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“Before you shoot me, don’t you want to know where all the money is hidden?”

Ilya’s finger was already exerting pressure on the trigger. As Templar removed the penknife from his heel, the cylinder rolled and the hammer came down.

Click!

Empty chamber.

Ilya spun it again. There was no bullet visible. This was it.

“What money?” Ilya asked.

“Tretiak’s. Daddy’s. Your father’s got billions stashed and I know where it is,” lied Templar. “Let’s make a deal.”

Ilya didn’t trust him. They locked eyes, and Templar triggered the tiny hidden blowtorch into operation.

“Here’s your deal...” said Ilya with a sick sneer. He pressed the barrel tighter against Templar’s head.

Templar flicked the blowtorch under the Range Rover, and Ilya saw him do it. Before he could process the implications or pull the trigger, his world violently erupted in a searing fireball of flame.

The Range Rover was airborne in one direction, Ilya was thrown in the other, and Simon Templar was on his feet.

The Saint threw Emma one last look through the inferno and vanished behind the billowing smoke and crashing, incinerated auto parts.

6

The warmth and security of the American Embassy was, after the series of life-threatening episodes, haven of rest for Dr. Emma Russell.

Cleaned up and changed into loaned clothes a size too big, she was soon politely escorted through formalities by a few good Marines.

“You just have to fill out a form before we put you on a flight home,” explained her courteous, uniformed attendant as they passed the impressive embassy seal, flanked by flags. “Any medical conditions, that sort of thing.”

“Actually, my heart, I...” Emma paused and smiled at a sudden realization. “I haven’t taken a pill hours. I ran for my life and my heart wasn’t pounding. You’d think I would have dropped dead before I got to the gate.”

“Sometimes our bodies surprise us,” agreed the Marine. “We often underestimate our own survival skills.”

“No kidding,” Emma said with a laugh, “if you would have told me two days ago what I was going to go through, I never would have believed it.”

Her escort gestured at a processing center at the end of the corridor. It was crowded with other Americans also eager to leave Moscow’s mounting social turbulence.

“Get your form at window five,” he advised. “We’ll be back for you at nineteen-hundred hours — a full Marine escort to the airport.”

Before Emma could thank them, the two Marines crisply peeled off to the right. She continued toward processing, past numerous embassy officials aiding other travelers. As she approached window five, an affable bearded official came up beside her. He spoke in a strong Southern accent.

“Straubing.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emma didn’t understand.

He smiled and held out his hand. “Straubing.”

“What’s a straubing?”

“I am. That’s my name. Harold Straubing.”

Emma, embarrassed, blushed and felt foolish. “I’m sorry, Mr. Straubing, I’m a bit flustered. I’ve been through a lot in the last few days.”

“So, where does a nice little lady like you think she’s going?”

“Back to London...”

Straubing gently clasped his hand above her elbow and guided her away from window five.

“I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” he said, and his accent disappeared. She recognized the voice, and blinked at him in disbelief.

“Simon! Are you crazy? I’m safe. I’m on the next flight...”

Templar stopped in front of a heavily barred window.

“Look out there.”

Through the bars, Emma saw a gaggle of demonstrators on the plaza. Among them were Ilya’s goons, Vlad and Igor, patiently waiting.

“If you make it to the airport, they’ll get you on the plane,” stated Simon flatly, and Emma shuddered.

“What do I do?” Her voice trembled. Her feelings of safety and security were quickly evaporating.

“As long as you’re here, you’re safe. Tell the Marines you’ve developed a sudden fear of flying — post traumatic stress and all that. They’ll believe you, you’re a doctor. Then find a computer and a quiet room, finish the formula, and fax it to me.”

“Just like that?” Emma was incredulous. “Finish the formula and fax it to you?”

He handed her a number.

“This is your Moscow office?” Her tone was tinged with sarcasm.

“Portable fax, one international number that works anywhere,” responded the Saint cheerfully. “Modem technology at its most compassionate.”

She peered hard at his face.

“Speaking of compassion, are you sure this is about my safety and not your retirement fund? How do I know you’re not going to sell the formula — again?”

“Again, you’ll have to trust me.”

He resumed striding, and she walked at his side as if he were giving her an official tour.

“Of course I trust you, Mr. Straubing. I mean Mr. More, uh, Mr. Farrar, I mean Mr. de Porres... after all, you’re my personal saint.”

Simon smiled.

“To be a saint, you’ve got to be linked to three miracles. Don’t ruin my reputation, Emma.”

With that, he turned off down a hallway and blended in with busy embassy bureaucrats. She watched him go, still wondering if he were truly trustworthy or if she was about to be burned.

The burns inflicted upon Ilya in the Range Rover explosion were, according to his doctor, healing nicely with no sign of infection.

Ilya allowed a nurse to apply salve to his blisters while the house-call physician completed his follow-up exam. The doctor was more concerned with the decor of Ilya’s room — swastikas and Nazi flags — than he was with the thug’s injuries.

Tretiak, impatient and fed up with his son’s self-centered whining, paced nervously around the room.

“All in all,” remarked the doctor, “I’d say your son is a lucky boy.”

“Lucky? Look at me,” objected Ilya, “my cheek is singed! I look like a refugee from hell!”

“No, I mean you’re lucky because hundreds of thousands of Russians gave their lives to defeat the Nazis in World War II,” blurted out the angry physician. “You’re lucky some patriot hasn’t killed you for being a goddam Nazi yourself.”

Ilya brayed like an ass. “That stupid war was over years before I was born, Doc. Nobody remembers and nobody cares.”

The doctor remembered; the doctor cared.

Ilya’s exasperated father stalked from the room and almost collided with Botvin, who had been nervously awaiting an audience.

“I’ve run every test on Russell’s cold fusion formula,” stammered the little scientist, “and I’ve concluded that her formula is not incomplete — it’s impossible!”

This was not a good time to bring discouraging words.

Tretiak erupted with almost as much incendiary power as Ilya’s 4X4.

“I invest millions and you can’t make it work?”

Botvin had a sudden mental image of imminent death.

“But I’ve been working on it without sleep for nearly two weeks,” stammered Botvin, backtracking to a positive perspective. “At first blush the theorem appears quite impressive...”

Tretiak stopped midstride and turned slowly to face Botvin. The scientist took two wary steps back and held his breath. The face of Ivan Tretiak was no longer distorted by anger; rather, it was wreathed in what could be mistaken for a warm smile.

“You did just say ‘quite impressive,’ didn’t you?”

Botvin rattled his head up and down.