“We'll reminisce over our drinks,” Austin said. “Sorry to cut you off, but I've got to make some calls. I'll call you with my final travel details.”

Petrov said he understood, and told Austin to be in touch. He hung up, and told his secretary to cancel the car that was supposed to take him to the Norwegian embassy. He called the Russian embassy in Washington. No one there knew about his bureaucratic exile, and he was able to authorize papers that would get Austin and Zavala into Russia for a NUMA scientific expedition. After he had been assured that the paperwork would be delivered within the hour, he sat back in his chair and lit up one of the slim Havana cigars he favored, and thought about his encounters with the brash and daring American from NUMA.

Petrov was in his forties, with a broad forehead and high cheekbones. He would have been handsome, if not for the massive scar that defaced his right cheek. The scar was a gift from Austin, but he bore the American no ill will. He and Austin had clashed several times when they were working for specialized naval intelligence units in their respective countries during the Cold War. Things got hot when their paths crossed during a Soviet attempt to capture a sunken American spy submarine and its crew.

Austin had rescued the crew, and warned Petrov that he had placed a timed explosive charge on the sub. Angry at being bested, Petrov dove in his minisub and was caught in the explosion. He had not held the incident or the resulting scar against Austin, and, in fact, took it as a lesson not to let his temper guide his actions. Later, when they found themselves working together on the Razov affair, they proved a formidable team. If Austin thought he was going to cut him out of some fun in his own country, he was greatly mistaken, Petrov ruminated. He picked up the phone to start things rolling.

AUSTIN WAS on the phone to Zavala. “I was on my way out the door,” Zavala said. “See you at NUMA.”

“There's been a change of plans,” Austin said. “We're going to Siberia.”

“Siberia!” Zavala said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “I'm Mexican American. We don't do well in the cold.”

“Just remember to pack your fur-lined jock and you'll be fine. I'm bringing along my blunderbuss,” he said, using Zavala's nickname for his large-caliber Bowen revolver. “You might want to pack some insurance as well.”

He arranged to meet Zavala at the airport, and went to dig out clothes that would be fit for arctic conditions.

THOUSANDS OF miles away, Schroeder was in his cramped cabin, taking one more look at the topographical map before he set foot on the island.