“Your dog is beautiful,” a gruff voice said at his shoulder. He spoke passable English, but heavily accented. “German shepherd?”

Tucker turned to find a short man in his sixties, with long white hair and a grizzled beard. His eyes shone a sharp ice-blue.

“Eh?” Tucker grunted.

“Oh, I see,” the stranger said. “Let me guess, you are a traveling prizefighter.”

Tucker’s heart pounded as he glanced around. None of the other patrons seemed to be paying attention.

The man crooked his finger at Tucker and leaned closer.

“I know you are not Russian, my friend. I heard you talking to your dog at the church. You’d best follow me.”

The older man turned and picked his way through the crowd, which seemed to part before him, the patrons nodding deferentially at him.

Nervous, but with no other choice, Tucker followed after him, ending up at a table in the bar’s far corner, beside a stone-hearth fireplace.

With the table to themselves, the man stared at Tucker through narrow eyes. “A good disguise, actually. You have mastered the Siberian stoop—you know, the hunched shoulders, the lowered chin. The cold grinds it into you up here, bends you. So much so, if you live here long enough, it becomes one’s posture.”

Tucker said nothing.

“A cautious man. Good, very good. You have seen the soldiers, I assume? The Moscow boys, I mean, with the commandos and the fancy helicopter. It’s the first time in years we’ve seen anyone like them here. And it’s the only time an American with a giant dog has set up camp in my home. Not a coincidence, I am guessing.”

Tucker said nothing.

“If I were going to turn you in, I would have already done so.”

He considered this, recognized the truth of it, and decided it was time to take a chance. Covertly he removed his mouthpiece, then took a sip of beer.

“Belgian Malinois,” Tucker said.

“Pardon me?”

“He’s not a German. He’s Belgian. And for your sake, he better be safe and sound where I left him.”

“He is,” the stranger said with a smile, holding out a hand. “I am Dimitry.”

“I’m—”

“Do not tell me your name. The less I know, the better. I am Nerchinsk’s bishop. Well, for this town and a few other villages nearby. Mine is a small flock, but I love them all the same.”

The old man glanced affectionately across the crowded bar.

Tucker remembered how the others had deferred to the man, stepping out of his way. “Your English is very good.”

“Satellite dish. I watch American television. And the Internet, of course. As for your Russian, well, it is—”

“Crap,” Tucker finished with a smile. “But how did you know about me and my dog?”

“I was out hunting and spotted your tracks outside of town. I followed them back to my church.”

“Sorry for the intrusion.”

“Think nothing of it. Orthodox churches are intended as sanctuaries. The heat is always on, so to speak. And speaking of heat . . .” The man nodded to the bar’s front door. “It seems you’ve drawn a fair share of your own heat.”

Tucker shrugged. “I’m not sure if the soldiers are in town because of me, but I’m not a big fan of coincidences either.”

“The last time we saw such a group in the area was before the wall came down. They were looking for a foreigner, an Englishman.”

“What happened to him?”

“They found him two miles out of town. Shot him and buried him on the spot. I do not know any of the details, but he was on the run, like you and your dog.”

Tucker must have paled.

Dimitry patted his arm. “Ah, but you have an advantage the Englishman lacked.”

“Which is?”

“You have a friend in town.”

Tucker still felt ill at ease and expressed his concern. “Do you know the phrase look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“As in being suspicious of good luck?”

“More or less.”

“I understand your concern. So let me dispense with the formalities and settle things. Have you or do you intend to wreak havoc on Mother Russia?”

“No.”

“Will you harm my flock?”

“Not unless they try to harm me.”

“Nyet, of course not.” Dimitry waved his hand dismissively. “So with that business dispensed of, I am going to assume you are simply a lost traveler, and those Moscow thugs were chasing you for stealing soap from your last hotel.”

“Fair enough.”

“I had my fill of the government back in the eighties, when I served as a paratrooper in Afghanistan. I killed a lot of jihadists, and the army gave me a lot of shiny ribbons. But now I am forgotten, like most of us from that war—at least the ones who truly got our knives dirty. I love my country, but not so much my government. Does that make sense to you?”

“More than you’d imagine.”

“Good. Then that, my wayward friend, is why I am going to help you. I assume you and your keen-eyed partner spotted the air base?”

“We did.”

“Do you know how to fly a plane?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. But I have a friend who does. In fact—” Dimitry looked around the bar, half standing, before spotting what he was looking for. “There he is.”

Dimitry pointed toward a pine table near the window where two men were sitting.

“Which one?”

“No, no, underneath.”

Tucker peered closer until he could make out a figure under the table. His legs were splayed out, and his head sharply canted to accommodate for the tabletop pressing against his skull. A ribbon of dribble ran from the corner of his mouth to his coat sleeve.

“That is Fedor,” Dimitry said as introduction. “Our postman. He flies in our mail.”

“He’s drunk.”

“Massively,” Dimitry agreed. “It is night, after all. In the morning, though, Fedor will be sober. Of course, that does not entirely solve your problem, does it? The Moscow thugs will be patrolling the skies during the day. Your departure must wait until tomorrow night, which means we must keep Fedor sober for, well, longer than he is accustomed.” He paused with a frown. “Now I begin to see a flaw in our plan. No matter. This is a bridge we will cross later.”

“Let’s cross it now,” Tucker said. “Fedor can’t be your only pilot.”

“Nyet, but he is the most experienced. And he is a first-rate smuggler. Nerchinsk does not live on bread alone, you see. For the right amount of money, he will get you out, right under the noses of these government men, and never tell a soul. And, as it happens, he loves dogs very much.”

Tucker wasn’t reassured one bit.

Dimitry downed his drink and stood up. “Come, let us collect him!”

10

March 10, 6:45 A.M.

Nerchinsk, Siberia

Tucker woke just before dawn—a soldier’s habit. With a groan from his back and a twinge of pain from his grazed neck, he pushed up from the church’s attic cot and swung his bare feet to the floor.

The prior night, he and Dimitry had hauled the drunken postman across town to the church. On the way here, they had run into a trio of Spetsnaz soldiers, but none of them paid any heed, save for a few laughing gibes at the inebriated state of their companion. At the church, Dimitry offered Tucker and Kane his cot and rolled out a pair of hay-filled bedrolls for him and Fedor.

Tucker searched the attic space now, realizing he was alone.

Fedor and Dimitry were gone, along with Kane.

Quashing his panic, he went downstairs to find a naked Fedor sitting before the blazing woodstove, seated in a puddle of his own sweat. Beside him stood a plastic milk jug half filled with a clear liquid. Sober now, the man looked younger, more midthirties than forties, with dark lanky hair and a wrestler’s build, most of it covered in a mat of fur, a true Russian bear.

A few feet away, Kane sat on his haunches, watching curiously. He acknowledged Tucker’s arrival with a wag of his tail.

Fedor lifted the jug, tipped it to his mouth, and took a long gulp.