CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Branches and needles crunched underfoot. As soon as he had gone far enough into the woods that he felt sure he couldn’t be seen from the dirt path or caught by the headlights of a departing car from the path, he pulled out a flashlight and a military-issue compass. Holding the flashlight in one hand, he shone the light on the compass dial as he aligned the needle to magnetic north.

There was, of course, no map of the area available, so Roger had instead devised a grid using compass coordinates. Metcalfe knew that Roger would bury the transmitter in the woods here and would indicate its whereabouts by means of a simple system of markers. Sweeping the flashlight’s narrow beam in an arc, he began searching for a dab of red paint on a tree trunk. The woods here were a dense collection of old birches, with peeling bark, and tall, slender pines. Outside the narrow beam of light, everything was dark, almost opaque. The night sky was overcast, a heavy canopy of clouds obscuring the moon. He glanced at his watch. The radium dial read almost two o’clock in the morning. The forest was not entirely silent; forests never were. The occasional gust of wind rustled the birch leaves and caused branches to creak; here and there small animals scurried. Metcalfe walked slowly, keeping his tread light, but there was no disguising his footfalls. At the same time, he remained alert for any sound out of the ordinary, any noise that protruded. Since he was in the vicinity of a dacha that belonged to the American embassy, it was reasonable to assume that the woods would be patrolled with some regularity by the guards directorate of the NKVD. Not in the middle of the night, presumably, but one could never be sure.

Where was the marked tree? It was possible, of course, that

Roger had somehow failed to establish the markers, that he’d been intercepted. A more likely explanation was the inaccuracy of either man’s magnetic compass. Unless the instrument was calibrated with great care, a set of compass coordinates could be off by as much as several hundred feet. The compass was simply not meant to be as precise in a small plot of land as it was over a larger area.

At last he came upon a birch tree with a daub of red paint that had been freshly applied; it was still tacky. This was the outermost boundary marker that Roger had established, the first of a series of three such marked trees that would point toward the site at which he had concealed the bulky radio transmitter. Metcalfe checked the compass reading, recalibrated it, and then set out sixty degrees west until he came to the next red marker.

A crack echoed from a good distance away, perhaps a few hundred feet. He froze, switched off his flashlight, and listened. After a minute he reassured himself that it had been nothing out of the ordinary, nothing human. He turned the torch back on, moved it slowly from left to right until he struck another glistening patch of red paint on a tree trunk twenty-five feet north-northwest.

That was it. The final marker.

Metcalfe and Roger had arranged in advance how the transceiver unit would be concealed. The problem was that Roger could not know, until he’d reached the site, how he’d be able to do it. You never knew until you got there; improvisation was always paramount. Would there be hollow sections of trees? Or some sort of outbuilding, a shed or shack?

The answer had been scrawled in an alphanumeric code, which Roger had carved with a penknife at the base of the third marked tree. Metcalfe found the characters inscribed in small, crude block letters: c/s/n. That told him that the unit was located precisely eight feet due north from the tree. The letter c indicated the third of six possible arrangements: it was buried in ground and concealed with whatever natural objects were at hand. Metcalfe paced out eight feet and immediately spied the large, flat stone, mostly obscured by the underbrush. The casual observer would notice nothing. Metcalfe knelt and brushed away the pine needles, twigs, and dead leaves, then pried loose the rock. Directly underneath it was green canvas, the tarpaulin Roger had wrapped over the small leather suitcase, set into a hollow that he’d obviously dug out earlier in the day. Metcalfe pulled it out with great effort it had been firmly wedged in place and then, after dusting off the dirt and debris, opened the case. He was able to operate in the dark, for he knew the workings of the transceiver well.

Built into the suitcase, which weighed some thirty pounds, was a twelve-volt automobile battery and power supply pack, a headphone and antenna, and then the transceiver itself, a steel box about a foot square with a black wrinkle finish. This was a BP-3, the most sophisticated clandestine communications unit ever built. It had been constructed by a group of Polish refugees working, in complete secrecy, at Letchworth, thirty miles north of London. These Poles, a remarkable assemblage of telecommunications experts who had been trained by the Germans before escaping their country just ahead of the Nazi invasion, were civilian technicians who’d been hired to work for the British secret service. Charged with improving upon the unwieldy old Mark XV transceiver, which was so bulky that it took up two suitcases, they came up with a compact yet powerful two-way communicator constructed of miniaturized components. Its receiver was excellent; it had an output of thirty watts. Its enormous power permitted intercontinental communications. The workmanship was unexcelled. When Corky had handed the suitcase to Metcalfe in a church in Pigalle, in Paris, he had taken no small pleasure in the fact that he’d been able to obtain several of the first advance prototypes even before the British MI-6 had been able to get their hands on them. This makes everything else obsolete,

Corky had crowed. All those other machines are now museum relics. But please, do guard it with your life. You can be replaced, but I’m afraid this device cannot.

The instructions for operating the unit had been pasted under the lid of the black steel box, but Metcalfe had the procedure memorized. He paused for a moment to take in the sounds of the forest. He heard the faint rustle of the trees, a distant call of a nocturnal bird. But nothing else. His knees were now quite damp from the snow, and his legs were beginning to feel numb. This whole arrangement was uncomfortable it would have been far easier if he’d been able to work somewhere indoors, but that was not an option but there was no reason to make it more uncomfortable than necessary. He unfolded the green canvas tarpaulin in which the suitcase had been wrapped and spread it out on the ground. At least he’d be able to sit on a dry spot. He was hardly dressed properly for this errand into the woods: over his evening clothes he wore a black cashmere greatcoat. Not only was his clothing already soiled and torn from making his way through the dense foliage, but his very appearance limited his escape options, if escape ever became necessary. He was clearly a well-dressed foreigner skulking through the forests outside Moscow, which would be immediate cause for suspicion if he was caught; he would be unable to pretend to be, say, a local man, a hunter, a sportsman. He spoke Russian with an accent, but so did many citizens of the Soviet Union who came from any of the far-flung areas, so his accent would not necessarily attract scrutiny. It was the clothes that didn’t fit.

In the back of his mind, Metcalfe began rehearsing a possible cover story, in case one became necessary. He looked like a visiting American, so he would be one. He was a weekend guest at the embassy dacha Lana had said she and von Schiissler were spending the evening there, after all, so it wasn’t implausible and he’d simply gotten lost on a late-night stroll. Or perhaps he was coming from an assignation in the woods, he would say. There was a woman a married woman, the wife of an embassy attache. They wanted privacy, so they’d gone into the woods, and she’d already returned to the dacha.. .. His fevered mind spun version after version, trying each one out for the soundness of logic.

And simultaneously he worked at the urgent task at hand. From his front pants pocket he took a small black oblong with two prongs at one end: the crystal, which had been cleverly concealed in his suitcase back at the hotel room so that it appeared to be part of the locking mechanism. This crystal contained the encoded frequencies on which he would transmit and receive. It was dangerous to keep together with the radio unit, for if the suitcase had been discovered, the operational security would have been seriously compromised. You did not keep the key and the lock in the same place. He plugged the crystal into the Q socket on the lower part of the unit, then plugged in the headset and put it on.

Now he switched on the flashlight and set it down so that it illuminated the immediate area. He would have to work fast: he was sitting in an island of bright light in the middle of a black forest; he could now be seen for hundreds of yards or more. And if he was to be spotted, the circumstances could not be more incriminating. Arrest would be swift, execution in the basement of the Lubyanka a certainty.

He drew out from his breast pocket a pack of Lucky Strikes and a fountain pen. In the cigarette pack were concealed several small sheets of paper; he took one out. It was a one-time-pad sheet printed on a piece of nit rated rice paper so that it would catch fire instantly; it could also be dissolved in hot water, even swallowed if need be. He unscrewed the body of the fountain pen, in which was tightly furled a silk handkerchief measuring nine by four inches. He flung it open, pressed it flat against the canvas tarp. The entire silk square was covered with tiny groups of letters arranged in a grid.

These two items the rice-paper one-time pad and the silk key taken together made up the most sophisticated encryption system that had ever been developed. Known as the Vigenere table, it had recently been developed in London by Churchill’s Special Operations Executive for use by agents in the field. The British were far ahead of the Americans in matters of codes and ciphers, Corky had often complained, because they took the necessity of espionage much more seriously. The genius of this system was that it was not only foolproof and fairly easy to use, but it was also unbreakable, even by the most powerful code-breaking machines. Each letter of the English alphabet was replaced by any of the other letters in a wholly random series. No pattern to the code could ever be discerned; the crypto gram could never be solved by the enemy even if the transmission was intercepted. Each key was used only once and then destroyed; the only duplicate was kept at the home station, and no key was the same. Formally this poly alphabetic substitution cipher was known as the “infinite incoherent key.” Corky often called it the ultimate weapon.

Metcalfe turned on the power, then set the switch to Tune. He depressed a key, turned a knob marked with an arrow until a neon tube lit up. Moving another knob to Transmit, he selected the position that most brightly lit up the tuning bulb, indicating the frequency with the strongest signal. Now the transmitter was ready to operate.

He had composed and encrypted his message in advance, of course. It was an urgent message for Corky informing him of what had happened in Moscow, of the existence of the GRU “minder,” Kundrov, who had been assigned to Svetlana, and asking for background on the man. Metcalfe also relayed to Corky the alarming degree of surveillance that had been placed on him, particularly the quality of the talent. He raised the question of whether his cover had somehow been blown. Finally, he wanted to give Corky his immediate assessment of von Schussler, which echoed Amos Hilliard’s the German was no prospect for recruitment. But everything had to be abridged, condensed to the shortest possible format, using standard and other agreed-upon abbreviations. Printed on the silk master key was, in addition to the alphanumeric substitution grid, a series of code groups that represented commonly used phrases that might be employed by an agent in the field: “have arrived safely,” say, or “safe house located.” Further, Corky had issued another set of hyperabbrev-ia ted letter groups that stood for complex thoughts or long expressions.

Moreover, Metcalfe had to communicate not by voice but by Morse code. There was no choice. It wasn’t simply a matter of the security of transmission, although that was certainly a factor. But more important was the fact that voice signals simply could not be transmitted more than a few hundred miles; such was the technology. Continuous-wave broadcasts meaning Morse code signals traveled five times farther.

Moving the lantern close, he read over the scrap of paper he’d slipped into the empty Lucky Strikes pack. The long series of letter groupings would look like gibberish to the casual observer, but it was not the casual observer he was concerned about. Skilled agents, such as Lana’s minder or the blond NKVD man, would know immediately it was a code of some sort, even if they could never decrypt it. This slip of paper, along with the onetime pads and the silk key, were extraordinarily dangerous pieces of evidence if ever he was searched.

Move it, he told himself. You’re sitting here in a goddamned pool of light in a dark forest outside of Moscow. Every minute that ticks by adds to the risk of discovery.

He began tapping the telegraph key, which was located at the bottom right corner of the transceiver’s face. It was slow work: he was out of practice, not having had to operate a field radio in Paris, and the poor illumination made things still more difficult. Still, he managed to complete the transmission in little over a minute. It was addressed to home station 23-C, which automatically flagged Corcoran. The decoded message would be dispatched to him at once through secure channels. As soon as Metcalfe heard the code signaling receipt and acknowledgment, he removed his headset and switched off the transceiver.

He moved quickly now, extinguishing the light, disassembling the machine, and removing the crystal, then closing its case and rewrapping it in its canvas tarpaulin. He placed the bundle back into the hole, replaced the flat rock over it, and then, as thoroughly as he could, swept the detritus and organic matter from the forest floor in a pattern that looked undisturbed.

He heard the crack of a branch.

He froze, listened. He had no doubt that it was anything more than a chipmunk or squirrel, but still, it was always better to observe precautions.

Another crack, followed by the crunch of underbrush. And again.

It was not an animal. It was a human being. Someone was walking with difficulty through the dense forest, the labored steps seeming to come closer.

Now he was sure of it. There was no mistake.

Someone was approaching.

Metcalfe moved, as silently as he could, a few steps to his left until he was mostly shielded behind a pine tree. His heart was racing. He was standing just a few feet away from the transmitter, which he had just buried. But he could not be sure that he hadn’t been observed placing the machine in the ground. How long, he tried to think, had his flashlight been on? Had that drawn the attention of whomever it was coming this way?

He realized, too, that if he was discovered here, it was likely that the transmitter would be discovered soon after; they would wonder what he was doing here, and a search would be conducted.

He had to run; he could not risk being found out. Not only was he standing a few feet away from a sophisticated piece of spy equipment, whose warm tubes would indicate recent use, but he had on his person other incriminating pieces of evidence.

There was the silk handkerchief printed with the cryptographic key, which he’d wadded up and stuffed into his jacket pocket; there was, too, the cigarette pack that held the rice-paper onetime pads. There was the transceiver crystal. All were unmistakable proof that he was a spy. If I’m caught, I’m a goner for sure.

Should he toss them, drop them to the ground, simply get rid of them? And then what? As soon as he took off running, he would be followed, and whatever he had dropped on the ground was likely to be found. Dropping them as he ran might just call attention to them. And the fact was, he didn’t want to lose this vital equipment. The crystal was irreplaceable. Without it, he could no longer transmit to the home station. Without the onetime pads and the silk key, he’d be unable to encrypt his messages. He would be isolated in Moscow without a means of contacting Corcoran.

It was clear that he had no choice. He had to run but as soon as he did, a pursuit would begin. For a moment he was frozen in indecision, running through his options, considering what made the most sense. He peered into the gloomy night, trying to see who it was who was approaching. That damned NKVD agent, the blond man with the pale eyes who seemed to find him no matter where he went? Or the GRU lieutenant, Kundrov, Lana’s minder?

No. It was neither of those men. Now he could just make out, in the dim light, the approaching figure. He appeared at first to be a military man, in a loden overcoat and field cap. Then Metcalfe realized that the man was from the NKVD. He could see the epaulets, the insignia on the cap. Definitely from the Soviet security service, presumably from the NKVD’s guards directorate, a separate department within the service whose officers were charged with protecting the nation’s borders and secure areas.

A detachment from the NKVD would logically be assigned to patrol the area surrounding the American embassy dacha. The NKVD liked to keep all foreigners, especially Americans, under close surveillance, and a country house required particular attention. The security organs assumed that all diplomats were secretly spies after all, most of the Soviet diplomats assigned abroad were spies, so why shouldn’t every other country work the same way? Thus it was a matter of vital national security that a cordon of guards patrol the area surrounding the embassy property. Too, it was possible that these woods bordered some secure installation the forests around Moscow were dotted with bases and institutes connected with the Red Army or the GRU or the

NKVD.

But he hadn’t expected a patrol at this time of night. And was it possible that there was a single guard? No, that made no sense. They made their circuits in patrols of two or three at the very least. At this time of night, their circuits would likely be infrequent, which was why Metcalfe had seen or heard nothing until now.

But if there was one sentry, there had to be others.

The guard continued to approach. He was barely into his twenties, but that didn’t mean he was inexperienced. He was walking in the dark, without benefit of a torch, indicating that he was trained to circulate in these woods at night and knew the paths, the clearings. The Russian had an automatic advantage over Metcalfe, who did not. Seconds ticked by; Metcalfe could no longer stand here, hidden behind the trunk of a tree. If the guard came any closer, he would notice the interloper.

Suddenly a match was struck! Then, just as quickly, the match was extinguished.

The NKVD sentry had lit a match, but not for the sake of illumination, nor to light a cigarette. It was a signal a signal to others! A rustling came from a good distance away: the tramping of boots against the ground. Metcalfe heard voices now, rapid phrases exchanged, their tone of voice indicating urgency. The other members of his team, summoned by the match strike, were running, crashing through the woods, not bothering to disguise their movements. They were converging on him!

Metcalfe spun around, vaulted through a narrow opening between two trees, scraping against the branches with a noise that was loud but unavoidable. He put on a burst of speed, running as fast as he could manage. He zigzagged from clearing to clearing, trying to look far enough ahead to make out an open path, but the night was too dark, the visibility limited. He could see no more than fifty feet ahead.

Shouts in Russian came from behind, instructions given from senior officer to junior. Though he dared not turn around, he could hear an alteration in the sound pattern that told him the men had split up, each taking a different path, hoping to anticipate any direction their quarry might take and thus intercept him.

No flashlights, though. Perhaps the men had no need of light, since they knew the woods. Or perhaps they didn’t want to delay long enough to get out their torches. Whatever the reason, it was good for Metcalfe: the darkness was the best cover.

He remembered a little of the topography of the land here, though only what he had observed from his brief stroll around the dacha with Lana and on the short, interrupted drive leaving the party. He knew the forest undulated, that there was a valley he had seen it from the backyard of the dacha and his sense of direction told him that he was heading roughly in the direction of the valley. This was confirmed by the gradual downhill pitch of the land.

But how could he hope to outrun a team of experienced guards?

Perhaps he couldn’t. But he would have to try. The alternative was frightening. If they managed to apprehend him and brought him to the Lubyanka, he would be imprisoned and there was absolutely nothing Corky or anyone else in the U.S. government could do for him. An American spy in Soviet Russia would be sentenced to prison, perhaps placed in the prison camps in Siberia the dread gulag he had heard about or, more likely, executed.

Impelled by terror, he ran as he had never run before, weaving through the trees, then into a clearing, veering off in an irregular, jagged pattern that he hoped would confound his pursuers.

Suddenly a shot was fired!

An explosion. A bullet splintered a tree trunk not five feet away. And then another! This shot creased the birch tree barely a foot away. The forest was now filled with loud gunfire, the bullets whizzing by, one of them coming so close to his head that he could feel the gust of wind at his ear. He sprawled abruptly to the ground in order to confuse them, sprang forward on his hands and knees, then scrambled to his feet, running with his head down, moving this way and that in a crazy, jerky pattern. A frightened man always reverts to the predictable, Corky liked to say. The easiest course, the shortest distance between two points. So he would have to violate that natural, predictable course of behavior.

Another volley of shots, several wildly off but one alarmingly close. They seemed to be coming from three very different points; obviously, the men had split up, hoping to converge on him. At least one of the guards had the rare ability to fire with great accuracy even while giving chase. Just up ahead Metcalfe spied a rocky outcropping at the top of a slight rise. He headed toward it, hoping that the boulders and scree might make for temporary cover, obstruction against the gunfire. Bounding ahead, he then leaped into the air, landing painfully on the rocky ledge. He groaned, looked up, saw the gleam of ice in the faint moonlight. He was on the ridge of a deep ravine through which a creek ran, though it appeared now to be frozen, its banks covered with ice and snow.

The drop was a good twenty feet. To jump would be hazardous. But to turn back around would be even riskier, he realized. Another volley of gunfire pitted the ground, pinged against the boulders; the wild inaccuracy told him that he had succeeded in putting some distance between himself and his pursuers, who were now far enough behind that even from their various vantage points, they couldn’t yet draw an accurate bead on him.

Perhaps they couldn’t even see him; that was possible. He grabbed a sizable rock and hurled it as far as he could, back and to the right. It hit the ground with a thud and a loud rustle.

A volley of shots followed immediately, raking the trees and the ground where the rock had hit, indicating that his tactical diversion had been effective.

Then, without allowing himself to think operating only out of an instinct for self-preservation he leaped into the air, landing with a violent crash on the hard, icy riverbank, his legs tucked into his torso to minimize the impact. The pain jagged through his body as he lost his footing, hurling down the ice-cragged bank toward the river. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he stood at the edge of the frozen creek and tested it with an outstretched foot. It was solid, the ice at least several inches thick. He would be able to cross it. Gingerly he stepped onto the ice, then took another step and immediately broke through, plunging into the semi frozen stream all the way up to his knees. He gasped. The water was extraordinarily cold, so much so that as he struggled along the streambed to climb back upon the icy surface his feet quickly became numb.

Gunfire echoed far behind him, seeming to indicate that the pursuers had been misled, were heading in the wrong direction. All it would take would be for one of them to climb to the ridge overlooking the stream and he would be spotted.

The frozen surface of the stream here was thin, breaking as he moved forward through the amazingly cold water. Just as he had almost reached the other bank, his right foot, which by now felt like an inanimate object, caught in something and he tumbled forward, landing facedown on the icy, craggy bank. Now his clothes were entirely soaked in the frigid water; he shivered as he tried to get up. His feet, which had lost all feeling, would not cooperate. They were deadweight, lacking in any mobility. Looking to one side he saw, twenty-five feet ahead or so, a pile of ice-glazed dead branches and leaves on the steep incline that led up from the riverbank, which appeared to have been blown down in a storm. Metcalfe crawled along the ground until he reached the pile, and then, with what felt like the last ounce of strength remaining in his body, he dived forward into it. The brittle branches gave way easily; he sank deep into it, buried in the detritus. His legs were buckling, trembling; he could not go on. He needed to rest. If he tried to keep running now, he would quickly be caught. He no longer had the endurance; his reaction time had slowed. Reaching up, he grabbed wildly at the dead leaves and branches and snow-covered loam, arranging them over himself so that he was well concealed.

Barely a minute or two later he heard running footsteps, the crescendo of shouts coming closer. Metcalfe could not tell where exactly they were coming from: the patrol squad could be on the ridge above, or they could have climbed down into the ravine, in which case they would see the broken ice on the frozen surface of the stream. That would point the way to where he lay hiding. Where he lay shivering, in truth, his body shuddering violently.

Then came a shout. How far away he could not tell. “He’s over there I see him!” It seemed to be the youngest of the group, the one who had first seen him in the forest. He was a country boy, a hick; his peasant speech betrayed him.

“What are you talking about?”

“There! Vasya, you simpleton, over there!”

“The rifle, idiot! Not the revolver!”

Had they spotted him, his greatcoat showing through the twigs? He cringed, braced himself. What could he do? If they were wrong and they were aiming in the wrong direction, the worst thing he could do would be to move from his blind, thereby attracting their attention. But if they weren’t wrong if one of them had indeed spotted him and was preparing to fire his rifle then he was as good as dead. One well-aimed rifle shot to the head was all it would take.

“Okay,” the young voice said.

Metcalfe was not a religious man, but he found himself praying to God that they were too far off to make an accurate shot. He squeezed his eyes shut, let his mind go blank. His heart raced.

And the shot exploded, echoing in the forest.

Nothing hit him or near him. Wherever the shot had been aimed, he didn’t hear the impact. It must have been in another direction.

“You missed.” An older voice.

“I saw it!” The younger man spoke. “I could see the shape, the outline. It was clear!”

“Idiot!” roared one of the older men. “That was a deer!” ,

“It was no deer!”

Another voice, the third member of the squad: “Artyem is right. That was a deer. Actually, I think it was a stag. But you missed.”

“I know what a stag looks like!” the youngest one protested. “I hunted all the time when I was a boy.”

“You’re still a boy, and you just shot at a stag, and missed,” one of the older ones said.

“Well, okay, maybe that was a deer,” the young man conceded, “but I’m sure I saw a man. I know the difference between a man and a deer.” His protests were met by jeers from the others.

It was clear from the young soldier’s shakily defiant voice and the gibes of his comrades that the patrol was no longer convinced there had ever been a man fleeing through the woods.

“You enjoy your little hunting expedition, Sasha? After you dragged us twenty kilometers through this goddamned forest? I say enough sport for the evening. It’s cold, and our shift is just about up.”

“It’s cold,” another of the guards seconded. “The Order of Stalin is awarded to young Comrade Shubentsov for his brave attempt to track down and liquidate the counterrevolutionary stag, despite the resistance of its kulak supporters. Now, let’s go.”

For a long time at least half an hour, though he lost track of time Metcalfe remained buried beneath the twigs and leaves and snow before he dared to extract himself. He listened as the NKVD guards departed, talking noisily. Their gibes and jeers directed at the younger one, who had first spotted Metcalfe, were unceasing. It was likely that the young patrolman had indeed seen a stag and had taken a shot at it, which was a lucky break for Metcalfe. A stag had been running through the forest, not a fleeing man, they had come to believe. The sharp-eyed youngest member of the patrol, who had indeed seen Metcalfe, though only in silhouette and at a great distance, was no longer believed. Still, Metcalfe waited until he was sure that none of the patrolmen had remained behind. If another shift had taken their place, he heard no sign of it.

Meanwhile, though his limbs had grown stiff and uncomfortable, some feeling had returned to his feet. The brief respite had done him good. With considerable effort he managed to rise, shaking off the ice and snow and dead leaves. He was chilled and exhausted, but it was imperative that he get out of here. Fortunately, the night sky had cleared somewhat. Now there was some moonlight, which enabled him to orient himself. With the help of the compass and flashlight, he made his way through the forest toward the dacha, all the time alert for the sounds of a patrol. He would have to improvise a way to get back to Moscow, and the dacha was by far the most likely place to do that. There would be vehicles, which he could steal if he needed to; there would be guests to prevail upon for a lift back to the city. His reputation as a carousing partygoer would be useful in explaining away his shocking disheveled appearance: he had gone off with a girl, he could say sheepishly; he’d had way too much to drink, fallen down, passed out… A cover story could be devised and might well be believed. Certainly if the ambassador’s wife was there, as she likely was since they had weekend guests, she’d be inclined to believe the most outlandish tales about him. She’d seen him leave, true, but it wouldn’t surprise her to learn that he’d met up with a woman along the way.. ..

But then, as he neared the dacha, he came upon the stable he’d seen from the veranda. Here the embassy kept horses. And here he could sleep for the remainder of the night, no questions asked. He entered the barn quietly, trying not to wake the animals inside.

But he heard the grunts and nickers of the horses as he came in. A kerosene lantern had been left burning, presumably for the sake of the horses. It gave off a flickering yellow light. There were ten stalls but just three horses: magnificent Arabians, two black, one chestnut. One of them whinnied. These were beautiful but high-strung animals, and if he did not calm them, they would become distressed and perhaps awaken the sleeping guests in the nearby house.

One by one the horses began lifting and arching their necks, making soft, blowing sounds through their noses. Their ears were pricked up now, swiveling backward, listening. Metcalfe approached the first one he came to, not from behind, which would alarm him, but at an oblique angle at the rear. He spoke softly and calmly. The horse made a low, grunting noise as he began patting and stroking the animal’s neck and withers, his sleek flanks; in a few minutes, the horse began to relax. His ears lolled to the front, and his lower lip drooped. The others began to calm down as well. Their breathing became regular, almost inaudible.

Bedding down on a bale of hay near the warmth radiating from the kerosene lantern, Metcalfe fell asleep. Sleep, badly needed, came quickly; it was deep, his dreams strange and fragmented.

A shaft of bright sunlight awakened him. It was early morning, and although he could have slept for hours more, he knew he had to get moving. He ached all over, the uncomfortable bed of straw exacerbating the bruises and sprains he had suffered during his flight through the forest. He was covered in dusty straw. He sat up, brushing the straw from his face, then rubbing his tired eyes.

There was a sudden groan of rusty hinges, and the stable was flooded with light. The.door came open. Metcalfe jumped up, leaped into an empty stall, flattening himself against the wall. The Arabians whinnied softly, the sounds not of alarm but of greeting. They seemed to recognize whoever was entering.

Metcalfe did, too.

Dressed in riding clothes, a kerchief over her head: it was Lana.