This was another of Anton KretekOs survival mechanisms: to stay in the field and personally supervise as many of his operations as he could. It was a good way to know whom to trust and whom to purge.

  The plane, a Dornier 28D Skyservant STOL transport with twin engines and a high-set wing, ran another circuit around the beach airstrip and came in to land. With its engines throttled back to an idling mutter, it flared and settled between the rows of glow sticks, its fixed landing gear kicking up a thin, hissing spray of wet sand.

  Kretek aimed and flared his Aldis lamp again, guiding the plane in to a halt beside the trucks. The DornierOs propellers continued to flicker over, but its side cargo hatch swung open, disgorging a single figure.

  The man was small, dark and slender, and nervous with the world. A Palestinian Arab, his eyes moved constantly, trusting neither his environment nor his company.

  Good evening, my friend, good evening, the larger red-haired man called over the sound of the aircraft engines. Welcome to beautiful Albania.

  You are Kretek? the Palestinian demanded.

  So I have often been accused, Anton Kretek replied, setting the lamp on the hood of the Range Rover.

  The Arab was in no mood for jocularity. You have the material?

  ThatOs why we are both here, my friend. The arms dealer started toward the Mercedes truck. Come have a look for yourself.

  By the beam of a single flashlight, heavy cases of dark, waxed cardboard were being unloaded from the rear of the truck, the cases marked in the Cyrillic alphabet and bearing the international bomb-burst warning symbol for high explosives. Indicating that one case was to be set aside, Kretek flicked open a folding-bladed hunting knife and slashed through the yellow plastic strapping.

  Lifting the lid revealed tightly packed brick-sized blocks wrapped in waxed paper. Opening the wrapper revealed a dense, smooth puttylike material the color of margarine.

  Military-grade Semtex plastique. Kretek gestured at it. Twelve hundred kilogramsO worth, all of it less than three months old and completely stable. Guaranteed to kill Jews and send your dedicated volunteers on to their seventy-two virgins with smiles on their lips.

  The ArabOs head jerked up, a spark of anger in his dark, expressive eyes. The anger of the fanatic confronted with the shopkeeper. When you speak of the holy warriors of Muhammad and of the liberators of the Palestinian people, you will speak with respect!

  The arms runnerOs eyes went opaque and cold. Everyone is liberating something, my friend. As for me, I liberate money. You have your merchandise; now I will have my paymentNand Muhammad and the Palestinian people be damned.

  The Arab started to flare but then noted the circle of grim Slavic faces drawing in around the pool of flashlight. Sullenly he took a fat manila envelope from inside his jacket, tossing it down atop the open case of explosives.

  Kretek caught up the envelope. Opening it, he counted the neat strapped bundles of euros, verifying the denominations. It is good, he said finally. Load it.

  The ton and a half of high explosives went aboard the transport plane, the DornierOs crew balancing and tying down the lethal cargo. In a matter of minutes the last case was stowed and the Arab payoff man scrambled after it without a parting word or a look back. The fuselage doors slammed shut, and the planeOs propellers revved to taxiing power, blasting the arms smugglers with its sand-loaded slipstream.

  Again the Dornier raced down the faint flare path. Lifting into the black sky, it executed a climbing turn out over the Adriatic, its engines growing fainter with distance.

  KretekOs men dispersed once more to collect the glow sticks. In an hour or two, all evidence of the landing would be erased by the incoming tide.

  Kretek and his lieutenant trudged back to the Range Rover.

  IOm not sure if I like this, Anton, Mikhail Vlahovitch said, slinging his Agram over his shoulder. Squatter and balder than Kretek, the pan-featured exDSerbian Army officer was one of a very elite cadre within the Kretek Group permitted to call the arms dealer by his first name. You play a risky game with these people.

  Vlahovitch was also one of an even smaller cadre who had the ultimate privilege of questioning one of Anton KretekOs command decisions without being killed for it.

  WhatOs to be concerned about, Mikhail? Kretek chuckled fatly, slapping his second in command on his free shoulder. WeOve met their airplane. WeOve delivered the merchandise as we promised. We received the payment agreed upon, and they flew away. We have fulfilled our contract completely. As for what happens afterward? Who can say?

  But this will be their second shipment lost. The Arabs are bound to be suspicious!

  Pish, pish, pish, the Arabs are always suspicious. They are always certain everyone is out to persecute them. This can be a good thing. We can make use of this.

  Kretek paused beside the passenger door of the Range Rover. Reaching in through the lowered window, he popped open the glove compartment. When we negotiate our next series of arms sales to the Jihad, we will simply place the blame where it properly belongs. We will tell them that Israeli Mossad agents are operating in the Balkans and are attempting to interfere with the flow of armaments bound for the Mideast. Beyond hating everyone else, Arabs love to hate the Jews. They will be happy to blame them for the loss of their munitions.

  Kretek straightened, holding a gray metal box the size of a carton of cigarettes. He extended a telescoping aerial from the top of the box and flicked on a power switch, a green check light glowing in response.

  You will tell them about the Jews, Anton? Vlahovitch questioned skeptically.

  Why shouldnOt I? ItOs the truth, isnOt it? The Jews are responsible. Our terrorist friends are excellent clients. They pay us good money in exchange for the weapons and explosives we sell to them. They deserve to know the truth… Kretek flipped a safety guard up and off the central key on the transmitter. …just not quite all of it. ThereOs no need to mention all of the good money the Mossad is paying to see that those weapons and explosives never arrive.

  Kretek pressed with a calloused thumb. Out in the night a receiver-detonator carefully grafted inside a doctored block of Semtex reacted to the electronic impulse.

  There was a flash like ruddy heat lightning over the Adriatic, and the distant thud of a massive explosion as the Dornier and its crew vaporized.

  This is the secret of doing good business, Mikhail, Kretek said with satisfaction. You must always do your best to please as many clients as possible.

  The ancient stone-walled farmhouse had been built before the birth of Napoleon and had been occupied by successive generations of the same family for almost three centuries.

  In the United States this would have made it a historic landmark. In Albania this made it just another weary, overused building in an overused land.

  For the past fifty-odd years, a variety of governments had promised the occupants of the farm electricity soon, but only now had it arrived, in the form of the snarling Honda generators of the Kretek GroupOs headquarters.

  The straw pallets and crude homemade furnishings had been emptied from one of the damp sleeping rooms, replaced by the folding field desks, satellite phones, and civil sideband transceivers of the communications section. The guard force had made a billet of the barn, and their camouflaged pickets had the farm isolated from all contact with the outside world, from within or without, and the transport section had their vehicles concealed in the other outbuildings.

  The members of the headquarters unit were accustomed to such temporary quarters. They never remained in the same location for more than seven days at a time. One week in a resort villa on the Rumanian coast, the next on the rented top floor of a luxury hotel in Prague, the third aboard a fishing trawler cruising the Aegean, or, as now, a dank stone farmhouse in Albania.

  Never give your enemies a sitting targetNthat was yet another of Anton KretekOs survival precepts. The temptation to relax and wallow in the good life provided by his successes was strong, almost overwhelming at times, but the arms merchant knew that to be a road that led to disaster.

  It was also beneficial for the lads to see that the Old Man still had a sharp eye and a stone fist and that he wasnOt afraid to get it bloody. It was good for discipline.

  How did it go, Anton? KretekOs chief of communications asked as the arms dealer pushed through the low doorway into the farmhouseOs combined kitchen and living room.

  No difficulties, my friend, Kretek growled amiably. You may contact the Palestinians and tell them their shipment is on its way. Whether it will arrive… Kretek mugged a blank look and shrugged his broad shoulders.

  The men seated around the rough central table knew they should laugh.

  Barring the single glaring bulb of a safety light hung from an overhead beam, the room itself might have been a museum tableau from the eighteenth century with its low ceiling, its dingily whitewashed stone walls, and the broad fireplace that served for both cooking and heating, a vine-cutting fire smoldering on the blackened hearth. The puncheon plank floors were worn smooth from centuries of footsteps, and the outside entrance was a low-set, high-silled, skull-cracker doorway designed to slow the initial attacking rush of bandits and family enemies.

  It served as no defense to bandits invited into the house, however. The farmOs owner and his fourteen-year-old daughter stood silently near the fireplace, relying on the ancient peasantOs defense of unobtrusiveness.

  Ah, Gleska, my sweet, you awaited your knightOs return, and with hot tea. Just the thing for a cold morning.

  Unspeaking, the girl lifted the kettle from the fireplace crane and brought it to the table, filling one of the grime-opaque glasses with powerful twice-brewed black tea. Kretek dropped into the free chair beside the glass, squeezing the girlOs buttocks through her cheap cotton skirt. Thank you, my love. I will warm myself with your good tea, and then in a little bit, when I have finished my work, I will warm you.

  With a ferocious mock growl, he drew her in and buried his face between her almost non-existent breasts, eliciting another volley of coarse laughter from his men.

  At the fireplace a flare of impotent fury flashed in her fatherOs eyes, only to be masked instantly. He had been pleased when he had rented his farm to these men for more money than he could make with five years of hard labor. He had not known then that he would also be renting his only girl child. But he was Albanian, and he understood the rule of the gun. The men with the guns make the rules, and these men had a great many guns. The girl would survive, and they would survive as Albanian peasants had always survived: by enduring.

  Releasing the girl, Kretek poured sugar into his tea from the cracked bowl on the table. Anything new come in while I was delivering the shipment, Crencleu?

  Only one e-mail, sir. The communications chief passed a single sheet of hard copy across the table. On your personal address, in your house code.

  Kretek flipped open the sheet and studied the message. Slowly a wolflike smile broke through the brush of KretekOs beard.

  ItOs good news from the family, my friends, he said finally. Very good news, indeed.

  The pretense of joviality passed, and he looked up, eyes distant and intent. Crencleu, advise our Canadian point men that the arctic operation is on and that they are to proceed with preparations with all speed. Call in the selected force team and have them rendezvous at our point of departure in Vienna. Mikhail…

  Yes, sir, his executive officer spoke crisply. It was obvious the old wolf was on the track once more, this time for the richest prize in the groupOs history. Vlahovich had been unsure a few days before, when he had first heard of the arctic plan. It had seemed extreme, a wild long shot. But if it could be made to work, the payoff could be astronomical. Now even the dour Serb began to catch the fever.

  Inform all headquarters sections to load and prepare to move out. I wish to be on the road in… Kretek paused, and his eyes flicked toward the fireplace and the slim, silent figure standing beside it. The Albanian race had never been known for producing great beauties from among its women, and this little chit wasnOt much even at that, but she was here and she was young and she was paid for. …an hour and a half.

  He might as well get his moneyOs worth out of little Gleska before she and the rest of her family perished in their tragic house fire.

  E

  Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

  Fall meant fog in the Pacific Northwest. The landing lights of the jetliners sweeping in to the runways cut like slow comets through the sinking overcast, and the tops of the hotels along the airport strip faded out of existence in the gathering dusk, illuminated windows diffusing into a golden glow within the mist.

  As the bubble elevator climbed the exterior of the Doubletree Hotel tower, Jon Smith watched the sharp edges and details fade from the night. He wore knife-creased army greens, and he was alone for the moment. That would change presently. He was en route to link up with the other members of his team, one a stranger and the other not exactly a friend.

  He couldnOt blame Fred Klein for his personnel selection. The directorOs choice had been a logical one. HeOd worked with Randi Russell before. They had been thrown together on a number of missions, almost as if fate were perversely entangling their life paths. Smith recognized her as a first-class operator: experienced, dedicated, and highly intelligent, with a weirdly diverse set of talents and a useful capacity for total ruthlessness when required.

  But she came with a penalty.

  The elevator doors split and rumbled apart, and Smith stepped out into the dusty rose-and-bronze-themed entry of the rooftop restaurant and lounge. The hostess looked up from her podium expectantly.

  My name is Smith. IOm here to join the Russell party.

  The hostessOs brows lifted, and there was a momentOs open and curious appraisal. Yes, sir. Right this way, please.

  She led Smith across the low-lit lounge. Silenced by the dark carpeting underfoot, their steps didnOt break the murmur of subtle music and soft conversation. And then Smith understood the hostessOs flash of curiosity.

  Randi had selected a table in the sunken rear corner of the dining room, an isolated setting partially screened from the other patrons by a decorative planter wall. It was a table intended for privacy, suitable for the quiet planning conference to come.

  But it would also serve as a very suitable loversO rendezvous, and Smith was meeting with not just one exceptionally beautiful woman but with two.

  Smith smiled wryly to himself. He hoped the hostess would enjoy her mZnage ^ trois fantasy. She would have no idea how totally wrong she was.

  Hello, Randi, he said. I never knew you could fly a helicopter.

  She looked up from the table and nodded coolly. ThereOs a lot about me you donOt know, Jon.

  The first few seconds were never easy. The old twist in the guts was still there. Although Dr. Sophia Russell had been the older sister, she and Randi had been like twins. With the passage of time, the resemblance had grown almost eerie.

  He wondered sometimes what Randi saw when she looked at him. Likely nothing pleasant.

  Randi wore black suede tonight, a jacket, skirt, and boots outfit that matched the flare of her good looks and complemented the multitinted gold of her hair. Her dark eyes held his for a fraction of an instant, then darted away. Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, this is Professor Valentina Metrace.

  These eyes were gray under a glossy fringe of midnight-colored hair, and they met his, level and interested, with a glint of humor in their depths. The professor was in black as well, black satin evening pajamas that molded to a slim yet pleasantly curved figure, hinting that there was not a great deal worn underneath them. Checking into a motel must be hell, she said, extending her hand to him. Her voice was low, with a hint of something like a British accent.

  The hand was held palm down, not to be shaken but to have its slender fingers lightly clasped as a blood royal might accept the touch of a courtier.

  It was apparent that Valentina Metrace was an attractive woman who thoroughly enjoyed being an attractive woman and who enjoyed reminding men of the fact.

  The tension broke, and Smith took the offered hand for a moment. The spelling of the first name helps, he deadpanned.

  Smith ordered a pilsner to match RandiOs white wine and Professor MetraceOs martini. All right, he said, pitching his voice so it couldnOt carry to the next occupied table. This is the word as it has been given. Tomorrow weOre out of here on the eight forty-five Alaskan Airlines flight to Anchorage. Our equipment kit and our helicopter are being pre-positioned there. We will also be joining up with our Russian liaison officer, a Major Gregori Smyslov of the Federation Air Force.

  From Anchorage weOll fly ourselves to Sitka. There we rendezvous with the USS Alex Haley, the Coast Guard ice cutter that will carry us within range of Wednesday Island.

  Who are we? Randi inquiredNa peculiar question for anyone not in their peculiar trade.

  The cover story established for this operation will permit us to pretty much maintain our own identities, Smith replied. As Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, MD, IOll be acting as the mission pathologist, attached to Department of Defense graves registration. My primarily concern will be with the recovery and forensic identification of the bodies of the aircrew.

  Professor Metrace will also essentially be who she is, a civilian historical consultant working under contract with the DOD. Supposedly, her job will be the identification of the aircraft itself, should the wreck be of a U.S. Air Force B-29. Again, supposedly, Major Smyslov is to perform much the same duty should the plane prove to be a Russian TU-4. WeOll be maintaining the fiction that the bomberOs origins are still unknown, at least until we reach the crash site.

  YouOre the tricky one, Randi. As of this moment you are a civilian charter pilot flying for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. The Wednesday Island expedition is a multinational scientific project, and NOAA and the U.S. Coast Guard are providing the logistical support. That includes the insertion and extraction of the personnel. You and the Alex Haley are being sent up there to pull the expedition out before the onset of the polar winter. Your own name is probably safe, and appropriate cooked documentation will be provided with the equipment kit.