Part 13 (2/2)

”These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have dared to cheat us,” he said.

Molkov was staring at him without expression.

”Did you hear me?” Sergei's voice was furious as he upended the satchel, letting the rectangular bundles of paper spill to the ground. ”There's no money!” ”There's no money!”

Molkov kept staring at him.

Gaping with bewilderment, Sergei spun toward Alexandre.

The Glock was in his hand, raised level with Sergei's chest. Its silenced barrel spat twice, and Sergei reeled backward and dropped to the road, killed instantly, his jacket stained red where both shots had penetrated his heart. A look of confusion and betrayal was frozen on his face.

Molkov glanced down at the corpse a moment, nodded approvingly, then turned to the guerrilla leader.

”Now,” he said, holding out his hand. ”Let's have the payment.”

The outlaw gestured briskly toward one of his men, who stepped forward to pa.s.s him a leather satchel much like the one Sergei had been given. He opened the bag himself, then angled it so both Russians could easily see inside. This time it was stuffed with authentic packs of U.S. bills.

”It's all here. Send our regards and goodwill to your bochya, Vostov,” he said, using the Russian slang term for G.o.dfather as he handed the satchel over to Molkov with a little bow.

Molkov removed one of the banded packs at random and riffled its edges with his thumb, holding it close to his eyes. Satisfied, he put it back inside, closed the bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

”Okay,” he said to Alexandre. ”Let's go.”

They turned back toward the waiting Citroen, careful to avoid stepping in the blood that had pooled around Sergei's body.

It was Alexandre, chancing to glance through the winds.h.i.+eld, who noticed that their driver was no longer in the car, his door flung wide open. Instantly realizing what that meant, he jerked his head toward Molkov.

But by the time he opened his mouth to warn him, it was too late for either of them.

Even as the Citroen had arrived and their leader and comrades-in-arms broke cover to meet it, a dozen other members of the Albanian fis, fis, or outlaw clan, had remained concealed amid the vegetation uphill, their attention and weapons trained on the road. or outlaw clan, had remained concealed amid the vegetation uphill, their attention and weapons trained on the road.

Everything had gone wholly according to plan. When the Russian physicist was shot by his supposed body-guard, the Citroen's driver had taken advantage of the momentary distraction to exit the car unnoticed and plunge into the roadside brush, putting himself safely out of harm's way and leaving his brethren with a clear field of fire.

They had watched their leader hand the second satchel to the larger of the Russian gangsters. Watched him open it and inspect its contents--again, exactly as antic.i.p.ated. As soon as he had confirmed receipt of their actual payment to the second Russian, the men lying in wait had readied themselves, their guns angled downward, their targets in steady view. To insure that the Russians would not be alerted to the deception in time to use their own weapons on their clansmen below, they had held their fire until the mafiyasi mafiyasi started back toward the car, turning away from the guerrillas. started back toward the car, turning away from the guerrillas.

In the moment before the trap was sprung, it appeared the wiry Russian had recognized the deception and turned to alert his partner.

He hadn't had the chance. The gunmen on the slope opened up on the Russians, cutting both down where they stood. The volleys continued for several seconds, spraying the dead bodies, riddling the left side of the car, near which they had fallen, with bullet holes, dissolving its winds.h.i.+eld in an avalanche of jagged gla.s.s shards.

At last the shooting ceased, its echoes rapidly swallowed by the engulfing silence of the defile. Bits of leaves and branches that had been trimmed by the gunfire fluttered to the road.

Down below, the guerrilla leader waved approvingly to the men behind the screen of foliage, then strode over to Molkov's bullet-riddled corpse and knelt to retrieve the satchel of money that was still slung over his shoulder.

Their mission had been easily accomplished.

Now all that remained was to inform Harlan DeVane.

NINE.

HOUSTON, TEXAS APRIL 18, 2001.

THE LYNDON B. JOHNSON s.p.a.cE CENTER, A Cl.u.s.tER of one hundred buildings located off Interstate 45 midway between downtown Houston and the Galveston Island beaches some twenty-five miles southward, is the primary administrative, testing, and astronaut training facility for NASA's manned s.p.a.ce exploration program. Its Mission Control Center (Building 30), a windowless, bunkerlike structure at the core of the 1,620-acre complex, has been the locus of ground support and monitoring operations for American s.p.a.ce flights since the of one hundred buildings located off Interstate 45 midway between downtown Houston and the Galveston Island beaches some twenty-five miles southward, is the primary administrative, testing, and astronaut training facility for NASA's manned s.p.a.ce exploration program. Its Mission Control Center (Building 30), a windowless, bunkerlike structure at the core of the 1,620-acre complex, has been the locus of ground support and monitoring operations for American s.p.a.ce flights since the Gemini 4 Gemini 4 launch in June 1965, and contains two Flight Control Rooms--or launch in June 1965, and contains two Flight Control Rooms--or fickeres fickeres--manned round the clock by large teams of flight controllers for the duration of any given mission. For the thousands of scientific researchers, engineers, and management officials who have dedicated their lives to ”the expansion of human knowledge of phenomena in the atmosphere and s.p.a.ce”--the agency's mandate as defined in its Eisenhower-era charter--the JSC is where that goal has been advanced through imagination, intelligence, audacity, ingenuity, and irrepressible perseverence. For the far smaller handful of candidates who apply and qualify for the astronaut program, it is something even beyond that, a kind of Oz where they are bestowed the magical ruby slippers that will transport them to their hearts' most wished for destination ... only not the familiar terrestrial landscapes of home, as was the case with Dorothy, but the beckoning, mysterious heavens.

”Just click your heels together three times and say there's no place like Betelgeuse,” Annie Caulfield muttered dryly to herself, aware she was about to make one of the most crucial decisions of her life. Immersed in thought, she sat looking out her office window at the tram that was moving across the JSC's landscaped grounds as it delivered personnel and visitors to its various installations. Then she rotated her swivel chair and began absently studying the three framed photos on her otherwise bare desk. By chance the first one her eye fell upon was of her parents, Edward and Maureen, an 8 x 10 taken five years ago at a party to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.

Annie smiled a little. Their preferred travel itineraries aside, she'd had a thing or two in common with Dorothy in her formative years, being an only child whose beginnings had been in rural Kansas. Her father had operated a one-man air transport service, and their family had lived so close to the airfield where he'd hangared his rattletrap Cessna that Annie could observe his take-offs and landings from her second-floor bedroom window.

Perhaps that had been what eventually led to her interest in sky-watching, she didn't know, but when she was coming up on her eighth birthday Annie had asked for and received an inexpensive 60mm Meade refraction telescope for her gift, along with a Carl Sagan Cosmosphere Cosmosphere that she had used to locate the planets, constellations, and galaxies from her porch on countless spring and summer evenings, Dad helping her level and rotate the tube on its tripod until she was old enough to manage it by herself. Seven years later he'd helped her accomplish another of her goals in the same attentive, patient way and given her flying lessons. By the time she was eighteen Annie had earned her license and was making air runs for him during breaks from school. that she had used to locate the planets, constellations, and galaxies from her porch on countless spring and summer evenings, Dad helping her level and rotate the tube on its tripod until she was old enough to manage it by herself. Seven years later he'd helped her accomplish another of her goals in the same attentive, patient way and given her flying lessons. By the time she was eighteen Annie had earned her license and was making air runs for him during breaks from school.

It seemed a sure thing in hindsight that her obsessions with astronomy and flying would converge into a desire to become an astronaut, though her decision to start her career by joining the Air Force had come as a total surprise to her mother and father. It had also been a source of great anxiety to them given the potential risks of warfare, risks that seemed particularly high in an age of limited regional conflicts for which the military relied heavily, and often exclusively, upon airpower to achieve their precision objectives. But her proficiency in the c.o.c.kpit during her years of active duty had convinced her she could cut it with NASA, and Annie had submitted her application to its Astronaut Selection Office long before her F-16 Fighting Falcon was reduced to burning sc.r.a.p metal while on a surveillance mission over northern Bosnia.

After her rescue, she had been rea.s.signed stateside by her C.O. in keeping with standard Air Force policy to shunt pilots who had been downed in combat away from the theater of operations, regardless of their eagerness or apparent fitness to get back in the air--the understandable concern being that they might have suffered some hidden trauma that would cause them to blink for a split second when they needed to act, or conversely, overreact overreact to a perceived threat, not a good idea either way when you were roaring over enemy territory at speeds upwards of five hundred miles per hour. Whatever inclination she'd had to argue the matter had been offset by her concern for her parents, whose fears for her safety had been borne out by events. For nearly a week before NATO searchers picked up the signal from her emergency locator beacon, it had been thought likely she had perished in the crash of her plane, and she hadn't wanted to put them through that kind of gut-wrenching ordeal again. to a perceived threat, not a good idea either way when you were roaring over enemy territory at speeds upwards of five hundred miles per hour. Whatever inclination she'd had to argue the matter had been offset by her concern for her parents, whose fears for her safety had been borne out by events. For nearly a week before NATO searchers picked up the signal from her emergency locator beacon, it had been thought likely she had perished in the crash of her plane, and she hadn't wanted to put them through that kind of gut-wrenching ordeal again.

She had been elated after getting contacted for an initial NASA interview within weeks of her transfer, but then had come the long, tortuous screening process of reference checks, re-interviews, and physical examinations prior to her qualifying for finalist status, to be followed by another series of prelims, and then the nail-biting wait for a conclusive yea or nay.

When Annie was notified that her candidacy had been accepted, her excitement had been so intense she had felt as if she might soar beyond the bonds of gravity without benefit of a s.p.a.cecraft, knowing full well that there was still no guarantee she would ultimately be sent into s.p.a.ce. Before that would come two rigorous years of basic astronaut training during which her skills would be developed and subject to constant evaluation. But she had attained the high ground and was, as Tom Wolfe had put it in The Right Stuff, The Right Stuff, within sight of Olympus. Nothing would stop her from going the rest of the distance. within sight of Olympus. Nothing would stop her from going the rest of the distance.

Driven by her lifelong ambition, and aided by an innate self-discipline and pa.s.sion to excel that her parents had always reinforced, she'd applied herself to the challenges of training with a kind of fierce, single-minded dedication, come through at the top of her cla.s.s--right up there with Jim Rowland--and been selected for formal mission training immediately upon graduation.

Annie and Jim had flown their first shuttle mission together in 1997, he as commander, she as pilot.

Now she rapped her fingers on her desk, her eyes leaving the photo of her parents on the left end of the row for the one on the far right, an official NASA group shot of the crew on the flight that had ”put her on the bronco's hump and broken her cherry,” to quote not a famous writer this time, but rather the ever tactful Colonel Rowland. Of the seven men and women on that shuttle, two had been Turnips besides Jim and herself--mission specialists Walter Pratt and Gail Kla.s.s. It had been the mult.i.talented, multilingual Gail, a computer scientist and electrical engineer by trade, who had designed their unique crew patch and translated the motto she and Jim had concocted into Latin ... to give it cla.s.s and authenticity, she had explained.

Ah, Jimmy, how I wish you were here with some dumb wisecrack, preferably one built around an obscenity... as if you knew any other kind, Annie thought. Sorrow infiltrating her smile, she studied his face as it appeared in the starch official public-relations shot. Somehow his prankish sense of humor had managed to show through the stiffly formal pose their photographer had elicited from him. Annie thought. Sorrow infiltrating her smile, she studied his face as it appeared in the starch official public-relations shot. Somehow his prankish sense of humor had managed to show through the stiffly formal pose their photographer had elicited from him.

She expelled a long, sighing breath and s.h.i.+fted her attention to the middle picture frame, having bypa.s.sed it a few seconds earlier, precisely because she had known it would make her struggle to keep her emotions under control unwinnable.

Behind the frame's nonreflective gla.s.s panel was a montage she had painstakingly composed from photo clippings of Mark, her children, and herself, using dozens of snapshots taken over the years, the images overlapping like the recollections they stirred within Annie. She was no Gail Kla.s.s in the creativity department, and most of her choices had been of the typical doting-mother, loving-wife sort that would have drawn afflicted little smiles had they been shown to friends or coworkers, boring them to death like nothing else besides home videos of birthday parties and backyard barbecues. Here was Mark proudly displaying a flounder he'd hooked from a fis.h.i.+ng pier on Sanibel Island; here Linda on a playground seesaw; here the kids on a Christmas morning three years ago, still in their pajamas, wading into the presents under the tree; here the entire family at Disney World photographed by a roving six-foot-tall Mickey Mouse. And in the center...

Annie stared at the picture, transported back in thought to the night it was taken.

She and Mark had toured the British Isles for their honeymoon, a trip that had lasted almost a full month and led them from London to Edinburgh to the coastline of South Wales, with stops in a dozen villages and twice as many old castles along the way. It was at a small pub and guest house in the Scottish Highlands, where they had envisaged getting a good night's rest before heading on to the Orkneys, that they'd wound up tossing back far too much single-malt whisky and dancing to Celtic folk music with the riotous locals, kicking up sawdust until the caller had finally lost his voice around day-break. When they had left their room late the next afternoon after sleeping off murderous hangovers--and missing their ferry out of town--the innkeeper had handed them a sixty-second Polaroid some anonymous fellow reveler had taken of them doing their eightsome reel in tweed caps that they hadn't recalled putting on, and had never made it back to their room with them.

The combination of their goofy, plastered expressions and the c.o.c.keyed angles of the caps on their heads had made them chuckle every time they pored through their photo alb.u.m, but somehow it had done more than capture a delightful memory, a rare uninhibited moment for two people who had built their lives around ceaseless discipline and hard work; it had exemplified the easy consonance between them, a lightness and looseness that neither ever had been able to share with anyone else, and was so much the essence of their marital union that she had felt the picture naturally belonged at the center of her little cut-and-paste.

Annie began tapping the desktop more rapidly, her eyes clouding up. Eight years, that was all they'd had together. Eight years before the cancer took Mark from her, making him suffer a thousand monstrous indignities as it consumed him.

But she could not allow herself to dwell on that, not now, and instead turned her thoughts to the meeting she'd had with Charles Dorset just a half hour ago. No sooner had she arrived that morning than he had summoned her to his office and, virtually without preamble, asked whether she would be interested in directing the Orion Orion probe. The prospect had caught her completely off guard, and she had sat before his desk in silence for several moments, as if there was something about his question she wasn't quite getting. probe. The prospect had caught her completely off guard, and she had sat before his desk in silence for several moments, as if there was something about his question she wasn't quite getting.

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