The younger man stubbed out his cigarettethe moment Sariiien barked the order, but the older Ukrainian stared atSaarinen sullenly, then grudgingly followed suit.

"Who knows? Perhaps it might be abetter way to die than taking our chances with a pilot who's a cripple."

Massey saw the anger flare on Saarinen'sface and he said quickly to the Ukrainian, "That's enough, Boris. Justremember, your life's in this man's hands so be nice to him. And for yourinformation, you've got the best pilot in the business. And he knows the routeas well."

"Let's hope so." The Ukrainianshrugged and said grudgingly to Saarinen as he nodded over to the DC-3,"So you think we'll make it in this American crate?"

Saarinen bit back his temper and saidevenly, "I don't know why not. It might be a lousy night for flying butthen that means the Reds won't be too anxious to put their own planes up. Itshould be all right. The danger point is approaching the Soviet Czech border.After that it's roses all the way."

"Then we're in your hands, itseems."

The second man came over and nodded toMassey and Saarinen. Massey introduced them and the young man said to Massey,"Something tells me I should have taken my chances with a war crimestrial."

"Too late now. OK, let's run througha final check. Paper belongings, money. On the table."

The Ukrainians emptied out their pocketson the table as Massey sifted through their belongings. "Everything looksin order. Once you get to Moscow and get yourselves organized you know what todo."

Both men nodded.

"That's it, then. Good luck to bothof you." The red-haired Ukrainian grunted and said to Saarinen, "Ifwe get to Moscow. Whenever you're ready, my little crippled friend."

Saarinen glared at the man and went tomove toward him, but Massey gripped the Finn's shoulder as the Ukrainian turneddismissively and he and his companion walked toward the aircraft, parachutesover their shoulders, both of them laughing.

"Maybe I should drop them in thewrong zone, just for the fun of it, and let the KGB do the work for me."

"Don't worry, the life expectancy ofthose two isn't long. If they do make it to Moscow, they'll be lucky. You oughtto know-most of the agents we send in get caught in the first forty-eighthours, but it's still a chance that's better than a rope or a firingsquad."

"And I have to say some of the bastardsyou use deserve it, Jake. Right, I suppose I'd better get moving."

As Saarinen picked up a parachute andwent to move toward the stairs up to the DC-3, a jeep pulled up outside thehangar and a young man in civilian clothes climbed out and went over to Massey.

"Message for you, sir."

He handed across a telegram and Masseytore it open, read the contents, then said to the man, "Carry on,Lieutenant. There's no reply needed."

The man climbed back into the jeep anddrove off into heavy rain as Saarinen came over.

"Bad news? Don't tell me, the drop'scanceled because of the weather?"

He grinned. "Never mind that I'veflown in much worse without a copilot, like tonight. With a bit of luck I mightjust make it to a nightclub in Munich, and those two bastards on board can liveon their nerves for another night." Massey said, "Afraid not. And itdepends on what you mean by bad news. I've been recalled to Washington as soonas I've finished this week's parachute drops."

" Lucky for you." Saarinensmiled. "Me, I'm taking a rest after this one, Jake. Time to throttle backand rest my wings. Some of these former SS scum you're using are starting toget on my nerves."

Saarinen went up the metal stairs of theaircraft and at the top he hauled in the steps.

"Wish me luck."

"Break a leg."

It was almost nine when Jake Massey drovedown to the lake and lit a cigarette as he stared out at the choppy water inthe drizzling rain. He wondered about the signal from Washington and why theywanted him home.

As he switched off the engine he heardthe faint blast of a fog-horn out on the water, glanced up and saw the distantlights of a boat moving in the cold darkness near the far shore.

That sound always reminded him, and for amoment he sat there and closed his eyes.

It was a long ago winter's evening likethis when he had first seen the lights of America as a child.

He was only seven years of age but JakobMasensky still remembered the body smells and the babble of strange voices onEllis Island.

Ukrainians, Russians, mixed with Irishand Italians and Spanish and Germans. All hoping to start a new life in thepromise of the New World.

He had arrived with his parents fromRussia in 1919, two years after the Bolshevik Revolution.

In St. Petersburg, where his father's familyhad emigrated from Poland two generations before, Stanistas Masensky had beenemployed by the royal household. Jakob Masensky still had a sharp memory ofbeing taken for winter walks in the grounds of the magnificent gilded palacesof Catherine the Great. Stanislas Masensky was an intelligent man, a reader andchess player who, were it not for the accident of being born into animpoverished family, might have become a lawyer or a doctor and not the humblemaster carpenter that he was.

And Stanislas Masensky also had a secretwhich, were it known to his employers, would have caused his instant dismissal.

He was an ardent Menshevik supporter whoin his heart despised the nobility and everything it stood for. He believedthat Russia's future lay in democracy and freedom and that change was comingwhether the Tsar wanted it or not, so when the Reds took St. Petersburg he wasnot a pleased man.

"Believe me, Jakob," his fatherwas fond of saying. "We will pay the price of this Red folly. We need anew Russia, but not that kind of new Russia."

And no one had been more surprised by theReds' revolution than Stanislas Masensky. It had come like a whirlwind almostout of nowhere, for the Mensheviks had long been the dominant force for changein Russia. And Lenin's Bolsheviks knew this, and that any threat to theirpromised revolution would have to be crushed mercilessly.

The Reds had come one day; three men withrifles.

They had marched Stanislas away at thepoint of their bayonets. His pregnant wife and child didn't see him until hisrelease three days later. He had been beaten almost to a pulp and his arms hadbeen broken. He had been lucky not to get a bullet in the neck but that mightcome soon, and Stanislas knew it.

So he and his wife had packed theirbelongings and with a horse and cart donated by a relative had set off withtheir son for Estonia. What little money Jakob's parents had begged andborrowed went on tickets on a Swedish schooner bound from Tallinn to New York.

It was a difficult winter crossing, madeall the harsher because of savage easterly winds. The schooner was buffeted andtossed in twenty-foot swells and in the holds the immigrants suffered theworst. On the fifth day Nadia Masensky went into premature labor.

Stanislas Masensky lost not only a childbut a young wife, and when the bodies were buried at sea young Jakob rememberedthe desolate look on his father's face. The man had loved his young wifedeeply, and after her loss he was never the same. A friend of his father's hadonce told Jakob that the loss of a beautiful young wife was something a mannever really got over, and he believed it, watching his father retreat intohimself year after year.

Until the Depression came, life had beenreasonably good in America for Stanislas and his young son. He had settled inthe area of Brooklyn called Brighton Beach, known as Little Russia because ofits wave of Russian immigrants who had fled the brutality of the Tsar, Lenin,and Stalin after him, and while Stanislas went out to work on the building siteshe found an old babushka to take care of his son.