Still they ran. Invaders of the Arctic Circle. Five kilometers remained to the halfway point, then back again to base by a different, more difficult route. Another twenty kilometers over uneven, climbing terrain. It was their last training run, a brutal, delirious culmination of four months' preparation. Four months without leave, without a single day's rest, without alcohol, tobacco, or women. Physical conditioning was placed at a premium, but there were mental exercises as well: endless hours mastering English, in particular the American roughneck's slang. Courses in engineering, physics, and the mathematics of high explosives. And, of course, the endless repetition of their tactical objectives. Practicing over and over until every step was memorized and every permutation analyzed, countered, and defeated.

They had been chosen from the best. In other times and other places, similar men had made up the elite forces that had carried names like La Légion Étrangère, the SAS, and the Delta Force. More familiar to them was the Spetsnaz, their own country's vaunted Black Berets.

They were called, simply, Team 7. If the name did not carry the same mystique as those of their illustrious antecedents, it was for good reason: Team 7 did not exist. No record could be found anywhere in the administrative logs of the army, navy, or air force testifying to their founding. No roster listed their names, their ranks, the units from which they had been seconded. When they completed the operation, they would disband and flee to the four corners of the globe, sworn never to speak with one another again.

They were all munitions specialists, five drawn from artillery, four from infantry, and three from underwater demolitions. Explosives were their game, and there were no soldiers anywhere who could better their adeptness with plastique, C-4, or gelignite. They had blown bridges in Kunduz and waterworks in Grozny. They had mined highways in the Sudan and mosques in Eritrea.

It was not, however, their skill under fire that recommended them, but the artist's care with which they practiced their craft. Deft fingers shaped the soft, explosive putty as a sculptor handled his clay, and with the same eye for effect. They could blow out a lock and leave the door standing or bring down a ten-story building with a single charge.

Their target lay thousands of miles away, across the roof of the world. The mission would require speed and stealth, but mostly care and concentration. With the smallest of charges, they would wreak the greatest of damage. Nature would have its revenge on man. And man would fall to his knees in apology. Never again, he would promise. Never again.

The shadows moved into the distance, their steps slower, but still confident, a faint humming now dancing from their lips. It was a song they knew well: the anthem of their birthplace. And as their fatigue grew, they hummed louder. They would rebuild their country. They would make it strong once again. Formidable. A force.

A strong wind lashed across the landscape and they were gone, faded to obscurity inside the umbrella of grit and rain and sleet.

Ghosts who had never been.

Soldiers who never were.

A team that did not exist.

12

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti… "

Konstantin Kirov was dizzy. He had been standing in the front row of the Church of Christ the Savior for two hours, listening with the rapt attention expected of the guest of honor as Archbishop Nikitin, primate of Moscow, droned on and on, giving thanks for Kirov's gift of a fifteenth-century icon by the master Rublev depicting St. Peter slaying the dragon. The icon rested upon the altar. Only fourteen by seven inches, the portrait was a masterpiece of its kind, watercolors and gold leaf applied to a wood canvas, then glazed with albumen. Peter rode astride his stallion, lance carried high. His face was fevered, yet calm, his fear replaced by a trust in the Almighty. A faint halo crowned his head. The dragon, of course, was unseen. Iconography demanded that full attention be given the subject.

Kirov clamped his jaw as the archbishop passed close to him, swinging the censer and scenting the air with pale, acrid smoke. The columns swirled upward toward the cathedral's vaulted ceiling, the vanishing fingers signifying man's prayers lifting unto the Lord. Kirov followed the smoke along its course, viewing the church's interior with a mixture of piety, awe, and disgust. The acres of stained glass, the armies of tortured sculptures, the fabulous array of frescoes and trompe l'oeils awash in gold leaf: It was the Sistine Chapel times ten, without a trace of its grandeur. But what could one expect? Michelangelo had needed seven years for the chapel's ceiling alone; the entire Church of Christ the Savior was constructed in three. Its religiosity was so overwhelming as to be garish, laughable even, thought Kirov. There was not a better example of the contemporary Russian soul to be found in the entire country.

The Church of Christ the Savior was Moscow's latest miracle and the mayor's crowning achievement. Four inferior onion domes crowned each of the cathedral's transepts and surrounded a fifth and dominant dome whose enormous golden gilt swirls were visible across central Moscow- a candle's flame unto the heavens indeed. The church was a larger replica of the original Church of Christ the Savior that had been built on the same site between 1833 and 1883, designed by the architect Konstantin Toms and inaugurated by Czar Alexander II. Stalin in his good graces had torn the church down, melting the gold leaf for the Communist Party's coffers and using the land to erect one of his "Stalin Skyscrapers," atop which he wished to mount a ten-story statue of Lenin. When the land proved sandy and unstable, Stalin shelved the skyscraper and built instead Europe's largest outdoor swimming pool, which he personally christened "the Lido."

"Konstantin Romanovich Kirov, please step forward."

Awoken from his daydream, Kirov placed one foot in front of the other and advanced toward the ornate altar.

"In the name of the holy church, I commend your generosity of heart and spirit, and thank you for the wondrous gift to our diocese." Archbishop Nikitin grasped Kirov's shoulders and bestowed three kisses upon his cheeks, his long, grizzled beard scratching Kirov's face. The mayor followed, placing a bronze medal around his neck. "The city of Moscow is grateful, Konstantin Romanovich," he whispered. "You have done a great service."

"It is my pleasure." The mayor might reek of vodka, but at least he was clean-shaven.

The choir chanted. An organ played. The congregation was dismissed.

In front of the church, Kirov posed for photographs with the archbishop and mayor. It was a happy union of commerce, church, and state. Come morning, the beaming threesome would be on the front page of the city's newspapers.

"Should you need anything, I insist you call me," the mayor said as the crowd broke up. "We must lunch at the Café Pushkin soon. At my table in the library."

Kirov smiled dutifully. "I look forward to it."

The mayor went on talking about his favorite dishes at the tony restaurant, but Kirov only pretended to listen, for a voice in his earpiece had begun speaking. "Excuse me, sir. Rosen here. We have a small problem."

"Yes?" mumbled Kirov, his chin pushed into his chest. The Russian flag decorating his lapel was, in fact, the microphone of his cellular phone.

"Some news on the Net regarding Mercury. This fellow the Private Eye-PO again. You will not be pleased."

"I'll be there at noon," he said.

The mayor eyed him queerly. "I'm sorry, Konstantin Romanovich, but I am not free at noon. Perhaps next week. And if you can get another icon like that, we'd love to have it in the Novodevichy's chapel. Name your price."