“Anything else that makes you suspicious of her?”

“She’s pretty, and she finds me fascinating.”

“That certainly is odd. Are you sure she’s in possession of her faculties?”

He smiled at her matter-of-fact tone. “Funny.”

He decided he might—might—like Ruth Harper.

“Your accent,” Tucker said. “Tennessee?”

She ignored his attempt to draw her out, but from the exasperated tone of her next words, he guessed he was wrong about Tennessee.

“Give me Felice’s pedigree,” she said, staying professional.

Tucker passed on the information he had gleaned: her name, her background at the University of Cambridge, her friends in Moscow. “And I have a picture. I assume your wizards have access to facial-recognition programs.”

“Indeed we do.”

“I’m sending it now.”

“Okay, sit tight and I’ll get back to you.”

It didn’t take long. Harper called back within forty minutes.

“Your instinct was sound,” she said without preamble. “But you’ve picked up more than a tail. She’s a freelance mercenary.”

“I knew it was too good to be true,” he muttered. “Let’s hear it.”

“Her real name is Felice Nilsson, but she’s traveling under Felice Johansson. Swedish citizenship. She’s thirty-three, born in Stockholm to a wealthy family. She didn’t graduate from Cambridge, but from University of Gothenburg, with a master’s in fine arts and music. And here’s where things get interesting. Six months after graduating, she joined the Swedish Armed Forces and eventually ended up in Särskilda Inhämtningsgruppen.”

“SIG?”

As a member of the U.S. Special Forces, Tucker had to know the competition, both allied and enemy alike. SIG was the Swedish Special Reconnaissance Group. Its operatives were trained in intelligence gathering, reconnaissance, and covert surveillance, along with being superb, hardened soldiers.

“She was one of the group’s first female members,” Harper added.

“What was her specialty?”

“Sniper.”

Great.

“I urge you to approach her with extreme caution.”

“Caution? Never would have thought of that.”

Harper let out what could be taken as a soft chuckle, but it disappeared so quickly that Tucker couldn’t be sure.

“Point taken,” she said. “But do not underestimate her. After six years in the SIG, Nilsson resigned her commission. Eight months later, she started popping up on intel radars, first working small-time stuff as a mercenary, mostly for established groups. Then, two years ago, she struck out on her own, forming her own team—all former Swedish Special Forces. Last estimate put her roster at six to eight, including herself.”

“Bored rich girl goes rogue,” Tucker said.

“Maybe that’s how it started, but she’s got a real taste for it now. And a solid reputation. For now, the question remains, Who hired her and why?”

“You’re in a better position to answer that than I am. But this must have something to do with your operation. Otherwise, it would be about me personally, and that doesn’t seem likely.”

“Agreed.”

“And if that’s true, if they’re already on my tail, I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

“We’ve got a leak,” Harper replied. “Word of your involvement must have reached those who are hunting for Dr. Bukolov.”

“But who leaked that information? For the moment, let’s assume it didn’t come from anyone inside Sigma command. So who in Russia had my itinerary? Who knew I’d be aboard this train.”

“The only person with that information was the contact you’re supposed to meet in Perm.”

“Who’s that?”

She didn’t answer immediately, and Tucker knew why. If Felice Nilsson got her hands on Tucker, the less he knew, the less he could divulge.

“Forget I asked,” he said. “So the leak is either my contact or someone he told.”

“Most likely,” she agreed. “Either way, it has to be Abram Bukolov they’re after. But the fact that Ms. Nilsson is on that train rather than out in Perm, pursuing our contact, that tells us something.”

“It tells us whoever is paying her wants this to play out for some reason. This isn’t all about Bukolov himself. Maybe it’s something he has . . . something he knows.”

“Again, I agree. And trust me when I tell you this: I don’t know what that could be. When he contacted us, he was tight-lipped. He told us only enough to make sure we’d get him out.” A moment of contemplative silence stretched, then she asked, “What’s your plan? How do you want to play this?”

“Don’t know yet. Assuming those leather jackets I saw at Khabarovsk were hers, they were in a hurry, and I think I know why. The next stop on this route is at the city of Chita, a major hub, where trains spread out in every direction. They had to tag me in Khabarovsk or risk losing me.”

“Do you think her men got aboard?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll have a look around. I wonder if part of their job was a distraction—a spectacle to let Felice slip aboard without fuss.”

“Either way, you can bet she’s in contact with them. You said there were no other stops before Chita?”

“Afraid not.” Tucker checked his watch. “We’ll arrive in two and a half days. I’m going to check the route map. If the train slows below thirty miles per hour, and the terrain is accommodating, we can roll off. It’s the surest way to shake Felice off my trail.”

“You’re getting into the mountains out there, Tucker. Take care you don’t tumble off a cliff.”

“Glad to know you care, Harper.”

“Just worried about the dog.”

He smiled, warming up to this woman. His image of the battle-weary librarian was developing some softer edges, including a glint of dark amusement in her eyes.

“As to Felice Nilsson,” she continued, “don’t kill her unless you have to.”

“No promises, Harper, but I’ll keep you posted.”

He disconnected and looked down at Kane, who was upright in his seat by the window. “How does a little backcountry romp sound to you, my friend?”

Kane tilted his head and wagged his tail.

So it’s unanimous.

As the train continued chugging west toward Chita, Tucker spent the remainder of the day strolling the train, twice bumping into Felice. They chatted briefly. Both times she deftly probed him about his plans.

Would he be heading directly on to Perm?

What would he do when he got there?

Which hotel had he booked?

He deflected his way through her questioning with lies and vague responses. Then he spent the rest of the afternoon seeking an easy place to jump from the train.

Unlike Hollywood portrayals, one could not simply open a window or slip out between cars. While in motion, all the train’s exits were locked, either directly or behind secure doors. Such security left Tucker with two choices. Either he remained aboard and attempted to shake loose of Felice at the Chita station, where she likely already had accomplices lying in wait—or he discovered a way to get through those locked exits and leap blindly from the train in the dead of night.

Not great choices.

Still, in the end, he had little trouble making the decision, leaning upon his military training and mind-set. It came down to a simple adage drilled into him as an army ranger.

Act, don’t react.

7

March 8, 11:03 P.M.

Trans-Siberian Railway

With the night darkening the berth’s windows, Tucker made his final preparations. He had spent the last few hours of daylight walking through his plan, both mentally and physically, rehearsing his movements, along with timing and tracing the routines of the staff.

After one final task—a bit of breaking and entering—he called Ruth Harper.

“Did you get the photos I took of Felice’s papers?”

Earlier in the day, he had snuck into her berth while she was out. He rifled carefully through her bags and compartments, discovering four passports, her credit cards, and a Swedish driver’s license. He took photos of them all with his cell phone, left the room as tidy as he had entered it, and sent them to Sigma command. He wanted to know all he could about his opponent.