Prologue
3 a.m., April 19, 2002
Outskirts of Albany, NY
Cold sweat trickles down my spine as our ambulance careens through the early morning blackness. The siren’s incessant scream could be my own.
Lorie grips my hand, her nails digging into my flesh. A decent husband would pull her close, whisper soothing, although false reassurances. Instead, the blood roars in my ears. I lean forward, straining past the eerie shadows dancing in our wake.
Have they found us? A man of lecture halls and libraries hunted down like a terrified fox—the baying hounds of Bolshevik ghosts hot on my heels!
Our undercover agent taps his earpiece. “Sir, the FSB is ten minutes out.”
Ten minutes? To live or die?
Lorie braces against my shoulder as we make the sharp turn onto the dirt road.
The agent mutters, “Two miles to the cliffs.”
I swallow the bile collecting in my throat. I think of my sons—three faces frozen in my mind. No phone call. No warning.
Will I see them again?
The ambulance slows to a crawl.
Lorie’s lips tremble. She whispers, “I love you.”
Our agent gestures toward the rear. “Get ready.”
We crouch on the floor, the cold metal gritty beneath my palms. The agent kicks the door open and the wind whips into the cabin. In one fluid motion, he rolls out and runs alongside, waving me down. I push down the terror and maneuver my long legs over the edge. The sudden impact jars my spine. I stumble on the loose gravel but reach back. Lorie’s hands find mine. Soon, she’s in my arms—shaken, but safe. Our driver quickly follows.
The vehicle veers toward the cliff, the tires spitting gravel, its headlights illuminating the sheer drop like twin arcs. The siren’s choking gasp followed by an alarming silence before the world turns into a roar of splintering metal and shattering glass. Fiery spirals of sparks reflect off our faces. The stink of burning rubber and gas thicken the air, but we’ve done it!
Our agent points to a van idling near the cluster of trees. “Go with God.”
As he and the driver turn toward a second vehicle farther down the road, Lorie pulls me toward the waiting headlights. “Steve, come on!”
With fading flashes behind us, we scramble into the back seat. The driver steps on the gas, and the engine roars to life.
It’s useless to look back—fifty-six years of sweat and triumph scattered like a broken string of pearls on a marble floor.
I bury my face in my hands and silently curse my father.