He felt hopelessly lost.

The Wolf was clever. Very, very clever.

He smashed his fist into the snow. Hewanted to scream but closed his eyes instead, opened them again, blinkedseveral times.

Whichever way he looked at it, he wasdead.

By releasing Anna Khorev he was signinghis own death warrant. Perhaps Nadia's also.

How could he explain to Beria? How?

The man would never listen.

There had to be a way out of this-had tobe. He just couldn't see it.

How had Stanski known where he lived? Howhad he known about him taking the woman out of the Lubyanka that morning?

Stanski had to have help in Moscow. Andthe man was far more capable than he ever imagined.

Lukin drew a deep breath, let it out sharply.He tried to think furiously but his head felt like a block of ice. Notresponding.

Think.

Think.

He forced himself to think hard, untilthe action was like an ache in the top of his skull. A wind raged across thehill. The icy chill gouged at his eyes, but his mind was racing now, as a planstarted to form in his head.

It was dangerous, very dangerous, but itwas his only hope. If it went wrong, he and Nadia were dead. They were deadanyway if he released the woman. This way they stood some chance. He had torisk it. He checked his watch. Four P.m. He had enough time to do what heneeded to do before taking Anna Khorev from the Lubyanka to the convent.

He turned and started to race back downthe hill.

Austria.

The hilly streets of the old wine town ofGrinzing in the Vienna woods were busy that Sunday afternoon, the cozyrestaurants and taverns crammed with off-duty Allied occupation troops andViennese couples enjoying their first spring weekend.

Gratchev stepped off the number 38 tramand crossed the street. The snow lay thin on the ground but the air was crispand dry and he walked for several minutes until he reached the tavem near theend of the town. When he was satisfied he hadn't been followed, he steppedinside.

The place was crowded and there was athree-man ensemble with accordions and zither playing lively Austrian folkmusic as they moved through the noisy tavern. Gratchev made a face. He hatedthat sort of fucking music and the sound did nothing to improve his mood.

He recognized the handsome, dark-hairedwoman seated alone in a wooden booth. It had been a year since they had lastmet and her slim, firm body still brought out an urge in him. She smiled whenshe saw him but Gratchev didn't smile back.

He crossed over and eased his bulk intothe seat opposite. He was short and stockily built with bushy eyebrows and,like most men used to a lifetime of wearing a military uniform, he wore hiscivilian clothes uncomfortably.

The woman said, "It's good to seeyou, Volya."

Gratchev looked at her and grunted."I wish I could say the same."

"What's it to be? Vodka?"

"These days I prefer Americanbourbon. Ice and water."

The woman called the waiter and orderedtheir drinks. When the waiter had gone she lit a cigarette and offered hercompanion one.

Gratchev accepted the cigarette."What made you pick this place?"

The woman smiled. "Everybody's toobusy getting drunk to pay any attention to two old friends tawng. Besides, yourpeople watch the city."

"True enough. So what's thisabout?"

The waiter returned with their drinks andas the woman lit his cigarette she looked at her companion's face. It was alivedin face. Deep lines like scars on his jaws and forehead and the narrowSlavic eyes that were dark and unpredictable. A Russian face, no question. Deepand brooding, but with a touch of humor, wrinkles at the corners of the man'smouth from smiling. But he wasn't smiling now.

She said, "You got my message?"

"Would I be here if I hadn't?"He looked at his watch dismissively. "I presume you didn't come to talkpleasantries, Eva. I'm supposed to be at an opera matinee. It finishes at fiveand I've got to be back at the base by six. I had to tell my driver I wasseeing a certain lady acquaintance. It cost me a bottle of vodka to keep hismouth shut. And even that's compromising. So tell me why you're here."

The woman leaned forward. "I have afavor to ask, Volya."

"I guessed as much." TheRussian put down his bourbon almost angrily. "When will you Jews everleave me in peace?"

"Mossad has asked very little ofyou, Volya. But if you do this one thing we wipe the slate clean and we nevercontact you again. Ever."

Gratchev's eyebrows rose. "That's apromise?"

"You have my word."

Gratchev sighed. "Then it must beimportant. Tell me what it is you want. More of your friends flown toVienna?"

The woman glanced around the room. Thetavem buzzed with conversation and music as the three musicians wandered fromtable to table. No one was paying her and her companion the slightestattention. She looked back at the Russian.

"Not this time. We need to get a maninto Moscow secretly, and back if necessary. We need you to do it and providehim with the necessary travel papers."

Gratchev's eyes opened wide."Moscow? Impossible."

"Hardly. You're a colonel in theSoviet Air Force. Such a thing would not be beyond possibility."

"I may be a colonel, but what you'reasking is dangerous and impractical. Who is this man?"

"One of our people."

"Mossad?"

"Yes. And we need it donetonight."

The Russian blinked, then sat back andlaughed. "My darting Eva, you need to cool that pretty head of yours. It'sbeen frying too long in the Middle East sun."

"I'm not joking, Volya."

The Russian nervously fingered his glass."Then you're crazy."

The woman hesitated. "If you don'tagree to help, your file will be handed over to the Soviet Embassy in Tel Avivtonight."

Gratchev's face turned red and heclutched his glass so hard the woman thought it would shatter.

"You little bitch! To think I onceloved you."

"Temper, Volya. I'm only amessenger."

The three men with the accordions andzither wandered over to the table, playing with beaming smiles on their faces.

Gratchev looked at them icily and said,"Why don't you fuck off and bother someone else?"

The grins changed into a shared look ofaffront, and the musicians moved on.

The woman laughed. "I see youhaven't lost your charm and diplomacy."

Gratchev snorted. "Remember howthose Kraut bastards used to play the same music near the front lines? It stilldrives me crazy."

The look of anger disappeared fromGratchev's face. His mind flashed back almost ten years. A captain, he had beenshot down over southern Poland in '43 and captured by the Germans. For fourdays and nights he had been frightened and in solitary confinement, while theGestapo had interrogated him in the local police barracks and in the processalmost beaten him to death. On the fifth day a group of partisans attacked thebarracks to rescue one of their comrades.

Jews, mostly, who had escaped the Warsawuprising, they showed no mercy to the captured Gestapo, executing them on thespot. Eva Bronski was in command. She had asked Gratchev if he wanted to jointhem, and he, was grateful for the reprieve, had no difficulty saying yes. Theybattled the Germans together for over a year, and he had loved her for hercourage and beauty like he had loved no other woman, not even his wife.

When the Russians had eventually pushedsouth and overrun the German lines, she took Gratchev to the district Red Armycommissar and explained that he had been shot down over partisan territory. Shetold the commissar that Gratchev had helped lead and organize the partisans,and the way she told it he had been a hero, the bravest man she had ever known.She made no mention of his capture and interrogation by the Gestapo, for thatcould have cost him a prison sentence, his rank, and maybe even his life.