Kretek flipped open the sheet and studied the message. Slowly a wolflike smile broke through the brush of Kretek’s beard.
“It’s good news from the family, my friends,” he said finally. “Very good news, indeed.”
The pretense of joviality passed, and he looked up, eyes distant and intent. “Crencleu, advise our Canadian point men that the arctic operation is on and that they are to proceed with preparations with all speed. Call in the selected force team and have them rendezvous at our point of departure in Vienna. Mikhail…”
“Yes, sir,” his executive officer spoke crisply. It was obvious the old wolf was on the track once more, this time for the richest prize in the group’s history. Vlahovich had been unsure a few days before, when he had first heard of the arctic plan. It had seemed extreme, a wild long shot. But if it could be made to work, the payoff could be astronomical. Now even the dour Serb began to catch the fever.
“Inform all headquarters sections to load and prepare to move out. I wish to be on the road in…” Kretek paused, and his eyes flicked toward the fireplace and the slim, silent figure standing beside it. The Albanian race had never been known for producing great beauties from among its women, and this little chit wasn’t much even at that, but she was here and she was young and she was paid for. “…an hour and a half.”
He might as well get his money’s worth out of little Gleska before she and the rest of her family perished in their tragic house fire.
Chapter Ten
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport
Fall meant fog in the Pacific Northwest. The landing lights of the jetliners sweeping in to the runways cut like slow comets through the sinking overcast, and the tops of the hotels along the airport strip faded out of existence in the gathering dusk, illuminated windows diffusing into a golden glow within the mist.
As the bubble elevator climbed the exterior of the Doubletree Hotel tower, Jon Smith watched the sharp edges and details fade from the night. He wore knife-creased army greens, and he was alone for the moment. That would change presently. He was en route to link up with the other members of his team, one a stranger and the other not exactly a friend.
He couldn’t blame Fred Klein for his personnel selection. The director’s choice had been a logical one. He’d worked with Randi Russell before. They had been thrown together on a number of missions, almost as if fate were perversely entangling their life paths. Smith recognized her as a first-class operator: experienced, dedicated, and highly intelligent, with a weirdly diverse set of talents and a useful capacity for total ruthlessness when required.
But she came with a penalty.
The elevator doors split and rumbled apart, and Smith stepped out into the dusty rose-and-bronze-themed entry of the rooftop restaurant and lounge. The hostess looked up from her podium expectantly.
“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?”