The building was made of corrugated metal over a wooden framework. It creaked and rattled in the light breeze. Twice Carter was stopped in his tracks, thinking he heard a door slamming. Each time, however, he decided it was simply the wind and he continued.
At the far end of the hangar, he peered around the corner. Kazuka's red Datsun was parked at the rear of the two-story white stucco terminal building. No lights shone anywhere. It was as if that entire side of the field had lost its electricity.
He remained in the shadows for a long time, watching the terminal, but there was no movement. Perhaps he had spooked himself. Perhaps Kazuka had simply forgotten to lock the gate and she was waiting inside for him now. Some inner voice, some sixth sense told him differently, though. This didn't feel right to him.
He turned and went back to a window in the rear wall of the hangar. Forcing it open, he climbed inside, and almost immediately the strong odor of gasoline hit him. The hangar was filled with gas fumes. One spark, one match, and the entire place would go up.
The big service doors at the front of the hangar were partially open, but the wind was coming from that direction, trapping the fumes inside.
From where he stood, Carter could make out something on the concrete floor a few feet in from the door.
Suddenly it dawned on him what he was seeing, and why the hangar was filled with gas fumes. He stepped away from the window and hurried across the hangar to where a man in a leather flying jacket lay facedown in the middle of a big pool of gasoline that had spilled out of the five-gallon jerry can he had been carrying. The back of his head had been shot off. Carter guessed a high-caliber handgun… probably a Graz Buyra, the Russian's favorite weapon of assassination.
He was probably the pilot Kazuka had arranged to take Carter up to Hokkaido. But why had they shot him? And what had they done with Kazuka?
Carter stepped around the gasoline and looked outside, toward the rear of the terminal building across the broad taxiway. The building was quiet and dark. It meant nothing. They could be watching from inside, waiting for him to show himself… unless Kazuka had managed not to tell them whom she was waiting for. In that case they wouldn't be expecting anyone else.
Steeling himself for the shot, Carter slipped out of the hangar and dashed across the taxiway to Kazuka's Datsun.
Nothing happened. No alarms were raised. No shots were fired. No one had come running.
Carefully Carter looked up over the edge of the door at the building. Still there was no movement. Kazuka's keys dangled from the ignition.
Carter moved around behind the car and, keeping low, hurried the last few feet to the terminal where he flattened himself against the wall.
He had to duck beneath the windows to make it to the edge of the building, and he looked around the corner toward the Cessna parked out front.
No one was in the plane. He could see the cockpit clearly from where he crouched. The fuel filler access hatches on both wings were open. Kazuka's pilot had evidently come in, opened the flaps, and was going for fuel to top the tanks when he had been hit.
But what about Kazuka?
Carter made his way to the front of the building, where again he hesitated a moment before he looked around the corner. The gray Mercedes from the airport was parked by the front door a few yards away from the tail of the Cessna. Carter hadn't been able to see the car when he drove up because it was around the corner from the access road. But it also meant that if anyone was in or near the car, or was looking out the front windows, they would not have seen him approach without headlights.
There was still a fair chance they weren't expecting him.
Carter started to step out of the shadows, when someone came out of the terminal, walked around the front of the Mercedes, and crossed to the Cessna.
From his vantage point, Carter could see that the man was probably Russian; he was big and bulky, his features, even from that distance, dark and Slavic.
The Russian climbed up onto the Cessna's wing with some difficulty because of his size, opened the door, and looked inside.
Carter stepped around the corner, and keeping low, he raced across the apron and around the tip of the Cessna's wing. The Russian, sensing someone was behind him, started to turn, when Carter grabbed a handful of his coat and hauled him off the wing, down onto the ground.
The Russian grunted like a pig when his head bounced off the hard ground. He started to reach for his gun, when Carter brought the point of his stiletto up to the man's throat.
"You will lose a lot of blood, comrade, once your throat is cut," Carter said in Russian.
The KGB operative's eyes widened. For a long moment it seemed as if he would try for his gun despite the blade a quarter inch from his carotid artery, but then he sank back, a deep sigh escaping from his lips.
"A wise decision, believe me," Carter continued in Russian. "Who else is in the building?"
The Russian just stared at him.
"I'm disappointed. You have killed my pilot. I found his body. Now I will need a very good reason not to kill you."
The first hint of fear began to show in the Russian's eyes.
"Who else is in the terminal, and exactly where are they?"
"Just my partner and the woman," the man said, his voice low.
"What woman?"
The Russian's eyes narrowed. "The wire services editor. Your friend."
"You were the ones from the airport?"
The Russian nodded.
"Why were you following her around?"
The Russian held his silence.
Carter flicked the blade to the right, opening a small cut in the Russian's chin. The man jerked violently, a small trickle of blood running down his neck.
"I have no patience, comrade," Carter hissed. "I will kill you at this moment unless you answer my questions…"
The Russian, apparently more frightened of the consequences of answering questions than of Carter's blade, heaved to the right, shoving Carter off-balance. Carter tried to bring his knife arm around, when the Russian's meaty fist clamped onto his wrist, bending it backward toward the breaking point. At the last moment, Carter willed his arm to go limp, while he brought his knee around sharply into the Russian's ribs.
Carter's stiletto fell to the ground. The Russian rolled over and jumped to his feet, clawing inside his jacket for his gun.
There was no time for niceties. Carter rolled back and kicked up with both feet, catching the Russian in the groin. The bigger man went down with a grunt, but he had his gun out.
Carter looked up as the Russian was pulling back the hammer, trying to steady his aim. Desperately Carter reached out, his fingers curling around the stiletto's handle. In one smooth motion he flipped the blade toward the Russian with every ounce of his strength, the blade burying itself to the hilt in the KGB agent's chest.
The Russian seemed confused. He could no longer hold up his gun. He looked at the knife jutting from his chest, then back to Carter. He started to shake his head, but he couldn't, and he fell forward on his face. Dead.
Carter looked over toward the terminal as he got to his feet. No one had come out to investigate. Yet.
Quickly he turned the Russian over onto his back, pulled out the stiletto, and wiped the blade clean on the man's shirt.
The Russian had come out to look inside the Cessna. Why? Carter climbed up on the wing and looked inside. The charts were scattered over the passenger seat. The Russian was trying to find out where the plane was headed. One of the charts clearly showed Hokkaido. Once the Russians found out that someone from Tokyo would be flying to the north island — someone connected with the search for the Petrograd chip — they would probably put two and two together and realize that someone was going to make a try for Svetlaya.