Eagle Station

Brad was still struggling not to laugh out loud when they passed through the basilica’s entrance and came out onto Kraków’s Main Market Square. The moment they appeared, spontaneous cheers rang out from the large crowd of ordinary men, women, and children gathered outside the church. Ranks of Polish and allied soldiers and airmen in full dress uniform snapped to attention, presenting arms with long-practiced precision. Bayonet-tipped rifles and swords flashed bright in the sun.

Suddenly acutely aware that they were the sole focus of several thousand pairs of eyes, Brad felt his face redden slightly. In contrast, Nadia looked radiant, even regal, in the long, flowing dress that concealed her prosthetic blades. Beaming, she raised her floral bouquet above her head in a salute, acknowledging the greeting. They cheered even louder in response.

He started to relax a bit.

Movement near the edge of the square caught his eye. Flanked by motorcycle police escorts with flashing lights, a long black limousine nosed slowly through the throng. Small red, blue, and white flags fluttered from its hood.

“What the hell?” Brad muttered. Those were Russian flags.

Nadia followed his gaze. Though she kept smiling, her eyes darkened with anger. “Skurwysyn. Son of a bitch,” she said through gritted teeth. “So someone from Moscow decides to interfere with our wedding day?”

The limousine rolled to a stop a few yards away. A smartly uniformed Russian army colonel emerged. He carried a silver-wrapped gift box under one arm. Followed closely by a pair of dour-looking Polish plainclothes security officers, he advanced toward them.

“Diplomacy, remember?” Brad whispered with a slight smile of his own — aware that Nadia’s first instinctive impulse would be to kick the Russian officer in the groin.

“I will be good,” she promised. “For now.”

The Russian stopped a few feet away and tossed off a quick, formal salute. “Major McLanahan. Major Rozek. My name is Colonel Vasily Artamonov. I am my country’s military attaché to Poland.”

“Colonel,” Brad said, not bothering to return the salute. There were limits to his own capacity for diplomacy. “What can we do for you?”

Artamonov smiled politely, ignoring the slight. “On behalf of Marshal Mikhail Ivanovich Leonov, I offer this small personal token, as a gift on your marriage.” He held out the wrapped box.

Nadia raised an eyebrow and then nodded at one of the Polish security officers. He took the box for her. “Tell Marshal Leonov that we accept his present in the same spirit in which it is given,” she said coldly.

“Of that, you can be sure, Major,” the Russian said in reply. His own tone was equally unemotional. He saluted again and strode back to his waiting car.

Brad waved a hand toward the gift box. “Aren’t you at all curious to see what’s inside?”

Nadia shook her head dismissively. “Not in the slightest.” She shrugged. “Let the experts wrestle with Marshal Leonov’s odd psychological games.” Smiling more genuinely now, she slipped her hand through his arm. “After all, we have a wedding reception to attend, do we not?” Her voice turned husky. “With a long and very private honeymoon to follow, I understand?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Brad said fervently.

Iron Wolf Squadron Headquarters, 33rd Air Base, near Powidz, Poland

The Next Day

Patrick McLanahan looked up with a frown when Kevin Martindale entered the secure conference room. “What have you got for me, General?” Martindale asked.

“Nothing clear,” Patrick admitted.

Martindale crossed the room and stared down at the collection of small wooden figurines scattered across the table. “That’s what was in this wedding gift from Leonov?”

Patrick nodded. “It’s a Matryoshka set. You know, one with small and smaller dolls nesting inside each other.” He picked out two of the larger figurines for the other man to see. “And obviously handcrafted.”

Martindale stared down at the two dolls, one painted to resemble a young man in a dark green military uniform, and the other a young woman in a white dress. He arched an eyebrow. “All of the dolls are supposed to be either Brad or Nadia?”

“All of them, except for this,” Patrick said grimly, fishing out a very tiny piece. He handed it to Martindale, along with a magnifying glass. “This was nesting inside the smallest figurine.”

The other man studied the miniature carefully. His lips pursed. This was definitely not a doll. Instead, he decided, it was shaped like some kind of futuristic-looking aircraft. He frowned. Or possibly it was supposed to be a spaceplane, like the one flown by Brad, Nadia, and Peter Vasey when they’d captured Russia’s Mars One station last year. This one, however, had a roundel on one wing — showing a dark blue chevron rising across a stylized globe striped in the red, blue, and white bands of the Russian flag.

Martindale’s frown deepened. That was the emblem of Russia’s Space Forces. He looked up. “Was there anything else in that damned gift box?”