At night, the landmarks are dark silhouettes against the darker skies. Had they been visible, Peggy James still would not have seen them. Major Aho had given her an automobile and explicit directions. Fifteen minutes after he'd gone to the airport with two decoys in his command, she'd driven herself and Private George to the harbor and the cruiser that would take them to Kotka and the mini-sub. She had no time nor interest in sight-seeing. She had just one thing on her mind-- getting into St. Petersburg. What mattered most was finishing the job Keith Fields-Hutton had started. Finding and killing the person or persons responsible for his death was not as high a priority, though she was prepared to do so if the opportunity presented itself.

The cruiser was a sleek Larson Cabrio 280, and after the password and response had been given the duo boarded the twenty-eight footer. Carefully placing her own backpack on the floor between her feet in the athwartship berth, Peggy sat beside George as the boat spun into the night. The operatives spent the bulk of the ninety-minute trip reviewing the maps of the Hermitage and the terrain between their landing point and the museum. The plan she had worked out with Major Aho before George's arrival was for the mini-sub to let them out in a rubber raft near the Southern Coastal Park, a short bus ride from their target. In a way, she preferred this masquerade to a wetsuit-type operation at night. Foreign authorities were more inclined to believe cover stories about daylight operations, since most operatives weren't reckless enough to try them.

The mini-sub was berthed in a windowless shed on the gulf. She would have preferred to fly, dropping rubber boats and parachuting just outside the target zone. But night dives into icy-cold waters were too risky. If she or Private George landed too far from the boat, they could die of hypothermia before it reached them. Besides, the jump might damage her delicate equipment, and it was imperative that that not happen.

After producing their photos, the agents were admitted by a young man dressed in a dark blue sweater and trousers. He had a square face and deeply cleft chin. His blond hair was cut almost to the scalp. He shut the door quickly behind them. A second man stepped from the shadows. He flicked on a flashlight and held a gun on the pair. Peggy shielded her eyes from the glare as the first man compared the photographs to the copies of the shots she'd faxed over bearing the Palace's ID number on top.

"That's us," Peggy said. "Who else would claim to look that awful?"

The man handed the photographs and faxes to his companion, who lowered the light to study the pictures. Peggy could see his face now, which was lean and hard and sharply chiseled as if it had been chipped from a two-by-four. He nodded.