inside the hangar. He had left the helmet in the Eagle, but hisPower-Book and canvas carryall bag dangled by their respective straps from either hand. His body was stiff from inactivity and his gait bowlegged from the awkward embrace of the tightly laced G-suit. He looked like the world’s most miserable tourist; as he walked, he waddled like a wounded duck.
“Ah, Beck Casey! You have injured yourself, my friend?”
Alexi Malenkov, wearing a Russian Army uniform, stood in jackbooted splendor near the open rear door of a Zil sedan. His tone was solicitous, but too much so; his face was split wide with a grin.
“Hello, Alexi. No, just not as flexible as I used to be.” Beck eyed the collar insignia on the crisp uniform. “A General, I see. Last time I saw you, weren’t you a Lieutenant Commander? In the Russian Navy ?”
Alexi looked down at his tunic, and shook his head mock sadly.
“True. And I much preferred the Navy’s taste in fashion. But what is there to be done, my friend? In our business, I have found it valuable to stay flexible.”
He made a gesture, and the blond Russian quickly helped Beck strip off the G-harness. Malenkov watched with polite interest as Beck unzipped the Nomex flight suit, peeling himself out of it like an arthritic snake shedding skin.
“ ‘Iowa State,’ ” Malenkov read aloud, and pursed his lips theatrically. “Perhaps I could lend you something a little more . . . formal, my friend?” He shrugged at Beck’s expression. “No matter, eh? So. Your pilot will stay here; there are accommodations waiting. We have business to do. Come.”
As Beck settled in to the rear of the auto, Malenkov spoke to the driver in Russian.
“Yehat ’k Kremlin,” he said.
Beck automatically translated: To the Kremlin.
The trip from Sheremetyevo to the center of Moscow is no more than twenty miles, but it can take as long as two hours—unless, that is, one is a passenger in a state vehicleequipped with a siren. Cars swerved aside to let them pass, some with alacrity and others with a studied indifference to the show of official impatience.
The back seat of the Zil was spacious. Beck stretched his legs, feeling his muscles threaten mutiny as he did. Outside on the right, they were passing what appeared to be a forest of massive concrete obelisks: concrete antitank hedgehogs arranged as a monument to the counteroffensive that sent Hitler’s supermen reeling more than a half century earlier.
“I have missed you, Beck,” Malenkov said.
“Three years is a long time, Alexi. Director of state security; you’ve done well for yourself.”
“Bah.” Malenkov tried to look humble, and failed utterly. “I have become a bureaucrat—the type of person that as field operatives, we both loved to hate.”
There was an extended silence that threatened to become awkward.
“Your last visit to my country—” Malenkov frowned and shook his head. “Well, it is of no matter now. Necessary evils, eh?”
He lit a cigarette, without which no Russian feels complete. It was a Russian brand, the kind with the long cardboard tube that serves as a holder. Malenkov inhaled deeply of the fragrant smoke, and blew it toward the roof with obvious satisfaction.
“I myself have always feared torture,” Alexi continued conversationally. “I knew that I would be unable to resist. In the end, one always talks, yes?”
“Of course you talk,” Beck said tightly. “You answer every damned question they ask. If you don’t know, you make up the answers that you think they want to hear. And finally, when they run out of questions, you tell them everything else I . . . you can think of.”
“Ah, Beck—you are upset. I apologize. I thought it would be perhaps therapeutic, to talk of these things. And Iam frankly curious. Few men survive an abduction by the Mafiya .”
Beck looked out the car window.
“Alexi, we’ve known each other a long time. I even enjoy your company. Sometimes, you’re so
“Ah, Beck Casey! You have injured yourself, my friend?”
Alexi Malenkov, wearing a Russian Army uniform, stood in jackbooted splendor near the open rear door of a Zil sedan. His tone was solicitous, but too much so; his face was split wide with a grin.
“Hello, Alexi. No, just not as flexible as I used to be.” Beck eyed the collar insignia on the crisp uniform. “A General, I see. Last time I saw you, weren’t you a Lieutenant Commander? In the Russian Navy ?”
Alexi looked down at his tunic, and shook his head mock sadly.
“True. And I much preferred the Navy’s taste in fashion. But what is there to be done, my friend? In our business, I have found it valuable to stay flexible.”
He made a gesture, and the blond Russian quickly helped Beck strip off the G-harness. Malenkov watched with polite interest as Beck unzipped the Nomex flight suit, peeling himself out of it like an arthritic snake shedding skin.
“ ‘Iowa State,’ ” Malenkov read aloud, and pursed his lips theatrically. “Perhaps I could lend you something a little more . . . formal, my friend?” He shrugged at Beck’s expression. “No matter, eh? So. Your pilot will stay here; there are accommodations waiting. We have business to do. Come.”
As Beck settled in to the rear of the auto, Malenkov spoke to the driver in Russian.
“Yehat ’k Kremlin,” he said.
Beck automatically translated: To the Kremlin.
The trip from Sheremetyevo to the center of Moscow is no more than twenty miles, but it can take as long as two hours—unless, that is, one is a passenger in a state vehicleequipped with a siren. Cars swerved aside to let them pass, some with alacrity and others with a studied indifference to the show of official impatience.
The back seat of the Zil was spacious. Beck stretched his legs, feeling his muscles threaten mutiny as he did. Outside on the right, they were passing what appeared to be a forest of massive concrete obelisks: concrete antitank hedgehogs arranged as a monument to the counteroffensive that sent Hitler’s supermen reeling more than a half century earlier.
“I have missed you, Beck,” Malenkov said.
“Three years is a long time, Alexi. Director of state security; you’ve done well for yourself.”
“Bah.” Malenkov tried to look humble, and failed utterly. “I have become a bureaucrat—the type of person that as field operatives, we both loved to hate.”
There was an extended silence that threatened to become awkward.
“Your last visit to my country—” Malenkov frowned and shook his head. “Well, it is of no matter now. Necessary evils, eh?”
He lit a cigarette, without which no Russian feels complete. It was a Russian brand, the kind with the long cardboard tube that serves as a holder. Malenkov inhaled deeply of the fragrant smoke, and blew it toward the roof with obvious satisfaction.
“I myself have always feared torture,” Alexi continued conversationally. “I knew that I would be unable to resist. In the end, one always talks, yes?”
“Of course you talk,” Beck said tightly. “You answer every damned question they ask. If you don’t know, you make up the answers that you think they want to hear. And finally, when they run out of questions, you tell them everything else I . . . you can think of.”
“Ah, Beck—you are upset. I apologize. I thought it would be perhaps therapeutic, to talk of these things. And Iam frankly curious. Few men survive an abduction by the Mafiya .”
Beck looked out the car window.
“Alexi, we’ve known each other a long time. I even enjoy your company. Sometimes, you’re so
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