Tucker matched her smile.
“He might not show it, but my father likes you. That’s rare.”
“How can you tell?”
“He doesn’t ignore you. Earlier, I was just feeling boxed in. I had to get out for a while. Claustrophobic, is that the word?”
“Maybe stir-crazy?” Tucker offered.
She smiled. “This is certainly crazy. But let me ask you, why are you helping us?”
“I was asked to.”
“By whom?” She immediately waved her hands. “Never mind. I should not have asked. Can you at least tell me where we are going?”
“South. With any luck, we’ll make Syzran by morning. My people will meet us there.”
Anya looked reassured.
“I’ll drop you off at a rendezvous point in town—the Chayka Hotel. Have you thought about what you’ll do once you’re in the States?”
“I don’t know really. I suppose that depends on what happens with my father. I have not had time to think much about it. Wherever he goes, I will go. He needs my help with his work. Where do you live?”
The question caught Tucker off guard. He had a P.O. box in Charlotte, North Carolina, but he hadn’t had a permanent place to lay his head for a long time. His way of life was tough to describe to most people. He’d tried it a few times but gave up. What could he say? I don’t much like people. I travel alone with my dog and do the occasional odd job. And I like it that way.
To shorthand the conversation now, Tucker simply lied. “Portland, Maine.”
“Is it nice there? Would I like it?”
“Do you like the ocean?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Then you’d like it.”
She stared wistfully across the parking lot. “I’m sure I would.”
Then you can send me a postcard and tell me about it.
He’d certainly never been there himself.
They chatted for a few more minutes, then Anya walked back inside.
Taking advantage of the privacy, Tucker dialed Harper. When the line clicked open, he spoke quickly.
“Tomorrow morning. Chayka Hotel in Syzran.”
7:05 P.M.
With the sun fully down, the group set out again, driving south in the darkness. Tucker took a highway that skirted alongside the Volga River, the longest river in Europe. Navigating from memory, he headed for Volgograd, a city named after the river. As a precaution, he followed a mixture of main and secondary roads.
At four in the morning, he pulled into a truck stop at the edge of the city of Balakovo. “Need a caffeine fix,” he said drowsily, rubbing his eyes. “Anyone else?”
The others were half asleep. He got dismissive tired waves and irritated grunts. He headed out and returned to the SUV with a boiling cup of black coffee.
As he climbed back inside, he noted his satellite phone remained in the cup holder, where he’d left it on purpose. It appeared untouched.
Satisfied, he kept driving, covering the last hundred miles in two hours. By the time he crossed into the town of Saratov, the sun was fully up.
From the backseat, Anya roused, stretched, and looked around. “This isn’t Syzran.”
“No.”
“I thought you said we were going to Syzran? The Chayka Hotel.”
“A last-minute change of plans,” he replied.
He pulled off the highway and headed to a hotel near the off-ramp.
“Won’t your friends be worried?” she asked.
“Not a problem. I called them.”
He turned into the parking lot and shut off the engine. Utkin stirred. Anya had to shake Bukolov awake.
Tucker climbed out. “I’ll be right back with our room keys.”
On his way to the lobby, his satellite phone chirped. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen:
No activity at the Chayka Hotel.
No activity on this phone for the past eight hours.
Satisfied, Tucker crossed through the lobby and headed toward the restroom. He relieved himself, washed his hands, finger-combed his hair, and took a breath mint from a jar near the sink. Only after five minutes did he exit the hotel and cross back to the SUV.
“No vacancies, I’m afraid,” he said. “Might as well push on to Volgograd.”
Utkin yawned and motioned to the new day. “I thought you told us it wasn’t safe to drive during the day.”
“No matter. We’re pushing through.”
Utkin was right. It was a risk, but with only a couple of hundred miles to go before Volgograd, it was a worthwhile gamble. And from his little test, it seemed none of his fellow travelers had taken his Chayka Hotel bait. Nor had they tried to use his phone.
So far, so good.
It seemed a safe bet to move on.
Besides, if the enemy had managed to track them, why hadn’t they closed the net?
Sensing the light at the end of the tunnel, he headed out, trying to enjoy the passing scenery of this sunny morning. They were almost home free and his suspicions about Anya and the others had proven unwarranted.
Out the driver’s-side window, the morning sun reflected brilliantly off the Volga River. On the other side spread rolling hills and farm tracts lying fallow under pristine blankets of snow. He rolled down the window to smell the river and fresh snow.
Everyone seemed in better spirits, talking among themselves, laughing.
“Time for a Russian history quiz,” Bukolov declared merrily. “Is everyone game?”
Tucker smiled. “It’s not my best subject.”
“Duly noted,” replied Utkin.
Anya chimed in. “Tucker, we could give you a point lead. To make it fair.”
Tucker opened his mouth to reply, but the words never came out. Crossing through an intersection, he caught a glimpse of chrome, a flash of sun off a windshield, accompanied by the roar of an engine—followed by the sickening crunch of metal on metal.
Then the world rolled.
17
March 15, 8:09 A.M.
South of Saratov, Russia
With his head ringing, Tucker forced open his eyelids and searched around. It took him several seconds to register that he was hanging upside down, suspended by his seat belt, a deflated airbag waving in front of his face.
The SUV had rolled and settled onto its roof. Water poured through the vents. Improbably, the wipers were sliding across the windshield.
Groaning, he looked right and found Utkin balled up below him on the overturned ceiling, not moving. He lay face-up in about six inches of rising water.
Tucker’s next worry.
Kane.
He was about to call out, to check on the others, then stopped, remembering the collision.