Nevsky, pushing the goggles onto the top of his head, turned in his seat and said, “You can unfasten those straps now.” Then he coughed into his handkerchief.

Ana and Sergei undid their straps, and with trembling fingers Sergei unlatched the little door. He clambered out onto the ground, then held out a hand to help Ana. When she bent over, the corset nipped at her ribs, and her feet felt so unsteady she nearly toppled over. Sergei propped her up as Nevsky disembarked. Without a word, he went to a tiny, falling-down shed, and came out lugging two gas cans, one in each hand.

Ana, bewildered, looked all around, but apart from the shed, there was no sign of any habitation nearby, or any people. Were those huts the entire colony? Her heart began to sink. And why was there no one there to welcome them?

Nevsky seemed to be studiously avoiding them, and when Sergei ventured a question, he brushed him off and said, “Let me finish with this first,” as he poured the second can of gas down the funnel he had inserted in the tank at the rear of the plane. When that was done, he returned to the shed, came out with two more, and poured them in, too. A brisk wind was cutting across the open field, and Ana huddled in the shelter of the fuselage.

Tossing the empty cans to one side and removing the funnel, Nevsky finally turned to them and said, “I’ll have that second diamond now.”

“Where is everyone?” Sergei said.

“They’ll be here. Now, where is it?”

Sergei looked uncertain, but when Ana nodded, he gave it to him. Nevsky tucked it into his pocket, and threw open the little door to the plane. Then he jumped in, threw the latches, and only appeared again through the window of the cockpit. Sliding the window panel open, he spoke across the top of the machine gun as Ana and Sergei gathered below.

“Right now you’re on what the Eskimos call Nunarbuk.”

“You mean that’s their name for St. Peter’s Island?” Sergei said.

“St. Peter’s Island,” Nevsky said, fitting his goggles back into place, and pointing due east, “is over there.”

“That’s where we paid you to take us!” Ana cried, but Nevsky just shrugged.

“They have no landing strip,” he said.

“Then you have to take us back with you!” Sergei demanded, hammering at the side of the plane.

“Watch out,” Nevsky said, as he started to close the window. “The propellers can cut you in half like a loaf of bread.”

A moment later, Ana heard the engines revving up. The propellers clicked and twitched, then began to turn, and Sergei had to duck back away from the plane. It bumped along the ground in a wide circle, protected by its four whirling blades, before quickly gathering speed and then, as they watched in shock, altitude, too. It was only as it rose high into the sky, shining in the sun and banking slowly toward Siberia, that Ana realized they had even forgotten to retrieve their bundle from under the seat.

Chapter 55

“Is that it?” Slater asked. “Is that the van?”

Nika craned forward in the passenger seat. “I can’t tell,” she said, peering through the fractured windshield. “The snow’s too thick.”

On the right side of the road, a yellow sign said, “HERON RIVER BRIDGE AHEAD. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. REDUCE SPEED.” It was pocked with bullet holes, and Slater wondered if there was a single sign or mailbox in Alaska that hadn’t been used for target practice.

He stepped on the gas, but he felt the tires starting to lose traction on the icy surface and he had to ease off again.

The road was winding its way through a rubble-strewn landscape of stunted trees and immense boulders. Sometimes, the vehicle in front of him would disappear behind the rocks, or be engulfed in a whirling cloud of snow, but each time he caught a glimpse of it, he was able to pick out another detail or two. First, he could see the boxy silhouette of a van. And then he could tell it was some dark color, blue or black.

It had to be Charlie Vane’s car.

He knew that he was driving the ambulance far too fast for the road and weather conditions, but he still wasn’t closing the distance. Vane had to be doing at least sixty-five or seventy miles per hour. At any moment, he expected to see the van go spinning off the road or crashing into the rocks.

“Do you think they’ve spotted us?” Nika asked.

“Absolutely.” But what would they be able to see? “Should I put on the siren and lights? Maybe convince them it’s the police on their tail?”

“They’d only drive faster.”

Which was pretty much what Slater had thought, too.

“There’s one more bend in the road,” Nika advised him, “but it’s a wide one, and it runs behind those hills. When you come out on the other side, you’ll see the gorge, and the bridge, off in the distance but straight ahead.”

What Slater hoped to see was a National Guard barricade, with spotlights and trucks and armed soldiers, but he was afraid it was too much to expect. There probably hadn’t been time to set up something so elaborate, and now he was wondering just how far he would have to keep trailing the Vanes. All the way to Nome? He glanced at his dashboard and saw that the gas tank was already three-quarters empty. But it was critical that he stop them before they reached any population center.

The question remained — how?

Snowy hills rose up on all sides, funneling the wind and snow into a dense fog that almost entirely obscured the road. Steel poles, only four or five feet high, with red reflectors on top, were the only way to stay on course, and rusty signs warned of curves, oncoming traffic, animal crossings, avalanches, hazardous ice. The ambulance clung to the road, the windshield wipers beating furiously, the lone headlight shining on the blur of falling snow. A steady stream of freezing air blew into the car through the hole in the windshield, and Slater prayed that the wipers wouldn’t catch on one of the cracks and cause the whole window to implode in their faces.

And just when he thought the hills would never come to an end, he emerged onto a broad icy plateau. Even the van must have had to slow down, as the distance between them now was no more than the equivalent of a few city blocks.

Better yet, Slater could see the steel span of the Heron River Bridge, rising into the darkness … with an Alaska Highway Patrol car parked laterally in front of it, its headlights shining and blue roof bar flashing.

It wasn’t a whole platoon from the National Guard, but it would do.

Or so he thought.

He watched the van begin to slow down, as if Charlie was debating what to do, and Slater used that chance to close some more of the gap.

“Okay, now let’s turn on the lights and siren!” Slater said, clutching the wheel with both hands as he suddenly felt the ambulance sliding on a patch of black ice. “Time to let him know he’s surrounded.”

But just as Nika got everything blaring, and Slater saw the patrolman stepping out of the car, the van shot forward, its back wheels hurling up a shower of snow and sleet as it rocketed toward the bridge.

“What’s he doing?” Nika shouted.

But it was clear seconds later, as the van accelerated to top speed and hit the front end of the patrol car, sending it spinning out of the way like a top, sparks flying and metal screeching. The cop jumped out of its path in the nick of time.

Slater, trying to keep control of his own car, tapped his foot on the brakes and steered into the direction of the skid. But the ambulance had gathered its own momentum now.

Up ahead, the van bounded up the corrugated ramp and onto the bridge, bucking like a bronco trying to throw its rider.

In the ambulance, Slater clung to the steering wheel and Nika braced herself against the dashboard as the vehicle did a full, unimpeded circle before finally coming to a stop, its front fender thumping into a mound of snow.