"What is it, Major?" Orlov asked. He was tired, and his voice sounded it.

"Sir, General Mavik ordered me to recall the Molot team."

"When?"

"I've just gotten off the phone with him," said Levski. "Sir, I'm sorry but I must carry out--"

"I understand," Orlov interrupted. He took a sip of black coffee. "Be sure to thank Lieutenant Starik and his team for me."

"Yes, sir, I will," Levski said. "You understand, General, that whatever is happening, you're not alone. I'm with you. So is Molot."

Orlov's mouth perked at the edges. "Thank you, Major."

"I don't pretend to know what's going on," Levski continued. "There are all these rumors of an impending coup, of black marketeers being behind this. All I know is that I once tried to pull a vintage Kalinin K-4 out of a nosedive, sir. It had a bear of an engine-- a BMW IV, very stubborn."

"I know the plane," Orlov said.

"I remember thinking as I burst through the clouds, looking straight down, 'This is a vintage beauty, and I've no right to give up on her, however temperamental she gets.' It wasn't just a duty, it was an honor. Instead of bailing out, I wrestled her to the ground. It wasn't pretty, but we both made it. And then I personally-- personally-- took that bastard Bavarian mechanism apart and fixed it."

"She flew?"

"Like a young sparrow," Levski said.

Orlov knew he was tired because that Young Boy's Digest story touched him. "Thank you, Major. I'll let you know when I get my hands on the damn engine cowl."

Orlov hung up and drained his coffee cup. It was nice to know he had an ally, other than his devoted assistant, Nina, who was due back at four. And then there was his wife. She was with him always, of course, but like the dragon slayer who carried his lady's colors into battle, he still rode out alone. And at this moment the sense of isolation was stronger than any he'd experienced, even in the bleakness of outer space.

Using the keyboard, he switched back to the channel the militia used to monitor their field forces.

"…want to be left alone," a female voice was saying in perfect Russian.

"Leave a surgical assault force free in Russia?" Rossky laughed. He was obviously communicating with his quarry on his cellular telephone, patched together either through the Operations Center or the local police station.

"We're not an assault force," said the woman.

"You were seen entering the Presidential Palace with Major Pentti Aho--"

"He arranged our transportation. We came to try and find out who killed a British businessman--"

"The official report and remains were turned over to the British Embassy," said Rossky.

"Cremated remains," said the woman. "The British don't accept that he died of a heart attack."