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Now Paul became deeply suspicious. In addition to Gamay’s words, he could feel the Gemini picking up speed.
“Where exactly are we going?”
Gamay shook her head. “All I know is, Dirk told me we’d better break out the cold-weather gear.”
“So that’s why you’re out here,” Paul said.
“Figured I’d better enjoy the sun while I can.”
Paul and Gamay often worked closely with Kurt and Joe. And, in most of those cases, once the ride picked up speed, they got more than they’d bargained for. If the pattern held, the next day or two would probably be their last chance to relax for quite a while.
“How about that stroll?” Paul asked.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Gamay replied.
SIXTEEN
Eastern Siberia, 1700 hours
Mist fell on the grassy steppes of the Kamchatka Plain. The mottled gray sky obscured the mountain peaks and threatened rain.
“Pull!”
With that shout, the gates of several cages were opened. The flutter of wings burst forth.
Three shots rang out. Three birds, fleeing in different directions, fell in rapid succession, feathers exploding outward like dust.
Standing in the middle of the carnage, Anton Gregorovich pumped another shell into the shotgun’s breach. Three shots, three hits.
Grinning at his own prowess, he placed the weapon down and glanced at his two assistants, teenage boys who crouched by a circle of cages. “How many left?”
“Four,” one of the boys said.
“All of them, this time,” Gregorovich demanded.
The boys nodded and rigged the cages. Gray-winged birds jumped nervously in the traps.
Gregorovich stood calmly. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, listening for the sound of flight.
Six foot two, two hundred and forty-five pounds, Gregorovich wore fatigue pants in an Arctic-camouflage pattern and no shirt at all, despite temperatures barely out of the thirties. His muscular body was no more than one percent fat. He subsisted on a diet of almost pure protein, engineered supplements, and nutrient cocktails developed by the Russian Olympic Team. Standing motionless, he looked like a statue, like some sculptor’s version of the ideal man carved from a block of stone.
In many ways, he was more fit than any athlete since his regimen included steroids and human growth hormones and other factors banned by the athletic associations of the world.
It was only fair. In his world, the consequences of failure were not represented by second-place medals or dismissal from an event. If Gregorovich faltered, he died.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said quietly.
Silence for a moment. He could sense the boys creeping into position, moving the cages quietly, unwilling to give anything away. He appreciated that they wanted to test him. He kept his eyes closed, his heart rate steady, and his mind clear. Seconds ticked by, followed by the sudden bang of the cage doors opening.
Gregorovich snapped his head up and opened his eyes. In an instant, he’d fixed on the birds, once again flying in different directions. He yanked a pair of Makarov pistols from holsters on his hips like those of a gunslinger from the Old American West.
He spun to the right with a gun in each hand and pulled both triggers. The two pigeons on that side went down simultaneously.
He twisted to the left, spotted the third target, flying low. He took aim with his right hand and fired twice. The pigeon dropped into the long grass. The fourth was fifty yards off by now.
Gregorovich fired both guns at it, clipping a wing. The bird fell in a spiral, like a World War Two aircraft that had been shot down. It hit the ground before he could fire again and finish it for certain.
“Damn it!”
