“Gee, I’ve never heard that before,” replied the woman, sarcastically. “Put your hands on the roof of the car and back your feet away. You’re going in for a lineup.”

Within seconds, Moustache Pete and the Fat Man found themselves handcuffed with their hands behind their back and placed in the back seat.

“You will see that it is not us,” said Moustache Pete as the man buckled their seat belts across their laps. “How long will this lineup take?”

“Shut the fuck up, Petya Globenko,” the man hissed. “I don’t want to hear a word from you ... ever.”

Moustache Pete’s eyes opened wide and his mouth hung open.

“You know who we are?” asked the Fat Man in astonishment.

“Same goes for you, Styopa Ghukov,” the man snarled. “You’re finished. We know all about you.” He handed the woman the keys and said, “You drive. I’ll watch these bastards.”

Moustache Pete and the Fat Man exchanged nervous glances. There was no denying the rage in the man’s eyes.

This is somehow personal to him, Moustache Pete realized. I am sure we have never met ... He looked at the woman’s face in the rearview mirror and fell back in his seat as she peeled away from the curb. He glanced back at the man beside her. The man sat sideways in the seat watching them.

When they stopped at the next set of traffic lights, the woman leaned across and kissed the man on the cheek and the nape of his neck. “You did it,” she said softly. “I love you.”

“Told you I would, babe,” he replied. “A little pre-wedding gift for you,” he added with a grim smile. “What did you think when I said, put your hands up! Did I sound like a real cop? I always wanted to say that.”

The woman chortled and said, “You did sound like one. Doesn’t CSIS teach you how to arrest people?”

Moustache Pete and the Fat Man quickly exchanged a few words in Russian and Moustache Pete looked at the man and said, “You are with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service!”

“Ah,” the man said, looking at the woman and adding, “Our two Ivans in the back seat are cluing in.” He glanced at them and said, “Just for your info, my fiancée is a police officer.”

“But you are not,” said Moustache Pete. “What is this about? Where are you taking us?” he demanded.

“Relax, Ivan. You would have been arrested by my office tomorrow morning anyway. I’m just doing it a day early.”

“Arrested for what? We have done nothing wrong.”

“No, not yet. But we know that you were about to.”

“My brother!” yelled the woman, her eyes burning with anger as she looked in the rearview mirror. “You sons of bitches! He was in the World Trade Center when it collapsed. He was the only family member I had left!”

“I don’t understand!” yelped The Fat Man.

“The Trade Center?” asked Moustache Pete. “We had nothing to do with that. You have made a mistake. We are retired schoolteachers. You have arrested the wrong men.”

“Maybe you had nothing to do with the Trade Center,” she said, “but your friends did.”

“Our friends?” asked Moustache Pete.

“Only this time you’ve got something far more murderous up your sleeves,” said the woman.

“If I were you,” said the man, raising his hand and wagging his index finger to emphasis the point, “I would just sit quietly. If you want to talk, I suggest you do it later tonight when you arrive in Guantanamo Bay.”

“Guantanamo!” exclaimed both men from the back seat.

“Yeah, I don’t really believe in the extradition process. My buddies in the CIA feel the same way.”

“You cannot do this!” said Moustache Pete. “I wish to call the Russian embassy. It is my right.”

The man shook his head and said, “My friends down south have assured me that you will speak to nobody again ... not even each other, for as long as you live.” He gave a sinister grin and added, “Except for their interrogators, of course. I think they will make you say plenty.”

“You will stop the car immediately,” said the Fat Man. “We have the right to call the Russian embassy,” he demanded.

“You ignorant, dumb bastards,” said the man. “Who do you think it was, Styopa, who told us about your degree in microbiology? Or your degree in history, Petya? How you did not teach at all—except at military institutions.”

Moustache Pete and the Fat Man glanced at each other in surprise.

“Believe me,” the man continued. “Russia’s only interest in you now is to ensure that you do end up in the hands of the Americans. The war on terrorism has united many countries. Russia, Cuba—countries who used to be enemies ... have now united.”

The man glanced at the woman and added, “Except for fucking Vietnam. They’re still too hung up on past conflicts to cooperate on anything. I can just imagine how many more terrorists we would have discovered if they had cooperated.” He turned to the men in the back and said, “We do know you went there as well.”

“Your own people at CSIS, they will find out if you carry out this ... this plan,” said Moustache Pete.

The man sneered and said, “My people will be told that you became paranoid over that incident at the Vancouver airport. Remember? Where you had your picture taken just before you went to Costa Rica. You have talked of it. The CIA will say that you spotted CSIS agents following you in Canada and decided to flee to the U.S. where you were arrested.”

“That was you?” asked the Fat Man. “You took our photograph at the Vancouver airport?”

“No, that was a Russian attaché. They said it was an accidental blunder, but we know better. You were an embarrassment to them. They hoped to prevent you from meeting with the al-Qaeda operative that you later met in Cuba.”

“Al-Qaeda?” said both captives in unison.

“Mother Russia believed they could scare you into returning to Russia so that they could arrest you. Now that we know you met with al-Qaeda in Cuba and plan to attack the States, Russia is more than happy to let the Americans have you.” The man looked at the woman and said, “I wonder which would be worse? Russian or American interrogation? Probably the same.”

“You’re still lucky,” said the woman harshly, while glancing in the rearview mirror. “You’ll both get to spend the rest of your lives in Cuba—which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for my brother. Personally I hope you die of the heat ... while the rats nibble at your toes.”

Bien finished his steak sandwich and took another sip from the glass of red wine. Dúc raised a bottle to refill his glass, but Bien put his hand over the top and shook his head.

“What is wrong, my friend?” asked Dúc.“You do not like wine? In over two hours you have only had two glasses! Perhaps I should have ordered you a Huda?”

“No, the wine is good,” said Bien, but I am tired and should return to my hotel.”

Dúc nodded and said, “First, there is something I would like to speak to you about. A business proposition. One that could be lucrative for the both of us.”

Bien raised his eyebrows in response.

“About the women you ... see ... who fly to Vancouver with packages,” added Dúc. “I have an idea.”

Bien looked looked sharply at Dúc and said, “I think that such a discussion should only take place between you and I. Are you able to give me a ride back to my hotel room?”

Dúc smiled and said, “You are absolutely correct, this is no place to discuss issues of a sensitive nature. Let me finish my wine and then I will drive you to your hotel.”

Later, Bien slipped a steak knife into his jacket pocket.

chapter thirty-five

Laura glanced at the highway sign indicating the way to the U.S. border and caught Jack’s eye. He turned in the seat and said, “Hey, you Russkies! See that,” he said, pointing to the sign. “One hour and you will be the most welcome guest of the US government.”