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this whole thing out in his own mind, he felt safer going it alone. The thought had occurred to him that he might just be able to use Rostov to get to Bigfoot. If he was lucky, when the search was finished and a guard posted on the off chance that McClain was stupid enough to waltz back into his apartment, Rostov would report to his superior. And if he was really lucky, Rostov’s superior might turn out to be in contact with Bigfoot. Of course, it had been a long time since he’d been that lucky, but then luck had a way of changing. Sometimes.
    “Shut up!” he hissed in response to the woman’s gasping efforts to breathe, and stealed himself for what he was probably going to have to do to her to make her talk.
    Clara shut up. This man’s accent was definitely American, and he seemed both shorter and more muscular than the one who had attacked her in the house. He was also notwearing gloves. She felt the hard warmth of his palm over her mouth. The salt of his skin burned against her cut lip.
    She lay unmoving beneath his crushing weight for what seemed like an eternity, trying not to think of the gun that was still pressed to her temple. Would she know when he pulled the trigger, or would it all happen so fast that she could be dead before the action could register?
    Finally he shifted, lifting his head as if he were listening. Oh, God, were the others still looking for her? For them? For he had seemed as anxious as she to hide. …
    “Make a single sound and I blow your head off. Got it?”
    Clara nodded. She was no longer even aware of feeling frightened. She had gone beyond that to numbness. Nothing mattered any longer. If he was going to kill her, let him kill her and be done with it.
    To her surprise, he rolled off her to crouch by her side. The gun was no longer pressed to her temple, but balanced loosely in his hand. He jerked her up so that she was kneeling in front of him, facing away from him. The gun settled behind her ear. Clara cringed.
    “What have you got to do with Rostov?”
    “Who?” Her voice sounded rusty because her throat and tongue and lips were so dry. The cold rain had slackened, but her face, like the rest of her, was soaking wet. She ran her tongue around her lips to catch some of that precious moisture, swallowed, then tried again. “Who?”
    He was impatient. “The man in your house just now. You do remember him?”
    “Oh.” Clara licked her parched lips. The pressure of the gun’s muzzle behind her ear increased. “He—he broke into my house. But—”
    “Now why would he do that? Break into a strange woman’s house? Pretty unusual, that, wouldn’t you say?”
    He paused for a moment, then his hand twisted in the wet knot of hair at the nape of her neck. “Tell the truth. What are you to Rostov? His contact?”
    “I am telling the truth!” Clara was almost in despair. Why would no one believe her? Crouching amidst towering stalks of tobacco in a freezing rain in the middle of the night with a madman who had a gun pressed to her head was making her feel lightheaded. What else could happen to her? Then she thought, he could kill me, and she started to shake.
    “You are telling me that Rostov drove thirty miles into the country and then broke into your house for no reason? Sweetheart, I should warn you that I’m perfectly aware of Rostov’s game. He’s KGB, and he wouldn’t have driven out to the middle of nowhere at this time of night without a reason. But he did drive directly to your house and went inside. So tell me, what did he want?”
    “He kept asking me about a Magic Dragon!” Clara wailed. This man was as crazy as the other. She had escaped from one only to fall victim to his doppelganger. She had to figure out a way to escape from him too.
    “A Magic Dragon?” There was a curious note in his voice. He went very still, almost seeming to forget to breathe. “He was asking you about a Magic Dragon? What precisely did he say?”
    “He—he wanted to know where