Buildings and whole swathes of the street behind the burning sport utility vehicle were disappearing from view, shrouded in smoke. The pall created bv the fire was acting as a screen, hiding the fugitives from view. “Do you have any targets yet?” he demanded.
“Negative. The smoke is too thick,” the prone marksman said. He took his eye away from the scope on his rifle and looked up. “What are your orders?”
Brandt listened to the sirens growing louder. His face darkened. The Russians would be here in moments. At last he snapped, “We’ll leave them for the militia and pick them up once they’re in custody. Smith and his friends won’t get far on foot.”
Smith lay flat behind the blazing 4x4. This close to the flames, he could feel the heat searing his face. Smoke from the inferno stung his eves. He breathed shallow ly, trving hard not to drag too much of the acrid fumes into his lungs. Visibilitv around them dropped to just a few meters as the smoke cloud billowed across the street. He glanced at Kirov and Fiona.
The Russian nodded in satisfaction. “Now we go.”
Without waiting any longer, they turned and loped awav. Kirov led them toward a small two-door car, a dingy, off-white Moskvitsh that had clearly seen more than its share of accidents and harsh winters. Its worn-out, lawn-mower-sized engine sputtered and coughed, left stuck in idle when its driver fled.
Jon nodded to himself, approving the other man’s choice. Of all the cars left abandoned on the street, the Moskvitsh was the cheapest, the least colorful, and the least noticeable. There were tens of thousands just like it on Moscow’s streets. Even if someone spotted them commandeering the little car, the militia would have a verv difficult time picking it out among all the rest.
Fiona climbed into the narrow back seat, while Smith and Kirov settled themselves in front, with the older man in the driver’s seat. The Russian slammed the gearshift into reverse and backed up fast, cranking the steering wheel hard over. The Moskvitsh swung round through an arc and ended up facing away from the direction it had been going.
Kirov drove east at an easy clip, deliberately staying below the posted speed limit.
“Oleg,” Fiona warned suddenly, leaning forward over the Russian’s big shoulder. She pointed ahead through the dirty windshield. Flashing blue lights were coming into view, rushing up the road toward them at high speed.
“We have company.”
The first militia squad cars were converging on the scene of the reported accident and gun battle.
Kirov nodded coolly. “I see them.” He spun the steering wheel again, turning right onto a narrower side street. He drove on a bit farther and then pulled over to the curb, parking right next to the Mongolian embassy. The elegant nineteenth-century building now housing Lithuania’s embassy was just across the street. The ex-FSB officer reached down and flicked the little car’s headlights off. He left the engine running.
Smith shifted around in the cramped seat, craning his neck to peer out through the Moskvitsh’s small rear window.
In seconds, the first militia squad car flashed past their side street without slowing, still racing west up Povorskaya Street. Others followed in its wake, one after another, tearing along with their sirens wailing.
They all breathed out in relief. Slowly, Kirov reached down and put the Moskvitsh in gear again. Then he pulled out and drove away, heading south, deeper into the Arbat district.
“What’s our next move?” Smith asked quietly.
The older man shrugged. “First, we look for a place to ditch this stolen car, discreetly if possible. And then we find a safe house for you and Ms. Devin.”
“And after that?”
“I try to think of some way to smuggle the two of you out of Russia as soon as possible,” Kirov said flatly. “After what happened tonight, the Kremlin will mobilize every element of the state security apparatus to hunt you down.”
“We’re not leaving, Oleg,” Fiona Devin said firmly. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Fiona!” Kirov protested. “Don’t be a fool! What can you possibly hope to accomplish by staying in Moscow?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said stubbornly. “But I do know that we still have a job to do here. And so long as that is true, I have no intention of tucking my tail between my legs and running.”
Fiona held up the bloodstained binder. “Those bastards back there murdered Elena Vedenskava to prevent her from passing these medical records to us. Right?”
Both men nodded slowly.
“Well, then,” the dark-haired woman told them grimly. “As I see it, that means that Colonel Smith and I had better do our best to uncover the secrets thev contain.”
PART THREE
Chapter Nineteen
The Bundeskriminalamt (BKA)?the Federal Criminal Police?served as the German equivalent of the American FBI. Like the FBI, its several thousand law enforcement officers and forensic experts provided assistance and coordination for the separate police forces of the sixteen individual German states.
And like the FBI, the BKA was also responsible for investigating a wide range of high-level crimes, among them, international arms and narcotics traffick-ing, money laundering, and terrorism.
The agency was in the middle of a large-scale reorganization. The bulk of its personnel and facilities were being gradually relocated to Berlin, with the predictable result being a certain amount of chaos and confusion as BKA units settled into unfamiliar locations around the city.
The State Security Division?charged with investigating high-level political crimes that threatened the Federal Republic?was no exception. Its Berlin-based officers and clerical staff now occupied a five-story building in the Nikolaiviertel, St. Nicholas’ Quarter, a labyrinth of crowded streets, alleys, restaurants, and small museums along the brick-lined banks of the River Spree. The building itself was a modern reconstruction of a centuries-old structure that had once housed medieval merchants and artisans.
Inside the foyer. Otto Fromm sat behind a long counter, manning the front desk at the beginning of the long, dull night shift. He yawned, already bored with the tabloid newspaper he’d brought to keep himself occupied. As a young man straight out of technical school, he had joined the BKA as a lowly uniformed security guard, imagining himself one day promoted to chief detective on the basis of sheer merit. Twenty years later, he was still trapped in the same dead-end position, though at least with substantially higher pay and six weeks of vacation time.
The door from the outside opened in a quick gust of clean, cold air.
He looked up from his paper. A tall, long-legged young woman with fashionably short, almost spiky, auburn hair, a straight nose, firm chin, and very bright, deep blue eyes crossed the foyer, coming straight toward his desk. She was already unbuttoning her long winter coat, revealing a slender figure with small but firm breasts that set his pulse racing.
Fromm’s eyes brightened at the sight of such an attractive woman, especially one without a wedding band on her left hand. His last live-in girlfriend had kicked him out of her apartment just six months ago and now his drinking pals were all urging him to “get back in the hunt.” Unconsciously, he sat up straighter and smoothed back his unruly, thinning hair. “Yes, Fraulein?” he asked politely. “Can I help you?”
She handed him her Bundeskriminalamt identity card with a dazzling smile. “I’m sure you can. My name’s Vogel. Petra Vogel. I’m with the Information Technology Division in Wiesbaden.” Then she swung her leather attache case lightly onto the top of the counter and unsnapped its flap, revealing an array of CD-ROMs nestled in
