the bunkhouse and you sat down at this table and fixed yourself a sandwich. Corned beef, plenty of mustard.
"But your snack was interrupted by the arrival of our helicopter, and you had to take off. You've been out there all afternoon, keeping an eye on us. You watched my friends leave for the crash site and you watched us turn in for the night. Then you crawled out of your hole and you came down to this hut with the intent of axing Dr. Trowbridge and me to death in our beds."
Trowbridge stared at Kropodkin as if he had suddenly sprouted horns. "You have no proof!" Trowbridge croaked weakly, not wanting to hear any more. He could not have been so wrong. He could not have sat across a desk from such a monster.
"Oh, I have proof, Doctor," Randi replied so softly that both men had to keep silent to hear her. "For one, let's consider the state the laboratory hut and radio room were in when we found them. Totally undamaged. There was no sign of a struggle. No resistance at all. Then let's consider the state of Kayla Brown's body. She was fully dressed in all her cold weather clothing. She had been allowed to gear up and leave that hut under controlled circumstances when she started up that hill. There was no indication of haste, of flight. No indication of panic. In short, she was not frightened."
Randi glanced at Trowbridge. "You were in the radio shack aboard the cutter that last night, Doctor. We were talking with one very nervous and upset young woman. She knew something was very wrong on this island. I doubt she would have left the lab hut on her own, and I very much doubt she would have left so casually with a stranger. I suspect she was with someone she knew and trusted. Someone she saw as a friend. Him."
The MP-5 barrel gestured toward Kropodkin.
"No," the Slovakian gritted.
Randi moved to the edge of the mess table, immediately across from Kropodkin. "Then we come to his story about being stuck out on that ice flow. It's a total fabrication. He wasn't starving for two nights running. He was forted up somewhere, chewing on the emergency rations from the survival pack the rescue party had taken with them."
"How can you possibly know?" Dr. Trowbridge whispered, intrigued in spite of himself.
"His atrocious table manners," Randi replied. "Have you ever had to go hungry, Doctor? Really hungry? Several days worth of hungry in a hostile environment? I have, on several occasions. When you finally get a chance at a meal, you don't bolt your food like this gentleman did. You don't eat like you're just hungry. You eat like food is the most wonderful experience in the world. You eat slowly, getting the most out of each mouthful. Personal experience.
"And while we're on the subject of food..." Randi leaned forward across the table. "When we came into this hut, we found the half-eaten meal Mr. Kropodkin had left on the table. That corned beef sandwich and tea, hot tea."
Hate glittered in the look Kropodkin aimed up at her. "It was not mine!" he spat.
"Oh, yes, it was." Randi's voice was almost hypnotic. "There was something a little bit different about the way that tea had been served. You see, it was in a glass. Now, we had a group of Anglo-Saxons, a couple of Asians, and one Slav on this island. When someone of Anglo-Saxon or Asian cultural descent makes hot tea, he or she drinks it from a cup or a mug, automatically, as a cultural norm. Only an Arab or a Slav would drink hot tea from a glass..." The barrel of the submachine gun swung across the table and lightly tapped the rim of the steaming glass at Kropodkin's side, producing a clear ringing ting. "And there aren't any Arabs on this island."
Kropodkin grabbed for the inviting gun barrel. Randi, who had been expecting and waiting for the desperation move, yanked the submachine gun back, then smashed the muzzle full into Kropodkin's face, hurling him backward off the bench.
Screaming a curse, Kropodkin scrambled to his feet, but Randi had already rolled over the tabletop, confronting him before he could recover. To a flabbergasted Dr. Trowbridge, she moved in a golden-haired blur. Three blows were landed with the submachine gun within two seconds; a two-handed horizontal strike across the forehead with the receiver, another savage punch in the groin with the muzzle, and