Tucker pulled out his cell phone and showed the grainy image from the Internet café to their captive. “How and when did you get this?”

“By e-mail,” Utkin translated. “Yesterday afternoon.”

“How did they know where to intercept us?”

Utkin shook his head. “He was just given the order.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Let’s find out.”

Abruptly, Tucker pulled the Magnum from his jacket pocket and pressed it against the boy’s right kneecap. “Tell him I don’t believe him. He needs to tell me why Kharzin wants Bukolov.”

Utkin translated Tucker’s demand.

Istvan started jabbering, white-faced and trembling.

“He says he doesn’t know,” Utkin blurted, almost as scared as the kid. “Something about a plant or flower. A discovery of some kind. A weapon. He swears on the life of his son.”

Tucker kept the Magnum pressed against the guy’s kneecap.

Utkin whispered, “Tucker, he has a son.”

Tucker did his best to keep his face stony. “A lot of people have sons. He’s going to have to give me a better reason than that. Tell him to think hard. Has he forgotten anything?”

“Like what!”

“Is there anyone else after us? Anyone besides the GRU?”

Utkin questioned the boy, pressing him hard. Finally, he turned and stammered, “He says there’s a woman. She is helping Kharzin.”

“A woman?”

“Someone with blond hair. He only saw her once. He doesn’t know her name, but he believes that she was hired by Kharzin as some sort of mercenary or assassin.”

Tucker pictured Felice Nilsson. She was old news. “Go on. Tell him I already know about—”

“He says after they pulled her from the river, she was taken to a hospital.”

Tucker felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach.

“Has he seen her since?”

“No.”

Could she truly have survived?

He remembered the strong current, the icy water. He pictured Felice swimming or being pulled along by the flow, maybe finding a break in the ice, maybe radioing for rescue. If the Spetsnaz had found Felice quickly enough, there was a slight chance she could have made it.

Tucker took the Magnum away from Istvan’s knee and shoved it into his jacket pocket. The boy leaned back, gasping with relief.

Tucker was done here. As he turned away, he imagined that cunning huntress coming after him again, but he felt no fear, only certainty.

I killed you once, Felice. If I have to, I’ll do it again.

19

March 15, 1:15 P.M.

North of Volgograd, Russia

Back in the Peugeot, Tucker continued working his way south, staying off the main road. Utkin’s knowledge of the area came in very handy as he pointed to rutted tracks and cow paths that weren’t on any map.

Anya broke the exhausted silence and expressed a fear she had clearly been harboring. “What did you do with the young man from the trunk?”

“Are you asking me if I killed him?” Tucker said.

“I suppose I am.”

“He’ll be fine.”

Conditionally, he added silently. They had left Istvan duct-taped to a post at the old farmhouse. His parting words to the kid had been clear: This is your one free pass. Appear on the field of battle again and I’ll kill you.

“Please tell me you didn’t hurt him.”

“I didn’t hurt him.”

Tucker glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Her blue eyes stared back at him in the reflection.

She finally turned away. “I believe you.”

Following Utkin’s directions, Tucker drove south for another thirty miles, reaching a farming community near the Volga’s banks.

“The village of Shcherbatovka,” Utkin announced.

If you say so . . .

Half the buildings were either boarded up or looked abandoned. At the far end, a narrow dirt road led in a series of sharp switchbacks from the top of a bluff to a dock that hugged the river.

They all unloaded at the foot of the pier, a ramshackle structure of oil-soaked pylons and gap-toothed wooden planks.

Utkin waved to a man seated in a lawn chair at the end. Floating listlessly beside him was what looked to be a rust-streaked houseboat. Or maybe tent boat was the better description. A blue tarpaulin stretched over the flat main deck.

Utkin talked with the man for a few minutes then returned to the car.

“He can take us to Volgograd. It will cost five thousand rubles, not including the fuel.”

The price wasn’t Tucker’s concern. “Can we trust him?”

“My friend, these people do not have telephones, televisions, or radios. Unless our pursuers plan to visit every fisherman personally between Saratov and Volgograd, I think we are safe. Besides, the people here do not like the government. Any government.”

“Fair enough.”

“In addition, I know this man well. He is a friend of my uncle. His name is Vadim. If you are in agreement, he says we can leave at nightfall.”

Tucker nodded. “Let’s do it.”

After storing their gear in the storage shed of Vadim’s boat, Tucker drove the Peugeot back toward Shcherbatovka. A mile past the village, following Utkin’s crude map, he reached a deep tributary to the Volga. He drove to the edge, put the car in neutral before turning it off, and climbed out.

Kane followed him, stretching, while searching the woods to either side.

Tucker quickly tossed the keys into the creek, got behind the car, and shouldered it into the water. He waited until the Peugeot sank sullenly out of view.

He then turned to Kane.

“Feel like a walk?”

8:30 P.M.

Captain Vadim stood on the dock, a glowing stub of a cigar clenched between his back molars. The stocky, hard man, with a week of beard scruff and hardly more stubble across his scalp, stood a head shorter than any of them. Though it was already growing colder following sunset, he wore only a shirt and a pair of stained jeans.

He waved Tucker and the others toward a plank that led from the pier to his boat. He grumbled something that Tucker took as Welcome aboard.

Anya helped Bukolov tiptoe warily across the gangplank. Kane trotted across next, followed by Tucker and Utkin.

Vadim yanked the mooring lines, hopped aboard, and pulled the gangplank back to the boat’s deck. He pointed to an outhouse-like structure that led below to the cabins and spoke rapidly.

Utkin grinned. “He says the first-class accommodations are below. Vadim has a sense of humor.”

If you could call it that, Tucker thought.

“I should take my father to his cabin,” Anya said. “He still needs some rest.”

Bukolov did look exhausted, still compromised by his concussion. He slapped at Anya’s hands as she tried to help him.

“Father, behave.”

“Quit calling me that! Makes me sound like an invalid. I can manage.”

Despite his grousing, he allowed himself to be helped below.

Tucker turned to find Kane standing at the blunted bowsprit, his nose high, taking in the scents.

That’s a happy dog.

To the west, the sun had set behind the bluffs. The afternoon’s brisk wind had died to a whisper, leaving the surface of the Volga calm. Still, underneath the surface, sluggish brown water swirled and eddied.

The Volga’s currents were notoriously dangerous.

Utkin noted his attention. “Don’t fall in. Vadim has no life rings. Also Vadim does not swim.”

“Good to know.”

With everyone aboard, Vadim hopped onto the afterdeck and took his place behind the wheel. With a rumble, the diesel engine started. Black smoke gushed from the exhaust manifolds. The captain steered the bow into the current, and they were off.

“How long to Volgograd?” Tucker asked.

Utkin glanced back to Vadim. “He says the current is faster than normal, so about ten hours or so.”

Tucker joined Kane, and after twenty minutes, Anya returned topside.