It didn't help that this particular American spy was understanding, good looking, sympathetic. She kept thinking about the strange current she'd felt when she touched him. It wasn't like the kind of shock you got from static electricity, it was something more powerful. She couldn't get his face out of her mind.

  There was something in his eyes that had touched her. Something real. She pictured him wrapping his arms around her, holding her. Sudden heat flooded her groin. Damn it, how could she be attracted to him? Why couldn't he have been patronizing and dismissive, like most of the Russian men she knew? Then it would have been easy to back out of what she'd started. But she didn't want to break the connection with him.

  It was too late to back out. She was committed.

  She looked through her office window at the orderly chaos of her command. There was always movement on the floor. People in their cubicles, focused on their monitors, talking on the phone, moving about. They were like family to her. She felt responsible for them. She worried about them. It made her angry that the generals in the Kremlin would put them at risk because they wanted more power. She had never been a religious person, but it was like something out of the Book of Revelation.

  War. The Red Horseman.

  She thought of the day Grigori told her he'd been picked for Special Forces. He'd handed her a cloth patch that showed an eagle flying past mountains in the background. The number "22" was sewn in red at the bottom.

  "What's this?"

  "My new unit patch. The 22nd Special Purpose Brigade."

  She remembered the look on his face, the pride.

  "Think about it, Anya. Your little brother, Spetsnaz! The best of the best! It's a long way from when you used to change my diaper and wipe my butt."

  "When do you start?"

  "I report the day after tomorrow. The only reason I got a pass was because my sergeant knows how to get around the bureaucracy."

  Anya had laughed. "I could use someone like him."

  "Come on, you're a Colonel. You can do whatever you want."

  "Not quite. Only generals get to do whatever they want."

  She looked at him, at the man he'd become.

  "I'm proud of you, Grigori. Please promise me you'll be careful."

  "Don't worry, we're not at war."

  "Yes, but things happen."

  "You're thinking of Mikhail."

  "I suppose I was."

  "It will be okay, Sis."

  But it hadn't been okay.

  A sudden wave of grief rolled over her. She took a deep breath, another, brought her emotions under control.

  Think of something else. Helsinki.

  The peace conference, a fiasco. It had ended after three days with the Russian delegation walking out. The conference had accomplished nothing. Then again, no one had expected it to.

  The war was not going well. The Kurds had retreated to fortified positions in the northeast corner of the country. They were well armed with American weapons and every meter of worthless desert gained was at the cost of Russian blood. It was like the first Chechen war all over again. Then it had taken many months and many casualties to dislodge rebel forces from their strongholds, in spite of overwhelming Russian military superiority.

  The offensive was stalled, bogged down by the fierce opposition. Someone had to be blamed. General Chernov had been recalled and was on his way back to Moscow. The truth was being kept from the public, but sooner or later it would come out.

  The Americans would want to know about the change in command, the mounting cost in blood and treasure. She decided to ask Professor Sokolov to get another message through to the embassy. The day after tomorrow was Sunday. He'd be at the chess tables in the park.

  She'd look for him there.

  Chapter 47

  The weather was good, the sun shining, and Presnensky Park was crowded. People strolled about or sat on the grass. Anya walked along the paths until she came to the chess tables. She didn't see Professor Sokolov at any of them. She sat on a bench and waited for him to show up.

  It felt normal to sit on a park bench on a warm day, listening to the sounds of people laughing and having a good time. There hadn't been a lot of normal in her life, lately. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun, soaking in the light and warmth, letting her mind drift.

  Her head dropped forward and she snapped alert. She looked at her watch. She'd been zoning out for almost twenty minutes. She looked around at the chess tables. Sokolov still had not appeared. It was unusual for him. He never missed Sunday chess in the park, if the weather permitted. For her old professor, it was a ritual that might as well have been graven in stone. She hoped he wasn't ill.

  She waited another half an hour, then decided to go to the Black Queen Café and see if he was there. It was the only other place she could think of where she might find him. She realized she didn't know where he lived. It hadn't occurred to her to ask, when she'd last seen him. Her mind had been too preoccupied with her need to get a message to the American Embassy.

  He wasn't in the café. She went to the counter and ordered a coffee. A heavyset man with a thick mustache was working the espresso machine, the same man she'd seen the last time she'd been there. He was probably the owner.

  "Excuse me," she said. "Do you know Professor Sokolov?"

  He wiped his hands on a towel. He looked at her, then back at the machine.

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "He's a friend. Usually he plays chess in the park on a Sunday, but he's not there. I remembered that he likes to come here."

  The man placed her coffee on the counter in front of her.

  "You were here with him not long ago."

  "That's right."

  "A friend, you say."

  "Yes."

  There was something odd in the way the man was looking at her. He looked around the room. No one was near enough to overhear their conversation.

  "You will not find him here," the man said.

  He began wiping the counter with the towel.

  "Do you know where he is?" Anya asked.

  "He's been arrested."

  Anya felt a sudden rush of adrenaline that left her weak in the knees. Her heart began pounding.

  "What? No, that can't be. Why?"

  The man shrugged.

  "Who knows? He was here, having a game. Two men came in. I saw them show him ID. Then they took him away. He hasn't been back since."

  "What kind of ID?"

  "GRU. You should leave now. I don't want any trouble."

  "You are sure it was GRU?"

  "I was in the Army. I know what their IDs look like."

  "Did they say anything?"

  "One of them said the major wanted to talk with him."

  She looked at her coffee, untouched.

  "Please, go now. I don't want any trouble. Don't come back."

  The man turned his back to her and began cleaning the gleaming espresso machine with his towel.

  She put money on the counter to pay for the coffee and left the café. She walked back toward the park. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Sokolov would be sitting at one of the chess tables. But when she got there, he wasn't in sight. She sat down on the same bench as before. What had the café owner said? When Sokolov was arrested, he'd overheard them say the major wanted to talk to him. What major?

  Petrov!

  The thought sent another rush of adrenaline whispering through her veins. Her intuition told her she was right.

  It has to be him, that cold bastard. He's GRU. He doesn't like me. He probably knows about Stepanov and me. He could have followed me, hoping for something to tell his bosses. If he did, he saw me meet Vlas.

  She didn't like what she was thinking. If Sokolov had been arrested, it might have something to do with her. It might not, but Anya didn't believe in coincidences. She was sure he hadn't told them about the message to the embassy, or she would have been picked up by now. She would not be sitting here in the sun on a pleasant Sunday afternoon.

  If Petrov was behind Sokolov's arrest, everything was now much more complicated. She looked around the park, filled with people. Was she being followed? Anyone could be watching her, anyone at all. She'd never see them. How could she hope to contact the Americans if she was being watched? Michael had said to always assume she was being watched. She'd forgotten that. Maybe she'd made a mistake by going to the café, but if she hadn't gone, she wouldn't know Vlas had been arrested.

  Anya had few friends, but she considered Sokolov one of them. He was a kind, brilliant man. She had to do something.

  There was no point in waiting in the park any longer. She got up from the bench and began walking. She paused at a fountain and glanced behind her as she drank. A man quickly turned his head to look in the other direction. He'd been lingering near the chess tables when she'd been waiting on the bench.

  Fear bloomed in her chest, then, anger. She wanted to walk up to the man and confront him, but she smothered the impulse. That would only make them more suspicious of her. Why would she think she was being followed if she were innocent of any wrongdoing?

  She entered the Metro and caught another glimpse of the man behind her. So, not simple paranoia. Without Sokolov, the link to the embassy was broken. She'd have to call the number Michael had given her. She'd use one of the cheap phones she'd purchased in Finland.

  She waited for the train to arrive, a plan beginning to form in her mind.

  Chapter 48

  Thorne rented an office in Helsinki on the ground floor of a quiet street near the center of town. It came furnished in Finnish modern.

  The furniture was too sterile for his taste. The desk was made of light-colored wood, the chairs similar, with cushions covered in a dark blue fabric. An abstract modern painting with bright colors hung on one wall. The desk chair was a creation of chrome and faux leather. It looked like it belonged on a spaceship. He was surprised to find out it was comfortable.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  "Thorne."

  "Mike, it's Jenna. OPERA called in. There's a problem."

  "That didn't take long."

  "The contact she used to get her message to us was arrested. That would be bad enough, but there's more."

  "Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like what you're going to say?"

  "We have an asset in GRU. He's reported that a dissident named Vlas Sokolov was picked up and interrogated by a Colonel Ivanov. Sokolov was her contact. He had a heart attack while they were interrogating him."

  "He's dead?"

  "As yesterday's news."

  "That means she's compromised."

  "She doesn't think so. She said she'd have been arrested if she was. She says she's being followed. There's a major named Petrov who is General Stepanov's aide. He's GRU. She thinks he's responsible for the arrest."

  "She thinks he's responsible? What if he isn't?"

  "She's almost certain Petrov is behind it. Her contact was picked up by GRU thugs. She wants us to find out what happened to him."

  "That shouldn't be too difficult. They're probably holding him at GRU headquarters."

  "There's more."

  "There always is."

  "She wants us to get Petrov off her back."

  Thorne leaned back in the chair. "That might not be easy. She have any ideas about how to do that?"

  "She wants us to compromise him. Petrov has access to General Stepanov's papers. She suggested we make it look like he's selling secrets, something like that."

  "She's learning fast," Thorne said. "I like the way she thinks, but compromising a GRU officer is risky. Why is this Major Petrov harassing her?"

  "She didn't say. As it is, the entire conversation was only about thirty seconds long. She wants a meet. She'll be in the park on Sunday, as you agreed."

  "If she's being followed, someone has to pull them off. I'll need help."

  "We'll think of something."

  "Anything else?"

  "We want her to have a microburst transmitter, " Jenna said. "Something she can use to send information. It's too risky to have her meet with you every time she has something to pass along. You'll have it tomorrow."

  "That's not a good idea. They find it, it's all over."

  "It looks like an ordinary compact, the kind of thing she'd carry in her purse. You'll have to convince her to take it."

  "I'll tell her. I don't think she'll agree."

  "Davidson is still pissed about losing control of OPERA. He's trying to make a case to take over, now there's an indication she's under suspicion."

  "On what grounds?"

  "That you made a mistake when you met her and tipped off the opposition. He's claiming that's why she's on their radar."

  "Davidson is an ass. OPERA won't talk to anyone else. If she's being followed, it's not because of anything I did."

  "I know that. So does Lewis."

  "Sure, but what about Kramer?"

  "It keeps her amused to watch Davidson try to undercut you."

  "He never quits, does he? Makes me wonder what it would be like to have a normal job."

  "Probably a lot like this," Jenna said. "There are always people like him around. It doesn't much matter what kind of work you do."

  "Do I detect a note of cynicism?"

  Jenna laughed.

  "More like a symphony," she said.

  Chapter 49

  The men of Russia's high command sat at a long, polished table, deep beneath the National Control Defense Center in Moscow. No surveillance network, no matter how sophisticated, could penetrate here. No one who wasn't in the room could hear what was being discussed. Between them, these men controlled enough weaponry to destroy all life on earth several times over.

  President Tarasov was seated at the head of the table. Everyone in the room knew the pinched expression on his face meant he was angry. The generals and admirals waited for him to speak.

  "General Kerensky. Why are we still fighting in Syria? Why haven't we used our bombers against these people?"

  "It was thought the fighter/bomber squadrons would prove sufficient," Kerensky said, "but the Kurds constructed underground tunnels and bunkers that protect them from our raids."

  "This has gone on long enough. Drop the Father on them."

  A ripple of uneasy movement went around the table. The Father was the largest conventional weapon in Russia's arsenal, a thermobaric monster nicknamed The Father of All Bombs, FOAB. The destructive effect of one was similar to a tactical nuclear weapon.

  The Father mixed powdered aluminum with high explosive and ethylene oxide, a combustible gas. When the bomb detonated, it ignited the oxygen in the air. The result was a gigantic fireball that vaporized everything in the area. The explosion left a vacuum that ruptured the lungs of anyone unfortunate enough to survive the initial detonation. It didn't matter if you were in a bunker under the surface. You died anyway.

  It was a cruel, effective weapon of mass destruction.

  Kerensky looked uncomfortable.

  "Sir, at the moment the world sees our offensive in Syria as little more than a continuation of the difficulties in Syria that began years ago. If we drop the Father, we'll be accused of war crimes. World opinion will turn against us."

  Tarasov slammed his hand down on the table.

  "I don't give a whore's ass for world opinion. World opinion has belittled us for decades. World opinion thinks we are irrelevant. We are tolerated because of our nuclear arsenal. Without our missiles, we would have been overrun by our enemies years ago. What world opinion needs is a demonstration of our power and our determination to pursue our own destiny without the interference of others. Do you understand, General?"

  "Yes, Mister President," Kerensky said.

  "You will order the mission."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Does anyone else have an objection?"

  No one did.

  Chapter 50

  At a little over 15,000 pounds, the Father of All Bombs was a heavy load, a suitable match for the enormous bomber assigned to carry it to Syria. The TU-95MSM was the latest version of the venerable TU-95 long-range bomber. Like the American B-52, it had been in continuous service since the 1950s. Unlike its American counterpart, it was propeller driven. Four turboprop Kusnetzov engines with counter rotating propellers powered the huge plane through the air.

  Half a football field long, lifted by distinctive swept back wings, it was an impressive machine. No one seeing the plane could doubt its purpose of sowing death and destruction. Few aircraft had the deadly look of the Russian TU-95.

  Two hours after taking off from Ukraina Air Base, the plane was over target. The bomb bay doors opened. The Father of All Bombs dropped away toward the doomed Kurds below.

  Captain Alexei Yegorov opened the throttles and banked hard to starboard. The roar of the turboprops was deafening inside the cabin. In the copilot’s seat next to him, Lieutenant Yevgeny Kozlov watched the Syrian desert pass below.

  "I wouldn't want to be down there about now," he said into his headset.

  "Kurdish barbecue," Alexei said.

  A brilliant, orange glare filled the sky behind them. An instant later, the plane bucked and shuddered as the shockwave hit.

  Alexei set course back to Ukraina Airbase in eastern Russia.

  "About time we did something besides training runs and harassing the Americans," he said.

  "Pissing off Americans is fun."

  "It would not be so much fun if it was for real, Yevgeny. You've seen how quickly their fighters respond. The American pilots know what they're doing. We make big target."

  "Our countermeasures would take care of them."

  "You are optimist, Yevgeny. But today we don't worry about Americans."

  "We will get a medal for this. Irina will be proud of me."

  "Irina is leading you around by your dick. You should get that woman out of your head."

  "I enjoy being led around. She is unbelievable in bed."

  Suddenly the cockpit filled with the harsh sound of the missile alarm.