EPTEMBER 6, 10:26 P.M.

SOUTHERN URAL MOUNTAINS

Monk kept guard.

In dry clothes and with his bones warmed by the hearth, Monk circled the cabin. He creaked around as quietly as possible, stepping carefully. He wore his boots, though the laces were untied. He had all the children redress and put on their shoes before curling up in their quilts. If they had to leave suddenly, he didn’t want them fumbling with clothing.

Konstantin and Kiska huddled together, each cocooned in their blankets. They seemed smaller in sleep, especially Konstantin. His sharp attention and mature speech patterns made him seem older. But with his body relaxed, Monk realized he could be no older than twelve.

Stepping past them, Monk moved extra softly. By now, he knew which floorboards creaked the loudest and avoided them. Pyotr lay curled in the embrace of the old chimpanzee. She sat on the floor, her head hung to her chest, breathing deeply in sleep. Pyotr had panicked earlier, scared for his twin sister. Monk trusted the boy’s instinct, but there was nothing they could do. It took a full hour to get Pyotr to finally relax, but the day’s trek had worn the boy to a thread. He finally succumbed to his exhaustion and drifted to sleep, guarded over by Marta.

No matter how softly Monk tread, she would lift her head toward him as he passed. Bleary, warm eyes stared up at him, then the lids drifted down along with her head.

Keep watching over him, Marta.

At least someone loved these children.

Monk returned to his seat beside the door. He had upended the table across the threshold and had positioned a chair in front of that. He sank to it with a sigh.

He listened to the night noises of the swamp: the gurgle of water, the croaking of frogs, the buzz of crickets, and the occasional soft hooting of a hunting owl. He had been startled earlier by something large moving past the cabin, but a peek through the shutters revealed a muddy boar, grubbing around.

Monk let the creature roam, serving as a tusked sentinel. But eventually it moved on.

The rhythms of the swamp lulled him. Before long, his own chin sank toward his chest. He’d only close his eyes for a few minutes.

—You’re late again, Monk! Get moving!

His head snapped back up, cracking against the underside of the upended table. Pain lanced through his skull—not from his knock against wood, but from deeper down. For a moment, he tasted…tasted cinnamon, spiced and warm, along with a whispery brush against his lips. A scent filled him, stirred him.

It faded quickly.

Just a dream…

But Monk knew better. He sat straighter as the icy spike of pain melted away. He fingered the sutures behind his ear.

Who am I?

Konstantin had described a sinking cruise liner, a weighted net, and his rescue at sea. Had he worked on the ship? Had he been a passenger? There was no answer inside him, only darkness.

Monk gazed across the room and found a pair of eyes staring back at him. Pyotr hadn’t moved. He just looked at Monk. The knock of his head against the table must have woken the boy.

Or maybe it was something else.

Monk met the boy’s gaze. He read a well of sorrow in the child’s eyes, too deep for one so young. It scared Monk a little. It was no simple grief or fear. Hopelessness shone in his tiny face, a despair that had no place in any child’s eyes. The boy shivered, stirring Marta.

She hooted softly and looked over her shoulder at Monk.

He stood and crossed to them. The boy’s face gleamed brightly in the firelight. Too brightly. Monk checked his forehead.

Hot. Feverish.

That’s all he needed was a sick child.

Couldn’t he catch even a small break?

His silent question was answered by a feral scream. Close. It started as a throaty growl, and then pitched into a full scream. It reminded Monk of someone yanking on the cord of a chain saw.

A second cry answered from the opposite side of the domicile.

The feral screams jerked both Konstantin and Kiska to their feet.

There had been no warning.

Monk had heard no sign of the cats’ approach. Even the boy had remained unaware. Maybe it was the fever or simple exhaustion. Monk had hoped for some notice.

The cabin was not secure. From what he saw on the riverbank earlier, each tiger weighed around seven hundred pounds, most of it toughened muscle. The cats could tear through the door or claw through the roof in seconds. But for now, they circled, growling, sizing up the place.

Konstantin had expressed another concern. Even if the tigers didn’t storm the cabin, they were surely being followed by hunters on two legs. They could not let the cats trap them here.

So with no choice, they moved quickly.

Monk slipped the spear-point bowie knife they’d found in the cabin from his belt and clenched the wooden handle between his teeth—then he crossed to the stone hearth and pulled a flaming brand out of the fire. Earlier, using the knife, he had chopped a three-foot-long branch from a scraggly pine outside. The resin was highly combustible and had fueled the stick into a fiery torch.

Monk hurried around the room. He tapped the torch to the underside of the thatch roof. Long neglected, it was as dry as tinder. He had also emptied the kerosene from the rusty lantern into some rags and stuffed them in the roof.

Flames spread quickly.

The cats yowled into higher octaves, splitting the night.

Behind Monk, Konstantin lifted two pine boards from the floor. Monk had already pried out the old nails with the same knife and loosened the boards. Raised on short stilts, the cabin had a low crawl space beneath it, open on all sides. It was too low-roofed for Monk, but not for the children or Marta. He prayed the cats could not shimmy under there also.

Opposite the door, Kiska unlatched the shutter from the cabin’s window and dropped it open.

At the same time, Monk kicked the table aside from the door.

Ready and running out of time, he waved the kids below as smoke filled the upper half of the cabin and heat blazed down.

Marta helped Pyotr under the floorboards. Kiska went next. Konstantin followed. The older boy nodded to Monk, no longer a boy, but a dour young man again. “Be careful,” Konstantin warned.

With the dagger between his teeth, Monk returned his nod.

Konstantin dropped away and vanished.

Monk had to keep the cats distracted. The roof fire and smoke should confuse them. He had to add to it. With the torch in his hand, he counted to ten—then kicked the warped door with all his strength. Boards cracked, and the door smashed wide.

A tiger crouched three yards away. Startled, it curled into a long menacing hiss. One claw swiped at the empty air in his direction.

The feline equivalent of fuck you.

Monk gaped a half second at its sheer size. Thirteen feet long. Eyes glowed with reflected firelight as the cabin’s roof burned. Lips rippled back, pink tongue arched deep inside a cage of long fangs.

Monk swung the torch in a fiery arc. His heart pounded a primal drumbeat that traced back to mankind’s prehistoric roots huddled in dark caves.

Still, as he’d hoped, the loud bang of the door drew the second cat. It came ripping around the corner on the left, low to the ground, a blur of striped fur and massive paws. Monk shoved his torch in the cat’s face as it lunged at him.

Fur burned, and the cat screeched and rolled away.

Monk caught a glimpse of the tiger’s gnarled left ear, marking this one as Zakhar.

His brother Arkady howled and charged, defending his littermate.

Monk knew the cat intended to bowl into him, torch or not.

So Monk hiked his arm back and hurled the fiery brand like a javelin. It speared through the air and struck the tiger square in its open mouth. The cat shot straight up, spitting and writhing in midair.

Monk grabbed the knife from his teeth, pivoted on his toe, and lunged back into the cabin. As he turned, from the corner of his eye, he spotted Zakhar pounding straight at him.

Gasping in terror, Monk sprinted across the smoky interior of the cabin. Like tear gas, the heat and sting of soot blinded him. He ran on instinct. The open window lay directly opposite the door. Blinking tears, he made out a darker square set against the blurry wall.

He dove straight at it, stretching his arms ahead of him.

His aim was sure—until a claw snagged his pant leg. Cloth ripped free, but his body jerked. His shoulder hit the window’s edge with an arm-numbing blow. His momentum enabled him to tumble out the window. He landed hard with the wind knocked out of him. The knife flew from his fingertips into high weeds.

Behind him, Zakhar slammed into the wall, unprepared for the mouse hole through which Monk had escaped. The impact shook the entire cabin; flames danced higher. A howl of raw fury chased Monk back to his feet.

He stumbled a step, caught himself, then sprinted away from the cabin toward the water. It was that stumble that doomed him.

2:20 P.M.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Her condition is a form of meningitis,” Dr. Yuri Raev admitted.

Painter sat across the dining table from the older Russian scientist. Dr. Raev was flanked by John Mapplethorpe, who Painter recognized from a dossier Sean McKnight had prepared—and a surprising guest, Dr. Trent McBride, the supposedly missing colleague of Archibald Polk.

It seemed he had been found.

Painter had a thousand questions for the man, but the meeting here at the Capital Grille on Pennsylvania Avenue had been tightly negotiated across intelligence channels. The limit and scope of their discussions had been ironed out. Any discussion of Dr. Polk was off the table. At least for now. The only matter open for dialogue was the health of the girl.

As such, Painter had brought his own experts to the roundtable. On his side of the table sat Lisa and Malcolm. The pair had the medical knowledge and background to weigh the validity of the information offered.

Across the table, the Russian looked ill at ease. He was not the monster Painter had envisioned in his mind when he’d negotiated this roundtable. The man looked like a kindly grandfather in his rumpled dark suit, but there was a haunted quality to his eyes. Painter also read the crinkled concern as he talked about the child. The lines on his face had deepened and spread when he glanced through the medical file Lisa had slid across the table. Painter suspected the only reason the man was cooperating was a true fear for the girl’s life.

“Her deterioration is a result of her augment,” Yuri continued. “We don’t completely understand why. The device’s microelectrodes are composed of carbon-platinum nanotubules. We believe that the more a subject utilizes their talents, the faster they deteriorate. Has Sasha been drawing while you’ve had her in your custody?”

Painter remembered all her feverish sketches: the safe house, the Taj Mahal, a picture of Monk. He slowly nodded. “Exactly what is she doing when she draws?”

Mapplethorpe lifted a hand. There was an oiliness to his voice, well suited to slide around the truth. “You know that is beyond the scope of discussion here. You’re treading on thin ice, Director Crowe.”

Yuri spoke over Mapplethorpe’s objection, which Painter found interesting. “She is a prodigious savant,” he said, ignoring glares from either side. “Her natural talents blend keen spatial dynamics with artistic talent, and when augmented, these abilities cross to—”

“That’s enough,” Mapplethorpe barked. “Or we end matters here and walk away. You can send us the girl’s body after she’s dead.”

Yuri’s face darkened, but he went silent.

Lisa encouraged him back on track. “Why does utilizing her abilities accelerate Sasha’s deterioration?”

Yuri spoke softly, with a trace of guilt. “When stimulated, the interface between the organic and inorganic begins to leak.”

Malcolm stirred. “What do you mean by ‘leak’?”

“Our researchers believe that nanoparticles break away from the ends of the microelectrodes and contaminate the cerebral spinal fluid.”

Lisa stirred. “No wonder our cultures came back negative. The meningitis wasn’t bacterial or viral, but a contamination of foreign particles.”

Yuri nodded.

“And to cure her, we must treat that contamination?” she asked.

“Yes. It has taken us many years to devise a system of preventative medicine. At the core, we employ a modified version of a chemotherapeutic drug used to treat bladder cancer. Cis-platinum. The monoatomic platinum acts as a binder for the stray nanoparticles and helps flush them out. The exact cocktail and dosage of drugs necessary to facilitate such a treatment will require an examination of the girl and immediate access to fresh blood tests.”

Painter noted the corners of McBride’s lips harden. It seemed there was some dissatisfaction with this dependency on Dr. Raev. But if the Russian was telling the truth, he was vital to the girl’s survival.

Under the table, Lisa’s hand rested on Painter’s knee. The long linen tablecloth hid her attention. They were seated in the Fabric Room of the Capital Grille steakhouse, neutral ground, a restaurant known for the number of deals struck across the fine china and linen. They had the private dining hall to themselves. The rest of the restaurant was notably empty. Most likely arranged by Mapplethorpe to assure further privacy.

Lisa’s fingers tightened on his knee, signaling that she believed Dr. Raev. Painter also noted the division between the Russian and the other two men. Was there a way of utilizing that to his advantage?

McBride spoke. “We have Dr. Raev’s pharmacy of medicines. If you’ll bring the girl to a hospital, we can get her treatment started immediately. Perhaps Walter Reed Army Medical Center.”

Painter shook his head.

Nice try, bud.

Lisa supported him. “She’s too fragile to move. We’re barely managing her D.I.C. as it is. Any additional stress could destabilize her beyond recovery.”

“Then I must go to her,” Yuri said.

Painter knew they’d come to the prickly point of these negotiations. The child was a political and scientific hot potato. He had left her in the care of Kat and Sean. Sean, as the director of DARPA, was also wielding his skill behind the scenes. The roundtable here was just the tip of the political iceberg.

Painter had no choice but to bring Yuri to the girl, breaching Sigma security—but unfortunately, Mapplethorpe knew this, too. And from their reactions here and the obvious friction between them, Mapplethorpe would never allow Yuri to go alone.

“I will allow one person to accompany Dr. Raev,” Painter said.

Mapplethorpe misinterpreted his restriction. “We know where Sigma command is located, if that’s what you fear revealing. Beneath the Smithsonian Castle.”

Though Painter shouldn’t have been startled, his gut still clenched. Mapplethorpe had his fingers tangled throughout the intelligence web of Washington. Sean had warned that it would not take the man long to determine who was involved and where they were located. Still, with all his political power, Mapplethorpe could not gain access to Sigma’s inner sanctum. Behind the scenes, the man was surely still attempting to storm their gates. Sean’s goal was to keep those gates barred tightly.

Painter kept his features stoic. “Be that as it may, I’ll allow only one person to accompany Dr. Raev.” He glanced between the two men.

McBride lifted a hand. “I’ll go. I can be of use to Yuri.”

From the Russian’s slight roll of his eyes, it seemed Dr. Raev did not agree.

Mapplethorpe stared hard at Painter, then slowly nodded. “But we’ll want a concession for our cooperation,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You may keep the girl—but from here on out, you’ll grant free access to her once she’s recovered. She is a resource we’ll not let slip away. Our national security is at stake.”

“Don’t wave the flag at me,” Painter said. “What you cooperated in to produce this girl is beyond all conventions of human decency.”

“We only financed and offered scientific counsel at the end. The project was already well established. If we hadn’t cooperated, as you say, our country would be at serious risk.”

“What a crock! When you cross such a line, you damage all of us. What nation are we trying to protect, if that nation advocates the brutality necessary to produce this girl?”

“Are you truly that naive, Crowe? It’s a new world out there.”

“No, it’s not. Last I checked, it’s the same planet circling the same sun. The only thing that’s changed is how we’re reacting, what lines we’re willing to cross. We have the ability to stop that.”

Mapplethorpe glowered at him. Painter saw the resolution in the man’s eyes. The man truly believed what he was doing was necessary, saw no fault in it. Here was a level of zealotry that brooked no argument. Painter wondered where such certainty came from—was it just patriotism or did he wrap himself in such dogma to protect himself from the atrocities he committed, crimes he knew in his heart were too horrible to justify any other way?

Either way, they were at an impasse.

“Do we have a deal?” Mapplethorpe asked. “Otherwise, we’ll move on. There are always other children.”

Painter studied his adversary. To cure the child, he had no choice but to get into political bed with him. Painter could not let the girl die. He’d have to deal with the political fallout afterward.

Painter slowly nodded. “When can you be ready?”

McBride spoke up. “I’ll need an hour to collect Dr. Raev’s medicines.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Painter said and stood, ending the summit.

Mapplethorpe followed him up and held out his hand, as if they’d just completed a real estate sale. And maybe they had. Painter was about to sell a part of his soul.

Still, with no choice, he shook the man’s hand.

Mapplethorpe’s palm was cold and dry, his grip firm with certainty.

A part of Painter envied that level of unwavering conviction. But did the man sleep as well at night? As they departed through the wood-paneled restaurant and out under the blue-green awning, Painter was troubled by one statement by Mapplethorpe, a disturbing aside.

There are always other children.

Who was he talking about?

10:42 P.M.

SOUTHERN URAL MOUNTAINS

He had to get away.

Monk sprinted toward the open water. Behind him, a tiger’s scream sliced through the night, coming from the flaming cabin.

Zakhar.

The cat fought to climb through the window.

Monk increased his pace.

Ahead, he spotted a small raft out in the water. Earlier, Monk had hauled the old punt out of the reeds. He’d scraped away most of the moss and found the raft still floated. Unfortunately, there were no oars, so Monk had fashioned a long pole out of the trunk of a sapling.

Out in the deeper water, Konstantin stood in the stern of the raft and leaned hard on the makeshift pole. The raft drifted farther away. At least they had made it.

As planned, the children had crawled out from under the cabin while Monk had distracted the cats. The raft waited for them a yard offshore. They were to hop on board, shove off, and head for the deepest water.

Monk was supposed to have joined them—but his exit from the cabin had not gone as smoothly as he’d hoped.

The delay gave time for the second tiger—Arkady—to tear around the flaming cabin with a hiss of fury and charge straight at Monk.

The drum of heavy pads trampled behind him. Monk fought for the water’s edge. Without a weapon, escape was his only hope.

Gasping, he stretched his stride.

The landscape jittered.

A low growl closed on him.

Footfalls pounded.

No breath.

Heartbeat in his ears.

A sharper hiss…ready to pounce.

The glint of water.

Too far.

Hopeless, he turned and dropped, skidded on his backside.

The cat hunched to spring with its last stride, but—

—out of the high weeds, a dark shadow leaped and struck the cat in the side. Monk caught a flash of silver. Then the shadow hurdled the tiger, hit the ground, and bounded headlong into a thick patch of willows and vanished.

Marta.

The chimpanzee hadn’t left with the kids.

Arkady, caught off balance in midlunge, had been knocked on his side. The tiger thrashed back to his paws as Monk crabbed backward on hands and feet. Staggering, the tiger yowled a coarse, strangled sound.

Blackness poured down the cat’s throat, erasing stripes into shadow.

Blood.

Impaled under his jaw, the handle of a knife protruded.

The bowie knife from the cabin.

Monk had lost it when he fell.

The chimpanzee had recovered it, used it, saved his life.

Monk remembered—and he couldn’t say how he remembered—that chimps were natural tool users. With twigs, they fished termites out of nests. With sharpened branches, they stabbed African bush babies out of holes in trunks.

And Marta was no ordinary chimp.

Arkady trembled all over, his yowl drowning in blood.

Another took up his cry.

Zakhar screamed with a violence that set Monk’s jaw to aching.

Monk shoved and fled toward the water. Reaching the muddy bank, he dove straight out and landed on his belly in the shallows. He kicked and lunged for the deeper water.

Zakhar’s howl swelled with outrage.

Monk splashed and paddled far enough to dive completely underwater. The cold cleared the panic, but even underwater, he heard the tiger’s scream. Holding his breath, Monk stroked and frog-kicked out into the deeper water.

As his lungs grew to burning, he surfaced quietly.

Treading water, he stared back toward the cabin. Flames cast high into the darkness. Limned in the firelight, Zakhar circled his brother. The other tiger did not move.

Monk heard Marta sweeping through the trees. He craned and saw her swing free and drop heavily to the raft. It lay ten yards away.

Monk swam to it and hauled himself atop it. He sprawled on his back, out of breath, panting.

On his left, Marta lay curled on her side, tucked tight, rocking slightly. A low moan flowed from her. Pyotr sprawled atop her, comforting her, holding her.

Monk lifted to an elbow, glanced to the cabin, then back to Marta.

As Zakhar continued to scream, Monk reached out a hand and rested it on the chimpanzee’s shoulder. Her body trembled, bent in a posture of grief.

It had to be done, he willed to her.

Arkady had been tortured, abused, driven half mad. The cat had become more a monster than one of God’s creatures.

Death was a blessing.

Still, Marta moaned.

Killing was never easy.

At the stern, Konstantin heaved on the long pole and sent them floating toward the heart of the swamp.

Monk sat up. Something caught his eye. Before they had settled in for the night, he had stored everyone’s packs on the raft. His gaze focused on a badge hanging from a zipper. The radiation monitor.

In the reflected firelight, it was plain to see.

The pink color had grown darker.

And with it, so did their hopes.

4:31 P.M.

WÁHINGTON, D.C.

Yuri adjusted the flow of the drip line from the I.V. bag. His fingers trembled as he worked. He was too conscious of Sasha in the bed, lost amid the blanket and sheets. She was worse than he’d feared.

He silently cursed the hour he’d lost, waiting on McBride and Mapplethorpe. It was time he could’ve used to initiate Sasha’s treatment. Instead, he’d been locked up at the FBI building while the other two had gone about some private business. McBride finally returned with all of the medications from Yuri’s hotel room.

On foot, they had then crossed the Mall, where they were met outside the Smithsonian Castle and escorted down a private elevator to the secure facility below. They were searched, scanned, and blindfolded. Led by hand, Yuri had quickly lost his bearings in the subterranean maze of the facility. They finally reached a room, a door closed behind them, and the lock clicked.

Only then was his blindfold removed.

Yuri found himself in a small hospital room. One wall was mostly mirrored, surely two-way glass. Two people stood guard over the child: a tall auburn-haired woman who introduced herself as Kat Bryant and Dr. Lisa Cummings, whom he’d met at the restaurant. Lisa held out a stack of medical reports.

“We’re at your service,” Lisa said. “Tell us what must be done.”

Yuri set to work. He read all the reports, reviewed the latest blood chemistries. It took him another ten minutes to calculate the dosages. McBride tried to help, watching over his shoulder.

Yuri had growled at him, “Stay out of my way.”

The Americans did not know the alchemy in preserving the children. Yuri intended to keep it that way, and the method was too complicated to torture out of him. But he could not let Sasha die without trying to save her, so he had to let McBride watch. But once Sasha was safe…

Kat interrupted his reverie, standing behind him. “Will she be okay?”

Yuri tapped the drip. Satisfied with the flow, he turned and found the woman’s eyes upon him. Her hair was braided back from her face, revealing the worry in the hard edges around her eyes and mouth.

He sighed and offered her the truth. “I’ve done all I can. We’ll need hourly renal tests, urine specific gravities. It will give us some idea of the progress, but it will take five or six hours before we know if she’ll survive.”

His voice cracked with his last words. He turned away, embarrassed to show weakness to these strangers. He found McBride staring back at him, a callous glint to his eyes. The man had retreated to a chair by the door. He sat smugly with his legs crossed.

“All we can do is wait,” Yuri mumbled and found a seat beside the bed. A child’s book lay open atop it.

Kat reached down and collected it. “I was reading it to her.”

Yuri nodded. On the plane ride here, Sasha had leaned her head on Yuri’s arm while he quietly read her Russian fables. He smiled softly at the memory. They were trained not to grow attached, but she was special.

His hand drifted to where one of her fingers poked from the sheets. A blood pressure monitor was clamped to it. He ran his finger down the thin digit, so like a porcelain doll’s.

Finally he leaned back into his chair. It would be a long wait. McBride tapped his shoe on the floor. Machines shushed and beeped. After a few minutes, Dr. Cummings slipped from the room to discuss matters with the group’s pathologist. Kat settled into a chair on the opposite side of the bed.

As the first hour slowly passed, Yuri noted a pile of papers on the bedside table. A corner of a sheet caught his eye. It was heavily scribbled with a black marker. Glimpsing just the edge, Yuri recognized Sasha’s work. He shifted through various sheets, not comprehending their meaning. But on the last sheet, Yuri found a familiar face. He stiffened in his seat with surprise.

image

It was their prisoner back at Chelyabinsk 88.

Yuri kept the picture flat. McBride knew nothing about the capture of the American. He’d never been told. Still, Yuri must have stared too long at the picture.

“My husband.” Kat spoke up from the opposite side of the bed. “Sasha drew it. I think she saw his picture in my wallet.”

He slowly nodded and covered the picture.

Her husband…?

“Why would she do that?” Kat asked. She stared at him with a bit more focused intent. “Draw such a picture.”

Yuri stared back at the girl. His heart pounded harder, and his vision narrowed. It was Sasha’s drawings that had saved the man’s life. And now here was the same man’s wife. It was beyond coincidence, outside probable chance. What was going on?

“Dr. Raev?” the woman pressed.

He was saved from having to answer by the flutter of tiny lashes. Sasha’s eyes opened, revealing their watery blue depths. Yuri scooted closer. The woman stood up.

Sasha remained groggy, her gaze unfocused. But her heart-shaped face turned toward Yuri. “Unchi Pepe…?”

That name.

Yuri’s blood pounded in his ears and iced through him. He flashed to a dark aisle in a cold church, to a child clutching a rag doll before a stone altar, staring up at him with the same blue eyes.

Here were the same words. The same accusation.

Unchi Pepe…

The pet name for Josef Mengele, the Butcher of Auschwitz.

He took Sasha’s hand, knocking loose the blood pressure monitor.

No, he promised to her. Not ever again.

Tears blurred his vision.

Her tiny fingers clamped weakly to him. Her lids fluttered. “Papa…Papa Yuri…?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m here, baby. I won’t leave you.”

Her lips moved as she faded back to sleep. Her fingers relaxed and slipped from his. “Marta…Marta’s scared…”

11:50 P.M.

SOUTHERN URAL MOUNTAINS

The body was still warm, but the blood was cold.

The kill was an hour or so old.

Lieutenant Borsakov lifted his palm from the flank of the dead tiger. He reached to the head, grabbed an ear, and tugged up. The other ear matched the first, marking this cat as Arkady.

He dropped it and stood.

In his other hand, Borsakov carried his sidearm, a Yarygin PYa. He kept it raised, wishing it was chambered in something stronger than 9 mm. He searched for Zakhar. There was no sign of the cat.

Behind him, the old ibza still smoked and smoldered.

Impressed at the escape, he crossed back to the airboat. A pilot and two other soldiers sat aboard, bearing assault rifles, covering him. The headlamp of the swamp boat speared out into the darkness. The giant fan at the back of the craft slowly spun as the pilot idled its engine.

Borsakov climbed back aboard and waved them out into the dark swamp. The engine whined, the fan spun to a gale, and they sailed away from the glowing ruins of the hunter’s lodge and headed back out into the night. The hunt would have been easier if they’d had the use of infrared scopes or night-vision goggles, but Borsakov had discovered someone had sneaked into the supply shed sometime during the past day and damaged their limited equipment.

Either the American or the children.

They’d known they would be hunted.

“Should we not report in with General-Major Martov?” his second in command asked and reached to the team’s radio.

Borsakov shook his head.

The general-major did not take setbacks well.

The airboat flew through the swamp.

He would call when the American was dead.

As they fled, Borsakov glanced back to the island, to the smoldering ruins and dead cat. He pictured the American and what he had accomplished.

Who was this man? And where did he get his training?

6:02 P.M.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Trent McBride lifted the phone’s receiver to his ear. They’d allowed him to use a wall phone and patched his call to Mapplethorpe’s office. Trent was under no illusion that the conversation would be private. Someone was surely monitoring.

But that wouldn’t stop him from calling in a status report.

After a few cursory exchanges with Mapplethorpe, Trent said, “It looks like the girl may survive.”

If she had died, then there would be no reason to proceed.

“Very good,” Mapplethorpe answered. A short and significant pause followed; then he spoke. “How long until we know for sure?”

Trent checked his watch and calculated how much time he’d need. “To be certain. Six hours,” he said.

Middle of the night.

It would take coordination, but then they’d have everything.

Mapplethorpe growled with satisfaction. “Then that’s very good news indeed.”