Turning suddenly from the Tintoretto, Peggy began walking briskly, nearly jogging, toward the State Staircase.

The woman followed, keeping pace with her quarry.

Peggy hurriedly rounded the corner of the gallery and reached the magnificent staircase, with its walls of yellow marble and two first-floor rows of ten columns each. Starting down the steps, the Englishwoman knit her way through the sparse late afternoon crowd, headed toward the ground floor.

And then, halfway down, she slipped and fell.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Tuesday, 11:55 P.M., Khabarovsk

It had been two minutes before Squires had planned to stop the train when the Russian officer said, "Cigaryet?"

The Strikers had been standing in the cab of the train, securing their gear, when Squires looked down.

"We don't smoke," the Striker commander had said. "It's the new army. You got any on you?"

The Russian didn't understand. "Cigaryet?" he said. He used his chin to point to his left breast.

Squires had looked back out the window as the train went into a gentle curve. He slipped down his night vision goggles. "Newmeyer," he'd said, "see if you can help the man."

"Yes, sir," the Private had replied.

Leaving the wounded Sergeant Grey in the corner, Newmeyer had bent over the Russian. He'd reached into the officer's jacket and withdrawn a worn leather packet of tobacco with a thick rubber band holding it closed. A steel lighter with Cyrillic initials and an engraved portrait of Stalin was tucked under the rubber band.

"Must be an heirloom," Newmeyer had said, glancing at the engraving in the ruddy light of the cab.

Newmeyer had then opened the pouch, found several rolled cigarettes inside, and removed one. Nikita had extended his tongue and Newmeyer placed it on the end. The Russian pulled the smoke between his lips and accepted a light.

Newmeyer had closed the top of the lighter and put everything back together with the rubber band.

Nikita blew twin clouds of smoke from his nostrils.

Newmeyer bent close to replace the tobacco pouch. As the Striker had leaned over their prisoner, Nikita suddenly bent forward at the waist, butting his forehead into Newmeyer's head.

With a moan, Newmeyer fell back and dropped the pouch. Sitting up and grabbing it, the Russian used the heel of his hand to cram the pouch and lighter into the gears of the throttle. Then, as Newmeyer made a belated lunge for him, Nikita quickly pushed the iron lever away from him.

The train had sped up as the gears chewed down on the pouch and on the lighter his father had given him. Strips of leather and chucks of steel infused the gears, bending the teeth, locking them in a disfigured embrace.

"Shit!" Squires had said as Newmeyer fell back, holding his hand.

The officer had gone to the throttle and tried to push it in the opposite direction, but it refused to yield.

"Shit!" he'd repeated.