Labov’s driver would return to consciousness within the hour; whether or not he would have any specific recall of the Bentley filling with tear gas, his memory would be disjointed, hazy. He would awake to find his uniform reeking of cheap vodka, a bottle on the seat beside him, his passenger and charge gone; he would panic. No doubt he would place a call to Labov’s home; that angle had to be covered as well.

  Among the papers in Dmitri Labov’s wallet, Yuri Tarnapotsky had turned up Labov’s home phone number. From his cell phone—Moscow these days seemed to be overrun with mobile phones, Bryson had noticed — Tarnapolsky then placed a quick call to Masha, Labov’s wife.

  “Gospozha Labova,” he said in the obsequious tones of a low-level office functionary, “this is Sasha from the office. Sorry for the interruption, but Dmitri wanted me to call to say he’ll be somewhat delayed, he’s on an urgent phone call to France that can’t be interrupted, and he sends his apologies.” Lowering his voice, he added confidentially, “It’s just as well, since his regular driver seems to have hit the bottle again.” He gave an aggrieved sigh. “Which means I’ll have to make alternative arrangements. Ah, well. Good evening.” And he hung up before the wife could ask any questions. It would do; such delays were unavoidable in Labov’s line of work. When and if the chauffeur called in a state of agitation and disorientation, the wife would respond with anger or annoyance and would dismiss him at once.

  All this was reasonably straightforward. Labov’s suicide, however, was a loose end that had to be tied up as best they could. Bryson and Tarnapolsky were limited in what they could do, because the ex-KGB man was absolutely unwilling to place any calls to the Nortek office; assuming that all calls incoming or outgoing were recorded, he did not want a tape of his voice to be found. A solution had to be quickly improvised, an explanation for the suicide that might be accepted without too much follow-up investigation. It was Tarnapolsky who came up with the idea of planting various suspect items on Labov’s person and in his briefcase: a package of Vigor brand Russian-made condoms, a few soiled, dog-eared cards from less-than-reputable Moscow clubs known for the sexual hijinks that took place in private back rooms—Tarnapolsky had a small collection of such cartes de visite —and, the crowning touch, a half-used tube of ointment customarily used to treat the topical manifestation of certain more benign sexually communicable diseases. Quite likely such escapades were entirely alien to such a proper, work-oriented man as Labov; but it was precisely such a man who might react so violently to finding himself in the middle of a sordid embarrassment. Alcohol, tawdry sex: these were normal, everyday vices.

  Now it was a race: against time, against the likelihood that, one way or another, Prishnikov would learn that Nortek had been penetrated. Far too much could go wrong, Bryson knew. Labov’s limousine, with its semiconscious driver, could be identified by a vigilant militsiyoner and reported to Nortek headquarters. Labov’s wife could call his office back, for one reason or another. The risks were enormous, and Prishnikov would be quick to react. Bryson had to get out of Russia as soon as possible.

  Tarnapolsky drove his Audi at top speed to Vnukovo Airport, thirty kilometers southwest of Moscow. This was one of Russia’s domestic airports, serving all regions of the country but particularly the south. He had arranged with one of the new private aviation firms for an emergency, late-night flight to Baku for one of his wealthy clients, a businessman with extensive financial interests in Azerbaijan. Tarnapolsky had not gone into detail, of course, except to mention a sudden eruption of labor unrest at a factory, the factory director taken hostage. Given the suddenness of the booking, a substantial outlay of cash was required. Bryson had it, and was glad to pay it. Customs Control had to be paid off, as well, for expedited paperwork; this required another hefty sum.

  “Yuri,” said Bryson, “what’s in it for Prishnikov?”

  “You’re talking about the Jade Master, I take it. Yes?”

  “Yes. I know you’re well versed in the Chinese military, the PLA— you did your time in the KGB’s China sector. So what exactly would Prishnikov hope to gain from establishing an alliance with General Tsai?”

  “You heard what Labov said, my friend. Governments are powerless now. It’s the corporations that make the rules. If you’re an ambitious titan like Prishnikov and you want to control half of the world’s markets, there are few better partners than the Jade Master. He’s a ranking member of the PLA’s General Staff, the one most responsible for turning the People’s Liberation Army into one of the world’s largest corporations, and the man in charge of all of its commercial ventures.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Chinese military controls an astonishingly complex web of businesses, interlocking enterprises, vertically integrated. I mean, from automobile factories to airlines, from pharmaceuticals to telecommunications. Their real-estate holdings are vast—they own hotels all over Asia, including Beijing’s showpiece, the Palace Hotel. They own and operate most of China’s airports.”

  “But I thought the Chinese government had begun cracking down on the military—that the Chinese premier issued an executive decree ordering the army to begin divesting itself of all its businesses.”

  “Oh, Beijing tried, but the genie was already out of the bottle. What do you Americans say, the toothpaste was out of the tube? Perhaps it is better to talk of Pandora’s box. The fact is, it was too late. The PLA has become the most powerful force in China by far.”

  “But haven’t the Chinese slashed their defense budget a number of times in recent years?”

  Tarnapolsky snorted. “And then all the PLA has to do is go out and sell a few weapons of mass destruction to rogue nations. It’s like having a bake sale, or do you call it a yard sale? My dear Coleridge, the PLA’s economic might is simply beyond imagining. Now they’ve begun to recognize the strategic importance of telecom. They own and launch satellites; they own China’s largest telecommunications company; they’ve been working with the giants of the West—Lucent, Motorola, Qualcomm, Systematix, Nortel—to develop immense mobile phone and paging networks, information systems. It is said that the PLA now owns the skies over China. And the one true owner, the man in charge, the man behind it all—is the Jade Master. General Tsai.”

  As Tarnapolsky’s Audi pulled up to the airstrip, Bryson saw a small plane, a brand-new Yakovlev-112, waiting on the runway. He could see at once that it was a single-engine prop four-seater. It was tiny, surely the smallest craft in the company’s fleet.

  Tarnapolsky saw Bryson’s surprise. “Believe me, my friend, this was the best I could do on such notice. There are far bigger, far nicer planes—they mentioned their YAK-40, their Antonov-26—but all were in use.”

  “It’ll do, Yuri. Thanks. I owe you.”

  “Let’s just call it a business gift … .”

  Bryson cocked his head. He heard the squealing of brakes not far off; when he turned to look, he saw a massive, wide Humvee, black and glossy, roaring down the airstrip toward them.

  “What the hell is this?” exclaimed Yuri. The Humvee’s doors flew open, and three black-clad men jumped out, wearing black face masks and the black Kevlar-and-nylon garb of commandos.

  “Get down!” shouted Bryson. “Shit! We have no weapons!”

  Tarnapolsky, diving to the floor of the Audi, pulled out a tray mounted under the front seat. It held several weapons and piles of ammunition. Yuri handed Bryson a Makarov 9mm automatic pistol, then pulled out a large Kalashnikov Bizon submachine gun, a Russian Spetsnaz weapon. There was a sudden hail of bullets, and the Audi’s windscreen turned white with starburst cracks. The glass, Bryson realized, was at least partially bullet-resistant. He crouched down. “This car isn’t armored, is it?”

  “Light,” replied the KGB man as he shouldered the weapon and took a deep, slow breath. “Level One. Use the doors.”

  Bryson nodded; he understood. The doors were reinforced with either high-strength fiberglass or a synthetic composite, meaning he could use them as shields.

  Another burst of ammunition, and the commandos, visible through the side window, assumed firing stance. “Special delivery from Prishnikov,” Tarnapolsky said, almost under his breath.

  “The wife called,” Bryson said, the instant he realized it. But how did Prishnikov know where to dispatch his commandos? Perhaps the answer was simple: the fastest way out of Russia was by air, and anyone foolish enough to take down Prishnikov’s most valued assistant had better escape the country without delay. Moreover, there were just a few airports near Moscow, only two of them having the facilities to handle private planes. A last-minute booking, made urgently … Prishnikov had made a calculated guess, and he had guessed right.

  Tarnapolsky sprang his door open, sprang to the ground, crouching behind it, and fired off a burst of machine-gun fire. “Yob tvoyu mat!” he growled: Fuck your mother.

  One of the marksmen fell, taken out by Tarnapolsky.

  “Good shot,” Bryson said. A line of shots moved across the opaquewhite windshield, spraying tiny pebbles of tempered glass at Bryson’s face. He unlatched the car door on his side, got directly behind it, and fired off a few rounds at the two remaining commandos. At the same time, Tarnapolsky got off another burst of fire, and a second man sprawled to the paved landing strip.

  One more remained—but where?

  Bryson and Tarnapolsky scanned the dark field on either side, searching for movement. The landing lights illuminated the blacktop but not the surrounding fields, where the third man had to be concealed, lying in wait, weapon at the ready.

  Tarnapolsky fired off a round at what appeared to be movement, but there was no response. He stood up, wheeled around, aiming the Bizon toward the dark area on the other side of the landing strip, nearest Bryson.

  Where the hell was he?

  Prishnikov’s men were surely outfitted with rubber-soled boots, enabling them to move silently, stealthily. Gripping the Makarov in both hands, he moved it around in a slow circuit, starting from his far right and moving steadily counterclockwise.

  By the time he saw the tiny, dancing red dot on the back of Tarnapolsky’s head, it was too late for Bryson to do anything but cry out.

  “Get down!” he shouted.

  But an exploding bullet had entered Yuri Tarnapolsky’s head, blowing his face off.

  “Oh, Christ!” Bryson shouted in horror as he spun around. He caught a flicker of reflected light, saw a tiny movement on or near the plane, several hundred feet away. The third sniper had positioned himself against the aircraft, using it as protection. Bryson repositioned the Makarov, exhaled slowly, and squeezed off one precisely aimed shot.

  There was a distant cry, the clatter of a weapon on the tarmac. The third commando, the one who had killed Yuri Ivanovich Tarnapolsky, was dead.

  Casting a look back at the corpse of his friend, Bryson leaped out of the Audi and ran toward the plane. Others would be on the way, in greater numbers; his only chance of survival was to get on board the aircraft and pilot it himself.

  He ran to the Yakovlev-112, jumped onto the wing, and swung into the pilot’s seat, closing the hatch behind him. He strapped himself in, sat back against the seat, closed his eyes. Now what? Flying the plane itself was not a problem; he had sufficient hours in the air and had performed numerous emergency departures in his Directorate years. The problem, instead, would be navigating in Russian air space without clearance, without support from the tower. But what choice was there? Returning to Tarnapolsky’s car meant heading back into the jaws of Prishnikov’s commandos, and that was not an acceptable option.

  He inhaled, held his breath, then turned the ignition key. The engine caught right away. He checked the instruments and began slowly taxiing toward the end of the runway.

  He couldn’t ignore the tower, he knew. To take off without being in contact with the air-traffic controller was not only risky, even potentially fatal, but it would be viewed by the Russian Air Force as a deliberate provocation. Measures would be taken.

  He keyed the microphone and spoke in English, the language spoken by international flight controllers. “Vnukovo Clearance, Yakovlev-112, RossTran three niner niner foxtrot. Number one for runway three, straight-out departure. Ready for clearance to Baku.”

  The reply came back after a few seconds, staticky yet brisk: “Shto? What? Did not copy, say again.”

  “RossTran three niner niner foxtrot,” he repeated. “Ready for departure via Vnukovo three, ready to taxi.”

  “You have no flight plan, RossTran three nine nine!”

  Undeterred, Bryson persisted. “Vnukovo Ground, RossTran three niner niner foxtrot, ready for taxi. Climb and maintain ten thousand. Expect flight level two hundred fifty ten minutes after departure. Departure frequency one-one-eight point five five. Squawk four six three seven.”

  “RossTran, hold, I repeat, hold! You have no authorization!”

  “Vnukovo Ground, I’m flying certain high-ranking Nortek executives on an emergency visit to Baku,” he said, assuming the characteristic above-the-law arrogance of Prishnikov’s minions. “The flight plans should have been filed. You have my serial number; you can call Dmitri Labov to verify.”

  “Ross Tran —”

  “Anatoly Prishnikov would be extremely unhappy to learn that you are interfering with the administration of his businesses. Perhaps, Comrade Air Traffic controller, you could tell me your name and identification.”

  There was a pause, several seconds of radio silence. “Go ahead,” the voice snapped. “Fly at your own risk.”

  Bryson applied the throttle, accelerated toward the end of the runway, and the plane lifted off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Monsignor Lorenzo Battaglia, Ph.D.—senior curator at the Chiaramonti Museum, one of the many specialized collections within the Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontifice, the Vatican museums, in the Citta del Vaticano — had not seen Giles Hesketh-Haywood for many years, and he wasn’t exactly overjoyed to see him again.

  The two men were meeting in a magnificent, damask-walled reception room off the Galleria Lapidaria. Monsignor Battaglia had been a curator at the Vatican museums for twenty years, and his connoisseurship was respected around the world. Giles Hesketh-Haywood, his effete English visitor, had always struck him as a faintly absurd, even comical, creature, with those oversized round tortoise-shell spectacles, those bright silk neckties that swelled flamboyantly from a very tight knot, the checkered vests, those gold horseshoe cufflinks, the old briar bowl stuck jauntily in his breast pocket, the posh accent. He reeked of golden cavendish tobacco. His charm was boundless, if oily. Hesketh-Haywood was an upper-class twit, in some ways—so teddibly English—but his trade was an unsavory one. Ostensibly, he was a dealer in antiquities, but really he was nothing more than a high-end fence.

  Hesketh-Haywood, part connoisseur, part out-and-out crook, was the sort of shady fellow who vanishes for years at a time before showing up on the yacht of some Middle Eastern oil sheik. Though he was steadfastly vague about his past, the Monsignor had heard all the rumors: that his family was once of the high-living English gentry but fell on hard times in the postwar Laborite era. That Hesketh-Haywood had been educated among the scions of great wealth, but by the time he got out of school, his family had nothing left but a mountain of debt. Giles was a scamp, a rogue, a delightfully unscrupulous fellow who started out smuggling archaeological antiquities out of Italy, no doubt bribing the export licensing board. He was very gray-market, but some extraordinary artifacts had passed through his hands. If you didn’t want to know how they came into his possession, you knew enough not to ask. Men like Hesketh-Haywood were tolerated in the art world only because of those rare occasions on which they could be useful—he had in fact once proved useful to the Monsignor, conducting a certain “transaction” that the Monsignor prayed the world would never learn about—but the cordiality displayed by the Monsignor was now paper-thin. For the favor that Hesketh-Haywood was now asking him was astonishing, appalling.

  Monsignor Battaglia closed his eyes for a moment to summon the words he needed, and then he leaned forward and spoke gravely to his visitor. “What you propose is out of the question, Giles. It is far more than a ‘prank.’ It is an outright scandal.”

  The Monsignor had never seen Hesketh-Hayvood’s supreme self-satisfaction waver, and it wasn’t wavering now. “A scandal, Monsignor?” Giles Hesketh-Haywood’s eyes, magnified behind the thick lenses, looked both owlish and amused. “But there are so many kinds of scandal, are there not? For instance, the intelligence that a senior Vatican official, a world-renowned expert in the art and artifacts of the ancient world, an ordained priest to boot—that this gentleman maintains a mistress on Via Sebastiano Veniero—well, some people aren’t quite so enlightened as we are about such things, isn’t that so?”

  The Englishman leaned back in his chair and waggled a long, slender finger in the air. “But it’s the money, not the women, that may cause the greater dismay. And sweet young Alessandra continues to enjoy her comfortable demaine, I trust. Comfortable—some might say lavish, especially given the rather modest salary of the Vatican curator who supports her.” He sighed, shook his head contentedly. “But I like to think that I’ve made my contribution to that worthy cause.”

  Monsignor Battaglia could feel his face turn red. A vein on his temple started to throb.

  “Perhaps there is an accommodation that we might reach,” Battaglia said at last.

  Those thick-sensed round spectacles were starting to give Bryson a splitting headache, but at least he had achieved what he’d come to Rome to do. He was exhausted, having landed the small plane at an airfield outside of Kiev, safely outside of Russian airspace, and taken two connecting flights on a commercial airliner to Rome. The call he had placed to the Monsignor had been answered right away, as he knew it would be, for the curator was almost always interested in what Giles Hesketh-Haywood had to offer.