Half an hour later, Thorne passed a road sign.

  NIBH ALMUR 10 KM

  He began looking for a place to get off the highway. The sky was cloudless, the night black except for the yellow beams of his headlights and the pale light cast by the stars. The moon had not yet risen.

  Farmers' fields bordered the road. Tree covered hills formed dark shapes to the east. A wooded area appeared ahead, off to the right. Thorne slowed and turned off the highway, jolting across a plowed field toward the trees.

  He went as far as he could, cut the lights, and stopped the engine. Thorne took a deep breath, listening to the sounds of hot metal cooling. His fingers were stiff from clenching the steering wheel.

  By now the guards manning the border station would be alerted, watching for him. It wasn't hard to predict his movements. They knew he'd try to get out of the country, and Turkey was the only real possibility. It was the logical choice for a fleeing spy. Daylight would bring helicopters. In hours, the whole area would be crawling with cops.

  He took the Browning from his pocket, ejected the magazine, counted seven rounds. There was one in the chamber. He pushed the magazine back into the butt and felt it click into place.

  Eight rounds. If he ran into trouble, it would have to do. The sign had said ten kilometers to the border. Ten kilometers on foot was nothing. The darkness would slow him down, but there was time to reach the border before sunrise. With a little luck, he'd walk into Turkey without any trouble. Once in friendly territory, he'd call for extraction.

  Thorne closed his eyes and let his photographic memory bring up a map of the area. The nearest town in Turkey was Yayladağı, a couple of kilometers over the border. He'd get to the town and call from there.

  His shirt was stuck to the wound on his side. At least the bleeding had stopped. He set off toward the faint outline of the hills. Twenty minutes later, he reached the first one. Out on the road, a convoy of cop cars screamed by, lights flashing.

  The hunt was on.

  He began walking north, keeping in the trees. Three hours later, he figured he had to be getting close to the border. The ground was uneven. He'd stumbled and opened up the wound. It was still bleeding, a slow, steady leak that soaked the shirt and the side of his pants. He wanted to sit down and rest.

  Not yet.

  A sudden breeze brought a strong smell of cigarette smoke. Unprepared, he sneezed.

  "Halt! Who's there? Show yourself!"

  The voice came from somewhere to his left. Thorne crouched down and drew the Browning.

  A second voice called out.

  "Ahmed. What do you see?"

  "I heard something. Someone sneezed. You, come out."

  Thorne waited.

  "Ahmed, be careful," the second voice called.

  Thorne saw a dark shape coming through the trees. He waited until the sentry was close, then fired. The muzzle flashes lit the night.

  The man grunted and fell forward. The second guard opened up. Bullets showered Thorne with fragments of branches and bits of bark. Thorne fired at the muzzle flash, three quick shots. He heard the man scream, then the dull sound of a body hitting the ground.

  He began walking toward the sound when something came out of the dark and slammed into his chest. He went down hard on his back. A huge black dog snarled and scrabbled at him, trying to tear out his throat. Hot, stinking breath washed over him. He got an arm up and forced the snapping fangs away, pressed the Browning against its chest, and pulled the trigger. The gun was empty before it stopped trying to kill him.

  He pushed the heavy body away and got slowly to his feet.

  Thorne looked down at the dog. He didn't feel bad about killing the guards, they'd been shooting at him. They knew what they'd signed up for. But the dog never had a choice. The dog bothered him.

  I didn't want to do that. It wasn't your fault. They made you that way.

  It occurred to him that he and the dog had a lot in common. They'd both been trained to kill, both of them shaped by people who needed someone to do their killing for them.

  It wasn't the best thought he'd ever had.

  An hour later, he stumbled into Yayladağı.

  Chapter 13

  Anya stood in front of the hall mirror, looking for flaws in her outfit. Stepanov had said civilian and elegant, not formal. The dress she wore was made of dark blue silk, reaching to ankles. She'd bought it a few years before, splurging for a friend's wedding. It had hung unused in the closet ever since. She'd been afraid it might not fit. It did, barely.

  The dress was low-cut across her breasts and open in the back, accentuating the smooth curves of her body. A simple, gold chain hung around her neck. Emerald earrings matched the deep green of her eyes. Accustomed to the restrictive and ordered lines of her uniform, Anya was almost shocked to see what she could look like if she tried.

  It was a few minutes before eight. General Stepanov's driver would arrive any moment.

  "Well, mother, how do I look?"

  Yulia Volkova was thrilled her daughter was going out with such an important man. The First Deputy Minister of Defense! Who knew? Perhaps it would lead to something. Romance. Marriage, even. General Stepanov was close to the president. Visions of meeting Tarasov danced in Yulia's head.

  "Oh, Anya, if only your father could see you now. You are so beautiful."

  If my father could see me now, he'd probably call me a whore.

  "You approve?"

  "Silly girl, of course I do. Now you must be very nice to the general. He can do wonderful things for you if he likes you enough."

  "Don't worry, mother. He's my boss. I'll be nice to him."

  "You're getting older, Anya. This could be an opportunity for you."

  "Mother, please. He's twenty-two years older than I am. Besides, he's married. His wife is bedridden. He only wants someone to come with him to this party. It makes him look good to have a younger woman on his arm."

  "You never know, Anya. Who will be at the party?"

  "I don't know. Probably people from the military."

  She was saved from more of Yulia's questions by a knock at the door. Anya draped a silk scarf about her shoulders and took a final look in the mirror. She brushed a stray hair from her forehead and opened the door. Stepanov's driver stood there.

  "Colonel Volkova? The General is downstairs."

  "Goodbye, mother. Don't wait up. I'm sure I'll be late."

  "Anya..."

  Anya closed the door behind her.

  General Stepanov rated an Aurus Senat limo, similar to the presidential limousine, heavily armored. The car was gleaming black, massive, with a large chrome grill that shouted power. People on the street stopped and stared as the driver held the rear door open for her. You didn't see cars like that waiting for someone in this neighborhood.

  Anya settled herself on a wide expanse of soft, black leather. General Stepanov sat on the left-hand side, dressed in a dark blue Italian suit. It was strange to see him in anything but his uniform. The driver closed her door and got behind the wheel.

  "Good evening, Colonel."

  "Good evening, sir."

  Stepanov gave her an approving look.

  "Go ahead, Gennady."

  "Yes, sir," the driver said.

  The limo pulled away from the curb. Stepanov opened a compartment on the side of the door and took out a bottle and two small glasses. He poured and handed one to her, without asking if she wanted one. She took the offered glass.

  "To your health."

  "Your health, sir."

  They drank.

  "Your dress is very becoming, Colonel. An excellent choice. I am pleased to have such a charming companion for this evening."

  "You flatter me, sir."

  "Only as you deserve."

  Stepanov touched a button on his arm rest and a thick partition rose between the rear compartment and the driver.

  "Tonight's gathering is an opportunity for you to meet some of my colleagues and their wives. The president will be there. He may ask you about EAGLE. Of course, you may discuss it with him, if he asks. You may not discuss it with anyone else, unless they are with the president. Follow his lead."

  She concealed her surprise. This was much more than she'd expected.

  "Of course, sir."

  Stepanov poured himself another glass.

  "Russia is about to reclaim her proper place on the world stage. For a long time we have been dismissed by the West. They think we are weak, a pale version of what we once were. In the past that was true, but it's no longer the case. They just don't know it yet."

  Stepanov paused.

  "Pay attention this evening, Colonel. As with everything, perception is important. There is a plan for changing the international image of our society, especially as it concerns women. It is possible you may be asked to play an important part."

  Anya wasn't sure what to say. What can you say to something like that, coming from a man who had the ear of the president? She chose to play it safe.

  "I took an oath to our nation, sir. I am always ready to do what is required."

  Stepanov nodded. "A correct answer, Colonel. A word of warning. Not everyone is ready for such a change."

  Why is he telling me this?

  She didn't know how the rest of the evening was going to go, but it was off to a hell of a start.

  Chapter 14

  The limo headed out of Moscow on the Minsk Highway, toward the exclusive residential section of Rublevka. Anya had never been inside one of the homes in this area. This was where the president, the prime minister, high-ranking military officials, and many of the oligarchs lived.

  They began to pass high walls along the sides of the road. Elaborate gates allowed brief glimpses of the extravagant homes of Russia's elite. Anya thought calling these buildings homes was ridiculous. They weren't homes. They were mansions, sprawling castles with high peaked roofs and sparkling fountains, built in a dizzying variety of architectural styles. Status was measured not so much in how big your house was, since every house in this area was huge. The size of the lot told the story. If you had enough room for your own private lake, it gave you bragging rights over your billionaire neighbor.

  The limo turned off the highway and stopped at a massive iron gate set into a high stone wall. A uniformed security guard armed with a machine pistol held up his hand as the limo coasted to a stop. After a brief exchange with the driver, the heavy gate swung open. Their destination loomed ahead, a stone mansion with towers and battlements, ablaze with light from dozens of windows. Anya looked at the building, momentarily speechless.

  The drive circled around a large fountain featuring horses and chariots sculpted from marble. Sprays of water shot into the air. Concealed lights cast rainbows of color through the mists.

  The night was clear, warm. A dozen limousines were parked in front of a long garage that extended from one wing of the house. The drivers had gathered in small groups by the cars, talking and smoking.

  The car stopped underneath a wide stone portico in front of the main entrance.

  "Who lives here?" Anya asked.

  "This is the home of Ivan Korosov."

  "The oligarch? The man who runs Rusgaz?"

  Rusgaz controlled the supply of natural gas to Europe and Turkey. Korosov was one of the richest men in the world.

  "The same, although it would be wise not to refer to him as an oligarch. He prefers to think of himself as a successful businessman. Watch yourself around him, Colonel."

  "Yes, sir."

  When she stepped past the threshold, it was as though she'd slipped back to a time before the Bolsheviks came to power. The foyer was beyond spacious, wide and round, with a floor of white marble inlaid with circular patterns in gold and blue. The walls were curved to mirror the circular designs. A double staircase flanked by carved and gilded banisters swept up in elegant curves to a balcony on the second floor. A magnificent chandelier of glittering crystal hung from a tiled oculus above the foyer.

  Stepanov saw her staring at the chandelier.

  "Korosov is quite proud of that," he said. "It used to hang in the Palace of Versailles, during the reign of Louis the IX."

  He held out his arm. Without thinking, she took it.

  "Come, Colonel. It's time to enjoy ourselves."

  Straight ahead was a brightly lit drawing room filled with people talking and drinking. The entrance was flanked by two large oil portraits of battlefield scenes from the war of 1812. The paintings looked old, expensive, the kind of paintings that belonged in a museum. Everything about the house screamed money, a lot of it.

  Anya took in the details in a kind of visual overwhelm.

  They entered the room. A sea of voices surrounded her. A half-dozen servants dressed in white and gold livery circulated through the crowd with trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres.

  The foyer had been impressive. The drawing room made it seem simple. Anya couldn't help thinking Catherine the Great would have felt at home here. As in the foyer, the floor was made of polished marble inlaid with blue and gold. Swooping patterns of gold circled a large table loaded with food, set in the center of the room. The only other furniture consisted of wide armchairs carved and gilded in French Empire style, placed at intervals around the sides of the room. The walls were made of polished wooden panels carved in relief with gilded floral patterns. The ceiling was twenty feet high and dripped with gold. Another chandelier hung over the table. Sconces of gold were set at measured intervals along the walls, casting flattering light over the gathering.

  In one corner of the room, a chamber quartet played a piece by Mozart.

  She had never seen anything like it. She knew there were people in Russia with great wealth, but she'd never experienced what such wealth could buy. She thought about the waste of money this ostentatious room and this house represented. How so many of Russia's people lived on the edge of poverty.

  It's not right. Not when there's so much need.

  She looked around at the crowd. The men looked well fed, prosperous, satisfied, confident in their power. Their suits were cut of the finest imported materials. The women's jewelry glittered like the chandelier. Across the room, the Chief of the General Staff, General Kerensky, was talking with the Minister of Defense, General Egor Fedorov.

  What am I doing here?

  One of the waiters came by with a golden tray filled with drinks.

  "Vodka, sir? Champagne?"

  "I'll have a vodka," Stepanov said.

  "Champagne, please," Anya said.

  They took their glasses. A bearded block of a man who reminded Anya of a circus bear in an expensive suit came up to them. A champagne glass was engulfed in his hand. Tiny flakes of dandruff spotted his shoulders.

  "General! I am so happy you could come. And who is this lovely lady with you?"

  "Ivan, may I present Lieutenant Colonel Anya Volkova. She kindly consented to come with me this evening. Colonel, this is our host, Ivan Korosov."

  Korosov's eyes twinkled. Anya would not have believed anyone's eyes could actually do that. The effect was like looking at a malevolent Saint Nicholas who was thinking of making you a gift for someone's Christmas, perhaps his own.

  "Ah. You must be the one who has been requisitioning my fuel? My dear, you have caused me no end of complications."

  "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Anya said. "You have a gorgeous home, Mister Korosov."

  "Oh, it serves. Please, you must call me Ivan."

  A man came over to the oligarch and whispered in his ear. Anya saw the bulge of a pistol under his jacket. A bodyguard.

  "You must excuse me, General," Korosov said. "The president is arriving." He turned to Anya. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Colonel. Perhaps we'll have a chance to get to know each other better later on."

  "I look forward to it."

  She watched Korosov make his way out of the room.

  "I don't like him," Anya said.

  Stepanov laughed.

  "Not many people do. You deflected him nicely."

  A voice cut through the noise of the crowd.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, the president."

  Heads turned as Tarasov came in with his wife, Oksana. Everyone began clapping. Oksana looked fatter than in her pictures, almost frumpy.

  Tarasov smiled and held up his hand. "Please. Continue."

  Conversation resumed. The president's wife left his side and made her way to a group of women standing near the food table. Tarasov began making the rounds of the room, shaking hands and talking briefly with the guests.

  It was the first time Anya had ever been in the same room with Tarasov. Watching him, she began to understand why he was president. There was a tangible aura of power surrounding him. Whether that was natural or some collective mantle resulting from his high position, she didn't know. But it was real enough.

  "He's headed this way," Stepanov said. "I'll introduce you."

  Tarasov came up to them. Stepanov and Anya straightened to attention.

  "Good evening, Mister President."

  "Good evening, General."

  "May I present Lieutenant Colonel Anya Volkova?"

  "Good evening, Mister President," Anya said.

  Up close like this, Anya could smell Tarasov's cologne, something vaguely earthy. Looking into his eyes, she got no sense of who he was. It was as if something inside him was peering out at her and evaluating what it saw. It was an unsettling sensation.

  "Colonel Volkova," Tarasov said. "General Stepanov has kept me informed of your work. It is good to know I can rely on dedicated officers like yourself."

  "Thank you, Mister President."

  Tarasov took her hand. His palm was sweaty. Anya resisted a sudden urge to pull away.

  "Anya. May I call you Anya?"

  No.

  "Of course, Mister President."

  "You and I will talk in the future, Anya, soon." He turned to Stepanov. "General, about what we discussed earlier. Now that I have seen her, you may proceed. Make the necessary arrangements."