"This is important for the whole of Russia. You know of Maria Tereshkova."

  "I know of her. What of it?"

  “If she is elected president, she will see these camps dismantled, and bring about change. The corruption and brutality will end."

  "Yet Maria is in another camp, unreachable. Soon, she will be dead, like us."

  "It can't happen. You have to help me."

  "How?"

  "First, I need to confirm where they are holding her. You’re the computer expert, the hacker. Do they keep prisoner records inside the commandant's office?"

  "Of course."

  "Then I need you to get into their system, and find out where they’re holding her."

  "She’ll be one of the women’s camps, I told you. A few kilometers from here.”

  "I didn't see where they took her, and I need to know which one before I break into the gulag and get her out."

  Yuri laughed. "You sound like a one-man army, American. Might I remind you that first you need to get out of here, then cross several kilometers of snow, and after that break into another gulag. Locate this woman, and get out again, while a dozen guards are shooting at you with automatic rifles. Have I missed anything? Oh, yes, we’re in Siberia, in case you'd forgotten. There’s the little matter of traveling two thousand miles across Russia to reach safety, assuming anywhere would be safe. Why don’t you forget this stupidity and get some sleep? It'll be a long day tomorrow."

  He wasn't put off. Any man inside this hellhole would give his right arm to get out, and he was offering Yuri the ultimate prize. Freedom. "I'll get you out, Yuri. Find the girl, and that’s your ticket home.”

  “You’ll get me out? How?"

  He told him what he had in mind. The logging truck hadn't disappeared with its load of timber, which Yuri had told him it normally did. It sat outside in at the side of the square, next to the commandant's office.

  "We'll take the truck. They'll shoot at us, I agree, but with the logs loaded on the back, it'll offer us a bulletproof screen. I believe we can make it."

  "And if they shoot up the tires?"

  "Then we'll run on steel rims. What do you say, will you help me, or do you want stay here until you die?"

  The pause was short. "Yes, I will come with you."

  Cris told him to wait and climbed off his bunk. He spoke quietly to Sebastian Kennedy, who occupied the bunk below. When he explained what he had in mind, the Brit was adamant.

  "I’m not going anywhere, Rhodes. This is a mistake, and once they let me explain it all to them, tell them I'm not a political activist, they’ll let me go. I’m just a political agent. Everyone knows that. If you want to play the James Bond, you go ahead. But I warn you; you’re making more trouble for all of us, especially Maria. I'll be released in a few days, and I’m not taking a chance on some harebrained scheme. When they let me go, I’ll do what I can to help her.”

  “She’ll be dead by then.”

  “Then blame the Russians, not me.”

  In the end, he had no choice but to leave him. He walked softly to the door of the hut with Yuri. It was locked, but he was prepared. During the day he’d picked up a flat piece of steel, like a tire iron, and hidden it inside the leg of his pants. Now he used it to jimmy open the door. Like everything else in the gulag, the woodwork was rotten, and it opened with a gentle tug. They went outside, he closed the door, and they crept along the side of the hut. Between them and the commandant's office lay a wide stretch of open ground, about eighty meters, they had to cross. Guard towers were positioned at all four corners of the compound, and each had a searchlight that they played repeatedly around the huts. He watched the sequence for several minutes until he'd worked it out. A beam swept past them, and he grabbed Yuri's arm.

  "That's it, let's go."

  They raced across the open ground. The light almost reached them just before they got to their destination. Both men dove the last two meters, and the probing searchlight went past, leaving them in shadow.

  At the rear of the hut, a shuttered window was the sole access, and once again, he used the pry bar to lever it open. A minute later they were inside. Immediately, Yuri went to the office at the front and switched on the computer. Cris watched him, and as it booted, the screen demanded a password. He chuckled to himself, muttering in Russian, and studying the keys like a concert piano pianist. It took him two minutes, and the screen came to life with the logo of the Russian internal security services.

  He continued playing over the keys, until he had found what he wanted, and turned to Cris.

  "This is it. She is at Gulag Sakha 1, as I said. It's no more than ten kilometers from here, and according to this information, she is allocated to hut three, whatever that means."

  "Okay, it will do. Just one thing more before we go."

  He went to the wall where he'd seen a weapons rack. Ten AK-47s were locked in place. He pried the steel locks open and took down a rifle apiece. He searched for magazines, stuffed four under his shirt, and gave four more to Yuri. They were ready to go. He opened the front door, and they slipped out into the gloom. The searchlights were no problem, and the truck they needed was parked around the side. They reached the truck and climbed into the cab. Behind them, the logs were stacked in place, just as he'd seen earlier.

  He looked around to make sure no one had seen them. They'd need at least a minute or two to start the engine, warm it up, and drive through the gates. The moment the engine burst into life, guards would come running. He looked at Yuri.

  "This is it. We either do this or we don't. Lock and load, point the barrel of your gun through the window, and if you see a guard, kill him."

  "Kill him?”

  "It's either that or they'll do their best to kill us. Remember what you said, we're in the gulag to die. If it goes wrong, all it means is death will come sooner than we thought."

  He cocked his own weapon, selected burst mode, and poked the barrel through the driver's window. With a last look around, he pressed the starter button, and after several seconds of cranking, the engine burst into life.

  The ancient motor ran roughly at first, struggling to free itself from the icy grip of the Siberian cold, but it gradually picked up, and he began to hope they might make it. A second later that hope disappeared when the first searchlight found them. It was now or never. He moved the shift into first gear and started rolling toward the gate. The searchlight followed the truck, and then another. A second later, the third and fourth lights swamped them with bright illumination. They were caught in the beams of four searchlights, and they’d made it halfway to the gate when a loudspeaker burst into life. A blaring command in Russian, and he didn't need Yuri to tell him it was the order to stop.

  The truck crawled forward, but it was too slow, much too slow. Laden with tons of logs on the back, their speed was little faster than walking pace. As the engine warmed, the vehicle accelerated, and when the first bullets smashed into the truck, he estimated they'd hit almost fifteen miles an hour. The problem was the bullets hitting them from in front. Two gate guards were kneeling on the ground, firing burst after burst. The windscreen starred and shattered, showering them with broken glass, and they both slid down lower in the seats. The next burst smashed over their heads and impacted the logs at the back. Twenty miles an hour, and they were almost at the gate.

  Yuri looked at him. "I could take a shot at the guard on my side. What you want me to do?"

  "Kill the bastard, before he kills us!"

  Their speed had picked up to twenty-two miles an hour, and Yuri loosed off two short bursts. The guard crumpled in a bloody heap in the snow, and Cris gripped his rifle one-handed and aimed at the guard on his side. Too late, he’d seen the fate of his fellow soldier, and he dove out of sight behind a thick pile of logs. They rammed the gate. The truck was so heavy it was like driving through a sheet of cardboard. The front fender smashed the heavy portal aside, and they were outside the gulag. As they emerged through the gate, he swerved the wheel over and collided with a communications pole. Earlier, he’d seen the cables that radiated from it, and something more important, the distinctive shapes of microwave and cellular repeater dishes. The tower collapsed in blinding sheets of sparks behind them, and the camp communications were effectively sealed off from the outside world.

  He drove out into the Arctic wilderness, keeping his foot pressed down hard on the gas pedal. Twenty-five miles an hour, and he followed the course of the narrow track. He saw no alternative, no turnoffs, and no crossroads. When they came after them, following would be easy. He kept the lights switched off in a vain attempt to stay hidden, but pursuing headlamps picked them up before they'd covered the first kilometer. The first burst of gunfire smashed into the logs strapped to the bed behind them, but it was like he'd guessed. The heap of solid timber was as good as thick armor plate. If the pursuing vehicle stayed behind them, they were safe.

  Yuri leaned through the window to check out their pursuers. He leaned back in, and already his face was white with cold.

  "It's an SUV. It looks like the commandant’s vehicle. You know what'll happen next."

  He nodded. "They'll try to get past us, and rake us with machine gun fire when they’re level with the cab. We have to stop them doing that."

  "How?"

  Cris gave him a sideways glance. Yuri wasn't a soldier and had never been in action, not outside of a computer keyboard. It meant it was down to him.

  "Take the wheel. I'll handle it."

  He moved aside. Yuri squeezed over the top of him and grabbed the steering wheel. He kept the gas pedal to the floor. Cris moved across to the passenger seat and went out the door, with the AK slung on his back. Not that he expected to use it, not for what he had in mind. Bursts of gunfire were still hitting them, but the logs stopped every bullet. Yuri kept the vehicle moving as fast as possible; in the case of the old, heavily laden truck that meant thirty miles an hour. And the SUV behind them could probably hit ninety.

  This has to work. If it doesn't, we’re screwed.

  He climbed out and swung up onto the roof of the cab, and then up onto the log pile. But now he was in full view of the pursuing vehicle, and in the glare of the headlamps, they picked him up right away. He threw himself flat as bullets hissed past, chipping splinters of wood from the logs. The shooting stopped, and he crawled to inspect the load. Thick steel cables held the logs onto the bed of the truck, and he looked for the shackles. Another storm of bullets smacked into the wood too close, and he had to wait again until the shooting stopped. He found the shackles and gave up in despair. They'd fastened them with big hexagon nuts tightened with a steel ratchet spanner. He recalled seeing them use a huge, meter-long device during the loading and hadn't realized its significance. Without the spanner, he couldn't unfasten the shackles.

  Yet more bullets smacked all around him, and one hit the cable and ricocheted off. But not before it had sheared several strands of steel, and unwittingly the enemy had given him the answer. He’d been wrong about not needing the rifle. Spread-eagled on the logs, he pointed the muzzle of the AK at the nearest cable and pulled the trigger. Several bullets tore through the steel strands, and a few ricocheted around him. He felt the pain as something hit him in the leg.

  The men in the SUV were firing back, and he'd no idea whether he'd been hit with a ricochet from his own bullets or they'd scored a hit. But he ignored the pain, and fired again, emptying the magazine. The toughened cable finally parted. He crawled to the second fastening, inserted a new magazine, and fired again. This cable was newer the than the previous one, stronger, less corroded, and the magazine emptied before he was halfway through. He took another spare magazine from inside his shirt, but as he was about to insert it in the gun, the truck hit a massive hole in the track and almost threw him off. The magazine skidded away as he clawed for a handhold, and he had one mag remaining, thirty bullets to cut through a toughened steel cable, and if necessary fight off the vengeful pursuers.

  With little optimism, he aimed and fired again. One by one, the strands parted, and the logs lurched as their lashing weakened. Now he had another problem. To cut through the last strands, and leap from the logs onto the cab roof before they tumbled off. No matter how he played it, it would be a close-run thing. The leap was about two meters. Easy on a stationary vehicle, a hair-raising gamble on a jolting truck.

  More shots whistled past, and it had to be now or never. The SUV had almost caught up with them. Soon they'd come past, and his chance to kill them would be gone. He squeezed the trigger and emptied the last of his bullets into the cable. With no choice, he let the assault rifle go and made a desperate leap for the roof of the cab as the logs moved and began to roll backward off the bed of the truck, into the path of the pursuing SUV. They tumbled slowly at first, and then picked up speed.

  It was like an avalanche, a wooden avalanche, and the first indication he'd succeeded was when the headlights disappeared. The last of the logs skidded off the back of the truck and onto the track. One hundred meters back, they'd built up over a solid object, a solid object that had once been an SUV. There was no more shooting, no more anything. Wearily, he pulled himself back through the passenger door and into the truck.

  "What happened to them?" Yuri asked, "One moment they were shooting at us, and they had us in their headlights. The next minute, the truck picked up speed and they’d gone."

  "They're dead. All of them."

  "Dead? Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure. It was magic, I turned them into a wooden dacha." He looked puzzled at first, and then he understood. He laughed, "A wooden dacha, yes, I like that."

  "We don't have much time, Yuri. I took out their communications mast when we left, but they may still be able to get a message to the other camp. We don’t know what other systems they have. Don't slow for anything."

  "I have this thing at full speed, don't worry."

  Cris nodded. They were doing all of thirty-five miles an hour. Ahead of them lay several kilometers of snow-covered track, and at the end, Gulag Sakha 1, the gulag where Maria was imprisoned. And if Gulag Sakha 2 had got the word out, they’d run into a hail of gunfire before they got close.

  “Try to go faster.”

  Chapter Three

  The light was already fading, and they'd done everything they could to repair the engine. Neumann was still outside refitting the engine casing, when Schiller entered the aircraft cabin. They’d covered themselves with every coat, blanket, and even newspapers they could find. They resembled the homeless, sleeping rough on the streets in winter.

  "We’ve done everything we can. Manfred reckons the starboard engine should start now."

  "And if it doesn't?"

  He gave Mikhail a noncommittal shrug. "If it doesn't, we stay on the ground."

  "And Maria dies," Nikolai grunted, his voice hoarse with pain.

  He was suffering badly from the stomach wound, although the job the doctor had done had staunched the bleeding, and the drugs dealt with much of the pain. But not all, his face still betrayed the gut wrenching agony he was enduring.

  Schiller gave him a cold smile. "In that case, I suggest you start praying. Or find the telephone number of a good aircraft mechanic."

  "Aircraft mechanic, why didn't you say earlier? Where do we find this person?"

  "This is an old aircraft, and it needs someone with specialist knowledge. The last we heard of was in Finland, about six hundred miles away."

  Nikolai scowled and didn't reply. At that moment, Neumann hurried into the cabin. "I’ve refitted the cowling, but there are trucks coming this way. Peter, try the engine. I have a feeling we’ve got company."

  "Official company?"

  "Yeah, I smell militia. If we're not off the ground in the next two minutes, they'll be here. All they need do is park a truck on the runway in front of us, and they can take their time and do whatever it is they've come to do. Kill us, take us into custody, who knows? All I do know is it's nothing good."

  Schiller nodded and went forward to the cockpit. He seated himself in the left-hand seat and flicked switches to activate the primitive electrical systems. He pressed the starter button for the starboard engine, and it whirred for thirty seconds. They’d all but given up hope when it coughed, and a cloud of smoke poured from the exhaust.

  Manfred gave him an anxious glance. “Open the throttle wide. The cylinders may be flooded with fuel."

  He pushed the throttle lever all the way forward and tried again. Another thirty seconds, and this time it coughed twice. He didn't wait for any further instructions, but pressed the button again, and a few seconds later the engine burst into life in clouds of black smoke. Without a pause, he pressed the starter button on the port engine, and it started almost at once. The engines ran rough for several seconds, but the militia were now clearly visible, no more than a minute away. Schiller let off the brakes, shouted for Manfred to close the cabin door, and the aircraft rolled forward. It reached the end of the taxiway, and Schiller swung her through one hundred and eighty degrees, into wind. He applied the brakes and pushed both throttles forward to maximum. The engines screamed as the revolutions built up, and when the plane was bucking and bumping, desperate to be free of the restraint that held it back, he released the brakes. The old biplane bounded forward and picked up speed along the runway. The militia trucks had turned onto the airfield, and they drove after them. A moment later, the first bullets slammed into the fuselage.

  "Get down, all of you. This is going to be hairy."

  They flung themselves flat, and Manfred scrambled into the co-pilot seat. He waited for the order, and as the ancient aircraft picked up speed, he called out the airspeed.

  “Forty, fifty, we’re too slow. Peter, there’s a truck coming after us. He’s getting closer, and they have a machine gun mounted above the cab. I can see a guy climbing out to use it."

  "Just call out the speed, dammit."

  "Fifty-five, sixty..."