To Bowen's surprise the Russian's car began slowing, and the rear blinker indicated the car was about to pull over. The trooper turned off the siren. He bit his lower lip. He had been hoping this Nikolai Trusov would outrun him, give him a reason to claim that further pursuit would have endangered civilians, which is when the Montana State Patrol regulations demanded the chase end. The Accord kicked up dust as it rolled onto the shoulder.
Trooper Bowen grimaced. Pulling over drunks and dopeheads and car thieves was dangerous enough, but this son of a bitch was straight out of a foxhole. Nothing in Bowen's training had addressed stopping a skilled combatant, a Soviet-manufactured fighting machine. From what Bowen had read about him and from the briefing given that morning by his lieutenant, the trooper knew Trusov was a superb killer — merciless and efficient — who apparently loved his craft. This man was perhaps the best the Russians could produce at shedding blood, and in a moment the Russian was going to turn his attention to one Ross Bowen of the Montana State Patrol. Bowen didn't like the situation at all.
The Accord came to a stop on the gravel shoulder. The trooper pulled up the patrol car forty feet behind the Russian's vehicle, then yanked back on the emergency brake. Bowen was breathing quickly. He silently ran down the procedure for arresting an armed and dangerous suspect. He unsnapped the holster strap over the hammer of his .357 magnum, a Colt Trooper. He opened the door and pulled out the revolver. He crouched behind his open door, the weapon in both hands and braced against the windshield pillar. Christ, he had forgotten his hat on the passenger seat.
His voice was more strident than he would have wished. "Put both hands out your window. Now." Bowen concentrated on the Russian. He would worry about the passenger later.
The window rolled down and both hands came out, fingers spread wide. Bowen could make out the green baseball cap above blond hair. The bile of fear rose in the trooper's throat. The procedure was to immediately control the situation and put fear into the arrestee. He barked, "With one hand, open the door using the outside handle. Do it now."
The Russian's left hand lowered to the Accord's exterior handle. The door cracked open.
Bowen's hand was shaking, and he could see his Colt's barrel wiggle back and forth. He breathed deeply to steady himself, then called, "Now keep both hands in my sight and step out of the car. Do it slowly."
The Accord's door pushed open. The Russian rose from the car, moving with a fluid confidence that was evident to Bowen in even those few seconds. And Trusov rose and rose. He seemed enormous, with a massive chest and a head cut from stone. He filled the road. His face was bony and hard and expressionless, as cold as a carving. He stood motionless next to the Accord's door. The passenger was staring out the Accord's back window, but Bowen could not risk glancing at him.
Trooper Bowen suddenly realized that in climbing out of the car Trusov had put his left hand back into the door. The Russian stood there with one hand not showing.
"Pull your other hand out of the car," Bowen yelled in his best voice. "Do it now."
The Russian remained still. He seemed to be calmly and unhurriedly studying the lawman. Bowen flushed with fear, and the fear played games with him. He heard a clock ticking away, centered in his head behind his eyes, counting down his last seconds on this earth. His life would end on a desolate road.
Nikolai Trusov spoke slowly. "Get back into your car and you will live."
The truth of the words seemed blinding, and struck Trooper Bowen with the force of Biblical revelation. Entirely at odds with the apparent situation — Bowen was holding a fearsome weapon on an unarmed man standing forty feet away — the Russian's warning offered the miraculous hope that Bowen's newborn daughter would not lose her father this day. The clock behind his eyes stopped its ominous ticking.
Moving slowly to make his intentions clear, Trooper Bowen lifted his Colt from the door frame and smoothly re-entered his car. He lowered the weapon to the passenger seat near his hat, turned the ignition, and performed a U-turn on the road. The patrol car picked up speed as it headed east. In Bowen's rearview mirror, the Russian slipped back into the Accord. Bowen lost sight of the stolen car as the road ducked behind a hill.
The trooper reached for the photo of his daughter. He pressed it back onto the dashboard. Then he brought up his radio, about to report that the Russian had somehow shaken him. He smiled. Life offers few clear choices but it had just then. Bowen had made the correct one. His wife and daughter would see him again at the end of his shift.
"I usually don't eat things I can't lift." Adrian Gray poked her dinner.
Baked potatoes filled their plates, hanging over the edges. They had been opened and filled with spiced meat, cheese, olives, sour cream, and topped with a sprinkling of chopped chives. Steam still rose from them. Potatoes were the specialty of the Right to Keep and Bear Arms Saloon. The owner, Ray Miller, hovered behind the bar wearing an expectant smile, waiting for Gray and his guests to begin their meal so he could enjoy the gratification on their faces. He served the best potatoes in the Sawtooths and he knew it.
Coates didn't disappoint Miller. The detective took his first bite, then began an insistent shoveling from plate to mouth. Ray Miller's smile widened. His potatoes never failed.
The detective mumbled, "Don't get between me and this potato. It'd be too dangerous."
Adrian lifted a measure of potato. As always with the first bite of anything, she touched it quickly with her tongue before putting it into her mouth. Gray stirred in his seat. She chewed a moment, then beamed at Ray Miller, who seemed to grow three or four inches with the smile. When Gray had entered the saloon with Adrian Wade, Miller had gleefully whispered to him, "And to think I worried about you." Miller had been only slightly dampened when Pete Coates followed them. Adrian's coat hung on the back of her chair. Pete Coates was wearing a pea coat over a plaid shirt, and jeans above hiking boots. Gray had loaned him the outfit, which had belong to Gray's father. The clothes were stretched to their limit over Coates's bulk.
The detective said, "Chief Durant was as good as his word. Hobart is crawling with sheriffs' deputies and State Patrol, even some police personnel from Boise and Twin Falls. I've got their duty rosters ready. And the FBI will start arriving soon. Flights into Hailey will be full of them."
Gray cut into his potato. He had eaten dozens and dozens of Miller's famous potatoes over the years.
"Adrian, you're all set up?" Coates asked around a mouthful of potato.
"All in one corner of Owen's living room. I've got the communication capacity of the Manhattan FBI office. I'm already talking with General Kulikov and Colonel Rokossosky. And it's easier to get hold of them in Moscow from Idaho than if I were in Moscow. The telephone system there is that unreliable."
Ray Miller held up the telephone behind the counter. He called, "Detective Coates, it's for you."
Coates dropped his napkin on his seat and walked to the bar.
Gray said quietly, "I suppose you've mentioned to Pete about my ninety-seventh shot."
"He's your best friend, isn't he? He should know."
"My best friend?" Gray laughed. "I haven't thought in those terms since I was in grade school."
"Well, then you can be the last to realize it. Of course I told him, because he's your friend and because he's trying to figure out what's going on. Do you mind?"
Gray shook his head noncommittally.
Coates returned and said bleakly, "Nikolai Trusov was spotted in Butte by a policeman there an hour ago. Trusov was driving a pickup truck, a red Dodge Ram, heading the opposite direction as the cop. He had a passenger with him."