He half dozed in a chair, while Bukolov puttered around the room, muttering and complaining before eventually unwinding. Around one in the morning, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Utkin was already asleep in the other.

“I’m sorry,” Bukolov said. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Tucker.” He nodded to his partner. “That’s Kane.”

“I must say your dog seems well mannered enough. Thank you for coming to get me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did they tell you about my discovery?” Before he could answer, Bukolov shook his head dismissively. “No, of course not. Even I didn’t tell them, so how could they know?”

“Tell me about it.”

Bukolov wagged a finger. “In good time. But I will say this. It is monumental. It will change the world of medicine—among other things. That’s why they’re after me.”

“The Arzamas generals.”

“Yes.”

“Who are they?”

“Specifically? I don’t know. They’re too crafty for that.”

Tucker stared across, sizing the other up. Was this guy suffering from a paranoid delusion? A persecution complex? Tucker fingered the healing bullet graze in his neck. That certainly was real enough.

“Then tell me about Anya,” he said.

“Ah . . .” Bukolov’s face softened, holding back a ghost of a smile. “She’s wonderful. She’s means everything to me. We’ve been working in tandem, the two of us—at a distance of course, and in secret.”

“I thought Stanimir was your chief assistant.”

“Him? Hah! He’s adequate, I suppose, but he doesn’t have the mind for it. Not for what I’m doing. Few people do really. That’s why I must do this myself.”

With that, Bukolov kicked off his shoes, sprawled back on the bed, and closed his eyes.

Tucker shook his head and settled into the chair for the night.

Bukolov whispered, his eyes still shut. “I’m not crazy, you know.”

“If you say so.”

“Just so you know.”

Tucker crossed his arms, beginning to realize how little he actually knew about any of this.

March 13, 6:15 A.M.

Kungur, Russia

Despite the discomfort of the chair, Tucker slept for a solid five hours. He woke to find both of his charges still sleeping.

Taking advantage of the quiet moment, he took Kane out for a walk, let the dog stretch his legs and relieve himself. While they were still outside, Harper called.

“Anya’s real,” she said as introduction.

“I don’t know if that’s good news or bad.”

If Anya were a figment of the good doctor’s imagination, they could get out of Dodge immediately.

Harper continued. “We were able to confirm there’s an Anya Malinov working at the Kazan Institute of Biochemistry and Biophysics, but not much else. A good portion of her file is redacted. Kazan’s not as bad as the old Soviet-era naukograds, their closed science cities, but large swaths of the place do fall under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Defense.”

“So not only do we need to go to Kazan, but I have to extract this woman out from under the military’s nose.”

“Is that a problem?”

“I’ll have to make it work. Not like I have a whole lot of choice. You asked me to get him out of Russia, and that’s what I intend to do—him and now his daughter apparently. Which presents a problem. I’ve only got new passports for Bukolov. Not for Anya. And what about Utkin, for that matter? He wouldn’t survive a day after we’re gone. I won’t leave him behind.”

He flashed to Abel, panting, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

He wasn’t about to abandon another teammate behind enemy lines.

Harper was silent for a few seconds. Even from halfway around the world, Tucker imagined he could hear the gears in the woman’s head turning, recalibrating to accommodate the change in the situation.

“Okay. Like you, I’ll make it happen. When do you plan to go for Anya?”

“Within twenty-four hours. More than that and we’re pushing our luck.”

“That won’t work. I can’t get new passports for Anya and Utkin over to you that fast. But if you gave me your route from there—”

“I don’t know it yet. Considering all that’s happened, it’s hard to plan more than a step in advance. All I know for sure is the next step: free Anya.”

“Then hold on for a minute.” The line went silent, then she was back. “After you fetch Anya, can you get to Volgograd? As the crow flies, it’s six hundred miles south of Kazan.”

Tucker pulled a laminated map from his back pocket and studied it for a few seconds. “The distance is manageable.”

“Good. If you can get to Volgograd, I can get you all out. No problem.”

Out sounded good. So did no problem.

But after all that had happened, he had no faith about the outcome of either proposition.

14

March 13, 2:13 P.M.

Kazan, Russia

By that midafternoon, Tucker stood on a sidewalk in central Kazan, staring up at a bronze monolith topped by the bust of a dour-faced man. Predictably, the plaque was written in Cyrillic.

But at least I came with my own tour guide.

“Behold the birthplace of modern organic chemistry,” Abram Bukolov announced, his arms spread. “Kazan is home to the greats. Butlerov, Markovnikov, Arbuzov. The list is endless. And this fine gentleman depicted here, you surely know who he is, yes?”

“Why don’t you remind us, Doctor,” said Tucker.

“He is Nikolai Lobachevsky. The Russian pioneer in hyperbolic geometry. Ring any bells?”

Maybe warning bells.

Tucker was beginning to suspect Bukolov suffered from bipolar disorder. Since leaving the hotel at dawn Bukolov had cycled from barely contained excitement to sullenness. But upon reaching Kazan’s outskirts a short time ago, the doctor had perked up enough to demand that they go on a walking tour of the Kazan Institute of Biochemistry and Biophysics.

Tucker had agreed for several reasons.

One: To shut Bukolov up.

Two: To scout the campus.

Three: To see if he could detect a general alert for any of them. If they were being pursued, their hunters had chosen a more discreet approach.

But most of all, he needed to find out where on this research campus Anya Malinov resided or worked. He hoped to sneak her out under the cover of night.

Utkin followed behind with Kane. He had a phone at his ear, trying to reach Anya. He spoke in low tones. Matters would have been easier if her father, Bukolov, knew where she lived or where her office was located.

I’ve never been here was his answer, almost tearful, clearly fraught with worry for his daughter.

Not trusting Bukolov to be civil, Tucker had thought it best for Utkin to make an inquiry with the institution.

Utkin finally lowered the phone and drew them all together. “We have a problem.”

Of course we do.

Bukolov clutched Utkin’s sleeve. “Has something happened to Anya?”

“No, she’s fine, but she’s not here.”

“What do you mean?” Tucker asked. “Where is she?”

“She’s at the Kremlin.”

Tucker took a calming breath before speaking. “She’s in Moscow?”

Utkin waved his hands. “No, no. Kazan has a Kremlin also. It lies a kilometer from here, overlooking the Volga.”

He pointed in the general direction of the river that bordered Kazan.

“Why is she there?” Tucker asked, sighing out his relief.

Bukolov stirred. “Of course, because of the archives!”

His voice was sharp, loud enough to draw the eye of a passing campus guard. Not wanting any undue attention, Tucker drew the group along, getting them moving back toward their hotel in town.

Bukolov continued. “She mentioned finding something.” He shook his head as if trying to knock a loose gear back into place. “I forgot about it until now. Something she was going to retrieve for me. Something very important.”

“What?” Tucker asked.