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The soldier snatched them out of her hand. “American, you say?” He stroked his chin with one hand, thumbed through her papers for a second, and then snorted. “But maybe these are forgeries, eh?”

Her temper flared. “Don’t be ridiculous! Now, cut the bullshit and let me pass!”

That was a mistake. She’d given this creep a perfect opening.

The Russian officer smiled lazily. “Perhaps you should learn to show more respect, woman.” He turned to the two privates behind him. “This so-called American could be a dangerous spy. Or a criminal. I think we should search her for concealed contraband. Thoroughly, eh?”

Both men nodded eagerly. One even licked his lips in anticipation.

Oh, God. Erin’s hands balled into fists. She glanced to either side, already knowing she had nowhere to run. All the soldiers manning the checkpoint had stopped to watch.

“Let’s go, bitch! We’ll see just what you’re carrying under that tight sweater of yours.” The officer spun on his heel, striding toward the nearest personnel carrier. He didn’t even bother to look back to see if she was following.

“Captain!” The sudden shout came from down the street, on the other side of the roadblock.

Erin could see a big black car pulling up to the barrier. It was a Lincoln Continental with diplomatic license plates. Her hands started trembling, this time in relief and not in fear. The cavalry had arrived. For the first time, she appreciated Banich’s earlier irritating insistence that she leave a detailed description of the route she planned to take whenever she signed out of the embassy compound. Her eyes narrowed in speculation. He had been standing by to pull her out of trouble. That could only mean that he and Kutner had had some advance warning of what was in the wind.

Erin frowned, still not sure whether she should! be touched by his readiness to rescue her, or irked that he’d kept her in the dark for so long.

One of the Lincoln’s rear doors popped open and Alex Banich climbed out, his face tight with anger as he took in the scene in front of him. Without stopping, he pushed through the knot of soldiers standing in his way, flashing his identity card from side to side as though it were some kind of religious talisman. He came to a halt right in front of the Russian captain.

“You’d better just be escorting Miss McKenna through your lines, Captain.” Banich slid the card into his jacket and put both hands on his hips. “If not, I can promise you one hell of a lot of trouble.”

“We were simply…”

“Don’t bother lying to me. I can guess what you were planning.” Banich glared up at the taller man, openly daring him to disagree.

The army officer scowled but kept his mouth shut. He’d obviously been looking forward to humiliating a lone American woman, not provoking a full-fledged diplomatic incident.

“Are you okay?”

Erin nodded, not trusting herself to speak yet. She’d be damned if she’d show these soldiers any more weaknesses than she already had.

“Good.” Banich reached out and took her papers out of the captain’s unresisting hand. “We’ve got a lot to get done today. As you may have gathered, the government’s declared martial law. So there’s no more time for screwing around with tin-pot, mincing morons like this guy.” He jerked a thumb at the Russian.

This time it was the captain who turned red with impotent rage. Erin smiled sweetly at him and followed Banich back to the waiting Lincoln. Inside she was busy trying to sort out a world that seemed suddenly turned upside down.

OCTOBER 23 — THE PLACE OF SKULLS, IN RED SQUARE, MOSCOW

Before the Bolshevik Revolution, the circular stone platform called the Lobnoye Mesto, the Place of Skulls, had served as a site for public executions. Since the communists had preferred to carry out most of their murders in secret, the platform had fallen into disuse — becoming instead a place where tourists posed for pictures against the scenic backdrop provided by the old GUM department store and St. Basil’s Cathedral. Now, under Marshal Kaminov’s emergency decrees, the Place of Skulls was again a place for swift and sure punishments.

Several thousand people crowded Red Square, craning their heads for a better look at the raised platform. Excited murmurs swept through the waiting crowd as five blindfolded men were dragged down from a canvas-sided army truck and shoved up the stone steps. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and signs hung around their necks identified them as thieves and black market speculators.

Soldiers wearing heavy winter overcoats turned the blindfolded men around to face the square and forced them to kneel on the top step. When they were in place, five army officers marched smartly up the stairs and took their posts — one behind each kneeling prisoner.

“Citizens of Mother Russia!” a deep, harsh voice blared through the loudspeakers ringing the square. “For years these criminals have stolen bread from your mouths and profited by your miseries! But no more. No more. Now you will see justice done.”

Scattered clapping greeted this announcement, but most of those watching were silent.

“These men have been tried, convicted, and sentenced to death by the Special Military Tribunal for Moscow. Their appeals have been considered and rejected by the highest authorities.”

The people jamming the square stirred in confusion at that. Most of them were unsure of precisely who the “highest authorities” were right now. Although they’d seen the President’s televised speech declaring martial law, almost all public announcements since then had come from men in uniform.

With the republic’s newspapers, radio programs, and television news shows all operating under restrictive censorship decrees, reliable information was a rare and valuable commodity.

“Soldiers of the Russian Republic, are you ready to perform your sacred duty to the motherland?” The waiting army officers came to attention and then, one by one, nodded. “Very well. Proceed with the executions.”

Five pistol shots rang out one after the other, echoing off the massive stone buildings surrounding Red Square. Spilling bright red blood, five corpses slumped forward — tumbling down the steps to the cobblestones below. A soft sigh rippled through the crowd as the last body sprawled at the foot of the Place of Skulls.

The loudspeakers spoke again. “Thus perish all who would rob and exploit the people of Holy Mother Russia! Return to your homes and factories, fellow countrymen — confident in those who guard and defend you.”

The spectators dispersed slowly, filtering out of the square under the watchful eyes of a crack infantry battalion and a small cluster of white-haired senior officers — each man a bright spectacle of gold braid, service ribbons, and medals. Wheeled BTR-80 APCs and big-gunned T-80 tanks lined the nearby streets as a steel-sided reminder of military power.

“A most impressive display, Colonel.” Marshal Yuri Kaminov clapped Soloviev on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sir.” Soloviev smiled woodenly at Kaminov’s praise. The marshal himself had drawn up the plans for this afternoon’s executions. All he’d had to do was follow them to the last letter.

“We Russians are a simple people. We understand simple, direct lessons. That is why the people respect power. They appreciate a firm hand.” Kaminov pointed to where the dead men were being piled on stretchers and hauled away. “And that is what we shall give them, correct?”

Soloviev nodded.

“Good.” Kaminov motioned to another of his aides — a dark-haired major. The man came forward carrying a thick, stapled sheaf of papers. “Nikolskii has the details for your next assignment.” He lowered his voice. “This is a crucial job, Valentin. Executions like these will help cleanse our society. But we must also purify the armed forces by weeding out the weak and the incompetent. Russia must have a sword and shield she can rely on in these dangerous times.”