapons over their shoulders before climbing. As they did, Kirkland gave Rounds hand signals – one man for Rounds, one man for him and two for Yamaguchi, and got a quick nod of agreement from the Sergeant.

It was over quickly and Alex sent Marty down to help move the inert men. When the four were safely bound in the boathouse, Yamaguchi handed each of the others one of the Russian's weapons. "They're not actually silent, but they're a lot quieter than those," he said, pointing to the M4's.

Rounds nodded in agreement. "If they come in larger groups we'll have no choice."

"You're right," Kirkland said then keyed the microphone. "Anyone coming?"

"Not that I can see," Alex reported back.

Marty looked quickly around then asked, "Now what?"

Kirkland thought for a few moments. There were six more now out of action and that meant there were probably a dozen, maybe fifteen or even more left. He looked at Yamaguchi and Rounds and asked, "What do you suggest?"

Rounds raised a hand and waved in the direction of the cornfield. "If we engage from here, sure as hell they'll scatter into the fields."

Yamaguchi nodded and added, "We have to take the fight to them," he said then tapped on the wooden door frame. "This is no protection at all ... we could be trapped out here."

Kirkland immediately recognized their predicament and turned to Marty. "You and your dad stay up on the roof and take care of anything that gets past us."

Marty nodded. "Got it," he said then added, "Good hunting," and went out the door.

\- # -

Terri fumbled with the wireless device and finally found what she thought was the volume dial and rotated it to the left. She put her fingers to her lips and motioned toward one of the doors.

Catherine realized they should find a room where they might not be heard before they attempted to communicate and the first door was a good choice. Behind it was a formal dressing room that led to a pair of expansive closets. With the door to the bedroom closed, Terri tried the intercom. "Grace?"

She was immediately glad they had decided to find a quiet space – Grace's relieved voice blared out of the small speaker in response and it took a few seconds to turn it down again. "We're good, we're good," Terri replied.

"Anyone up there? What's going on?"

"We're going to take a quick look around."

"Be careful," they heard.

"Trust me, we will be," Terri advised quietly.

Catherine took a deep breath and sighed. "Okay ... now what?"

"We play spy," Terri said with a grin.

"Do what? In these?" Catherine asked, pointing at their gowns.

"I'm not going to go to our room and change, that's for sure."

"What the hell do we do if we see somebody?"

Terri shrugged and held up the intercom. "Tell Grace and they'll let the boss know ... he and Ben will do the rest."

Catherine's rattled nerves weren't eased.

\- # -

Lebedev reached the top of the first flight of stairs and crept forward until he could see both directions down the long but dimly-illuminated central hallway. Listening intently and moving as quietly as possible along the edges, the only sound he could hear was his own breathing until a footstep caused a slight creak. _Stealth is out of the question here_ , he suddenly realized then cursed the fact that he might have put himself into a trap.

He turned and dashed to the stairwell then ducked against the wall, breathing even more heavily as he anxiously scanned downward toward the ground floor. _At least from here_ , he thought, _anyone coming up the stairs would be exposing themselves first_. He glanced at his weapon and checked the safety again. He decided if he encountered Kirkland he would incapacitate him if at all possible as opposed to killing him outright; there was still much to learn as well as a price the man had to pay for his interference.

\- # -

The running firefight started in earnest when the second man Yamaguchi took down with a sword reflexively fired off a short burst which struck and wounded another of the intruders some distance away.

They heard the man yelp in pain and begin cursing loudly in a foreign language but before Rounds could silence him he had radioed the alert; the large stands of trees at the eastern edge of the cornfield where the men had been loitering quickly became the center of the action.

With automatic weapons fire coming from multiple directions, the intruders were temporarily confused but order was soon restored and they began establishing themselves back into organized fire teams.

After breaking off the engagement, Rounds led Kirkland and Yamaguchi on a series of circuitous dashes toward the gate house and once they were positioned across the drive from it he paused to catch his breath. "I don't know if these fellows have figured out this is where we're going," he said quickly, "but it's heavily fortified."

The puttering of silenced pistol fire intensified from at least two directions and with bullets smacking into trees and chipping away chunks of wood above them, Kirkland began firing back with the M4 in multiple bursts.

"Go," Rounds whispered as he stood up and fired to provide cover.

Kirkland dashed across the road then flattened out against the corner of the building and covered Rounds as he crossed and ran to the door. The two of them then began firing and gave Yamaguchi the chance to join them.

Once inside Rounds bolted the door then went to the small desk and lifted the intercom handset as Yamaguchi and Kirkland kept watch through the windows. When Grace answered he whispered, "Mrs. Alberton, this is Jeremy Rounds ... Professor Kirkland, Mr. Yamaguchi and I are at the gatehouse ... yes, quite well, thank you ... no, ma'am ... yes, we're sound, just a little winded ... we are in fact in a bit of a dilemma ... if memory serves, ma'am, there is an exit that connects to the gatehouse ... if you could activate it please, we need a safe way out ... I'll explain when we join you ... yes we are all fine ma'am ... thank you ... no, ma'am, the Calder gentlemen are guarding the prisoners at the boathouse ... yes ma'am, a number of them ... thank you ... excuse me, ma'am, what was that ... they're where? ... oh, dear ... we ... I don't know ... I would think that would be a good idea, ma'am, yes."

Rounds turned after hanging up the instrument just as a hail of bullets slammed into one of the windows but failed to penetrate.

Kirkland went down instinctively and Rounds glanced back and forth between the two men. "Mrs. Yamaguchi and Ms. Cruz are inside the house, checking to see if there is anyone there," he said matter-of-factly.

"Shit," Kirkland said as he and Yamaguchi looked at each other.

"It's probably safe," Yamaguchi offered, tipping his head in the direction of the fight they had just come through. "They're all out there."

"I don't like it," Kirkland said flatly.

Rounds nodded toward a door. "In there," he whispered and pointed upward. "The roof," he added then moved to it as another smattering of bullets pounded into the glass.

"That's not going to hold much longer," Kirkland said then considered the situation. "I'm going for the house—"

"Sir?" Rounds asked pointedly. "There could be any number of them between here and the house."

Kirkland appeared to consider that for less than a second. "Give me some cover from up there."

Rounds nodded. "We'll keep them at bay until Mrs. Alberton gets the lift in place," he said as he opened the door, revealing a closet with a ladder and a circular hatch in the center of the floor.

"I like my idea better than going in there," Kirkland said glumly then he nodded and watched Yamaguchi follow Rounds up the ladder. "I'll go as soon as you start firing," he said over the radio.

The two men climbed through a hatch leading out onto the flat roof where they took up positions behind the stone parapet and readied themselves.

"Ready?" Yamaguchi whispered.

"Ready," Kirkland answered then opened the door and dashed out as the two men on the roof opened fire.

\- # -

More and more confident that the house was empty but still moving carefully, Terri didn't react to the slight creak of the heavy wood floor in the hallway but Catherine froze and grabbed Terri's forearm. Terri grimaced and put her finger to her lips then they crept to a bedroom door. As they neared it, Terri raised a hand and cocked her head slightly as they heard footsteps moving away. After a few seconds she began waving Catherine back and started backing up herself, pointing and turning to mouth the words, "Somebody's at the stairs."

Catherine's eyes widened and she covered her mouth reflexively; it took all her self control to not run over to the bed and hide under it but Terri's apparently cool reaction steadied her.

Terri held up a hand and gripped the doorknob carefully, applying only slight pressure on it and gradually turning it enough to barely open the door and see what might be in the hall.

\- # -

Frozen in his current position, Lebedev was becoming uncertain as well as impatient, but just as he thought he might be foolishly reacting to the creaking of an old house, the distant sounds of automatic weapons fire came to him. Instead of responding via radio he gritted his teeth and dashed down the stairs two at a time then crossed the foyer at full speed. Once out the front door he stopped and listened to the multiple radio messages that were directed at him and among his team.

"Zephyr Two, status?" he demanded as he stood under the portico trying to see what was happening in the distance.

"Engaged ... multiple, heavily armed ... moving ... in the trees."

"Kirkland!" Lebedev said aloud to no one then ran around the pond to the end of the driveway and ducked behind a tree for cover. As he observed and listened to the firefight from a distance he soon discerned the center of the battle had become the gatehouse.

"You have them surrounded in the structure?" he asked his number two man.

"Confirmed. There are three ... on the roof."

_Three? Where did the third come from?_ "Your force strength?"

It took several seconds for a radio headcount and Lebedev was immediately alarmed that there were only eight men still able to function. He switched to the aircraft frequency but was unable to raise the helicopter pilots. _This has to be a radio problem_ , he assured himself and cursed his luck. After only a few seconds he made a decision. "Break it off ... we're leaving," he ordered and dashed across the driveway to the north side to stay out of sight from anyone at the gatehouse. "Rendezvous at the dock," he ordered quietly after several bursts of fire chattered from the roof in the distance.

\- # -

"Whoever it was ran down the stairs," Terri whispered as she turned back toward Catherine. "And there's shooting going on outside."

Catherine's shocked expression didn't faze Terri as they looked at each other. "This way," she whispered and pointed.

"Where?" Catherine gasped.

"Follow me," she said then turned and dashed down the hall to a room. Once inside she ran to a window to try and see what was going on in the expanse of property to the west.

Terri pressed the button on the intercom and said quietly, "Grace ... what's going on out there?"

After a few seconds they could hear Grace's voice and the echoing sound from somewhere in the facility. "They are all safe and sound at the gatehouse but there's some kind of fight going on there and I'm headed out to let them below."

Terri nodded in understanding. "There was someone in the house ... we heard someone."

"Where are you?"

"In one of the guest rooms ... on the second floor ... no, the first floor ... we can see out to the west and I can hear the firing."

"I'm nearly below them," Grace advised then they heard Rounds on the intercom from the gatehouse.

"Our unwanted visitors appear to be moving out ... Mr. Yamaguchi and I are following them ... Professor Kirkland is coming your way, Mrs. Yamaguchi."

Catherine looked relieved until a realization made her almost physically jump. "Tell him there was someone here ... we need to warn him! There's at least one of them still here!"

Terri nodded as she spoke into the intercom, "Can you tell Michael there was someone still here? Tell him someone just went down the stairs ... we don't know if they left the house!"

After a period of silence that made Catherine hold her breath, Grace's answer did nothing to calm her.

"It appears Jeremy and your husband are already gone ... I'm going to raise the lift and leave it up there for them," the heard then the intercom went silent.

The two women looked worriedly out the window into the darkness then Terri turned and walked back to the room's door.

"Where are you going?" Catherine asked in alarm.

"To warn the boss."

\- # -

When the return fire subsided and finally quit, Yamaguchi fired a few more rounds into the trees then turned to Rounds. "Think they've had enough?

Rounds nodded. "I believe so, Mr. Yamaguchi," he said then reached up and fired off a stream of bullets from the Russian automatic over the parapet.

"They're retreating," Yamaguchi reported via radio. "Mr. Calder," he added, "You have at least a half-dozen coming your way." He looked at Rounds who immediately spun and jogged over to the ladder.

"Tell the Calders we'll be coming right behind them," Rounds said as Yamaguchi rose to join him.

Kirkland heard Yamaguchi's next instructions to the Calders but did not reply as he ran as quietly as he could. The very real possibility of Catherine and Terri in the house even with the intruders in apparent retreat was discomforting. _The two Rounds dropped in the kitchen_ ... _they may have gotten loose ... but they shouldn't still have their weapons_ , he thought to reassure himself.

\- # -

Alex Calder noted the look on his son's face and grinned slightly. "They'll bunch up then leave a couple of men down the road a ways to cover their backsides ... we'll get four, five, maybe six at once and if any get away they'll be hiding in that cornfield."

Marty nodded and whispered back, "Maybe we can let the constables deal with them."

Alex huffed a slight laugh. "Something tells me the Sergeant and Ben won't wait for that."

\- # -

At a fast jog, Kirkland kept to the edge of the long driveway with his mind on what he might find in the house if his worst fears came to pass. In the odd greenish tint from the night-vision goggles he had a reliable view of the path ahead but he realized as he neared the half-way point that the bright lights from the house were making it difficult to see. He raised the goggles to his forehead and only a few steps later he noticed one of the windows on the second floor was cycling from light to dark. _What the hell?_ he thought as he slowed to a walk in confusion. It didn't take long to realize someone was making the light go off and on deliberately.

_Short ... four longs ... two shorts ... three longs._ As it repeated he whispered, "One, two? ... One and two? ... Twelve?" _What the hell does that mean_? _Twelve of them? In there? That's not possible_. His confusion cleared suddenly when he caught a glimpse of something being swung at his head in the dark.

The impact was only momentarily painful; unconsciousness enveloped him very suddenly.

\- # -

Instead of running straight away to their rendezvous point at the dock, the intruders executed a fairly-well organized retreat, leap-frogging along the road in teams, in and out of the cornfield for cover as they went. While that made it more difficult for Rounds and Yamaguchi to catch them off-guard, it had stretched them out over a distance of more than a hundred meters by the time the first three neared the gate to the dock area.

Alex held up his hand to keep Marty from firing until the men were within a few yards of the first helicopter. "Take them out," he whispered as he gripped the Russian weapon and began firing.

The three men fell almost instantly and only one was able to roll over and return fire, spraying bullets in the general direction of the boathouse window and door and not realizing his enemies were on the roof peak. Two more short bursts from Alex and Marty's weapons finished him but two others, now just fifty meters from the gate, recognized the sound and ducked into the cornfield after spraying several rounds at the roof of the boathouse.

\- # -

Yamaguchi and Rounds looked at each other quickly as the rapid, spattering sounds of suppressed automatic weapons reached them. Knowing the intruder's attention was now going to be focused to the west, Yamaguchi dashed forward with Rounds trailing not far behind and was soon gaining on a pair of men crouched and moving cautiously with their attention fully forward.

From Round's vantage point he watched in fascination as Yamaguchi, still on the run, threw two objects in quick succession that caused the two men to collapse to the ground and struggle as they groped at something in the backs of their thighs. Now aware of Yamaguchi's presence, one attempted to raise his weapon and was quickly knocked out with a heel strike; the other was not as lucky and lost a hand to one sweeping slash of the long sword. In shock and disbelief, the man gripped the wrist then looked up at as if to ask how that had happened. Yamaguchi back-fisted him into unconsciousness just as Rounds caught up to them.

"Bloody hell, Man!" Rounds whispered between heavy breaths as he examined the carnage.

Yamaguchi didn't respond but took a few seconds to remove one of the man's belts and fashion a tourniquet to keep him from bleeding to death. When he was satisfied the man would survive he keyed his microphone and whispered, "Alex, how many did you run into?"

The answer came back quickly and he turned and held up three fingers to Rounds.

"There can't be many left," Rounds whispered.

Yamaguchi nodded in agreement. "Two ducked off into the field," he said sweeping his arm and pointing to their west and northwest. "Are you at the house, Boss?" he asked into the radio.

\- # -

Kirkland's mind fought its way back to consciousness but he kept his eyes closed as he listened to a man apparently on one end of a frustrating attempt at communication. A thought came to him that he might have heard Yamaguchi's voice in his earpiece but he realized responding was currently impossible. _This was a really bad idea_ , he told himself, realizing he had been caught completely off-guard.

He heard the man curse in Russian followed by the sound of footsteps on the road's surface then felt his radio set being taken from his head. Opening his eyes only slightly, Kirkland watched as the man rose and fitted the set into position then turned in the direction of the gatehouse as he began to speak. Failing to get any response, the headset came off and was thrown to the ground then the man walked over and went down on one knee at Kirkland's side. With his gun pointed at Kirkland's head he said angrily, "You have meddled in things you should not have, Professor."

Kirkland felt a hand on his forehead and a thumb pulling an eyelid open. He managed to not blink or twitch and he heard the man say quietly, "Professor ... you may think this is over, but it has only begun."

The man rose and looked again to the west and tried his own radio again. "Number two, what is your status? I need two men, now, at the driveway in front of the house."

When no response came the man repeated himself.

Kirkland rose up quickly but unsteadily and despite the nearly blinding pain in his head he put both hands together and struck the back of the man's neck as hard as he could. Had he been unimpeded by grogginess and pain, the blow should have instantly disabled if not actually killed someone but Kirkland's angle was off and his feet were not properly positioned to make the strike as effective as it could have been.

Lebedev was stunned momentarily and nearly fell to his knees but instead of toppling over he staggered a couple of steps away and turned just as Kirkland rushed at him and drove him to the ground, his weapon skittering away across the driveway.

The two began wrestling, Lebedev in desperation against a larger and more powerful opponent but Kirkland still reeling from the blow to his head. The Russian forced a leg upward and flung Kirkland sideways over onto his back and they both came up into a crouch, facing each other in the dark, panting and enraged.

With Kirkland's head now clearing, Yamaguchi's persistent training started taking over and when Lebedev unsheathed a knife Kirkland quickly yanked off his ammunition vest and wrapped it around his left arm for some degree of protection.

"You foolish man ... you are not going to survive this," Lebedev hissed at the man that had repeatedly thwarted their plans.

Kirkland was in no mood to enter into a discussion and despite his surging adrenaline and anger he focused harder on the situation and how to deal with it. With his face an icy mask, he simply waggled his hand, inviting the man with the large knife to attack.

\- # -

Marty tapped his dad on the shoulder and pointed toward the road. "One more, in the first or second row."

"Or is it one of the other two?" Alex wondered aloud.

Marty shook his head. "I saw him moving from the east."

A sudden shout came from the field in the distance then two short bursts of automatic fire erupted followed by a quick message from Yamaguchi. "One got away ... keep an eye open ... we're coming out to the road ... hold your fire."

"Who was the dude on the radio a minute ago?" Marty asked about the unrecognized voice they had heard.

Yamaguchi said as he stepped out of the field, "It sounded familiar."

Alex touched his son's arm and pointed toward the helicopters. "There's one – headed toward the helos," he announced.

Marty's weapon chattered briefly and the man began stumbling then rose up unsteadily as he threw his weapon and raised his arms in the air.

"He's surrendering ... we'll get him," Alex announced.

"I'm headed to the house ... you take him," Yamaguchi said to Rounds as he turned to run for the road.

"Sir!" Rounds called out after him, "Wait ... there's a Matchless in the boathouse."

Yamaguchi stopped and looked at the Sergeant in confusion. "A what?"

"A motorbike ... it's old but Mr. Alberton keeps it in fine shape," Rounds said pointing and moving in the direction of the gate. "I assume you know how to operate one," he said.

"Just don't tell my wife," Yamaguchi said with a grin as they climbed the gate.

"I won't, Sir ... give me a moment to unlock the gate."

\- # -

Lebedev was becoming more and more frustrated. In close-quarter combat training he had been an equal to most of those he trained with but his unarmed opponent in this setting was not behaving as expected; worse, he seemed far too cool after a blow to the head. Slashing and thrusting as he had been trained, Lebedev found himself too close to the larger man and he suddenly realized the knife was no longer in his hand and his wrist was unusable – quite possibly broken. The pain came to him in a rush and he staggered backwards and regained a defensive stance with his right arm down.

Kirkland quickly picked up the knife and examined it then threw it deftly, sticking it into the tree behind the Russian but well up out of reach.

Lebedev made a last-ditch effort to rush through his opponent to recover his machine-pistol but as his shoulder drove into Kirkland he felt a swinging motion and found himself lifted slightly then thrown to the ground in the direction he had come. As he regained his feet, a solid strike from Kirkland's heel got past his attempt at a block and crashed into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs with a gasp. As he looked at Kirkland in shock and rage, a blow to the side of his jaw stunned him. Another blow produced a flurry of tiny pinpoints of light in his eyes and as he struggled to remain standing he didn't see the wheel kick that struck him on the side of the head and turned the world dark.

\- # -

Still whispering, Terri called out across the room, "Can you see anything?"

Catherine shook her head. "It's too dark."

"Grace?" Terri asked into the intercom.

"Yes, dear?"

"Are the police coming?"

There was a pause then they heard Grace say, "Another ten minutes, most likely."

"I think the shooting has stopped," Terri reported. "But we can't see a thing."

"Would it be wise to turn on the lights?" Grace asked.

The two women looked at each other and shrugged then Catherine pointed out the window at a single headlight in the distance, turning onto the drive from the main road then racing toward the gatehouse at high speed.

"Someone's coming on a motorcycle," Terri radioed then watched as the vehicle turned through the gatehouse curve and sped up the driveway, stopping not far from the pond with its beam of light waving back and forth as the rider parked it.

They couldn't see the rider through the heavy foliage and Catherine asked quietly, "Who is that?"

Terri shook her head. "I can't see from here ... I'll bet it's the police," she offered as she turned from the window. "I'm gonna get a closer look."

Catherine's mouth opened slightly in fear. "Out there?" The look on Terri's face told her there was nothing she could say to change the woman's mind and after swallowing hard and nodding slightly she bravely said, "Okay, I'll go with you."

\- # -

Kirkland came out from behind a tree as he recognized who was on the approaching motorcycle then stepped over and recovered his radio set. Once it was back in operation he asked, "Alex?" as Yamaguchi parked and got off the stunning antique.

"Everything okay?" came the response.

"Roger that," Kirkland said. "Keep an eye out but I think it's over."

Yamaguchi nodded in agreement and Kirkland added, "And we have their boss."

"That's the boss?" Yamaguchi asked then looked toward the house and pointed.

Kirkland nodded then turned to see two elegantly-dressed women doing their best to hurry around the pond at the end of the driveway. When they paused, Kirkland tried to wave them back but soon realized it had no effect.

They knelt down beside the man and began searching him, not entirely surprised to find a water-proof packet that included ID for a British citizen as well as credit cards, a passport and several hundred pounds in cash.

"He's Russian," Kirkland said flatly. "And he knows who I am," he added as he took the full magazine from the pouch on the man's belt, stood up and stepped over to the machine-pistol and picked it up. He removed the clip and thumbed the ammunition into his suit pocket then replaced the clip and tossed the pistol into the grass beyond the trees.

After putting large zip ties on the man's hands and feet, Yamaguchi looked more closely at his boss in the indirect light from the headlamp. "Ouch ... that's gotta hurt," he said seriously.

"He blind-sided me," Kirkland said as he gently touched the damaged area on the right side of his head then pointed at the house. "I was running then somebody was sending some kind of signal with one of the room lights ... Morse code ... I was watching that and didn't see it coming until it was too late."

"Signal?"

Kirkland nodded, examining his fingers and noting there was a slight smear of blood. "One two, one two—"

The two women interrupted his thoughts as they arrived, holding their dresses up and nearly out of breath from not only running but the relief of finding the two men alive and apparently well.

"Did you get my signal?" Terri asked excitedly. "I was trying to warn you with the light in the room," she added and pointed toward the house.

Kirkland scowled then grinned slightly. "Oh, I got it ... I got it ... what was it?"

Terri looked at him as if he had suddenly become dense. "Twelve." When his expression didn't change she sighed and slumped her shoulders with a petulant look. "Twelve? As in 'check six' but in front of you instead of behind you ... no?"

Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes and simply grinned. "Why not something ... ah, why not something, maybe like 'watch out' or maybe even 'danger'?"

"So it didn't work?" Terri asked in disappointment.

Kirkland shook his head then stopped and nodded. "Actually, now that I think about it, it worked. If I had been running all out he would have broken my neck," he admitted.

"I didn't want them to know what it meant," she offered happily then looked slightly embarrassed. "Actually, I can't remember all the letters anymore."

"Oh wow," Catherine whispered in fear as she looked at Kirkland then asked pointedly, "Are you okay?"

"I think so," Kirkland said. "He was overconfident."

"Who is that?" Terri asked worriedly as she pointed at the man on the ground. "Is he alive?"

Kirkland shook his head. "He's alive, but I don't know who he is ... yet."

Ben hugged his wife and kissed her forehead then she leaned away and looked at the motorcycle and her attitude shifted toward anger. "That was you ... driving like a maniac?" she asked suspiciously as she pointed at it.

"Maniac?" Ben challenged.

"I saw you, from the house," she accused. "You could've—"

"Where'd you find that?" Kirkland asked, interrupting in part to defuse Terri's distaste for her husband's interest in dangerous things like helicopters and motorcycles.

"Sergeant Rounds," Ben said defensively then brightened. "Isn't she beautiful?"

Terri glared at her husband then Kirkland diverted her mood. "Trust me, that was the safest part of the evening," he offered then pointed to the intercom. "Can you raise Grace on that?" he asked and began leading them toward the house.

\- # -

"Sergeant, it looks like you're supposed to be taking us down the rabbit hole," Alex said after listening to the message from Kirkland.

Rounds quickly ascertained what that meant and nodded. "Excellent ... we won't have to trek all the way to the house."

"What about these dudes?" Marty asked, tipping his head toward the boathouse.

Alex grinned at his son and said, "The po—the constables will deal with them."

As they jogged across the field toward the lift exit a familiar sound of helicopter rotors came to them from far off to the east.

"Leonard?" Marty asked as he gazed into the distance.

"Not that sound ... hopefully the constables," Alex offered.

Rounds shook his head. "Those are Merlins ... those are our boys ... we should be moving right along."

Alex nodded. "We really should be in the house when the authorities get here."

Rounds pointed at the weapons and nodded. "Indeed," he began then continued with a tone of definite uncertainty, "I wonder how we would explain all this."

"Exigent circumstances," Marty said as he began climbing down the ladder into the sub-surface compartment.

CHAPTER 38

Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Thursday evening, June 5, 1997

By the time the Ministry of Defense teams landed on the lawn in front of the house and started spreading out searching for the intruders, everyone was hastily assembling in the library with the staff dispersed to anything that might resemble their normal duties in the kitchen and to clean up the mess in the dining hall. Despite the events, the women did their level best to prepare to look unperturbed; for the men who had been involved in the action out in the fields their appearance couldn't be helped.

When a young Captain and a squad of soldiers with weapons at the ready arrived at the front door of the manor they had weapons up and were fully prepared to open fire into and through the opening door. Instead of facing opponents, they were greeted formally by Jeremy Rounds. "Sir," he said instantly and came to attention. "Very pleased to see you and your boys ... Sergeant Jeremy Rounds, retired, Sir. At your service."

The bewildered officer looked only slightly relieved and it took him several seconds to figure out what to say in response. "Captain Arthur Sweebeck. What the bloody hell is going on here, Sergeant?"

Despite the battering his tuxedo had taken, Rounds appeared unruffled and he answered as if he were pleased to be reporting to his commanding officer of earlier days. "Sir, I would say a number of hairy at the heel fellows weren't up to their task."

While Sweebeck gave Rounds a distrusting look, he gestured only slightly and two of his men filed in and took defensive positions in the foyer, looking around, still on the alert for trouble. The Captain looked back to the team scattered outside and ordered them to disperse and join the others to continue securing the grounds.

Unflustered and now sounding back in charge of the affairs of the manor, Rounds said, "Sir, the house has been secured. Mr. Grey and his guests have gathered in the library. Would you care to follow me? Your squad can wait outside, if you would, please."

From the way the manservant had said it, Sweebeck realized the last part of the statement indicated a very strong preference for not having strangers in the house. "You are certain everyone is sound? There are no insurgents about?"

"Oh, quite," Rounds responded, nodding assuredly then almost scoffingly added as if little had really happened, "There was a bit of a fuss out on the grounds." Without waiting for any further reaction he turned and began walking down the long hallway toward the library. "This way, Sir," he invited.

As reports from his teams reported in via radio, Sweebeck signaled to his men to take up positions outside and strode off after the older man. When they arrived at the library, Rounds stopped just a meter into the room and said formally, "Mister Grey, ladies and gentlemen, may I present Captain Arthur Sweebeck." He paused and whispered back to the officer, "My apologies, Sir, I didn't get your unit?"

Stepping slightly ahead of Rounds and removing his earpiece, the full-battle-dressed and heavily armed Captain said as Grey rose from a chair, "Ministry of Defence Police, Special Branch, Sir," then glanced around again. He recognized Malcolm Grey – a man his unit had been hastily briefed on just hours ago. One of the women he also recognized as Grey's daughter. What his mind was almost refusing to comprehend was the condition of four of the men who stood and sat almost nonchalantly about the room. The dirt, the battered clothing and the streaks on their hands and faces might have been explainable had they been in a brutal rugby scrimmage, but in the case of the one of them, the incongruous smoking jacket with possibly nothing on under it made no sense whatsoever. The tell-tale odor of expended ammunition could not be ignored; his instincts told him there had been a major firefight on the grounds and these men had been in the thick of it.

Another of the men in what was left of a tuxedo and wearing athletic shoes approached Sweebeck and offered his hand.

Rounds dutifully announced as if introducing two guests at a party, "Professor Michael Kirkland, Captain Arthur Sweebeck."

Kirkland smoothly carried on the ruse. "Good of you to come along when you did, Captain. I'd say you scared them off just about the time we were running out of ammunition."

Sweebeck looked at the man and could tell just from the demeanor and strong handshake that he had been up to his ears in what had gone on just minutes earlier. The injury to the side of the man's head did nothing to diminish his suspicions. "Bloody hell man," he whispered. "From the looks of things outside, we've got a—" he stopped, recognizing what he was about to say might be overheard and disturbing to the women. "Ah," he said as if giving advice, "could we step this way – Professor, is it?"

Kirkland nodded and they walked some distance down the hall out of earshot of the other guests.

The Captain stopped and reinserted his comm earpiece then turned to look at Kirkland more closely as he listened. After a few seconds he said very quietly, "From what I've been told thus far, there's been a bloody war out there—" he paused while another message came to him in his then pressed a key and said mechanically, "Roger that." He took a breath and said flatly, "Two helicopters, six dead bodies and counting." He studied Kirkland's utterly impassive face for a moment and shook his head. "How many were there?"

"Possibly twenty."

"And the four of you drove them off? With what, exactly?"

Kirkland held the obviously experienced man's eyes as he said, "Five, Captain, counting the Sergeant ... the father and son are from Texas ... experienced game hunters. We also had the advantage of position, elevation and range ... as well as aggressors who had not anticipated armed resistance."

The Captain quickly concluded there was a lot more to the story and that the American was not willing to talk about it. "And you?" he asked blandly. "You are with what ... or whom?"

Kirkland gave him his best confused look. "I'm a professor of economics. A guest of Mr. Grey – unfortunately we were caught entirely off guard and we had no time to change," he added, gesturing at the utterly destroyed sleeve of his jacket and open knees of his trousers. When he saw his explanation had made little headway in convincing the officer he pointed to the running shoes and grinned heartily. "I do try to stay in shape."

Another voice came to the Captain's earpiece and Kirkland saw him wince as he listened – then a scowl darkened his face. "Mister—Professor ... there's a man out there without a hand ... who is the edged weapons man?"

Kirkland nodded slowly. "Ah ... that would be my associate, the one in the smoking jacket ... oh, and by the way, there are two of the intruders still tied up in the kitchen laundry room," he added as Jeremy Rounds approached.

"I'll show your men the way," Rounds offered pleasantly.

Sweebeck nodded and radioed to the two men outside the door. They came running and he ordered, "Follow this man and recover two more prisoners." He then turned again to Kirkland as the men followed Rounds down a corridor to the kitchen. Shaking his head in disbelief he eyed Kirkland coolly. "We'll be outside for some time," he said then turned toward the foyer. He stopped abruptly and said with some authority, "I would suggest none of you leave the area, Professor," then strode away, calling out as he moved, "I am confident the detectives will want to speak with all of you."

"Certainly," Kirkland said agreeably then turned and walked back into the library. Smiling broadly at the group he nonchalantly announced, "Well, I'm not sure about everyone else, but I'm starving."

\- # -

After showering and changing into slacks and a t-shirt, Kirkland let Margaret attend to the damage to the side of his head.

"Four stitches was all you needed," she announced proudly as she stripped off the gloves then began looking in her kit for something. "When was your last tetanus shot?" she asked almost casually.

"Tetanus shot? Really?"

"I don't have it ... it has to be refrigerated, but you need one if you haven't had one."

Kirkland thought only briefly. "I'm almost certain it was about a year ago."

"You should be okay," Margaret suggested. "What'd he hit you with?"

"I think it was a gun butt."

As she fished a prescription sample box from her kit she said, "Well, you have a couple of options. You can take one of these now for when that local starts to wear off or you can take two later when it starts to hurt a lot. For Catherine's sake I'm suggesting getting started now."

"I'm at your mercy," Kirkland said as he took the card of capsules from her.

"How's your vision? Any double things? Blurry?"

Kirkland looked at various things around him and ascertained he was seeing normally. "No, I'm good, thank you."

"Well, I'm going down for something to eat ... you might want to lay down for a bit."

He smiled at her and said, "I've been hit harder by Ben."

She chuckled then said, "I suppose you have ... see you soon."

Kirkland nodded and as she left his room he pulled on a clean shirt and examined the stitching in the bathroom mirror. _That's not going to go away any time soon_ , he told himself grimly.

As he entered the foyer from the stairs, Kirkland looked out the front windows and saw the lights from a handful of Sweebeck's men still outside on the property; apparently the local constables had been happy to leave the situation in Special Branch's hands because the two vehicles they had eventually arrived in were gone.

Kirkland soon found everyone in the kitchen, salvaging the fabulous meal that had been so hastily abandoned earlier. He immediately went to Leonard Alberton. "How's your man, David?"

Leonard nodded and answered cautiously, "It's not as bad as I anticipated ... but he'll be in hospital for several days."

Catherine came to him holding a glass of white wine and offered to share a small plate of thin-sliced pork tenderloin that had been rolled. "It's great cold like this," she said, looking then grimacing at his injury. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, thanks to Mrs. C. I'm just hungry," he said gratefully as he took a sample of the roast.

"They also have some of everything over there—"

"Are you okay?" he asked pointedly.

"Fine. Starving but I'm fixing that ... we were just happy to see all of you come down that elevator alive," she said sincerely. "You guys didn't exactly look like innocent bystanders," she noted. "What did you tell him ... the officer guy?"

Kirkland spotted a tray of salmon sashimi, the thin slices arranged like rose petals in front of martini glasses filled with small mounds of ceviche. He guided Catherine to them and after putting some on a small plate and taking a bite of the luscious, almost creamy fish he said quietly, "I told him we managed to hold them at bay until his team scared them off."

Catherine gave him an "oh, sure" look as she remembered the blood-spattered pajama-like clothing Ben had quickly taken off in the library parking area; scenes of the Houston warehouse flashed into her mind before she asked sarcastically, "You just ... you just scared them off?"

"More or less," he began. "Well, to be more accurate, we captured their pilots and started rounding a few of them up, and then, well, it got ... do you really want to know this?" he asked looking into her eyes over the top of the glass then taking a small bite of the lime-marinated seafood.

Catherine tried to steady herself against her own fears; the man she was falling madly in love with seemed to have a way of compartmentalizing things, not only that evening but in the days leading up to it. The thought of someone being able to reach in and work their own emotional levers to that degree was somehow disturbing; the brilliant man who could be so gracious, so caring, even so funny and so remarkably passionate yet tender with her apparently wasn't fazed by some of the things she tried not to imagine had gone on.

She wondered if this is what it was like to be in love with someone in the military or in law enforcement and it dawned on her that she and Elanore had never talked about Alex's combat deployments in Viet Nam; _maybe you're just not supposed to talk about this shit_ , she told herself.

Until very recently the closest thing to real violence she had actually witnessed had been rare juvenile fights among adolescent young men and a few girls trying to establish their dominance when something in their hormone-drenched brains induced them to fight. Unlike the stereotypical accounts of Hispanic and certain Cuban families supposedly involved in gangs and all manner of mayhem in south Florida, her middle-class personal life had been devoid of violence. Her and her brother's progression from high school to college was something everyone in their world was proud _of_ , rather than surprised _by_. But now, part of her psyche wrestled with the idea that she was somehow involved in a whirlpool of unimaginable violence with a man that could be completely blasé about it.

To respond to his question she shook her head but looked downward. "You're right, I probably don't want to," she said with a slight shudder. "I'm afraid I'm a little unnerved when I see you leave ... I saw Terri ... when you and Ben, when you left the other morning. Tonight I saw how strong she is ... and I can't imagine how she can do that," she added as she glanced over at the smiling woman talking with the Albertons and one of the chefs. She could tell they were discussing the modified dinner and preparations, apparently able to put the evening's events out of their minds.

"That's my Dragon Lady," Kirkland said, trying to lighten Catherine's mood. It didn't seem to help and he set down the ceviche and glanced around. He almost instantly spotted another tray with crystal snifters that held what looked like Courvoisier. After trying one he picked up another then took Catherine's elbow, turning and guiding her gently into the now-empty and slightly chilly dining room. After setting two chairs in position facing each other, he offered her the brandy then took off his wool sport-jacket and put it around her shoulders. "Please," he said raising the snifter. "As Mrs. C. will tell you, this has magic powers."

In the very dim, shadowed light she took the cognac and sat down somewhat tentatively, wondering anxiously what he had in mind. After a single sip she realized the drink was spectacular but she resisted the immediate urge to take more.

Kirkland sat across from her and leaned forward. "This ..." he started then set his snifter on the table. He seemed uncertain about what to do next then he reached out and took her left hand in both of his.

Catherine felt the warmth of his hands and wanted to urge him to continue but decided to wait.

"This is very, very hard to explain," he said in little more than a whisper as he seemed to study her hand while gently caressing it. He lowered his head and put a hand to the back of his neck then turned and looked toward the table. "There are any number of very bad people in this world," he said quietly but with a certainty in his voice.

She only sort-of understood what that might mean but didn't react; her fears weren't being lessened at all.

The question he asked as he straightened and looked in her eyes surprised her. "I'm not turning out to be who you thought I was ... who you think I am, am I?"

As if they arrived in slow motion, each of those words seemed to pile on in sequence and she felt her world beginning to collapse under their weight. She held her breath and began to tremble involuntarily.

He kept his gaze steadily on her. "I never tried to deceive you ... I never would."

She set her snifter down, gripped his hands then covered her mouth in a fruitless, almost involuntary effort to hide her emotions, but the quivering of her chin and the tears weren't something she could stop. She looked at him with her head slowly shaking and struggled to get the words out through the tightness in her throat. "You didn't, Michael ... I ..."

Kirkland turned to the table and found a linen napkin then handed it to her and saw her look down to keep him from seeing what was happening. After a few seconds he rose, took her by the arms and pulled her up to him, simply holding her as she sobbed gently against his chest.

Gradually the emotional maelstrom subsided as she absorbed the feeling of comfort from being held in his arms. "I'm sorry," she whispered between some of the involuntary spasms then studied the napkin to see how much of her makeup might be on it. Kirkland relaxed his arms slightly and she looked away and scolded herself. "Well ... ahem ... this is really em-em-em embarrassing," she said, stuttering from the spasms in her diaphragm.

He smiled slightly at her but in the back of his mind he was afraid of what she might actually be thinking. "I've turned your life upside-down, haven't I?"

She leaned her head back, took a deep breath and blinked back the tears.

With an almost desperate tone in his voice he asked, "You can't see a future with me, can you?"

She froze in shock and looked directly at him, suddenly fearful he had misinterpreted everything she was exposing about her feelings. There now was a much more resolute tone to her voice as she said, "Oh, no ... no, my God, Michael, no ... that's not what this is about ... don't think that. Don't you _dare_ think that!" She gritted her teeth and pursed her lips to keep her emotions in check.

He took a corner of the napkin and used it to gently dab at her cheek.

The confused, worried look she saw in his eyes forced her to make a decision and she steeled herself to delve into not only admitting her fears to herself, but explaining them to him. All her breath escaped and she turned to sit down limply.

A few moments after he took his chair she took a deep breath as she twisted the napkin in her hands. "I'm not as strong as Terri," she began softly. "I don't know if I could ever be ... that ... oh, shit, I can't even think of a word, even in Spanish." Her head tipped to the side slightly and she focused on a spot on the floor then looked up at him and sniffed again. "You know what this is? ... this, this is ... this is like finding out the man you love is really Batman or something. You realize that? That's what it is, Michael ... I'm really bad at fearless ... I don't do fearless at all." She paused as she tried to marshal some kind of inner strength against the worry of a future with him and having to face something like this past week again. "I've never been kidnapped before."

"You're a lot tougher than you look ... or think," he offered quietly.

In spite of his attempt at easing her pain with humor she held up a trembling hand and chuckled miserably. "Ha! ... I'm a museum curator, for God's sake. See? See this?" she asked looking at her still-trembling hand. "This, Michael, this is not fearless. I'm a frickin' mess." Without realizing it the rant she was on was becoming cathartic. "This wasn't the movies! Men came into my home ... I was kept in some little trailer thing, scared to death ... the man I love saved my life. Yes I said it ... I love you Michael ... and now ... now ... now guess what? It turns out that's what the man I love does! He slays dragons and he, he slays people and for all I know might even be some kind of super government agent ... some assassin guy or something and I'm supposed to be ... what? How am I'm supposed to deal with this?"

He deliberately tried not to react and let her see what he was thinking; the way she said it and the look on her face told him no one was going to convince her she was being irrational.

She went on without looking at him, pointing a finger at herself. "I'm never going to be a ' _dragon lady_ '... don't you see?" Her mouth started quivering again as she looked up. "Michael, if this is what you do, when you're away from me I'll never know if you're coming back!" she said miserably.

He tried to not appear or sound defensive but the woman he cared so much for needed to know she might have come to an unjustifiable conclusion. "Catherine," he began in a whisper then leaned closer and fashioned a slightly-white lie. "Catherine ... please ... don't assume what has happened over the last couple of weeks is the norm."

When she looked at him as if she couldn't believe what he was telling her he said, "Al is a highly unusual client in a highly unusual situation. And believe me, I'm not Bruce Wayne."

She took a shaky breath and couldn't help prodding him to reveal more. "So I'm not in love with a secret agent? You don't work for some super-secret agency or something?"

"I'm just an appraiser," he lied softly.

She looked at him through tear-blurred eyes, hoping what she had just heard was true but knowing he was being at least self-deprecating if not outright disingenuous.

Before she could challenge that statement Kirkland leaned closer and added jokingly, "Ben does the super-hero parts. I'm pretty much the comic relief."

She couldn't help smiling but tried not to laugh then heard a familiar voice echoing in the huge space.

"There you are," Elanore said in a hushed voice then stopped half-way to them. When she saw Catherine's face in the dim lighting she turned back and added, "I'll be in the—"

"No, El – please," Catherine called out to her quickly. "It's okay," she said then sighed and sniffled. "I was just sitting here making an idiot out of myself." She reached for the drink and took a sip; Kirkland did likewise.

"Wow, this _is_ really good," she said with her focus on the glass. "Now I understand why Mrs. C. likes this." The warmth she began to feel from the XO cognac was helping soothe her nerves.

Elanore instantly realized her friend was emerging from an emotional crisis and looked closer. "Let's get you put back together," she almost ordered and reached out to take her hand. "Will you excuse us for just a minute?"

"Of course. I'll be in the kitchen," Kirkland said quietly then kissed Catherine's hand.

"You don't get off that easy," she said then rose up and kissed him determinedly. In some small part because of the warm, shared taste of cognac they remained seemingly locked together.

After watching for an embarrassingly long moment Elanore quipped, "I'm going to have to try that stuff."

\- # -

As the group settled into places around the huge kitchen table with after-dinner drinks, Margaret turned to Kirkland and asked, "Michael, how the hell did they find us?"

"The Russians?" Kirkland responded then didn't wait for another question. "Golikov had to have figured out where he was."

Yamaguchi shook his head. "Or, more likely, he left some kind of homing device when we brought him here."

Kirkland thought for a moment then nodded. "A homing device makes more sense."

Terri pointed into the air and added, "It makes sense from a mission standpoint. It's also something he probably would've left behind if he had found dear old Albert Drummond in Dunsfold."

"You're right," Alex said with a nod. "Find the target, leave a marker."

Marty scowled as he suggested, "He must have dropped it somewhere near—"

Grace Alberton gasped, "His mobile!"

Leonard's head rolled back and his mouth opened. "Awwww," he noted disgustedly as everyone looked at him. "The bloody thing is in the van!"

"The van?" Elanore asked.

"Our van," Leonard added as he shook his head. "We drove him back to Cambridge – I forgot to give his mobile back to him."

"And it was sitting right out here all afternoon," Grace noted, tipping her head toward the front drive.

"I'd like to take a look at it," Yamaguchi suggested.

"It's all yours," Leonard said glumly. "The van's down in the hangar."

Alex squinted in thought for a moment then asked, "Okay, if that's so, was that what got Sweebeck's team headed this way?"

Kirkland shook his head slightly. "I don't think they're ever going to reveal that. "I guess it's safe to say someone in Special Branch was ready on short notice for this type of thing."

"Constable Talley was certainly alarmed when I rang them," Grace said.

"What on earth did you tell him?" Terri asked.

"I really didn't know quite what to tell him—"

"There are only four of them on duty on weekends out here," Leonard advised. "I don't think there's a firearm among them."

Grace nodded in agreement. "That's right ... so I told him we had some trespassers off the river and that someone would be out there chatting them up. He said they'd drop round when they could."

"It's probably a good thing they didn't get here any earlier than they did," Marty noted. "Anyone out there without a weapon wouldn't have survived very long."

Elanore looked at Grace and asked, "What are they going to think ... how do you explain having a war on your property?"

"We'll stay with the Ministry story," Grey advised. "As far as anyone is concerned, my guests thwarted an attempted kidnapping for ransom."

As the group considered that Alex toasted dryly, "Here's to exigent circumstances."

"And to ammunition," Ben added brightly as he turned and held his glass up to the Albertons.

Glasses clicked and the emotional beating they had all been taking during the evening was diminishing to one degree or another.

Grey then asked Jeremy Rounds to go out and advise the Ministry of Defence investigators that none of his guests or his staff should be interviewed until some reasonable hour the following day.

Rounds nodded and stood up. "I would make that to be some time after eleven o'clock, Sir?"

Grey looked down momentarily in thought then said, "Not a moment earlier. If they object tell them Sir Almsbee would be sorely inconvenienced should I find it necessary to ring him up at this hour ... I have no desire to be doing that to an old friend just to ensure my guests are not unreasonably disturbed in the morning."

"I'm _certain_ they'll understand, Sir," Rounds said confidently. "Good evening ladies, good evening gentlemen," he said with a hint of a bow then turned and strode out.

Grey looked around at his guests. "Lord Almsbee is ... well, let's just say Benny has a certain amount of influence in Ministry of Defence affairs ... we won't be disturbed tonight."

CHAPTER 39

Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Late Thursday night, June 5, 1997

With their guests in their rooms upstairs, Grace walked into the kitchen and stepped over to her father's chair. "Good night, Father," she said, kissing his cheek and squeezing his arm. "Don't stay up ... please," she admonished.

He patted her hand. "Good night, dear," he said warmly. "I think I'll have my usual look about before I retire."

"Morgan's put up some plyboard on the fenestrations," Leonard advised with a gesture toward the dining hall as he stood up. "That should deter anything but the most persistent forms of wildlife for the time being."

Grey nodded in approval then asked, "And David's folks ... are they on their way?"

"I collect them in the morning at the airport," Leonard advised. He sighed slightly then added, "The physicians say it's a matter of time and expert care, but he's young and healthy."

Grey nodded almost reluctantly, not sure what to believe when it came to medical news. "I'll want to meet them ... they'll be staying here?"

Grace shook her head. "We put them up in a guest house near the hospital," she said.

After a moment's consideration Grey looked at Leonard and said, "You can fly me there tomorrow?"

"Of course."

The old man looked downward and took a deep breath then sighed, "Senseless ... this was nothing of the boy's doing."

Grace touched her father's shoulder again and she looked at her husband. "I'll be along," she advised quietly then glanced around the large kitchen as she always did before leaving. "Jeremy will have everything under control for breakfast."

Grey nodded again, "Yes, I'm sure he will ... good night ... you two get some rest," he said as he rose from the chair and followed them out toward the front door.

"We've had an eventful few weeks, haven't we," he mentioned quietly as they neared the foyer.

His daughter nodded as they walked. "We have, indeed, Father."

"It's a miracle we're all still alive," Leonard suggested.

The couple couldn't see the sly smile on the man's face but there was a note of assurance in his response. "No, not a miracle. No ... good fortune, perhaps ... thank you," he said with a hand on his son-in-law's shoulder. "This has been more than you could have ever been expected to have to deal with."

"It's been ... it's been stimulating to say the least," Leonard admitted. "Not that I'd want to repeat it."

Grey nodded with an understanding of just how resilient the man was after being thrown into the grave situation with little or no warning. "I doubt we're in any further danger," he said then hugged them both before opening the door and letting them out.

After seeing the Albertons off and with the entire ground floor of the house to himself, Grey went to the small bar in the library and poured a drink into a heavy tumbler then swirled it slightly before sipping. He selected a cigar from his humidor then walked over and opened one of the windows, standing in the cool breeze as he trimmed and lit his favorite brand of smoke.

From his vantage point he could make out the movements of some of the men still out on the property, working under lights as they continued to assemble clues and evidence, then the thought of the destroyed glass in the dining hall made his gut tighten. He turned and strolled to the now-darkened space where he examined his workman's temporary repair then noticed the amazingly un-touched table settings and gifts. _Remarkable ... they're safe ... those will bring about a broad spectrum of memories for each of them._ His thoughts drifted toward the future then came back to the immediately practical. _... at least the weather is seasonable_ , he told himself as he re-closed the large interior doors to mitigate the infiltration of colder air into the rest of the house.

When he returned to the library he sat in one of his favorite chairs and sipped his drink as he savored the cigar, listening to quiet night noises of the familiar countryside that wafted in through the window. _Sleep is going to come even more fitfully than usual tonight,_ he concluded. For the first time ever, someone had knowingly targeted him _and_ the treasure; the elaborate personal protection scheme the Ministry built around him had almost failed – and might have if it weren't for the men Helena's son had brought into the scenario.

He wondered who might have the resources to mount the kind of operation that had been engaged in; would the Russian government have taken the risk of backing it? Surely it was not just the man Golikov – he was simply an overwrought investigator with a family history. No, someone else had decided to take advantage of what had been found in the aging records. With what was happening in the new Russia he knew there were powerful financial empires being built and there was no shortage of willing and even near-desperate ex-military manpower to hire.

The voice from the front hallway archway surprised him and he twisted in that direction.

"Mr. Grey?" Marty Calder asked quietly. "Sorry ... I'm sorry, Sir ... I couldn't sleep ... I thought I'd look for something to read."

Grey relaxed, then reflexively rose and became the gracious host once again. "Of course, Martin. Please, won't you join me? Here ... let me turn on a light ... with all this tonight ... and at my age I don't sleep well anyway." He held up the cigar after rotating a switch at the base of a small lamp. "Would you care for one?" he offered with a welcoming smile.

Marty thought for a moment then said, "Oh, thanks ... but no ... the smell reminds me of my grandpa but I don't have the stomach for them."

Grey grinned then stepped toward the bar, his shadow from the single lamp looming on the walls full of books as he moved. "A drink, perhaps?"

"Between you and me, Sir, a shot of something would work better than a book ... maybe tequila?"

If more lights had been on the older man's face could have been seen to visibly brighten. "Tequila?" he remarked in surprise from the shadow. "Indeed ... a Texan ... I should have known. Myself, I have a fondness for this ... it's a Patron Gran Platinum _,_ " he said holding up his glass.

"Patron?" Marty reacted with obvious admiration.

"Your grandfather is actually responsible for this particular weakness," Grey advised.

"Ah," Marty said nodding without actually thinking about how that possibly could have come about. "It must be genetic," he added enthusiastically, remembering his grandfather's fondness for sipping fine tequila.

"Of course," Grey said after a moment. "Follow me, Martin ... believe it or not there are Bearss limes and a rather decent flaked sea salt in the kitchen ... I'm rather keen on that," he said as he switched off the lamp and started off out of the library with the heavy bottle in hand. "I believe a few shots of this will do the trick."

Marty ambled along beside him and said, "I know it works for me."

Grey maneuvered through the almost completely dark house and once in the kitchen he touched a dimmer switch that brought on a handful of under-cabinet lamps. "If you would, the limes should be down below, in that," he said, pointing to a refrigerator drawer as he pulled a knife from a large block. "Cut them as you like, and ... ah, yes, the salt ... to your right, at your eye level in that cupboard, but at the back." After a few seconds he added, "And no one is to be the wiser ... Grace and my physician disapprove ... they insist I'll live longer without it."

At the kitchen's table in the limited light, with only tiny amounts of salt and any number of lime wedges accompanying their tequila, Marty Calder came to learn the reality of what his grandfather had been as a younger man. The story of how General Kovpak had set Anton and Helena Nuryev on the path that eventually brought him into the world was being revealed for the first time to anyone and he listened in amazement to the riveting story.

After telling his dear friend's grandson the particulars surrounding the secret mission and the years of intrigue in its aftermath, Grey added some personal details to round out the young man's knowledge of his family.

"Berlin was hard on your grandmother, Martin. It was hellish enough a place but we had to be ready to escape at almost any day ... on some days any hour. We had to maintain appearances. Our duty ... we could not waver in our performance ... the longer we had to wait the greater the chances something would be uncovered.

"The last time I saw your grandfather and grandmother," he said then paused as if the weight of what he was saying was somehow overwhelming, "it was at supper ... in my residence ... just before I had to go to Orsk to assist Olnikov."

To Marty, the man's telling of the story was obviously painful and he didn't interrupt.

"Helena ... your ... _our_ Margaret ... she was so drawn ... she was so thin and so pale." As he continued he sounded as if he were totally responsible for what happened to her. "Frightened half out of her mind ... people would ask her if she was ill and she'd tell them to keep a secret – that she thought she was pregnant."

"Was she?" Marty asked incredulously after doing the quick math from his father's birth date.

"Oh, no," Grey laughed gently and rolled the ash of his cigar on a small dish. "But it made a very good cover story ... but it couldn't have lasted forever, obviously."

Marty nodded in agreement. "I guess not."

"After I left Berlin to go to Orsk, I ... I was only in the mountains a few days with Olnikov. I had to waste time ... dawdle about ... but make it look convincing. Once I led them to the plane I was no longer needed." He puffed lightly on the cigar and grinned as he added, "I left them to suffer more time in the mountains ... not being as clever as Anton they had to go back and get tools to cut and dig below it."

Marty smiled about his grandfather's ingenious way of accessing the wing compartments then took a small gulp of tequila before asking, "And they weren't suspicious?"

"All Russians are suspicious by nature ... but I was the epitome of loyal cooperation," Grey said through an oddly sarcastic smile. "And before I left Orsk, from the airfield ... I followed my usual protocol." He took a sip from his glass and savored it then bit into a lime wedge. After pursing his lips he sighed and looked upward. "I wired my office in Berlin ... my return plan," he said with a writing gesture. "It was coded ... only your grandfather could discern it was anything other than a routine itinerary. It was a code he developed ... but—and this is something no one knows, Martin ... I did not go back to Berlin ... I never intended to. Well, no, actually I would suppose everyone knows that now, but no one outside of the British government knows where I went ... I've not even told Grace," he said revealingly.

He then used his finger to touch points on an invisible map on the table. "You know the Caspian Sea?" When Marty nodded he continued. "I flew from Orsk, to a field near Aqtau on the northeastern coast. I stayed for a single night. I camped on the ground with my plane." He then gestured as if he held a brush and said, "I even painted my plane with Iranian roundels – in the dark!" He paused with soft laughter. "When I was finished it looked a bit like an old Hurricane – until one was near, of course. But I didn't want to risk any undue attention flying into Tehran with red stars."

"Tehran?" Marty asked.

Grey nodded. "Nine hundred kilometers ... over water to Ghale Morghi. A military airfield ... actually in Tehran. We ... the USSR ... we controlled northern Iran and the British held the south for some time after the war. But what I didn't know, we had abandoned the field by the time I got there."

"Middle east history isn't my strong suit," Mary offered.

Grey chuckled. "Your grandparents had been waiting for my wire from Orsk," he said with a slight grin and moved his hand to tap the table some distance to his left. "As soon as they were safely out of Berlin he gave the British agents my actual destination – Abadan."

"The gulf?" Marty asked.

"Yes," he said then puffed on the cigar and chuckled. "Imagine this, Martin ... at Ghale Morghi, mine was the _only_ fighter plane on the field. Fortunately ... very fortunately," he added with a nod for emphasis, "there were two planes there, one of them was a small twin engined Avro, an Anson, they called it ... I stole all of the fuel out of it during the night ... one liter at a time," he said with a conspiratorial chuckle.

"And no one saw the markings?" Marty asked incredulously.

Grey scowled then turned it into a grin. "They spoke some English ... I told them I was delivering the plane to Abadan ... and I took off well before dawn."

"Wow," Marty managed to say.

"True to their word, the British agents were waiting." The old man leaned back slowly and smiled. "You should have seen the base commander ... an RAF Colonel ... hopping mad at having to follow orders to let me land there ... they came from none other than the Air Chief Marshall. And the agents ... a surly lot ... three of them ... unhappy about being flown in from Egypt on a moment's notice ... but they hustled me back to Cairo. A few days later I was here in Great Britain."

Marty nodded as he imagined what it might have been like but then realized there was a missing part of the story. "But how did you and Grampa get the treasure out?"

Grey cocked his head slightly and examined his cigar for several moments. "That, my young friend is another thing I've never spoken about ... but, I have to admit I like my story about Lake Hancza," he added with a quick grin. He cleared his throat and took another sip of the drink and when he spoke he sounded almost melancholy. "I always carried something your grandfather gave me as a gift," he said, then gestured with both hands to show the size. "A rather large leather-covered document case ... a valise ... a briefcase. It went everywhere with me in Berlin ... and I had numerous highly confidential files in it when I left. What we would call 'top secret' things ... things about certain men."

"Spies?" Marty suggested.

Grey shook his head and his face seemed to display a mixture of anger and disgust before he spoke again. "Ah, not spies ... actually many should have been prosecuted—"

"Prosecuted?"

After a few more moments of contemplation Grey nodded. "Yes ... things about war criminals, Martin ... things we had discovered ... evidence of crimes ... including crimes against civilians ... and not just the pogroms against the Jews."

Marty looked at him with an uneasy gaze. "War crimes?" he asked quietly.

Grey sighed slightly and seemed to hesitate before continuing. "It ... it was a time when east and west were both willing to overlook things." He looked at Marty to see if what he was saying registered. "If a man's scientific or technical knowledge was deemed valuable enough ... it no longer seemed to matter what he had done ... no matter how horrible," he added disgustedly. "In my position in Berlin I was able to collect a considerable amount of information about many of these men ... It was unthinkable to me that they were going to be protected ... by either side. So when Olnikov came to see me in Berlin and learning Stalin was looking for the plane I decided it was time to find a way out ... and to get out, to make Anton and I worth the risk to the Allies, I would take what I knew out with me ... as long as the files would remain under seal, in my control at all times."

In light of the few things he knew about the aftermath of the war, Marty tried to discern the implications of that statement but before he could formulate a question Grey continued. "The British honored the agreement."

After several moments the old man's eyebrows tilted conspiratorially as he said, "Anton built a hidden compartment in the bottom of the valise – and we packed the space with the treasure pieces."

Marty's eyes widened. "And they didn't find them?"

Grey tipped his head and his eyes seemed to twinkle as a sly grin formed. "That case was the only thing that wasn't searched. The lawyers ... their organization, they were very compartmentalized. Some of them were authorized to obtain certain things for their sector, or for a case against a particular person ... others weren't. It was on a case-by-case basis – and there were many, many cases."

"So there wasn't a single, like ... overseer?"

Grey gestured on the table surface, making box shapes with his hands. "Everything was in very finite departments."

"And they never searched you ... what about where you stayed?"

The older man shrugged. "I assumed my rooms would be searched. I simply kept the treasure in the case with me."

Marty considered that seemingly absurd claim then asked, "You carried it around with you? Just like that? Right under their noses?"

"It was ... you saw it on the boat ... the entire collection weighs less than five kilograms, Martin. I'd go to meetings almost every day," he noted, gesturing with his cigar, "I'd take appropriate pages or folders out, I'd hand them to the proper agents or officers for this or that investigation ... answer questions and the like. Eventually all of the documents were distributed."

Marty could only shake his head at the idea of being able to pull that kind of an act off then his legal curiosity nudged aside the effects of the tequila. "What happened to them ... the men you had information on?"

After another pause and with a look of some frustration Grey licked his lips and grimaced before he answered. "Of course, they would never tell me. Over time I'd see a name in the news but for the most part these men became invisible. It is likely some became unwitting participants in an arrangement ... a bargain if you will ... a quid pro quo of the cold war."

"So they eventually decided you were okay?"

Grey sipped some tequila and continued his story. "I don't remember the date exactly, it was spring ... they put me in a small but rather nice flat ... to me it was astonishingly luxurious but I soon learned it was perfectly ordinary. They brought me a complete wardrobe. Everything. Shoes, socks, shirts, suits ... ties and hats ... gloves and even an umbrella."

"That's when you became a civilian."

Grey nodded. "Much like your grandfather, but without a young wife, of course," he said with a quick smile. "It wasn't long before I was more civilian guest than foreign prisoner." He examined his cigar and puffed on it several times to keep it lit. "They installed me as a quality inspector at Bristol ... an aircraft factory ... at least that's what I was called. But in reality I was working with engineers on their missile projects ... and a few military intelligence officers and the like. I had a large safe for secret documents in my office and the treasure stayed in the case in it."

Marty sipped his tequila and tried to imagine what life might have been like as an expatriate during the cold war. "Did you have friends there ... here?"

"Among the military? The intelligence people? Oh no," Grey answered shaking his head quickly. His shoulders seemed to sag and he sighed slightly before adding, "I didn't trust many people." Without looking at his young guest he betrayed a personal fear that had never completely gone away even after the decades of being who he had become. "For most of my life here I always felt they could arrange to have me returned ... exchanged."

Marty seemed shocked as he realized what that might have been like. "Would they have done that? You think they would have?"

"At the time, especially in the early years I thought so. The information I escaped with probably led to any number of ... shall we say, spy novel intrigues and clandestine events. There were prosecutions ... some of them were newsworthy ... some were never revealed."

As a student of the law the suggestion of concealed justice was disturbing for Marty. "Never revealed?" After considering his current locale he suggested with a note of relief in his voice, "You mean here ... in the UK?"

Grey shook his head and in studying the young man's face his somber look changed to one of curiosity. "In your country as well ... that's a surprise to you?"

Had he not witnessed the unfolding events of the past week Marty would have considered such a revelation as borderline conspiracy-theory fodder so often used by people like his former brother-in-law to impress and arouse the ignorant. "It's hard to think that we'd—"

"Conceal the truth?"

"Well ... no ... I'm not that naïve."

"It's a fact of life ... it was a fact of life then. Governments act primarily to perpetuate their existence, Martin."

Marty examined his glass then wiped the edge with lime before taking another drink. Considering the secrets his grandparents had kept for so long gave him another view into the lengths a government could and would go to; the events of the evening made him even more aware of how much the public was unaware of. The man educating him at this moment had lived a life of intrigue and secrets and the concept of being turned into a new person and set off into a new world held a strange fascination. The fact that he could never reveal the story to anyone was not lost on him and he asked, "How could you keep this ... all of this a secret ... didn't you have people you could tell?"

"I became more secure as time went on ... I made friends outside of work, but I knew I could never confide in any of them ... and I met and married Deidre in August of nineteen fifty."

Marty grinned. "Met and married ... in one month?"

Another smile formed on the old General's face. After a moment he emptied the glass and bit into a lime then licked his lips and exhaled a loud, satisfied 'ah' sound before he replied. "Unlike your grandfather, I had no real personal relationships in the USSR. I was married to the Red Air Force ... and of course the Communist Party."

"I can't imagine what that would be like."

"To be a member of the Communist Party?"

"No, no ... not that ... to be so engrossed, so wrapped up in it you didn't have a life outside politics."

"Ahh," Grey agreed while gently pointing at his guest several times before going on. "You are of a later generation ... it, being a party member ... above all else ... it is a concept few share anymore."

Marty didn't respond with his own opinion about the polarization of American politics and instead he grinned and asked rather boldly, "Who was she?"

Grey's visage quickly assumed that of a man consumed with pleasant thoughts. "Deidre ... Deidre was a revelation ... it was like stepping out of the dark, Martin. I discovered ... no, no, she showed me ... she showed me what life really meant. Wait until you find one of those ... it's a gift from fate."

Marty chuckled slightly as he considered his own mixture of relationships then he said, "Fate hasn't handed me one of those."

Grey smiled in acknowledgment. "Yet, Martin ... _yet_. You have time ... in my case, it was rather sudden." From the weight of memories both good and bad he paused then added almost wistfully, "Grace was born a year later."

"And her family ... they knew?"

"No, no. It was all so fortuitous ... Deidre's father had become something of a mentor. He had political connections in the House of Lords and we began planning a business ... eventually it became what remains below us."

"I take it he was the Boozler in Boozler-Grey – your father-in-law?"

Grey nodded. "He was ... he was the embodiment of a rocket scientist." Grey drew on his cigar slightly then adjusted the ash in the dish and set it down. He rose and walked over to a set of double doors that led to an outside courtyard and opened one then went to the huge range hood over the array of stoves and grills and turned a dial for the ventilation fans.

Marty recalled experiences of his younger years as he watched Grey do the kinds of things his grandfather had done to ensure the smell of the cigar would be at least harder for someone to complain about some hours later. "Good idea," he offered knowingly with a conspiratorial smile and a raise of his glass.

As he came back to the table and slid into his chair Grey asked, "Did you know your grandfather well?"

Marty wiped more lime onto his glass and took another sip of tequila before answering. "Until all this crap happened, to me he was 'Grampa' and everybody called him 'Ceece'." He shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes as he tried to formulate a more meaningful answer. "He was Dad's dad. They moved to Texas when dad was a teenager, kind-of restarted the business there ... and there was the ranch. He came to most ... not most, I guess ... a lot of baseball games. I remember being little ... he and my dad were running this factory ... I'd play at Dad's desk and there was this big drafting table ... I mostly wasted a lot of paper," he noted fondly. "All I knew it was a place where they built things that went into airplanes ... I don't think I knew they were actually computers, I mean you know, some of those really _early_ computers until I was about eight." He squinted slightly trying to remember more things about the man. "I know he built things. He had just about every tool imaginable out in that garage ... they're still there."

Grey poured a splash of tequila into his own glass. There was a hint of slyness in his voice when he said, "You already know he collected coins."

Marty huffed slightly as he was reminded of their communication via coded advertisements. "Yea ... I don't think there's anything there worth much."

"Indeed not," Grey chuckled. "But ... but the code he developed ... I'll have to show you that sometime ... sometime when we haven't been drinking tequila."

They both chuckled in agreement as they toasted each other with raised glasses.

Grey rolled his head slightly. "And you, you are a pilot – apparently that runs in the family."

With a bite of lime in his teeth Marty responded, "Mmm," then licked his lips and added, "But I never saw him ... I never saw Grampa fly a plane."

"That's what Helena – pardon me Martin, I should remember she is Margaret to you—"

Marty raised hand and shook his head. "No, no, that's okay. She's 'Gram' to me ... to everybody who knows her she's 'Mrs. C.'."

Grey smiled in relief. "Mrs. C.?" I thought I heard Ms. Cruz call her that ... but ... _Margaret_ ," he said slowly, "Margaret tells me they ... by they, I mean, I mean your government ... they insisted on keeping him out of the air."

"That makes sense," Marty noted. "Anyone looking for him ... investigators ... they would start with that."

"It was a sore point between your grandparents, Martin. He was a pilot's pilot and she, well, suffice it to say she agreed with your government."

Marty nodded at the realization. "Funny ... well, maybe not so funny now ... he and Gram always went to the air shows where Dad flew. When I was little I always thought it was because he was too old to actually take up flying."

Grey turned slightly and rolled the cigar through his fingers as he stared at their reflections in a window pane. "He was a remarkable man in any number of ways." A kind of resigned bitterness crept into his voice as he continued while waggling the fingers of his spread hand. "In the early going we were thrown into the battle like little sprays of water on a bonfire," he said then the old General seemed to sag slightly as if the thoughts he was now having were impossibly heavy. "I have a copy of a book in my library, Martin ... _Pervyĭ udar - Istoriyabudushchyeĭ voĭne,_ that's The First Strike – The Story of the Future War." He waited for a response from the young man for only a few seconds before continuing. "It's a _novel_ ... mind you, a work of fiction ... a story by a man named Nikolai Shpanov ... it's from the late thirties. If you can imagine the arrogance ... not to mention the stupidity of the time ... the novel became part of our training as officers. We believed any attack from Germany would be repulsed within a matter of hours if not days as he depicted in his story."

Marty sat almost transfixed by the absurdity of the situation. "From what I've read, 'General Winter' was what stopped Hitler ... Napoleon redux."

Grey nodded in agreement. "That and his own foolishness. But it is unbelievable that your grandfather and I survived as fighter pilots. On the very first day our airfields were being bombed and strafed by the Luftwaffe for hours before Stalin would issue the order for us to take off and fight. We lost thousands of planes and men on the ground."

Marty could only shake his head slowly in dismay at the frustration Grey was relating.

"And compared with the Luftwaffe, Martin, our training was mostly sub-standard – but Anton, your grandfather, even months and years after his accident—"

"Accident?" Marty interrupted.

Grey paused and slowly said, "Ahh ... you'd have no way of knowing." He leaned his elbows on the table and squinted slightly in thought. "I first met your Grandfather in hospital in Chkalov in October of nineteen forty-two ... in case you're overly curious and want to see it on a map it's been renamed Orenburg."

"What happened?"

"Hah ... a mid-air collision."

"No shit?"

"Oh yes ... he bailed out. Both of his ankles were broken."

"Wow!" Marty said in amazement then considered the possibilities. "From the landing?"

"Oh, no ... impact with his plane. He somehow survived in the water before he was pulled onto a fishing boat."

"Over the water? Where?"

"The Caspian Sea."

Marty balanced that new piece of his family history against what he thought he knew. "There's a lot I don't know about him – but now I probably know more than my dad does."

Grey nodded. "Indeed, you do. I brought your grandfather into the training command. It was his mind, Martin," he said emphatically. "He had such curiosity ... such tenacity. He would spend hours diagnosing what pilots did wrong," Grey said, the sound of respect obvious in his voice. "He might even try to reproduce the conditions or mistakes in the air and then demonstrate how to avoid or even recover from them."

After another sip of tequila and slight bite of lime Grey added, "He was especially adamant about testing the airplane ... the performance limits of an airplane before, before asking new pilots to fly them ... many Soviet airmen owe him their lives and don't know it."

As he absorbed that Marty came to a realization. "It must have been hard to give up flying," he said as he crushed some salt flakes absent-mindedly with the bottom of his glass.

Grey set his cigar down. "Oh, yes. Yes it was. Life changed ... in many ways it changed radically for us. Like him I've never piloted a plane since. But America ... what a shock for your grandparents! I can tell you Anton never regretted it."

Marty simply asked, "Have you ever been to the U.S.?"

"Oh, yes, not to Texas, but to California ... there was a missile test site ... Vandenberg, several times ... and Utah. There was a chemical company ... Thiokol," he said nodding with some surprise that his memory was working so well. "I'd have to look at the pictures to remember the name of the city now ... it's in the dining hall ... solid rocket fuel products in the late fifties ... yes, yes, Thiokol ... that brings back memories," he said, leaning back in his chair and looking up toward the ceiling before sighing. "I went hunting for goose and duck with their executives." He leaned forward again and put his elbows on the table before continuing. "I invited them here to hunt our roe deer and the following year I went back to Utah, far up into the mountains. They had cabins on a lake ... I can't recall that name either," he said with a note of humorously resigned frustration. "They hunt those huge deer there ... what are they—"

"Mule deer," Marty offered.

Grey nodded with a quick smile. "Ah, yes, yes ... mule deer ... mule deer, that was it ... it was at very high altitude ... I believe over eight thousand feet ... controlling one's breathing was a challenge for shooting."

"I know what you mean," Marty noted. "I went on an elk hunting trip with him and Dad and a bunch of guys up in Wyoming."

"Elk?" Grey said as much as asked in admiration.

Marty nodded.

"But did you get one?"

Marty chuckled and shook his head. "Hell, I wasn't old enough for a license ... but Dad got one and one other guy got one. What I remember the most was how damn cold it was."

"Ahh, not a pastime for those who don't tolerate the cold," Grey said with a knowing smile.

The General's story of his grandfather _alone_ in the snow in a wilderness area of Russia with a team of horses was suddenly more than just intriguing. "I guess the men of your time were more accustomed to it."

Grey nodded and said somewhat proudly, "You have to keep in mind ... most of Russia is above the fiftieth parallel. The winters are more like Canada than the U.S. Much of it is at lower altitudes," he said, waving his hand downward. "But we were raised in it. You might think of it as primitive but it was just the world as millions of people knew it."

Images of winter in the mountains whirled through Marty's mind and he asked, "Whatever happened to the little village ... the one you stayed in when you went looking for the plane?"

Grey didn't have to think very long. "I have no idea ... it was still utterly deserted when I took Olnikov through it."

Marty looked upward, following the wisps of cigar smoke drifting toward the grill vents. "Hmm," he grunted in thought. "I guess no one could own it, could they? There was no such thing as land ownership ... no titles for property."

"Not only that," Grey said solemnly, "everywhere people were taken from the lands they had worked for generations." He puffed again on the cigar and seemed deep in thought for a few moments. "The village was what Americans would call a 'ghost town'," Grey suggested then shook his head. "Even with today's farming methods it would not be an easy life for much of the year. We would now think of it as subsistence farming. I suppose even some livestock could have been raised," he said then laughed quietly as a thought came to him. "Pilots and farmers – we're both at the mercy of Mother Nature."

As a very old clock somewhere in the house chimed midnight, Grey then suggested to an almost limitlessly curious but now yawning and inebriated Marty Calder that there would be much more to talk about over the coming days. He put out his cigar then they did their best to remove any evidence of their late-night indulgence.

Grey closed the outside kitchen door and shut down the exhaust fans then they strolled back to the library carrying their bar glasses and keeping their conversation very low. Marty closed the library windows as Grey replaced the bottle of tequila then they somewhat unevenly moved toward the front foyer, their discussion turning to world leaders who had been guests at the manor and finally back toward their shared passion of flying.

After spending almost ten minutes sitting on the bottom treads of the main stairs exploring the vagaries of flying biplanes, one of them finally suggested it was too late to continue. As they slowly and carefully climbed the sweeping stairs, Marty couldn't help but imagine again how his grandfather had gone off on horseback into the Ural Mountains in the winter by himself to search for the wreckage of an airplane. In his inebriated state a thought came to him that made him pause on the first floor landing after Grey had said goodnight. He took a breath and exhaled then asked, "Dude ... do you think they ever found your plane?"

CHAPTER 40

Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Friday, June 6, 1997

Chief Inspector Ainsley Bowers stood in the library of Grey Manor, gazing at the shelves of books and the elegant furnishings, noting the slightest tinge of residual fine cigar smoke. A tea tray had been brought in just after he arrived and he idly stirred his cup after adding some sugar and lemon.

The woman who had brought in the tea service came back into the room and proceeded to open the south windows even though the temperature outside was barely hovering above twenty degrees centigrade. "Mr. Rounds said he will be here momentarily, Sir," she said.

"Thank you," he responded pleasantly. "And thank you for the tea. Excellent."

"You're most welcome ... the chef is here if you'd care for a spot of breakfast."

"No thank you ma'am," Bowers said with a quick smile. "This is perfect," he said raising the cup slightly.

In the very late hours of the prior evening, after a brief discussion bordering on argument, Bowers had acquiesced to the orders of the Ministry Headquarters – he alone would conduct 'interviews', not 'interrogations' and Malcolm Grey would not be included. There would be no exploration into Grey's past; as far as everyone Bowers would speak with was concerned, even at his advanced age Malcolm Grey was of interest to the Crown only because of his extensive knowledge of much of Her Majesty's missile weapons strategy.

His briefcase rested on a low table and he opened it and began reviewing the hastily compiled reports just as his first 'interviewee' strode into the room.

"Sir ... Jeremy Rounds," the man said briskly.

Bowers looked up and introduced himself as they shook hands. "Please, Sergeant, is it? – would you sit down ... thank you ... this won't take long."

Rounds was relaxed and seemed militarily unflappable. "Yes, Sir. Anything I can do to assist," he said briskly as he sat down.

Bowers took his notepad and placed it beside the folder then set his pen down. He looked seriously at the rugged-looking older man in the lightweight turtleneck sweater, crisply-creased wool slacks and perfectly polished loafers. "Mr. Rounds ... Sergeant ... I decided this process should start with you ... you being the closest thing to someone with bone fide experience in such matters." He glanced down at a file in his briefcase then added, "You have a combat record ... a notably honorable one. That could be singularly useful to us."

Rounds nodded and simply said, "Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir."

Bowers sounded professionally casual as if nothing of major significance was being investigated as he asked, "You've worked for the Greys how long?"

"Just over eight years, Sir."

"Have there been difficulties ... break-ins or other criminal acts?"

Rounds shook his head. "No, Sir. We've had trespassers off the river from time to time ... mostly people with some kind of mechanical problem. Mr. Alberton or one of the field men have dealt with them. I believe the Constables have come out on property a couple of times over the years. There was a piece of farm equipment someone siphoned diesel out of ... we had a generator set stolen from the back of a lorry." Rounds scowled in thought before adding, "I do recall someone took the outboard from a runabout at the dock ... nothing more notable than that."

"And Mr. Grey's life has never been in danger before, correct?"

"No, Sir. Not that I know of. Of course I don't accompany them out, to the yacht for example. And until last night I wasn't even aware he was under the protection of Special Branch."

Bowers nodded slowly in understanding. "Yes ... this, you should know, is not a criminal inquiry—"

"Yes, Sir."

"—you, nor any of the guests are being investigated. This is being conducted to develop intelligence about the parties who might have precipitated last evening's events."

"I was told that, yes, Sir. I believe it was your Inspector Cummings when he rang this morning."

Bowers nodded. "So ... there is no reason for you to ... oh, shall we say, perhaps color any circumstances for our report?"

Rounds gave him a look of surprise. "None whatsoever, Chief Inspector."

Bowers paused and sighed then glanced around as if someone might overhear. He leaned slightly closer and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "Good God man, what in bloody hell went on here last night?"

Rounds didn't flinch at all. "Well," he began then cleared his throat lightly. "Sir ... as far as I can recall, at approximately nineteen-twenty hours the alarm system indicated someone had come onto the property near the boathouse," he said gesturing slightly to the west. "Mr. Alberton may have a more accurate assessment of where that was ... I assume it was the dock, Sir."

"The dock ... go on," Bowers suggested then Rounds proceeded to outline some of the events he had witnessed during the evening – leaving out the parts where highly-illegal weapons were involved and any mention of the facility below.

"Essentially, an armed response was mounted and the buggers were driven off," Rounds summarized.

Bowers' expression didn't change for several seconds then he pursed his lips, drew in a deep breath through his nose and sighed. " _That_ , I believe, is the understatement of the decade," he said flatly then leaned further forward and intertwined his fingers with his forearms on his thighs. He blinked several times before continuing. "Sergeant Rounds, I'm going to be blunt here, given your experience—"

"Certainly, Sir."

"According to Captain Sweebeck no one he saw had a weapon – would you be able to explain what weapons the, ah ... the _guests_ had?"

"Well, Sir, the Professor, professor Kirkland had two of his own hunting rifles, a Browning I believe it was, chambered in three hundred Winchester magnum and another, a Remington in two-two-three. I believe the two Calder gentlemen each had Sako rifles in five-point-five-six. They were equipped with telescopic sights."

"Hunting rifles?" Bowers asked flatly with a dubious expression. Over a hundred 5.56mm casings had been found already and he was convinced a more exhaustive search would turn up more.

"Yes, Sir. As I understand it there were plans in the works for some game hunting while they visited but I was not made aware of the arrangements ... nor where they might have gone. I'm not often involved with personal schedules of the family or their guests – that would be Mrs. Alberton's realm and would probably not include me unless it involves the house or meals."

Bowers nodded slowly then Rounds asked, "Pardon, Sir, but do we know who they were?"

The answer didn't come immediately and the Chief Inspector didn't give away anything in it. "I can't say. Officially, they never existed." He looked down for a moment then directly back at Rounds. "None of them."

The Sergeant instantly realized what that meant and slowly nodded. If any of them had survived they would never see their homelands again.

"I thought you'd agree. Now then, would you please advise Professor Kirkland I would like to speak with him?" Bowers asked directly.

"Certainly, Sir. Straight away. Would you care for more tea?"

Bowers shook his head and smiled pleasantly. "No, thank you, Sergeant."

"Very good. Good morning, Sir," Rounds replied then turned and walked from the room.

\- # -

Kirkland didn't waste any time getting to the library after Rounds briefed him quickly on his conversation with Bowers. As he walked in carrying a cup of coffee he saw the detective seated, leaning over the table in front of him, studying the contents of a folder. "Chief Inspector ... Bowers is it?"

Bowers stood up and eyed the tall American, trying to imagine him in the battered condition Sweebeck had reported. "Professor?"

"A sometimes awkward appellation, but, yes – Michael Kirkland," he said stepping toward the table and extending his hand over it. "How can I help you?"

As they shook hands Bowers noticed the wound on the man's head but decided against studying it or making a comment. Instead he simply said, "You sound almost native."

"I'm a U.S. citizen but graduated from Oxford in eighty-one. I hope you won't hold that against me," he offered lightly.

Bowers grinned slightly and said, "Not at all, Professor, not at all. Ahh, as I told Mr. Rounds, this is not a criminal investigation," he added as he sat down.

Kirkland nodded then sat in a chair on the other side of the table and sipped his coffee as he studied the man.

As Bowers considered how to proceed he fidgeted slightly with his pen then set it down on a closed folder and looked directly at Kirkland. "How did you find Nicholas Golikov?"

Kirkland tried not to look as surprised as he felt, then realized he should have anticipated the British agencies' awareness of Golikov and his actions. He set his coffee cup down, leaned back and crossed his legs casually. With his elbows resting on the arms of the chair he interlaced his fingers and tilted his head slightly. "I have to be cautious here, Chief Inspector." He kept his gaze steadily on the officer as he added, "I find myself in the middle of your government's internal need-to-know protocol."

Bowers inhaled then nodded slightly. "That's why I'm here," he said evenly then seemed to wait as if debating how much he should reveal. "Professor ... one of my divisions watches for the wolves without knowing who or where the sheep are – the other provides physical protection for the sheep as needed."

Kirkland couldn't help but scowl as he said grimly, "We have the same kind of thing on our side of the pond ... one hand not knowing what the other is doing and neither knowing what the feet might have stepped in." He waited to see if there was a reaction and when there wasn't one his tone became more serious. "Everyone is just hoping they can't be blamed when the rotary fecal distributor gets going."

Bowers didn't react negatively to that assessment. "And you know Malcom Grey's background?"

Kirkland nodded. "He's a Soviet expatriate. It's no coincidence Golikov is a Russian."

Bowers only blinked several times.

"And obviously Special Branch knows there is a connection ... between Malcolm Grey and the Calders."

Bowers nodded slightly as if to have Kirkland continue.

"The Calder's take their privacy very seriously, Chief Inspector, so I trust you'll use your discretion in this?"

Bowers knew he had no other option. "You can, absolutely."

"I'll take your word for that, Chief Inspector," Kirkland said then locked eyes with Bowers. "These people, the ones behind Golikov ... they managed to find Cecil Calder's widow through an American – what we call a skip-tracer, a private investigator of sorts." He sipped more coffee then continued as he set the cup down. "He's more of an information broker willing to break the law. Technology and avarice have opened Pandora's proverbial box, Chief Inspector."

After another few moments of thought Bowers' face soured. "Is this investigator the reason Golikov went to Dunsfold?"

"In a manner of speaking – it was a ruse. We took advantage of their reliance on him and created some misinformation. Golikov fell for it."

"The Albert Drummond story," Bowers said flatly.

The look of surprise couldn't be hidden when Kirkland processed that. "The—"

"Oh, indeed yes, Professor. We've had a resource in Golikov's operation for some time. We were planning to pick him up in Dunsfold ... but, as it happened, _someone_ spirited him away from a pub before we could nab him."

Kirkland did his best to look only slightly surprised but said nothing.

"Yes, and they put two bullet holes in a hired car while they were at it ... armor piercing rounds, no less."

Kirkland swallowed as he struggled to not give away any hint of acknowledgment. "You were going to arrest him?" he asked as if he had no idea why. "For what?"

"Espionage."

Kirkland scowled in feigned confusion. "Espionage?"

Bowers rubbed his hands together while thinking about how to explain the situation to the American. "The whereabouts of General Kovpak are a Crown secret – still today. Golikov was a Russian ... when foreign nationals go about digging for state secrets we consider it to be espionage."

Kirkland raised his eyebrows and tipped his head in understanding. _Was? Was a Russian? What does that mean?_ Before he could ask for an elaboration, Bowers interrupted his thought.

"So, Professor ... just what is your connection to this?"

It was Kirkland's turn to pause while formulating an answer. "What you probably don't know, Chief Inspector, is that Mr. Grey—General Kovpak—knew Golikov's grandfather. Quite well as it turns out. As I understand it they were involved in a highly-classified mission early in the war ... the grandfather wound up in the gulag. Mr. Grey insisted on speaking with him – to disabuse him of the notion that he was somehow responsible for subjecting his family to everything that situation implies."

Bowers tried to digest that new piece of information but it was bent into a logic flaw he couldn't overcome. "You believe Golikov was after Grey, just for that?" he asked blandly.

Kirkland face was like stone. "That's not what I said ... Mr. Grey insisted that he speak with him personally before we took him to France."

"And they did speak? When?"

"They did. Thursday around noon. At some length."

Bowers ruminated on that for several moments. "But the assault came anyway."

"Unexpectedly, I assure you. We believed Golikov was no longer a threat."

"And in your view, Professor, what exactly was the threat?"

Kirkland picked up his coffee cup again and drank, then uncrossed his legs and leaned forward with the cup in both hands, resting his forearms on his legs. He looked at the coffee then across at Bowers and asked, "What do you think Grey could possibly know that is still so valuable to some Russian after fifty years that they would go to these lengths?"

Bowers looked as if he had the answer but was simply not allowed to explore it.

Kirkland gave him a quizzical look as he asked, "No one in Special Branch knows why Golikov was looking for the General?"

"I can't say."

Kirkland looked down at his coffee again and thought carefully before he continued. "Golikov seemed to have been consumed by the idea of a conspiracy that his grandfather had been blamed for."

"A conspiracy? His grandfather? Involving what?"

"Something he wouldn't discuss ... those kinds of things can become obsessions," Kirkland advised then continued to shape the story with plausible yet hard to decipher facets. "But whoever was behind him was apparently willing to expend unlimited resources to find out for sure. To me that means it's somehow politically important to someone ... someone other than just Golikov."

Bowers leaned back and sighed. "Were there others? Other men, other than Grey?"

"I don't believe so. The conspiracy surrounded General Kovpak and Colonel Nuryev. Apparently once Cecil Calder was dead they had no choice but to try and get to Grey before he too, passes on."

"So you believe the objective of last night's engagement was ... was to ... was to do what, exactly?"

"Return him to Russia."

Bowers was clearly surprised by that suggestion. "Really? A kidnapping? Kidnapping a British Crown subject? To what end ... put him on trial in Russia? That's preposterous."

Kirkland shook his head calmly. "Perhaps not a public trial. Maybe a witness to be used in the exoneration of someone? Restoration of some new version of the truth about something? Something apparently important enough to go to the lengths they have."

Bowers looked bewildered. "At his age? After this amount of time? For what?"

"I don't know with any certainty but even now I have to assume it had something to do with his defection ... most likely something about someone, some information he took with him and revealed to the West. But you'd need to find who was behind Golikov for those answers."

The Inspector looked glumly at the stacks of files in front of him. "At this juncture we may never know with any degree of certainty, Professor."

It took a moment to develop a theory of what that statement meant but Kirkland could see from the scowl and the tightening of the man's jaw that Bowers was frustrated; that assessment was confirmed when the Chief Inspector spoke again.

"Golikov is dead. His body was found late last night in a hotel parking garage in Calais."

Kirkland's mouth opened slightly but he didn't say anything.

"The _Gendarmerie Nationale_ are wondering how he got back into France without going through customs ... _we_ , of course," he paused for sarcastic emphasis and raised his eyebrows, "we still have _no_ idea how that could have happened ... all they've deduced thus far is the plane that dropped him off flew north out of Calais."

"Umm ... unfortunate about Golikov," Kirkland said quietly without trying to be genuine. "He was reckless, to say the least. I suspect his employer was unhappy about his disappearing act in Dunsfold. Then when the assault failed he must have become the scapegoat."

"Or someone was simply covering their tracks," Bowers offered. "Eliminating witnesses."

Kirkland nodded. "That's as good an explanation as mine – probably better. What about any of the survivors here? I think the team leader was taken alive."

Bowers shook his head and didn't have to say anything more.

Kirkland's surprise was obvious. "Wasn't one of them recovered from the front drive?" Kirkland asked, gesturing in that direction.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

_Shit_ , Kirkland thought. _He's gone_. "The last man I took down was not killed. He was definitely in charge ... you'll find his knife stuck in a tree down the drive. We left him bound there and retreated into the house. With your team's imminent arrival we didn't want to take a chance on being misidentified."

Bowers considered the new and perhaps important information about the possibly missing leader of the intruders. "I'm not yet involved in the interrogations but will be not long after I finish here. But," he paused and looked slightly away, "I don't expect them to have known much about their employer."

"He had a waterproof pouch. We found a British driver's license and passport, credit cards and a substantial amount of cash."

Bowers scowled again as he realized the extent the American had gone to assess the situation then he said, "I'm led to believe they all had that ... a planned getaway strategy, it appears."

"I'd recognize him if I saw him again," Kirkland suggested hopefully.

The Chief Inspector turned to his briefcase to extract an envelope, opened it and took out a stack of small instant-camera photographs. "Could he be among these?" he asked as handed them across the table.

Kirkland shook his head quickly after looking at the pictures of the men who had been taken into custody, some with their eyes open and others quite obviously deceased. He considered how long the disabled man might have had to regain consciousness, get free from the binding ties then find his way to the river. "If your teams didn't collect him he's probably well on his way out of the country by now," Kirkland said as he handed the pictures back.

Bowers nodded. "You don't recall the name?"

"For what it's worth, William Winstead."

"Could you describe him?"

"Approximately a hundred and seventy centimeters tall. Seventy to eighty kilos perhaps ... fairly long hair – below the collar, very dark brown, something on the order of less than forty years in age, of course it was very dark outside. Nothing notable in the features."

"Ethnicity?"

"From his speech I would say Russian. And I would say he has a broken right wrist and at least one fractured rib."

"You seem to have a rather thorough memory, Professor."

Kirkland responded coolly, "He tried to kill me ... with a knife. One tends to remember those kinds of encounters." At that moment a thought came to him: _If the runabout is gone from the boathouse, we'll know for certain he got away._

Bowers decided not to ask any more questions and nodded slowly. "You've been most helpful, Professor. Unless you think of something more I should know, of course."

"I can't think of anything that might help."

Bowers said pleasantly, "I don't believe it will be necessary to speak with Mr. Grey or any of his other guests." He closed his notepad and put away his pen then rose to his feet. "If you would be so kind as to give my regards to Mr. Grey and the Albertons?"

"I will," Kirkland said as they shook hands.

"Thank you again – oh, one more thing, Professor," Bowers began then glanced around before continuing quietly, "Do you recognize the name Arkady Lebedev?"

Kirkland thought for several seconds and shook his head. "I don't believe I do."

"Well," Bowers began then cleared his throat slightly, "the _Gendarmerie_ indicate Golikov works—I'm sorry, _worked for_ a company he owns."

Kirkland's brow furrowed for a few moments and he finally replied calmly, "I can't say I know anything about him."

Bowers' voice was now just above the level of a whisper and it sounded like a warning. "Anyone with the resources to throw this kind of party should be considered very dangerous, Professor."

"I'd have to agree," Kirkland replied with a nod.

"And ... if the man you took down was indeed the leader, and he escaped, he will certainly lay the blame for his failure at your feet."

Kirkland shrugged slightly, scowled in thought for a moment and said, "Indeed, he would."

Bowers saw the dead-calm reaction and a smile began to form as he said, "He'd be quite correct ... officially, of course, this never happened ... but unofficially, on behalf of Special Branch, you have our gratitude for intervening."

With a small smile Kirkland said, "I had little choice in the matter."

Bowers reached into an inner pocket of his suit and took out a business card then passed it to Kirkland. "If you need something ... information, shall we say, contact me directly and I'll share what I can."

"I may do just that ... from time to time," Kirkland said gratefully then passed one of his cards to the Chief Inspector. "I intend to reciprocate when and if I can."

"Well, then," Bowers began as he read the card then looked around to make sure he had left nothing behind, "I almost feel sorry for whomever he sends after you ... good day, Professor ... but, ah, just one more thing ..."

Kirkland squinted slightly in expectation but didn't say anything.

"I would strongly recommend should anything come to pass that it not happen on British soil."

CHAPTER 41

Grey Manor, Cambridgeshire, U.K., Saturday evening, June 7, 1997

Malcom Grey waited for everyone to be seated in the library before he began the meeting he had invited them to attend after a relaxed early supper. "My friends, I am looking for advice," he admitted frankly as he turned and scanned his audience. "I have here at my disposal a room full of people with unique talents ... not to mention knowledge and experience." He looked around the room again and added, "I could never have consciously selected such a group ... it just seems to have happened." He raised a hand and waggled a finger as he continued, "But – something tells me Anton knew this was going to happen." He then looked at Grace and Leonard and said, "We are indeed, fortunate."

With a quiet audience he walked over to one of the towering bookcases and removed a non-descript old volume from a second-tier shelf. "It's in Russian," he said lightly as he turned around and held it up. A broad grin then appeared and he added comically, "Imagine that!"

Noting the warm smiles from his friends and family in response he went on. "Apart from Margaret ... and perhaps, you, Professor," he said glancing at Kirkland, "I'm the only one here who can read it." He opened it carefully and gently fanned the pages until a folded piece of very old paper appeared. "And other than routine dusting this book has remained untouched ... for several months now." He took the folded paper out and set the book down then turned and carefully handed the delicate-looking paper to Margaret. Looking in Marty's direction he said, "That ... that is the key to our code."

The faces in the room looked both perplexed and expectant then Margaret smiled and put on her reading glasses.

Marty looked dubious. "Just one page?"

Grey chuckled slightly then said, "Your grandfather was a genius, Martin."

Margaret shook her head as she examined the page. "So you two used this to send your messages ... in the want ads?"

"Yes," Grey said then stepped over to another section of the bookcases and removed two large, thick volumes. He returned to the middle of the room and handed one to Kirkland and the other to Margaret.

Kirkland opened it carefully and was amazed to find the pages covered with pieces of aging newsprint, carefully cut and fastened to the heavy paper. _The ads_ , he realized.

"They're in chronological order," Grey said.

"You kept them all?" Kirkland said with an amazed smile and held the open book up for the rest of them to see.

"There must be hundreds of them," Elanore said.

Catherine rose and stepped behind Kirkland's chair to see the book. "This is an artifact all by itself," she said as Kirkland continued to turn the pages carefully.

Margaret was shaking her head. "But they're so short."

Grey smiled as he pointed to the code sheet. "Some symbols and combinations are words and even whole sentences."

"Like shorthand?" Terri asked.

Grey looked as if he were unsure what that meant then suddenly nodded. "Yes. But it had to be something that the paper had available in their advertisement fonts. It could also change by date."

"Did you ever keep a copy of the translated messages?" Marty asked.

"Oh no," Grey said quickly shaking his head and waving his hand then pointing. "And the only way to reconstruct them is with that key." He paused and looked around at them. "And before you are convinced I'm a fool for having the only original key here, there is a copy in the vault below – complete with instructions in English."

He sighed then cleared his throat before continuing. "But ... but the reason I am showing you this is so you'll know the entire record of our correspondence over the years is here, in those books ... I want to ensure that someone, should the need arise, be able to reconstruct the real story."

"This goes back almost fifty years," Kirkland said.

"Newsprint is rarely this well preserved," Catherine noted, recognizing the acid-free pages and the apparent use of preservation-grade adhesive.

"That was Grace's doing," Grey advised. "I started just stacking them in a drawer. When she was what ... about twelve would you say, Dear, when you offered to organize them for me?"

Grace nodded, "Back then I thought they were just a kind of a catalog."

"A pricing record," Grey added.

Marty turned and looked Grey in the eye as they shared a surreptitious smile. He reached out to his Grandmother and she handed him the code page. "This is what you told me about?" He asked.

The old man smiled brightly then saw the confused looks on the other's faces. "Two pilots, one old, one young ... got to talking over a bit of tequila the other night," he admitted.

Marty examined the page and while nothing made any sense he realized it wasn't in the Russian Cyrillic alphabet. "It's not in Russian, is it?"

Grey nodded. "We both spoke English – I more so than Anton." He turned to Alex and Elanore. "It's not really our entire history ... nothing before we left Berlin. It's more or less the correspondence of two men growing old and finally getting around to wondering what to do about their legacy."

"So ... did you ... what did the two of you plan to do with the treasure?" Margaret asked.

Grey's eyes opened wider and he leaned his head back slightly. "Ah, yes. I was hoping someone would keep me on track."

As everyone in the room watched, Grey took one of the high-backed chairs. "I – or I should say, Anton and I – at one time we believed we should discretely arrange an exchange ... the real items for the copies." He glanced around at the stunned faces and added, "But we could find no practical way to do that without endangering our families." He turned and looked at Kirkland as he said, "But it seems there may be a way now."

The room remained silent for several moments then Catherine looked at Kirkland and asked, "Could that even be done without starting World War Three?"

A cascade of possibilities poured through Kirkland's mind and he looked across the room at Terri for some kind of practical confirmation. When she shrugged noncommittally he said, "We'll have to do some research – I suspect it might be done in a series of very confidential, arms-length exchanges. But let's assume for the sake of discussion that it could be arranged."

Grey smiled again. "Ah! I was hoping that would be your assessment." He crossed his legs and nodded in thought with a finger raised. "So, assuming that, there are some conditions for returning them ... including a new one Martin made me consider."

Marty looked bewildered but realizing Malcom Grey was one of the shrewdest men he'd ever met he didn't try to guess what he was thinking and simply asked, "Conditions?"

Grey nodded solemnly. "Yes ... there are conditions," he said then turned again to Kirkland. "Professor, as a prerequisite to this proposed exchange ... this, ah, this series of exchanges ... I want the Kremlin to allow the Calders to recover my Airacobra – and deliver it here for restoration."

Alex looked quickly back and forth between Grey and Kirkland and the Albertons with his mouth open then said, "You want it to fly ... you want to fly it?"

Grey laughed and said, "Oh, heavens no – I mean, yes, I want to see it fly, but I want you and Martin to fly it."

"You know exactly where it is," Marty accused with a knowing grin.

Grey chuckled slightly again. "The tequila didn't dim your memory, Martin. And, Mr. Calder, I want it done before my passing," A look of almost boyish excitement came over his face as he added, "Is that possible?"

Alex was stunned but his mind immediately began analyzing logistics issues. After a few seconds he managed to find words. "A, a, a P-39 ... a complete P-39 ... yes ... with the wings off ... on pallets it would fit in your Transall," he said looking at Kirkland then he turned back to Grey. "How far is it from ... wherever it is to here?"

"Thirty-six hundred kilometers to Orenburg, then about a hundred and fifty to the site." Grey said knowingly. "Minsk is half-way."

"We can have the strip uncovered in a matter of days," Leonard said enthusiastically.

"There's a strip here?" Alex asked

"Firm sod is no problem," Ben suggested. "It's about five thousand kilos but it's on eight tires."

Leonard beamed as he explained, "It's almost two kilometers long and presently covered with a half-meter of topsoil."

"Wait, wait, wait," Elanore interrupted, heading them off and turning to Kirkland. "So ... just so I understand, you can call up the Russians and make this ... this, this, deal, and whoever came out here the other night won't find out?"

"Or come back?" Catherine suggested fearfully.

Grey held up a hand. "You make an excellent point."

Kirkland nodded. "I think we can convince the Kremlin to either divert him or neutralize him."

Grey nodded. "If they don't, their treasure remains a mystery and they risk having the fraud exposed."

Margaret looked at Grey then at Kirkland. "Can you take them at their word?"

"You trust the Russians?" Leonard asked incredulously.

When Kirkland answered he looked again at Terri. "There are conditions and collateral positions ... they can be used to negotiate. You don't do it all in one transaction. You have to know what their desired outcome is and assure them you can deliver. Repeatedly."

The room was quiet for several moments then Terri raised a hand. "Okay, assume that happens ... then what? What do they do with the copies?" she asked, tipping her head toward the members of the two families.

Gray pointed a finger at her. "Ah! Yes. Mrs. Yamaguchi puts us back on track! Thank you, my dear." He stood again and gestured toward the bar. "I think a drink is in order – Leonard, would you?" He glanced around at them with a questioning look. "Cognac, anyone?"

Margaret, Elanore and Catherine agreed in unison.

Kirkland gave Catherine a questioning look and she whispered accusingly, "Hey, it's your fault."

When everyone was seated again Grey swirled his glass slightly at eye level as he asked, "Professor, what would you hazard as a guess as to the value of a collection of the copies?"

Kirkland's brow furrowed slightly as he evaluated what he had seen. "Given what I saw in the Houston exhibit—and let's assume the rest are of similar quality—there would be at least thirty, perhaps as much as thirty-five million dollars U.S."

Everyone but the Yamaguchis gasped in unison.

Kirkland nodded in response and sipped the Courvoisier then added, "Maybe more as various pieces get to market and demand rises."

"But they're fakes!" Grace said incredulously.

Kirkland raised his hand slightly. "A more appropriate term would be 'replicas'. But, you have to consider they are _unique_ replicas ... made by some of the finest artisans in the world in their day – Fabergé craftsmen, no less." He paused for a moment then added, "and the gemstones I saw are remarkably good."

Leonard pointed at Kirkland. "So you're saying they're legitimate pieces of art all by themselves."

Catherine raised a hand as she responded with a warning, "They are, but with one huge problem ... they lack a provenance."

"That's right, it's all a secret," Leonard noted.

Grey smiled knowingly and revealed something only Kirkland, Marty and Ben had recently learned during the meeting with Golikov. "Ah ... but ... I happen to have the records from when the pieces were made."

"How is that—?" Catherine asked.

"The Olnikov papers," Marty interjected then filled the rest of them in on the pieces of Grey's story for Golikov about the defecting Russian agent and his collection of files from Ivan Yeremenko.

Grey looked at Catherine and said, "I have time logs with names, dates, even a very detailed description of the work performed ... it is so fastidious as to include the materials used on a given date."

Terri suddenly inhaled and raised a hand. "You know, there's a collection of documents ... the employment records for Faberge – we've had access to it before—"

"To authenticate pieces," Kirkland interjected.

Catherine looked at Terri. "Then the names would be there?"

Terri nodded. "From before the revolution – that would be more than enough, and they can be age dated to within a very few years."

"Wait, wait, wait, y'all," Margaret began, "doesn't that mean the story has to get out?"

Looking at the Albertons Alex asked, "Our family histories?"

The room fell quiet as they considered the implications of the issue she raised then Kirkland said, "To some degree, it does."

"Wait, wait ... at least some _version_ of it might," Marty offered as he raised a hand. "All it has to be is a story of copies being made to fool the Nazis, just in case."

Grey nodded and smiled as he looked at Kirkland. "You would agree, Professor?"

While Kirkland was considering the theory Catherine added, "And ... as we know, the copies were never needed."

The room fell silent as everyone started trying to formulate the next phase of the now self-generating script.

Leonard shook his head. "So what could have happened to them?"

"Exactly ... how did they get lost in the first place?" Elanore asked.

Ben suddenly looked up and said, "A Russian agent disappeared with them – the same agent that found them and the records in Leningrad—"

"Yes!" Marty announced. "Igor Olnikov must have smuggled them out in nineteen fifty-nine!"

With an almost cunning look Kirkland added, "And in order to survive he sold them on the black market as best he could over the years."

Ben stood up from his chair as he said, "We can create our own myth for Olnikov."

"Maybe without even naming him," Terri advised.

Grace offered almost to herself, "It's bloody brilliant ... a mysterious Russian defector absconds with a secret fortune in unneeded duplicates."

"That no one was supposed to know even existed," Terri added.

Marty waved to the group and said, "And we have the only records."

Catherine put her hand on Kirkland's arm. "But can you get the State Diamond Fund to buy off on it? They'll know they have the copies ... will they believe this agent got away with the _real_ ones?"

"What choice do they have, my dear?" Grey answered. "They have no idea what happened to him."

"But they know he was Stalin's agent," Ben noted. "No one knows as much as he did."

Alex scowled, looking at Kirkland. "What about the cartel – do they know?"

It took several seconds to think through the tangled relationship web but Kirkland finally shook his head. "I can't see how they'd know ... and it would be in their interests to keep quiet."

Elanore looked at Kirkland with a suspicious gaze. "So if you do start showing up with the real ones ... you're saying there's no down-side for the Russians to make a confidential trade."

"It's a perfect cover," Terri nodded in agreement.

"Not to mention they save face," Leonard added.

Catherine glanced at Kirkland, "And they get their national treasures back instead of having to sneak around showing replacements."

Margaret raised a hand and asked, "Wait, wait, y'all ... if that happens ... what happens to the copies you get ... the ones you get from them?"

Grey shrugged and asked, "Actually, Margaret, the real question is, what _you_ will do with them?" He then turned and looked at his daughter. "Or maybe it will be you and Margaret. Or perhaps even you and Alex ... it is after all, a matter of time."

Margaret caught the not-so-hidden meaning behind his words and realized she might outlive him by a considerable period of years. Trying to avoid the sadness those thoughts engendered she turned to Alex and Elanore and asked, "Why would I want them?"

"Can they even _be_ sold?" Grace asked.

Marty shook his head and advised, "The tax implications ... it's mind boggling. There are legal nuances ... only a team of specialists could handle this."

"Marty's right," Kirkland said. "I've been in those kinds of meetings. It makes my eyes glaze over just thinking about it ... and they say _economists_ are boring," he quipped.

With a wink at Catherine Margaret remarked almost under her breath, "Not all economists are boring."

"I'd have to agree," Catherine said coyly.

Grace looked at Alex and asked, "Could we give them to a museum?"

Catherine shook her head. "It's more complicated than you might imagine."

Alex agreed with a rueful shake of his head. "Some days I wish I hadn't learned what 'accessioning' and 'deaccessioning' meant."

Leonard turned to Catherine and asked, "But don't you get anonymous donations?"

Catherine shook her head again. "No, not really. We can keep a donor's name from the public but not from the IRS. And we have to apply a value to the property. Technically, they're the assets of a charitable trust," she said pointing slightly at Alex. "Alex is one of our trustees."

"And anything like a transfer of money over a certain amount raises red flags," Marty said.

Kirkland shook his head. "There is only one kind of entity that could possibly turn those kinds of assets into cash without creating serious legal consequences."

Marty looked at him dubiously. "Who's that?"

"Not someone you'd want to know," he answered quickly.

"Black hats?" Elanore asked.

When Kirkland didn't answer immediately Margaret raised her hand again just enough to get everyone's attention. "I think ... I think we shouldn't worry about what they're worth or might be worth." She then looked at Grace and said, "Lord knows I'm in no need of money."

Grace snickered quickly and her husband couldn't keep from joining her. "Don't look at us ... if we were to take anything into father's estate the Crown will take nearly half of it when he's gone," she noted.

Margaret turned back and glanced around at all of them. "Well then ... selling them doesn't seem to be an option, now does it?"

Grey nodded somberly and as he glanced around the room at his guests he said more than asked, "Selling them would leave us all victims of the law of unintended consequences, wouldn't it."

Catherine's eyes widened slightly as she came to a realization. "You've been planning this for a long time, haven't you?" she asked.

Grey now saw the stage had been set for the last act of his play; the financial implications for his family and that of his guests had now been set aside as irrelevant and he knew he would take comfort in that fact in his last years. He pointed at the books of secret correspondence. "Fifty years," he answered quietly then looked back and forth between Marty and Catherine and gestured to them. "That's one reason I'm so pleased to see the two of you here."

The two younger people looked bewildered again but only Marty spoke. "Me?"

"Of course, Martin. Your grandfather told me you were going into law." Grey then turned to Margaret and said, "Your family retained Barton Commoner years ago – do you know why Anton sought him out?"

Margaret pursed her lips in thought for a moment then looked down. When she answered she was shaking her head. "I don't think so."

"I always thought it was because he was the best estate attorney money could buy," Elanore said matter-of-factly.

Grey smiled evenly at her and nodded. "Ah ... that, too. But my mentor, General Alexsandr Krylov, one of the greatest aviators in Russian history ... mastermind of the flying portion of the delivery mission," he paused and looked at Marty again, "he was Barton Commoner's grandfather."

After a stunned silence Alex finally found his voice. "Commoner ... they were Russians?"

"There were a number of us," Grey answered slyly. "The Kremlin believed he was dead ... and probably still does."

Margaret looked as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing and pointed at Grey. "So ... Barton knows? About us? And you?"

Grey nodded as he answered. "As of late, yes." A twinkle appeared in his eye and he added, "And would it shock you to know his father was a numismatist?"

Several pairs of eyes rolled in the room then Grey walked over to another bookshelf and retrieved two more volumes. He turned to face Marty with a knowing wink and a few seconds later he handed the books to Grace. "You'll need to copy these, too," he told her.

Margaret began shaking her head and looked almost exasperated as she said, "But ... why all this ... why couldn't Barton just confide in us?"

"He didn't know who you were until after Anton's passing," Grey advised gently.

Marty looked only slightly less surprised and shook his head. "Barton's dad didn't tell him?"

"I know how he must have felt," Alex said then winked at his mother.

"But how did ... who told him?" Elanore asked.

"His mother," Grace said.

Elanore suddenly remembered the woman. "His mother? Bea? She knows?"

Grey nodded. "As Arthur's illness set in, she took over the communications for him."

"Dude," Marty said quietly. "That must have freaked Barton out."

"What's more, Martin," Grey began, "no one is following him into his firm. We have been hoping the legal oversight for any plan would be passed on to someone in one of the families. As it turns out ... that is going to be _you_."

After another moment of silence Alex finally said, "But Barton's not that old."

Grey sounded almost amused. "Indeed. And I would hope Margaret would live for many years and you and Grace much longer."

Margaret shook her head. "But why would Barton be out of the picture? Good Lord, he can't be more than fifty-something."

Grey sighed and his face took on a pained expression. "Fifty-one. But ... he will be retiring within a few years. Of course no one can know that," Grey quickly added with a raised finger of warning as he returned to his chair. "Arthur ... he succumbed to this awful Alzheimer's disease."

"I remember ... they kept that out of the paper," Elanore said as if a sad memory had come and gone years before. She looked at her husband and got a nod of confirmation.

"Barton is terrified to continue in practice beyond his fifties," Grey said dejectedly. "He fears he will make some kind of catastrophic error that could have long-term consequences."

Kirkland could hardly believe what he had just heard. "Barton? Alzheimer's?"

Grey shook his head. "No, no, Professor. No ... unfortunately, Barton's problem is the _fear_ of it." He caught Margaret's eye and smiled conspiratorially as he added, "I think he wants someone in position before people begin giving him the kinds of looks we get at our age."

"But ... but what is the plan?" Catherine asked.

Grey smiled even more expansively. "Ah ... yes ... we come to the most important question. Now, imagine, Ms. Cruz, as an ordinary person, not as a beautiful, erudite curator for a major museum ... with that in mind, tell me," he asked then paused as he stood again. "Imagine ... if you walked out to your postbox one day ... and in it you find something ... a package ... you take it inside and you find some kind of exquisitely beautiful thing ... what ... what do you do?"

Catherine was confused by the idea and it took her several moments to even be able to say something. "I ... I'm not sure," she said, almost imperceptibly shaking her head. "With what I know now, I'd be petrified."

Margaret reached across the space between the chairs and put her hand on Catherine's arm. "When I got the first one I thought it was a mistake ... then I found your note," she said to Grey.

Catherine began nodding. "I think it's safe to say I'd probably be confused, worried ... I don't know."

Grey looked around at them and nodded. "Anton and I experienced something else when we opened that first container and found them – sheer terror. We were faced with unanswerable, even unaskable questions."

Instead of being able to imagine what that might have been like, Catherine's mind flashed to the memories of walking out to the mailbox from the Burnett's magnificent home with a growing sense of dread at the next legal nightmare she might find in it. The dry taste in her mouth and the twinge in her gut were still too familiar.

Now, sitting in the library of Grey Manor with thoughts of her past troubles in mind and without attempting to explain all of what had made her what she was, Catherine looked at her host tentatively and slowly nodded her head. "Actually, to answer your question ... I guess, depending on how desperate I was, I'd be thinking of taking it to the nearest pawn shop. If ... I might even call ... actually, I'm not sure who I'd call if I didn't know the people I know ... but depending on the timeline of my life it could be anything from holding it up and dancing in front of the mirror to fainting dead away or being terrified someone was coming to take it back ... maybe even wanting to find who it really belonged to."

Grey clapped his hands assuredly. "That is the genius of Anton's plan," he announced enthusiastically.

" _His_ plan?" Margaret asked. "Y'all really had a plan?"

"Oh, yes. This is what Anton predicted – Ms. Cruz is the perfect touchstone," Grey said as he looked at the amazed group.

Catherine's mouth opened and she shook her head slightly. "I'm a what?"

"As you just said, 'the timeline of your life'," Grey said evenly. "Your breadth of life experience."

Grey then turned around and tilted his head slightly as he looked at Kirkland. "You may be able to explain this as Anton could not in little bits and pieces ... I don't pretend to have his grasp of the mathematics but as I understand what he meant, Catherine meets what he called ' _the first condition'_."

Alex suddenly realized what Grey was leading to. "That's it," he said slowly and squinted in concentration then looked up. "Little things mean a lot ... even small variables near the outset of a process make the entire process far less predictable."

"The butterfly effect," Kirkland added quickly.

Grey could only smile as looked at an even more-confused Marty. "You see why I said the people in this room are the ultimate counsel?"

"She ... Cath, she's the ultimate random selection key," Alex said then looked at her and saw the confusion. "This is genius, Cath!"

_This is nuts,_ Catherine thought.

"Is this something Nuryev posited?" Kirkland asked in admiration.

Grey nodded. "Almost a decade ago ... he was indeed a genius at causal analysis. But he had no idea how hard it would be to find an appropriate touchstone – one that could be trusted. It was a dilemma until Ms. Cruz entered the picture."

Alex's mind was reeling as he realized his father had probably withheld any number of potentially interesting theorems over the years. "This is unbelievable."

Elanore decided to ask something on behalf of several people in the room who had no idea what Grey had just tried to explain. "Will somebody please tell me what the hell y'all are talking about?"

Alex spoke first. "It's chaos theory. If we had some kind of committee or we all sat around and voted, the results of who-gets-what would be too predictable, too easily reverse-engineered. And that's not what you and my dad wanted, is it?" he finished as he turned to Grey.

Grey nodded and looked again at Catherine. "I'm sure the Professor can explain the math behind this in excruciating detail—"

Kirkland interrupted with two raised hands, "And it would be excruciating."

Grey chuckled before he resumed. "Indeed, but he already provided the basic summation – 'the butterfly effect'."

Kirkland noted the expectant looks on the faces around him. "Edward Lorenz is the one who gave us the phrase 'the butterfly effect'. It's a provocative way to look at predictability." He took a sip of his drink before continuing almost reverently. "Bear with me, but with recent unfortunate events in Texas in mind ... the actual title of his paper is, ' _Predictability: Does the Flap of a Butterfly's Wings in Brazil set off a Tornado in Texas?_ ' "

All of the Texans in the room winced at the reminder of what had recently taken place north of Austin and Kirkland continued, "As disturbing as that phrase sounds, Mrs. C., I believe what your husband had in mind was that a choice made by the right person would preclude being able to discern a pattern of choices among the known set of recipients."

Alex nodded. "No way to lead back to the party or parties making the choices."

Grey turned to Catherine and smiled broadly. "And what a beautiful butterfly!"

As a realization came to her, Elanore shook her head and asked almost incredulously, "You mean we'll never know ... we don't get to know where the pieces wind up?

"Nor how they got there," Terri answered, looking at Kirkland for confirmation.

Kirkland and Grey both nodded.

With rapidly growing understanding Marty glanced around at the group and noted, "Remember, you can't answer a question you don't know the answer to."

Ben sounded skeptical. "But eventually a story has to pop up somewhere."

"It would definitely change someone's life," Elanore added.

Grace was in full agreement. "It would be like winning the lottery."

" _If_ they told someone," Margaret advised.

Catherine had a look of alarm on her face as she held up her hand. "So ... you're actually suggesting _I'm_ supposed to choose where the pieces go ... who gets to have their life turned upside-down?"

"And without our influence, yes," Grey said turning and gesturing to the other people in the room. "However, I would seek out Barton's advice on what it might mean to the recipients in legal terms. You don't want to put them in some kind of jeopardy. Then again, perhaps given the time frames involved, it will likely be you, Martin. For the rest of us it will simply be an unknown ... until, as Mr. Yamaguchi so aptly noted, a story appears."

Catherine turned to Elanore and Alex. "You didn't know about this?"

The couple shook their heads then Margaret said, "Neither did I. Ceece never said a damn thing."

"And," Grey said with a finger raised in Kirkland's direction, "I believe it's safe to say having them delivered via Mr. Kirkland will introduce no risk of loss or exposure."

"It's part of what we do," Terri noted on behalf of their enterprise.

"Ah ... something important I forgot to mention," Grey began, "Anton and I ... we knew there had to be a way to pay for this – the loose diamonds, Professor. I sent half to Margaret and we kept the other half. Will you accept payment for your services from them over time?"

Kirkland looked at Terri and they nodded simultaneously. "They're far more fungible ... plus, it's quite reasonable for the Russians to assume those were the first things Olnikov would have disposed of."

Marty nodded as he said, "Which also means they'd never expect to recover them."

Kirkland took a sip of the Cognac then turned to Catherine with a devious look and said under his breath, "You know, I kind of like the idea of you telling me what to do ... where to—"

Catherine's hand gripped his forearm in a peremptory warning and she gritted her teeth to avoid smiling.

Grey looked at Marty and suggested, "You should spend some time with Barton in the very near future."

Catherine shook her head again in disbelief. "But ... how am I supposed to decide—?"

Margaret interrupted her with a 'don't you get it?' look as she said, "We don't want to know, Hon, I think that's the whole point."

"I think it's safe to say we trust you and Barton," Alex said.

Catherine sighed and shook her head again. "I can't just pick names out of the phone book."

Elanore challenged her friend almost indignantly, "Ahem ... excuse me ... who says they even have to have a phone?"

"El, in a few years half the world will have cell phones," Alex announced. "That's a pretty big group to start with."

Catherine thought for a few seconds then looked at Elanore smugly and chided, "Well, that takes you off the list."

"You don't have a mobile?" Grace asked Elanore in disbelief.

Before Elanore could answer Alex put up a hand. "Let's not get her started on that."

Ben pointed to his wife and said to Catherine, "Terri and I can get you connected to the Internet and build you a database to start with."

Alex added, "The technology will be way ahead of you ... you'll have anything you need."

Catherine didn't find great comfort in that. "It's just ... it's sort of overwhelming."

"You'll have plenty of time," Terri said looking at Kirkland for confirmation.

"I think you're right," he said then turned to Catherine and added reassuringly, "It's not going to all happen in months, more like over a period of years."

Ben looked at her and said, "And it should be irregularly."

"And we get to have visitors here more often," Grace said enthusiastically.

Margaret looked perplexed as she turned to Kirkland and asked, "But how will you explain this to the Russians?"

Kirkland didn't have to think very long. "We won't." When the expressions around him told him they weren't sure what he meant he continued. "They're anxious to see these kinds of legacy problems go away. Some of the items actually back their currency. So far no one has forced their hands – but Russia is in an economically tenuous position. The right parties are going to want to move very quietly whether they really believe our Olnikov myth or not."

"But will they go along with getting the General's plane out?" Marty asked.

While Kirkland was taking some time thinking Elanore interjected, "Without any more exigent circumstances?"

Kirkland smiled and seemed to ignore the question as he looked at Ben. "Do we even have sectional charts for that part of Russia?"

CHAPTER 42

Houston, Texas, Friday, October 24, 1997

Catherine Cruz's desk phone warbled and she glanced at it as she leaned over the large table covered with a designer's lighting plans for an upcoming exhibit. For a moment she thought of not answering then remembered she had let her cell phone battery run down and hadn't been able to beg, borrow or steal a recharge from anyone at the museum. Rather than letting the call go to voice mail she stepped over and lifted the handset. "Catherine Cruz."

The voice she heard made her heart start beating faster and she couldn't help sounding surprised. "Hey! ... Oh, I know, the battery died ... I know ... Where're you?" She brightened momentarily then her heart sank at the answer. "In Dallas? Why didn't you let me know?" she asked, unable to hide the disappointment. After listening to his answer she finally asked hopefully, "When?"

The 'when?' question had become a too-frequent and sometimes uncomfortable part of their communication. Although they had talked almost every day and spent a few days and nights together since the tumultuous events of early summer, their relationship seemed to have reached a plateau. Coupled with that, the slow pace of progress toward actually executing the plan for what had come to be known as the Iron Dog Trust was annoying for both of them. In addition to being complicated by Kirkland being tied up with contacts and extended negotiating with the Russians during the summer and early fall, their personal and business schedules could not get in sync.

Now, as Catherine heard his voice on the phone and realized they were less than two hours apart, the plans on her work table were instantly forgotten. She closed her eyes tightly in hope and held her breath while waiting for the answer to the 'when?' question.

An unexpected knock came from her open office door but instead of turning to see who might be there to interrupt this crucial moment she distractedly responded with a polite wave to come in. Suddenly her hearing became confused; there was an odd echo and she scowled. "Michael, can you call me back? There's something wrong with the phone ... Michael? Are you there?"

Something touched her arm and she jumped, nearly losing the phone handset as she twisted. When she saw who it was she dropped the phone and moved into his arms, unwilling and unable to hide the excitement that rose through her. She kissed him elatedly before he had another chance to say anything.

When their embrace relaxed Kirkland said, "I should sneak up on you like this more often."

Instead of agreeing with him she only kissed him again as if she could somehow prevent him from ever leaving. " _Un lobo inteligente, se le_ ," (a clever wolf, you are) she said almost breathlessly.

"I have some news ... I couldn't talk about it over the phone."

She looked up at him as a sense of worry crossed her face. "What? Is everything okay?"

"We're going to Florida."

The seeming impossibility of that statement made her say, "You're what?"

"Not just me ... _we_. Tonight ... as soon as you can get packed. And you won't have to go shopping."

Her mouth opened but she couldn't figure out what to say, finally managing a worried-sounding, "What's wrong?"

"Not a thing ... and let your folks know we're going to take them on a trip for a few days."

She shook her head slightly as if to clear it. "My folks?"

"All they have to do is show up at the airport at Fort Lauderdale tomorrow and we'll take them on the boat."

Catherine's mind was not keeping up. "Fort Lauderdale? What boat? Your parent's yacht?"

Kirkland nodded. "We pick them up there then we're off to Abaco."

Taking her parent's long-standing weekend routines into consideration she managed to say, "But they ... it's a little short notice." After only a few seconds she concluded her mother would move heaven and earth _and_ the moon to get her husband onto a yacht for a trip to the Caribbean.

Kirkland interrupted her thoughts. "Can you get away or do I have to call Alex and have you fired?"

She gave him a dubious smirk and looked at the array of things on the surfaces of her office. "Okay ... a, a, few days. I'll need to be back Wednesday ... I can take some stuff with me ... maybe Thursday at the latest."

He bent down and locked his eyes on hers. "You can do better than that – consider next week a vacation. The Astra's at Hobby – it'll be a nicer trip this time, believe me, there's plenty of water on board – and Courvoisier."

She smiled softly then turned away, pulled up the handset from the floor and called her mother. After a few minutes of discussion about what to get ready for and then faxing Kirkland's hand-drawn map of where to meet at the FBO in Fort Lauderdale the following morning, Catherine turned to him beaming. "You realize they've never even been on a yacht?"

"Trust me, they'll feel welcome. They'll have their own stateroom and Abaco is only a few hours out."

"No _exigent circumstances_ this time?" she asked teasingly.

Kirkland laughed slightly and told another white lie. "Never ... not on _Sì, è veloce._ "

Catherine thought for a second as she shifted mental gears and translated the Italian then had to ask to confirm her conclusion. "Yes, it's fast?"

"It's Dad's wise-ass way of answering the first question most people ask when they see it."

Catherine remembered him telling her a little about the yacht then thought about the reality of being yanked out of her work. "Let me call Matt," she began then paused. "Next week is the best week if there is a best week—"

"Matt already knows," he interrupted with a sly grin.

She shot him an accusing look. "You planned this, didn't you?"

Doing his best to look innocent he ignored the question. "And they have phones in Abaco ... I gave him my pager number just in case."

"And I can call and check voice mail with Shannon," she concluded then turned from him and started gathering things and putting them in her briefcase.

He decided to surprise her again. "Oh, I forgot," he said casually. "We've reached an agreement with the Russians. The Iron Dog Trust is officially in business."

Catherine froze and dropped the calculator she was about to pack as she turned quickly. "You did?" she gasped. "When?"

"Three days ago ... I was in Commoner's office with Marty all morning. We're going to get the General's plane before the hard winter sets in and you're going to start changing the world."

Catherine's mouth opened slightly as she began to comprehend what that sentence meant. As the excitement grew the moments of worry and the frustrations of not having him with her started evaporating from her memory.

The next thing Kirkland did seemed to paralyze her.

Kneeling down and holding her left hand, he took out an astounding diamond ring from somewhere and as he held it up and her eyes focused on the dazzling array of lights glinting from it he said, "And I want the butterfly to marry me."

CHAPTER 43

Kirkland Estate, Cove Neck, Long Island, New York, November 19, 1997

Catherine Cruz rested her cheek on her fist with a pained expression as she slumped in the arm chair, staring blankly at the papers on the small but ornate desk in front of her. The brilliant sunlight of the abnormally fair fall weather was something of a distraction and more than once she had considered taking a walk and avoiding the task.

Nearly a month after the almost fairy-tale celebratory trip aboard the Kirkland's yacht with her parents and future in-laws, the worrisome part of the dream had now come true; with the General's plane safely on the way out of Russia, the exchange of the first piece of the Kovpak treasure for its replica was going to take place within a matter of a few days and the reality of the task of her choosing the first recipient was finally setting in.

She was going to change the world for an infinitesimal percentage of its people—or perhaps an entire population—just by giving her fiancé a name and address. The person she chose was going to be subjected to at least an emotional roller-coaster ride. What might happen could be thrilling; then again it might even be dangerous. Whoever they were, life as they knew it would most certainly end.

She decided she didn't want to know the actual piece involved but she at least wanted a rough idea of the value. Despite it being a replica but made with real gems, Kirkland told her with the provenance that would accompany it any reputable appraisal firm would establish its legitimate value at nearly a quarter-million dollars.

This dream turned into reality also brought with it nightmares of self-doubt.

Would the people she chose take the opportunity to bring about something worthwhile? Would they blunder into some kind of mishap? Would they put other people—including their own loved ones—in jeopardy? Would they do nothing? If they didn't do anything would their heirs act after their passing? Would it wind up hidden in a drawer or show up almost immediately in a private collection somewhere? The thought that the rest of the world might never be able to see it was particularly painful.

Thoughts of seeing some person faint dead away on _Antiques Roadshow_ after the expert tells them their little item was actually worth hundreds of thousands of dollars had replayed over and over in her mind. Other, less satisfying thoughts involved the piece being stolen from someone's costume jewelry box and disappearing without ever having the kind of positive effect the plan could theoretically offer.

In those moments when she let worry drive her imagination she felt as if she might be starting a snowball rolling down a hill where it would accumulate into an enormously destructive and unstoppable threat to large numbers of people. At other moments she let hope and faith in humanity create a possible scenario where some philanthropic venture fed the hungry or cured the ill.

She almost giggled again over what Marty Calder had said during a discussion about some housewife being a recipient of such things: " _Lucy! You got some 'splainin' to do!_ " he had quipped in a surprisingly good imitation of Ricky Ricardo.

Now though, the concerns had to be set aside. The objective to keep the outcomes unpredictable was first in her mind. After starting by randomly pulling a hundred records of living persons from a huge computerized database Terri Yamaguchi set up for her in what now amounted to her office at the Kirkland estate, she had winnowed that list to twenty five by selecting every fourth one without even looking at the name – just the record number. That list of twenty-five she narrowed further based on nothing more than selecting the first ten that didn't share the same first letter of their last name. With that in hand she used the new lookup tool to prepare a list of full names, occupations, current known addresses and phone numbers.

Barton Commoner had access to other resources she could not legitimately get to and within a day of receiving her list he had eliminated one of the ten because of the possibility the property might simply be seized by taxing authorities in their home country of New Zealand – _even poor people can have tax problems_ , he had explained. Another one on the list was embroiled in a seemingly endless string of highly-suspect civil court cases in the U.S.; that's when she learned what the phrase, 'vexatious litigant' meant.

Now she had to deal with the fact that the reasons for her selection from among the remaining eight people should never be known to anyone – and not having someone to discuss it with was frustrating.

Once she made the choice, no matter how she arrived at it, Michael and Ben would deliver the replacement piece on a schedule and via a method known only to them and possibly Terri. It would, most likely, be done in conjunction with some other business trip to provide even more concealment.

This first time through the process she had almost mentally exhausted herself trying to imagine a rational, predictable outcome for each of the eight possible recipients on the list, mainly because she knew so little about them. There was a male nurse in California with a Hispanic surname; a retired judge in Canada; a U.S. Navy petty officer about to retire in Baltimore; a woman surgeon in France; a graduate student in biochemistry in Israel; an elderly book-store proprietor in Utah; a young housewife in Scotland and lastly a guitar instructor in Paraguay.

As she gazed at the papers she finally decided she would not play God with someone's existence. No matter how deserving or appealing one of the eight might seem to her, she concluded she would not be able to live with her conscience by making the choice using her mind or her heart. _I can't go through life second-guessing this_ , she thought as she sat forward in her chair.

Taking a pair of scissors from the drawer, she cut the printed page of names and addresses into eight equal-sized pieces and laid them face down on the table. She began shifting and stirring them around and after a few seconds of disorganization she arranged them in a column then a box, then without consciously realizing it she started trying to form a diamond with the top piece missing.

That's when the idea came to her. After nodding with confirmation about what she was planning to do, she arranged the pieces of paper in a column then left the study and went down the stairs, through the main foyer and the library into the seemingly ageless billiard room.

Surrounded by pictures of the Kirkland's equestrian experiences and the memorabilia they had acquired along the way, she went to the antique pool table and racked up a game without regard to the order of the fifteen balls in the rack. When she was satisfied with the placement she selected a twenty-ounce cue stick with a well-shaped end and carefully chalked it.

Thanks to her father and younger brother, Catherine Cruz was a respectable pool player – ' _for a girl_ ' her brother had always reminded her. When she was playing regularly at least four out of ten times she broke a rack a ball went in. But on this day, it took nine similarly random re-racks and powerful break shots before one of the first eight solid color balls finally dropped into a pocket.

"I can live with that," she said aloud, quite pleased with herself but especially relieved that the choice was finally made and even she wouldn't know who it was.

"Hey," Kirkland called from the doorway then walked toward her. "I thought I heard someone in here – I didn't know you played," he added, obviously pleased as well as surprised.

"I just needed to get away from it," she said then embraced and kissed him quickly. "What've you been up to out there?" She winced slightly and added, "You smell like ... like gas or something."

He gave her an almost comically stern look and as if warning her of dire consequences he said, "In case you hadn't noticed, Milady, winter will soon be upon us. We have acres of leaves and a recalcitrant tractor – I'm replacing the fuel pump. How are you getting along?"

"Better," she announced.

As they put away the balls and the cue she explained her random final selection process, including using the break shot. He took the lone purple ball from the corner pocket and tossed it a few inches and caught it, then his brow furrowed in thought and he strode into the library with Catherine trailing behind him. Opening an oak wall cabinet revealed a large, incongruously modern white board and he quickly began scribbling with a dry marker.

If she had been asked, her description of what she was looking at would have been mathematical gibberish; her college calculus experience had long-ago been forgotten.

He was biting his lip in concentration, pointing at things then erasing parts with the side of his hand and making comments to himself as he worked for at least another minute.

When he stood back and reexamined his result while talking very quietly to himself, Catherine smirked, "Please do _not_ try to explain that."

He seemingly ignored her comment. "You've introduced some highly unpredictable physical variables ... in some ways it's better than a lottery – it adds the personal skill input." He turned to her with a very pleased look on his face. "The only way you could possibly improve on it would be to use billiard balls and secretly number them – that would eliminate any possibility of your unwittingly putting the balls in the rack to give one of them a positional advantage."

After a few moments he nodded again. "I like it. It's an elegant solution ... that is, as long as you're not a hustler who can make the exact same break shot over and over," he added gravely with his eyebrows raised in suspicion.

She smiled at the questioning look and said smugly, "Believe it or not, I even ran a table a few times ... but I can't duplicate a break shot ... you can't finesse your way through it. Plus, there's always some slight shift in the rack."

He looked impressed and decided he would avoid the embarrassment of demonstrating his lack of skill by challenging her to a game. "Does this mean we have a recipient?"

She nodded then got up on tiptoe and whispered as if there might be someone else in the empty house, "I'll get it for you."

"Where do I have to take it?"

"Well, there are eight possibilities up there, face down on the desk," she began, "I don't know which one is in position four." She then began counting with her fingers. "But ... let's see, it's either California, Maryland, Utah ... ah ... Canada, Scotland, Israel, France or Paraguay."

"And you don't want to know, do you?"

Catherine shook her head. "Do butterflies want to know where their tornados hit?"

Kirkland grinned then began laughing and his reaction helped lift Catherine further out of her worrisome mood; she began to smile as they held each other.

"I'll go get it," she said as she let go.

"I'll come with you ... just so you don't peek," he teased.

She stopped in mid-stride and pulled him to a halt. "You really are okay with turning these things loose on unsuspecting strangers, aren't you?"

Kirkland tipped his head to one side, shrugged and then half-smiled. "I think I am."

"I still wonder if I really am," she said with some doubt. "I've never been one to take many chances."

He looked into her eyes and couldn't help wanting to comfort her. "The way I look at all of this ... it's all been a series of chances. Malcom Grey took a chance ... then Mrs. C. ... not to mention Alex and Elanore." When she seemed to be ready to accept that idea he added, "And you went to dinner with me."

"I even got in a plane with you," she reminded him.

He smiled brightly at the memory. "I can also tell you some chances people take can't be predicted or defined with theorems ... some people are just wonderfully mysterious things," he said conclusively.

A slight smile began to form and her eyes squinted with a knowing look that revealed where her heart was leading her thoughts. She pulled him to her and kissed him passionately and let her hands wander then backed off slightly and whispered, "Still want to work on the tractor?"

"What tractor?"

EPILOGUE

In the darkening chill of the late English fall afternoon, Alex Calder and Malcom Grey stood next to each other in heavy coats, looking almost like expectant fathers near the bottom of the Transall's ramp while Ben Yamaguchi supervised a team of movers working on freeing the first of several enormous crates from their tie-downs.

Inside those crates was what Grey had not seen in over fifty years; Calder had only seen a few of the recovery team's photographs that Marty had gone to great lengths to have sent via fax from Kuvandyk.

First to be brought out were the wings, braced and framed in heavy lumber but still clearly visible as they were rolled out onto the arms of a forklift that extended half-way across the plane's opening at an angle. Once they were in position, the operator gingerly lifted them then rotated and backed the machine with slow, steady precision, pivoting the load out and away from the Transall's tail then maneuvering and resting them on the ground some yards away.

The same process was used for the fuselage but with more attention to the positioning of the greater weight and mass being moved.

"It looks much worse than I remember," Grey noted worriedly as he examined the now-translucent, yellowed canopy. "Then again, over fifty winters ... it's remarkable."

"She's beautiful, just beautiful," Alex beamed, knowing how rare a thing they now had in their possession – no matter how ugly it might seem to some, he knew what the end result would be. To the dedicated fans of the warbird community the discovery and sudden reappearance would be one of the most talked-about stories of the decade. Not as dramatic as the 1992 adventure launched by Roy Shoffner to recover a P-38 Lightning from the ice-bound depths of a glacier and restore it to flying status, but a marvelous surprise, indeed.

"What do you think?" Yamaguchi asked as he walked over to the crates to join them. "Still six to twelve months?"

Alex nodded then crouched down to examine one of the wings more closely. "Maybe ... I think we'll have an engine in about three months and I've already found a prop ... believe it or not, the hardest thing is going to be tires."

"Tires?" Yamaguchi asked.

Alex nodded with a pained expression as he pointed at the crumbling, gray-black remains still surrounding one of the wheels. "The only other plane that used these was the Wildcat – and there's not many of them left either."

Yamaguchi turned to his equally-tired copilot, Marty Calder. "You look like you're ready to sleep about twenty-four hours."

Marty nodded wearily and grumbled, "I don't even know what day it is."

"They all seem to run together this time of year," Jeremy Rounds offered as he glanced upward. "But I'm damn well glad they're running together here rather than there," he mused.

The whole exploration and recovery expedition had been grueling and not just in terms of physical effort. If anything could go wrong in Russia, it had and it usually involved some kind of mechanical failure that required hours and even days to address and left the team waiting on people with seemingly no sense of urgency.

No less than three helicopters had to be hired; only the third one—after three days of repair work—proved reliable and powerful enough to get them and their gear to the site and recover the crates. During the initial search the other two machines experienced enough seemingly minor malfunctions that Rounds and Yamaguchi finally declared them unsafe and refused to let anyone on the team even get in them, let alone be taken to and from the site for the recovery.

One of the operators still demanded full payment for the additional days; it was, after all, the client's decision not to fly. The discussion escalated into an argument but the Russian official in charge of escorting the expedition had been determined to see it succeed and he vociferously backed the American's decision. When the pilot made the mistake of threatening Rounds he found himself laying on his back and staring into the sky, almost unable to breathe. Shortly thereafter, the Russian officer had ordered the crew to get out of the area before he had them arrested.

"And I've had all the winter I can stand." Marty noted then looked at Grey, put his hand on his father's shoulder and said, "The cold-tolerance genes didn't get through."

"It's your mom, not me," Alex challenged. "That's why she's at home instead of seeing this."

"Ah ... my apologies for the weather," Grey offered as they watched the fork-lift operator begin maneuvering to put the crates on a flatbed lorry for the half-kilometer trip to the entrance of the underground facility.

"This isn't too bad," Yamaguchi said pointing upward. "A couple days rest we can all make it home in plenty of time for Thanksgiving."

With the crates safely loaded and moving off, Grey couldn't conceal his mixture of emotions which ran the gamut from conflicted memories of his war experience to the sheer joy of seeing a plan come to fruition. "Amazing ... utterly amazing," he began then turned to Yamaguchi. "Professor Kirkland should be as pleased as I am."

As Yamaguchi nodded in agreement Marty noted, "I'll bet he is ... but he's got other things on his mind."

Yamaguchi added with a grin. "I called from customs at Heathrow ... Terri said he was out on the property with a guy working on a tractor he's been trying to fix on his own for a couple of days."

"Huh," Alex chuckled. "I never thought of the Professor as mechanically challenged."

Yamaguchi shook his head and sounded dead serious as he said, "A Ph.D. statistician and an old John Deere twenty-ten gasoline engine ... the outcome is unpredictable."

"And you're not there to fix it for him," Grey suggested knowingly.

Yamaguchi chuckled then said, "Oh no. I just know when the odds call for finding someone who's worked on old tractors."

"That wasn't what I meant," Marty pointed out, then when the men looked at him in confusion he added, "Dude's gettin' married in a few months."

A quiet chorus of knowing acknowledgements rose briefly then Alex said, "Ah, yes ... the Professor faces a whole new kind of exigent circumstances."

\- # -

"You see this?" Detective Ron Short asked as he tossed a fax onto his partner's desk.

"See what?" Sergeant Adolpho Gutierrez asked without turning around and looking at the page – knowing that reading something sometimes meant you had to admit you were aware of it and thus be somehow responsible for doing something about it.

"That warehouse shit-storm with the Russians ... the chop suey case?"

Gutierrez scowled in thought for a few seconds then rolled back his chair and turned to look up at his partner. "Pretty hard to forget."

"Look at that."

"What if I don't want to?" the Sergeant said warily.

Short closed his eyes and shook his head briefly. "Okay ... don't read it," he said then looked out over the cubicles. At his height he could easily tell if anyone was seated within earshot but he leaned down before continuing in a whisper, "The dead Russians ... the FBI found out they were tied into an American in Virginia ... an ex postal inspector. Turns out he was a big-time skip tracer."

"What's he got to say?"

The big detective huffed a small chuckle. "Get this, they found him in his own damn freezer."

"No shit?"

"Found him a few weeks ago. Been dead three or four months at least."

Gutierrez grimaced in mock despair. "And we need to know this, why?"

"They dug around and found out he hired a guy here in Houston."

"Who? For what?"

"Not sure on the what yet but the guy worked for Alex Calder—"

"For Calder? Here?"

Short nodded. "Well, he worked for Calder's company ... in security at the headquarters. Dennis Boland ring a bell?"

After a few seconds the name registered. "That sounds like one of ours."

Short gave him a quick grin and pointed his finger at his partner. "Bingo."

"No shit?"

"The FBI says this guy," Short began then paused to read some of the page, "Bailey ... Nelson Bailey ... he paid Boland for something last year ... and then, he took out more than twenty grand in cash and flew to Austin the day after Memorial Day, stayed in a motel then went home the next day – just a few days after Boland showed up for work for the last time."

Gutierrez grimaced and squinted up at his partner. Little bits and pieces of memories began to tie together; something in his professionally-inquisitive psyche was now awakening. "Boland? We closed it though—"

Short nodded. "Yep ... his parents' van turned up in Galveston."

"Yea, his apartment was pretty much cleaned out ... it looked like he moved ... he had IRS trouble, didn't he?"

"That's what Treasury said." As he rattled the fax Short added, "And now he's back on top of our list."

"He's their suspect?" Gutierrez asked skeptically. "He didn't exactly fit the killer ninja profile." The silliness of the idea made Gutierrez's grin as he reached out and took the page and began reading. Halfway through the second paragraph he stopped and looked up again at his partner. "Cell phone traffic between all three of them."

"All around the holiday ... and now two of the three are dead."

"He might be too," Gutierrez noted wryly as he tapped the page.

The detective shook his head resignedly. "We probably know more about him than anybody else. The boss wants us to brief the chop-suey task force ... zero-eight hundred tomorrow over at the Federal Building."

"Maybe he _didn't_ get out of the country."

"Grab everything we've got and let's go over it in the conference room."

"No freezer left unopened," Gutierrez suggested grimly.

\- # -

Margaret Calder stared out the drizzle-mottled window of her son's Jaguar as Elanore Calder drove cautiously in the unusually heavy traffic of I-45. Her thoughts didn't really dwell on the dismal weather or the wasted time being part of the gridlock; there were better things, more positive things to try and put mental energy into.

"What the hell?" Elanore whispered in quiet frustration as she braked yet again and crept closer to the almost stopped vehicle in front of her.

The remark didn't elicit a comment from her mother-in-law. Margaret's mood had not improved much even after the superb lunch at their favorite white-linen restaurant – one the men of their family disdained as way-too girly.

Instead of their typical conversation, the only sound in the car was the intermittent sweep-clump of the windshield wipers.

"This isn't rush hour ... Jesus," Elanore complained, then turned on the radio and pushed one of the buttons she knew would be her husband's favorite news-talk station. Within a few minutes, still crawling and stopping, crawling and stopping, the every-ten minute traffic report they heard had no good news; in fact, it had no news – not even a mention of this giant parking lot.

"Shit," she whispered. "That's ridiculous ... they can't even ..." her voice trailed off and she looked around to see if there was an opening on either side. The low-slung car was a disadvantage in these situations and her frustration at being surrounded by other vehicles didn't help her own mood.

Margaret's final break from the long silence seemed utterly incongruous. "Should we take a smoked turkey?"

Elanore glanced quickly to see her mother-in-law still staring into some space outside the car and nearly asked her to repeat the question. Then the reminder that Thanksgiving was next week and they would be traveling to Long Island for it brought her in line with what might be going through the woman's mind. "You know, that's probably a good idea," she suggested warmly. "You want one from Dean's or should we let Al do one?"

Margaret's thoughts shifted away from the dreary weather and the worrisome news her cardiac specialist had so thoroughly and professionally gone over with them that morning. "Oh, I don't know ... no ... does Dana have time? I like her way of brining it first."

Elanore was grateful to see the change in demeanor and especially the subject. Only minutes ago, no amount of supportive talk over lunch had seemed to lift Margaret's spirits.

The idea of having a pacemaker implanted was an alarmingly big deal to the woman who had been in such perfect health in the years leading up to the sudden "funny feeling" experience; a condition she quickly self-diagnosed with her own stethoscope as atrial fibrillation. That had been quickly confirmed by a doctor friend she had worked for and she had immediately begun a pharmaceutical regimen with the primary goal of avoiding a dreaded stroke.

The annoyance of taking a capsule every twelve hours and another blood-thinner pill every day had only been topped by having to do a blood test every week or so to make sure her blood wasn't getting too thin. Then, when things seemed to be going well, yet another episode resulted in a hospital visit and a night in the ICU, coupled with a battery of further tests and finally a series of dosage adjustments.

Finally, she had had enough. She was too old for one of the new ablation procedures so the simplest, safest answer was a pacemaker implant. All of the years of being a nurse didn't actually make her any less concerned and strangely enough, the specialists, knowing her medical background, seemed to treat her as if she were a colleague who shouldn't have any concerns rather than a patient who had never even been operated on. Her seemingly tough demeanor also did nothing to give them a sense she needed hand-holding and reassurance.

Now, despite the opportunity to return to the Kirkland estate for a Thanksgiving celebration, what preyed on her conscious mind was having to come back to Houston and being put under the knife in time to be fully back up-to-speed by Christmas. The thoughts of smoked turkey and what else they might take to the holiday meal began to focus as her daughter-in-law answered her question about their chef.

"She said something about doing one for her family ... there's room for three."

"Let's do two smaller ones," Margaret suggested. "Twice as many legs."

"Good idea."

After another moment Margaret asked, "Mesquite or hickory?"

"How about applewood?"

"Ahhh, now that sounds more like something the yanks would appreciate ... can we get applewood?"

Elanore smiled slightly then caught a quick glance at some flashing red and blue lights ahead to her right. "Ahh," she growled. "It's an accident," she added then glanced around and turned on her left signal.

Margaret seemed to pay no attention as her mind moved on to more interesting subjects. "Has Cath said anything to you about a date?"

The question was a bit of a surprise – not just because of the topical switch but because if Elanore had somehow known she wouldn't have been able to keep such a secret from Mrs. C. for more than a few seconds. "Not to me," she said. Her voice quickly became suspicious – exaggeratedly so. "Okay ... what ... what've you heard? She tell you?"

Margaret grinned and tipped her head coyly. "Well, no ... _she_ didn't—"

Elanore's eyes widened in a mixture of irritation and excitement. "Michael?" she asked.

"The first week of May."

"Where?" Elanore asked immediately. "In New York?"

"Some island in the Bahamas."

The look of surprise on Elanore's face faded quickly. "We should have expected that." Her practical sense drove the next question. "Can we fly there?"

"I assume so."

When Margaret added nothing further Elanore decided to try and pry more information out of her. "So who's coming?"

"Two hundred and fifty-something."

"Two hundred and fifty?" Elanore gasped. "On an Island?"

"It's a hotel ... just the one hotel. That's all there is on the island. We go, stay the night, they have the wedding the next day, they leave on that yacht, we go home ... or we stay."

Elanore tried to shake off the feeling of being left out as all kinds of questions circulated in her mind; she had thought she was somehow supposed to be in charge of planning this upcoming event but here she was, trapped in a rainy traffic snarl in Texas while her best friend was in New York making wedding plans without her. Worse, she was keeping them from her while her fiancé was sharing all the details with Mrs. C.

"He says they're going to bring us up to speed next week at dinner," Margaret offered casually after sensing Elanore's reaction. "But the island's already booked ... one of Michael's clients owns it."

Elanore concentrated, albeit briefly, on getting over into the left lane, then gave up and slumped in the seat with the turn signal clicking and blinking. "Two hundred people—"

"And fifty-something," Margaret corrected.

Feeling glum and somewhat petulant Elanore couldn't help commenting, "I hope we're invited."

Margaret actually giggled. "You're the Matron of Honor."

"It would be nice if she had told _me_ that," Elanore complained without any real vigor.

"He's really serious about keeping it confidential," Margaret noted firmly. "Ben's apparently putting together a small army—"

"He what?" Elanore interrupted with a genuine note of concern.

"There's some high muckety-muck folks coming. There's some member of some royal family and a movie producer I can't remember the name of."

Elanore tried to process what all of that might mean as someone behind her in the left lane flashed their lights and let her change lanes. "Oh ... I guess that makes sense."

"And Alexsandr."

That piece of news actually brightened Elanore's mood immediately. "Really ... they're letting him leave the country?"

"As long as that Rounds fellow goes along."

At that moment they began creeping past the emergency equipment surrounding the snarled, battered vehicles taking up the two right lanes and with nothing more to gawk at, traffic began spreading out and accelerating.

Elanore sighed. "Well at least someone in this family knows what's going on."

"I'd be in deep shit if he knew I told you—"

"I promise, I won't say anything."

"Terri's new motto is 'no exigent circumstances in May'."

"Just in May?" Elanore asked worriedly. "What about the rest of the year?"

\- # -

Vasily Lebedev watched his older brother's face closely as he examined the large color pictures that were arrayed on the glass-topped table of the yacht's main dining salon. There was a visible change that seemed to well-up from some dark recess; it wasn't simple anger nor was it boiling rage, but it was visceral and definitely unpleasant. Anyone who had experienced it and still lived only did so because they were of greater value to him alive.

The man in some of the pictures didn't know it but Arkady Lebedev had, at least in his own mind, condemned Professor Michael Kirkland to death – not immediately, of course; only after the scrutiny from certain un-manageable intelligence authorities in Moscow could be diverted or extinguished. Then the Professor would not only lead them to the Kovpak treasure, he would pay for his interference.

The most surprising aspect of the collection of images was the dichotomy of a supposed Professor with substantial wealth. From the dossier Nelson Bailey had supplied they knew the man had airplanes at his disposal and now, from the photographs of the Long Island property and the airport he frequented they had concluded this "professor" was that in title only.

The question of whether it was the right man had been easily answered by Vasily. He had, after all, attempted and failed to capture him when he had the chance; he would never again underestimate their new nemesis.

The older brother shook his head and tapped a heavy finger on one of the pictures. "This woman—"

"Her name is Cruz."

There was a note of disgust in the next question. "This is the one Silayev took?"

Vasily nodded. "In Houston."

"You are certain?"

"If we believe what Golikov told you."

Arkady blew out his breath through clenched teeth as he picked up another picture that clearly showed a very beautiful woman being escorted down the stairs of a small business jet by the Professor. His lips squirmed against his teeth noisily then he asked, "She is a guest at the home?"

Vasily nodded again.

"He is protecting her?"

Without a hint of a smile the younger brother noted, "They are engaged."

Without raising his head, Arkady's eyes rolled up and locked on Vasily's. "Ahhhh," he began in realization. "This explains much."

"It does. He has more to protect than just Grey and the Kovpak treasure."

A grim sort of smile began to form as Arkady squinted in thought and his voice came out in a whisper. "He has much more to lose."

Vasily took the opportunity to introduce a note of caution into his brother's stream of thought. "I shouldn't have to remind you ... he and one other man defeated a force of trained combatants. If it weren't for Leonov I would be a prisoner in a British jail."

Arkady nodded grimly, recalling how the only other survivor of the mission had found his injured brother and managed to retreat to the river where they stole the Grey's runabout and escaped up-river.

Vasily watched his brother's eyes carefully then added, "And I don't believe he would let me live a second time."

The older brother took a deep breath and sighed then wrung his hands briefly. The fact that the mission had nearly cost the freedom or life of his brother gnawed at him and whether he would admit it or not, he shared a significant amount of responsibility for the situation. He had acted rashly but his ego also would not let him dwell on that fact. Instead, he opted for a more calculating path. "We now know what our enemy is capable of ... and we will wait ... we will study ... we will not take the kinds of chances we took before."

Vasily looked at his older brother and realized the man was becoming more astute about dealing with situations that were beyond his circle of Russian experience. The rest of the world didn't function the way the new Russia did; there were nuances he was beginning to recognize. There were also men who should not be underestimated and they had slammed up against one with nearly disastrous results; he nodded slowly in agreement and put the picture back in place on the table. With a slight grunt he rose to his feet then stretched and sighed before saying, "We're in a new world, Vasily ... there is still a place for the butcher and cleaver, but there is also a need for a surgeon and scalpel."

###

