“My name is Smith. I’m here to join the Russell party.”
The hostess’s brows lifted, and there was a moment’s open and curious appraisal. “Yes, sir. Right this way, please.”
She led Smith across the low-lit lounge. Silenced by the dark carpeting underfoot, their steps didn’t break the murmur of subtle music and soft conversation. And then Smith understood the hostess’s flash of curiosity.
Randi had selected a table in the sunken rear corner of the dining room, an isolated setting partially screened from the other patrons by a decorative planter wall. It was a table intended for privacy, suitable for the quiet planning conference to come.
But it would also serve as a very suitable lovers’ rendezvous, and Smith was meeting with not just one exceptionally beautiful woman but with two.
Smith smiled wryly to himself. He hoped the hostess would enjoy her ménage à trois fantasy. She would have no idea how totally wrong she was.
“Hello, Randi,” he said. “I never knew you could fly a helicopter.”
She looked up from the table and nodded coolly. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Jon.”
The first few seconds were never easy. The old twist in the guts was still there. Although Dr. Sophia Russell had been the older sister, she and Randi had been like twins. With the passage of time, the resemblance had grown almost eerie.
He wondered sometimes what Randi saw when she looked at him. Likely nothing pleasant.
Randi wore black suede tonight, a jacket, skirt, and boots outfit that matched the flare of her good looks and complemented the multitinted gold of her hair. Her dark eyes held his for a fraction of an instant, then darted away. “Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, this is Professor Valentina Metrace.”
These eyes were gray under a glossy fringe of midnight-colored hair, and they met his, level and interested, with a glint of humor in their depths. The professor was in black as well, black satin evening pajamas that molded to a slim yet pleasantly curved figure, hinting that there was not a great deal worn underneath them. “Checking into a motel must be hell,” she said, extending her hand to him. Her voice was low, with a hint of something like a British accent.
The hand was held palm down, not to be shaken but to have its slender fingers lightly clasped as a blood royal might accept the touch of a courtier.
It was apparent that Valentina Metrace was an attractive woman who thoroughly enjoyed being an attractive woman and who enjoyed reminding men of the fact.
The tension broke, and Smith took the offered hand for a moment. “The spelling of the first name helps,” he deadpanned.
Smith ordered a pilsner to match Randi’s white wine and Professor Metrace’s martini. “All right,” he said, pitching his voice so it couldn’t carry to the next occupied table. “This is the word as it has been given. Tomorrow we’re out of here on the eight forty-five Alaskan Airlines flight to Anchorage. Our equipment kit and our helicopter are being pre-positioned there. We will also be joining up with our Russian liaison officer, a Major Gregori Smyslov of the Federation Air Force.
“From Anchorage we’ll fly ourselves to Sitka. There we rendezvous with the USS Alex Haley, the Coast Guard ice cutter that will carry us within range of Wednesday Island.”
“Who are we?” Randi inquired-a peculiar question for anyone not in their peculiar trade.
“The cover story established for this operation will permit us to pretty much maintain our own identities,” Smith replied. “As Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, MD, I’ll be acting as the mission pathologist, attached to Department of Defense graves registration. My primarily concern will be with the recovery and forensic identification of the bodies of the aircrew.
“Professor Metrace will also essentially be who she is, a civilian historical consultant working under contract with the DOD. Supposedly, her job will be the identification of the aircraft itself, should the wreck be of a U.S. Air Force B-29. Again, supposedly, Major Smyslov is to perform much the same duty should the plane prove to be a Russian TU-4. We’ll be maintaining the fiction that the bomber’s origins are still unknown, at least until we reach the crash site.
“You’re the tricky one, Randi. As of this moment you are a civilian charter pilot flying for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. The Wednesday Island expedition is a multinational scientific project, and NOAA and the U.S. Coast Guard are providing the logistical support. That includes the insertion and extraction of the personnel. You and the Alex Haley are being sent up there to pull the expedition out before the onset of the polar winter. Your own name is probably safe, and appropriate cooked documentation will be provided with the equipment kit.”
Her gaze dropped away to the tabletop for an instant. “Is it possible for me to know who I’m actually working for?”
Smith regretted the answer he had to give. “You are a civilian charter pilot flying for the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration.”
He could feel Randi’s tension ramp up. By now, her superiors must have surmised that there was a new player in the covert operations game. A new elite outfit, working outside Langley’s authority but with the pull to tap the CIA’s resources at will. From past personal experience Randi must also have surmised that he, Smith, was part of that new organization. It would rankle a veteran operative to be left out of the loop in this fashion. Jon had no choice in the matter. Covert One remained “need to know,” and to put it bluntly, Randi Russell did not need to know, just to obey.
“I see,” she continued stiffly. “I gather I will be taking my orders from you in this operation.”
“From me or from Professor Metrace.”
Randi snapped her head around to stare at Metrace. The dark-haired mobile cipher operative merely lifted an eyebrow and her glass, taking a final sip of her martini.
This situation was simply getting better and better. Being positioned as the junior member of the team could only further ruffle Randi’s feathers. What had his mountain warfare instructor warned him of the other day, that he was forgetting how to command? Well, by God, he had better start remembering right now.
“Professor Metrace is to be considered my executive officer on this operation. Should I not be available, she has full decision-making authority on all aspects of the mission. Is that understood?”
Randi’s eyes met his again, expressionless. “Fully, Colonel.”
Their meal came and went in near silence; Smith had the salmon while Randi Russell ate lightly at a dinner salad. The only one who truly seemed to enjoy her food was Valentina Metrace, consuming her steak and baked potato with a dainty, unconcerned fierceness.
She was also the one who dove back into the mission over their after-dinner coffee.
“One of our Keyhole reconnaissance satellites got a clear-weather pass over the Misha crash site,” she said, removing a set of photo prints from her shoulder bag. “It gives us a much better look at what we’re dealing with than the ground photography from the science expedition.”
Smith frowned at his copy of the overhead imaging. It could clearly be seen that the downed bomber was indeed an exact clone of a B-29. The slender, torpedolike fuselage and the lack of a stepped cockpit were unmistakable.
“Are you sure this is one of theirs?” Randi asked, mirroring Smith’s thoughts.
The historian nodded. “Um-hum. Most of the insignia paint has been storm scoured away, but you can just make out the red star on the starboard wingtip. There’s no doubt; it’s a TU-4 Bull. Specifically it’s the TU-4A strategic-strike variant, intended for the delivery of atomic or biochemical weapons. What’s more, this one was an America bomber.”
Smith glanced up. “An America bomber?”