"Never underestimate the point and the edge, darling." Valentina accepted the knives from Smith. "Blades have killed more people than all of the bombs and bullets ever created, and they continue to do so with undiminished efficiency."
One of the throwing knives vanished up the historian's left sweater sleeve, the other into a boot top. "My little pets are silent, jamproof, and far easier to conceal than a gun. You never have to worry about running out of ammunition, and they can punch through soft body armor that would stop a conventional pistol round cold."
Randi gave her gun belt a final settling tug and cranked over the Crown Victoria's ignition. "I'll stick with a gun, thanks."
"Hopefully we won't need either flavor of ordnance on this job, ladies."
"Hopefully, Jon?" Randi replied, backing the car out of its slot.
"Well, let's call it a nice thought."
The next step was a call to a number he'd committed to memory before leaving Seattle that morning. As they worked their way out of the airport lot Smith keyed his cell phone. A deep voice speaking a mildly accented but excellent English replied, "This is Major Smyslov."
"Good afternoon, Major, this is Colonel Smith. We will be picking you up in front of your hotel in about fifteen minutes. A white Ford sedan, Alaska license, Sierra...Tango...Tango...three...four...seven, one man, two women. Civilian clothes."
"Very good, Colonel, I will be waiting."
Smith flipped the phone shut. This would be his next critical unknown. There had already been a couple of interesting turns in his team's makeup. What would this last member add to the already exotic brew?
Clad in anorak, khaki slacks, and climbing boots, Major Gregori Smyslov stood outside the lobby entrance of the Arctic Inn, his flight bag at his feet and his thoughts paralleling those of Jon Smith.
He had been briefed to expect an army doctor, a historian, and a civilian helicopter pilot. But who would they truly be? Already Smyslov had the sense they would be something more. The way Smith had set up the contact and pickup, the crisp identifiers he had given-they had the flavor of an experienced field operative.
Impatiently he lit a Camel filter with a disposable butane lighter, not of a mood to enjoy the superior American tobacco. Soon his performance would begin.
Already Smyslov didn't like the feel of this job. It had the stink of desperation about it, a stench all too common in Russian governmental circles in these days. Someone somewhere in the Moscow bureaucracy was not thinking, just reacting.
He took a hard drag on the cigarette. It wasn't his place to decide such things.
The white automobile he had been told to expect turned off the street and rolled to a halt under the hotel canopy, its license number and passengers matching the given description. Smyslov flipped the cigarette to the ground, crushing it deliberately with his boot heel. Presently he would know, or at least he would have an idea, where the Americans stood and what they suspected.
Collecting his bag, Smyslov strode out to the car.
Within five minutes Smyslov indeed knew, and any hope that the Americans might be naively accepting the Russian line on the Misha 124 crash was irrevocably gone. As he was flying a false flag, so was everyone else.
The two women might look like American fashion models, but they most certainly were something else. The taciturn, wary blonde driving the car, theoretically the "helicopter pilot," was maintaining a spy's situational awareness, as was the more openly relaxed and vivacious brunette "history professor." As she lounged in the backseat beside him, overtly chatting about the Alaskan climate, her vision scanned in a regular pattern, checking the paralleling traffic and skipping from one rearview mirror to the other, watching for potential tails.
Smyslov judged them as CIA or as members of one of the associate intelligence agencies that made up what the Americans called "the Club."
He wondered if the striking attractiveness of the two female agents was a mere coincidence or if one or both of them might include seductive interrogation as part of their arsenal.
That could prove disconcerting.
As for the team leader, he might be an Army surgeon but he was also American Spetsnaz, probably attached to their defense intelligence agency. The feeling of alert, focused confidence radiating from him was unmistakable, as was the bulk of the military-caliber automatic riding under his jacket. The least they could have done was to give the poor fellow a decent cover name. Jon Smith indeed!