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The small group left the embassy compound in silence. A northerly wind wrestled Faith for her breath. A few blocks away from the embassy, she heard the sound of footsteps on the wet sidewalk behind her. She hastened her pace. A man in a knee-length black leather coat surged ahead.

“Identification, please,” he said.

He didn’t flash a badge, but she knew where he was from. She avoided eye contact and stared at a poster in the window of the Aeroflot office promoting the Soviet Far East city of Khabarovsk. The librarians pulled out their blue personal-identity booklets. Faith slapped her passport into the man’s stubby mitt. He motioned to his cohort and they stepped closer, a wall of leather closing in on her. She moved backward and teetered on the curb while the men examined the American passport. One spelled her name aloud into his lapel and then he pressed her passport between his fingers.

“What were you doing at the Soviet embassy, Frau Whitney?”

“I’m a professor and I’m exploring the possibility of an exchange program for my university. And, as a researcher here, I was also concerned with the availability of Soviet publications.”

“Such a fuss over a child’s reader.” He handed her back her papers. The second man shoved the librarians into an unmarked car. Jürgen’s bloodshot eyes pleaded for help, but Faith could only watch. “Frau Professor, you may go. But stay away from the Russians. We won’t warn you again.”

CHAPTER TEN

NAGORNO-KARABAKH AUTONOMOUS OBLAST, AZERBAIJANI SSR

A chunk of plaster surrendered to gravity and crashed to the floor of the earthquake-damaged Armenian church. The battle-hardened militants didn’t turn their heads and neither did the seasoned missionary. Men in tattered camouflage jackets guarded the entry to the clandestine meeting. Suspicion creased their faces as they eyed the outsider.

Margaret cleared her throat. “You Armenian Christians are Christ’s soldiers on the frontline against the Antichrist. Satan seeks to rid you from your own house because, as the world’s oldest Christian bastion, the house of Armenia has defied the Evil One for too long.” She paused for the interpreter, but before she could continue, the leader interrupted.

“We know how your own freedom was at risk to bring us God’s word when it was forbidden. For this you always have a place with us, but Bibles help us not when the Muslims drag us from our homes. You of all people should understand because you were there when they murdered Yeva and the boy.”

“Don’t dismiss me before you’ve heard me out. God’s word saves.” She patted her scuffed Bible. “It brought me here to witness the fulfillment of prophecy. We all know what the Mark of the Beast on Gorbachev’s head signals-the final struggle has begun.”

“We hear your words, but they alone won’t protect us. Yesterday was the time to be emissaries for Christ, but today we’re called to be His soldiers.” The leader patted a crude homemade rifle.

“And that’s why I came right back-not with the word of the Lord, but with His sword.” She opened her Bible. The gold-bordered pages were glued together and a cavity was carved out. Between Genesis and Revelation was nestled a landmine.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EAST BERLIN

SATURDAY, APRIL 22

A Chaika limousine with red diplomatic plates in Cyrillic lettering flaunted its diplomatic immunity in a no-parking zone at the busy intersection of Unter den Linden and Friedrichstrasse. Faith had rarely seen such an elegant Soviet-built car in East Berlin; she guessed the attaché had borrowed it from the embassy’s motor pool to impress her. Still, it was hard to be impressed by a twenty-five-year-old Buick knockoff.

Delayed by heavy border traffic, Faith crossed against the light and hurried toward the limo. She strained to see if the woman were inside, but the windows were blackened. The driver emerged from the car as she approached. The man’s eyebrows were the bushiest she’d ever seen. She hoped she wouldn’t retain the image of the white clumps of hair sticking out of his ears. He opened the rear passenger door for her.

Dobryi den’,” Faith greeted the cultural attaché as she slid into the backseat.

Vy tozhe govorite po-russkii!” the woman said, then switched from Russian to German and continued, “And I was already impressed that you spoke such flawless German.” The attaché said to the driver, “Ivashko, take us to Treptower Park.” She turned back to Faith, leaning her elbow against the black leather upholstery. “I thought we should be outside on such a lovely day. Yesterday I didn’t think we’d ever see the sun again. Are you up for a walk?”

“Always. So how would you like me to address you? I’m afraid I don’t know the correct title for a Soviet cultural attaché.”

“Call me Tatyana.”

Tatyana was undoubtedly from a colder climate. It was in the sixties, the first warm day of the spring, but it was too chilly for her snug sleeveless shirt. Her muscles had the definition of an athlete. The wiry woman was too fit for an embassy paper pusher. An image of Tatyana fresh after a workout popped into Faith’s mind: Sweat glistened off every curve of those taut muscles; a soaked tank top clung to her small breasts and those wet curls. Faith never wanted to compete with this woman over a man. Judging from the way Tatyana was eyeing her, Faith felt she probably would never have to worry about that.

They arrived at the sprawling urban park some twenty minutes later and walked inside. Tatyana carried two pairs of binoculars.

A Red Army truck was parked near an overgrown flowerbed and a decrepit shack. A dozen conscripts stood nearby with rusting shovels in hand while a Berlin parks official pointed with a rolled-up blueprint. Half the soldiers began digging out the flowerbed; the other half ripped boards from the structure. Faith guessed the city official had illegally cut a deal with a local garrison so he could finish a project under budget-the free market at work. The women avoided them and walked on the far side of the path.

Tatyana led the way. Faith thought she was in good shape from her frequent dashes to catch trains, but she had to hustle to keep up.

“The golden oriole is rumored to be back from Africa for the summer. We might get lucky,” Tatyana said. Suddenly she stopped and looked through her binoculars. “I think that’s it! It just flew into that tree.”

Faith watched the bird flutter into the tree and glanced at her watch. Clearly the woman has been in East Berlin too long.

“Survey the area and tell me if you notice anything unusual.” Tatyana had the instincts of a spook and Faith prayed she wasn’t one, even though she knew her prayers were never answered.

Tatyana hung a bulky pair of binoculars around Faith’s neck. The clunky things weighed her down so that she was sure if she fell into a mud puddle she would be pulled straight to the bottom. “Standard Baltic Fleet issue,” Faith said, impressed with herself.

The street noise faded as they went deeper into the park, passing a socialist-realist statue of a World War Two-era Red Army soldier with his arm around a German child, presumably protecting him from the Nazis. Faith hurried to keep up as Tatyana left the sidewalk to blaze her own trail through the urban wilderness. The attaché stopped and raised her binoculars, pointing them toward a flutter among the fresh leaves of spring.

Faith struggled to focus with the unfamiliar field glasses. Branches blurred and no bird came into sight.

Tatyana pointed. “Looks like we’ve got a Eurasian nuthatch working this linden tree. Right there, hanging upside down on the trunk. Let me help you.” Tatyana slipped behind her and put her hands on each side of Faith’s face. She pressed lightly against her cheeks, positioning her for best viewing. The softness of Tatyana’s skin and the delicateness of her touch disarmed Faith, and she lost herself in the sensation. It had been far too long since she had melted into a sensual caress, but she wasn’t sure what to think of it coming from another woman. Tatyana pulled her hands away so leisurely Faith didn’t notice when they lost contact. Faith stopped herself short of savoring the dreamy moment.