Tucker posted Kane two yards behind him, blocking anyone from coming forward.
“How did I do?” Misha whispered.
“An award-winning performance,” replied Tucker. “Are you sure they won’t notice that we’re not heading north toward Volgograd?”
Misha pointed at the sub’s windscreen, beyond which the Volga churned darkly. “How could they tell?”
True. Even Tucker was lost.
Tucker leaned forward, peering out. “How do you navigate through this sludge, especially at night?”
Misha reached above his head, pulled a sheaf of laminated paper from a cubbyhole, and handed it to Tucker. “Nautical chart of the Volga. You see the red squares along the shore? Those have been our stops so far. But usually I navigate by dead reckoning. Most of the Volga is in here.” He tapped his skull. “Like a woman’s body in the dark, I know her every curve and imperfection. Still, when I am a mile or so from a stop, I always broach the surface just enough for the sub’s antenna to get a GPS fix.”
“And how long do you think it will take us to reach Astrakhan?” Their destination lay within the Volga delta, where the river emptied into the Caspian Sea.
“We should reach the city by tomorrow afternoon, but I suspect you’d like me to stay submerged until nightfall.”
“I would.”
“Then that’s your answer.”
“And let’s limit any more pit stops along the way to no longer than five minutes.”
“I agree. But sometime in the morning, I’ll need to dock for one more thirty-minute solar charge of the batteries in order to reach Astrakhan.”
“Understood.”
Tucker remained quiet for a moment, then said, “I hate to ask this, but, Misha, I need one more favor from you. Until we reach Astrakhan, no more radio communication.”
Misha shrugged, clearly understanding the necessity. He reached up, unscrewed the head of the gooseneck microphone, and handed it to Tucker with a smile.
“I will now be free of my wife’s nagging for a peaceful twenty-four hours.”
March 17, 6:04 A.M.
The next morning, it was showtime again.
They had sailed southward for seven hours, for as long as they could manage before needing a pit stop. Misha found another quiet dark cove and put in.
Tucker ordered everyone to disembark, including Misha, who put on another display of feigned outrage.
“You disabled the radio. What do you expect me to do here by myself?”
“You could leave us. So get moving.”
“Fine, fine . . .”
Everyone climbed out. While there was no dock, Misha had partially grounded the sub on a shallow sandbar. Having to wade through several inches of water in the predawn chill drew grumbled complaints as the group sought private spots amid the shrubs lining the bank.
Misha hung back with Tucker as he kept watch and whispered. “Are any of them good at astronomy?” He jerked a thumb toward the star-studded sky.
Tucker hadn’t considered this. He didn’t know if any of the group was adept at celestial navigation, but it probably didn’t matter.
“Keep an eye on things,” Tucker said to Misha and led Kane off to their own private spot. Once done, he stayed crouched in hiding and dialed Sigma’s headquarters.
When Harper answered, Tucker passed on a fast request, risking only a few words. “I need a discreet airstrip near Astrakhan. I’ll call back.”
He hung up and stood. He made a dramatic pantomime of searching for a signal with his phone. He emphasized it by swearing softly under his breath.
Suddenly, Kane let out a low growl.
Tucker turned to find Utkin standing in the bushes ten feet away.
“Phone problem?” the man asked, zipping up his pants.
“Satellite interference.”
Utkin stepped out of the shadows and walked closer. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“Kane. Old habit. How’re you holding up?”
“Tired. Very tired. I don’t think I’m suited for adventure.” Utkin offered a smile, but it came out jaded. It was an expression Tucker had yet to see on the lab assistant’s face.
Utkin shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and took another step toward Tucker.
Kane stood up, shifting between them.
Tucker found his fingers tightening on the butt of the Magnum.
Utkin noted the tension. “After the attack, you suspect all of us, don’t you?”
“Part of the job description.”
“Hmm . . .”
“If you were me, who would you suspect?”
“Any one of us,” Utkin confirmed.
“Including you?”
“Including me.”
“What about Bukolov and Anya? They’re your friends, aren’t they?”
Utkin looked at the ground and kicked a rock. “Maybe I thought so at one time. Not anymore. I was naive or maybe just wishful. How could I expect them to consider a poor fisherman’s son their equal?”
Utkin turned and walked off.
Tucker stared after him.
What the hell just happened?
10:46 A.M.
The midmorning sun blazed down upon a secluded estuary where the sub had parked in the shallows, perfect for recharging the batteries.
While the solar umbrella was spread wide to catch every photon of energy, Tucker stood on the shore with his fellow passengers. “We have thirty minutes,” he said. “Make the best use of it. We’ll be in Volgograd soon and should be ready for anything.”
The others set off amid the stands of bare willows, crowded with crows, who loudly complained at their trespass.
Tucker knelt down beside Kane and whispered, “SCOUT, HERD, ALERT.”
For as long as this break lasted, the shepherd would discreetly circle the area, making sure that none of his sheep wandered off or drifted too close. Kane would bark a warning if there was a problem.
Satisfied, and out of direct sight, he climbed back aboard the Olga and started a thorough search of the group’s belongings. Before reaching Astrakhan, he had to be sure that someone in the group wasn’t leaking their position.
He dug through bags, shook out clothes, flipped through notebooks, everything. With experienced fingers, he probed the seams of pants, shirts, even the soles of shoes. He went so far as to pick through personal items, like thumbing through a bodice-ripper paperback of Anya’s or the boxes of Utkin’s playing cards—one empty, the other full of well-worn cards. He even dug through Bukolov’s pouch of tobacco. As he did so, he felt a twinge of guilt, as if trespassing through the others’ secret vices.