“I’ll bet ‘only a little,’” said Rogers cynically, giving the colonel a quick look.

“He’s all right,” said Condley. “No matter what I say inside Viet Nam I assume somebody’s listening anyway.”

“Ask him about Sasha,” said Rogers.

“Who’s Sasha?”

Rogers grinned, nodding toward the colonel. “Ask him.”

“You’re pretty good,” Condley grinned back. “In fact, I would hate to have you on my ass in Sai Gon.”

“From you, sir, that is the ultimate compliment,” said Rogers. “So don’t get lost on the subway.”

“I’ve got a perfectly trained guide,” said Condley.

“Better trained than you even know.” Rogers waved good-bye. “You’re on your own, Mister Condley. It’s not a good idea for you to call me again while you’re here. Whatever you find, just pass it on through General Duncan.”

Condley called to Rogers as the CIA agent climbed into his car. “Hey, Rogers!” As Rogers turned toward him, Condley gave him a crisp Marine Corps salute. “Semper fi, Mac.”

Rogers smiled, obviously moved by Condley’s gesture. “Marines never salute when they’re in the field, Lieutenant. You know that.” He waved again, then shut the car door. And in a moment he was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Kamchatka Hotel was a dump by any standards. Cluttered and dusty, the old hotel was run by haggard employees who looked as though they never changed their clothes or even slept. Its lobby was filled with dozens of oddly clothed foreigners of all stripes, as if this were the official gathering place for visitors to Moscow from Africa, southern Asia, and the Middle East. So far as Condley could tell, he was the only American at the hotel. Thinking about that, he decided that Skip Rogers had probably put him and Pham there deliberately, to reinforce the notion that they were not diplomatic guests of the American Embassy in case their little adventure somehow went sour.

After a thin breakfast of weak tea, hard-boiled eggs, processed meat, and toast, Condley napped for several hours in his heavy-curtained, dust-filled little room. As he slept on a narrow bed against a wood-paneled wall, he was awakened periodically by a rhythmic pounding on the wall from the adjoining room, accompanied by strange, guttural noises. Finally he realized that a hooker was entertaining a series of clients only inches from where he lay.

He gave up on sleep, moving to the small desk in the room and pulling out the folder Rogers had left him. The folder included not only a thorough analysis of Anatolie Petrushinsky’s military career, current living habits, and personal history, but also a detailed script regarding where, when, and how best to approach the former Soviet soldier. Rogers was good, he thought again. Very, very good.