He would never be free of that night, but he was no longer its prisoner.

Slowly, the nose righted itself and the wings found the horizon. The plane shuddered again and was still. They were gliding on a lake of ice.

"Just a little engine problem," he said to Cate. "All taken care of. Sit tight. I'll have us down in a jif."

"Hurry, Jett… thank you… but hurry."

"Roger that."

Bringing the airspeed down to 250 miles an hour, Gavallan let go a long breath. The Mig flew straight on its course, a black eagle skipping across the European sky.

Ramstein Tower, this is United States Air Force Captain John Gavallan, retired. Serial number 276-99-7200. I've got a Russian Mig under my butt that I'd like to put down at your place. You should have word about our arrival. Copy?"

"Copy, Captain Gavallan. Sorry, but we have no word of your status. You are negative for a landing. Please exit secure airspace immediately." There was a pause, and the communications link crackled with white noise. A new voice sounded in Gavallan's earphones. "Captain Gavallan, this is Major Tompkins. You are roger for a landing. Please proceed to vector two seven four, descend to fifteen thousand feet. Welcome back to the Air Force."

"Roger that," said Gavallan. Same old. Same old.

At 10:07 local time, Gavallan brought the Mig to a perfect three-point touchdown on runway two-niner at Ramstein Air Force Base, thirty miles south of Frankfurt, Germany. A jeep waited at the end of the runway, blue siren flashing, to guide them to their parking spot. Gavallan followed at a distance, keeping his ground speed to a minimum. Finding his spot, he killed the engines. Airmen dashed beneath the Mig and threw blocks under his tires. Gavallan waited until they reappeared, flashing him the "thumbs-up," before opening his canopy and unbuckling his seat harness.

The twin, rounded hooks of a flight ladder coupled onto the fuselage and, reluctantly, he climbed out of the cockpit. He stopped at the bottom rung, not wanting his foot to touch the ground. The crackle of avionics still echoed in his ear. The "by the seat of your pants" rush that came with flying a jet lingered inside him like a melancholy phantom. For a few seconds he listened to the cry of the turbine engines winding down and sniffed at the burnt rubber and let the wind brush his cheek. Technically, he owned the plane, but he had no plans to fly it again. Jets belonged to his past, and he knew well enough not to look back.

Jumping to the ground, he jogged around the nose of the aircraft to help Cate out of the cockpit. "Never again," she said. "And you did that for a living?"

"It's not so bad once you get the hang of it."

A major in neatly pressed blues approached. "Captain Gavallan? I'm Calvin Tompkins, executive officer in charge of field security. Welcome to Ramstein."

Gavallan accepted the outstretched hand. "This is Miss Magnus."

"Evening, ma'am," Tompkins said, offering a crisp nod of the head. "I understand you two are headed stateside."

"We need some transportation. The Mig's got a lousy range- fifteen hundred miles max."

"If you'll follow me, I'm sure we can accommodate you. We've got a Lear fueling up as we speak, courtesy of Mr. Howell Dodson of the FBI. I'm afraid it doesn't have such wonderful range either. You'll have to stop in Shannon, Ireland, to refuel, but it'll have you to New York by morning. We had you scheduled for ten forty-five, but I'm afraid we've hit a bit of a glitch."

"A glitch?" asked Cate, her voice taut.

"Just a solenoid that needs replacing," said Tompkins. "Should have it changed out any sec."

Gavallan knew his luck had been too good. "So what's the new departure time?"

"Right now, we're looking at a midnight ETD."

"Midnight?"

"And you shouldn't have to dally in Shannon long. An hour tops."

Gavallan scratched the back of his neck, rejiggering his math. Takeoff at midnight. Hit Shannon by two-thirty. Takeoff from Ireland at three-thirty. Setting the whole operation to New York time, they'd land at JFK around six o'clock. Enough time should everything go according to schedule.

"Just one question, Captain Gavallan."

"Yeah?"

Tompkins pointed to the Mig behind them. "What exactly do you want us to do with your plane?"

63

It was past midnight, and in room 818 of the Peninsula Hotel in New York City, Konstantin Kirov was sleeping. The telephone rang. Instantly, he was awake, knocking back the sheets, fumbling for the handset. "Da? Kirov."

"Wake up, younger brother. Trouble."

"What do you mean? I thought you were in Siberia."

"I am. But I had a few of my men keep tabs on the dacha. Gavallan has escaped. He took Katya and the other American with him."

"Impossible," said Kirov, sitting up, grabbing at his wristwatch, squinting to read the time. "I assigned my best man to look after them. There were four guards with him."

"All dead," said Leonid. "We found five bodies including Tatiana and, I imagine, your 'best man.' From what we pieced together, Gavallan had a dagger of sorts and used it to kill one of the guards and take his weapon. From there it's anybody's guess."

Kirov tried to imagine Boris and Tatiana and the others dead. A quick rage ignited inside him. He knew why Leonid was watching the dacha. He had posted his men there to make sure Kirov did not spare his daughter's life. "If you were watching, why the hell did you let them drive away?"

"An oversight on our part." There was a pause. "We were able to track Gavallan to Moscow," said Leonid finally. "I'm sorry to say we were unable to keep in contact with him afterward."

"You lost him?"

"Regrettably," said Leonid. "Have you heard anything from your contact at Black Jet?"

"Not a word. I finished dinner with them an hour ago. The deal is going ahead as planned. As far as they are concerned Gavallan is missing in action. Some think he may be involved with the murders in Miami. Others don't dare to think anything. The deal is simply too important for their company."

"Most probably he is still in Moscow with your daughter. Nonetheless, you may see fit to take precautions."

"Precautions?"

"To eliminate any threats should they become localized. After all, Gavallan holds no concrete proof to stop the deal, does he?"

"Concrete? No. But from what I understand he doesn't need any. A call to the right parties will suffice."

"Perhaps we can assume Mr. Gavallan has decided to join with our side in this matter. From everything you've told me, he needs the deal as much as you."

"And if does not?"

"There is no going back, Konstantin Romanovich," came Leonid's icy response. "Neither for you nor I. We will not embarrass the president. We will not disappoint the state. We will have our money."

Leonid hung up.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Kirov wondered what else could go wrong. He knew he should be worried, but his sheer lack of options left him emboldened instead. He told himself that if Gavallan had wanted to cancel the deal he would have done it already. There had to be a reason he hadn't contacted his partners, and that reason was that he wanted the deal to go through. He wanted his seventy million in fees. He wanted to keep control of his company. Kirov had always pegged him as a greedy one. Smooth, yes, silky smooth, but greedy, too. He was, after all, a banker.

There was no going back.

Repeating Leonid's words, Kirov felt a steely resolve firm up inside him. Rising, he crossed to the desk and retrieved his electronic address book from his briefcase. He found the name he needed quickly. He dialed a Manhattan number and a Russian voice answered.