There was a tall bush on the other side of the car, open on one side, like a booth. He made his way over to it, unzipping his fly with each hurried step.

He stood in the middle of the man-sized bush and let go. A piss never felt so good. He directed his stream back and forth against the leaves to minimize the sound and to keep it from puddling. The splash made a little noise, but not much, like crunching leaves. It wasn’t long before he was done and wagging himself dry.

But the leaves were still making noise.

Paul froze.

Feet were jogging through the forest, along with whispered, hurried voices.

He waited until the sounds faded before easing his way out of the bush and toward the farmhouse, then hid behind a tree.

Three men took up positions just outside the house. One faced out, his foot on a stump with an ax buried in it. The other two stepped carefully onto the porch, pistols out, hands on the door.

Paul’s heart raced. Those had to be Zvezdev’s men.

It was a trap.

Rhodes was a dead man.

77

Rhodes knocked on the farmhouse door. He was greeted by a smiling Zvezdev.

“Weston! You’re early. Come in.”

The two men shook hands and Rhodes stepped in. The door closed behind him.

A gun stuck in his ribs.

“What’s this?” Rhodes asked, raising his hands.

Zvezdev patted him down with one gloved hand, and pulled Rhodes’s two guns out with his other, shoving both into his right coat pocket.

Rhodes surveyed the rustic living room. Rough-hewn boards, hand-woven carpets, homemade furniture. Simple, but large and comfortable. It would be considered primitive in any Western country, but by Bulgarian standards it was better than most.

“Guns make me nervous. Or should I say other people’s guns.” Zvezdev holstered his pistol and smiled again.

Rhodes lowered his hands. “You had me worried there for a moment.”

“Then how about a rakia to calm your nerves?” Zvezdev crossed over to a weathered sideboard, the only factory-made piece in the room. He poured two glasses.

“Don’t mind if I do. Nice place. Yours?”

“Recently acquired.” He handed a glass to Rhodes.

“ZiL still running well?”

“I’d rather have a Buick, but what can you do? Nazdráve.”

“Nazdráve.”

They tossed down their brandies. Zvezdev poured two more.

“So where is the fellow?” Rhodes took more brandy from the Bulgarian.

“In the kitchen. You’ll meet him in a moment. Good doing business with you, Weston. Nazdráve.”

“Nazdráve.”

They drank again.

“Let’s get to it, shall we?” Rhodes said. “Clock’s ticking.”

“Of course. Follow me. Oh, wait. I almost forgot.” Zvezdev reached into his left coat pocket and produced the Makarov and handed it to him. “You’ll need this.”