“Does he have a radio or a satellite phone?” Voronin pressed.

“Only a one-way radio that he uses to listen to gospel music from a religious station outside Fairbanks,” Bondarovich answered. “This fellow Jensen is a throwback, a man trying to live almost entirely on his own, outside the modern world.”

“For that I give thanks,” Voronin answered sardonically. With the ex-Spetsnaz major at his side, he moved out to meet the trapper at the edge of the camp.

Up close, Jensen was a short, broad-shouldered man. His full brown beard was streaked with gray. Hard blue eyes peered out at them from under a fur-lined hood. He certainly didn’t waste any time with meaningless courtesies. “What the hell are you folks doing up here?” he demanded. “With your goddamned, noisy helicopter and all? You’re going to scare away the game for twenty miles or more. Damn it, this is a wildlife refuge. It’s totally off-limits to all of this techno bullshit.”

“I do apologize, Mr.—?” Voronin said smoothly, in utterly unaccented American English, pretending that he didn’t know the other man’s name.

“Jensen.”

Voronin nodded gratefully. “Mr. Jensen.” He spread his hand. “I sincerely regret any inconvenience or disruption of your work, but I assure you that our efforts here have official status.”

“Exactly what kind of official status?” the trapper growled, somehow managing to make the word “official” sound like profanity.

“We’re here as part of a federal climate change research project,” Voronin answered patiently. “And I can assure you that any unintended degradation of this pristine landscape will be completely repaired once we’re finished here.”

Jensen snorted. “Easy to promise. Tough to do.” He glared at them. “You got any proof of this story of yours?”

“Certainly,” Voronin replied. He unzipped his ski jacket slightly and dug out an ID card from one of its inside pockets. Forged by highly paid experts in Moscow, it identified him as James Henderson, an official with the federal Environmental Protection Agency. While the trapper examined it through skeptical eyes, he went on. “In a way, I’m very glad that we’ve met. My research team here could use your obvious familiarity with the ground and the local wildlife.” He smiled. “And naturally, you would be generously compensated for your time.”

“Uh-huh,” Jensen said cynically. He hawked and then spat off to the side, before tossing Voronin’s forged ID back to him. “Look, Mister Whoever You Really Are, I didn’t come all the way out here on my lonesome to grub for pay. And certainly not from the goddamned government.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Or from anybody else, for that matter. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just be on my way and leave you fellas in peace.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and stalked off—plodding determinedly back up the nearby slope through snow that was more than a foot deep.

Voronin stood watching the American go. When he was out of earshot, he glanced at Bondarovich. “Do you think he believed me?”