Currently, Voronin was responsible for handling the operational details involved in Vanishing Act. That included acting as Grishin’s discreet liaison with Colonel Alexei Petrov. As their plan drew ever nearer to activation, it was no longer safe or sensible for the two of them to meet in person, or even by phone or email.

Grishin nodded brusquely at the single chair in front of his desk. He waited while the younger man sat down and crossed his perfectly creased trouser legs. “I hear there was an unfortunate incident during the most recent PAK-DA prototype flight?”

With a hint of a smile, Voronin nodded. “So there was.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Apparently, a simple, easily fixed programming error created a very dangerous situation—one that could easily have led to the loss of the aircraft and its crew.” His smile widened. “Fortunately, Colonel Petrov’s flying skill, courage, and dedication to duty saved the entire stealth bomber program from catastrophe.”

Grishin nodded. “That is excellent news.” He raised an eyebrow. “I hope the colonel’s merits are appreciated by his superiors?”

Voronin nodded. “My sources inside the Kremlin assure me that the powers-that-be fully understand the bullet they just dodged. Losing the PAK-DA prototype would have been an utter political and strategic disaster. In fact, I hear that President Zhdanov himself phoned Petrov to offer his thanks and congratulations.” His pale gray eyes gleamed with amusement. “As of this moment, our illustrious national leader is convinced that the colonel is someone who can do no wrong.”

“And this computer glitch?” Grishin pressed. “The one that caused all this trouble?”

“Investigators are already digging into its origin,” Voronin said calmly.

“Will that be a problem?”

“No,” Voronin said simply.

Grishin eyed him. “You seem very confident of that, Pavel.”

“Tragically, the Tupolev software engineer responsible for that piece of flawed code is no longer available for interrogation,” Voronin explained. “Apparently, he accidentally fell out of a window last month. According to the police report, he was heavily intoxicated.”

“How . . . unfortunate,” Grishin commented dryly.

Voronin shrugged again. “Alcoholism is the sad national curse of our beloved Motherland, is it not? Certainly, it serves as a useful explanation for a multitude of sins.”

Slowly, Grishin nodded. Inwardly, he felt a momentary chill. There were times when the younger man’s casual willingness to kill unnerved even him. Then again, he reminded himself, Voronin’s cold-blooded efficiency was a survival trait—and one that profited his employer as well. After all, there were no prizes for second place in the high-stakes game they were currently playing, only disgrace, humiliation, and, in all probability, execution for treason.

Eight

South of Deadhorse, near Prudhoe Bay, Alaska

Several Days Later

With his face and eyes protected from subzero temperatures by a thermal mask and ski goggles, Captain Nick Flynn looked down and saw an expanse of tundra rushing up at him. Although the gray light filtering through a layer of thick clouds made it difficult to judge distances with any precision, that ground sure looked like it was getting closer fast. Really fast. He released his attached weapons case and rucksack so that they fell away into the freezing air and swung loose below his feet, still connected to him by a long strap. Then he forced himself to relax, bent his knees slightly, tucked his chin in, and gripped the risers.