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amount of Semtex was five times more than necessary for the job.
    Chernov relatched the seat bottom in position, softly closed the door,
and as the freight elevator began to descend, ducked under the barrier, hurried back to his car and drove away.
    â€œThat was quick,” the guard at the ground level said.
    â€œI just had to deliver something,” Chernov said.
    â€œWell, have a good evening, sir,” the guard said. He raised the barrier.
    Chernov headed past the Presidium to the Spassky Tower where the guard languidly raised the gate and waved him through. Threats came from outside, and besides no one of any importance was inside the Kremlin tonight. Anyway, all colonels were damned fools.
    After clearing Red Square, Chernov drove out to Krasnaya Presnya past the dumpy American Embassy on Tchaikovsky Street to a block of old, but well-maintained apartments near the zoo and planetarium.
    Traffic downtown was heavy, but out here the shops were all closed and the neighborhood streets were quiet, though lights shone in many windows. Russians loved to stay up late talking. In the old days they fitted blackout curtains on their windows. These days they weren’t worried.
    All that would change, Chernov thought as he drove around back and parked the Mercedes in a garage. Tarankov truly believed he had the answers for Russia. Likely as not, his revolution would bring them to war. But by then, Chernov intended on being long gone.
    He waited for a couple of minutes in the darkness to make sure that he hadn’t been followed, then climbed the stairs to the third floor, his tread noiseless. He produced a key and opened the door of the front apartment, and let himself in.
    The apartment was dark, only a dim light came from outside. It smelled faintly of expensive western perfumes and soap. Feminine smells. Music came softly from the bedroom.
    Chernov took off his uniform blouse, loosened his tie and went into the kitchen where he poured a glass of white wine. Removing his shoes, he walked back to the bedroom, and pushed open the door.
    â€œCan you stay long this time, Ivan,” Raya Dubanova asked softly in the darkness. She’d been a ballet dancer with the Bolshoi. Now she was an assistant choreographer of the corps de ballet. Her body was still compact and well muscled. She knew him only as Ivan.
    â€œNo,” Chernov said sitting beside her on the bed. He put the wine glass aside and took her in his arms. She was naked.
    â€œCan you stay at least until morning?” she whispered in his ear.
    â€œI can stay with you tonight if you promise to wake me at six sharp,” he teased. “But if you snore I’ll have to go to a hotel.”
    â€œI don’t know if you’ll be capable of getting out of bed when I’m finished with you,” she said wickedly. “Now take off your clothes, and come to me.”
    She’d been forced to be the escort of a Strategic Rocket Force general who Chernov was contracted to kill three years ago. He’d shot the man in his bed while Raya hid in the bathroom. When it was over she came out,
looked at the general’s body, took the gun from Chernov and pumped three bullets into it, then spit in the general’s face.
    She wouldn’t stay in the apartment so Chernov brought her to this one. He came to her as often as possible, sometimes able to stay for only an hour or two, other times staying an entire evening.
    She knew what he was, but she never asked who he worked for, or if he’d killed again. She was simply grateful that he’d saved her from the old man. And each time he came to her bed she showed her appreciation.
    Tarankov didn’t know about their relationship. No one did.
    He undressed and joined her in bed. “I need a couple of hours of sleep,” he said.
    â€œWe’ll see,” she said, straddling him. She raked her fingernails across his chest almost, but not quite with enough force to draw blood, and