The engine rumbled roughly while the heater blasted him like a wind from hell. Behind the wheel of the pickup, Grafton Byrnes sat staring at the fence. The sliding ten-foot gates granting one entry and exit to Konstantin Kirov's "dacha" were closed. Next to him on the seat was a remote-control device with a nine-digit keypad. He picked it up, held it in his right hand, using the fingers of his left to peck out a couple of tries. It was hopeless. He didn't even know how many digits the code required. Three? Four? Five?

"Fuckin' useless," he muttered, dropping it on the seat.

Byrnes was wearing his jailer's jacket, as well as his socks and boots. The gun was back in the shed with the dead Russian. It turned out it was loaded with five bullets, not six, and between them, they'd fired them all. He had drunk his soup and found a chunk of bread in the pickup. He was alive and relatively well and had a few hundred rubles, a pocketknife, and a pack of cigarettes to get him to the U.S. Embassy in Moscow.

If, that is, he could get through the double fences.

He stared at them awhile longer, wondering what twenty thousand volts would do to a car. If he drove over the metal, would it short out? Would the rubber tires ground the charge? Or would the touch of the fender conduct the electricity through the chassis and fry him like an egg on a griddle?

There was only one way to find out.

Byrnes put the truck into reverse and backed up about a hundred feet. Finding neutral, he gunned the engine a few times. He was a hot rod driver on a Saturday night. "Big Daddy" Don Garlits waiting for the green light. He imagined the Christmas tree counting down. The lights blinking red, red, red, and finally green.

Ramming the gearshift into first, Byrnes floored the truck. He passed the main cabin, the radio shack, the crematorium. And as he hit the fence, he loosed a savage howl.

Metal buckled, wire bent and moaned, the engine roared, and then he was clear, hurtling down the rutted dirt road at sixty kilometers an hour.

It was only then that Byrnes looked at the fuel gauge.

The needle hovered on empty.

46

Gavallan watched the lake slide by, a moss green mirror shattered into myriad shards by the sun's piercing rays. It was eight o'clock in the evening. After twenty-seven hours in custody, he'd been released with hardly a word, escorted from the rear of the police station, and ordered into the backseat of an unmarked Audi. Every time he asked a question the plainclothes officer next to him would mutter "Ça va," and give him a smile like he was the dumbest fuck on the planet Earth.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Ça va."

"Where is Miss Magnus?"

"Ça va."

"Is Mr. Pillonel in jail?" Or was the rat ever taken there in the first place?

"Ça va."

They played stop and go through a succession of traffic signals, turning left on the Guisan Bridge and crossing over the lake. Angry gray clouds spilled over the mountains on the French side a few miles up, gathering low above the surface and advancing toward them. A flash of lightning exploded from the sky. They were in a for a gully washer.

The car slowed and came to a halt at the center of the bridge. Reflexively, he dropped a hand to the door and let his fingers toy with the handle. He had no illusions about his status. He might have been relieved of his cuffs, but he was hardly a free man. The car's doors were locked, the windows rolled up. One glance at his taciturn companion with the sinewy forearms assured Gavallan he was still a prisoner. The only question was where he was headed.

With a jerk, the car took off, zero to fifty in five seconds flat. The storm clouds were moving quickly toward them, a sheet of black rain dicing the water. The driver continued along the Rue du Mont Blanc, past the tourist shops selling cuckoo clocks, Swatches, and chocolate bars, veering left through a tunnel that took them under and around the train station. A sign ahead showed Annecy and Lyons to the left, Lausanne, Montreux, and Genève Aeroport to the right. The Audi shunted right.

Two minutes later they were out of the city, accelerating down an open stretch of highway. Green fields stretched to their left and right. Bales of hay sat rolled and wrapped in opaque plastic, ready for pickup and transport to the farmer's loft. The driver lowered his window an inch. Immediately the rich, loamy scent of ground under cultivation flooded the car. He shook loose a cigarette and, half turning, offered it to Gavallan. "Smoke?"

"No thanks."

A whistling roar built in the air around them and suddenly an MD-11 passed directly over their heads, its pale metal belly close enough to touch. Strobing yellow landing lights beckoned to Gavallan's right, and beyond them the crenellated façade of the landing terminal.

The airport.

He was going home.

He didn't like the idea, but there was no use fighting it.

It wasn't until the car passed through a sentry gate and drove onto the tarmac that he started questioning the mechanics of his release. Didn't extradition require weeks, if not months, of legal wrangling? Shouldn't he have been asked if he wished to fight the order? If he hadn't been charged, by what authority were the Swiss loading him onto a plane to send him back to America? And why the hell were they letting him climb back aboard the chartered G-3?

He could see the plane crouched on the apron a few hundred yards away, landing lights on, turbines spinning lazily, an iridescent stream of exhaust escaping the engines. He had to wonder who was waiting at the other end. Dodson and his crew from the Joint Russo-American Task Force? Or would representatives of the Florida police comprise his handpicked welcoming committee? And why was he being smuggled out of the country like a plague bacillus?

Another Audi was parked next to the plane. He saw a door open and Cate's figure emerge. She seemed to hesitate, not wanting to board the plane. Two policemen bracketed her and began walking her to the aircraft. It was then that Gavallan sat up straighter, his nose pressed against the window. The plane was too big. It had too many windows. It wasn't a G-3 but a G-5; no mistaking it. The detailing was different too. A red pinstripe that hadn't been there before ran the length of the fuselage just below the windows. It wasn't the chartered jet at all.

And then he spotted the flag painted high on the tail, and he shivered.

The white, blue, and red tricolor of Russia.

He caught up to Cate as she was about to mount the stairs.

"You okay? Did they keep you locked up this whole time?"

Cate lifted her shoulders, giving a fatigued nod. Her eyes were red, her hair being blown about her by a whipping wind.

Two familiar faces waited at the top of the stairs. Boris and Tatiana. A few hours behind in their forty-million-dollar jet, but no less vigilant.

"Hello, Mr. Jett," said Boris, as if they were old acquaintances from the club. His jaw was blue, swollen like a grapefruit, but his eyes said "No hard feelings." "You come now. We hurry. Storm will be here fast."

Gavallan glanced behind him. The Swiss police had formed themselves into a phalanx, and their stolid expressions said there was no going back. Offering Cate his hand, he guided her up the stairs. She mounted the first step, then stopped. Turning, she grabbed his shoulders and kissed him. "Tell me you'll understand."

Gavallan searched her eyes for an explanation, but saw only confusion and hurt. "What?"

Fighting the wind, Cate drew back the hair from her face and wiped away a tear. She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head as if the thought were not worth mentioning. With a silken touch, her hand slipped from his. As quickly, she was herself again. The eyes cleared, the jaw firmed.