the ladder. He scrambled up with lowered head against the sandy fury. General Lysenko was ahead of him, already disappearing through the hatch with the urgent tugging of the co ‐ pilot. Next came the goateed man who wordlessly climbed aboard, entered the cargo area, and sat down on the bench opposite the two Russians.
The co ‐ pilot was leaning out of the cockpit with one hand grasping the bulkhead, trying to see Major Rudenko emerge from the raging dust at the foot of the ladder.
“ Close the hatch!” General Lysenko shouted.
The co ‐ pilot turned with a puzzled look to the General, then eyed the new arrival with the goatee and hooded cassock.
“ Close the hatch!” Lysenko commanded. “Get the devil out of here!”
General Lysenko sensed that as long as the goateed man was in the air with them, no sudden calamity could befall them. When they landed in Aswan, he assured himself, he would wash his hands of this strange sorcerer and let the Illegals Section do whatever they wanted with him.
The secret police general was visibly agitated.
“ Come now, my General,” the goateed man soothed with palatable cynicism, “you know that a pact like ours requires a seal of blood—a small token to assure our success.”
Lysenko said nothing. He had to presume the sacrifice of Major Rudenko was approved by Commissar Dekanazov in the Kremlin. He looked at Colonel Kuznetsov, wondering how much more his subordinate may have been told. Colonel Kuznetsov’s return challenging stare—so unusual in a subordinate and typically self ‐ destructive during the Stalinist era—convinced him he was just as stunned.
Colonel Nicholai Kuznetsov’s raging eyes were, in fact, demanding to know whether it could have been him, instead of Major Rudenko, who was sacrificed.
“ It’s no loss,” General Lysenko felt compelled to murmur. “Rudenko was suborned by the American CIA,” he lied.
The goateed man leaned back against the fuselage and listened to the rhythm of the toiling engines. He was pleased to see how handily his Teacher had sown fear and discord between the remaining secret policemen. The unholy monk knew his own task held great promise. His wicked smirk remained fixed in that satisfaction, obscured from view by his shadowy hood.
Urgently, the helicopter labored out of the dark recesses of the narrow canyon and headed westward toward the Nile in the moon ‐ bathed landscape of the open desert.
The Near Future
Chapter 1
Colonel Christopher Caine was leaning on the fender of a black limousine parked in the north oval of The White House. He gazed around the expansive grounds, drawing in the sweet smell of April and trying to locate an elusive mockingbird whose call was coming somewhere from the new growth of holly bushes lining the drive.
He spotted the bird darting in and out of the bushes toward the north portico. The charcoal bird swooped effortlessly around the cylindrical light that hung prominently above the entrance, then disappeared into another thicket of bushes along the white façade of the Executive Mansion.
A uniformed Secret Service officer standing at the entrance noticed it too and followed the flight of the bird with a leisurely gaze that indicated a momentary respite from the sameness of standing guard at the entrance to the President’s residence. Colonel Caine’s eyes met those of the officer. They nodded slightly, recognizing each other’s presence.
Caine’s ruggedly handsome features broke into a brief private smile. He was thinking of this peaceful interlude in an almost pastoral setting which surrounded the nerve center of the nation and to a great extent a large portion of the known world. Colonel Caine stood unchallenged in the driveway, but he knew that the Secret Service officer would confront him if he came onto the portico—his military uniform notwithstanding. Funny, he mused, just two generations earlier
The co ‐ pilot was leaning out of the cockpit with one hand grasping the bulkhead, trying to see Major Rudenko emerge from the raging dust at the foot of the ladder.
“ Close the hatch!” General Lysenko shouted.
The co ‐ pilot turned with a puzzled look to the General, then eyed the new arrival with the goatee and hooded cassock.
“ Close the hatch!” Lysenko commanded. “Get the devil out of here!”
General Lysenko sensed that as long as the goateed man was in the air with them, no sudden calamity could befall them. When they landed in Aswan, he assured himself, he would wash his hands of this strange sorcerer and let the Illegals Section do whatever they wanted with him.
The secret police general was visibly agitated.
“ Come now, my General,” the goateed man soothed with palatable cynicism, “you know that a pact like ours requires a seal of blood—a small token to assure our success.”
Lysenko said nothing. He had to presume the sacrifice of Major Rudenko was approved by Commissar Dekanazov in the Kremlin. He looked at Colonel Kuznetsov, wondering how much more his subordinate may have been told. Colonel Kuznetsov’s return challenging stare—so unusual in a subordinate and typically self ‐ destructive during the Stalinist era—convinced him he was just as stunned.
Colonel Nicholai Kuznetsov’s raging eyes were, in fact, demanding to know whether it could have been him, instead of Major Rudenko, who was sacrificed.
“ It’s no loss,” General Lysenko felt compelled to murmur. “Rudenko was suborned by the American CIA,” he lied.
The goateed man leaned back against the fuselage and listened to the rhythm of the toiling engines. He was pleased to see how handily his Teacher had sown fear and discord between the remaining secret policemen. The unholy monk knew his own task held great promise. His wicked smirk remained fixed in that satisfaction, obscured from view by his shadowy hood.
Urgently, the helicopter labored out of the dark recesses of the narrow canyon and headed westward toward the Nile in the moon ‐ bathed landscape of the open desert.
The Near Future
Chapter 1
Colonel Christopher Caine was leaning on the fender of a black limousine parked in the north oval of The White House. He gazed around the expansive grounds, drawing in the sweet smell of April and trying to locate an elusive mockingbird whose call was coming somewhere from the new growth of holly bushes lining the drive.
He spotted the bird darting in and out of the bushes toward the north portico. The charcoal bird swooped effortlessly around the cylindrical light that hung prominently above the entrance, then disappeared into another thicket of bushes along the white façade of the Executive Mansion.
A uniformed Secret Service officer standing at the entrance noticed it too and followed the flight of the bird with a leisurely gaze that indicated a momentary respite from the sameness of standing guard at the entrance to the President’s residence. Colonel Caine’s eyes met those of the officer. They nodded slightly, recognizing each other’s presence.
Caine’s ruggedly handsome features broke into a brief private smile. He was thinking of this peaceful interlude in an almost pastoral setting which surrounded the nerve center of the nation and to a great extent a large portion of the known world. Colonel Caine stood unchallenged in the driveway, but he knew that the Secret Service officer would confront him if he came onto the portico—his military uniform notwithstanding. Funny, he mused, just two generations earlier
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