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  The beach flashed by in a blur, and again Austin was out to sea. He came around at an angle until he was behind the dune once more. The grass was on fife and black smoke billowed into the sky. Riders who had been thrown by their mounts were trying to roll out of the way to avoid being trampled. Others had dismounted and held tightly to the reins as they tried to calm the terrified animals. The horses bumped into one another, and the contact only served to increase their terror.

  A lone horseman broke away from the others and spurred his mount into a gallop. Kaela and her friends heard the thunder of hooves and turned to see the rider bearing down on them with sword held high. Austin swung around until he was facing the horseman. He brought up the flare gun, but had a problem keeping it steady for proper aim. Instead, he put the Gooney into a low dive that took him a few feet above the heads of the runners and aimed directly at the horseman, a big man with a flowing red beard. At the last second, Austin pulled up. The float missed the man's head by inches. The horse whinnied in terror and broke into a wild run. The rider struggled to hang on as the horse took matters into its own hooves, climbed the dune and chased after the other riders, who had lost their stomach for the at- tack and were galloping for the woods.

  Meanwhile, Austin was fighting a losing battle to keep the damaged plane level. He sat half out of the cockpit, like someone hiking out on an angled sailboat, gritted his teeth – and braced himself for the hard landing that he knew was coming.

  5

  KAELA DORN HELD her breath as the strange little aircraft plunged from the sky in a spiraling tailspin. At the last second, the plane swung up in a wild G-force swoop. It soared and dipped like a kite on a string, then leveled off, although the wings quivered and the aircraft pitched and yawed as if it were on an invisible roller coaster.

  The pilot finally brought the plane under a semblance of control and put it in a landing glide. He held it steady, but before he could touch down, the left wing dipped sharply and dug into the soft sand. The wing snapped off where it joined the fuselage and the plane slammed into the beach at an angle, skidding several yards before it came to a jarring halt, tail section high in the air. The engine shut down, and the beach was suddenly quiet except for the lap of waves and the crackle of burning grass.

  The reporter and her colleagues stared like zombies at the plane wreck. They were too exhausted to move, drained by their swim to shore, still panting from the run for their lives. Kaela was in the best shape of the three, and her legs felt like putty. When the stubby plane had first appeared, they hadn't known whether it was friend or foe, but there had been no question as to the intentions of the horsemen with their wild yells and drawn swords: They had been out for blood. The plane looked like a bird that had flown into a fan, and it seemed impossible that its pilot could have escaped without harm, but someone moved in the cockpit. The pilot got one leg, then another over the cockpit combing and climbed out.

  He seemed to be all right as he walked around the aircraft, hands on hips, inspecting the damage. He kicked a buckled wheel as if he were checking out a used car and shook his head. Then he turned to the television crew, gave them a friendly wave, and started in their direction, walking with a slight limp.

  Lombardo and Dundee moved in and stood protectively at Kaela's sides. She was more interested in appraising the stranger. He was tall, slightly over six feet, and the broad powerful shoulders of a nightclub bouncer filled out the navy sweatshirt. He wore tan shorts, and his muscular legs looked as if they could propel the husky body through a brick wall. As he came closer, he removed his baseball cap to reveal his steel gray, almost platinum hair. His bronzed face was unlined, except for laugh crinkles around the eyes and mouth. She guessed his age at around forty. Dried blood dripped down one cheek and soaked the bandanna around his forehead. The aircraft landing must have been hair-raising, yet he seemed as if he were coming off a game of tennis.

  "Good afternoon," he said, with a wide grin. "Are you folks okay?"

  "Yes, we're fine, thank you," Kaela replied warily. "What about you? You're bleeding."

  He touched the wound absentmindedly. "It's only a little cut. I'm still in one piece, more or less." He jerked his thumb at the battered ultralight. "Wish I could say the same for my transportation. They just don't make them like they used to. You don't happen to have a roll of duct tape?"

  Kaela ventured a smile. "Your plane has gone beyond the duct tape stage," she said. "I believe the term insurance people use is totaled."

  The stranger grimaced. "I'm afraid you're right, Ms.- "

  "Dorn. Kaela Dorn. This is my producer, Mickey Lombardo, and his assistant, Hank Simpson. We're with the Unbelievable Mysteries television series."

  "I thought so. My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with NUMA."

  "NUMA." Lombardo stepped forward and pumped Austin's hand. "Boy, are we glad to see you. Lucky you came by."

  "It was more than luck," Austin said. "I've been looking for you folks. You were supposed to rendezvous with the Argo this morning."

  "Sorry about that," Lombardo said. "We took a detour to check out an old Russian submarine base that's supposed to be around here."

  "The captain of the Argo isn't too happy. You've delayed his departure schedule. It might have saved us some grief if you had let us know that your plans had changed." Austin was smiling, but the gentle scolding tone of his voice was unmistakable.

  "It's my fault," Kaela said. "We thought we'd only be a few hours. We intended to call you at sea, but the fishing boat we hired didn't have a workable radio. The captain had to return to port for engine repairs, and he planned to get the radio fixed and give you a call."

  "That must be the fishing boat I saw steaming away from here."

  She nodded. "He was going to pick us up in the morning. Thank you for saving our lives. I apologize for putting you through so much trouble."

  "No trouble," he said, reluctant to chastise the bedraggled group any further. He gazed at the wrecked aircraft. "Maybe a little trouble. What made your boat capsize?"

  "Someone on shore shot at us and killed the Turkish man who was bringing us in," Kaela said. "A wave caught us broadside and the boat went over. We hid under the Zodiac and tried to move it away from the beach, but the surf was too strong and we came almost straight in.” She glanced to- ward the dune where she had first seen the attackers. "Do you know who those men on horseback were?"

  Austin didn't reply. Although he seemed to be studying her face, Kaela became aware that her wet T-shirt and shorts clung to her lithe figure. She self-consciously plucked at the sand-caked front of the shirt, but the fabric insisted on plastering itself to her skin. Austin sensed her discomfiture and stared off at the smoke rising from the dune.

  "My guess is that they weren't the local equestrian group out for a jaunt," he said. "Let's take a look."

  He climbed up the sloping beach, with the others trailing tentatively behind. The fire had almost burned itself out. They walked through the charred stalks of grass at the top of the dune. Austin saw sunlight glinting off something on the ground and went over to investigate. It was a saber. He picked the weapon up and tested the heft and balance. The sword's long, curved blade was perfectly weighted to give the arm greater striking power. Austin's jaw muscles clenched as he contemplated the terrible damage the scalpel-sharp edge could inflict on human flesh. He was examining the Cyrillic writing etched into the blade when the Australian called out. Dundee was standing in a knee-high patch of unburned grass staring at something at his feet.

  "What is it?" Austin said.

  "Dead guy."

  Austin stuck the saber point into the sand and waded through the thatch. Dundee pointed to the body of a man who lay on his back, glassy eyes locked in a death stare. A black beard and mustache matted with sand hid most of his features. He could have been in his forties. His head was twisted at a wrong angle. Blood soaked one side of his face, which had a caved-in look to it.

  Austin said, "I'd guess he fell off his horse d
uring the fight and was kicked in the head." He was not a callous man, but he felt no pity for the dead horseman.

  Lombardo had retrieved his camera from the beached Zodiac and was filming the battle site. He and Kaela came over to see what the others were looking at. Lombardo let out a low whistle. "What kind of a getup is that?"

  Austin knelt by the body. "Looks like something out of The Wizard of Oz."

  The dead man wore a long muddy-gray coat that but- toned up the front and baggy pants tucked into black boots. His black fur pillbox hat lay a few feet away. Red epaulets decorated each shoulder. A pistol holster and scabbard hung from the wide leather belt that encircled his waist. Slung across his chest was a cartridge belt. A sheathed dagger hung from a cord around his neck.

  "G'dayr' Dundee said with wonderment. “The man's a walking arsenal."

  Austin searched the grass around the dead man. A few yards away, he found a rifle and he put the stock against his shoulder and worked the well-oiled bolt. Like the saber blade, the barrel was etched with Cyrillic writing. Austin was a collector of dueling pistols, and he had accumulated a general knowledge of antique guns. The rifle was a Moisin-Nagant, more than a hundred years old, and in mint condition. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks that the horsemen weren't carrying modern automatic weapons. A single Kalashnikov would have ripped him and the Gooney to shreds.

  Austin handed the rifle off to Dundee and went through the dead man's pockets. Nothing. He unpinned the metal starburst emblem from the front of the hat and pocketed it. Lombardo had finished filming the battle scene, and Kaela suggested shooting some footage around the one-story cinder-block buildings farther inland.

  "Not a good idea," Austin said, pointing to the trail of hoofprints leading toward the structures. He'd been worried that the horsemen would make a return appearance, but hadn't said anything because there wasn't much they could do about it. "In fact, I’d suggest that we get out of here as soon as we can." He rested the rifle on his shoulder, retrieved the saber and started walking back toward the beach. Kaela caught up with him on the crest of the dune.

  "Do you have any idea what this is all about?" she said breathlessly. "Why these men would want to kill us?"

  "You know as much as I do. I thought they were filming a movie until somebody took a few shots at me."

  "It's a good thing for us that their aim was bad." She paused. Austin was studying her face the way he had earlier. "Is there anything wrong?"

  "I'm almost embarrassed to say."

  "I find it hard to believe that you'd be embarrassed. You hardly seem the shy type."

  Austin shrugged. "Well, in a manner of speaking, you might say we've met before."

  "Sorry, I'm sure I would have remembered."

  "Not literally. Believe me when I say this. You bear a striking resemblance to the face of a princess I once saw painted on the wall of an Egyptian temple."

  Kaela was tall, with a good part of her height invested in long shapely legs. She had a smooth mocha complexion and ebony black hair that she kept long with a natural tight curl. Her mouth was full and almost perfect, and her eyes were a dark amber. As an attractive woman working in a man's profession, she thought she had heard every male line invented – but this was a new one. She gave Austin a sidelong glance. "That's funny, I was thinking that you looked as if you'd fallen off Captain Kidd's pirate ship."

  Austin laughed and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. "I suppose I do look like a pirate, but I'm not joking. You're a ringer for the young woman in the temple. You're quite a bit younger than she is, though. I believe her portrait dates back to about four thousand B.C."

  "I've been called a lot of things," she said, "but never an Egyptian mummy. Thanks for the compliment, if that's what it was. And for saving our necks. There's no way we can ever repay you, Mr. Austin."

  "You can start by calling me Kurt. And may I call you Kaela?"

  She smiled. "Of course."

  "Now that we're old friends, how about being my guest at dinner?"

  She glanced up and down the deserted coast. "What did you have in mind, something out of the Boy Scout handbook? Roots and berries?"

  "I only made it as far as Cub Scout, and foraging was never my forte. I was thinking more of something like duck a l'orange. I can almost guarantee a table with a water view."

  "Here?" she said, going along with the game.

  "No, there." He pointed out to sea, where a turquoise-hulled ship could be seen steaming in their direction. "Casa Argo. They say the chef used to work at the Four Seasons before NUMA stole him."

  "My mother didn't raise any stupid kids," Kaela said. "I'd be a fool to refuse an invitation like that." Conscious of her unkempt state, she said, "I don't think I'm dressed for a fancy dinner."

  "I'm sure we can find something appropriate aboard the ship. I'll ask when I call for reservations. My radio is the only thing that wasn't smashed when I landed. Maybe you can round up your friends while I hail the boat – but you might want to hurry them along. We're on Russian territory, and I don't have my passport. We shouldn't overstay our welcome."

  Kaela followed Austin with her eyes as he made his way back to the damaged ultralight. She sensed a story. Who was this guy? This was no nerd. She called out to Mike and Dundee and told them to wrap up their filming. Then she hurried to catch up with Austin.

  6

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  WIELDING IRON SELF-CONTROL, Viktor Petrov replaced his telephone in its cradle, tented his fingers and stared into space. After a moment lost in thought, he rose from his desk and went to the window. As he gazed out at the city, letting his eyes linger on the turnip-shaped spires of St. Basil's in the distance, his hand came up and brushed his right cheek. He hardly felt the touch of his fingers through the parchment-like scar tissue that covered the dead nerve endings in his skin. How long had it been? Fifteen years. Strange. After all that time, a single phone call brought back memories of the searing pain.

  Petrov watched the crowds of pedestrians swarming in the summer heat and yearned for winter. Like many of his countrymen, he had a poignant attachment to snow. The Russian winter was harsh and unforgiving, but it had protected the country from the armies of Napoleon and Hitler. Petrov's love of snow was more prosaic, as well. Winter covered the city's flaws, hushed its noise and hid its corruption under a white blanket of purity.

  He returned to his battered metal desk, the largest object in the small, drab room. At one elbow was an old-fashioned black dial telephone. At the other, a fax machine. An empty filing cabinet stood in a corner, there mainly for show. The cramped office was one of dozens of cubicles that made up the tenth-floor warren of the agricultural building, a soaring gray monument to the banality of socialist architecture. Printed in small letters on the door were the words SIBERIAN PEST CONTROL. Petrov rarely had visitors. Occasionally, a lost soul blundered into the office, only to be told that Siberian Pest Control had moved.

  In spite of his spartan surroundings, Petrov exerted wide power in the Russian government. The key to his influence was the anonymity that kept him from view. He remembered the old days when Pravda had dutifully printed photos of the Soviet hierarchy reviewing the May Day parade from Lenin's tomb. Any hint that someone in the lineup was a possible successor to the reigning tyrant of the day marked the unfortunate individual for liquidation. Petrov had mastered the art of fading into the woodwork. He was the bureaucratic equivalent of a shape-shifter, a legendary being that can change form at will. He had survived three premiers and countless Politburo members with his ability to avoid definition. He hadn't allowed himself to be photographed in years. The photos clipped to his personnel files were of dead men. He resisted attempts to give him a title. In the various evolutions of his long career, he was known simply as an aide.

  In keeping with his facade, Petrov enclosed his athletic physique in one of the baggy monotone suits that had long been the uniform of the Kremlin's faceless gray men. His pepper-and-salt hair was worn over the
collar of his cheap shirt as if he could not afford a regular haircut. The glass in his wire-rimmed spectacles was plain and intended to give him a professorial look. Disguise had its limitations, though. He could cover his scar, but no sartorial sleight of hand could hide the lively intelligence that glinted in the slate- blue eyes, and his chiseled profile projected a ruthless determination.

  The caller was an earnest young man named Aleksei, whom Petrov had personally recruited as an agent. "There is a new development in the south," he said, making no effort to hide his excitement.

  The four cardinal directions had become a rough verbal shorthand in alerting Petrov to the general location of trouble in the vortex of assassinations, murders, rebellions and unrest that swirled around in the far comers of the old Soviet empire. Petrov thought he was about to hear more bad news from the Republic of Georgia.

  "Go ahead," Petrov said automatically.

  "An American ship violated Russian territory in the Black Sea earlier today."

  "What sort of ship?" Petrov said, with barely disguised irritation. Far more weighty matters occupied his mind.

  "It was a survey vessel from the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

  "NUMA?" Petrov tightened his grip on the phone. "Go on," he said, trying to keep his voice level.

  "Our observers identified the vessel as the Argo. I checked on the ship's permit. The vessel is only allowed to conduct operations in the open sea. Several communications were picked up between the ship and an aircraft. The pilot of the plane indicated his intention to enter Russian territory."

  "Did the plane actually cross our borders?"

  "We don't know, sir. There were no radar sightings."

  "Well, this is not exactly an invasion, Aleksei. Is it not a matter that should be taken up with the U.S. State Department?"

  "Not in this case, sir. The plane gave its positions, so we were able to chart its course. It was flying near Department Three Thirty-one when the pilot made plans to rendezvous with the ship."