“Now tell me the destination. The person on phone said southeast. Said you would have the destination once in air.”
Tucker gave her the coordinates, which she jotted on her kneeboard.
After a few fast calculations, she said, “Fifty minutes. You know what we are looking for? A signal of some kind, da? The Caspian is big, especially at night.”
“Once we are there, I’ll let you know.”
Tucker returned to the cabin. The roar of the engines had faded to a low drone. Aside from the occasional lurch as Elena hit a pocket of turbulence, the ride was smooth.
Now is as good a time as any.
Tucker stood between the two benches. “It is time we have a family meeting.”
“A what?” Bukolov asked.
Tucker dove in. “Every step of the way, General Kharzin has been waiting for us. Until now I had no idea how he was doing it.”
Tucker paused to look at each of them in turn.
Anya shifted under his scrutiny. “And? What are you saying, Tucker?”
He drew the signal generator from his pocket and held it up for everyone to see.
“What is that?” Bukolov asked, motioning for a closer look.
Tucker turned to Utkin. “Would you like to explain?”
The young man shrugged, shook his head.
“It’s a signal generator—a homing beacon. It was attached to the Olga’s antenna feed. Since we left Volgograd it’s been regularly sending out a signal until I disarmed it a few minutes ago. A signal that Kharzin has been listening for.”
“You think one of us put it there?” Utkin asked.
“Yes.”
“It could have been Misha,” Anya offered. “He would know how to attach the device. It was his submarine.”
“No, Misha brought this to me.”
Anya’s eyes grew rounder. “Tucker, you’re scaring me. What do you know?”
Tucker turned to Utkin. “Is that your bag under your seat?”
“Yes.”
“Pull it out.”
“Okay . . . why?”
“Pull it out.”
Utkin did so.
“Show me your playing cards.”
“My what? I don’t see why—”
“Show me.”
Having noted the hardness of Tucker’s tone, Kane stood up and fixed his gaze on Utkin.
“Tucker, my friend, what is going on? I do not understand, but fine, I will show you.”
He unzipped his duffel and began rummaging around. After a few seconds, he froze, glanced up at Tucker, and pulled out his two boxes of playing cards. One empty, one full. Utkin held up the empty one.
Tucker read the understanding in the young man’s eyes.
“But it . . . it is not mine,” Utkin stammered.
Tucker grabbed the box, slid the signal generator into it, and resealed the flap. It was a perfect fit. Earlier this morning, during his search of the group’s belongings, he’d found the empty box of playing cards in the young man’s duffel.
Utkin continued shaking his head. “No, no, that is not mine.”
Anya covered her mouth.
“Is it true?” asked Bukolov. “Tucker, is this true?”
“Ask him.”
Bukolov had paled with shock. “Utkin—after all our time together, you would do this? Why? Is this tied to that past gambling problem of yours? I thought you had stopped.”
Shame blushed Utkin’s face to a dark crimson. “No! This is all a mistake!” He turned to Tucker, his eyes hopeless with despair. “What will you do to me?”
Before he could respond, Anya blurted out, “Tucker, do not kill him, please. He made a mistake. Perhaps someone forced him to do it. Remember, I know these people. Perhaps they blackmailed him. Isn’t that right, Utkin? You had no choice. Tucker, he had no choice.”
Tucker looked to Bukolov. “Doctor, how do you vote?”
Bukolov shook his head. Without looking at his lab assistant, he waved a dismissive hand. “I do not care. He is dead to me either way.”
At this, Utkin broke down. He curled himself into a ball, his head touching his knees, and started sobbing.
Tucker felt sorry for Utkin, but he kept his face impassive. The lab assistant had almost cost them their lives—and he might still. Felice could already be on her way here.
That fear drew him back to the cockpit, leaving Utkin guarded by Kane.
“Can we circle?” he asked Elena. “To check our tail?”
She frowned at him. “You think we are being followed.”
“Can you do it?”
Elena sighed. “Two hundred rubles extra for fuel.”
“Deal.”
“Okay, okay. Hold on.”
She turned the wheel and the Beriev eased into a gentle bank.
After a lazy ten-minute circle above the Volga delta, Elena said, “I see no one. Easy to spot in the dark. But I will keep watching.”
“Me, too.” Tucker took the empty copilot’s seat.
In the green glow of the instruments, he glimpsed a dark shape against the lower console between the seats. It was a machine gun, attached to the console with Velcro straps. It had a wooden stock and a stubby barrel. Just ahead of the trigger guard was a large, cylindrical magazine.
“Is that an old tommy gun?” he asked.
Elena corrected him. “That is a Shpagin machine gun. From Great Patriotic War. It was my father’s. American gangsters stole the design.”
“You’re an interesting woman, Elena.”
“Da, I know,” she replied with a confident smile. “But don’t get any ideas. I have a boyfriend. Okay, three boyfriends. But they don’t know about each other, so it’s okay.”
As they neared their destination coordinates, everything still remained dark and quiet in the skies around them.
“What now, Bartok?” Elena asked.
“An island lies dead ahead at the coordinates I gave you. We’re supposed to rendezvous on the eastern side, where there is a narrow beach. Once you land on the water, taxi in as close as you can, and we’ll wade ashore. After that, you’re done.”
“Whatever you say. Best to strap in now. Touchdown in two minutes.”
Tucker relayed the message to the others, then buckled in next to Elena.
“Beginning descent,” she said.
The nose of the plane dipped, aiming for the dark waters below.
As they plummeted, Elena prepared for landing: flipping switches, adjusting elevator controls, tweaking the throttle. Finally, the plane straightened, racing over the water, until the pontoons kissed the surface. The Beriev shook slightly, bounced once, then settled. The seaplane’s speed rapidly bled off, and the ride smoothed out.