Again Smyslov gave a bitter smile. You see? We are not all like the MishaOs political officer.

  Smith rucked SmyslovOs bloodstained parka sleeve down over the fresh dressing. IOd already come to that conclusion, Major.

  He closed his medical kit and leaned back against the green ice wall of the cave, the SR-25 propped beside him. IOve also come to the conclusion that youOre right about the attack on the science station. The numbers donOt add up for it to have been Spetsnaz. IOve got to assume our third faction is now present on the island, and given the way Randi was handled, that presence is nasty and formidable.

  I would agree, Colonel.

  Then, given that your mission to prevent the truth being revealed about the Soviet first strike is indeed FUBAR, would you agree that we again have common cause over our mission, preventing the MishaOs bioweapons from falling into the wrong hands?

  Smyslov smiled without humor. My superiors might not agree, but personally, I should like not to fuck up entirely. That anthrax could find its way into the hands of the Chechen rebels or another of our domestic terrorist groups. It could be used against Moscow or St. Petersburg as easily as against New York or Chicago. This is what matters now.

  Smith extended his hand. Welcome back, Major.

  The Russian accepted his handclasp. ItOs good to be back, Colonel. What are your orders?

  Smith glanced toward the rear of the cave. Our best intelligence source concerning this new faction is unavailable for the moment. When and if we can talk with her, then we can make some plans. For now, how about a cup of tea?

  A few minutes later the two men hunched over steaming canteen cups, letting the warmth seep in through their fingers.

  I have to admit, Major, Smith said, that one question still keeps nagging at me. ItOs the other half of the March Fifth equation: why the Soviet attack was recalled at the last minute.

  Smyslov shook his head. IOm sorry, I cannot say, Colonel. I must respect the last remaining rags of my nationOs security.

  You might as well tell him, Gregori, ValentinaOs voice issued from the mound of sleeping bags. IOve figured that bit out as well.

  SmyslovOs head snapped around. How could you?

  ValentinaOs sigh whispered in the ice cave. Because IOm a historian and because IOm very good at playing connect-the-dots. The Misha 124 crashed on Wednesday Island on March fifth, 1953, and the USSR came within a hairsbreadth of starting the Third World War on March fifth, 1953. One other major sociopolitical event involving the Soviet Union took place on that date as well. Logic indicates this one must be related to the other two.

  What was it? Smith demanded.

  March fifth, 1953, was the day Joseph Stalin died. Valentina twisted around so they could make out the pale oval of her face. Or rather, the day he was assassinated. Your people did off the bastard, didnOt they, Gregori?

  For a long moment, the only sound was the nagging whine of the wind.

  WeOve always suspected, Valentina went on. As history currently records it, Stalin was stricken by a massive cerebral hemorrhage on the night of February the twenty-eighth, while he was in residence at the Kremlin. Supposedly he was incapacitated and rendered semicomatose by the stroke, remaining in that state until his death on March fifth. But the world has always wondered. It was held there was something OfunnyO about the rather sketchy account made by the Soviet government of StalinOs death. There were also rather broad hints made by StalinOs daughter, Svetlana, that the true story of her fatherOs demise was not being revealed.

  The historian shifted her position, trying not to disturb Randi. Of course, rumors and conspiracy theories cluster like flies around the death of any controversial national leader. Call it the Ograssy knoll syndrome.O But given StalinOs decidedly notorious nature and the nature of the Soviet regime at the time, this conspiracy theory seemed a little more solidly founded than most.

  Now, with the truth about the Misha 124 and the SovietsO aborted first strike coming out, the whole question is going to blow wide open again. IOm sorry, Gregori, but there is not going to be a plausible deniability here, and anything we guess will likely be worse than the reality.

  Disgusted, Smyslov looked up at the roof of the cave. Shit! Closing his eyes, he was silent for a few moments more before replying. You are quite right, Professor. As you say, Stalin was stricken with a stroke, but he did not pass into a coma. He was partially paralyzed but he remained conscious, alert, and capable of giving orders. And his orders were for the immediate launching of the decisive finishing attack against the Western democracies.

  Who can say why? Possibly his mental capacities were diminished by the stroke. Possibly he foresaw his imminent death and he wanted to witness the final triumph of the PeopleOs Revolution before he died. Or possibly he just wanted the world to end with him. Be that as it may, there were other members of the Politburo who viewed such an attack as national suicide.

  Would it have been? Smith inquired.

  In the spring of 1953, yes, Valentina answered. The West would have had a decisive edge in any nuclear exchange. By then, the United States and Great Britain possessed several hundred atomic weapons and even a couple of prototype hydrogen bombs. The Soviets had only a couple of dozen low-yield Hiroshima-grade nukes in their arsenal. Even with the first-strike advantage and augmented by biological and chemical warfare, it wouldnOt have been enough to deliver a finishing blow to NATO.

  More critically, the West had the superior delivery systems. The Soviets only had their poor old B-29skis, while the United States Air Force had the big B-36 Peacemaker, with range enough to hit any target in the USSR. The first generation of NATO jet strike aircraft like the B-47 and the Canberra were also coming into service in considerable numbers.

  Western Europe would have been made a thorough mess of, Valentina concluded, and the United States would have been badly hurt. But Russia and the Warsaw Pact states would have been A-bombed into a radioactive wasteland.

  Smyslov scowled and sipped his tea. As I said, a clique within the Politburo fully recognized this reality. They also recognized there is only one way to impeach a dictator of StalinOs kind. I regret to tell you, Professor, that history will never know the name of the individual who held the pillow over StalinOs face until he ceased to struggle. It was most carefully not documented.

  ThatOs all right, Gregori. It could only have been one of three men, and I can make an educated guess.

  Smyslov shrugged. The clique was not able to act and secure power until after the first-strike wave was actually airborne and en route to their targets. These were the America bombers with the greatest distance to fly over the Pole. The attack was successfully recalled before it was detected by the North American air defenses, and all of the aircraft returned safely to base. All except for one biological weapons platform, the Misha 124.

  Smyslov emptied his cup. The great konspiratsia of silence concerning the March Fifth Event began then and has continued to this day.

  Why did they have to hold it a secret? Smith asked. TheyOd just saved the world from a nuclear holocaust, and it wasnOt as if any sane individual would weep any crocodile tears over Joseph Stalin, not even in the Soviet Union.

  Smyslov shook his head. You do not understand the Russian mind, Colonel. Had StalinOs killers been true liberators, this might have been the case, but they were merely tyrants killing another tyrant to save their own lives and to secure their own power base. Beyond that, the Soviet state still existed, and the mythology of the state demanded that Stalin be revered as a hero of the Revolution. Even after the Soviet Union fell, its fears and paranoias lingered.

  His lips quirked ruefully, and he set his empty cup aside. Besides that, we Russians have something of a social inferiority complex. We pride ourselves as being profoundly civilized, and murdering oneOs national leader in his sickbed is simply not kulturny.

  Smith snapped back into wakefulness, straightening out of his dozing slouch against the ice wall. Ignoring the stabbing barrage of protests from his collection of bruises, he listened, questing with all his senses.

  He wasnOt sure how long he had slept; it must have at least been a couple of hours, but there was still a patch of full blackness in the entrance air vent. The sun had yet to rise, but the wind had died. The only sound from the outside was the distant creak and crack of the shifting pack ice. Inside the little cavern he could hear the deep, weary breathing of his sleeping teammates.

  And a soft moan. Sophie?

  Smith scrambled to the rear of the cave. Snapping on the lantern, he flipped down the hood flap of the combined sleeping bags that held Randi and Valentina.

  In the lanternOs light RandiOs face was relaxed, and the color had returned to her skin, barring a single pale patch of frostnip on one brow and the shadows under her eyes. The dreadful gray flaccidity had passed. Her breathing was easy and uncongested, and when Smith lightly touched her throat, her heartbeat was even and strong and the flesh was warm.

  As he had hoped, Randi Russell was rebounding.

  At his touch, she grumbled softly and her eyes snapped open, blank at first, then questioning, then aware with the wonderment of still being alive. Jon?

  Relief flooded through him. It wouldnOt be today after all. You made it, Randi. YouOre with us and youOre going to be all right.

  She looked at him almost in puzzlement, lifting her head. Jon…I called.

  And I heard you.

  The puzzlement lingered in her dark eyes for a moment more; then she smiled. I guess you did.

  Valentina yawned and stretched, coming up on her elbow. Good morning, all. Apparently somebodyOs back with us.

  Startled, Randi twisted around in the sleeping bag, finding herself naked and not alone. What in the hell! she yelped.

  ItOs perfectly all right, darling, Valentina replied, propping her head on one slim wrist. Nobody waits until after theyOre married anymore.

  E

  The White House, Washington, DC

  President Castilla rose from the head of the long mahogany conference table. Gentlemen, if you will excuse me for a moment, thereOs a call I have to take.

  Castilla strode from the conference room, following his sober-featured Marine aide. The liaison officers from the Central Intelligence, Defense Intelligence, and National Security Agencies; the FBI; and the Office of Homeland Security exchanged silent glances, wondering what might be critical enough to preempt the morningOs national intelligence briefing.

  In the Oval Office, Castilla lifted the internal phone from its cradle without bothering to seat himself behind the big mesquite-wood desk. Castilla here.

  Mr. President, this is the Operations Room. Please be advised, the Wednesday Island relief mission has launched and is airborne at this time.

  Castilla glanced at his desk clock. Twenty after. Major Saunders would have gotten his last weather update on the quarter hour, and true to his word, heOd been airborne within five minutes.

  Has Director Klein been notified?

  Affirmative, Mr. President. He is monitoring the situation.

  Do we have an ETA over the objective?

  Roughly six hours, depending upon the weather conditions encountered en route. The operations officer sounded faintly apologetic. TheyOve got over two thousand miles to fly, sir.

  I understand, Major. Wednesday Island is one of those places you canOt get to from here. Keep me advised as things develop.

  Will do, Mr. President. Please be advised, the Russian Special Liaison to the Wednesday Island Operation is still unavailable. Do you wish to inform the Russians of the relief operation?

  Castilla scowled at the bars of morning sunlight cutting across the rich reds and blues of the Navaho rug on the office floor. Negative, Major. ItOs apparent they have nothing more to say to us, and we have nothing more to say to them.

  E

  The North Face, Wednesday Island

  Randi Russell wasnOt sure about the existence of a place called heaven. But if such an environment did exist, she was now certain of two things: it would be warm, and you wouldnOt be alone.

  Okay, try that, Jon Smith said, rocking back on his heels.

  Experimentally she flexed the fingers of her right hand. Jon had lightly bandaged them after applying a thin layer of antibiotic ointment. At her insistence he had done each digit separately so she could still have full use of the hand.

  ItOs not bad, she replied. They sort of itch and tingle a little but not too bad.

  Smith nodded, looking pleased. ThatOs good. I think you picked up a good touch of chilblain climbing that cliff, but I donOt think youOve taken any permanent damage.

  Apparently youOll still be able count to ten without taking your shoes off. Valentina sat up in the doubled sleeping bag, working on the handcuff around RandiOs left wrist. Even clad in thermal underwear and with an unzipped parka draped over her shoulders, the professor still exuded a certain air of raffish elegance.

  Randi found she couldnOt be annoyed. In fact, there was almost a partylike atmosphere in the little ice cave. There was no logical reason for it. They were still on Wednesday Island, still hiding and surrounded by enemies, but the team was whole again.

  Valentina gave a final delicate twist of the lock probe, and the handcuff loop snicked open. There you go, darling. You have your wrist back.

  Thank you, Randi smiled. ItOs appreciated.

  Beyond your hands, how do you feel? Smith went on, touching her cheek with the back of a bared hand, hunting for signs of a fever.

  IOm fine, Randi replied in a knee-jerk response.

  He continued to regard her with a disconcertingly level gaze, the very faintest of knowing smiles on his face.

  Randi sighed. All right, she replied. I feel like an old dishrag thatOs been wrung out too many times. ItOs like IOm never going to be warm inside again and IOm never going to feel not tired again and all I want to do is sleep for another thousand years. Satisfied?

  SmithOs taciturn features broke into one of the rare boyish grins that involved his full face, the smile Sophie had talked about. That sounds about right, he replied. IOm not hearing any pulmonary congestion, and your body temperature seems to be back where itOs supposed to be, so I think you were knocked out more by simple exhaustion than deep-core exposure. Still, stay warm.

  I wonOt argue. Randi burrowed gratefully deeper into her sleeping bag. She was back in her own thermal long johns, and the pellet stove and their combined body heat had brought the interior of the cave up to close to freezing, but it wasnOt exactly cozy. But still, feeling this awful now is a vast improvement over how I felt last night.

  The smile on SmithOs face snapped away, replaced by a faint disapproving frown. Randi sensed it was aimed inward. IOm sorry about what happened at the station, Randi. I shouldnOt have left you hanging like that. My fault.

  I didnOt exactly shine, either, Jon. I never should have let that little shit Kropodkin take me like he did. She smiled wryly and then sadly. IOm supposed to be good. Maybe if IOd been a little better, I might have gotten Trowbridge out.

  IOm finding you canOt live on might-haves, Randi. We all have to make do on best-we-cans.

  Smyslov hunched his way back from the cave entrance and hunkered down on his heels, joining the group at the sleeping bags. We have no wind outside and no snow. The sea smoke has come in heavily, but I believe it will burn off soon. It looks like it will be a lovely day, at least for the eightieth parallel.

  As soon as he has a clear sky, Kretek will go for the anthrax, Randi said.

  Over their sketchy tea-and-energy-bar breakfast, she and the others had exchanged briefings over events at the Misha crash site and the science station. At last, they had the full picture of all they were facing. Only it wasnOt an attractive one.

  Valentina opened the gun cleaning kit and took the model 70 across her knees. What are we going to do about it, Jon? she said, opening the bolt and dumping the shells out of the magazine trap.

  Frankly, thatOs an excellent question. WeOve got two bands of hostiles out there, both of whom outgun us and both of whom have a vested interest in killing us on sight.

  Smith closed the heavy-duty zip on his medical kit and slouched back against the ice wall. One valid strategy is to do nothing. WeOve got good concealment and shelter here, and last nightOs storm would have erased our trails. WeOve also been out of communication for too long. There was a Mike force standing by in Alaska, and itOs probably inbound right now. If we sit tight and stay quiet for the next few hours, the odds are we wonOt be found until after the cavalry arrives.

  Randi came up on one elbow. But that concedes the anthrax to Kretek. HeOs expecting the arrival of outside forces. HeOs wired that into his planning. I heard his people talking about it. By timing off the weather and the flight distances, he figures he can get up to the wreck, pull the bioagent reservoir, and get out before he can be interfered with. And given the way heOs outfitted, I think he has a pretty good chance of doing it.

  Smith nodded. IOll agree with that assessment. If Kretek is going to be stopped, we have to be the ones to do it.

  Smith shifted his position and idly fished something silver out of his pocket, SmyslovOs cigarette lighter/radio transponder. Major, hereOs a question for you. Could you bring your Spetsnaz over to our side? In the face of the threat of the anthrax falling into terrorist hands, could you get them to help us against Kretek and his people?

  An expression akin to despair crossed the RussianOs face. I have been thinking of this as well, Colonel. But in the eyes of my government the bioweapons aboard the Misha are entirely secondary to the security of the March Fifth Event. That was made most clear to me in my own mission briefing. The Spetsnaz platoon commander will no doubt have been given specific orders to this effect from a higher command. I have no authorization to change those orders, and he will be aware of it. He will view you and your knowledge as the primary threat, not the anthrax.

  What about getting those orders changed? Smith insisted.

  The Russian shook his head. Impossible within our time frame and probably impossible altogether. I would have to contact the Spetsnaz force, then I would have to arrange a rendezvous with the submarine that transported them here to get access to long-range communications. Then I would have to convince my superiors to overturn a fifty-year-old standing security policy. Smyslov grimaced a bitter smile and shrugged. Even if I somehow succeeded in this miracle, the anthrax would be gone long before I could get the orders changed. In all probability you and the ladies would be long dead as well.