"How is that possible? As you say, it's located inside the estate. That would be stealing."

"Only if you get caught," Luke said. "But I don't think anyone is going to mind. It's been sitting there a long time. It can be our little secret."

"I'm afraid that's not how we operate here. Not at all."

The obvious strain in Strobl's voice might be explained by the fact that someone from the Justice Department had appeared on a Friday morning unannounced, flashing a badge and asking questions.

Then again, maybe not.

"On second thought," Strobl suddenly said. "Perhaps you have a point. That library could be important. Mr. Charon financed the acquisition of many of the books and papers you see here around you. He was himself an avid collector. He would want us to have whatever he may have amassed."

Interesting, the change in tone.

More confident. Less anxious. Even suggestive.

Strobl reached for a pad and pen lying atop one of the tables. "Tell me the location again."

She did and he wrote as she spoke.

"Is this correct?" he asked, handing her the pad.

She read.

Russian woman in second-floor security office, just past the serving pantry, with a gun. She saw you coming. Told me to be rid of you or she would kill the man who works up there.

She nodded and handed the pad back. "That's right. It's an old house out in the woods. I'd head out there right away. The winter weather will not be kind to those old books."

"We'll do just that."

She thanked him for his time and she and Luke left the library, exiting into a windowless camera-free corridor that led to the stairs.

"Anya Petrova is here," she said. "On the second floor, in the security office just past the serving pantry. When we get to ground level we'll split up. She's going to know you're coming. Cameras are everywhere."

"Not a problem. I owe her one."

She got the message. He'd make no mistakes this time.

They climbed back up and reentered the stylish gallery. The same attendant who earlier had been stationed behind a desk in the entrance foyer was still there. Stephanie turned right and headed straight for her. Luke hustled for the stairway at the other end of the gallery.

The attendant stood and called out, "I'm sorry, you can't go-"

Stephanie calmly peeled back her coat for the woman to see her holstered Beretta.

Shock swept across her face.

Stephanie kept walking and brought her right index finger up to her lips.

Signaling quiet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Malone needed to report back to Stephanie Nelle. This was much bigger than he'd been led to believe, much bigger than perhaps even Stephanie realized, since when she'd called to hire him she'd openly admitted that she knew only that the Russians had asked for American help in finding Belchenko, and that he might run into Zorin. Unfortunately, he had no cell phone, and three men with automatic rifles now blocked any exit from the dacha.

Belchenko appeared unfazed by what was happening outside. "That's a Kozlik. Means 'Goat.' A nickname for the vehicle. It's military only. These men have surely come on orders from the Kremlin. They are after me."

"Any idea why?"

"I assume the government decided my usefulness has waned. You need to leave. This does not concern you. I'll deal with it. There's a rear door down that hall. Go find Jamie Kelly in Canada."

"You never mentioned exactly where."

"Charlottetown. Prince Edward Island. He's still employed part-time at the local college."

"Let's both of us go find him," he said.

But Belchenko ignored the offer, yanking open the exterior door and opening fire with the assault rifle.

Retorts banged through the house.

He doubted the old man's vision was near as good as he wanted people to think, and with forty or so rounds a minute spitting out the barrel it would not be long before the clip emptied.

And it did.

Malone lunged, wrapping his arms around the man, propelling them both away from the doorway just as incoming fire arrived. They slammed into the wood floor and he took the brunt of it.

"Are you friggin' nuts?" he yelled.

A hail of slugs thudded into the walls. The exterior stone facade provided some protection, but not the windows, which began to explode as they were pummeled by shots from the outside. Wooden splinters and flying glass crashed through the room. He stayed down and waited for an opportunity.

"I took one of them out," Belchenko said.

Darkness had enveloped outside, nightfall coming early in the Siberian winter. Which should help with their escape. The problem was getting out of the dacha without being shot.

The firing outside stopped.

He knew what was happening.

Reload time.

Which would not take long, so he used the moment to bring Belchenko to his feet and they rushed toward a corridor leading deeper into the house, crouching down but moving fast.

One of the men burst in through the kitchen doorway.

Malone whirled and fired.

A hole formed on the man's face as the bullet pierced the brain. He'd learned long ago to shoot, if possible, for the head or the legs. Too much body armor around these days. And though he'd retired from active service and was no longer required to stay proficient, he remained an excellent shot. The man dropped to the floor, the body wrenching in convulsions. He decided the rifle that clattered away could be useful so he quickly retrieved the AK-47 and noted it held a fresh clip.

Oh, yes. This would definitely come in handy.

He stepped back to the hall expecting to find Belchenko waiting for him, but the wiry old man was nowhere in sight. Only a few lights burned across the dacha's ground floor, the exterior windows all dark mattes from the night. He slid the Beretta inside its holster beneath his coat and aimed the rifle straight ahead, nestling the weapon snug to his right shoulder. The corridor stretched twenty feet, ending at another room at the far end.

The house echoed with emptiness.

He concentrated on his heartbeat and willed it to slow. How many times had he faced situations just like this?

Too many to count.

Frigid air invaded from the open exterior door and blown-out windows, his exhales now forming puffy clouds. He'd retired from the Magellan Billet to avoid these exact risks, resigning his commission as a naval commander, quitting the Justice Department, selling his house, and moving to Copenhagen, opening an old bookshop. Twenty years in the navy and ten years as a Billet agent over. The idea had been a total change in lifestyle. Unfortunately, his former world found him and he'd been embroiled in enough controversies since retirement that he finally decided that he ought to at least get paid for his trouble. The task here had been a simple meet and greet, then leave. Instead, he'd stumbled into an international hornet's nest, and now angry bees were swarming in every direction.

He kept moving down the hall, floorboards creaking under his weight, a badly worn carpet runner doing a poor job of muffling his steps. Thoughts of Gary swirled through his mind. His son was growing up fast, nearly out of high school, beginning to decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. There'd been talk of the navy, following in his father's and grandfather's footsteps. His ex-wife wasn't exactly keen on the idea, but they'd privately agreed to allow the boy to make up his own mind. Life was hard enough without parents forcing choices.

Then there was Cassiopeia.

He wondered where she was, what she was doing. He'd found himself thinking of her more and more of late. Their romance seemed over, his last attempt at contact drawing a curt reply.

LEAVE ME ALONE.

So he had.

But he missed her.

Hard not to-considering that he loved her.

The corridor ended.

He pressed his back to the wall and balanced on the balls of his feet. He steadied his breathing, keeping the lungs' rhythm separate from his legs. That trick had saved his hide more than once. Then he tucked his elbows and cocked his forearms, applying light tension to the wrist, fingers closed around the rifle and trigger, but nothing clenched.

He carefully peered around the jamb.

The space beyond was some sort of great room with a high vaulted ceiling and another fireplace where black, smoky logs had died to smoldering embers. A wall of dark windows faced the lake. One light burned on a far table casting a jaundiced glow. Long fingers of deep shadows clutched at every corner. The pine furnishings were austere and included a sofa and chairs facing the windows. Normally, this would be a cocoon of comfort from the cold. Tonight it seemed a trap. A closed door stood on the farthest side, Belchenko standing beside it.

"Is that the way out?" he asked.

Belchenko nodded. "I was waiting for you."

The old Russian stood partially in shadow, the rest of the room nearly dark. A tense glare signaled trouble. Something wasn't right.

Then it clicked.

Belchenko no longer held the rifle.

"Where's your weapon?" he asked, remaining behind the doorway.

"No need for it anymore."

The words came low and slow. The cat had gotten Chatty Cathy's tongue. Or maybe- "Let's go out the other way," he said to Belchenko.

"That's not possible-"

Gunfire erupted from inside the great room, the noise bellowing in the high ceiling. Malone shifted his weight forward and dove, his body stretched outward, and landed on the wood floor, momentum gliding him across in front of the sofa, near the exterior windows. He kept the rifle steady and caught a blur of movement in the half darkness as a form emerged from the shadows. He pulled the trigger and sent a volley of rounds that way. The form recoiled and bucked against the wall, then shuddered and twitched before sliding down into a patch of shadow, losing all shape and identity. He scrambled for a heavy wooden table, uprighting it before him as cover.

He listened.

No sounds, other than a low howl from the wind outside. Three men had been on the truck. Three were now down. He slowly came to his feet, keeping the rifle aimed, finger heavy on the trigger.

He heard a grunt and cry of pain from the far side and rushed over.

Belchenko lay on the floor.

He spotted a black mass of multiple bullet wounds. Blood poured out each one in ever-widening circles. Apparently, the first shots had been aimed the old man's way.

He bent down. "Was he waiting for you?"

"Sadly," Belchenko managed. "And I so ... wanted to get out of here."

But he wondered about that observation, considering the shooting with the rifle and the risk taken with the warning. "That's not possible."

The alarm from Belchenko's face must have mirrored his own. Pain took hold and the older man winced, screwing up his eyes in agony.

"It appears I'm no longer ... useful to them," the older man said. "They seem to have figured things out ... without my help."

The wounds were bad.

"There's nothing I can do," he said.

"I know. Go. Let me die in peace."

Belchenko gazed at him dully, lips parted, breaths coming in short, uneven gasps, coughing and grunting like a wounded animal. Flaccid eruptions of blood spewed from his mouth. Not good. The lungs had been pierced.

"I lied ... earlier. I know Zorin's plan."

Pink froth bubbled at the corner of the mouth, the body trembling in pain.

"We spent decades ... looking for weaknesses. America ... did the same to us. We found one. Fool's ... Mate. But never had the chance ... to use it. The ... zero amendment. It's your ... weakness."

Belchenko tried to speak again, a croaking, gargling sound, like speech, but inarticulate. A flock of spittle appeared on his lips, his eyes bulging. What he had to say seemed important. But the words didn't come. They remained trapped forever between the tongue and teeth as the eyes dilated with death and every muscle went limp.

He checked for a pulse. None.

In repose, the face looked surprisingly old.

"Fool's Mate"? "Zero amendment"?