open. Metcalfe jumped up, leaped into an empty stall, flattening himself against the wall. The Arabians whinnied softly, the sounds not of alarm but of greeting. They seemed to recognize whoever was entering.
Metcalfe did, too.
Dressed in riding clothes, a kerchief over her head: it was Lana.
Chapter Eighteen
"Lana," he said quietly.
She blinked, surprised to see him but somehow not completely surprised. Before she could compose her face into an expression of disapproval, Metcalfe caught a fleeting glimpse of what looked very much like pleasure.
"Stiva?" She seemed to be attempting a coolness in her tone, a scolding. "But... we agreed, Sokolniki Park tomorrow at dusk."
"I guess I couldn't wait."
She shook her head, giggled despite herself. "Look at you! What happened to the best-dressed man in Moscow?"
He was a mess, he knew: there was straw in his hair and all over his coat and suit, and he smelled of horse. "You see what you've driven me to, dusya?"
"I'm going riding. It's one of my few pleasures these days."
"And your German boyfriend?"
She scowled. "He rarely gets up before noon. He won't even notice I'm gone. Everyone's asleep in the house, actually."
"Then you won't mind if I join you?"
She inclined her head. "I won't mind."
She saddled up deftly, Metcalfe no less quickly. His mother had kept horses and had seen to it that he had learned to ride not long after he learned to walk. But he was surprised that Lana had gotten so skilled at horsemanship; it seemed to be something she had picked up in the last few years. Like so much that has changed about her, he thought.
There was a horse trail that ran through the woods, a trail he hadn't noticed before. It had not been cleared in some time; they were whipped by small branches as they rode. Metcalfe allowed her to set the pace. When the path widened somewhat, she leaned forward, made a clucking sound with her mouth, squeezed her legs together. Her horse, the chestnut Arabian, increased his gait to a canter. She rode as if she'd been doing it all her life. The trail widened again, allowing them to ride alongside each other; but when it narrowed, she took the lead. Metcalfe turned his face up to the soft morning sun. It warmed him, soothed him. For a few moments, as they rode in silence, he was lulled by the rhythmic gallop. It was like old times again. The fear, the terror, the suspicion all was left behind. He watched her lithe figure; she seemed to be an extension of the horse. The perfect features of her face, framed by her gaily colored head scarf, were beautiful in repose. The sadness that seemed to have overtaken her was gone. God, he loved her so!
After a while the terrain began to look familiar. He called out to her, got her attention, interrupted her reverie. He pointed toward the denser section of the woods, through which he had fled the night before. Four, maybe five hours earlier, but already it seemed like another day. She looked perplexed but followed him off the path. They slowed to a walk as they made their way through the trees.
After a few minutes, she called, "There is no path here!"
"I know."
"It will not be easy. We should go back to the path."
"I need to find something. It won't take long."
Soon he came upon a tree that had been daubed with red paint, and he knew where he was. "Wait here a moment." He dismounted and peered around for the patch of ground where he had strewn twigs and moss over the transmitter. His eye was immediately caught by an unexpected sight, something he hadn't seen before.
The ground had been cleared, scraped to the bare soil. The large, flat rock had been moved, exposing the pit that Roger had dug. The hole was empty. The transmitter was gone.
Metcalfe knew at once what had happened, and he was seized with terror. The youngest member of the patrol had gone back, retraced his steps. That had to be it. Goaded, perhaps, by the jeers of his elders, determined to prove that what he had seen had not been just a stag, he had searched the woods. The transmitter had been concealed well, but he had concentrated on the area where he had first spotted an interloper, and somehow he had found it. Triumphant, vindicated, he had taken it to his comrades, proving that he was right all along. And if this was how it had