At the same time, he was smart enough to know that, as a witness, he too would be in line to be eliminated. He would do as the man said, but his mind was already working on ways to fold his business and leave Yakutsk. He nodded, his mouth dry, and opened a cabinet that housed a state-of-the-art radio.

Within minutes, he had contacted the ivory hunters. Using a carefully crafted code in case someone was listening, he called the leader of his team, a violent man named Grisha, who was a Sakha descendant of the Mongols that had lived as ivory hunters going back hundreds of years. He relayed the instructions. Grisha asked only for clarification to make sure he had heard the order correctly, but otherwise had no questions.

“It's done,” he said, replacing the microphone.

The Mafia man nodded. “I will come back tomorrow to make sure.”

Karpov wiped the sweat off his brow after the man left. He didn't know which was worse, dealing with the cutthroats from Moscow or the cutthroats who worked for him. What he did know was that his days in Yakutsk were numbered. He would be safe until they brought someone in to replace him, but, in the meantime, he would activate plans made long ago. He had millions of dollars in Swiss bank accounts.

Geneva would be nice. Or Paris or London. The gem business would be profitable.

Anything would be preferable to a Siberian winter.

He smiled. The Mafia may have done him a great favor.

NUMA 6 - Polar Shift

22

PETROV WAS LEAVING his office in the drab Moscow government building when his secretary told him he had a telephone call. He was in a foul mood. He had been unable to extricate himself from a diplomatic party at the Norwegian embassy. Norway, for God's sake! Nothing but smoked fish to eat. He planned to get tanked up on vodka and disgrace himself. Maybe they wouldn't invite him back.

“Take a message,” he had growled. As he was going out the door, he turned. “Who's on the line?”

“An American,” his secretary said. “He says his name is John Doe.”

Petrov looked dumbstruck. “You're sure?”

Petrov brushed by his astonished secretary and returned to his office, where he snatched the phone off the desk and stuck it to his ear. “Petrov here,” he said.

“Hello, Ivan. I remember when you answered the phone yourself,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“And I remember when you were still named Kurt Austin,” Petrov said. His snarl didn't match the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

“Touché, old pal.Still the same old, sharp-tongued KGB apparatchik. How are you, Ivan?”

“I'm fine. How long has it been since the Razov affair?”

“A couple of years, anyway. You said to call if I ever need a favor.”