About the Author

A career Air Force officer, MERLINE LOVELACE served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam, and at the Pentagon. When she hung up her uniform for the last time, she decided to combine her love of adventure with a flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her experiences in the service.

Since then, she’s produced more than eighty action-packed novels, many of which have made USA Today and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. Over eleven million copies of her works are in print in thirty countries. be sure to check her website at www.merlinelovelace.com for contests, news, and information on future releases.

Strangers
When We Meet
Merline Lovelace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the men and women of

the Mighty Ninety, charged with the awesome

responsibility of keeping 150 Minuteman III ICBMS

on full alert 24-hours a day, 365 days a year.

Impavide!

Prologue

The annual reception for foreign ambassadors was one of Washington D.C.’s premiere White House events. A string quartet floated exquisite background melodies above conversations held in a host of different languages. White-gloved servers passed among the crowd with silver trays of canapés and sparkling crystal champagne flutes. In addition to diplomats from dozens of nations, the guest list included cabinet members, key congressional leaders and high-powered U.S. agency heads.

Tall, tawny-haired and elegant in his Armani tux, Nick Jensen stood with his wife, Mackenzie. To most of the elite in the room, Jensen was the president’s special envoy. The generally meaningless honorific had been bestowed over the years on a succession of wealthy campaign contributors. A mere handful among the glittering assembly knew Nick—code name Lightning—also served as director of OMEGA, an organization so secret that its operatives were activated only by direction of the president himself.

Mackenzie had been active in OMEGA herself until giving birth to twins a few years ago. So had the two people who crossed the room to greet her and Nick. Mac’s eyes lit up at the sight of a couple who’d been both mentors and role models for her and her husband.

“Maggie,” she said with a rueful smile, “you look too damned gorgeous to be a grandmother.”

It was true. Maggie Sinclair Ridgeway showed only a fine trace of lines at the corners of her sparkling brown eyes and a mere touch of silver in her upswept hair. Her gold lamé Versace gown clung to a figure every bit as svelte as that of her daughters. One of those daughters had presented Maggie and her husband, Adam, with ready-made grandkids when she’d adopted two orphans from Hong Kong a few years ago. Soon Gillian would give birth to a third.

The proud granddad slipped an arm around his wife’s waist. Adam Ridgeway, code name Thunder, wore his years as easily as Maggie did. His hand-tailored tux showcased a lean, athletic body, and his laser-blue eyes held the same penetrating shrewdness that had made him one of OMEGA’s most skilled and lethal operatives before he assumed duties as the agency’s director. He now headed the UN’s International Monetary Fund while Maggie served as an adjunct professor at Georgetown. The love between them still sizzled in the slow smile Adam gave his wife.

“She looks damned gorgeous, period,” he said in response to Mackenzie’s observation.

Their shared years at Omega had forged a bond between the two couples that could never be replicated by others who hadn’t experienced the chalky taste of fear or exhilarating thrill of pulling off an op against all odds. They reminisced about some of their hairier ops while sipping champagne and sampling the internationally inspired canapés served on silver trays by the White House staff.

A megarich restaurateur in his non-OMEGA life, Nick had just given his stamp of approval to a savory glazed lamb minikebob with Moroccan carrots and tahini puree when he spotted the president with his head bent close to the Russian ambassador’s. Although both wore bland smiles, their body language suggested their conversation had veered away from the usual polite chitchat at soirees such as this one.

So Nick wasn’t all that surprised when the president’s chief of staff made her leisurely way through the crowd some time later and headed in his direction. With a warm smile, the striking brunette acknowledged Maggie, Adam and Mackenzie. Her expression didn’t change when she turned to Nick, but the message she conveyed belied her relaxed pose.

“If you don’t mind staying a bit after the reception, Lightning, the boss would like to chat with you.”

She used his code name in a low murmur that only he and the other three could hear over the chatter and music. Nick nodded, and Adam facilitated the meeting by offering to drive Mac home.

Nick met with the president in his book-lined study in the family residence. John Jefferson Andrews was still lean and fit and boyishly handsome, although the responsibilities of his office had added their share of creases to his face. He’d lost his wife to cancer before he’d run for the presidency. In the view of most of the country, he’d done a damned fine job of raising his teenaged daughter in the fishbowl of the White House. But he would always be grateful to Nick and OMEGA for spoiling a fiendish plot that had played his daughter’s mental stability in an attempt to get her worried father to resign during his first year in office.

As a result, his professional relationship with Nick had ripened into a deep and abiding friendship. The ease between them showed in the way Andrews yanked loose his bow tie, let the ends dangle and popped the top button on his pleated shirt before splashing brandy into two crystal snifters.

“I need something to wash down all that sparkling cider,” he admitted with a wry smile.

As Nick knew well, the president never indulged in alcohol at social or political functions and rarely drank in private. Andrews flatly refused to risk impairing his judgment when he could be called on to make life-and-death decisions at any moment. That he would allow himself a few sips of the two-thousand-dollar-a-bottle limited-production special cuvée that had been a gift from the French president spoke volumes.

He passed Nick a snifter and held his up in silent salute. The brandy slid down the men’s throats like liquid gold. Its mellow fire still lingered on the back of Nick’s tongue when Andrews broached the reason for this meeting.

“The Russian ambassador reminded me that their team was gearing up for the first inspection under the new START treaty.”

“As if you needed a reminder,” Nick commented drily.

All of Washington knew how much political capital the president had expended to push through the new nuclear-arms-reduction pact and how eager his opponents were to see it blow up—metaphorically speaking!—in his face.

“The team will arrive at Francis E. Warren Air Force Base next month.”

The president met and held the eyes of his director of OMEGA, each slipping into their respective roles easily.

“I need you to make sure this inspection goes off without a hitch, Lightning. Put your best operatives on it.”

“They’re all equally skilled,” Nick replied without a hint of exaggeration. “But I have one who fits this op like a glove. I’ll bring him in tomorrow for prebrief. He’ll be primed and in the field when the Russian team arrives.”

“Good.” Andrews’s face was dead serious now. “Last thing I—or the country—needs is for some accident or misunderstanding to kick off a nuclear high noon.”

Chapter 1

“How would you like to get back into an air-force flight suit for a few weeks?”

Sloan Hamilton, code name Dodge, smiled wryly as he steered his rented Jeep 4x4 toward the front gate of Francis E. Warren Air Force Base, on the outskirts of Cheyenne, Wyoming. He had the windows open to the cool September air, shimmering with a crystalline clarity. Dodge’s thoughts weren’t on the purity of his native Wyoming atmosphere, however. Instead, he replayed conversation that had taken place in a windowless control center back in Washington, D.C., just four days ago.

That’s all it had taken. One casual suggestion from

Lightning and Dodge had jumped at the chance to get back in the cockpit again. Not that he didn’t have plenty of opportunity to fly in his civilian job. The other civilian job. The one that didn’t involve crashing headfirst through eighth-story windows or being inserted into a damned near impenetrable jungle in pursuit of some sleazoid drug runners. Conducting aerial surveys in his steady, sturdy Cessna wasn’t anywhere near as much fun as piloting an air-force UH-1N, though. The helo was Vietnam-era vintage, but after several generations of modifications it was still the best and most reliable chopper in the air.

As it turned out, Dodge should have asked for a little more detail before accepting this assignment. Instead of driving a Huey, he was about to undertake what looked to be one of his tamest missions for OMEGA—riding herd on a three-person Russian team that would arrive in Cheyenne tomorrow to inspect U.S. Minuteman III missiles in accordance with the new START treaty.

True, the president had just signed the treaty after more than a decade of fierce negotiations between Russia and the U.S. Also true, recent tensions between the U.S. and Russia had made this first inspection under the new protocols a matter of intense interest at the highest national security levels. Still, Dodge would have much preferred a task that involved flying his old bird to babysitting a Russian major and her two teammates.

Even a Russian major who looked like this one.

He glanced at the file on the passenger seat. Clipped to its outside was a brief bio that included a head-and-shoulders shot of Larissa Katerina Petrovna. The fact that the photo was in black and white and a little grainy in no way detracted from the major’s ice-maiden beauty. Her hair looked as pale as fine champagne. Her wide-spaced eyes stared back at Dodge from above a straight, aristocratic nose. Her mouth was full and ripe and downright sensual.

He knew from the detailed briefing he’d received at OMEGA headquarters, before departing for Cheyenne, that those eyes were electric-blue. He also knew the puckered skin on the left side of Petrovna’s neck and jaw were the result of horrific burns she’d suffered in the apartment fire that had killed her husband and almost claimed her baby girl.

Dodge felt a flicker of sympathy, quickly doused. A female didn’t make it to the rank of major in any air force, Russia’s included, by being soft or welcoming expressions of sympathy. And judging by the jobs Larissa Petrovna held on her way up the ranks, the woman was tough as nails. More to the point, she was here to do a specific task.

So was Dodge, although he had to admit, being back in Wyoming was almost as much of a plus as being back in uniform. His gaze shifted to the snow- and-pine-covered mountains on the horizon. They looked close enough to reach out and touch, but he knew how deceptive the expanse of rolling plain between here and those jagged peaks could be. He should. He’d ridden fence lines on these wind- and snow-swept plains often enough.

He’d grown up just a little over an hour north of here. He and his cousin Sam. Closer than brothers, they’d tickled trout in mountain streams and brought cattle down from the high country each fall. They’d also eaten their share of dirt after being bucked off angry bulls and mean-tempered broncs while competing in rodeos in and around Cheyenne. Sam was the one who’d hung Dodge’s nickname on him, commenting laconically that his cuz was a whole lot better at dodging bulls’ horns than staying on their backs.

Grimacing over the memory of how close one particular set of horns had come to gelding him, Dodge wheeled through Francis E. Warren’s gate one. Just inside the gate stood three gleaming white missiles, mute testimony to the base’s current mission.

A legacy of President Lincoln’s plan to establish a transcontinental railroad, the original outpost had been established in the 1870s to protect Union-Pacific workers from hostile Indians. Gradually, it had grown into the largest cavalry post in the nation. Troopers assigned to the fort had endured the bone-biting winter winds that howled across the plains, participated in the Great Sioux Indian Wars and over the years watched their role transform from cavalry to field artillery to airplanes to sleek, intercontinental ballistic missiles.

Now, the 90th Missile Wing headquartered at Warren controlled a lethal arsenal of Minuteman III missiles spread across twelve thousand square miles of Wyoming, Colorado and Nebraska. The Mighty Ninety, as it was known in air-force parlance, took its nuclear mission very, very seriously. There was zero tolerance for mistakes in judgment when you controlled the launch codes for ICBMs.

Making a left turn onto Old Glory Road, Dodge followed the traffic flow down a sloping hill to the marshy lowlands of Crow Creek, then back up to the newer part of the base. A few more turns took him to the tan-colored, corrugated-tin building that housed the 37th Helicopter Flight. He found a parking space and clamped a hand on his flight cap to anchor it during the short walk to the door.

Luckily, he’d retained his status in the reserves. When the Russians checked him out, as he knew they would, his cover was that he’d been recalled to active duty because of critical manpower shortages due to the 37th’s support of operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. To give substance to that cover, Dodge had arrived at the base two days ago and gone through refresher training on the Huey. Although his escort duties didn’t require him to fly, even the most cursory check of flight records would show that Major Sloan “Dodge” Hamilton was current in all phases of the UH-1N.

Dumping his gear in the large, open room that served as the pilots’ office, he snatched a cup of coffee and headed down the hall to check the operations center status board. With luck, he might snag another few hours in the cockpit before he went into babysitting mode.

“Hey, Major.” The duty officer manning the ops desk gave him a message instead of another flight. “The CO wants to see you.”

Nodding, Dodge retraced his steps through the corridors to the flight commander’s office. He’d known Lt. Colonel Sean McGee for years, had flown with him back when they were both gung ho lieutenants doing combat rescue. Dodge greeted his friend back with the irreverent graveyard humor that had earned McGee his nickname.

“Morning, Digger. You want to see me?”

“Not me. Colonel Yarboro.”

Dodge’s brows lifted. “The Mighty Ninety commander? Why?”

“His exec didn’t offer any specifics. Just said Yarboro wants you to report to his office.” Propping a boot on an open desk drawer, McGee tilted back in his chair. “Might have something to do with my suggestion, though.”

“The one that involves my permanent transition back from civilian status?” Dodge asked with a smile.

“That’s the one.”

“Wish I could oblige.”

McGee knew Dodge now ran his own aerial-survey company. He didn’t, however, know about his work for OMEGA. The agency was so secret that few people outside of a trusted handful were even aware of its existence.

“Think about it,” McGee urged. “You haven’t lost your touch. My guys tell me you aced both checkrides.”

“Yeah, well,” Dodge drawled in the Wyoming twang he’d never quite shed. “Flyin’ a Huey’s like makin’ love to a beautiful woman. Once you get her out of the chocks, everything else comes naturally.”

McGee grinned. “You’ve sure as hell gotten more than your share out of the chocks. And escaped their clutches afterward. You and I both know your handle doesn’t come just from dodging bulls.”

Dodge kept his smile in place and let the comment slide. He’d loved once, or thought he had. The memory could still slice into him when he let it.

“I’d better go see what the colonel wants.”

He reported in to the commander of the 90th Missile Wing fifteen moments later. Seated behind a desk roughly the size of Kansas, Colonel Yarboro returned his salute and waved him to a seat.

“You ready for the Russian team?”

“Yes, sir.”

The colonel’s eyes raked him from head to toe. Good thing Dodge had had his shaggy brown hair trimmed and boots buffed. OMEGA undercover operatives tended more toward comfort than spit and polish when in the field. Rejoining the air force, even temporarily, had called for some spiffing up.

Yarboro was only one of three people who’d been read in on the real reason for Dodge’s sudden appearance at F. E. Warren. Everyone else had been fed the cover story. The colonel wasn’t happy about having an outsider foisted on him, though. Even one with Major Sloan Hamilton’s military and civilian credentials.

“Before you make contact with Major Petrovna,” he said brusquely, “I want to make sure you understand who you’re up against.”

Yarboro lifted a typed sheet and skimmed down the page. A career missileer who’d worked his way up from launch officer to commander of the world’s most sophisticated ICBM force, he targeted the salient items with pinpoint accuracy.

“Born, Bryansk. Age 33. Widowed. One child. Attended the Gagarin Air Force Academy. Holds advanced degrees in both math and astrophysics.”

That would strike a cord with the colonel, Dodge guessed. Yarboro had earned a doctorate from MIT in astrophysics himself.

“She pulled a tour as a relatively junior officer at strike-force headquarters in Moscow, then commanded a SS-18 squadron.”

Those accomplishments didn’t exactly endear her to either Dodge or the colonel. The missile officers assigned to the 90th spent twenty-four hours at a stretch some eighty feet below the ground, locked behind eight-ton blast doors while they played a deadly game of chicken with their Russian counterparts. The cold war might have ended for the rest of the world. It hadn’t cooled more than a few degrees for the men and women charged with the nerve-twisting task of nuclear deterrence.

“Petrovna spent the past four years at various staff jobs,” Yarboro continued, “including two with the research-and-development directorate. Word is that Colonel Zacharov, head of Russian military intelligence, handpicked her to head this special team because of her expertise.”

Dodge kept silent. He knew Petrovna’s background as well as the colonel did. There was a reason Yarboro was reiterating her credentials. Probably had to do with the fact that Washington had sent Dodge in to bird-dog her instead of using one of the locals.

“When you meet Petrovna and her team at the airport this afternoon, you’ll bring her by here for a courtesy call,” Yarboro instructed. “Tom Jordan, our treaty compliance officer, will conduct the orientation briefing at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow morning. He’s lined up additional escorts to take care of the other two team members.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yarboro leaned forward, his eyes intent. “This is the first inspection under the new START treaty. I don’t need to tell you how important it is.”

The new START.

The acronym didn’t quite fit, Dodge thought cynically, since the Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty just signed by the presidents of the U.S. and the Russian Federation was the third treaty by that name. Each iteration had led to a reduction of nuclear war heads and strategic delivery systems, but the two superpowers still fielded some fifteen hundred nuclear warheads each.

“The top dogs on both sides will be watching,” Yarboro warned. “We don’t want any screwups.”

Dodge didn’t remind him that was why the president had tapped OMEGA to send someone in.

“No, sir.”

“Just get the Russians where they need to go, when they need to go. And make sure they observe the inspection protocol.” Yarboro thumped a thick binder sitting on the side of his desk. “I assume you’ve read it.”

Yeah, he’d read it. Its title was as mind-numbing as its dozens of chapters.

Protocol to the Treaty Between the United States of America and the Russian Federation on Measures for the Further Reduction and Limitation of Strategic Offensive Arms

The document covered everything from the on-site verification of active nuclear assets to the disposal of warheads taken out of service. Then there was the section labeled Escort Officer Duties, with separate tabs for housing, transportation, meals, clothing, handling of equipment and contacts with the media. The damned volume had taken most of four hours to get through.

“According to the protocol, I’m supposed to do everything but wipe the major’s nose,” Dodge commented.

“You do that, too, if necessary.”

Looked to be a fun couple of weeks, he mused, as the colonel continued.

“I want you to keep two key points in mind, Hamilton. One, Major Petrovna communicates her team’s needs through you and only through you. Two, the treaty accords these people what amounts to diplomatic status. Their quarters, work area and papers are sacrosanct. And while they’re expected to abide by the host-country laws, they enjoy a high degree of immunity.”

“Right.”

The two men’s eyes locked. They both knew the Russians were charged with the collateral mission of gathering intelligence on U.S. systems.

“Previous team members have been observed dropping pencils or pens at missile sites,” Yarboro commented. “When they bend down to retrieve the fallen article, they scoop up a soil sample for later analysis. And many pretend they can’t speak English, in hopes of overhearing chance conversations, although their biographies clearly indicate a facility with the language.”

“I know the major is fluent in English,” Dodge commented. “The others with her not so much.”

“Captain Tyschenko can get by,” Yaroboro confirmed. “Aleksei Bugarin speaks German and French, as well as some English. But be particularly careful what you say to him. He’s FSB.”

FSB—Federal Security Service—Russia’s modern-day successor to the KGB. If half of what Dodge had read about KGB tactics held even a grain of truth, they’d been one bad bunch of boys and girls. FSB was proving itself worse.

“Bugarin’s job is to keep a close eye on the other members of the team and report immediately any suspicious activity,” Yarboro stated succinctly. “Your job is to do the same.”

To Dodge’s surprise, the colonel unbent enough to give a flinty smile.

“I’m as familiar with your background, Hamilton, as I am with Major Petrovna’s. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble handling the team.”

Dodge didn’t think so, either. Right up until the jet carrying the team taxied up to the air-national-guard side of the Cheynne airport late that afternoon.

He was waiting inside the terminal with the two other members of the escort team. Lieutenant Benjamin Tate was an earnest young officer, proud of both his shiny missileer badge and his African-American heritage. Senior Master Sergeant Lewis sported a shock of red hair, five rows of ribbons on his uniform jacket and a sleeve full of stripes. Given his years of experience, he’d been assigned to escort Aleksei Bugarin, the FSB officer. Dodge kept an eye on the passengers exiting the craft and ran through a final list of dos and don’ts.

“Remember, we’re not supposed to get too friendly with these guys. Don’t let them take any pictures without prior approval. Don’t exchange gifts, except small trinkets like coffee mugs or unit patches, and be sure to run any trinket the Russians offer you by the Office of Special Investigations to have it checked for bugs. And don’t make any physical contact, except to prevent serious injury.”

“Roger that,” Sergeant Lewis acknowledged.

“There they are,” the lieutenant murmured.

Dodge had no difficulty identifying Major Petrovna when she appeared. The treaty required inspec tion personnel to wear civilian clothes while visiting a host country, but even in her badly cut navy suit, she was striking. She wore her silver-blond hair pulled back in a high twist that emphasized her sculpted cheekbones. A decidedly aristocratic nose gave her an elegant air, at odds with that lush, sensual mouth.

When she got closer, Dodge saw that her eyes were blue, as her bio had indicated. A deep purplish-blue, almost the same color as the monkshood that blanketed the high valleys in spring—also known as wolfsbane, women’s bane, the Devil’s helmet and the blue rocket, Dodge reminded himself wryly. Highly toxic if the roots were ingested. Something he’d best remember.

Those intense blue eyes flicked over him, taking in his height, stance and uniform in a quick, assessing glance before moving to the two men with him. As she approached, Dodge spotted the puckered skin on the left side of her neck and lower jaw. Not even that spiderweb tracery of scars could detract from the overall package.

The look she gave him as he extended his hand was another story. It went past cool and hovered somewhere around icy.

“Welcome to Cheyenne, Major Petrovna. I’m Dodge Hamilton.”

She gave his hand a brisk shake, after which they took turns introducing the others. Then she got right to the point in heavily accented English.

“My team requires transportation to their quarters. You will arrange it, then escort me to call upon Colonel Yarboro so I may present my credentials.”

Although the clipped instructions coincided exactly with Dodge’s intentions, that imperious “will” had him lifting a brow. The lady was obviously used to being in charge.

“Lieutenant Tate and Sergeant Lewis will help your folks with the baggage and drive them to their quarters,” he replied. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you directly to the wing headquarters.”

Leading the way, he escorted his charge out of the terminal to the blue air-force sedan parked at the curb and opened the passenger-side door. Petrovna slid into her seat without so much as a nod or word of thanks.

If the grueling flight from Moscow and nine-hour time differential had sapped the major’s energy, she didn’t allow it to show. Sitting ramrod straight in the passenger seat, she answered Dodge’s polite question about her flight in curt monosyllables, and displayed no trace of weariness during the fifteen-minute drive from the airport.

Her blue eyes absorbed Cheyenne’s rolling landscape, then locked on the tall, white missiles standing sentry at the base’s front gate. When the gate guard had waved them through and the white-trimmed brick buildings of the old fort appeared, Dodge made another attempt to break the ice.

“The base started life as a cavalry post. It’s part of our wild-and-woolly Western heritage.”

“I know this,” Petrovna replied repressively. “I haf been …” She stopped, corrected herself. “I have been here before, on an inspection team under the old treaty.”

So much for that conversational gambit. Flicking the directional signal, Dodge turned into the parking lot beside the two-story brick building that housed the headquarters of the 90th Space Wing. Once parked, he reached behind him for a fat envelope.

“This contains your identification badge, a base directory and a paper copy of the slides that will be presented at the in-brief tomorrow.”

He passed over the package. The major accepted it without comment.

“You should wear the badge whenever you’re on base.”

With a look that said she was perfectly aware of the protocol, Petrovna clipped the plastic identifier to the lapel of her navy suit jacket and didn’t wait for Dodge to come around and open her door.

Her low-heeled black pumps beat a precise tattoo on the sidewalk as she led the way to the headquarters’ front entrance. Sturdy outer wooden doors opened into a glassed-in foyer, designed to break the force of Wyoming’s constant winds. Once inside the foyer, security forces checked their badges and handheld articles before waving them through.

Some kind of high-powered meeting had just broken up, Dodge saw. A small crowd of civilians in expensive-looking suits and power ties were just filing past the security checkpoint. The badges dangling from their suit pockets identified them as contractors. Dodge picked up bits and pieces of conversation as the group passed.

“The Pentagon’s still working the RFP.”

“… won’t release the initial specs until January.”

“We’re talking five, maybe six years for development, integration and testing.”

The last speaker had already passed, but his voice snagged Dodge’s attention. It was low and rough. Almost rasping. As if someone had punched the man in the throat and he was still getting his wind back.

“I don’t see it happening,” Gritty Voice was saying, “before …”

“Ummph!”

With a startled grunt, Dodge collided with the woman who’d stopped in her tracks just ahead of him. The force of the collision propelled Petrovna into a near free fall. He lunged forward and caught her just in time.

Whoa! There was a real woman under those layers of permafrost. Dodge didn’t exactly cop a feel. He had a little more class than that. Besides, there was the treaty’s explicit prohibition against touching. But he certainly registered a set of long, sinuous curves under her shapeless navy suit.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Reluctantly, he set her on her feet. “Colonel Yarboro’s office is straight ahead.”

Instead of moving on, the Russian pivoted slowly.

“This way, Major Petrovna.”

She paid no attention. She stood rooted in place, staring at the backs of the departing men. Every trace of color had drained from her face. Her blue eyes were glassy with shock.

Chapter 2

“Major?”

Petrovna didn’t respond. She’d gone so pale that the puckered skin on her neck and lower jaw stood out like the shadowed craters of the moon.

“Major Petrovna? Are you okay?”

Dazed blue eyes swung toward Dodge. “Shto?”

“Are you all right?”

The blonde didn’t answer. She stared blankly at him for several seconds, then pushed past. Backtracking through security, she shoved open the door to the building’s exterior and searched the crowd now climbing into various vehicles. Whatever she saw didn’t appear to satisfy her. Spinning around, she fired off a torrent of Russian.

“Sorry,” Dodge said. “I don’t understand.”

With an obvious effort, she fought to recall her English. “Did you see him?”

“See who?”

“The one who speaks … How do you say? Like a … Like a …”

“You mean the guy who growled like a dog?”

“Yes! The one who growls like the dog. Did you see him?”

“I heard him, but I didn’t see him.”

“Do you know who he is, this one?”

Dodge didn’t have a clue, but he sure as hell intended to find out.

“From their badges,” he said slowly, “I’d guess he was part of a group of civilian contractors.”

He waited for her to explain. When she didn’t, he pressed her. “What’s with the growler? Have you crossed swords with him before or something?”

“What do you say?”

“Obviously, you recognized that guy’s voice. How do you know him?”

“I …”

Petrovna lifted a hand. The fingers she pressed against her scars were trembling, Dodge noted with a sudden kink in his gut.

“I once …”

“You once what?”

The question seemed to recall her from wherever her racing thoughts had taken her. Abruptly, she dropped her hand. Beneath the rumpled suit jacket, her shoulders stiffened.

“I think perhaps I hear a voice like this one before. I make the mistake.” Turning, she marched down the hall. “Come, we will be late for my appointment.”

“Hold on!”

Dodge caught up with her in three quick steps. When she refused to slow, he said to hell with the rules and snagged her arm.

“You looked as if you were about to pass out on me a moment ago. Why did hearing that growl almost buckle your knees?”

“I make the mistake.”

She glanced down pointedly at his hand. When she lifted her gaze again, she could have chipped granite with her flinty stare.

“We waste time. Come.”

Stiff-spined, she swept down the hall. Dodge trailed her, swallowing a few decidedly uncomplimentary remarks about Russians in general, and tight-assed Russian majors in particular.

They were ushered into the 90th Missile Wing commander’s office a few minutes later. Although the major maintained her stiff, professional manner, she unbent a little during the courtesy call. Once, she even smiled. Just a polite curve of her lips, but even so, the transformation was startling.

Well, damn! Good thing she didn’t do that more often, Dodge thought. Her snow-princess looks were enough to make a man start thinking of ways to initiate a spring melt. When she thawed even a few degrees, his thoughts took a sharp jump into long, hot summer nights.

The brief thaw probably had a lot to do with the fact that she and the colonel spoke the same missileese. Within minutes, the two astrophysicists had left Dodge behind in the technical dust.

When they were joined by the vice-commander, Dodge used the cover of polite conversation to slip into the outer office and pop a question at the colonel’s administrative assistant.

“Can I ask a favor, ma’am?”

“Sure.”

“When Major Petrovna and I entered the headquarters building a little while ago, we passed a passel of civilian contractors. Would you check and see if there was a meeting or briefing in the conference room they might have been attending? If so, I need the name and telephone number of the officer who set it up.”

“No problem.”

She punched a button on her intercom. Within moments, she’d obtained the requested information from the conference-room scheduler.

“It was a briefing on the proposed new exoatmospheric defense system,” she informed Dodge. “Lieutenant Colonel Haskell from the plans directorate conducted it.”

She scribbled his name, office symbol and phone number on a pink memo slip.

“Thanks.”

Stuffing the slip into a zippered pocket of his uniform, Dodge waited for Petrovna to make her farewells. Once they were back in the sedan and headed for the quarters set aside for the visiting team, he tried again.

“About the voice you heard in the hallway. You sure you don’t want to tell me why it spooked you?”

Petrovna’s jaw clenched, stretching her scarred skin tight over the bone. “I make the mistake. We will speak no more of it.”

Wrong. They would speak about it a whole lot more, once Dodge got a tag on Dog Voice.

“You will take me to my quarters so I may rest from the flight,” she announced coldly. “Tomorrow, you will report at oh-six-hundred. We must breakfast before the in-brief.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, with just enough of an edge to cause her to cut him a quick look.

“You must escuse me if I sound …” She waved a hand, searching for the right word. “If I sound …”

“Uptight?” Dodge supplied helpfully. “Like maybe you sat on the pointy end of a missile?”

Her jaw dropped. She stared at him for several seconds before a gleam of what looked suspiciously like laughter lit her eyes. She controlled the impulse before it could make it to her lips.

“You will excuse me,” she said again, repressively. “It has been a long day.”

Dodge figured that was as close as he was going to get to an apology. Nodding, he cut through the traffic headed off base and circled the parade ground. Stately homes left over from the cavalry days lined two sides of the meticulously mowed field. On the south end were the long, low buildings that once had housed unmarried cavalry officers. They now served as Visiting Officers’ Quarters.

The buildings’ exterior retained the look of the 1880s. The redbrick walls, tin roof and long, white-painted porches were all original. Successive renovations, however, had brought the interiors up to modern comfort standards. Each suite contained a living room and bedroom, with a bath and small kitchenette tucked into the hallway between the two. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in earth-toned fabrics, and the accessories scattered around the rooms reflected Warren’s frontier heritage. Lamps made of welded horseshoes sat on the end tables. A shadow box displaying crossed cavalry swords hung above the campaign-style desk. Framed prints and wide windows brought Wyoming’s spectacular mountains and rolling plains into the room.

In keeping with his cover of a reservist recalled to active duty to assist during severe pilot shortages, Dodge was quartered in the VOQ across the parking lot. He would have preferred to bunk down with his cousin Sam on the Double H, but the ranch was more than an hour’s drive north of Cheyenne. This arrangement let him keep a closer eye on his charge.

He’d checked the major’s suite earlier to make sure the cupboards were stocked and the protocol office had delivered the prerequisite gift basket. It sat on the coffee table as Petrovna skimmed a quick glance around the living room and dropped her briefcase on the desk. After ascertaining that her suitcase had already arrived, she confirmed the room numbers assigned to her teammates before dismissing her escort.

“I will see you tomorrow.”

Dodge ignored the brush-off. The woman intrigued him in more ways than one. With her odd reaction at wing headquarters front and center in his mind, he tendered a casual invitation.

“The pantry’s stocked with soup and such, but I could pick up you and your folks after you’ve rested and take you to dinner.”

“We ate the sandwich on the airplane.”

“You’re sure?”

“Da.” The blonde held out an impatient hand for the key. “You may leave now. And …” As if recalled to her manners, she gave him a quick nod. “I thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Her brief spate of cordiality ended, she dismissed him once again. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Damn straight she would, Dodge thought as he tipped two fingers to his forehead in a casual salute.

It took every bit of Lara’s iron discipline to keep her face expressionless and her voice steady until the door closed behind the American officer.

As soon as it shut, her discipline imploded and the tremors she’d fought with every ounce of her being took over. Her arms and legs began to shake. Her breath shortened to strangled gasps that cut through the silence of the suite like a Cossack saber.

That voice! That rasping growl! It couldn’t be the same one she’d heard that horrific night. It couldn’t.

Blindly, she groped her way to the nearest chair and collapsed. Her breath razored from her lungs through a throat clogged tight. As if it were yesterday, she could feel the heat scorching her face, her hands. Feel the paralyzing panic as the wall of fire roared toward her. She’d screamed for Yuri, for Katya. Dragging off her heavy military overcoat, she’d wrapped it around her head and was about to plunge through the wall when her husband burst through the flames with their baby daughter in his arms.

Lara didn’t cry. Not anymore. She hadn’t since the night her husband died in her arms. But she couldn’t hold back an agonized groan as she rocked in the chair and tried to force the searing memories back into the black corner of her soul where they would always live.

Larissa Petrovna was front and center in Dodge’s mind when he pushed through the door at the end of the long hall and stepped into an early dusk. The ever-present Wyoming wind nipped at his face and hands as he walked past the blue sedan he’d been assigned for the duration of the Russians’ visit. He would have preferred to chauffeur the major around in his rented 4x4, but protocol dictated a vehicle with USAF markings and license plates for their official duties.

His quarters were just across the parking lot. The rooms were similar in design and layout to Petrovna’s, and a hell of a lot more comfortable than some of the rat holes he’d occupied during other ops. As he keyed the lock, he kept returning to that business outside the wing commander’s office. What the heck was that all about?

Tossing his hat and keys on the table, he checked his watch. Just a little past six. He fished out the piece of paper with the number jotted down by the wing commander’s administrative assistant. Colonel Haskell had probably left for the day, but Dodge decided to give him a call anyway.

Haskell picked up on the third ring. He was, he informed Dodge, just on his way out the door.

“Then I’ll make this quick. I understand you gave a briefing at wing headquarters this afternoon.”

“That’s right. The subject of the briefing wasn’t classified, but I’ll tell you right up front I can’t discuss any of the specific issues we addressed over an open phone line.”

“I’m more interested in the attendees than the issues. One attendee in particular. A civilian contractor.”

“There were upward of thirty contractors in the room.”

“This one spoke in a low, sort of rasping voice, as if he had something stuck in the back of his throat.”

“I know who you mean. His name’s Hank Barlow. He’s the CEO of E-Systems.” He paused a moment. “What’s your interest in him?”

Dodge fully intended to report Major Petrovna’s reaction to this guy Barlow. It had been too odd to let pass. He’d confine his report to those with a need to know, though.

“I heard his voice as he was going out of the head quarters and I was coming in,” he said easily. “Thought I knew him from somewhere and was curious as to his identity.”

“Now you know. Want me to track down his number for you?”

“That’s okay. I can get it. Thanks.”

He hung up and made two additional calls. The first was to the Office of Special Investigations. The OSI conducted counterintelligence ops within the air force, in addition to investigating everything from terrorism to desertion, drug trafficking and/or murder.

The local OSI duty officer patched him through immediately to the F. E. Warren detachment commander, Lt. Colonel Paul Handerhand. Hander hand listened without comment when Dodge described Major Petrovna’s odd behavior, and promised to have his people check out Hank Barlow.

“I’ll do the same,” Dodge advised.

That was met with a short silence. Handerhand had been read-in on some of Dodge’s background and knew he’d been brought in from an outside agency. That was all he knew.

“Let me know what you find out,” Handerhand said briskly.

“Same goes.”

Dodge disconnected and pressed the star key on his cell phone. The instrument looked ordinary enough, but Mackenzie Blair Jensen, the agency’s guru of all things electronic, had crammed in enough circuitry to bounce signals off a supernova. The device also performed an instant thumbprint, iris scan and voice analysis to identify the user’s biometrics and detect if he or she was under duress before connecting to OMEGA’s control center.

The high-tech control center was located on the third floor of a town house in the heart of Washington D.C.’s embassy district. All a casual passerby would see if they strolled past the town house was a discreet bronze plaque identifying the building as home to the offices of the President’s Special Envoy. The title was one of those empty honorifics dreamed up to give a wealthy campaign contributor a chance to rub elbows with Washington’s movers and shakers. A mere handful of insiders knew that the President’s Special Envoy also served as director of OMEGA. As such, he fielded highly trained and specialized agents, only at the direction of the president and only when it wasn’t expedient to use other, more established agencies.

Which said a lot about Washington’s determination to make sure this START III inspection went off without a glitch. With the international situation so precarious and wild-eyed insurgents blowing themselves up all around the world, the last thing either the U.S. or Russia needed was an incident that could lead to a nuclear showdown.

Feeling the weight of all those nukes on his shoulders, Dodge held the cell phone up so the scanner could beam his iris print. Seconds later, his controller’s face painted across the screen.

“Hey, Dodger.”

“Hey yourself, Blade.”

Clint Black, code name Blade, had been with OMEGA almost as long as Dodge himself. They’d worked several ops together and would trust each other with their lives. That trust didn’t extend to women, though. Blade was still plotting payback for the fun-loving UPI reporter Dodge had whisked out from under his nose last year.

Although … Dodge and everyone else at OMEGA had been watching with some interest the fireworks that sparked between Blade and one of the newer agents. The betting was Blade’s sharp edge was about to get blunted, big-time.

“How’s it going out there in cowboy country?”

“It’s going,” Dodge replied.

After a succinct status report that included his initial impressions of the three Russians, he broached the reason for his call.

“I need you to check out a dude by the name of Hank Barlow. He’s the CEO of E-Systems.”

“Hank Barlow. E-Systems. Got it. Anything in particular you want me to look for?”

“See if he has any connection to our visiting Russians.”

“Roger that. I’ll get back to you.”

Blade hung up and keyed the name into OMEGA’s computers. While the supercomputer did its thing, he skimmed a glance around the busy control center.

It was geared to operate 24/7. Active and passive electronic countermeasures prevented interception of its encrypted emanations. Communications techs kept the array of computers and wall-size digital displays humming. Even the field-dress unit, which could turn a grungy agent just back from three weeks in the jungle into a tuxedoed James Bond in the blink of an eye, had at least one team member working some esoteric disguise or another.

Blade dragged his chair closer to the operations control panel to key in the name of the individual and company Dodge had just requested data on. Blade intended to run both through a wire-tight screen. He’d done enough covert ops for OMEGA to know success or failure on any mission hung by a thread. A late contact, a small detail buried under others, a blurred photo—any or all of them could spell disaster. He’d just started skimming the info that came when his nemesis strolled in.

“Oh, Christ.”

Victoria Talbot, code name Rebel, caught the low mutter and pasted on a saccharine smile.

“Good to see you, too.”

Blade blew out a slow breath and swung around to face the honey-haired operative. She was dressed in her usual leather: bomber jacket, thigh-hugging pants, boots, all the same thin, supple black. All she needed to complete the image of an oversexed biker babe were a few tattoos.

It wasn’t that Blade disliked the woman. Hell, the truth was, she turned him on. But they’d had this love/hate thing going ever since they’d clashed during Rebel’s first week at OMEGA. It had been a simple misunderstanding, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t need to knock Blade flat on his ass. Wouldn’t have, if he’d had the least inkling she would even try.

They were both professionals. They’d smoothed things over. On the surface, at least. But they both knew whatever the hell was going on beneath that surface would blow up in their faces one of these days.

“You need something?” he asked, with a credible attempt at civility.

“No. Just wanted to check on Dodge.” She cranked her too-sweet smile up another notch. “I thought I could help, since he and I are both former air force.”

And Blade wasn’t. Obviously she thought his stint as a lowly army special-forces grunt didn’t count for squat when dealing with one of her fellow hotshot pilots.

“Thanks anyway, but I’ve got it under control.”

“You sure?” Her glance flicked from him to the screen. What she saw there made her lift a brow. “Hank Barlow? Is that the E-Systems guy?”

She crowded closer to peer at the screen. Too close, dammit. Blade got a whiff of her scent as she leaned over his shoulder. How the hell could leather smell so sexy?

“E-Systems,” she murmured. “Yep, that’s him.”

Much as it galled him, Blade had to ask. “You know him?”

Rebel hitched a hip on the console, forcing him to scoot his chair back to give her room.

“I hauled Barlow across the pond a couple times when I was still flying VIP transport,” she commented. “He was heading some high-powered trade delegation. Had ambassador status, or something close to it. Why are you checking him out?”

“Dodge says he’s at F. E. Warren.”

“So?”

He stifled the urge to tell her this was his op and she could take herself and those come-get-me leathers elsewhere. Talbot might rub him exactly the wrong way, but she was as good at this business as any operative he’d ever worked with.

“One of the members of the Russian inspection team froze up after a chance encounter with Barlow. Dodge wanted me to see if the man has a connection to Moscow.”

“I can answer that,” she said with only a trace of smugness. “The trade delegation I just mentioned? They were negotiating with the Russians.”

Chapter 3

Dodge was still chewing over the information Blade had relayed when he crossed the parking lot between the VOQs at oh-dark-thirty the next morning. The insulated bomber-style jacket he wore over his flight suit provided more than adequate protection from the predawn chill, but not from the doubts swirling around inside his head.

Blade had confirmed Larissa Petrovna’s presence in Moscow during at least three of Barlow’s visits to that city. What was their connection? And why had she denied there was one? OMEGA was digging deeper into Barlow’s background. In the meantime, Dodge would do his damndest to find out what was going on behind the major’s ice-maiden facade.

Lieutenant Tate and Senior Master Sergeant Lewis were waiting at the entrance to the VOQ. They peeled off to collect their charges, and Dodge rapped on Petrovna’s door. When she answered, he almost did a double take. The woman looked like a ghost in the dim light spilling into the hallway. Purple circles shadowed her eyes. Tired lines were etched into her face. She wore a black turtleneck sweater under the jacket of her navy suit instead of yesterday’s white blouse. The dark shades contrasted cruelly with her pallor.

Jet lag must have smacked the major right between the eyes. Or was her obviously restless night connected to her knee-jerk reaction yesterday? Dodge’s gut told him it was the latter, but he kept his expression polite and his voice casual as he offered a choice of breakfast establishments.

“There’s a Burger King on base as well as the chow hall. Or we could drive into town if you prefer.”

“The dining facility is best. I will get my briefcase, then we go.”

She left the door standing open while she disappeared into the bedroom. Dodge was careful not to step inside uninvited. The treaty protocol had emphasized that inspectors’ living quarters were to be accorded the inviolability given to the private residences of diplomatic agents.

Dodge’s duties as an escort required him to make sure the major’s basic needs were taken care of, however. He scanned the living area with a quick glance. Interesting that Petrovna hadn’t yet left her mark on the room. No clothes or books lay scattered over the furniture. No dirty dishes sat in the sink or on the kitchen counter.

The only personal item of any kind was the eight-by-ten framed photo on the desk. The photographer had captured a pigtailed girl of five or six. She was holding a kitten up to the camera. Her gap-toothed grin was so mischievous that it drew an answering smile from Dodge.

“Pretty little girl,” he commented when the major walked back into the living room.

Her glance went to the photo. “So do I think.”

“Is she your daughter?”

He wasn’t prepared for the effect the simple question produced. Before his eyes, Larissa Petrovna’s face softened and a hint of a smile curved her mouth.

“Da. That is my Katya.”

Well, damn! The woman was a stunner even when encased in ice. Without it, she took on a transcendent beauty. Hoping to prolong the transformation, Dodge ventured another observation.

“She looks like she’s a handful. A youngster with a lively spirit,” he interpreted, at her questioning look.

“A most lively spirit.” Her almost-smile turned rueful. “She does not understand the meaning of nyet, that one.”

For a few dangerous moments, Dodge stopped thinking of Larissa Petrovna as a Russian and the target he’d been sent to keep in his sights. She looked all too human as she gazed at the photo of her daughter. Human, and surprisingly fragile.

Everyone had their weak point, some family secret or prized possession or passion that made them vulnerable. Dodge’s years in the field had taught him a number of innovative—and occasionally brutal—ways to discover and exploit those weaknesses. Yet as he studied Petrovna’s face, he found himself hoping he wouldn’t have to exploit this particular weakness.

That thought stayed with him as he escorted her through the predawn darkness to the sedan. The temperature inside the vehicle was as cold as it was outside. From the corner of his eye, he caught the series of shivers that wracked his passenger.

“Do you want to go back to your room for a coat?”

“No.”

“You sure? It’s supposed to warm up this afternoon, but the weather around here’s pretty unpredictable.”

“I am sure. You will drive, please.”

Dodge put the sedan in gear and waited for the engine to warm before he flipped on the heater. The hot air that gushed out would soon have him sweating under his flight suit and jacket, but he figured a little perspiration was better than nursing Larissa Petrovna through a bout of pneumonia.

They waited for the other team members and escorts to claim their vehicles, then drove to the dining facility. Major Petrovna took a tray from the stack at the end of the self-serve counter and proceeded to fill a coffee mug and a plate with modest helpings of sliced peaches, scrambled eggs and bacon. Her teammates, however, appeared stunned by the array of choices offered. They broke into excited Russian and heaped plates and bowls to overflowing. Dodge took last place in line and signed the meal chit for the team.

Petrovna ate sparingly and watched with barely disguised distaste as the heavyset Aleksei Bugarin went back for seconds, then thirds. The scarred skin on the side of her chin was drawn tight when she glanced pointedly at her watch.

“It grows late,” she told the FSB officer coolly. “We must leave.”

Bugarin swiped the last of the gravy from his plate with two slices of bread, crammed them into his mouth and nodded.

The in-brief at the 90th Missile Wing headquarters lasted for more than two hours. The wing battle staff filled the high-backed blue chairs around the oval conference table, with three seats reserved at the table for the Russian team. Dodge sat beside his charge, Lieutenant Tate and SMSgt. Lewis behind theirs.

Tom Jordan, the wing’s treaty compliance officer, took the podium to the left of the oval conference table. Major Petrovna took the podium to the right. As the sides came up on screen, Jordan briefed it and the major translated it into Russian for her teammates. They began with a detailed recap of the provisions of the new START treaty and progressed to an even more detailed discussion of the inspections.

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