It was obvious that Director Klein’s invisible but potent presence had passed this way, smoothing their path. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Smith replied, accepting the keys. “It’s appreciated.”
The trooper also handed over a small, heavy case of black pebbled plastic. “This was also sent over for you, Colonel. Somebody seems to think you might need it.”
Smith matched the trooper’s rather pointed smile. “They could be wrong.”
They had limited themselves to carry-on luggage, so there was no need to join in the battle around the baggage carousels. Smith led his team out of the terminal building and into the crisp Alaskan noon. The oddly angled sun was warm, but the air was cool in the shadows, and the surrounding peaks of the great Chugach range were dusted with fresh snow-pointed hints that time was running out in the North.
As promised, a mud-streaked Ford with Alaskan state plates was waiting for them. After stowing their luggage in the sedan’s commodious trunk, Smith tossed the keys over to Randi. She slid in behind the wheel, with Smith taking the front passenger seat and Valentina the back. Automatically they paused to arm up.
Taking the pistol case onto his lap, Smith popped the slide catches and flipped open the lid.
Since joining the profession Smith had developed a theorem about weapons preference. It was a profound personality statement about the individual and the way they related to a potentially hostile world. It was also an absolute truth because it was something one was entrusting one’s life to.
He passed a black leather and nylon fanny pack across to Randi and watched as she ripped open the heavy Velcro fasteners and flipped the pouch section down and off the concealed crossdraw holster. Revealed also were the rosewood grips and stainless steel finish of a Smith and Wesson model 60, the Lady Magnum variant ergonomically optimized for a female shooter. With deft, practiced movements she dunked a speedloader of.357 hollowpoint into the revolver’s chambers.
Point proven. Randi Russell was a lady, and she carried a lady’s gun. But as she was a very serious lady, it was a very serious lady’s gun.
For himself, there was simple mil-spec practicality, a Department of Defense alternate-issue SIG-Sauer P-226 with a stack of 9mm clips and a Bianchi shoulder holster and clip carrier. The armed forces had expended a great deal of time and effort proving up the SIG as an effective and efficient personal firearm. Smith found no reason to argue with their decision.
Finally there was a small, elongated bundle wrapped in soft black cloth. “What’s that?” Randi asked as Smith lifted it from the case.
“Those are mine,” Valentina replied, resting her chin on her crossed hands atop the seat back. “Have a look.”
Smith opened the bundle. It contained a brace of throwing knives, but knives such as he had never seen before. Intrigued, he drew one from its nylon slip sheath.
Only eight inches long and barely the width of his ring finger, it was half haft, half blade. The blade itself was almost spikelike, with a flattened, diamond-shaped cross-section, the junctures of all four oiled facets honed to a shimmering edge. Both the doctor and the warrior within Smith were impressed. Like a rapier or one of the old triangular-bladed trench knives, it would produce a wound channel that would be a perfect horror to try and close.
There was no guard, but an indented thumb brace circled the top of the checkered hilt. And the knife hadn’t been assembled; it had been carved, expertly cold-machined out of a single bar of some exceptionally heavy metal.
The knife bore a certain family resemblance to the tonki throwing darts used in Japanese martial arts, and when Smith laid it across his extended finger to test its balance he found it perfect. Except for the blade edges and a minute silver “VM” scripted on one blade facet, it was finished in jet black.
“It’s beautiful,” Randi whispered in honest appreciation. And it was. There was a sense of design and proportion to the little knife that made it a work of art beyond the weapon.
“Thank you,” Valentina Metrace replied. “That’s DY-100 steel-hellish stuff to work but incredibly strong, and if you can get an edge on it, it lasts forever.”
Smith glanced back at her. “You made these?”
Valentina gave a modestly acknowledging tilt of her head. “A hobby.”
Randi smiled indulgently as she buckled the belt of the fanny pack/ holster around her waist. “They’re pretty, Professor, but if a situation develops you might want something a little more substantial.”
“Never underestimate the point and the edge, darling.” Valentina accepted the knives from Smith. “Blades have killed more people than all of the bombs and bullets ever created, and they continue to do so with undiminished efficiency.”
One of the throwing knives vanished up the historian’s left sweater sleeve, the other into a boot top. “My little pets are silent, jamproof, and far easier to conceal than a gun. You never have to worry about running out of ammunition, and they can punch through soft body armor that would stop a conventional pistol round cold.”
Randi gave her gun belt a final settling tug and cranked over the Crown Victoria’s ignition. “I’ll stick with a gun, thanks.”
“Hopefully we won’t need either flavor of ordnance on this job, ladies.”
“Hopefully, Jon?” Randi replied, backing the car out of its slot.
“Well, let’s call it a nice thought.”
The next step was a call to a number he’d committed to memory before leaving Seattle that morning. As they worked their way out of the airport lot Smith keyed his cell phone. A deep voice speaking a mildly accented but excellent English replied, “This is Major Smyslov.”
“Good afternoon, Major, this is Colonel Smith. We will be picking you up in front of your hotel in about fifteen minutes. A white Ford sedan, Alaska license, Sierra…Tango…Tango…three…four…seven, one man, two women. Civilian clothes.”
“Very good, Colonel, I will be waiting.”
Smith flipped the phone shut. This would be his next critical unknown. There had already been a couple of interesting turns in his team’s makeup. What would this last member add to the already exotic brew?
Clad in anorak, khaki slacks, and climbing boots, Major Gregori Smyslov stood outside the lobby entrance of the Arctic Inn, his flight bag at his feet and his thoughts paralleling those of Jon Smith.
He had been briefed to expect an army doctor, a historian, and a civilian helicopter pilot. But who would they truly be? Already Smyslov had the sense they would be something more. The way Smith had set up the contact and pickup, the crisp identifiers he had given-they had the flavor of an experienced field operative.
Impatiently he lit a Camel filter with a disposable butane lighter, not of a mood to enjoy the superior American tobacco. Soon his performance would begin.
Already Smyslov didn’t like the feel of this job. It had the stink of desperation about it, a stench all too common in Russian governmental circles in these days. Someone somewhere in the Moscow bureaucracy was not thinking, just reacting.
He took a hard drag on the cigarette. It wasn’t his place to decide such things.
The white automobile he had been told to expect turned off the street and rolled to a halt under the hotel canopy, its license number and passengers matching the given description. Smyslov flipped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it deliberately with his boot heel. Presently he would know, or at least he would have an idea, where the Americans stood and what they suspected.
Collecting his bag, Smyslov strode out to the car.
Within five minutes Smyslov indeed knew, and any hope that the Americans might be naively accepting the Russian line on the Misha 124 crash was irrevocably gone. As he was flying a false flag, so was everyone else.
The two women might look like American fashion models, but they most certainly were something else. The taciturn, wary blonde driving the car, theoretically the “helicopter pilot,” was maintaining a spy’s situational awareness, as was the more openly relaxed and vivacious brunette “history professor.” As she lounged in the backseat beside him, overtly chatting about the Alaskan climate, her vision scanned in a regular pattern, checking the paralleling traffic and skipping from one rearview mirror to the other, watching for potential tails.