"Yes," she said. "The Russians know we're here, and the surveillance facility Keith was looking for could very well be involved. Anyway, if that man is wired we may be able to find it. Do you have a light?"

"Excuse me?"

"A match?" she said. "A lighter?"

"I don't smoke," George said.

"Neither do I," Peggy said impatiently, "but pat your pockets like you're looking for one."

"Oh. Sorry," George said as he slapped his shirt and pants pockets.

"Fine," Peggy said. "Now wait here."

Almost every soldier in Russia smoked, and though George didn't enjoy it, he, like Peggy, had mastered the art of inhaling the potent Turkish blend favored by Russian and Chinese militiamen-- just in case Striker ever ended up in Asia. But George had no idea what she had in mind as he watched her pull a package of cigarettes from her breast pocket and walk toward the bearded man.

As George looked down at the ground, convincingly affecting boredom, the Russian pretended to be waiting for the dog to finish up with a tree, something the dog had no apparent inclination to do. The cigarette poking from her mouth, Peggy was about ten yards from the man when he turned to walk in the other direction.

"Sir!" she said in perfect Russian as she jogged after him. "Have you got a match?"

He shook his head as he strolled away.

Peggy came up behind him and, in one quick motion, grabbed the leash at the base of the loop that was slung around his left hand. She twisted hard, and in the same motion stepped around so she was facing him. He groaned as the leash cut off the circulation in his fingers.

George saw her eyes drop to his beard. She nodded once when she spotted the wire. Peggy faced the Russian and put a rigid finger to her lips, indicating silence.

The Russian nodded.

"Thanks for the match," she said as she led the spy toward George. "That's a lovely dog you have."

She was talking, George knew, to keep the Russians from communicating with their agent. As long as someone was there, they wouldn't expect the Russian to answer their questions. He also realized she couldn't shut it off, or they'd know something was wrong.

Except for the fact that he was wincing slightly, it would have appeared to an observer that Peggy and the Russian were friends holding hands as they walked the dog. When they reached George's side, Peggy patted the Russian's left pants pocket with the back of her hand. She reached in, pulled out his car keys, and swept her free hand back and forth.

Still grimacing, the Russian pointed toward a row of cars on the far side of the park.

She looked at George, who nodded with understanding.

"I'm always surprised at how passive most large dogs are," Peggy said as they walked, the dog lumbering after them. "It's the little ones who cause trouble."