“I know what it stands for.”

Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki. It was Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, their equivalent of the CIA.

“Agent or officer?” he asked.

“Agent. For the last six years. But I do have a degree in biochemistry. That’s real enough. It’s why they sent me.”

“Sent you to get close to Bukolov.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re pretty,” Tucker added. “Perfect bait for the older, widowed professor.”

“It was never like that,” Anya snapped. “They told me to seduce him if necessary, but I . . . I couldn’t do it. Besides, it proved unnecessary. The doctor is consumed with his work. My interest and aid was enough to gain his trust.”

Tucker decided he believed her. “What was the SVR after? LUCA?”

“No, not exactly. We knew Abram was working on something important. That he was close to a breakthrough. And given who he is, they wanted to know more about what he was working on.”

“And now they do,” Tucker replied. “When are they coming? Where’s the ambush point?”

“That’s just it. They’re not coming. I’ve strung them along. Believe this or not, but I believe in what he is doing. When I found out what he was trying to accomplish, I changed my mind. I’m still a scientist at heart. He genuinely wants to use LUCA for good. Months ago, I decided I wasn’t about to hand over something that important. Since then I’ve been feeding my superiors false information.”

“Does Bukolov know?”

“No. It is a distraction he does not need. Completing his work must come first.”

“What do you know about Kharzin?”

“This is the first I’ve heard of his involvement here, but I do know his reputation. He’s ruthless, very old school, surrounds himself with like-minded ideologues. All Soviet hard-liners.”

“What about your superiors? Have you been in contact with them since I got you out of the Kremlin?”

“No. You took our phones.”

“What about in Dimitrovgrad . . . when you disappeared?”

“Tea,” Anya replied. “I really was just getting tea. I didn’t break communication silence, I swear.”

“Why should I believe you? About any of this?”

“I can’t offer any concrete proof. But ask yourself this: If I were still in contact with the SVR and my loyalties had not changed, why aren’t they here?”

Tucker conceded her argument was solid.

“My real name is Anya Averin. You can have your superiors confirm what I’m saying. When we reach Volgograd, turn me over to your people. Let them debrief me. I’ve told you the truth!” Anya’s voice took on a pleading but determined tone. “Only Abram knows where De Klerk’s cave is. He never told me. Ask him. Once you get Abram out of the country and under U.S. protection, LUCA is safe from everyone—the SVR, General Kharzin—all of them.”

Tucker stared across the waters at the small slumbering homesteads along the banks, free of such skullduggery. How did spies live in this world and keep their sanity?

“What are you going to do?” Anya asked.

“I’ll keep your secret from Bukolov for now, but only until we reach the border.”

She gave him a nod of thanks. For a second, he considered throwing her overboard anyway, but quashed the impulse.

After she left, Tucker grabbed a sleeping bag and a blanket and found a nook on the boat’s forecastle. Kane curled up on the blanket and closed his eyes. Tucker tried to do the same but failed.

He stared at the passing view, watched the moonrise above the banks. Kane had a dream, making soft noises and twitching his back legs.

Tucker tried to picture their destination.

Volgograd.

He knew the city’s infamous history, when it used to be called Stalingrad. During World War II, a major battle occurred there between the German Wehrmacht and the Soviet Red Army. It lasted five months, leaving Stalingrad in rubble and two million dead or wounded.

And that’s where I hope to find salvation.

No wonder he couldn’t sleep.

21

March 16, 6:05 A.M.

The Volga River, Russia

With sunrise still two hours away, the river remained dark, mottled with patches of fog, but a distant glow rising ahead, at the horizon line, marked their approach toward Volgograd. As they motored along the current, the lights of the city slowly appeared, spreading across the banks of the river to either side, then spilling out into the surrounding steppes.

Tucker checked his watch, then retrieved his satellite phone and dialed Sigma. Once Harper was on the line, Tucker brought her up to speed about everything, including Anya’s confession from last night.

“I’ll look into her,” Harper promised.

“We should be in the city proper in another hour or so. What do you have waiting for us?”

Harper hesitated a moment. “Try to keep an open mind about this.”

“Whenever a sentence starts that way, I get nervous.”

“What do you know about ecotourism?”

“Next to nothing.”

“Well, that area of Russia has become something of a mecca for it—especially the Volga. Apparently the huge river is home to plant and animal life that’s found in few other places. Consequently, a cottage business has sprung up in Volgograd—submarine ecotours.”

“You’re kidding. The Russians don’t strike me as the ecofriendly type.”

“Still, at last count, there are eleven companies that offer such tours. They make up a fleet of about forty electric minisubs. Each holds six passengers and one pilot. With a depth rating of thirty feet. Aside from conducting monthly safety checks, the government is hands-off. The subs come and go as they please.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Tucker could guess the rest. Sigma must have found a tour company that was strapped for cash and was willing to take a private party on an extended tour of the Volga.

After she passed on the details, Tucker hung up and went aft to speak with Vadim.

“Do you speak English?” Tucker asked.

“Yes. Some. If speak slow.”

Tucker explained as best he could, much of it involving pantomiming. He should have woken Utkin to help with the translation.

But finally Vadim grinned and nodded. “Ah! The Volga-Don canal. Yes, I know it. I find the boat you meet. Three hours, da?”

“Da.”

“We make it. No worry. You and dog go now.”

It seemed Tucker had been dismissed. He went below to find everyone awake and eating a simple breakfast of tea, black bread, and hard cheese.

Bukolov asked, “So, Tucker, what is your plan? How are you going to get me out of the country?”

“It’s all been arranged.” He held off mentioning the unusual means of transportation—not because of fear that the information might leak to the wrong ears, but simply to avoid a mutiny. Instead, he bucked up as much confidence as he could muster and said, “We’re almost home free.”

8:13 A.M.

Ninety minutes later, Vadim called down the ladder, “We are here.”

Tucker led the group topside, where they found the world had been whitewashed away, swallowed by a thick, dense fog. To the east the sun was a dull disk in the overcast sky. All around, out of the mists, buoys clanged and horns blew. Flowing dark shadows marked passing boats, gliding up and down the Volga.

Vadim had them anchored near the shore, the engine in neutral.

“It is eerie, all this fog,” Anya said.

“But good for us, yes?” Bukolov asked.

Tucker nodded.

Vadim resumed his post at the wheel and said something to Utkin.

“He says your friends are late.”

Tucker checked his watch. “Not by much. They’ll be here.”

They stood in the fog, not talking, waiting.

Then an engine with an angry pitch grew louder, coming toward them. A moment later, the sharp nose of a speedboat glided out of the fog off the port bow. The speedboat drew abeam and a gaff hook appeared and latched on to their gunwale.