Raelynn Hillhouse
Rift Zone
Copyright © 2004 by Raelynn Hillhouse
To my mother, Donna Hillhouse, who refused to allow me to travel
alone to the Soviet Union-so she went with me.
And to my father, Charles Hillhouse,
who was smart enough to stay home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Friends, family and colleagues have given of themselves beyond my wildest imagination and have made this novel take on dimensions that I could never have reached alone. I have them to thank for the strengths of this book.
Jim Froneberger, Lt. Cmdr. USN ret., my favorite bomb maker and storyteller, taught me more than I should ever know about explosives. Former Pan Am pilot, Bill “Flyboy” North once strayed into Soviet airspace as well as into my email box. Soviet MIGs didn’t catch him, but I was lucky enough to snag him as a consultant, e-pen pal and virtual flying instructor. My dear friend, co-worker and fellow black operative, Michael Lukson, was a constant source of moral as well as tech support. Mike once told me that “real programmers don’t do Web sites.” Maybe not. But it’s a truly special friend who learns two new computer languages to give someone such a phenomenal Web site as www.InternationalThrillers.com.
Gayle Lynds’ steadfast confidence in my work gave me the assurance to take some particularly bold steps-and thanks to her wise counsel, they turned out to be just the right ones. Without her generous support, this novel would never have been published. Gayle is rightfully the godmother of this book. My agent, Bob Diforio, is a consummate professional and a delight to work with. He has been simply awesome. Thanks to Bob’s tireless efforts, my first novel was not only published, but published well.
Sarah Wang’s insightful critique, undying enthusiasm and perseverance through various stages of the manuscript have been invaluable. Former Finnair Moscow bureau chief and the only person I know who has ever smuggled himself out of the Soviet Union and back into it again on the same weekend, Timo Valtonen provided key Soviet airport and border details. I am also grateful to Captain Jerold Ogami-Van Camp of Aloha Airlines for letting me crawl around the floor of his flight deck. Many others contributed to the success of the project, including Maryann Palumbo, Daniel Siguara, Florence Jacobson, Jacqueline Deval and Danny Baror.
My warmest thanks go to Brian Callaghan for believing in me and championing the book. The staff at Tor, including Eric Raab, Nicole Kalian, Elena Stokes, Linda Quinton, Kathleen Fogarty and others behind the scenes, has done truly exceptional work. I am particularly in debt to Tom Doherty for once again challenging conventional wisdom in publishing-this time taking a chance on a Cold War thriller, some fifteen years after John le Carré declared them dead.
My family sacrificed countless evenings and weekends while I was absorbed with this project. I’ve often joked that I did it despite everyone-dogs barking, the Food Network blaring, chores demanding-but I could only follow my dream because they are my dream. My deepest love and gratitude belong to Cynthia Curatalo and my three furry muses, LynnDy, Jordan and Lily.
PROLOGUE
VNUKOVO AIRPORT, MOSCOW, USSR
1961
A Soviet border guard rummaged through the mother’s battered suitcase, flinging clothes onto the floor of the customs hall while the toddler clutched her bear.
“We know.” The official tapped the luggage. “Next time.”
The mother plopped her two hundred pounds of hillbilly dignity onto the stone tiles and gathered their belongings as if sorting laundry on their front porch in Arkansas. The child studied a portrait of Khrushchev hanging on the beaten plaster wall and trembled until she noticed the bald man in the picture was smiling at her. She shyly smiled back and wondered if her daddy had looked like him.
Late that night, in a cemetery on the outskirts of the city, the girl and her mother met God’s chosen and squeezed into an abandoned mausoleum for a secret meeting. “Come on, sweet pea,” the mother said, “Jesus needs Teddy now.” She yanked the animal from the child and plunged a dagger into the bear, sacrificing it to her god. Like entrails from a freshly butchered hog, stuffing burst from its belly. The believers shouted praises as she sank her hand into the gut, pulled out a New Testament and raised it toward the heavens.
No one noticed the terror in the little girl’s eyes.
When the girl was old enough to understand that the Soviet state feared her mother, she realized she and the communists would share a lifelong bond.
Part 1
Between Berlins
CHAPTER ONE
OLD JEWISH QUARTER, EAST BERLIN
TUESDAY, APRIL 18, 1989
The face of Stalin smirked at her from the bottom of a porcelain soup tureen as she bargained with an aging East German couple in the musty storage room of the Patschkes’ millinery shop. A dozen mannequins peered from the shadows like faceless skinheads. She picked up a teacup by its awkward hammer-and-sickle-shaped handle. Before the communists, Dresden’s master craftsmen had designed the world’s finest china for European imperial courts. She cradled the cup and touched their humiliation. But it was a vintage piece, a testament to the pain of modern Germany and extremely marketable.
And Faith Whitney wanted it.
“You’re a good customer, Frau Professor, so we’ll make you a special offer. One thousand West mark. It’s a complete service, immaculate condition, genuine Meissen.” Herr Patschke’s tiny round glasses slid to a stop on the hook of his nose.
Faith had only twenty-three minutes until a rendezvous, but reminded herself of Hakan’s rule of negotiations: Slow business is good business. The Patschkes admired efficiency almost as much as she did, so she forced herself to lean back in the wobbly chair and sip gritty East German coffee.
“Only two sets were commissioned for Marshal Stalin’s seventieth birthday.” Frau Patschke took the teacup from Faith and wiped her fingerprints from it. “It is pristine.”
“And this is the only complete set in existence. One night at his dacha, Stalin hurled the other at his Politburo,” Herr Patschke said without a smile and then leaned over and whispered, “Rumor has it this marked the beginning of more purges.”
Herr Patschke nodded to his wife, his double chin swelling like a pigeon puffing its neck. Frau Patschke pulled a skeleton key from the pocket of her housedress and waddled to a chest. She removed a mahogany box and set it on the table. An eagle was carved into the lid; the bird of prey’s talons clutched a swastika. Frau Patschke flicked open the gold latch. Inside the silk-lined box, crystal goblets sparkled even in the light of the single bare bulb.
A sudden chill was all Faith needed to authenticate the Nazi stemware as she picked one up with a tissue. A frosted engraving was identical to the emblem on the box. She hated contaminating her apartment with fascist trash, but this set merited sealed bids. “As usual, your taste is exquisite, but I’m in Leipzig soon and I have luck finding merchandise there more within my budget. If there’s nothing more, I’ll have to excuse myself.” She spoke in unaccented German and stood, compelling herself to look away.
“Bohemian crystal, very lovely, very special. They were a gift to the Führer for the liberation of the Czech lands.” Frau Patschke held a goblet in front of Faith’s face and flicked her middle finger against it.
Nothing with a swastika should ring so clear.
“Tell you what. I’ll give you one thousand for both the plates and the glasses.”