VIRGINIA.

2:40 A.M.

Luke Daniels loved a fight, but what Tennessee country boy didn't. He'd enjoyed many in high school, especially ones over a girl, then relished them even more during his six years as an Army Ranger. For the past year he'd had his share as a Magellan Billet agent, but sadly those days were over. He'd already received his marching orders, reassigned to the Defense Intelligence Agency, his first day on the job coming Monday, one day after the new president assumed office.

Until then, he was officially on leave.

Yet here he was, in the wee hours of the morning, following another car.

His uncle, the current president of the United States, had personally asked for his assistance. Normally he and his uncle did not see eye-to-eye but, of late, they'd both been trying harder on that relationship. Truth be told, he was glad to help. He loved the Magellan Billet and he liked Stephanie Nelle. She was being dished a raw deal by a bunch of politicians who thought they knew better. Uncle Danny was on his way out to pasture, his political career over. Yet there seemed one more problem, one more something that had captured both the president's and Stephanie's attention.

Characteristically, not much had been explained in the way of why he was following the car. His target was a Russian national named Anya Petrova, a curvy blonde with a fine-featured, almond-shaped face and a pair of high cheekbones. Her legs were long and muscled, like a dancer, her movements poised and calculated. Her favorite ensemble seemed to be tight Levi's tucked into knee-high boots. No makeup either, lending her a slight air of severity, which might have been intentional. She was quite impressive and he wished they'd met under different circumstances. Watching her the past two days had not been all that unpleasant.

She seemed to like Cracker Barrel, visiting twice today, once for lunch, and the other for dinner a few hours ago. After eating she'd hung out in a Virginia motel west of DC, just off Interstate 66. Uncle Danny had provided all the pertinent information. She was thirty-four, the lover of Aleksandr Zorin, an aging former KGB officer now living in southern Siberia. Apparently no one had paid Zorin much mind until a week ago. Then something spooked both the Russians and Uncle Danny, enough that Luke had been dispatched as a hound dog and Cotton Malone sent overseas as point man.

"Just don't get made," the president said to him. "Stay with her. Wherever she goes. Can you handle that?"

Their relationship was testy at best, but he had to admit his uncle did know how to run things. The country would miss him, as Luke would miss his former job. He wasn't looking forward to the Defense Intelligence Agency. After graduating high school, avoiding college, and enlisting in the army, he'd finally found a home at the Billet.

Unfortunately, that was now gone.

He was a mile behind his target, providing a wide berth since there were few cars on the interstate, the winter night clear and calm. Half an hour ago he'd been watching the motel when Anya, carrying an ax, suddenly emerged and left, driving west into Virginia. They were now near Manassas and she was signaling for an exit. He followed suit, coming to the ramp's end after she turned south on a two-laned, rural highway. He'd have to allow a greater gap to open between them here as there were nowhere near the distractions an interstate highway offered.

Where was she headed in the middle of the friggin' night?

With an ax?

He thought about calling Uncle Danny and waking him up. He'd been provided with a direct phone number and ordered to report anything immediately, but all they'd done so far was take a ride out in the country.

Anya, half a mile ahead, turned again.

No cars were coming in either direction, the landscape pitch-black for as far as he could see, so he doused his headlights and approached the point where the car had veered from the highway.

He was behind the wheel of his pride and joy. A 1967 silver Mustang, a gift to himself while still in the army. He kept it tucked away inside a garage adjacent to his DC apartment, one of the few possessions he truly cherished. He liked to drive it during the downtime Stephanie Nelle required all Magellan Billet agents to take every four weeks. He paid nearly $25,000 for it from a guy desperate for cash, a bargain considering what the open market charged. It had come in mint condition with a four-speed manual transmission and a souped-up 320hp V-8. Not the best on fuel, but this thing had been built to enjoy when gas was twenty-five cents a gallon.

He saw a driveway, framed on either side by heavy stone pillars, capped with a wrought-iron archway. An iron gate hung askew, the path beyond paved and leading into dark trees. No way he could drive in, since he had no idea how far the path extended or what awaited. The better tack was to use his feet, so he turned onto the drive, passed through the entrance, and parked off into the trees never switching on his headlights. He slipped from the Mustang and quietly closed the door. The night was cold but not bone chilling. The mid-Atlantic states had been enjoying a uncharacteristically mild winter, the heavy snows of recent years bypassing them so far. He wore thick cord trousers and a sweater, along with an insulated jacket and gloves, his Magellan Billetissued Beretta tucked into a shoulder holster. He didn't have a flashlight, but he did carry a cell phone that could do in a pinch. He made sure the phone, though, was on silent.

He trotted ahead.

The run was only a couple hundred yards, leading to the black hulk of a rambling two-story house with wings, annexes, and outbuildings. To his left stretched a grassy field stiff under a dusting of frost. Movement caught his attention and he followed the shape of an owl winging out over the field. He remembered those all too clearly from his days growing up in rural Tennessee. Stars sharp as needles dotted a black velvet sky, only a quarter moon animating the heavens. He spotted a car parked in front of the house, a flashlight beam near the front door. He wondered who lived here as there'd been no name, mailbox, or anything identifying the address.

He kept to the trees and snaked a path clear of the snatching brambles. Cold worked its way toward his skin, but the burst of exertion and rising levels of anticipation caused him to sweat. He counted over thirty 16-paned windows along the front facade. No lights burned anywhere. He heard a rap, like metal on metal, then a splinter of wood. He settled against a tree and peered around its trunk, seeing the flashlight beam fifty yards away disappearing into the house. He wondered about the lack of finesse on entering and, as he came closer, realized the house was derelict and abandoned. Its outside had a Victorian look, most of its clapboard still intact, the walls splotchy with mold and scoured by weather. A few of the ground-floor windows were sheathed in plywood, the ones along the upper floor all exposed. Weeds and brush littered its base, as if no one had offered the place much attention in a long time.

He'd sure love to know who owned it. And why was a Russian national paying it a visit in the middle of the night? Only one way to find out, so he stepped from the copse at the edge of the drive and approached the front doorway, where thick paneled doors had been forced open.

He found his Beretta and gripped the weapon, then entered, careful with his steps. He stood inside a spacious foyer, a rug still covering the floor. A few pieces of furniture remained. A staircase wound upward and open doorways led into adjacent rooms where window treatments hung. Paint had peeled, plaster crumbled, the wallpaper pregnant in too many spots to count, the elements slowly reclaiming what was once theirs.

A hallway stretched ahead.

He listened, feeling as though he were standing in a tomb.

Then a sound.

Banging.

From across the ground floor.

Spears of light appeared in the hallway fifty feet ahead.

He crept forward, using the commotion from the far room as cover for his steps. Anya Petrova seemed unconcerned about attracting attention. She most likely assumed that there was nobody around for miles. And normally she'd be right.

He came to the open doorway where the light leaked out into the hall. Carefully, he peered around the jamb and saw what was once a large paneled study, one wall floor-to-ceiling with bookcases, the empty shelves collapsed and lying askew. He caught a glimpse of the ceiling overhead. Coffered with plastered decorations. No furniture. Anya seemed focused on the far wall, where she was gouging a hole in the wood paneling. And not subtly, either. She clearly knew how to use the ax. Her flashlight lay on the floor, splashing enough illumination for her to judge the progress.

His assignment was to watch, not engage.

"Don't get made."

She kept pounding, hacking away chucks of wood until a hole appeared. He noticed that the wall was an interior one, the space being opened up beyond it hollow. She used her right boot to splinter more wood, completing her incision and inspecting the area past the opening with her flashlight.

She laid the ax down.

Then she disappeared through the gash.

CHAPTER FOUR.

GIVORS, FRANCE.

8:50 A.M.

Cassiopeia Vitt realized too late that something wasn't right. Two days ago her quarrymen had bored a series of holes into the limestone, not with modern drills and concrete bits, but the way it had been done 800 years ago. A long, metal, star-shaped chisel, the bit as thick as a man's thumb, had been pounded into the rock, then turned and pounded again, the process repeated over and over until a neat tunnel penetrated several inches deep. The holes had been spaced a full hand apart, ten meters across the entire cliff face. No rulers had been used. As in olden times a long rope with knots had served that purpose. Each cavity had then been filled with water, capped, and allowed to freeze. If it had been summer they would have been packed with wet wood or split with metal wedges. Thankfully, the temperature had plummeted enough that Mother Nature could offer a helping hand.

The quarry sat three kilometers from her French estate. For nearly a decade she'd been hard at work trying to build a castle using only tools, materials, and techniques available in the 13th century. The site she'd purchased had first been occupied by the only canonized king of France, Louis IX. It contained not only the castle ruins but also a 16th-century chteau that she'd remodeled into her home. She'd named the property Royal Champagne, after one of Louis XV's cavalry regiments.

A mason tower was once the symbol of a nobleman's power, and the castle that stood at Givors had been designed as a military fortress with curtain walls, a moat, corner posts, and a large keep. Razed nearly three hundred years ago, its resurrection had become her life's mission. And just as in medieval times, the surrounding environs still provided an abundance of water, stone, earth, sand, and wood-everything needed for construction. Quarrymen, hewers, masons, carpenters, blacksmiths, and potters, all on her payroll, labored six days a week, living and dressing exactly as they would have eight centuries ago. The site was open to the public and admission fees helped defray costs, but most of the work had been funded from her own extensive resources, with a current estimate of another twenty years needed to complete.

The quarrymen examined the holes, the water inside frozen solid, expansion cracks radiating outward signaling all was ready. The cliff face towered many meters, the rock face bare with few cracks, crevices, or protrusions. Months ago they'd extracted all of the usable material at or near ground level, now they were twenty meters up, atop scaffolding built of wood and rope. Three men with mallets began pounding chase masses. The impact tools looked like hammers, but one side was forged into two sharp edges joined by a concave curve. That side was nestled to the rock, then struck with a hammer to expose a seam. By moving the chase masse along that seam, striking over and over, shock waves pulsated through the rock causing splits along natural fissures. A tedious process, for sure, but it worked.

She stood and watched as the men kept maneuvering the chase masses, metal-to-metal clashing in an almost lyrical beat. A series of long cracks indicated that enough fissures had fractured.

"It's about to break," one of the quarrymen warned.

Which was the signal for the others to stop.

They all stood silent and studied the cliff face that rose another twenty meters above them. Tests had shown that this gray-white stone came loaded with magnesium, which made it extra-hard, perfect for building. Below them a horse-drawn cart stuffed with hay waited to take the man-sized chucks-those one person could lift on his own-straight back to the construction site. The hay acted as natural padding to minimize chipping. Larger pieces would be hewn here, then transported. This was ground zero for her entire endeavor.

She watched as the cracks increased in length and frequency, gravity now their ally. Finally, a slab the size of a Mercedes broke free and dropped from the rock face, crashing to the ground below. The men seemed pleased with their effort. So was she. Many stone blocks could be extracted from that prize. A gaping indentation remained in the cliff, their first excavation at this level. They'd now move left and right and drop more of the limestone before raising the scaffolding higher. She liked to watch her people at work, all of them dressed as men would have been long ago, the only exception being that the coats and gloves were modern. As were hard hats and safety goggles, accommodations her insurer had insisted upon and that history would have to forgive.

"Good job, everyone," the foreman said.

And she nodded her agreement.

The men started shimmying down the wood supports. She lingered a moment and admired the quarry. Most of the workers had been with her for years. She paid good wages, year-round, and included room and board. French universities provided a steady supply of interns, all anxious to be part of such an innovative project. During the summer she employed seasonal help but here, in the dead of winter, only the hardcores kept at it. She'd reserved today to be at the construction site, starting with this extraction. Three of the four curtain walls were nearly complete and the stone just acquired would go a long way toward finishing the fourth.

She heard a crack.

Followed by another.

Not unusual since they'd affected the cliff's integrity.

She turned back toward the rock face. Another series of snaps and pops from above drew her attention.

"Get everybody away," she screamed to the workers below. "Now. Go."

She waved her arms signaling for them to flee the scaffolding. She wasn't sure what was happening, but caution seemed the right course. The breaks came louder and quicker, like rounds from a distant automatic weapon, a sound she knew all too well. She needed to go and turned for the far side of the platform where it was easier to climb down. But a limestone chuck split from the cliff face and crashed into the top-level planks. The wooden scaffolding pulsated beneath her feet. There was nothing for her to hold on to and balancing was tricky, so she dropped to the cold wood and clung to the edges until the rocking subsided. The tower holding her aloft seemed to have survived the assault, its rope bindings able to give and take. Voices from below asked if she was all right.

She came to her knees and glanced over the side. "I'm okay."

She stood and shook off the dirt and dust.

"We're going to need to examine the scaffolding," she yelled down. "That was a hard hit."

A new pop drew her attention.

She glanced up and knew what was happening. Rock from above where they'd just extracted was freeing itself along a sedimentary layer, gravity now becoming their enemy and exploiting every weak point. For all its seeming invincibility stone could be as finicky as wood.

Two cracking explosions shook the rock wall.

Dust and scree rained down from overhead and fouled the air. Another boulder-sized piece fell and just missed the scaffolding. She could not flee ahead, as that would lead her directly into the problem. So she turned and rushed toward the other end of the platform. Behind her, more limestone found the planks and obliterated part of the supports.

She saw that all of the workers had fled out of harm's way.

Only she remained.

Another huge piece slammed into the exposed wooden beams. In an instant she'd have nothing to stand on. She glanced down and spotted the hay cart, still in place, ten meters below. The pile looked sufficient but there was no way to know for sure.

Unfortunately, she had no choice.

She leaped out, headfirst, and flipped over midair so that her spine led the way. If she'd calculated correctly the hay should be right beneath her. She heard the wooden tower collapse from the rocky onslaught. She closed her eyes and waited. A second later she found the hay, which cushioned her impact and brought her to an abrupt stop. She opened her eyes, lying faceup, and listened to the crescendo of rock and wood finding the ground.

She stood and surveyed the destruction.

Clouds of dust rolled skyward.

Her employees rushed over and asked if she was hurt. She shook her head and made sure again that all of them were all right.

"Looks like we have a mess to clean up," she said.

She rolled out of the cart, her nerves rattled, but accidents happen, especially on a project of this magnitude. Thankfully, to date, none of the on-site injuries had been substantial.

She held a degree in medieval architecture from l'ecole pratique des hautes etudes in Paris, her master's thesis on Pierre de Montreuil, the 13th-century proponent of Gothic style. She'd taken nearly a year to design her castle and hoped to be around when it was finished. She was not yet forty, so age wasn't the problem. It was the risks she sometimes took, and not just the ones that came from falling rock. Through the years she'd been involved with some scary stuff. She'd worked with foreign governments, intelligence agencies, even presidents, never allowing the inevitability of a routine to capture her. But if you stayed around people with guns long enough, eventually something bad happened. So far, though, she'd been lucky.

Like today.

The workers headed for the rubble.

Her cell phone vibrated in her coat pocket.

Over the past couple of weeks she'd been working more closely with her family corporation, headquartered in Barcelona. Her mother and father had bequeathed the company to her as their sole heir and she was its only shareholder, its assets totaling in the billions and stretching across six continents. Usually business was one of her least favorite tasks, the day-to-day operations left to competent officers, but work of late had taken her mind off other things. She assumed this was another call from the chief executive officer. They'd already talked once today.

But the alert had been for a text.

She tapped the icon and saw the sender.

STEPHANIE NELLE.

Her spine stiffened, as this the last, or at least next-to-last person she wanted to hear from.

She read the message.

Cotton's in trouble and I wouldn't be telling you this if it wasn't bad.

CHAPTER FIVE.

LAKE BAIKAL, RUSSIA.

Malone shut his eyes in a bid to clear his mind. He had one shot to survive, so he held on to the yoke and kept the nose straight into the headwind, intentionally trying to stall. The guy who'd turned the plane over to him had bragged that the An-2 was capable of flying backward in a thirty-knot headwind. Pilots had even managed to maneuver themselves to the ground like a parachute. He'd wondered about such a boast, but was about to find out if it was true.

The plane bucked in the turbulence and he yanked the control column full aft, keeping the wings level, which wasn't easy considering that a respectable part of the two left ones was gone. The engine remained dead, instruments not working, the cockpit turning cold from the lack of a heater, his exhales evident in gray fogs. Luckily, he was dressed properly. Thermals close to the skin, windproof on the outside, insulation in between, all Russian army issue. Gloves protected his hands, boots his feet, and a fur-lined hood part of his fiber-pile coat.

He felt airspeed diminish, the plane being held aloft by the headwind. Two loud snaps drew his attention. Stress on the wings had buckled the leading edge slats. He began to lose altitude and not at a steady rate, more a steep drop. He worked the control surfaces and managed to regain some stability, the plane leveling but still falling. He stole a quick glance out the windows and saw the blue ice and sugared surface of the lake approaching. The plane rocked right, then left, but he was able to counter the motion and keep the fuselage pointing into the wind. Sunlight blared back in reflection from the windows. A buffeting blast of icy air blew straight at him, the stiff wind acting like his engine and providing lift, the plane heading down backward against the gusts. He had no idea where or what he would hit and realized the landing would be anything but smooth, so he quickly made sure his harness was tight and braced himself.

He found the ground, tail-first, the landing skis smacking, then recoiling, strong surface winds assaulting the An-2. A rasp of steel edges on the crusted ice told him he was no longer airborne. Pain from the sharp impact shot through his head, short-circuiting his brain in a starburst of sparks that exploded before his eyes. He tasted blood on his tongue. Nothing he could do but hope the slide ended soon. The plane's weight finally allowed it to settle on the surface, skidding backward then spinning like an amusement park ride. Thank goodness there was plenty of room.

He juddered to a stop.

Nothing but the pulsating blood in his ears and the puff of his exhales broke the silence.