Martinelli’s eyes were hidden behind his night-vision goggles. He nodded and then, when he saw the ravine, yanked the steering wheel over, pushing the big, lumbering armored personnel carrier off the highway. He followed what looked to be a little-used trail that headed down toward the water. It was overgrown with brush and covered with a coating of crusty snow. The rough trail still afforded a smoother ride than the rugged ravine would.

Beaman looked back over his shoulder to where Jason Hall was taking care of Gregor Smitrov. The Russian president was still unconscious, but he seemed to be breathing a little easier.

Hall glanced up, read the concern on his skipper’s face, and yelled to be heard over the noisy motor. “Still touch-and-go. I’ve got the bleeding pretty well stopped. Either that or he’s about to run out. He needs real medical attention pretty bad, though.”

“He gonna make it?”

Hall shrugged his massive shoulders. “Don’t know. Right now it’s in God’s hands.”

The BTR lurched to a sudden halt, throwing Beaman against the dashboard. He came up rubbing a knot on his forehead. “What the hell?”

Martinelli killed the diesel. In the sudden silence, his voice boomed. “Sorry. Looks like this is as far as Tony’s Taxi goes.”

He pointed out ahead of them where the ground suddenly fell away. Twenty meters of sheer drop lurked between them and the rocky beach below.

Beaman popped the hatch open and pulled himself up on top of the BTR. He looked to the left, to the right, and then out at the black waters of the Murmansk Fjord. Good rendezvous spot. The shore was partially hidden by a line of rocks jutting out, forming a protective curve around the beach. Patrol boats would have a hard time seeing into the little cove. The land side seemed treacherous and remote. There was little possibility of anyone stumbling onto them. The problem was getting down the cliff to the water.

The rest of the team piled out of the BTR, grateful to be away from the noise and smell of the hard-riding machine. Johnston tied a rope to the front of the BTR and tossed the end of it over the edge. “Skipper, looks like we rappel down unless we sprout wings in the next little bit. Ready to go?”

“Yep. Let’s get down there,” Beaman replied as he warily scanned the wide, dark sky. If anyone was looking for them yet, it would be much easier to see them up here. “Make it snappy.”

Johnston fastened himself to the rappelling line and dropped over the edge. He bounced and hopped against the vertical rock face until he landed on the narrow strip of beach. Cantrell followed him down.