“It’s a signal generator,” Tucker muttered, his belly turning to ice. “It sends out frequency-specific pulses at regular intervals.”
“Like a homing beacon.”
“Yes.” Tucker felt icy fingers of despair close around his heart. “That’s how the enemy was tracking us.”
He remembered Misha describing how he would surface the sub at regular intervals to get a GPS fix on their location, especially as they neared one of their ports of call. Each time he did it, the generator gave away their location, allowing the enemy ample time to set up an ambush once they figured out Misha’s routine.
“Who put it there?” Misha asked.
Tucker glanced toward the trio hidden by the cabins.
Who indeed?
He ran everything he knew through his head—then his whole body clenched with a realization.
It couldn’t be . . .
Misha read his reaction. “You know who the traitor is?”
“I think so.” Tucker stuffed the signal generator into his pocket. “I suggest you shove off right now and put as much distance between you and us as possible.”
“Understood. Good luck, my friend.”
Tucker returned to where the group sat crouched in the darkness. By now, Kane was waiting for him. The shepherd’s posture, the tilt of his ears, and the softness of his eyes told Tucker all was clear.
Like hell it was.
He crouched and draped an arm around Kane’s neck, struggling to keep his composure.
Now what?
How much information had already been funneled to General Kharzin?
Since surfacing here, he had to assume the enemy knew where they had stopped. Surely Felice was on her way.
He didn’t have the time to properly interrogate and break the traitor. That would come later. For now, by hiding his knowledge, he still had a slight upper hand.
He stared toward the seaplanes. The enemy didn’t want to kill Bukolov, and with their agent sitting next to him on the plane, they’d be even less likely to try to shoot the craft down once it was airborne. In that way, both men could serve as unwitting human shields, increasing the group’s chances of reaching the rendezvous point safely. But first he had to get them all into the air.
He also intended to keep a close eye on the traitor, an eye sharper than his own. He shifted next to Kane. Shielding his hand signals, he pointed and touched the corner of his own eye.
Keep a watch on the target.
Until Tucker lifted the order, the shepherd would be on close guard—watching his target for any aggressive movements or hostile actions, judging the tone of voice, listening for the cock of a hammer or the slip of a blade from a sheath. It was a broad tool, but Tucker trusted the shepherd’s instinct. If his target made the wrong move, Kane would immediately attack.
“What was that all about with Misha?” Anya whispered, drawing back his attention.
“He wanted more money. To stay silent.”
“And you paid him?” Bukolov asked, aghast.
“It was easier than killing him. And besides, we’re leaving now anyway.”
Tucker stood up and gestured for the others to remain hidden. He crossed to the lighted cabin and knocked on the door.
It opened a few moments later. Yellow light spilled forth, framing a young woman in denim overalls. She was barely five feet tall, with black hair trimmed in a pixie haircut.
Tucker tightened his grip on the Magnum concealed in his pocket, bracing himself for any attack.
“You are Bartok?” she asked in a surprisingly bold voice for such a small body.
Bartok?
He was momentarily confused until he remembered Harper’s mention of a code name.
“Yes, I’m Bartok.”
“I am Elena. How many come with you on plane? Costs three thousand rubles per passenger.”
She certainly didn’t waste any time getting down to business.
“Four and a dog.”
“Dog cost more.”
“Why?”
“He crap . . . I must clean up, no?”
Tucker wasn’t about to argue—not with this little firebrand. She sort of scared him. “Fine.”
“Get others,” she ordered him. “The plane is prepared. We are ready to leave.”
With that, she stalked toward the dock area.
Tucker waved the others out of hiding and hurried to keep up with Elena. She had stopped beside one of the planes. With one leg leaning on a float, she unlatched the side door and lowered it like a ramp onto the dock’s walkway.
The twin-engine seaplane, painted azure, stretched about seventy feet long, with gull wings and oval stabilizers at the tail. The fuselage was deep chested, with a bulbous cockpit.
“I don’t recognize this model,” he said as he joined her.
She explained proudly, her hands on her hips. “This is a Beriev Be-6. Your NATO called it Madge. Built the same year Stalin died.”
“That’s sixty years ago,” Anya noted, worried.
“Fifty-nine,” Elena shot back, offended. “She is old, but a very tough bird. Well maintained. Board now.”
No one dared disobey.
Once everyone was aboard, Elena unhooked the lines from their cleats, hopped inside, and pulled the door closed behind her with a resounding slam. She hurried forward to the cockpit.
“Sit down!” she yelled back. “Seat belts!”
And that was the extent of their preflight safety briefing.
Bukolov and Anya were buckled into the bench along the right side of the fuselage, Utkin and Tucker on the left. Kane curled up between Tucker’s feet, never letting his guard down.
The plane began drifting sideways from the dock.
Bukolov called over, “Tucker, you seem to have a proclivity for unorthodox methods of travel.”
“One of my many idiosyncrasies.”
“Then I assume we will be traveling to the United States aboard a zeppelin.”
“Let’s leave it as a surprise,” he replied.
From the cockpit came a series of beeps and buzzes, accompanied by a short curse from Elena—then the sound of a fist striking something solid. Suddenly, the engines roared to life, rumbling the fuselage.
“Here we go!” Elena called.
The plane accelerated out of the cove and into the inlet. Moments later they were airborne.
7:44 P.M.
“Bartok!” Elena yelled once they’d reached cruising altitude. “You come up here!”
Tucker unbuckled his seat belt, scooted around Kane, and ducked into the cockpit. He knelt beside her seat. The copilot seat was empty. Through the windscreen, he saw only blackness.