you. Two, the treaty accords these people what amounts to diplomatic status. Their quarters, work area and papers are sacrosanct. And while they’re expected to abide by the host-country laws, they enjoy a high degree of immunity.”
“Right.”
The two men’s eyes locked. They both knew the Russians were charged with the collateral mission of gathering intelligence on U.S. systems.
“Previous team members have been observed dropping pencils or pens at missile sites,” Yarboro commented. “When they bend down to retrieve the fallen article, they scoop up a soil sample for later analysis. And many pretend they can’t speak English, in hopes of overhearing chance conversations, although their biographies clearly indicate a facility with the language.”
“I know the major is fluent in English,” Dodge commented. “The others with her not so much.”
“Captain Tyschenko can get by,” Yaroboro confirmed. “Aleksei Bugarin speaks German and French, as well as some English. But be particularly careful what you say to him. He’s FSB.”
FSB—Federal Security Service—Russia’s modern-day successor to the KGB. If half of what Dodge had read about KGB tactics held even a grain of truth, they’d been one bad bunch of boys and girls. FSB was proving itself worse.
“Bugarin’s job is to keep a close eye on the other members of the team and report immediately any suspicious activity,” Yarboro stated succinctly. “Your job is to do the same.”
To Dodge’s surprise, the colonel unbent enough to give a flinty smile.
“I’m as familiar with your background, Hamilton, as I am with Major Petrovna’s. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble handling the team.”
Dodge didn’t think so, either. Right up until the jet carrying the team taxied up to the air-national-guard side of the Cheynne airport late that afternoon.
He was waiting inside the terminal with the two other members of the escort team. Lieutenant Benjamin Tate was an earnest young officer, proud of both his shiny missileer badge and his African-American heritage. Senior Master Sergeant Lewis sported a shock of red hair, five rows of ribbons on his uniform jacket and a sleeve full of stripes. Given his years of experience, he’d been assigned to escort Aleksei Bugarin, the FSB officer. Dodge kept an eye on the passengers exiting the craft and ran through a final list of dos and don’ts.
“Remember, we’re not supposed to get too friendly with these guys. Don’t let them take any pictures without prior approval. Don’t exchange gifts, except small trinkets like coffee mugs or unit patches, and be sure to run any trinket the Russians offer you by the Office of Special Investigations to have it checked for bugs. And don’t make any physical contact, except to prevent serious injury.”
“Roger that,” Sergeant Lewis acknowledged.
“There they are,” the lieutenant murmured.
Dodge had no difficulty identifying Major Petrovna when she appeared. The treaty required inspec tion personnel to wear civilian clothes while visiting a host country, but even in her badly cut navy suit, she was striking. She wore her silver-blond hair pulled back in a high twist that emphasized her sculpted cheekbones. A decidedly aristocratic nose gave her an elegant air, at odds with that lush, sensual mouth.
When she got closer, Dodge saw that her eyes were blue, as her bio had indicated. A deep purplish-blue, almost the same color as the monkshood that blanketed the high valleys in spring—also known as wolfsbane, women’s bane, the Devil’s helmet and the blue rocket, Dodge reminded himself wryly. Highly toxic if the roots were ingested. Something he’d best remember.
Those intense blue eyes flicked over him, taking in his height, stance and uniform in a quick, assessing glance before moving to the two men with him. As she approached, Dodge spotted the puckered skin on the left side of her neck and lower jaw. Not even that spiderweb tracery of scars could detract from the overall package.
The look she gave him as he extended his hand was another story. It went past cool and hovered somewhere around icy.
“Welcome to Cheyenne, Major Petrovna. I’m Dodge Hamilton.”
She gave his hand a brisk shake, after which they took turns introducing the others. Then she got right to the point in heavily accented English.
“My team requires transportation to their quarters. You will arrange it, then escort me to call upon Colonel Yarboro so I may present my credentials.”
Although the clipped instructions coincided exactly with Dodge’s intentions, that imperious “will” had him lifting a brow. The lady was obviously used to being in charge.
“Lieutenant Tate and Sergeant Lewis will help your folks with the baggage and drive them to their quarters,” he replied. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you directly to the wing headquarters.”
Leading the way, he escorted his charge out of the terminal to the blue air-force sedan parked at the curb and opened the passenger-side door. Petrovna slid into her seat without so much as a nod or word of thanks.
If the grueling flight from Moscow and nine-hour time differential had sapped the major’s energy, she didn’t allow it to show. Sitting ramrod straight in the passenger seat, she answered Dodge’s polite question about her flight in curt monosyllables, and displayed no trace of weariness during the fifteen-minute drive from the airport.
Her blue eyes absorbed Cheyenne’s rolling landscape, then locked on the tall, white missiles standing sentry at the base’s front gate. When the gate guard had waved them through and the white-trimmed brick buildings of the old fort appeared, Dodge made another attempt to break the ice.
“The base started life as a cavalry post. It’s part of our wild-and-woolly Western heritage.”
“I know this,” Petrovna replied repressively. “I haf been …” She stopped, corrected herself. “I have been here before, on an inspection team under the old treaty.”
So much for that conversational gambit. Flicking the directional signal, Dodge turned into the parking lot beside the two-story brick building that housed the headquarters of the 90th Space Wing. Once parked, he reached behind him for a fat envelope.
“This contains your identification badge, a base directory and a paper copy of the slides that will be presented at the in-brief tomorrow.”
He passed over the package. The major accepted it without comment.
“You should wear the badge whenever you’re on base.”
With a look that said she was perfectly aware of the protocol, Petrovna clipped the plastic identifier to the lapel of her navy suit jacket and didn’t wait for Dodge to come around and open her door.
Her low-heeled black pumps beat a precise tattoo on the sidewalk as she led the way to the headquarters’ front entrance. Sturdy outer wooden doors opened into a glassed-in foyer, designed to break the force of Wyoming’s constant winds. Once inside the foyer, security forces checked their badges and handheld articles before waving them through.
Some kind of high-powered meeting had just broken up, Dodge saw. A small crowd of civilians in expensive-looking suits and power ties were just filing past the security checkpoint. The badges dangling from their suit pockets identified them
