slow news day. On the front page of the Times there was a brief Department of Defense press release. It concerned the joint U.S.-Russian investigation team being sent to the crash site of the polar mystery plane, complete with its departure time from Seattle, its route, and means of travel.
The news story was entirely appropriate for the mission cover; the information given out, routine. A failure to advise the media of the operation could have aroused suspicion in its own right.
But to Smith it was a shout into the darkness, and there was no way of knowing who might overhear.
In her hotel room, Randi Russell sank down on the edge of the bed. Aimlessly running her hand over the golden-toned coverlet, her thoughts jumbled between the past and future.
Damn it, she was a good pilot, or at least a fair one, but she didn't have near the hours needed to consider herself a competent arctic bush aviator. But that was always a problem with the Agency. Admit you knew how to fix a leaky faucet, and the assumption would be that you knew how to manage a flood control project.
The compounding half of the equation was, of course, the personal pride that always choked off the words "No, I can't do this."
Most particularly she couldn't bring herself to say those words to Jon Smith.
What curse chained her to that man?
She would always remember the worst fight she'd ever had with her older sister, the cold fury she had felt when Sophia had appeared with Smith's engagement ring on her finger, and the searing words of betrayal she had rained upon Sophie before stalking out of her apartment.
The worst had been that Sophie had refused to fight back. "Jon's sorry for what he's done to you, Randi," she'd said, smiling that wise, rather sad, big sister's smile of hers, "more sorry than you can ever know, or at least be willing to understand."
Randi would never understand, not now.
She was starting to unzip one suede boot when a soft knock sounded at the door. Tugging the zip up again, Randi crossed to the room's entryway, carefully checking the door's security peephole.
A pair of level, narrowed gray eyes looked back.
Randi went through the motions of clearing the dead bolt and the security chain and removing the wet molded tissue wedge from the foot of the door. "Is anything wrong, Professor?" she asked, opening it.
"I'm not sure," Valentina Metrace replied, her voice cool. "That's what I'm here to find out. We need to talk, Miss Russell, specifically, about you."
A little startled, Randi stepped back, and the historian brushed past her into the room. "Are we secure here?" she asked bruskly.
"I've scanned for bugs," Randi replied, closing and relocking. "We're clean."
"Good. We can get down to it, then." Valentina paced into the middle of the room, her arms crossed. Abruptly she turned to face Randi. "What the hell is wrong between you and Smith?"
In her casual amiability over the dinner table, Professor Metrace had not seemed quite such a formidable personality. But in attack mode now, her eyes were steel, and Randi was aware that even without heels, the brunette was an inch or two the taller.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Professor," Randi replied stiffly. "There are no problems between Colonel Smith and myself."
"Oh, please, Miss Russell. The atmosphere over that table was so charged it would have registered on a Geiger counter. I've never worked with either you or Smith before, but I gather you must have operated with the colonel in the past. I must also assume that you both must be reasonably competent members of the Club, or you wouldn't be here. But it is also obvious something has gone off between you."
Damn it! And Randi had been priding herself on the way she'd been keeping the lid on. "It's nothing for you to concern yourself about, Professor."
Metrace shook her head impatiently. "Miss Russell. I am a professional at this game. That means I don't work with people I don't trust, and right now I'm not trusting anybody. Before I take another step forward on this operation, I want to know what exactly the bloody hell is going on between my theoretical teammates-in detail!"
Randi could recognize the gambit in play: belligerence, probably feigned, and a sudden slashing assault. Metrace was not merely demanding information. She was probing, testing Randi's reaction.
The CIA operative strove to suppress her instinctive flare of anger. "I suggest that you discuss this matter with Colonel