White Mountain. Dinah McCall

upward from the sidewalk grates, blending with the guttural mingling of vowels and consonants that made up the Russian language. It was all music to Frank Walton’s ears. He wanted to shout back—to sing the songs of his youth and dance until there was no more breath in his body. But he’d given up that part of his life too long ago. Not even now—when he was so close to his deathbed—could he take the chance and reveal his true self.

      So he thrust his hands in his pockets and moved on down the street, satisfied for the moment just to be in this place.

      Vasili Rostov cursed the ache in his knee as he stepped into an alcove away from the wind to light a cigarette. When the end caught and the tobacco began to burn, he took a deep drag and then held it, waiting for the nicotine to kick in. It came quickly, wrapping around his senses and easing the tension in his mind. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke out through his nose as he turned. The old man he’d been trailing was still in sight. So he took another drag from the cigarette before he began to move, always staying at least a block behind. As he walked, his gaze moved from window to window, eying the opulence and abundance of that which was America. Not for the first time, he thought of staying. After the job was finished, of course. He loved his homeland, but the constant chaos in the government was disgusting to him—not like the old days. Then he’d been one of the youngest and best of Russia’s finest agents, revered in higher circles, and proud of his KGB status and the strength in his body. Women had fawned over him. Other agents had envied him. His superiors had depended on him.

      Now he did nothing. They called it retirement. For Rostov, it was like being sent to an early grave. Even though he was in his mid-sixties, he was still strong. His belly was hard and flat, and the years had added character to his face rather than age.

      Ironically, it wasn’t age that had sidelined him. It was his inability to keep up with the ever-changing modes of technology. These days, a good portion of the spy game depended upon understanding everything from lasers to computer chips, which left him out of the running. So his days were spent in taverns, reliving the past with others of his ilk, and the nights in his one-room flat, watching government-run television programs on a twelve-inch black-and-white set with the scent of a neighbor’s boiling cabbage and potatoes drifting in from the crack beneath his front door. Communism had been good to him and his family. It had made his country strong. With the coming of democracy, his world had crumbled as surely as the Berlin Wall. For several years afterward, people had stood in the streets selling personal belongings just to keep from starving. Homelessness had become rampant, and the long lines at bread bakeries and supermarkets were made even more tragic by the fact that there had been little food available to buy for those who still had money.

      Now things were better, but they would never be the same. Democracy was as obscene to him as a four-letter word, and now the Russian Mafia had more power than the government. He’d learned to adjust, because it was what he did best. He’d settled into a routine that, while less than stimulating, was more luxurious than what he’d known as a child.

      And then a week ago there had come a knock at his door. He’d opened it to find four dour-looking men who’d told him to pack a suitcase. Within hours, he’d been briefed, given American money and a cell phone, and put on a plane bound for New York City. The reason was almost comical to Rostov. He was back in action for the simple reason that he was part of the past. He’d come to America for one reason only. To find a ghost.

      Now, here he was, tailing a stoop-shouldered old man with a fondness for borscht. He didn’t look like a ghost to Rostov, but from the color of his complexion, he wasn’t far from becoming one.

      When the old man stopped at a crosswalk, Rostov paused, too, turning toward the windows of the jewelry shop by which he was standing. To the passersby, it would appear that his interest was on the display of rubies and pearls, but in truth, the window was his mirror to the sidewalk across the street.

      He stood until the light turned green and the Walk sign began to flash, then he pivoted quickly. Dodging traffic, he bolted across the street, losing himself in the stream of pedestrians through which the old man was moving.

      He knew the man’s name was Frank Walton. Supposedly a retired botanist from Braden, Montana, who had come to Brighton Beach for a holiday. But there was a particular reason why Vasili Rostov had been yanked out of retirement and sent on this mission, and the picture in his pocket was part of the mystery. Tonight he would meet this old man face-to-face. If what Rostov suspected was true, his name would once again be spoken with respect.

      Frank laid his safety razor by the sink and then peered at his face in the foggy mirror before pronouncing himself shaved. His belly hurt—part of the growing cancer eating away at his inner parts—yet he was determined not to let it ruin the upcoming evening. The hotel concierge had told him about a wonderful restaurant only a few blocks from the hotel that offered a floor show with dinner. The chance to hear more music from his homeland was too enticing to miss. Ignoring the gnawing pain, he swiped a towel across his face, splashed on some pine-scented aftershave and went to finish dressing.

      Tomorrow he would be going back to Montana—back to his friends and to Isabella. He smiled as he thought of her—dark, laughing eyes and a heart-shaped face—the daughter he’d never had. She called him Uncle, just as she did all of Samuel’s friends.

      Samuel Abbott was Isabella’s father. He’d been their leader from the beginning. A frown turned his smile upside down as he glanced at the phone. They hadn’t wanted him to leave Braden, and yet he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell them why. They didn’t know about the cancer. He would tell them later—when he could no longer conceal the pain.

      He glanced again at the phone. He should really call and let them know he was coming home tomorrow, but then he looked at the clock and changed his mind. It was getting late, and if he didn’t hurry, he would be late for his reservation. He didn’t want to miss the start of the show.

      Shrugging off the thought, he told himself it wouldn’t really matter. He would be home by this time tomorrow, and then he could talk to his heart’s content.

      A few minutes later he was in the hotel lobby, then out on the street. More than a dozen people were curbside, waiting for cabs. He frowned, realizing he should have called ahead for a cab, and then looked at his watch to check the time. If he waited much longer he would be late. The restaurant was about twenty blocks away, which, in his weakened state, might as well have been miles, yet he opted to walk.

      It was a fine September evening. Traffic was brisk. The air had cooled since sunset, making the walk more pleasant. Obviously he wasn’t the only one who thought so. The sidewalk traffic was as busy as that in the well-lit streets. He walked with his head up and his shoulders back, and for a time he let himself believe he was young and strong—and home.

      About five blocks from his destination, he heard someone call out a name. At first, it didn’t register, and he kept on walking. But then he heard it again.

      Vaclav Waller. Someone had yelled the name Vaclav Waller.

      He stumbled, then froze—afraid to turn around, afraid not to. Before he could move, a man stepped out of the alley to his right. The man spoke again, and only then did Frank realize the man was speaking to him in Russian.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, pretending ignorance. “Were you speaking to me?”

      This time the answer came back in perfect English.

      “What do you think, old man?”

      When Vasili Rostov stepped into the light, Frank Walton shuddered. He didn’t know him, but he knew his kind. He’d seen that cold, passionless gaze far too many times in his youth not to know the kind of man he was facing. And with recognition came the knowledge that they’d found him—after all these years, when he was almost at the end of his life.

      “I think you’ve made a mistake,” Frank muttered, and began to walk away. He’d taken only three steps when the man grabbed his arm.

      “No mistake,” Rostov said, speaking Russian again. “We talk.”

      Before Frank could call out for help, the man stuck