The Russian sounded relieved more then regretful. He pointed to the young man waiting next to the ZIL sedan. “Plekhanov there will escort you back to your embassy instead. Taking you where we must go would only expose you to grave danger without purpose.”
Banich seconded that. “He’s right. Besides, somebody has to fill Washington in on what’s happened already and what may yet happen if we fail.”
Erin looked again at the uniform he was wearing. “Then at least tell me what you’re going to try to do.”
He shook his head sadly. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” she demanded. Fear for him made her tone sharper than she’d intended. “Don’t you trust me?”
“You know I do.” Banich put his hands on her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. His voice grew quieter. “But we’re about to do something that’s absolutely illegal. If we fail, I’ll probably be dead. Even if we succeed, I could still be crucified by the Agency, the Congress, or the courts. Whatever happens, I don’t want you dragged down with me. Keeping you at least partly in the dark is the only way I can make sure that doesn’t happen. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” Erin whispered softly, fighting back tears. Crying now wouldn’t help either of them. She wiped her eyes and forced a smile. “But you’d better not get yourself killed, Alex Banich. I look awful in black.”
He grinned tightly himself, appreciating the effort she was making to keep her sorrow at bay. “Understood, McKenna.” Then he leaned forward and kissed her.
Soloviev’s voice broke in on them. “It’s time we were on our way, Mr. Banich. The trucks are loaded.”
“Coming, Colonel.” Banich gently disengaged himself from her embrace. He kissed her again, softly this time. “I’ll be back.” Then he stepped back.
The Russian moved in front of him. “I will say my goodbyes here, Miss McKenna. Whatever happens, I do not believe that we will see each other again.” The tall colonel bowed slightly, then straightened up. He smiled gravely. “You know, you really are a most remarkable woman.”
Erin had the strange feeling that the man wanted to say more and couldn’t.
Abruptly Soloviev turned away, striding toward the waiting trucks. Banich fell in beside him. One after the other, the two men swung themselves up into the cab of the lead truck.
As soon as they were inside, powerful diesel engines coughed to life and the trucks lurched forward. She lifted her hand briefly in a silent farewell, then stood watching as they rolled out of the alley onto Petrovka Street and disappeared from her sight.
The two canvas-sided trucks rumbled down the highway, rolling south at a steady sixty kilometers per hour, well within the legal speed limit. None of the men crowded aboard each vehicle wanted to attract any unnecessary attention to themselves or their cargo.
Inside the lead truck, Soloviev leaned forward, peering out through the windshield while studying the forest off to the right side of the highway. He nodded to himself and turned to their driver, a young Russian lieutenant wearing a private’s uniform. “The access road is just ahead, Pasha. You’ll see it when we come around the next bend.”
The lieutenant bobbed his head nervously.”Yes, Colonel.” He tightened his grip on the big URAL’s steering wheel.
Soloviev glanced at the man sitting on his right. “The checkpoint is only a few hundred meters up the access road. You know what to do?”
Alex Banich nodded. “Yes.” He checked the automatic lying in his lap one last time, making sure the silencer screwed on its barrel was secure and that he had a full clip. Then he slipped the pistol back inside his uniform jacket and settled back, trying to fight off the doubts crowding in on him.
What had seemed so necessary and so possible back in the militia headquarters conference room seemed more and more insane the closer they got to the isolated, wooded enclave surrounding Kaminov’s dacha. If this wild-eyed scheme of Soloviev’s backfired in any way, he thought, Russia would have a perfect excuse to act against the United States — a ready-made
Banich shook his head grimly. Now,
The truck wheeled off the main highway and turned onto a narrow, winding road heading west. Pine trees lined both sides, and the overarching branches broke the track ahead of them into a dappled stretch of alternating sunlight and shadow. Birds, frightened by their growling engines, took flight — screeching and wheeling through the clear air above the forest before fluttering away.
“There it is, Colonel.”
Banich looked up at the driver’s muttered warning to Soloviev. He squinted through the dust-streaked windshield.
The checkpoint was just ahead.
A wood barricade dotted with reflectors and painted a bright orange and white closed off the road, but a set of tire spikes pulled across the road behind the barricade was the real vehicle stopper. Two soldiers with AK-74 assault rifles lounged near a wooden sentry box on the left. Blue shoulder patches marked with a sword and shield identified them as uniformed members of an FIS security unit. Four more FIS troopers manned two sandbagged machine-gun nests — one sited on each side of the access road. An officer wearing a peaked cap was just stepping out of the sentry box, yawning and adjusting his pistol belt.
Banich frowned. This was going to be tricky. They were facing seven men with only six — Soloviev, Banich himself, Hennessy, Teppler, and the two young Russian Army officers the colonel had been able to round up at short notice. The trouble with the democratic conspiracy inside Kaminov’s government, the Russian colonel had remarked wryly, was that it had far too many chiefs and far too few Indians. Ostensibly, that was why he’d jumped at the chance to recruit Banich’s team. In the back of his mind, the CIA agent also had the sneaking suspicion the Russian planned to use the Americans as fall guys if anything went wrong. Soloviev struck him as a survivor, not a martyr.
The truck slowed and came to a complete stop within meters of the barricade. Their second vehicle stopped right behind them. The FIS officer, a captain, stepped forward smartly. “Your papers, please.” He recognized Soloviev sitting in the middle and started. “Colonel Soloviev? What are you doing there? Where’s your staff car?”
The Russian colonel shrugged. “Broken down about five kilometers back up the highway, Vorisov. Whichever idiot checked it last missed something pretty big. I must have been leaking oil since leaving Moscow.” He laughed sourly. “If I hadn’t been escorting these boys here, I’d have had to hitchhike.”
“Damned mechanics.” The FIS captain shook his head in sympathy. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “But why are you here now, sir? Didn’t they tell you? These big hush-hush meetings are over. Everyone’s supposed to be heading back to the city any moment now.”
Soloviev chuckled. “So I hear. But you know the high brass. The marshal asked me to bring down some extra ’supplies.’ Cases of them.” He winked and tossed off an imaginary glass of vodka. “Seems they’re having themselves quite a party.”
Banich clamped down on a grin. Marshal Kaminov was an old-fashioned Russian — the kind of man who would insist on celebrating the birth of this new Franco-Russian military partnership with a liberally poured vodka baptism. And, from the look on the guard captain’s face, Soloviev’s story had struck a receptive chord.
“Supplies, eh?” the man said slowly. He rubbed his jaw, obviously debating with himself. But with temptation and duty both on the same side for once, the struggle was over quickly. “I suppose I should inspect those cases before I pass you through… just to be safe.”
Soloviev showed his teeth. “Ivan Andreivich, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll even help you.” He glanced at Banich. “In the meantime, Ushenko here and his boys can have a little stretch or take a leak. Right, Captain?”
Banich nodded briefly, hiding his relief. If the FIS officer hadn’t taken their vodka bait, things could have gotten messy fast. But Soloviev had been reasonably confident the ploy would work. Despite years of official antidrinking campaigns, alcoholism was still a major killer among Russian men. Even more important, underlings in rigid hierarchies take their cues from their superiors — and Kaminov and the men around him were all hard drinkers.
The American climbed down out of the truck cab and signaled Hennessy and the others in the second truck.
