I have no idea what youOre talking about, Professor, Randi replied stiffly. There are no problems between Colonel Smith and myself.

  Oh, please, Miss Russell. The atmosphere over that table was so charged it would have registered on a Geiger counter. IOve never worked with either you or Smith before, but I gather you must have operated with the colonel in the past. I must also assume that you both must be reasonably competent members of the Club, or you wouldnOt be here. But it is also obvious something has gone off between you.

  Damn it! And Randi had been priding herself on the way sheOd been keeping the lid on. ItOs nothing for you to concern yourself about, Professor.

  Metrace shook her head impatiently. Miss Russell. I am a professional at this game. That means I donOt work with people I donOt trust, and right now IOm not trusting anybody. Before I take another step forward on this operation, I want to know what exactly the bloody hell is going on between my theoretical teammatesNin detail!

  Randi could recognize the gambit in play: belligerence, probably feigned, and a sudden slashing assault. Metrace was not merely demanding information. She was probing, testing RandiOs reaction.

  The CIA operative strove to suppress her instinctive flare of anger. I suggest that you discuss this matter with Colonel Smith.

  Oh, I fully intend to, darling. But heOs not available at the moment, and you are. Beyond that, Smith seemed to be handling affairs better. You seem to be the one with her knickers in a knot. Illuminate me.

  This woman was infuriating, or at least that was how she desired to be at the moment. I can assure you that any dealings I may have had with Colonel Smith in the past will have no effect on our current assignment whatsoever.

  IOll be the judge of that, Metrace replied flatly.

  Randi felt her control cracking. Then you may judge that itOs none of your damn business!

  Keeping my skin intact is my business, Miss Russell, one that I devote a great deal of loving attention to. And right now I am sensing a sour team and a mission aborted before it launches, because of personnel problems. IOm one of the mission specialists, thus, indispensable. I suspect Colonel Smith is as well. That leaves the little helicopter girl to get the black ball. I assure you that you can be replaced, darling. Now, watch me walk out of here and make it happen!

  The confrontation hovered on the verge of critical mass. But both women recognized that if a blow was thrown, it would be no scratch-and-slap cat fight; one or the other or both of them would be dead or critically maimed in seconds.

  Finally, Randi took a deep, shuddering breath. Damn this woman and damn Jon Smith and damn herself. But if they were going to be operating together, Metrace had the right to ask and Randi the responsibility to answer.

  Ten years ago a young army officer that I was very much in love with was serving with a peacekeeping force in the Horn of Africa. We were going to be married when he got home. But he contracted something out of the African disease pool, something that medical science was just beginning to recognize. He was evacuated to a Navy hospital ship and placed under the care of an army doctor who was serving aboard at the time.

  Valentina relaxed minutely. Colonel Smith?

  He was a captain then. He made a misdiagnosis. It wasnOt really his fault, I suppose. Only a few tropical disease specialists really understood the illness at the time. But my fiancZ died.

  The silence returned to the room. Randi took another deep breath and went on. Some time later, Major Smith met my older sister, Sophia. She was a doctor, too, a research microbiologist. They fell in love and were engaged to be married when he convinced her to come and work with him at the U.S. Army Medical Institute for Infectious Diseases. Do you remember the Hades plague?

  Of course.

  Randi kept her eyes fixed on the blandly patterned wallpaper. USAMRIID was one of the first agencies called in to try and isolate the disease and find a cure. While working with the plague, my sister caught it.

  And she died as well. Valentina MetraceOs voice softened into compassion. The test was over.

  Randi could meet the other womanOs gaze now. Since then IOve found myself working with Jon on a number of different assignments. For some reason we just keep getting tangled up with each other. She continued with a wry, self-derogatory smile. IOve come to recognize that heOs a good operative and essentially a good person. IOve also come to recognize that whatOs happened in the past is…past. I promise you, Professor, that IOll have no problem working with him as my team leader. He knows his business. ItOs only that I have some memories to work through whenever we first come together.

  Valentina nodded. I see.

  She turned for the door but paused halfway through the move. Miss Russell, would you like to have breakfast with me tomorrow, before we get on the plane?

  She put no special emphasis on the we in the sentence. It was offered as a given.

  RandiOs responding smile was open this time. IOd like that, Professor. And call me Randi.

  And Val for me. I apologize for coming on quite so strong. I was a bit uncertain about the scenario. I wasnOt sure if I might not be getting caught up in the fallout of some former romantic entanglement.

  Between Jon and me? Randi chuckled ruefully. Not likely.

  The other womanOs smile deepened. Good.

  After Valentina Metrace had left, Randi frowned. There had been no reason for the black-haired historian to look quite so pleased with that last answer she had been given.

  E

  Over the Straits of Juan de Fuca

  The Alaska Airlines 737-400 swept over the island-studded band of water separating the Olympic Peninsula and the United States from Vancouver Island and Canada. With cloud tendrils licking at its belly, it angled away to the northwest. As the Boeing leveled off at its cruising altitude, Jon Smith loosened his seat belt. The midweek morning flight to Anchorage was half empty, and he had the dual luxuries of no seat partner and a spot in the spacious A row just behind the cockpit bulkhead.

  For the first time in weeks he was in civilian clothes, his uniform exchanged for LeviOs and a well-worn bush jacket. The change was a pleasant one. Glancing over the seat back, he could see Randi Russell and Professor Metrace spaced out farther back in the cabin.

  Since last night Randi had apparently reestablished her equanimity with him. Looking up from the helicopter flight manual sheOd been studying, she gave him a brief smile.

  The professor was also reading, her nose buried in a massive bookmark-studded study of the Warsaw Pact Air Forces.

  Professor. It still sounded odd.

  His own briefcase rested under his seat, loaded with the latest USAMRIID downloads on the rapid diagnosis and identification of anthrax variants and their treatments. HeOd get to them presently, but for the moment it felt good to sit back, stretch his legs out, and close his eyes against the warm morning sun pouring through the cabin window. Soon heOd have no time or opportunity to unload so totally.

  Mind if I sit down, Jon?

  He snapped out of the semidoze heOd drifted into. Valentina Metrace was standing in the aisle, a cup of coffee steaming in her hand and a mildly amused expression on her face.

  Smith grinned back. Why not?

  She flowed past him to curl up in the window seat. The professor was apparently one of those women who preferred to be elegant at all times. This morning she wore a form-molding black sweater and ski pants set, and her hair was up in the sleek chignon she seemed to favor. Smith found himself wondering for a moment how far that dark, glossy cascade might flow down her back should it be set free.

  Despite the pleasant distraction, he still shot a fast look around, checking the immediate environment. The seat rows across and behind them were still unoccupied, granting them a pocket of privacy.

  Valentina was security wary as well, for when she spoke she kept her voice pitched below the whine of the fan jets.

  I was thinking we could use this opportunity to talk freely before our liaison joins up. Tell me, Colonel, whatOs your policy going to be toward our gallant Russian ally?

  It was a good question. Until proven otherwise, we are to assume all of the brothers are valiant and all of the sisters virtuous, Smith replied. As long as the Russians appear to be playing straight with us, weOll do the same for them. But the operative word is Oappear.O Our instructions are to play like the deck is loaded. WeOre to assume the Russians have another layer on this thing.

  Metrace took a sip of her coffee. I think that we may call that a blinding flash of the obvious.

  They had to lean close to speak, and Smith couldnOt help but note that his executive officer smelled pleasantly of GuerlainOs Fleurs des Alpes. So if the Russians are trying to pull a fast one, Smith interlaced his

  fingers over his stomach, what is it and why? What arenOt we seeing?

  I daresay it would be better to approach this as a question of what is it they donOt want us to see, she replied. IOve been networking with some of my fellow history buffs since catching this rocket, and IOve discovered something rather interesting about the Misha 124 crash.

  Since the end of the Cold War there has been a huge…I suppose you could call it a glasnost under way between military historians on both sides of the conflict. Without having to worry about security restrictions, weOve been asking why was this done, where, and by whom. For the most part, weOve been getting answers.

  To date, our opposite numbers in the Russian Federation have been remarkably forthcoming, even about their major military bloopers like sunken atomic submarines and nerve gas spills.

  But not on this point. Prior to the discovery of the Misha crash site, in all of the ex-Soviet air force service records weOve been granted access to, there has been no mention of any TU-4 squadron losing any aircraft in March of 1953, on any kind of routine exercise, anywhere.

  And no mention of a biological broken arrow in the Arctic involving two tons of anthrax? Smith prompted.

  She shook her head, then brushed back a lock of raven hair from above her brow. Not a whisper, until the Russians brought the subject up with our President.

  Now, information on a bioweapons warload being carried by a specific aircraft might very well have been compartmentalized for security purposes. But this particular Bull and its entire aircrew have been completely erased from all standard Red Air Force documentation. They urgently wanted to make it go completely away. And I think the only reason the Russian Federation is admitting to its existence now is because itOs sitting there in front of God and everybody.

  Smith looked past Valentina for a moment and out the glare-bright window, digesting the information. That is interesting, he replied slowly. HereOs one IOve been wondering about. It seems damn peculiar to me that anyone would risk uploading a live biowar agent as part of a training exercise. Common sense would dictate youOd use some kind of harmless inert testing compound.

  Valentina shrugged. YouOd think so, and so would I. But then, we arenOt Russian. They tend to do things differently.

  Consider the Chernobyl disaster, she went on. We wouldnOt build a big electric power reactor with a combustible graphite core, but the Russians did. We wouldnOt build a big nuclear reactor of any kind without a proper radiation containment dome, but the Russians did. And we wouldnOt run a series of radical systems-failure tests on a big, unsealed graphite-core power reactor while it was up and critical, but the Russians most certainly did. I donOt think we can make any assumptions on that point.

  Smith nodded. Then we wonOt. Now, letOs move on to something else. I know the status of the Russian FederationOs current biowar program, but youOre our expert on past Soviet systems. WhatOs the possibility that bomber might be carrying something other than plain old anthrax?

  She sighed. ItOs difficult to say. The Misha 124 was the kind of aircraft that would have been used on a one-way transpolar strike mission against strategic targets in the United States. With that as a given, and given the plane was armed, it would have been carrying some kind of ABC warload: atomic, biological, or chemical. The Soviets wouldnOt expend a long-range bomber and an elite aircrew to deliver anything less potent.

  She took another sip of her coffee and squirmed around to face him directly, tucking her feet under her in the seat. As for the specific agent, those were the days before the exotics like Ebola and before advanced genetic engineering. You had to make do with what Mother Nature provided. The big three everyone was fooling with were anthrax, smallpox, and the bubonic plague. Anthrax was favored because it was simple and cheap to manufacture in bulk, and militarily controllable because it isnOt a contagion.

  Smith frowned and considered. If it were the plague or smallpox, weOd likely have nothing to worry about. The pathogens would probably be long inert by now. Besides, why lie about it? All three of the alternatives would have been equally nasty, and once we reach the crash site weOd know anyway.

  Exactly. Valentina gave an acknowledging tilt of her head. ThatOs why it canOt just be the presence of the bioagent alone. TheyOve already confessed to it. There must be some X factor involved that we donOt understand. Beyond that, the present deponent knoweth not. But I can be reasonably certain about one other thing.

  What would that be?

  She took another sip of her coffee. Something damn peculiar is going to happen when we get inside that airplane.

  E

  Anchorage, Alaska

  Three hours out of Seattle the 737 popped its flaps and airbrakes and began its descent into the Anchorage bowl. Snowcapped ridgelines and the steel blue waters of CookOs Inlet panned past the linerOs windows as it spiraled down into the contradiction of a twenty-first-century American city set in the heart of an essential wilderness.

  Settling on its landing gear, the little Boeing taxied to the south terminal of Ted Stevens International Airport. A uniformed Alaska State Policeman from the airport security detail stood waiting for Smith and his people at the head of the Jetway.

  Welcome to Alaska, Colonel Smith, the state trooper said gravely. WeOve got a vehicle waiting for you out in the police lot. He passed Smith a set of car keys. ItOs a white unmarked Crown Vic. Just leave it at Merrill Field. WeOll send someone to collect it.

  It was obvious that Director KleinOs invisible but potent presence had passed this way, smoothing their path. Thank you, Sergeant, Smith replied, accepting the keys. ItOs appreciated.

  The trooper also handed over a small, heavy case of black pebbled plastic. This was also sent over for you, Colonel. Somebody seems to think you might need it.

  Smith matched the trooperOs rather pointed smile. They could be wrong.

  They had limited themselves to carry-on luggage, so there was no need to join in the battle around the baggage carousels. Smith led his team out of the terminal building and into the crisp Alaskan noon. The oddly angled sun was warm, but the air was cool in the shadows, and the surrounding peaks of the great Chugach range were dusted with fresh snowNpointed hints that time was running out in the North.

  As promised, a mud-streaked Ford with Alaskan state plates was waiting for them. After stowing their luggage in the sedanOs commodious trunk, Smith tossed the keys over to Randi. She slid in behind the wheel, with Smith taking the front passenger seat and Valentina the back. Automatically they paused to arm up.

  Taking the pistol case onto his lap, Smith popped the slide catches and flipped open the lid.

  Since joining the profession Smith had developed a theorem about weapons preference. It was a profound personality statement about the individual and the way they related to a potentially hostile world. It was also an absolute truth because it was something one was entrusting oneOs life to.

  He passed a black leather and nylon fanny pack across to Randi and watched as she ripped open the heavy Velcro fasteners and flipped the pouch section down and off the concealed crossdraw holster. Revealed also were the rosewood grips and stainless steel finish of a Smith and Wesson model 60, the Lady Magnum variant ergonomically optimized for a female shooter. With deft, practiced movements she dunked a speedloader of .357 hollowpoint into the revolverOs chambers.

  Point proven. Randi Russell was a lady, and she carried a ladyOs gun. But as she was a very serious lady, it was a very serious ladyOs gun.

  For himself, there was simple mil-spec practicality, a Department of Defense alternate-issue SIG-Sauer P-226 with a stack of 9mm clips and a Bianchi shoulder holster and clip carrier. The armed forces had expended a great deal of time and effort proving up the SIG as an effective and efficient personal firearm. Smith found no reason to argue with their decision.

  Finally there was a small, elongated bundle wrapped in soft black cloth. WhatOs that? Randi asked as Smith lifted it from the case.

  Those are mine, Valentina replied, resting her chin on her crossed hands atop the seat back. Have a look.

  Smith opened the bundle. It contained a brace of throwing knives, but knives such as he had never seen before. Intrigued, he drew one from its nylon slip sheath.

  Only eight inches long and barely the width of his ring finger, it was half haft, half blade. The blade itself was almost spikelike, with a flattened, diamond-shaped cross-section, the junctures of all four oiled facets honed to a shimmering edge. Both the doctor and the warrior within Smith were impressed. Like a rapier or one of the old triangular-bladed trench knives, it would produce a wound channel that would be a perfect horror to try and close.

  There was no guard, but an indented thumb brace circled the top of the checkered hilt. And the knife hadnOt been assembled; it had been carved, expertly cold-machined out of a single bar of some exceptionally heavy metal.

  The knife bore a certain family resemblance to the tonki throwing darts used in Japanese martial arts, and when Smith laid it across his extended finger to test its balance he found it perfect. Except for the blade edges and a minute silver VM scripted on one blade facet, it was finished in jet black.