PART THREE

Moscow, August 1991

Ambassador Stephen Metcalfe approached the leader of the commandos, the KGB Alpha Group that had ordered his limousine to stop. The street was dark, empty, the old buildings in this ancient part of the city looming above them ominously.

“Are you in charge?” he demanded.

The commando leader replied in Russian, a torrent of officialese. Metcalfe switched to Russian. Even half a century later, he had not forgotten Alfred Corcoran’s rule number one: When challenged by authority, you must always lay claim to a greater authority. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he barked. “You should have our license plate number, our names. God damn it to hell, we’ve been summoned by the chairman of the KGB himself, Vladimir Kryuchkov! All roadblocks were supposed to be notified!”

The commando’s fierce expression gave way to one of confusion. The American’s certitude, combined with his dignified bearing, intimidated even this trained killer.

Metcalfe continued, “And why the hell did the motorcycle escort never arrive?”

“I was not told anything about a motorcycle escort!” the commando shot back defensively.

Metcalfe knew that, because of the crisis, most communications were down. There would be no way for the KGB group to check back with their superiors. And in any case, Metcalfe’s claim was too outrageous not to credit.

A moment later, Metcalfe and his Russian friend returned to the limousine, which was then escorted through the roadblock.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” the general said. “It’s been over fifty years. A half a century.” He reached out a hand and patted Metcalfe’s breast pocket, feeling the large, bulky shape of the pistol. “Are you ready for this?”

“I don’t know,” Metcalfe replied honestly.

“Remember the old Russian maxim,” said the general in a voice that crackled like old leather. “Fate makes demands of flesh and blood. And what does it most often demand? Flesh and blood.”