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border between Poland and Ukraine. Two bridges spanned the river, one for the Lublin-Kiev railroad and the other for the E373 highway. Sunlight glinted off slanted glass and metal roofs, pinpointing the twin checkpoints where the Poles and Ukrainians conducted their own hunt for illegal immigrants, cigarettes, drugs, and other contraband.
    Long lines of semitrailer trucks and cars were backed up on the highway in both directions, waiting for clearance across the frontier. More vehicles filled the large lots adjacent to each customs and border inspection plaza or were parked nose to tail along the various connector roads.
    The OSCE had erected three plain, prefabricated buildings just beyond the Ukrainian border crossing. One was a headquarters andcommunications center. Another provided living quarters for the twenty Romanian and Belarusian arms inspectors. The third building, larger than the others and the only one surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped fence, served both as a storage area for any confiscated weapons and an armory. There were no other defenses.
    Voronov’s thick lips pursed in disgust. This was his second inspection of the Starovoitove Station in the past twelve months and nothing had changed. The Romanian military police captain and his Belarusian counterpart refused to consider fortifying their post, insisting that maintaining good relations with the locals required a more open approach. Good relations with the Poles and the Ukrainians? Kakaya yerunda, the general thought. What bullshit!
    Then he shrugged. Their carelessness about their own safety wasn’t his problem.
    â€œLead, this is Opekun One, ” the senior gunship pilot radioed. “You are clear to land.”
    The driver of a huge MZKT Volant truck parked along the road watched the Russian utility helicopter fly low overhead and flare in for a landing next to the OSCE headquarters. His refrigerated semitrailer carried the logo of a Donetsk-based frozen foods company.
    He leaned forward and spoke softly into an intercom rigged between the cab and its trailer. “Our fat friend is arriving.”
    â€œAnd the two whores keeping him company?”
    â€œStill circling, but I think they’ll follow him in soon,” the driver said, peering through his windshield to watch the two shark-nosed Ansat gunships orbiting over the border checkpoint.
    â€œVery good,” the voice from the trailer said. “Keep me informed.”
    Less than two hundred meters away, the helicopter carrying Voronov settled smoothly onto the landing pad. Its twin turboshaft engines spun down and stopped. Four soldiers in light blue berets, bulky body armor, and pixelated camouflage uniforms jumped out, bending low to clear the slowing rotors. Each carried a compact 9mm Bizon submachine gun. They fanned out across the pad, staying between the helicopter and the group of unarmed Romanian and Belarusian arms control monitors already lined up to greet their distinguished visitor.
    Those were Voronov’s Spetsnaz bodyguards, the truck driver realized. The Russian lieutenant general was a cautious man. Then he snorted softly. But perhaps not cautious enough.
    Two Russian junior officers, clearly military aides, followed the bodyguards. They snapped to attention as Voronov himself clambered out of the helicopter cockpit and dropped heavily onto the tarmac. Straightening up, the general marched forward to exchange salutes with the two young officers assigned to command the OSCE station. Decked out in his full dress uniform, complete with peaked cap, jangling medals, and highly polished black boots, the burly, thickset Russian looked more like an overstuffed toy soldier than a cold-blooded killer.
    If so, his looks were deceiving, the truck driver decided grimly. Both directly and indirectly, the commander of the 20th Guards Army was responsible for thousands of deaths.
    One after another, the two Russian helicopter gunships settled onto the far end of the pad