“But is there anything in the guy’s record to suggest that he’d pull a stunt like this?” General Frank Neary asked suspiciously. The Air Force chief looked plainly skeptical. “I mean, Jesus, actually flying away with the most expensive and advanced experimental aircraft in the whole Russian inventory? That’s not exactly like walking into an embassy somewhere and asking for political asylum!”

“No, sir,” Reynolds admitted. “From what we know, Colonel Petrov was a highly decorated, highly regarded officer, one of apparently unquestioned loyalty.” She smiled slightly. “Then again, if there were any obvious reasons for Moscow to believe he might defect, Petrov would be in a Russian military prison or dead, and not sending us demand notes from a stolen high-tech aircraft.”

Murphy leaned forward. “Plus, he’s looking at a potential cut of several billion dollars,” he pointed out. “That’s a darned strong possible motivation, right there.”

The other men and women around the table nodded in agreement. In his recorded message, the Russian pilot had made it clear that this was an auction, with the PAK-DA bomber going to the highest bidder.

“Then you think this is the real deal?” Taylor pressed. “That one of Russia’s top test pilots is actually trying to sell us his country’s most valuable aircraft? A stealth bomber that he’s already got safely parked in some secret hiding place?”

Miranda Reynolds shot a quick sideways glance in Murphy’s direction. The DNI shrugged slightly, as if to say that it was her call. Her mouth tightened. If she walked all the way out on a limb here, what were the odds that he wouldn’t just saw it off behind her the moment anything went wrong? Along with selective leaking, blame shifting was almost a professional sport for senior government officials and politicians alike . . . and Jonas Murphy, she reminded herself, was a man who wore both hats. It was effectively a coin toss, she decided. Then again, her fingerprints were already all over this bizarre situation. She wasn’t going to be able to duck the responsibility, no matter how things went down. So she raised her chin and looked straight at the secretary of defense. “Yes, sir, I do. Crazy as they sound, Petrov’s claims fit the facts we see.”

Taylor’s eyes gleamed approvingly behind his thick, black-framed glasses. “Okay then. We’ll proceed, for now, on the assumption that this Russian colonel has possession of an experimental stealth bomber that we’d sure like to have . . . and that Moscow desperately wants back.” He turned to Neary. “If we want to find Petrov first, General, where should we be looking?”

“I had the Air Staff work the problem, using our best guesses as to the PAK-DA bomber’s fuel load and flight characteristics,” Neary told him. “Their analysis strongly indicates Petrov must have landed somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere—anywhere from Russia itself to Alaska, northern Canada, or possibly Greenland. Maybe even somewhere out on the polar ice cap itself.”

“That’s a hell of a big patch to search,” Taylor commented wryly.