Hard Passage. Don Pendleton

Only the richest and most influential people lived there.

      Once a high-ranking military power broker inside the Soviet Union before its dissolution, the tide of change had forced Satyev to flee his country. He’d barely escaped with his life, and it had taken a number of years to secure his holdings and move his liquid assets safely out of the now-defunct commerce system. The cash from his investments had proved more than adequate to satiate his eclectic if not rather lavish tastes and within a few years he’d establish a sound reputation within the American business community.

      With his personal and professional reputation now reestablished in a new land, Satyev set upon a course for reinstating the Communist Party in his homeland while profiting from the socialist fanaticism of those who considered themselves pure revolutionaries.

      This morning, though, Satyev had awakened to a new sensation, one he’d not experienced for more than a decade: dread. And he was going to make sure that the man who arrived soon heard about it. That man was Jurg Kovlun, a former Spetsnaz commando and head of Satyev’s personal security force during his tenure with the Party. Kovlun showed up shortly after Satyev finished his breakfast in front of an open-pit fire that his servants had lit to keep off the morning chill.

      “Good morning, sir,” Kovlun said.

      Satyev waved him into a seat across from him at the table. He reached into the pocket of his robe and opened a silver case. “Cigarette?”

      Kovlun nodded and gingerly removed one. Satyev took one for himself, which he affixed to a long cigarette holder, gestured for a light, and then once they were both comfortable and smoking he dismissed the house servant who had attended them.

      “I’m not happy, Jurg,” Satyev said. “What is going on with this operation?”

      “I’m sorry, Comrade Colonel, but I’m afraid I do not understand.”

      Satyev pulled the long stem of the holder from his mouth, exhaling slowly through his nose as he repeated “You don’t understand” several times. “I see. Well, let me ask it another way. Why the fuck are two members of the Sevooborot running around the Mother Country shooting off their mouths about our agreement with the Jemaah al-Islamiyah? Hmm? And more importantly, why the fuck are they breathing? Hmm? Can you explain that, Comrade?”

      “Ah, yes I have just recently heard of this.”

      “Why have you just recently heard of it?” Satyev demanded.

      “Well, I—”

      “Never mind,” Satyev cut in, raising a hand. “I’m sure I don’t want to know why your men aren’t keeping you properly informed. That is not my problem to work out. Rather, it is yours. And you will work it out, Jurg, or I’m going to become very angry with you, and I’m sure you do not want that.”

      “No, sir,” Kovlun replied quickly and he took a few short, successive puffs from his cigarette.

      “Take care of this, and I mean soon. Otherwise, I’ll have to find someone else to handle this little problem. Understood?”

      A few quicker, more nervous puffs. “Perfectly.”

      “Fine. Now, tell me about the rest of the operation and how it’s proceeding.”

      “We’ve secured the weapons we were promised, and the training is almost complete. I expect the first operation to begin tomorrow night.”

      “Where will it begin?”

      “It starts in Seattle. By the timeline you’ve given us, we’ll then move operations slowly down the West Coast until we reach Los Angeles. Then we will begin to expand toward the east. We expect everything to be completed within the year, just as you originally planned it.”

      “Good, good,” Satyev said with a nod. “I cannot be any more satisfied with this news. What of our personnel issues?”

      “We’re still having a bit of trouble getting some of the JI’s men into the country. None of our personnel have had a problem, but with the crackdowns it’s more difficult to get Muslim males through customs without them being subjected to some scrutiny.”

      “Maybe I can do something about that,” Satyev replied. “Maybe we need to change the cover stories. Perhaps we can convince the American government they are mostly students, refugees of the recent violence against foreign immigration into Russia.”

      “That might speed things up considerably, sir,” Kovlun agreed.

      “I’ll see what I can do.” Satyev made a show of looking at his watch. “In the meantime, you have a plane to catch. I want you in place in Seattle well before the operations begin. You are to personally oversee every phase of it.”

      “Of course, Comrade Colonel.” Kovlun jumped to his feet, nodded at Satyev in respect and then headed for the patio doors.

      “And, Kovlun?”

      “Yes, sir?”

      “Don’t forget to take care of that little problem we discussed. Rostov and Cherenko can never testify. Never. Do whatever you have to, but make sure those two are dead before the sun sets.”

      “Consider it done, sir,” Kovlun replied.

      WHEN KISA NARYSHKIN MET Leonid Rostov, she never expected he would be part of the Sevooborot; she definitely never expected to fall in love with him.

      In some ways, their relationship had been doomed from the beginning. When she first discovered he was a member of one of the most violent youth gangs in all of Russia, she felt betrayed and incensed that he could deceive her about his business dealings. She remembered the encounter that night in her parents’ home where she was house-sitting while they were away on vacation. She recalled how they argued, how she screamed “I hate you” over and over again, and demanded that he decide between her or his murderous cohorts. That was when he’d broken down and professed his love for her, and they sat in the middle of the living-room floor, crying and holding each other. That was the same night they made love for the first time, when she had fully and completely given herself to him.

      And that was the night she agreed to help him get out.

      “But only if you help Sergei, too.”

      Naryshkin’s contacts in the Russian government had proved the saving grace for her love and his friend. It hadn’t taken much to convince certain people that Rostov had information of considerable value to the United States. A whisper in the ears of a few select people working at the municipal records building. Someone had to have told the right people because less than a week passed before Naryshkin received a plain, unmarked envelope on her desk. Inside were instructions for the meeting.

      She arrived two minutes early at the gift shop of a massive building, a new construction at the edge of Alexander Park, known as the Palace of the People. A work of the St. Petersburg Committee of Temperance, the building included an opera house and massive dining area, and the gift shop stuffed with souvenirs and trinkets of every kind acted as a type of guardian near the entrance. The back of that shop served as the meeting place.

      The man who met with Kisa Naryshkin didn’t offer his name or agency, and she decided it better not to ask about such things, but when the conversation got under way she had no doubts this man could help her beloved Leo.

      “I’ve been led to understand,” said the distinguished-looking man with gray eyes, salt-and-pepper hair and a British accent, “that you know a man who holds a high-ranking position inside the SMJ.”

      Naryshkin nodded, the stray dark hairs of her head dancing in the golden morning rays that shone through the skylight. “It is my boyfriend, actually, Leonid Rostov. He is a member of the Sevooborot. I do not know his ranking inside of it. And his friend,” she added quickly as an afterthought. “The deal is for his friend, as well. Sergei Cherenko.”

      The man smiled not unpleasantly. “You must understand, Miss Naryshkin, that there isn’t necessarily any deal on the table right now. My friends must