"We have to clear away some of the wood."

Malone and Cassiopeia studied the rental car, parked in the center of a narrow lane between rows of bare trees. The GPS monitor had led them straight here. Neither of them spoke, knowing that their quarry was nearby. Ahead, maybe a quarter mile away, he saw the sporadic streaks of flashlights.

He recalled reading about KGB weapons caches in the Mitrokhin archives, published back in the 1990s, and the booby traps. To date, the SVR had never once publicly acknowledged that the caches existed, much less offered any assistance in their removal. All of the ones he'd ever heard about had contained only communications equipment. So he could only imagine what safety precautions had been taken to safeguard five RA-115s. Kelly and Zorin were leading the way, so he assumed they knew what they were doing. That meant he and Cassiopeia had to allow them time to neutralize the site.

He noticed something in the car's backseat.

A blue nylon duffel bag.

He eased open the rear door and unzipped the bag. Inside lay a sledgehammer, hasp lock, and bolt cutters. The agents back at the McDonald's had mentioned that all three had been bought at Target, along with a few other items, including a shovel, which was nowhere in sight.

He closed the door softly and pointed ahead.

They moved deeper into the darkness.

Zorin tossed aside another of the split logs slippery with lichens. "Did you cut this wood?"

"Every piece. I may be getting old, but I'm still in good shape. As are you, Aleksandr."

They'd removed a section of the stacked wood near the center of the long row, exposing hard dirt beneath. Kelly found the shovel and began a careful excavation, seemingly knowing exactly where to dig. His strikes with the blade were almost surgical, as he worked the tip only a few centimeters into the ground, forming a circle about a meter in diameter.

"Close the door," Kelly said to him.

He stepped over and eased the two panels shut.

The only light came from their two flashlights pointed toward the circle. With the shovel, Kelly carefully loosened the packed dirt within the outline. Then he laid the shovel aside.

"This has to be done carefully."

He watched as Kelly knelt and began to remove the dirt, which, thanks to the cold, came away in clumps. Dark metal became visible. More dirt was freed to reveal a hatch.

"No lock?" he asked.

Kelly glanced up at him. "I didn't see the need. If this is not opened properly, six kilotons of nuclear explosives will ignite."

His spine stiffened at the danger.

Kelly surveyed the hatch. "It seems okay. Nothing has disturbed it. Could you hand me the shovel?"

He did, and Kelly stayed on his knees, using it to loosen a path half a meter away from the portal. Kelly tossed the shovel aside and reached for one of the flashlights, clearing away more dirt until he found a small plastic box. He brushed it clear, blowing away the last remnants of dirt from its domelike shape. Kelly then reached to one side of the box and twisted, freeing the lid, which opened on a hinge. Inside were three sets of wires, each separately connected with a colored twist connector.

Red. Yellow. Black.

"You have to disconnect the right one," Kelley said, "or it explodes. Disconnect all three and it also explodes."

Clever, he had to admit.

Kelly untwisted the red nut. "I change the color each time, just to be safe. Red was this year's."

Kelly separated the exposed copper wires, angling them far apart. He then reached back and opened the hatch, the metal hinges offering only minor resistance. Below was a ladder built into one side that stretched down three meters.

"Go ahead," Kelly said. "There's a light switch at the bottom."

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN.

Luke drove as fast as conditions allowed, heading west on I-66 past DC into Virginia with Sue and her father in tow. Lawrence Begyn had told him about another hiding place within the Charon mansion, one Begyn assumed Brad Charon might have used to secrete the Tallmadge journal.

"I saw the place one time," Begyn had told him. "Back when Brad and I were still okay with each other."

"So you have no way of knowing if the journal is there?"

"Brad was a creature of habit. Once he started something, he kept to it. It's reasonable to assume he'd keep that journal safe, hidden, and nearby."

So it was worth a look.

"There's something I don't get," he said to Begyn. "If Charon was a big mouth and breached your archives with two strangers, why was he allowed to keep the journal?"

"Brad was a strange man in many ways. Keeping that journal was maybe his way of showing us that he really could keep a secret. That he could be trusted. We decided not to press the issue. And we never heard about it again, which is why we thought this to be long over."

His watch read nearly 11:00 P.M. He should call Stephanie. She'd tried him earlier and left a message, but there was nothing to report so he decided to play this out a little while longer. The night had not turned completely nasty yet, the wind, cold, and snow unaccompanied so far by ice, which was a good thing. The interstate remained a wet blacktop, snowflakes dissolving atop its surface. He sensed he might be on to something. But he was flying blind with no backup. Just himself. Which he liked. But he did have Sue, who sat in the rear seat, her father's hunting rifle cradled in her folded arms. Begyn had, at first, not wanted her to come, but relented when she pointed out that she'd already killed three men and that the decision wasn't his to make. He was glad to have her along.

He found the exit and turned left again on the same two-laned road where he and Petrova had squared off. A few miles later he passed beneath the wrought-iron entrance and sped through the woods to Charon's house.

They stepped out into the night.

Begyn had brought two flashlights and led the way inside. "I haven't been here in a long time. What a wreck this place has become. It was once a grand house."

"It's what happens when people can't get along," Luke noted.

"Can I see the archive you found first?" Begyn asked.

He didn't want to take the time, but decided a quick peek couldn't hurt. The flashlight beam he held pointed the way and they entered the study, stepping though the gash in the wall. Petrova's ax still lay on the floor where she'd tossed it. Sue stayed outside in the hall, keeping watch with the rifle.

He and Begyn surveyed the secret room.

"Amazing stuff," Begyn said. "We need to get it out of this cold."

"My boss said she'd get it for you. You can take that to the bank."

Begyn studied the book beneath the glass cover. "This is a rare volume, worth about $25,000. I know several society members who would pay that and more."

Which mattered not to him. "Finished?"

His tone conveyed that they needed to move on, so they fled the study. The older man took the lead up the stairs to the second floor, where a long corridor ended at a set of paneled doors. Luke dragged in deep breaths of the freezing air and steadied his nerves, following the two Begyns into a master bedroom.

"I read that the other end of the house is the one that burned," Begyn said.

The master suite was intact with all the furniture still there, the bed even made with a spread, but everything reeked of mold and mildew, dank as a ditch.

"In there," Begyn said, motioning to a half-open door.

"You two go," Sue said. "I'll keep watch."

He wondered about her taut nerves. "Somethin' wrong?"

"I don't like this place."

Neither did he particularly, but nothing so far had generated any pause. "Any details you'd like to share?"

"It just feels wrong."

He decided to respect her instincts so he indicated that they should hurry up. He and Begyn entered a closet larger than his apartment's bedroom. Nothing hung on the bare rods, the windowless room devoid of everything except the empty racks, wooden cabinets, and shelves.

"It was there," Begyn said, pointing at the last cabinet, a mahogany rectangle that accommodated a four-foot-wide rod for clothes and shelving above. It sat at the end of a row on the long wall, the cabinets from the short wall nestling tight to it at a right angle.

"We had a party here one night," Begyn said. "Brad being Brad, was showing off. He brought a few of us up here and grabbed this rod, which then was hung with dress shirts." Begyn handed him the flashlight and gripped the bare metal. "He twisted it this way."

They heard a click and the cabinet shifted right, revealing that the corner with the other cabinet was mere illusion. Begyn slid the whole thing farther right, exposing a dark chasm behind.

"I bet Charon liked Harry Potter," Luke said.

Begyn chuckled. "I'm sure he did. He loved mysteries. He was a bit of an actor, too. He always played Bob Cratchit in the society's production of A Christmas Carol. Quite good at it."

He shone the light into the darkness, which dissolved to reveal a small space, about three feet square. The only thing inside was a black, four-drawer filing cabinet. A lock could be seen in the upper-right corner. He hoped it would not be an impediment and was pleased when the top drawer slid open.

"What's the point of locking it," Begyn said, "when it's hidden away."

He agreed, thankful that Charon was not overly obsessive-compulsive. Inside the top drawer were papers, mostly bank records, financial statements, and stock purchases. The second drawer was full of files for real estate, lots of deeds and surveys.

"Brad was quite wealthy," Begyn said. "Worth maybe $20 to $30 million."

"And his kids and the widow couldn't figure out a way to divide it up?"

"Apparently not."

The third drawer was empty, but the bottom one contained the jackpot.

An oversized leather-bound volume.

Begyn lifted it out and opened to the first page. Luke shone the flashlight and they both read the handwritten paragraph.

A true account of any and all activities of the Society of Cincinnati as performed for the government of the United States, and the governments of the several states, during the last and great war with Britain lasting from June 8, 1812, to February 17, 1815, meant to record and memorialize those events so that a full understanding of their many intents and purposes shall be clear to all those who might question. Let it be said that every member of this society is a true and loyal patriot and our only desire was to serve our country with honor and distinction.

Benjamin Tallmadge August 8, 1817 "This is it," Begyn said.

A scrap of paper extended from the top of the journal, marking a page. He decided to start the examination there and gestured for Begyn to open to that point, about halfway through.

On the evening of August 24, 1814, a shameful thing occurred, one I am sad to say I lived long enough to witness. Within the capital city cannon fire had roared for most of the day and when the explosions stopped the local residents' feelings were left in fearful fluctuation, fondly hoping that their countrymen had prevailed, then awfully fearing that all was lost. They soon discovered that the dust beginning to rise above the forests in thick clouds, rapidly advancing, came from British forces. Sadly, American soldiers fled the capital. The cry "ruffians are at hand" could be heard from men on horseback as they rode away. The remaining militia dropped their guns and ran like frightened sheep in every direction except toward the enemy. And though they exclaimed that they had taken a good fight to the British and expended all of their ammunition, those who stole a look at their cartridge boxes noticed that not a single round had been used.

Inside the Executive Mansion Dolley Madison awaited the return of her husband, President James Madison, who had left two days earlier to visit the front. He was due back by nightfall and a meal had been prepared for both him and his contingent. But the sight of the British entering the city changed those plans. It was suggested to Mrs. Madison that a trail of gunpowder be laid to explode if the British tried to enter the Executive Mansion, but she refused to allow it to be done. When told to leave, she hesitated until certain things were readied for transport, many of them national treasures. One was a grand painting of George Washington that she urged others to save. A great fear existed that Mrs. Madison might be trapped inside the mansion with no means of escape. Eventually, she left the city by wagon just ahead of the advancing British forces, which claimed the city after dusk.

They first entered the Capitol building and George Cockburn, the British commander, mounted the speaker's chair and put the mock question, "Shall this harbor of Yankee democracy be burned? All for it will say Aye." His troops cried their approval so he declared the motion carried unanimously. Chairs, furniture, books, maps, and papers were piled high and set aflame. Soon the entire building burned. The fire raged so hot that marble columns turned to lime and collapsed. Fire burst from the windows and alighted houses to the leeward, some of which contained congressional records stored there for supposed safekeeping. The Capitol eventually became wrapped in a winding sheet of flame that destroyed the building.

Luke wondered about why this passage had been flagged. "We all know we got our butts kicked in the War of 1812."

"That we did. Tallmadge lived through it. This is an important firsthand account of things."

And it was damn important to Anya Petrova- Four pops echoed through the house.

The sound unmistakable.

Gunfire.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT.

Zorin swung open the heavy metal door he found at the bottom of the ladder. The air that greeted him from inside was surprisingly warm, but musty. He flicked a switch and fluorescent bulbs illuminated a closed, windowless space, cylindrical in shape, that stretched ten meters and about half that wide. Metal shelves lined one side and held supplies of drinking water, canned food, blankets, clothing, tools, wire, and weapons, along with both small arms and rifles and spare ammunition. He also recognized portable radio units, standard KGB issue that he'd once deployed at locations himself. Everything was stacked neatly and in order, a sparkling tidiness about the place, one that denoted a devoted caretaker.

Kelly completed his descent and entered the shelter.

He noticed that a layer of heavy plastic sheathed the interior walls. He pointed toward it and asked, "Moisture control?"

"This shelter was built with concrete and waterproofed, but I thought some additional protection was in order."

Then he saw them, lying on a metal table opposite the supply shelves. Five small suitcases, each lid nearly closed, a wire leading out of the partially shut lid to a trunk line that snaked a path toward the far end, then up and out.

"A vent back there allowed air to circulate. I sealed it off, but it was the perfect place to feed power. The electricity charges the units and gives off just enough heat to keep the air inside warm."

He was impressed. A lot of thought had gone into this.

He stepped toward the RA-115s and hinged open the lid of the first one. The case was lightweight aluminum. Not a speck of decay tarnished the exterior. Inside were three canisters joined in a cylinder about half a meter long. It lay diagonally with a battery above and a switch below, wires leading from the switch to the battery to a small transmitter, then to the cylinder. He recalled his training. Activate the switch and the battery triggered a small explosion that shot a uranium pellet forward where it collided with more uranium and sparked a chain reaction, causing a blast the equivalent of 5,000 tons of TNT.

He checked the other four.