Other soldiers were hard at work stringing floodlights through the nearby woods. Chainsaws whined off in the distance.
The dull, pulsing roar of diesel-powered electrical generators throbbed in counterpoint.
Some of the Russian troops had stripped down to sweatstained Tshirts.
Spring came late this far north, but it was cool — not cold. He guessed the temperature was somewhere in the high fifties. Smells lingered in the still ain-an acrid, sickly-sweet mix of spilled aviation gas and raw sewage from hastily dug latrines.
Two men — one older and balding, the other younger and fair-haired, stood just beyond the arc of the Mi-26’s now motionless rotor blades.
A reception committee. His heartbeat quickened when he saw the familiar face of the tall, darkhaired woman waiting with them. Thorn lengthened his stride to catch up with Nielsen and the rest of the NTSB team.
The older man stepped forward to meet them. He growled something in terse, guttural Russian to their interpreter, folded his arms, and stood waiting — silent and apparently utterly uninterested in any response.
“This is First Deputy Director Leonid Mamontov of the Federal Aviation Authority,” the interpreter said hurriedly. He hesitated and then went on. “The Deputy Director welcomes you to Russia and looks forward to close cooperation in this important investigation. He has prepared a preliminary briefing in the headquarters tent.”
While Nielsen made his own introductions, Thorn carefully eyed the short, stocky, unsmiling man in front of them, sure that the interpreter had massively shaded his translation. Mamontov looked more likely to welcome close-quarters combat with his American counterparts than cooperation.
The Russian official raised a single bushy eyebrow when Nielsen introduced him. Then he simply grunted, shook his head in disgust, and swung away, stomping toward the largest tent across the clearing.
Nielsen shrugged apologetically to Thorn and hurried after the Russian — followed closely by the interpreter and the rest of his team.
Terrific, Thorn thought grimly. This mission was off to a bangup start. If others at the accident scene shared this bureaucrat’s evident disdain, they were all in for a very rough ride.
A polite cough broke his bleak train of thought. Embarrassed at being caught off guard, he quickly turned back to face the man and woman who had accompanied Mamontov to meet the helicopter.
They were still standing close by, waiting to be noticed.
“I apologize for Director Mamontov’s behavior, Colonel,” the man said quietly in almost flawless English. Then he grinned, showing white, perfect teeth. “But I assure you it is nothing personal. The minister does not like soldiers or policemen of any sort. Whether they are American or Russian is immaterial.”
Still smiling, the younger Russian held out his hand. “I am Major Alexei Koniev of the Ministry of the Interior, by the way. So I, too, am one of Mamontov’s untouchables.”
Careful to hide his surprise, Thorn shook hands with the slender, fair-haired man. “Glad to meet you, Major.”
He wouldn’t have suspected Koniev was a plainclothes policeman — especially not one with such a high rank. He looked too young and his clothes seemed wrong somehow. The Russian’s jacket, shirt, and jeans, though clearly rugged and durable, were also immaculately tailored and expensivelooking.
Faint warning bells rang in Thorn’s mind. MVD officers were charged with protecting Russia against everything from outright rebellion to organized crime — a sort of National Guard and FBI all rolled up into one. But they were also notoriously poorly paid.
So how could this Koniev character afford the latest Western outdoor wear?
He knew one of the possible answers to that question. The need to pad their skinflint salaries led a lot of MVD officers down the road to corruption. Russia’s powerful criminal syndicates were only too willing to distribute generous bribes to bury their hooks deep inside the government and its law enforcement agencies.
He made a mental note to keep a close eye on Koniev. His first impressions of the MVD officer were favorable. But first impressions could get you killed. And even old friends could betray you. He’d learned that lesson the hard way in Iran two years before.
“Permit me to introduce you to my American colleague, Special Agent Helen Gray of your FBI,” Koniev continued.
Thorn turned to the slim, pretty, darkhaired woman at the Russian major’s side, noting the faint smile she was trying unsuccessfully to conceal. Her eyes seemed even bluer than he remembered.
“Thank you, Major,” he said gravely. “But Special Agent Gray and I already know each other fairly well.”
She nodded calmly. “I thought you might try to poke your nose under this tent, Colonel Thorn. But I didn’t see your name on the flight manifest. How exactly did you manage to swing an invitation from the NTSB?”
“Held my breath. Refused to eat my lunch. Threatened to wire their office coffeepots with C-4. All the usual stuff,” Thorn said flatly.
He shrugged. “They finally caved in.”
Helen laughed softly. “I see you’re still as smooth and charming as ever, Peter.”
Koniev had been swinging his head from one to the other in growing puzzlement. Now he snapped his fingers. “Ah! Now I understand. You are old friends, yes?”
Without taking his eyes off Helen Gray, Thorn answered quietly, “Yes, Major, that’s right. We’re old friends. Very old friends.”
Colonel Peter Thorn wearily pushed back the hood of the rubberized chemical protection suit he’d been given. He wiped the sweat and dirt off his brow. After spending two hours tramping across the crash site with Major Koniev, he needed a breather.
He and the MVD officer were alone on this trek. True to form, Helen Gray had surveyed the debris field on her own as soon as she’d arrived on the scene. Right now she was busy setting up the joint FBI/MVD investigative team’s communications and coordinating their plans with Mamontov and Nielsen.
His thoughts strayed to Helen. The female FBI agent was the only woman who had ever really gotten under his skin.
Thorn shook his head ruefully. Why use the past tense? His heart still skipped a beat whenever he saw her. Or talked to her.
Or even thought about her.
Certainly, when he’d argued his way onto this mission, he’d hoped their paths might cross. After all, even this long after the end of the Cold War, the official American community in Moscow was still a small, close-knit world. And they hadn’t seen each other for six long months — not since the FBI had sent her to Moscow as a legal attache.
A couple of eagerly anticipated visits had been shortcircuited by work emergencies — both on her end. As a legal attache, Helen was the FBI’s eyes and ears inside Russian law enforcement.
With drug trafficking, smuggling, and contract killing all on the rise, her workload kept piling up.
Other attempts to meet had also fallen by the wayside. Even their weekly phone calls had begun to sound impersonal somehow — cold and unsatisfying, however warm the words.
Thorn sighed. Seeing Helen in the flesh brought all his memories of her, his longing for her, to the surface. Somehow he would have to find time to be alone with her — to see if he still held her heart the way she gripped his. If nothing else, that would at least offer a small measure of relief from the grim task at hand.
Reluctantly, he forced himself back into the ugly present.
Back in D.C. he had believed the doomed An-32 had come down in rough, trackless country. Now he was sure that it had crashed in hell — probably somewhere near the marshy banks of the River Styx.
The impact had scattered pieces of the aircraft and its passengers across a nightmarish landscape of dense, dark forest and brush-choked pools of stagnant water. The stench of rotting vegetation, charred wood, and burnt human flesh hung in the sluggish, unmoving ain-separate odors that blended in an invisible, sickening fog.
Midges and other biting insects swarmed in thick black clouds beneath the trees and above the marshy ground.
“Christ!” Thorn slapped at a stinging fly, smearing blood across his cheek. He glanced at Koniev. “I can think of better places to spend a few days, Major.”
“This region will never appear in our new tourist brochures, that is true,” the Russian officer agreed tiredly. He sighed. “We are in the midst of what some call the Devil’s Eden. Personally, I do not believe even the devil
