Eagle Station

“Step one is we ditch the Mercedes here,” Sam said firmly. One corner of her mouth quirked upward in a short-lived, wry smile. “From the look of this dump, nobody’s likely to stumble across it for a while. And I bet anyone who does is just as likely to strip the car for salable parts as they are to report it to the police.”

Both men nodded. Cash was king in poverty-stricken, rural Russia… and certainly worth a lot more than a meaningless pat on the head from local law enforcement. Especially since poorly paid regional police officers might be equally tempted to consider the abandoned rental sedan as a treasure trove for themselves.

“And step two?” Cartwright wondered. “Because all hell’s going to break loose as soon as we miss our plane.”

“There are going to be a number of seriously pissed-off FSB agents wondering where we’ve disappeared to,” Sam agreed.

“Not to mention their bosses in Moscow,” Cartwright said dryly.

“Them, too. Which is why the three of us need to be at least a couple of hundred kilometers away before that particular balloon goes up.” She turned to Jones. “Does that piece of Russian-built crap you’re driving still have its little hidey-hole?”

“It does,” he said, with a nod of understanding. The UAZ delivery van had been used for a number of other Scion covert missions. And among its special features was a small passenger compartment hidden in the cargo space — concealed behind what looked like a floor-to-ceiling mass of shipping crates, boxes, and parcels.

“I’m not exactly built for this,” Cartwright said, with a pained glance at the van.

Sam patted him on the shoulder. “File it under ‘the sacrifices we make not to get caught,’” she said soothingly. Even for her, riding around inside that hidden compartment would be a tight squeeze. It would be far more painfully cramped for the big man. But they didn’t have any other options, not if they wanted to keep out of sight while still putting distance between themselves and Krasnoyarsk… which would be ground zero for the inevitable FSB manhunt.

“We need to be far, far away, to be sure,” Jones said. “But in which direction?”

“There’s the rub,” Sam said flatly. “As I see it, heading west or east is totally out.”

The others nodded their agreement. Only one major east-west highway crossed this relatively sparsely populated region. Before trying to use it as an escape route, they might as well just drive straight up to the local FSB headquarters and surrender — because the end result would be the same.

Driving south was also a nonstarter, she decided. The road net in that direction was equally limited. Plus, going south would ultimately bring them squarely up against Russia’s heavily guarded borders with the People’s Republic of China and Mongolia… neither of which would offer sanctuary to Western intelligence agents with a price on their heads.

“We move north,” Sam told them. “At least if we head that way, we can pick and choose among a few more local roads.”

Cartwright frowned. “Roads to nowhere,” he argued. “For Christ’s sake, Sam, there’s nothing north of here but Siberian forest, forest, and even more forest. Plus a few small and midsize towns, where any strangers — like us, for example — will be an instant sensation.”

“I’m not saying it’s ideal,” she said with a slight sigh. “But north is still our best option. If nothing else, there are a number of logging and hunting cabins scattered through those woods that should be empty at this time of year. So we find one and hole up — at least for a day or two.”

“And then what?” Jones asked seriously.

Sam sighed. “Then we hope like hell that Mr. Martindale can figure out some slick way to pull us out of Russia before the FSB’s snatch teams figure out where we’ve gone to ground.”

Scion Secure Videoconference

An Hour Later

“Your secure audiovisual link is live,” a Scion communications technician announced over the speakers. “We have a solid signal.”

Brad McLanahan and Nadia Rozek-McLanahan saw the big LED screen on the wall of the Sky Masters conference room light up. Kevin Martindale and his father looked back at them from the passenger cabin of one of Scion’s executive jets, currently somewhere high over the United States between here in Nevada and Washington, D.C. The image was slightly grainy, an inevitable consequence of the complicated process of bouncing encrypted signals between several different communications satellites.

“I’m glad to see you two,” Martindale said without preamble. Despite the polite words, his face was grim. “Though I certainly wish the circumstances were happier.”