It was just possible that something more was going on here, that the guards were part of the ambush back at the warehouse and that Akulinin and Lia were about to be turned over to the mafia. That didn’t feel like the answer, though. These two, he was certain, were just looking for a little graft.

But why did they want to take the Americans someplace else?

They couldn’t afford to be taken out of sight. If these guys weren’t in with the mafia, they might be soon, once the word went out on the street that the two Americans had escaped. It could be a pretext to rob the two of them. Or…

He glanced at Lia. She was a most attractive woman… These two bastards might have something else in mind besides money.

The watch phrase for all intelligence agents was “lowkey.” You never called attention to yourself, and kept a carefully tailored and very low profile. Still, there were times when it paid to be as loud and as obnoxious as possible.

He folded his arms belligerently. “I’m not goin’anywhere, fella!” he bellowed, his voice echoing from the walls of nearby buildings. “I know my rights! I am a citizen of the United States of America, and you can’t tell me where to go or what to do!”

Startled, both MVD guards took an awkward step back. Akulinin stepped forward, crowding them, jabbing an angry forefinger at them both. Their English probably wasn’t up to deciphering more than a word in three, but it was clear that Akulinin’s emotion needed no translation.

“What kind of country are you running here, anyway? I demand to see the American consul! I demand to see your commanding officer! I demand-”

Psychologically, the tables had turned. The guards still had the assault rifles, but the large American, screaming into their faces, had the advantage.

“There you are, my friend!” a second booming voice called across the pier from the St. Pete 2’s gangway. “What has been keeping you, eh?”

James Llewellyn strode toward the customs checkpoint, an impressive figure in a heavy trench coat and a goatee that Lenin himself would have been proud of. Llewellyn was in his sixties, with a deeply lined and weathered face, but he moved with surprising strength and self-assurance. One of the MVD guards turned, raising his weapon, apparently grateful for the interruption, and barked, “Stoy!”

Llewellyn, Akulinin knew, was Welsh-normally he worked for the National Security Agency at the Menwith Station in Yorkshire-but his Russian was excellent. More, his understanding of Russian psychology was excellent.

“Nyeh kulturnii!” he snapped at the guard in Russian. “Do you know who I am?”

He waved an open wallet at them, presumably flashing an ID. Both MVD guards came sharply to attention.

For the next five minutes, Llewellyn reamed both guards a variety of new bodily orifices. In his role as an American tourist, Akulinin had to pretend he didn’t understand a word, but he listened with genuine admiration as Llewellyn-code name Mercutio-discussed in vivid detail the guards’ mysterious parentage, lack of breeding, improper upbringing, nonexistent education, subhuman intelligence, and utter lack of culture, never once repeating himself and never once actually telling the two just exactly who he was supposed to be. The Russian syllables, thick as glue, flowed from his lips in an uninterrupted and uninterruptible torrent.

“These are my friends!” he said at last, gesturing at Lia and Akulinin. “My very special friends! They are coming with me! Vih panimayiti?”

“Da, grahjdaneen!” both guards stammered. “Panimayu!”

“Get your papers,” Llewellyn said in English, still glaring at the two guards as if he could nail them in place by sheer force of personality. “Start for the ship.”

Lia snatched up passports and ID, then touched Akulinin’s shoulder. “Move it!” she said, her voice a harsh whisper. Together, they walked past the checkpoint, past the pier facility with its shabby hotel and gift shop, and onto the wharf. As they walked up the pier toward the gangway, Akulinin felt an intolerable itch building between his shoulder blades; if the guards decided to start shooting…

Llewellyn remained to have a few more choice words with the MVD guards. When Akulinin glanced back, he saw a sheaf of Russian currency changing hands as Llewellyn paid their “tax.” He then turned and strode after them, his trench coat billowing after him like a cape.

Once on board the ship, Akulinin allowed himself to begin to relax. “Was that a shakedown?” he asked Lia. “A simple extortion? Or something more?”

“I don’t know,” Lia said. She looked at Llewellyn as he joined them. “How about it, Lew? Was that random, or were they after us?”

“Hard to tell,” Llewellyn replied. “Probably random…”

“But you never can tell in this game,” Lia said, completing the thought. “Thanks for coming to our rescue.”

Llewellyn grinned at them. “The new kid here was doing pretty well on his own. You did exactly right, son. The Russkies respect authority. Step on their toes until they apologize. If you throw your weight around, chances are they’ll cave.”

“Yeah,” Lia said. “Either they cave or they’ll shoot you.” She seemed to sag a bit. “Where are our staterooms?”

“I’ll show you. But… don’t get too comfortable. The word from the Art Room is you’ll be on the move again soon.”

Akulinin leaned against the ship’s railing and studied the vista ashore. A more depressing location for a cruise ship dock would be difficult to imagine. The facility was brightly lit, but hemmed in by ancient apartment buildings, close huddled and clotted with shadows, and industrial complexes, rusted, decrepit, and cloaked in night.

In the parking lot, two men approached the rental car Akulinin had acquired that afternoon-part of Mercutio’s cleanup team. They would drive the vehicle someplace safe and get rid of the incriminating evidence-weapons and clothing-hidden inside.

He looked to the right, toward the southeast. The warehouse district they’d just escaped from lay just beyond the port’s security fence.

“Can I help with the post-op cleanup?” Akulinin asked. He was still thinking about the equipment he’d left behind. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

“We’ll take care of it,” Llewellyn told him. “I need to take you two down to the communications center. They need some data back at the Puzzle Palace.”

“Does it have to be tonight, Lew?” Lia said. “I’m dead on my feet.”

“Tonight, Lia. There’ll be time for rest later.” He turned and led them toward a companionway ladder descending into the ship.

Ghost Blue Approaching Waypoint Tango Bravo 0119 hours

Major Delallo stuffed his nose down and raced toward the surface of the sea. He only had one engine, but he had it wide open and was using gravity all he dared. Down he went into the gloomy night, trying to get against the surface of the sea, where he would find some measure of safety from his pursuers. He just might make it. He allowed himself that much hope, at any rate.

A worrisome thump began sounding from somewhere aft, causing the aircraft to shudder and buck. He’d been supersonic when he took the missile. Now, as the thumping became louder and the instrument panel jiggled and danced, he automatically retared the throttle and let his speed bleed off as he tried to assess the damage to his mount. The missile’s detonation had peppered the Raptor with shrapnel, knocked out one engine, and played merry hell with his avionics. The slipstream might be peeling back a piece of the aircraft’s fuselage, and that might make for a bright, easy target on hostile radars.

He loved the Raptor, an astonishing piece of advanced aircraft engineering. Its one weakness, though, was a variation on the Murphy Effect. When things went wrong with the aircraft, everything went wrong, and in the worst possible way.