The second Ukrainian crouched in thebushes in the front garden and cocked his ears. He had definitely heardsomething. What, he wasn't sure.

Voices? Or the wind in the trees? Heshifted his bulk and raised himself slightly. He laid the Kalashnikov besidehim on the ground and rubbed his legs to get the circulation going.

What the fuck was going on? The Americanshould have come out by now.

He checked his watch.

The luminous hands read a quarter tomidnight. He'd give it another couple of minutes, then he'd move toward thehouse.

In the meantime, anyone who came out of thedoor was dead, no question.

Odd, but the situation gave him a strangesense of exhilaration. It was just like the old days, stalking Red partisans inthe Caucasus. All that was missing was his SS uniform and a decent German MP40machine-pistol.

He smiled, picked up his weapon, squattedagain, and waited.

"Turn on the flashlight."

Irena flicked it on - and Stanski stoodthere looking down at Massey. "Looks like maybe you were right about thenumbers, Jake. But now you're one down. Tell me about the man out front.

When Massey didn't reply, Stanski put theTokarev to his head. "Tell me, or I might be tempted,"

"His name's Boris Koval. A formerUkrainian SS captain."

"is he good?"

Massey nodded.

"How good?"

"One of the best we trained. Notthat he needed much training. He was good before we started."

"Weapons?" Massey fell silent.Stanski said, "Either you can tell me, or I shove You out the front doorand we learn the hard way."

"A Kalashnikov."

Stanski gave a low whistle. "Then Iguess we're in trouble."

He turned to Irena and Anna. "We'regoing out the back way.

Massey too. When I give the word you pileinto the back of the car and keep your heads down. Leave the rest to me."

As Anna stood, Massey looked up at her.Their eyes met for a moment and he saw the look on her- face, all trust betweenthem destroyed.

He went to speak, to explain, but alreadyshe was gone, moving toward the door, lrena walking shakily behind her-.

Then Stanski dragged Massey to his feetand pushed him after them.

Pasha checked the street map as Lukindrove.

Lukin said, "How much farther?"

"Take the next left and we'rethere."

"You said that a minute ago."

"These streets all look the fuckingsame in the snow."

Lukin swung right and they entered along, wide, tree-lined road with dachas on either side. He halted at thejunction where the two roads met. The homes looked dark and deserted.

Pasha grabbed a machine-pistol from theback seat and laid it ready on his lap.

"So what's the drill?"

Lukin doused the lights. Only the moon onthe snow ahead provided light, and the road looked eerily quiet.

"I wish I knew."

"Damn it, Yuri ... Romulka will behere in no time!"

"I need to talk to Stanski."

"Then I hope he listens, because ifnot you're dead."

"I'm going in alone. I want you towait outside."

"What are you going to do? Knock onthe door and say you've come by for a visit'? Stanski's going to blow your headoff as quick as look at you. There has to be another way."

"There isn't time to think ofone."

Suddenly in the rearview mirror Lukin sawa blaze of headlights sweep into view behind them at the far end of the road.

Pasha looked back and said, "Thebastards are here already looks like we've got the right place."

Lukin watched the headlights movingtoward them and said, "You think you could hold them off a littlelonger?" :"You mean fire on Romulka?"

"In the darkness they're not goingto know what the hell's going on or who's shooting. Just blow the tires,that'll slow them, then meet me at the dacha."

:"Presuming you're still alive. OK,let's do it."

"Be careful," Lukin said.

Pasha slipped from the car anddisappeared around the corner clutching the machine-pistol.

The Frenchman, Lebel, still lay slumpedon the back seat.

Lukin slipped into gear and swung the BMWinto the street. He counted off the numbers as he drove, and then he saw thedacha.

The lights were out. He drove on anotherfifty meters to the next dacha on the same side of the street. The place lookeddeserted, the driveway empty, all the lights out and the windows shuttered forthe winter. He slowed, then backed up quickly into the driveway. As he went tostep out of the car Lebel moaned and seemed to come to drowsily, then his headlisted to one side and he was gone again.

Lukin unlocked the Frenchman's handcuffsand shackled one to the grip on the back door and stepped out of the car.

What exactly he was going to do he stilldidn't know. But whatever it was he had to do it fast. Any second now Romulkawould come tearing around the corner and Pasha would start firing. If Stanskiwas inside he'd hear the shooting and that wasn't going to help.

The file Pasha had stolen was tucked intoLukin's tunic.

He lifted the flap on his holster,released the safety on his Pistol, but left the weapon in the holster. Hedidn't intend to use it but he wasn't taking a chance.

He went around quickly to the back of thecar and unlocked the trunk. He fumbled among the tools and the spare wheeluntil he found an oily rag. The remnant of a white shirt, it was covered ingrease and oil stains. He found the jack and tied the white rag on the end.

It was a crude flag of peace but it wouldhave to do for what he had in mind. It was ridiculous when he thought of it. Hewas going to knock on the front door, call out to Stanski and hope he got acooperative response. It was risky, inviting almost certain death, but he couldthink of nothing else to do.

He moved quickly, closing the trunkagain.

Suddenly he heard a blaze of gunfirefollowed by a screech Of tires from the far end of the street.

The noise seemed to fill the air and asplit second later came another volley of shots, and then the night seemed toexplode with chattering weapons.

Pasha had opened up on Romulka's convoyand by the sound of it Romulka and his men were firing back.

Sweat Pumping from every pore, Lukinswore and ran toward the dacha.

The Ukrainian smelled trouble. He didn'tlike it. Didn't like it one little bit.

It had been half an hour since theAmerican had left and there was still no sign of him.

What was going on? Was he dead? Or stillstalking his quarry inside the house?

The Ukrainian was a man of infinitepatience and could have waited in the freezing garden all night, but this timehe was reacting to instinct.

And instinct told him there was trouble.

Moments ago a car had driven up on thestreet outside. He had tensed, every muscle in his body suddenly alert andready for action. He peered into the street through the bushes and saw a GermanBMW drive slowly past, snow-chains crunching over the packed surface.

Odd that, a BMW. Its dark paintworkgleamed in the watery moonlight. A beautiful car. He couldn't make out thedriver's face but the figure was definitely looking toward the dacha, and therelooked to be another figure in the back.

What the fuck was going on?

He had readied himself to fire but thecar had driven on past. He heard the vehicle turn into a driveway farther onand the engine die. He waited, heard a car door opening, then another, thesounds loud in the darkness, but heard nothing more.

The dachas were all deserted and heguessed only used on weekends. Perhaps one of the owners had decided to driveout of Moscow and spend the night? Maybe the man had a woman with him in theback of the car? He had barely glimpsed the figure in the back and he wasn'tsure if it was a woman.