“Cris, I can’t trust anyone else to do this job. Not an ethnic Russian, it’s too easy to put pressure on their families still in the country.”

  He’d checked him out, and he seemed clean, although he didn’t like the man.

  Arrogant, self-opinionated, he has a brilliant track record, sure. But still, there’s something about him. Too smooth, too keen to appease the government, no matter what the risk. He’ll soon learn, or he’ll be dead. Maria will be dead.

  "If they're planning a shooting gallery for Maria, it's either that or they'll kill her. If you see anyone point a gun at her open fire, clear? Even if you just think you see a gun, shoot the bastards.”

  His eyes flared with understanding. "You think they might try something…"

  "This is Russia, and yes, it’s possible. You both locked and loaded?”

  Two voices answered in the affirmative. The driver slowed as they neared the barrier, and everything looked quiet. Strangely quiet for a border crossing. More common for a bustling transit point would be bright arc lights, hard-faced uniforms watching the flow of people. He came to a stop at the red and white painted pole, and the guard hut door opened.

  A soldier looked out, but he didn't step outside. Instead, he gave a nervous glance at the wooden building opposite, which looked like a barracks for the guards. A second later, he ducked back inside. In the space of two seconds, Cris Rhodes made up his mind. They’d set up a hit, decided to kill her there. On the border, before she entered Russia. Maria Tereshkova, Kremlin nemesis, and a woman they'd tried to kill many times before. She'd returned after cast-iron guarantees from the President to negotiate new, better and fairer politics for the troubled nation. Now they were giving their opinion of better and fair. An opinion underscored by bullets.

  He shouted at the driver, "Floor the gas pedal. Get out of here. Drive straight through the barrier!"

  He slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The limo surged forward and collided with the barrier in a grinding crash. They made it through, leaving broken and wrecked steel on the ground behind them, and he thought they were going to get away. And then a long military truck appeared out of nowhere and drove across the road, blocking their way. The Mercedes fishtailed as it skidded over the icy surface. The driver fought to bring it to a stop before they collided with the huge truck. Rhodes didn't wait, just grabbed her shoulder, flung the door open, and shouted.

  "Out. We have to get under cover."

  "But, what’s…"

  He didn't need to answer. The shooting started. A few bullets ripped into the Mercedes, and he was already dragging her across the snow. Kennedy was close behind, and the bodyguards followed, making for the nearest cover, two military jeeps parked in a small compound just off the road. Beyond them he glimpsed a larger building, but it was too far to reach, and he pulled her behind the first of the Zil jeeps. He dragged out his pistol, a Glock 17, and took aim at the pinpricks of light that winked out toward them. He cursed the lack of an assault rifle, estimating there were at least a dozen rifles shooting at them. The Mercedes had become a bullet-riddled pincushion, with the body of the driver inside still jerking as more bullets slammed into his body.

  He sent the bodyguards toward the distant building.

  "Find out what that place is, and see if you can find a way out of here. And stay low, crawl across the snow. Hug the shadows, try not to let them see you."

  They both had their guns drawn, and Mikhail shook his head. "We should stay here. We have promised to guard her.”

  "If you want to guard her, find a way out of here before they kill her. Now go."

  They slid away, and he stared into the darkness. A dim shadow was moving toward them, then another, and another. Racing across the snow, the night vision goggles made for a strange silhouette, like some prehistoric monster was stalking them. It meant they had the advantage, because without a similar night vision system, he was blind. Then everything went black.

  He recovered consciousness, and he was lying on his back in the snow. His eyes were almost blinded, but he blinked to moisten them, and slowly his vision returned. He was staring up at a face that astonished him in this dark arena of death, a woman, about the same age as Maria Tereshkova, and no less beautiful. Although when he looked deeper, the eyes were like dark, agate chips, and the resemblance to Maria Tereshkova ended. Instinctively, he knew this girl was bad news. Very bad news, and the gun she held in her hand supported that view, a P96, a modern Russian automatic, 9mm, and fourteen rounds in the magazine. It was developed in the late nineties, a modern, accurate, and reliable weapon favored by Internal Security, or FSB. When she spoke, her voice was as chill as an Arctic wind.

  "My name is Katya Karpov. You will tell me where this woman is hiding, Maria Tereshkova."

  He stared back at her, fighting to get his thoughts together.

  What does she want? To kill Maria, of course, but does she plan to do it now? Unlikely in the full glare of any witnesses that may come along at the border crossing; they intend to take her away. Spirit her to some dark, forest, and there’re plenty like that in Russia with bodies long hidden and buried deep in the iron hard ground.

  What mattered was she didn't know where Maria was, and his hopes soared. Perhaps she’d got away. It could be her political agent, Sebastian Kennedy, had pulled her to safety. Right now, they should be running through the darkness, putting distance between her and the men who pursued her, and this woman, this Angel of Death who was in charge, Katya Karpov, executioner.

  "Who are you? FSB?"

  The lips tightened, and he knew he’d got it right. The next moment, she nodded to someone out of his view, someone he hadn't noticed. A heavy boot crashed into his head, a shower of sparks of clouded his vision, and everything went from dark to light, light to dark, and he floated in a sea of semi-consciousness. But he was aware of them, could still hear them. These were experts, and they weren't about to hit him so hard so he couldn’t talk.

  "Where is the woman?"

  He shook his head, another hard kick to the head and then one to the belly, a hot, agonizing eruption of pain that crowded his mind.

  "Where is the woman?"

  This time he didn't shake his head, but it made no difference to the outcome. She moved closer to him and swung her elegant leather boot into a hard kick at his groin, sending stabs of pain shooting through his body. He clutched at the injury.

  "Fuck you, lady."

  Another nod, and another kick to the head. His hands loosened, and she kicked him hard in the lower belly. More pain stabbed through him, and all he could do was keep shaking his head.

  "You will talk. They always do."

  "Not me."

  Her lips creased in a cold smile. “Mister, whoever you are, I was dealing with men like you when I was eighteen-years-old, working honey traps for FSB and later doing their wet work. You see, people think a pretty face means I can't be a killer, but let me disabuse you of that notion. I've killed plenty of men, and women. You can be next. Where is she?"

  Before he could repeat his answer in the negative, a man shouted to her, one of the attackers still wearing his NV goggles. A dark, black shape, but through the lenses the area would be lit up as plain as day. The words were in Russian, but he didn't need to speak the language to understand. The man was pointing to the roof of the wooden building where Nikolai and Mikhail had taken cover, and it dawned on him they'd climbed to the roof to escape detection. She snapped an order. A soldier handed her his rifle, an AN-94 Nikonov, a modern Kalashnikov variant, selective fire, 5.56mm, and very accurate, nothing but the best for these people.

  She glanced at the selector, edged it forward to burst mode, and threw the butt to her shoulder. The telescopic sight mounted on the rifle had to be a lowlight model, and a moment later, she pulled the trigger. It spat out a burst of three bullets. She moved the muzzle slightly and pulled the trigger again. Screams echoed from the roof, and she lowered the rifle, nodded to herself, and smiled as she looked down at him.

  "Two of your friends were hiding up there, but I doubt they’ll be coming down again. Where is she?"

  The questions and the beating went on for several minutes, and he was conscious of men combing the area, searching everywhere for their target. The night vision goggles enabled them to pierce the gloom, and eventually a shout came from several hundred meters away. They’d found her and Kennedy crouched behind a snowdrift, close to the distant woods. They'd done well to get that far, but they hadn’t needed NV goggles to find them. Footsteps in the snow were a dead giveaway.

  She smiled at him. "You see; you didn't need to take the pain. All you had to do was tell me the direction they took. It makes no difference now; our work here is almost finished. She waited while they dragged the two figures toward them. Maria was struggling, but Sebastian Kennedy, as expected, walked tamely beside his captor. It occurred to Cris she’d made a mistake in this man. Maybe he wasn't Russian, and maybe he had no links with the Kremlin. But he was spineless and useless when the shit hit the fan. In her precarious and downright dangerous tilt at the Russian presidency, she needed men with the balls to fight the Russian bear when it showed its claws. She came close enough to look down at him, and her lips moved. He didn't hear what she said, but it wasn't difficult to make out the words. "I'm sorry."

  He looked back at her. "It's not over yet, Maria. These people are thugs, not worth a mouthful of spit."

  Katya Karpov sneered. "Brave words, Mister. I assume you must be Cris Rhodes, the American who's been looking after Tereshkova. Helping her avoid the people we sent to kill her. The game’s over, I'll call my principal, and we can put an end to this."

  He gritted his teeth against the pain that still tore through his groin, but he managed to hiss, "Fuck you, lady."

  * * *

  She punched the speed dial on her cellphone, and after three rings, he answered.

  "Ushakov."

  "Karpov. We have her. We have it all."

  "All?"

  “The woman, her bodyguard Cris Rhodes, and the political agent. I believe you said his name was Kennedy."

  "Sebastian Kennedy, yes. What about the others, where are they?"

  "The driver and two other bodyguards are dead. I shot them myself."

  "And the border guards?"

  "There are three men in the hut next to the border crossing. I told them to stay out of sight.”

  "Kill them. I don’t want any witnesses."

  Her eyes didn't even flicker. "As you wish. You want me to deal with Tereshkova and the others now?"

  A pause, and back in Moscow, the man named Vladimir Ushakov was thinking hard. He was the President's fixer, and part of his job was interpreting the wishes of his boss.

  Does the President want her dead, right here and now, or does he have something else in mind? Why make a martyr out of this woman, when we just want her out of the way. In Russia, people disappear on a regular basis. Not so much as they used to, but it still happens. And if you want someone to disappear into a living hell, where death could come soon, and they’ll never return, one place comes to mind. Siberia.

  "No, not yet. Send them to the gulags. Let them die there, so our fingers are not stained with her blood. Tereshkova to the women's camp, and find a men's camp for Rhodes and Kennedy."

  "Siberia? That will take time, do you want me to use an aircraft?"

  "Too public. Go to the nearest railway station, and put them into a goods wagon where they cannot be seen. Make sure your men guard them well, and do not allow them to emerge until they reach the camps. Clear?"

  "Yes, Mr. Ushakov."

  "Good. Do it now."

  The call ended. She glanced at the guard post and gestured to two of her men to come with her. She approached the hut and knocked on the door. It opened, and a man looked out at her. Reassured by her pretty, smiling face he said, "Is it done?"

  "Not quite."

  She pulled the trigger of the automatic pistol, and he crumpled. She stormed inside, and the two other uniformed guards stared up at her, mouths open. One was raising a coffee mug to his lips. The other was in the act of lighting a cigarette. She pulled the trigger twice, and two bullets entered two foreheads. The bodies hit the floor, and she looked around at the two men who'd come in behind her.

  “Torch this place. We’ll report it later as a crime committed by bandits. Smugglers probably, so they can round up the usual suspects. Make it quick. We have a train to catch. Siberia will be a long journey.”

  "Siberia?” The man smiled, “Isn’t that where you came from, Captain Karpov?"

  She nodded. "It is. A place these people will soon wish they’d never seen or heard of. Finish tidying up here, and make sure that is everyone. No one is to be left alive.”

  “Yes, Captain, but I’ve already checked. These three men, the two on the roof, and the driver, that is all of them.”

  She nodded. “Good. Hurry up and finish.”

  She walked outside and looked around, feeling satisfied she’d done everything, and her thoughts turned to Siberia.

  I’ll deliver the prisoners, dead or alive, I don’t care which. And then perhaps I’ll visit my family. It’s three years since I last saw them, and a gift at Christmas isn’t enough attention from a dutiful, loving daughter like their little Katya. I’ll make it up to them. After all, that’s what family is all about, love and affection.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  She was wrong. The FSB assassin from Siberia had missed something vital. Unusually for her, the two men she’d shot on the roof weren’t dead. Without NV goggles, the shot had been difficult, and the killer ice-maiden had made a false assumption; that her normal murderous accuracy had been as effective as ever. It wasn’t. Nikolai was gutshot, battling to overcome the terrible pain of his wound, and Mikhail had taken two bullets to the shoulder. The rest of the bullets had missed, and they’d had the sense to play possum. Lying on the roof, pretending they were dead until the enemy had gone.

  They’d watched their principal, Maria Tereshkova captured, and the other two men Cris and Sebastian, taken prisoner with her. They listened in silence as the cold-blooded killer with the face of an angel announced what they planned for them, and both knew it couldn’t have been worse. An agony-filled frozen death in the permafrost of the immense Eastern Siberian wastelands, worked to death, starved to death, beaten to death. Or killed by disease, what did it matter? The end was always the same. Death.

  Mikhail looked at his partner, whose face was as pale as the snow that surrounded them.

  “You heard what she said, Siberia, the gulags.”

  “I heard, and there’s nothing we can do about it. My friend, I won’t make it off this roof. I’m sorry, but I’m finished.”

  “Like hell you are. We’ll wait until they’ve gone, and we’re going to get help.”

  “Mikhail, you’re mad. I can’t move, and you’ll die too if you don’t get that wound attended to. We can’t do anything. She’s beyond help. We’re finished.”

  “You’d leave her to those animals? You know what the gulags are like. The guards are barely human, and the inmates are, well, you know. Cannibals, some of them.”

  A pause. “What can we do? I can’t move.”

  “Swallow the pain. We’ll get off the roof and call for backup.”

  “But where? My cellphone was in the car, and yours was, too. We were charging them when the attack started, if you remember.”

  “We’ll find a phone somewhere. Anywhere, I don’t care where. There’s a Zil jeep down there. We’ll take it and find the nearest town. Contact our people.”

  “You go on your own. I can’t move.”

  “You’ll die if you stay up here.”

  “Death would be better.” He coughed, and a gob of blood poured from his mouth.

  Mikhail ignored it. “Are you coming or not? Do you want the name of Nikolai Mironov to be remembered as a coward?”

  “No, but…”

  “Then we’re going. Give me your arm. I’ll start pulling you to the edge.”

  A gasp. “I can’t climb down, Mikhail.”

  “You won’t need to. I’ll push you off into the snow.”

  “Mikhail!”

  * * *

  They threw them onto the back of an open truck. Six grim-faced men with guns aimed at them watched as they bumped and drove over the track-rutted track. The journey was cold, bitterly cold in the open vehicle, and they didn't need the snow-covered countryside to remind them that the temperatures were well below freezing. Maria watched him all the time, but she said nothing, binding her time. When he went to open his mouth, her eyes flicked to the nearest guards, and she gave a slight shake of the head. After an hour, a journey that seemed like it had taken five hours, the truck stopped. They dragged them roughly to the ground and kick them to their feet.

  Surrounded by the men in the black combat gear, all armed with the AN-94 rifles, they walked a short distance to where train had halted. Evidently, they'd called ahead. The engineer was arguing with somebody, presumably the stationmaster, protesting the fact they were making his schedule late. When he saw the guns, he stopped and climbed back into the cab of the locomotive.

  They tore open the door of a boxcar and threw their prisoners in, slamming the door shut. They heard the heavy staple fastening it closed. In the darkness, Cris got as close to Maria as he could.

  "What's the deal? Where are they taking us?"

  A reply was one word, “Gulag."

  He thought he'd misheard. "Did you say gulag?"

  “Gulag, that is correct. Probably to a men’s camp and a women's."

  “At least we’re alive.”

  She gave a harsh laugh, “Alive, give it a few days and you may not think that. You will think you are dead, or you wish you were. Those places have score of ways to kill you, and one thing is for sure. We'll never get out alive."

  "We should never have come," Sebastian wailed, "I told you we shouldn't have used guns."