He reached down and grabbed the knapsack he'd brought from the dacha. Inside were three bundles of 5,000 ruble notes, bound with rubber bands. He tossed them on the walnut-topped table that sat between them. "Ten million rubles."

The rep hadn't flinched. "You are indeed a confident man to walk around with that much money."

He decided to make things clear. "I am a man you do not want to cross."

The rep reclined in the seat and threw back a confident stare, adding a humorless smile. "We deal with dangerous men all the time. This jet cost three hundred billion rubles. It can go anywhere on the globe. Dangerous men, like yourself, appreciate tools such as this."

"And I've shown my appreciation by paying you more than the trip is worth."

"That you have. So, to those special services you require. We will file a flight plan for New York City. That route will take us directly over Prince Edward Island. How do you plan to get to the ground?"

He'd considered several possibilities. No visa or forged documents meant no simple debarkation. A fake emergency could allow the jet to make an unscheduled landing, from which he could slip away. But that came with a multitude of risks. Currently, no one knew he was heading west and he wanted to keep it that way, so he'd decided on the one way that would work.

"I plan to jump."

A low laugh seeped from the rep's mouth. "I gathered as much. You are indeed a dangerous man. Jumping from a jet, at high altitude, at night?"

But he'd done it before, several times. His spetsnaz training had included high-risk parachuting. In Afghanistan he'd twice jumped at night into territory far more dangerous than Canada.

"We'll need to drop altitude, once there," he said. "I'm assuming that an appropriate reason can be manufactured."

The rep canted forward in the chair and swept his hands above the money. "For all this generosity, I believe we can do that. You will inform the pilots as to when you want to jump?"

He pointed to the computer terminal at another of the tables, a desk area designed as an in-flight office. "I'll find a location on there. I'll also need charts. Does your company have them for the location?"

"We have them for every spot on the globe."

The rep raked the rubles from the table and stuffed the bundles into his coat pockets.

He could not resist. "I'd be careful carrying so much money around."

"I assure you, I have men just as dangerous as you waiting for me outside." The rep stood. "It was a pleasure doing business with you. Enjoy your flight."

No names had ever passed between them. Unnecessary. The flight plan would reveal only the presence of the two pilots, the plane headed to New York to pick up a client. No one else would be noted as on board. That had been another condition of his charter.

"The parachute you specified is aft," the rep said. "In a marked compartment, along with night-vision goggles."

He'd requested both, pleased these people knew how to satisfy their customers. Unlike the old days, today nearly anything and everything could be procured by anyone.

"The pilots will not disturb you. They have their own forward compartment for rest. They have been told to ask no questions, just follow your instructions. I'm sure you know how to give them."

The rep left.

Though clearly more self-indulgent than Zorin liked, the man seemed good at what he did.

Which he appreciated.

This trip had drained nearly all his cash. He had only a few thousand rubles and some American dollars left in the knapsack. But that was okay. He could acquire anything else he might need along the way. His spetsnaz training had also taught him about survival. He could only hope that a remnant of the old days had likewise survived, waiting for him somewhere in North America.

But all that depended on finding Jamie Kelly.

The pilots climbed aboard.

One informed him that they would be airborne in less than fifteen minutes.

He checked his watch.

49 hours remained.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

Malone had listened on the ride back in the chopper as Cassiopeia explained about Stephanie Nelle's call and her trip east from France. She seemed like her old self, no longer lost, the sharp tongue gone, her eyes brimming with a familiar glint of mischief. Everyone had assumed the worst once contact with him had been lost. Moscow had specifically allowed her to come and investigate, and he was as perplexed by that as he was by his own presence. But he kept his misgivings to himself, realizing they were communicating across an open comm line.

Gloves had been provided to him on the chopper, which he'd quickly accepted. Cassiopeia watched him carefully. Obviously, time had added a different perspective on things, enough that she'd come to his rescue. She was a dynamic woman, of that he was sure, but she was not invincible, as Utah had proved. Over the past two years they'd each seen the other at their most vulnerable, neither judging, both only helping. He felt comfortable with her, or as comfortable as a man who had trouble expressing emotion could be with another person. He certainly never felt that way toward his ex-wife. Pam had been tough, too, only in different ways. The major difference between the two women was the amount of slack Cassiopeia cut him. Far more than Pam ever allowed. Perhaps because he and Cassiopeia were so much alike, and the fact that he always returned the favor.

The chopper touched down back at the base and they rushed into a gray, granite building surrounded by a high fence. Waiting for them was a uniformed officer who identified himself as the base commander.

"I am to inform you that we are glad you survived the ordeal," he said to them both. "We appreciate the assistance you have offered, but we no longer require your involvement. This matter will be handled internally from here on."

"Has my boss been told this?" Malone asked.

"That I do not know. I was instructed by my superiors to have you flown immediately west to wherever you instruct."

"And what if we don't want to go?" he asked.

"There is no choice. I have two fighters fueled and ready. Flight suits are waiting in the next room."

He motioned toward a doorway.

Things certainly had changed.

He debated telling this man what he knew about missing Russian nukes and a former Soviet spy now living in Canada, and the fact that Aleksandr Zorin may be headed that way. Then there were those supposed military men at the dacha who'd killed Vadim Belchenko.

Something told him these people knew all about that.

So he stayed quiet.

Malone felt the g-forces as the Sukhoi/HAL fighter shot into the night sky. He missed that feeling and wished he still could fly one of these things on a regular basis. Being a fighter pilot was supposed to have been his career, but naval friends of his late father had other ideas and he ended up in law school, then the Judge Advocate General's Corps. He'd worked hard and made a name for himself, then moved to Justice and the Magellan Billet. Now he was a bookseller, or a freelancer, or something else, he really wasn't sure what.

He realized Cassiopeia would not be happy in the rear seat of the second fighter that took off right behind him. She hated high places, especially ones capable of flying at over Mach 2. The Russians had certainly been in a hurry to see them gone, and gone they were, headed toward Europe.

"Can you hear me over there?" he asked into his mike.

"I hear you," Cassiopeia said.

"Everything good?"

"What do you think?"

"Take a nap. I'll wake you when we get close."

They'd decided to be flown to the French air base near Cassiopeia's estate. From there he would contact Stephanie. He'd wanted to do that before leaving Siberia but no one would allow him to make a call, and they sure as hell weren't going to allow him to use their communications line from the air. So any debriefing would have to wait a few hours.

Chatter between the pilots and the ground filled his ears. Of course, he could not understand a word. But Cassiopeia could.

"They found your friend," she said.

In Danish. Smart girl. She was intuitive enough to keep their conversation between them. Hopefully, there was no one on the line fluent. And he knew who she meant. Zorin.

"He's on a private charter jet nearby, headed west. The pilots have been told to intercept."

The fighter veered south.

The avionic controls before him flickered with activity. Everything was labeled in Cyrillic, and though he could pretty much tell what most of the instruments were, many of the switches remained a mystery. The aircraft was a two-seater with a duplicate set of controls forward and aft, each occupant ensconced within his own cocoon. They were still headed up, into that high space between earth and orbit. Familiar territory. Above him, slews of stars slid across the Plexiglas canopy.

The jet lurched forward and started to roll.

The other fighter joined up in formation at just under twenty thousand feet. Small traceries of ice glazed the edges of his canopy. He checked the oxygen flow, watching the pressure, the breathable air outside now just scattered molecules. Neither of the two pilots liked to talk much between themselves. He'd flown with sphinxes and motormouths, not sure which he preferred. Little to nothing had been said between these two for the past few minutes, only static crashes and the hiss of an empty channel filling his ears.

He tried to organize his thoughts.

Were there portable nuclear devices still hidden out there after twenty-plus years? Any that Zorin might possibly find? Belchenko definitely thought so. And why had those military men come to the dacha? To kill Belchenko? And possibly even Zorin? Unfortunately, the old archivist had not lived long enough to tell him much about Zorin's plan.

Just "fool's mate" and "zero amendment."

Whatever they meant.

Condensation inside the face mask wet his cheeks. A taste of metal lingered in his mouth, as did the hot plastic waft of electronics in his nose. Apparently, the onboard airflow wasn't the cleanest.

With Belchenko dead, now only Zorin could lead him. The former KGB officer seemed bitter and cynical. But was he bitter enough to do something on a grand scale with a nuclear device? True, there might be a man in Canada, Jamie Kelly, who could offer answers. But that could have been more lies. He was unsure just how much truth he'd seen over the past few hours. So the smart play was to stick with Zorin.

Conversation came through his headphones.

"The target is Zorin's ahead," Cassiopeia reported, staying with Danish. "But he's close to the Mongolian border. They want the plane taken down before he crosses."

The other fighter slid beneath them and dropped off a mile or so to port. He scanned the instrument panel, looking for a way to shift flight control to the rear cockpit. But he could not decide on the right switch. The jet shuddered as the nose dumped downward. He knew what was happening. The pilot was preparing to attack.

He watched the LCD display as the onboard systems searched. They were flying nearly due south and losing altitude, finally leveling off around ten thousand feet. He searched the sky, hard with stars, and saw the other fighter with Cassiopeia now about two miles off the port wing. He scanned south, his pupils dilated to their fullest, and caught twin pinpricks of light winking on and off, marking the outer edges of another aircraft. The specks grew larger as they drew closer.

Zorin's plane.

More talk filled his ears.

Numbers flashed on the LCD, then locked on the panel. He didn't need to read Cyrillic to know that the onboard radar had acquired a target. Before they'd left the ground he'd counted six hard points on the underbelly, none of which held air-to-air missiles. But the jet did carry two 30mm cannons.

"They're waiting on orders from the ground," Cassiopeia said in his ear.

He could just let this happen and be done with it. That would certainly end things. But something Zorin said back in the basement kept rattling through his mind. About when the USSR fell. "No one gave a damn. We were left on our own, to wallow in failure. So we owe America. And I think it is time we repay that debt."

We?

Was Zorin the only threat?

Or would killing him just empower the next guy?

Both jets flattened their approach and eased closer, centering the target for a quick kill with the cannons, which should draw little attention from snoopy radars. The outline of the aircraft ahead signaled Learjet or Gulfstream. Enough well-placed thirty-millimeter rounds would easily take it down. He decided to do something. But there was one problem. He had to disrupt both fighters simultaneously.

"Scan the instruments in front of you," he said into his mike, keeping to Danish. "Is there one marked override? Control override. Something like that."

"At the top right. It says REAR CONTROL."

He spotted the switch, protected by a red guard. Doubtful that anyone here knew he could fly a high-performance jet, so he flicked open the plastic shield and decided, What the hell, go for it.

The instant the switch engaged the stick in front of him bucked alive. The pilot immediately realized the problem, but he gave the man no time to react. He rammed the stick forward, then banked hard for the other fighter. They plunged across the sky and dropped altitude, his body thrust against the seat straps. Vibrations and a jarring series of snaps accompanied the sharp roll. The other fighter thundered past them, just below, the wake from the afterburners causing enough turbulence that the other pilot had no choice but to veer away.

Both planes were now in a retreating fall.

Neither one of them could take a shot.

He assumed Cassiopeia was not happy, since she was now hurtling through the sky in a series of steep twists and turns while her pilot regained control. Malone pulled his jet up in a steep climb, the engine sucking turbocharged air, climbing like an elevator, clawing for altitude. It would be only another moment or so before his host retook the controls. He arced over the top in perfect loop and started back down toward the other jet. He scanned the instruments and saw that the radar lock was gone. Lots of angry talk between the pilots filled his ears, and no knowledge of a foreign language was required to understand its gist.

These men were pissed.

He relaxed on the stick and allowed his body to resettle into the seat. Off the starboard side the other jet eased up, wingtip-to-wingtip. The tautness in his body relaxed. The flight controls were stripped back to the forward pilot.

Zorin's plane was gone.

"I assume that was necessary," Cassiopeia asked. "I came close to dumping my guts."

"I enjoyed it," he told her.

"You would."

"I couldn't allow them to shoot."

"And I suppose you'll explain all of that later?"

"Every detail."

He heard more chatter between the pilots and the ground. He imagined there might be an even more physical discussion on the matter once they landed, which was fine.

"They're not happy," she said.