The flight across the strait took less than two hours. Providenya airport was on a scenic bay surrounded by sharp-peaked, gray mountains. The town had been a World War II stopover for lend-lease aircraft being flown to Europe from the United States, but those glory days were in the past. There were only a few charter planes and military helicopters at the airport when the plane taxied up to the combination flight tower and administration building, a tired-looking, two-story structure of corrugated aluminum that looked as if it went back to the time of Peter the Great.

As the only arriving passengers, Austin and Zavala expected to be processed quickly by customs and immigration. But the attractive young immigration agent checking paperwork seemed to read every word on Austin's passport. Then she asked for Zavala's papers as well. She placed the passports and visas side by side.

“Together?” she said, looking from face to face.

Austin nodded. The woman frowned, then she signaled an armed guard who had been standing nearby. “Follow me,” she barked like a drill sergeant. Gathering their papers, she led the way to a door on the other side of the lobby, with the guard taking up the rear.

“I thought you had friends in high places,” Zavala said.

“They probably just want to give us the key to the city,” Austin replied.

“I think they want to give us a shot,” Zavala said. “Read the sign over the door.”

Austin glanced at the red letters on the white placard. Written in English and Russian was the word QUARANTINE. They stepped through the door into a small, gray room. The room was bare except for three metal chairs and a table. The guard followed them into the room and posted himself at the door.

The immigration agent slapped the papers down on the table. “Strip,” she said.

Austin had caught a few hours of sleep on the plane, but he was still bleary-eyed and wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. The woman repeated the order.

Austin smirked. “Gosh. We hardly know each other.”

“I've heard the Russians were friendly. But I didn't know they were that friendly,” Zavala said.

“Strip or you will be made to strip,” the woman said, glancing at the armed guard to emphasize her point.

“I'll be glad to,” Austin said. “But in our country, ladies go first.”

To his amazement, the woman smiled. “I was told that you were a hard case, Mr. Austin.”

Austin was beginning to smell a rat. He cocked his head. “Who would have told you something like that?”

The words were barely out of his mouth when the door opened. The guard stood aside and Petrov stepped into the room. His handsome face was wreathed in a wide grin that looked lopsided because of the curved scar on his cheek.

“Welcome to Siberia,” he said. “I'm glad to see that you are enjoying our hospitality.”

“Ivan,” Austin said with a groan. “I should have known.”