Текст книги "Fire Ice"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Austin thought the animal had stumbled. Then he saw that the rider was firing at them, using his mount as a protective barricade. Other riders followed suit. Those Cossacks still in their saddles split up, corning in from both sides in a pincer movement. Austin and Zavala hit the ground and dug in. Bullets flew over their heads like angry bees.

"Automatic weapons!" Zavala yelped. "You said these guys carried blunderbusses and pigstickers."

"How would I know they'd stop off at a gun show?"

"What ever happened to background checks?"

Austin's reply was drowned out by the stutter of automatic-arms fire. He and Zavala let off a couple of rounds more for show than effect, then pulled back from the rise and crawled toward the warehouse. The Cossacks peppered the ridge with gunfire. Thinking their prey was dead, they climbed onto their horses and took up the charge where they had left off.

From the shelter of the warehouse, Austin and Zavala aimed through the windows and two more riders toppled from their mounts. Seeing that their foe was still alive, the Cossacks called off the attack and galloped to the center of the field to regroup. Taking advantage of the momentary battle lull, Austin turned from the window and surveyed the men who had taken refuge. Austin couldn't remember when he'd seen a more bedraggled-looking bunch. Their tan jumpsuits were wrinkled and begrimed, and their hollow-eyed faces bristled with whiskers. The first runner, who had felt the direct wrath of the Cossack leader, came over to speak with Austin. His uniform was torn at the knees and elbows and covered with dust. Yet he kept his chin as high as if he were wearing newly pressed dress whites on parade. The young man gave Austin a crisp salute. "Ensign Steven Kreisman of the U.S. Navy submarine NR-1."

Austin reached under his belt, where he had tucked the cap Zavala found on the Russian submarine. "Maybe you can get this back to its owner," he said, handing the cap over.

"It's the captain's. Where did you get this?" Kreisman said, looking at the cap as if he were seeing it for the first time.

"My partner found it in a Russian sub."

"Who are you guys?" Kreisman said, losing his aplomb.

"I'm Kurt Austin and that's my partner Joe Zavala at the window. We're with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

The ensign's jaw dropped down to his Adam's apple. With their battle-hardened eyes and smoking guns, the two who had rescued him and his crew looked more like commandos than ocean scientists.

"I didn't know NUMA had its own SWAT team," he said with wonder.

"We don't. Are you okay?"

"I feel as if I've been run over by a bulldozer, but other than that I'm fine," he said, rubbing his neck where the saber had whacked him. "I won't be wearing a tie for a while. This may sound like a dumb question, Mr. Austin, but what are you and your friend doing here?"

"Your turn first. Last I heard, your sub was diving for relics on the bottom of the Aegean."

The young man's shoulders sagged slightly. "It's a long story," he said, with weariness.

"We don't have much time. See if you can tell me what happened in thirty seconds."

Kreisman chuckled at Austin's audacity. "I'll do my best."

He took a deep breath and delivered a condensed version of events.

"A guest scientist we had on board, a guy named Pulaski, pulled a gun on us and hijacked the NR-1. We were transported on the back of a giant submarine. This whole thing is so unbelievable." He paused, expecting a skeptical reaction. Seeing none in Austin's attentive eyes, he continued. "They transferred the crew to a salvage ship. They made us work on an old sunken freighter. Tricky retrieval stuff using the manipulators. Then the big sub brought us here. They kept the captain and pilot with the NR-1. We were held prisoner underground. When they brought us up today, we thought we were going back to the NR-1. Instead they herded us onto that field. The guards who'd been watching us disappeared, and those cowboys with the fur hats started trying to break us up." He rubbed his neck again. "Who are those SOBs?"

Zavala was signaling to Austin. "Sorry," he said. "Our thirty seconds appears to be up."

He went to the window, and Zavala handed him the binoculars. "The members of the polo club are having an argument," he said lazily.

Austin peered through the binoculars at the Cossacks, who were still gathered in the field. Some riders had dismounted and were waving their arms in the air.

Lowering the glasses, Austin said, "They could be exchanging borscht recipes, but my guess is that they're adding our names to the guest list for a slice-and-dice party."

Zavala looked as if he had a stomachache. "You have a way with words. How can we decline the invitation without hurting their feelings?"

Scratching his chin in thought, Austin said, "We've got a couple of options. We can run for the beach and swim out to sea, hoping our fur-hatted friends won't have settled their differences. Or we can hole up below."

"I'm sure you see the same problems I do," Zavala said. "If they catch us in the open, we're sitting ducks. If we go back down to the sub pen, we've only got dive gear for two people." Austin nodded. "I suggest that we go with a double. You and the crew run for the beach. I'll stay here, and if the riders move in I'll draw them into the sub base, where they'll be at a disadvantage on foot. I'll escape the way we came. Like a fish slipping through a hole in a net."

"Your chances would be better if we were watching each other's back."

"Someone has to cover for the sub crew. They look pretty beat-up."

Ensign Kreisman had edged closer. "Excuse me for eavesdropping. I went through SEAL training when I joined the navy. I washed out, but I still know the drill. I can take the men out of here."

Austin sized up the determined set of Kreisman's jaw and decided he would be wasting time arguing with the young navy man. "Okay, it's your show. Run for the beach and start swimming. A fishing boat will pick you up. We'll stay here and cover you as long as we can. I'd urge you to get going. Joe will ride shotgun part of the way."

If the ensign wondered how Austin had arranged for an at-sea pickup, he didn't show it. He snapped his arm in a crisp salute and rounded up his comrades. Then they climbed out of the back of the warehouse through a window. While Zavala escorted the crew to the beach, Austin kept watch. The Cossacks still seemed disorganized. He got on his hand radio and called Captain Kemal.

"You are all right?" the captain said. "We heard guns shooting."

"We're okay. Please listen carefully, Captain. In a few minutes, you will see men swimming out to sea. Go in as close to the beach as you safely can and pick them up."

"What about you and Joe?"

"We'll come out the way we went in. Anchor offshore and watch for us." He clicked off. Something had caught his eye.

Austin was outside the warehouse when Zavala returned a few minutes later. "I went as far as the dune. They should be in the water by now."

"Kemal's been alerted for a pickup." He pointed to the sky, where the sun glinted off metal. "What do you make of that?" The object grew from a pinpoint to the size of a flying insect, and they could hear the beat of rotors.

"You didn't tell me the Cossacks had an air force."

Austin peered through his binoculars at the helicopter speeding their way. "Oh hell – " Lombardo hung out of the open door holding a video camera. "That sawed-off little idiot."

As Zavala took the glasses for his own look, the helicopter spun around so that the other side came into view. He studied the figure in the doorway, then lowered the glasses and gave Austin a strange look.

"You need your eyes examined, my friend." He handed the binoculars back.

This time when Austin looked, he swore even more loudly. Kaela's dusky face, framed by windblown dark hair, was clearly visible. The helicopter was practically over the field. Chastened by their earlier encounter, the TV crew must have instructed the pilot to stay a prudent distance from the ground. They couldn't have known that the horsemen had substituted modern automatic weapons for their antique rifles. The Cossacks saw the helicopter and lost no time targeting the aircraft in a withering fire. Within seconds, the engine began to throw off oily dark smoke. The helicopter shuddered like a bird buffeted in a strong wind, then it dropped from the sky.

The rotors had slowed to a point where individual blades were visible, but the spin was enough to create a parachute effect. The chopper came down like a falling leaf. The impact with the ground was hard enough to crumple the landing gear, but the fuselage remained intact. Seconds after the helicopter hit, Kaela, Lombardo, Dundee and another man spilled out like dice from a shaker.

The Cossacks saw the stunned crew and pilot, and their frustration and anger erupted like a long-dormant volcano. They swung into their saddles and charged down on the hapless foursome at a mad gallop. Austin's blood went cold.

The Cossacks were seconds away from their targets. There was no time to save the crew. He sprinted toward them anyhow, pistol in hand. He was still a hundred yards away when the Cossacks started to pop out of their saddles like grain being harvested by a giant, invisible scythe.

The charge that seemed so inevitable faltered, fell apart, then stopped completely. The horsemen milled around in confusion. More Cossacks dropped from their saddles.

Austin saw movement at the edge of the woods bordering the field. Men clad in black uniforms were emerging from the trees. They advanced slowly and deliberately toward the horsemen, weapons at their shoulders, firing as they walked. Seeing themselves overmatched, the Cossacks rode off in panic toward the distant woods.

The men in black moved relentlessly after the retreating horsemen. Except for one. He broke off from the others and came toward where Austin and Zavala stood. He was limping, Austin noticed. As the man drew closer, Zavala automatically raised his gun. Austin put his hand on the barrel and gently pushed the weapon down.

Petrov stopped a few yards away. The pale scar on his face stood out in vivid relief against his sunburned skin. "Hello, Mr. Austin. A pleasure to see you again."

"Hello, Ivan. You have no idea how nice it is to see you."

"I think I do," Petrov said, with a careless laugh. "You and your friend must join me for a shot of vodka. We can talk about old times and new beginnings."

Austin turned to Zavala and nodded. With Petrov leading the way, the three men made their way to the soccer field.

16

WITH HIS TALL gangling physique and questing intelligence, Yuri Orlov reminded Paul Trout of himself as a kid hanging around the ocean scientists at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. The way Yuri stood in the stem with one hand on the tiller, the Russian student could have been any of the skiff fishermen Trout knew on Cape Cod. All the youth needed to complete the picture was a Red Sox baseball cap and a big black Labrador retriever.

Yuri had taken immediate control of the boat, steering it a few hundred feet offshore, then stopping and letting the motor idle.

"Thank you so much for allowing me to go with you, Dr. Paul and Dr. Gamay. It's really an honor to be in the company of two such famous scientists. I envy you working for NUMA. My father told me all about his experiences in the States."

The Trouts smiled, even though the young man had upset their plan to sneak off on a scouting expedition. He brimmed with youthful enthusiasm, and his big blue eyes danced with excitement behind the thick glasses.

"Your father often talked about his family back in Russia," Paul said. "I remember him showing me pictures of you and your mother. You were younger then, so I didn't recognize you today."

"Some people say I look more like my mother."

Trout nodded in agreement. During Professor Orlov's stay in Woods Hole, the Russian had countered bouts of homesickness by whipping family snapshots from his billfold and proudly passing them around. Trout remembered being struck by the contrast between the bearlike professor and Svetlana, his tall, willowy wife.

"I enjoyed working with your father. He's a brilliant man, as well as personable. I hope we can work together again someday."

Yuri lit up like a bulb. "Next time Professor Orlov goes to the States, he has promised to take me with him."

Trout smiled at Yuri's use of the proper title before his father's name. "You should have no problem. Your English is excellent."

"Thank you. My parents used to have American exchange students stay with us." He pointed in the opposite direction from the one the Trouts wanted to take. "It's pretty nice along the coast here. Are you bird-watchers?"

Gamay saw their mission going astray. "Actually, Yuri," she said sweetly, "we were hoping to go to Novorossiysk."

A look of amused amazement crossed Yuri's young face. "Novorossiysk? Are you sure? The coast the other way is much prettier."

Paul picked up on Gamay's cue. "We do a lot of bird-watching in the Virginia countryside, but as an ocean geologist I'm more interested in deep-sea mining. I understand one of the largest ocean mining companies in the world has its headquarters in Novorossiysk."

"Sure. You're talking about Ataman Industries. They're huge. I'm doing my grad work in ecological mining, and I may apply for a job there myself when I get out of school."

"Then you'll understand why I'd be interested in taking a look at their facilities."

"Absolutely. Too bad I didn't know earlier. Maybe we could have set up a tour with them. You can't get a good idea of the scale of their operation from the water." Yuri grinned with relief. "I like birds, too, but not that much."

Gamay said, "I'm a marine biologist. Fish and plants are my game, but I think it would be interesting to go to Novorossiysk."

"That settles it, then," Paul said. Yuri goosed the throttle and brought the boat around in a big, lazy turn. He stayed about a quarter of a mile offshore on a course roughly parallel to the coast. After a while, the woods began to thin out, giving way to coastal plain and high, rolling hills. The beach was replaced by extensive reed-grown marshes and meandering creeks.

Paul and Gamay sat side by side on the center seat as the powerboat plowed through the sun-sparkled sea. The boat was around eighteen feet long and built like a tank, with overlapping planks and a thick prow. Yuri kept up a running narrative as he pointed out landmarks. The Trouts nodded with appreciation, although the snarl of the motor and the shush-shush of the hull drowned out most of Yuri's words.

Any misgivings the Trouts had about Yuri were quickly dispelled. He turned out to be a godsend. He knew how to keep the touchy motor supplied with the proper mixture of air and fuel, and was intimately acquainted with the countryside. They would have had trouble navigating the busy port on their own. Finding Ataman would have been almost impossible without a guide. As they got farther into Zeroes Bay, the city's importance as a major Russian seaport became apparent. Ship traffic in both directions was nonstop. The parade included every type of commercial vessel imaginable: cargo ships, tankers, oceangoing tugs, passenger ships and ferries.

Yuri kept a respectful distance from the big ships and their boat-swamping wakes. The shoreline became more built-up. High-rise buildings, smoking chimneys and grain elevators could be seen through the industrial haze that hung over the port. Yuri slowed the boat down to a fast walk.

"The city is very historic," Yuri said. "You can't go ten feet without tripping over a monument. The Russian Revolution ended here, when Allied ships evacuated the White Army in 1920. It's also one of the biggest ports in Russia. Oil is piped here from the wells in the northern Caucasus. That's the Shesharis Oil Harbor over there."

Paul had been studying the dark hue of the water. "It's a deep-water port, judging from the size of those ships."

"Novorossiysk doesn't freeze up in the winter. This is the major port for cargo moving between Russia and the Mediterranean and the rest of Europe, and it's also more or less convenient to Asia, the Persian Gulf and Africa. The port facilities are state-of-the-art. There are actually five parts to the harbor: three dry cargo handling areas, the oil harbor and the passenger terminal. You came in through the airport, so you know it's got connections allover the world."

"I can see why Ataman would have its headquarters here," Gamay noted, as she scanned the bustling bay.

"I'll show you." Yuri kicked the boat's speed up and angled the bow in toward a wide indentation on the shore. Six long concrete piers extended from land. Several ships were tied up at the wharves. Rising behind the piers was a sprawling complex of industrial buildings, gantry cranes, big straddle carriers and cargo derricks. Forklift trucks and tractors moved along the piers like oversized insects.

"Which part is Ataman's?" Gamay asked.

Yuri grinned and swept his hand in a wide arc. "All of it."

Gamay whistled in astonishment. "I can't believe the size of this place. It's bigger than some major ports."

"Ataman has it own fleet of tugboats, fuel and water supplies and tanks for bilge and waste removal," Yuri said. "See those giant cranes over there? That's Ataman's shipyard. They build all their own vessels. That way they can control design and cost." He furrowed his brow and looked around as if he had lost something. "That's funny, Ataman' s port is practically empty."

Paul exchanged a puzzled glance with his wife. "It doesn't look empty to me. Look at all that activity. I can see five ships of considerable size pulled up to the dock."

"Those are Ataman's small ships. I wanted to show you their ocean drilling rigs. They look like they could drill through to the other side of the world. Each one is like a city in itself."

"Maybe they're all at sea working."

"Maybe," he said, with skepticism in his voice. "But I don't think so. Ataman has so many ships, a few are always being outfitted. Even with all those wharves, they don't have space to take care of their whole fleet at the same time." He scanned the shoreline until he saw what he was looking for. "I can show you something almost as interesting."

Yuri kept the boat on the same heading until they were past the main wharves, then he steered in toward a smaller pier. A luxurious yacht four hundred feet long was tied up at the dock. The gleaming white hull was set off by black trim. The superstructure was unusually sleek and stream– lined. The hull was shaped in a deep V to cut through the waves. The wide rear of the boat was concave.

"Wow!" Yuri said. "I've heard of this baby, but it's the first time I've seen it."

"Quite a luxury yacht," Paul said with appreciation. "It belongs to Razov, the head guy at Ataman. They say he lives on the boat and runs his business from it." Yuri gave the tiller a wiggle. Gamay pressed the shutter release and banged off several shots. "Can we go around to the other side?" Gamay said.

Yuri replied with a pull on the tiller that brought them around behind the boat. Gamay lifted the camera up to her eye again and started to press the control button that would give her a wide-angle shot, when she detected movement on the deck. A figure had come into view. She extended the zoom to its full 200-mm range. "Dear God!" she said with a gasp.

"What is it?" Paul said.

She handed the camera over. "Take a look."

Paul peered through the viewfinder and scanned the deck, but saw no one.

"Deck's deserted now. What did you see?" Gamay didn't spook easily, but she couldn't suppress a shudder. "A tall man with long black hair and a beard. He was staring straight at me. It was one of the most frightening faces I've ever seen."

A Jeeplike vehicle was racing toward the wharf along an access road, and Trout's instincts were aroused. He looked through the camera lens as the vehicle drove onto the boat dock. Speaking calmly, he said, "We've got company. Time to go."

The vehicle screeched to a stop. Six uniformed men carrying weapons jumped out, dashed along the wharf, raced toward the gangplank and climbed onto the ship. Yuri had hesitated, but when he saw the armed men, he twisted the throttle as far as it would go, and headed out to the bay.

The bow lifted and the boat got on plane, making a respectable speed despite its heavy construction. Flashes of small-arms fire could be seen on the yacht's fantail. The bullets stitched a line of small fountains in the water. Paul yelled at the others to get down. A round hit the boat and took a chip out of the transom, but seconds later they were out of range. The danger wasn't over, though. Another vehicle had followed the first, and the men who piled out headed for the dock, where some powerboats were tied up.

Yuri pointed the boat out into the busy channel, crossing behind a cargo ship that was making its way out of the bay. The small boat leaped like a dolphin as it crossed the wake, but it rode the waves out comfortably. Yuri brought the boat around to the other side of the ship, using the cargo vessel as a screen. When they were safely beyond the Ataman complex, he peeled the boat away and they followed the coast back toward the camp. At one point, Paul suggested that they pull into a creek. They waited ten minutes, but no one followed.

Yuri's face was flushed with excitement. "Man, that was fun. I've heard a lot of businesses have their own armies to protect them from the Russian Mafia, but this is the first time I've ever seen them."

Paul felt guilty about putting the son of his old colleague in harm's way. He and Gamay owed Yuri an explanation, but too much knowledge could be just as dangerous. Communicating with her eyes, Gamay silently sent a message saying that she knew what to do.

"Yuri, we've got a favor to ask," she said. "We'd like you Ito say nothing about what happened back there to anyone."

"I guess your visit to my father wasn't entirely social," Yuri said.

Gamay nodded. "We've been asked by NUMA to check out Ataman Industries. They're suspected of being involved in some shady business. We had planned to do so from a safe distance. We never dreamed that they would be, well, so touchy."

"It was like something out of James Bond!" Yuri had a broad smile on his face.

"Except that this isn't fiction. It's very real."

Gamay's calming tone got through to Yuri far more effectively than any bombast Paul might have been able to summon up.

Yuri tried to look serious. "I'll be quiet, but it's going to be hard not to tell my friends." He sighed. "They wouldn't believe me anyhow."

Paul said, "We'll fill you in as soon as we know what this is all about. We can assure you that you'll be one of the first to know. Deal?" He stretched his hand forward.

"It's a deal," Yuri said, pleased to be in on the conspiracy. They shook hands all around.

The sun had dropped toward the horizon, and shadows were gathering as they saw the lights of the camp glimmering on shore. They all breathed a sigh of relief as the boat drew nearer the beach. They would have been less assured if they knew that a birdlike speck in the sky high above them was a helicopter equipped with high-powered optics.

PROFESSOR ORLOV WAS waiting on the beach. He waded into the water and pulled the boat into shore. "Hello, my friends. I see that you've met my son, Yuri."

"He was kind enough to take us on a sightseeing tour," Gamay said. She slipped over the side and used her body to hide the hole gouged out by the bullet. "We had a nice talk about now and the future."

"The now is that you go back to your cottage and get ready for dinner. The future is a wonderful meal and talking about old times. Our accommodations are primitive, but we feed ourselves well." He patted his expansive stomach.

The professor ushered the Trouts back to the main clearing and instructed them to return in a half hour with their appetites. Then he hustled off with his son. As he walked away, Yuri looked back over his shoulder and winked. The silent message was clear. Their secret was safe with him.

Paul and Gamay returned to their cottage and showered away the salt and sweat from their nautical adventure. Gamay changed into designer jeans that emphasized her long legs, a blazer and lilac camisole. Paul had not left his fastidious sartorial habits behind. He wore loose tan slacks with a Gatsby-style pale green shirt and a violet bow tie.

Some of the other inhabitants of the camp were assembled at or around the picnic table. The Trouts were greeted by the middle-aged couple they had met earlier, a tall intense-looking physicist who resembled the writer Alexander Solzhenitsyn and a young married couple, both engineering students at the university in Rostov. The table was set with an embroidered tablecloth and colorful china. Japanese lanterns lent a festive air to the gathering.

Orlov broke into a beaming smile when he saw the Trouts' approach. "Ah, my American guests. You look lovely, Gamay, and you are handsome as usual, Paul. A new bow tie? You must have an endless supply of cravats."

"I'm afraid my addiction is starting to get expensive. You don't know anyone who makes cheap throwaway bow ties, do you?"

The professor roared with laughter and translated for the others. Then he directed the Trouts to the seating that had been saved for them, rubbed his hands in anticipation, and went into his cottage to start the meal moving. Dinner was salmon-filled pirogi, basically Russian turnovers, served with rice and a clear borscht. The professor also had a case of the famous Russian champagne that was made in nearby Abrau-Dyurso. Even without vodka and a common language, dinner was loud and friendly and extended late into the evening. It was nearly midnight when the Trouts pushed themselves away from the table and begged to be allowed to go back to their cottage.

"The party is just starting!" Orlov bellowed. His face was red from alcohol and sweaty after serenading the other diners with an energetic rendition of a bawdy Russian folk song.

"Please don't stop on our account," Paul said. "We've had a long day, and it's starting to catch up with us."

"Of course, you must be very tired. I've been a poor host, making you sit here and listen to my attempts to sing."

Paul patted his stomach. "You've been a great host. But I'm a little older than I was when we used to drink the night away at the Captain Kidd."

"You're obviously out of training, my friend. One week here and we would have you back in shape." He hugged both Trouts. "But I understand. Would you like Yuri to escort you?”

"Thank you, Professor. We'll find our way," Gamay said. "See you in the morning."

Orlov let them go after another round of hugs and kisses. As they made their way along the path toward the single light glowing on the porch of their cottage, the Trouts could hear Orlov belting out a spirited but hardly recognizable rendition, in Russian, of "What Should We Do with the Drunken Sailor?"

"I don't envy Vlad for the hangover he's going to have," Gamay said.

"There's no party animal like a Russian party animal." They laughed as they climbed onto the porch. They weren't exaggerating their exhaustion. They brushed their teeth, stripped down to their underwear and slipped beneath the cool sheets. Within minutes, both were asleep. Gamay was the lighter sleeper. Later that night, she sat up in bed and listened. Something had awakened her. The sound of voices. High-pitched and excited. She poked Paul out of his slumber.

"What's going on?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"Listen. It sounds like… children playing."

But just then a loud shriek of unmistakable terror echoed through the woods outside.

"That was no kid," Paul said, vaulting from the bed. He scooped his slacks off a chair and jumped into them, nearly falling on his face. Gamay was one second behind, pulling her shorts over her slim hips and throwing a T-shirt over her head. They burst out onto the porch, where they could see a reddish glow through the trees. The smell of smoke hung heavily in the air.

"One of the camps is on fire!" Paul said.

They ran along the path in bare feet and almost mowed down Yuri, who was running in the opposite direction.

"What's going on?" Paul said.

"Don't talk," Yuri replied breathlessly. "We must hide. This way."

The Trouts glanced at the fire, then followed Yuri's lead. He moved fast in a long, loping gait. When they were deep in the pines, he took Gamay by the arm, pulled her onto the soft Cover of pine needles and motioned for Paul to duck down. They could hear branches and twigs snapping and rough voices. Paul started to get up to look, but Yuri pulled him back down. After a few minutes, the crashing stopped.

Yuri spoke from the darkness.

"I was asleep in my father's camp," he said, his voice ! hoarse from tension. "Men came in the night."

"Who were they?"

"I don't know. They had their faces covered. They dragged us out of bed. They wanted to know where the red-headed woman and the man were. My father said that you had left to go home. They didn't believe him. They beat him. He yelled in English for me to warn you. While they were busy, I ran to tell you."

"How many were there?"

"A dozen, maybe. I don't know. It was dark. They must have come by water. Our camp is right by the driveway, and we would have heard someone come in."

"We've got to get back to your father."

"I know a way," Yuri said. "Come."

Paul grabbed onto the back of Yuri's shorts and Gamay held on to her husband's other hand as they made their way through the woods, taking a circuitous path. The smoke thickened. Soon they could see the source of the smoke: the professor's cottage. They stepped out of the woods into the clearing, where students were spraying the cottage with hoses apparently powered by a generator. They couldn't save the building, but their efforts kept the fire from spreading to the adjacent woods and cottages. The older people were huddled in a group. Yuri spoke in Russian to the tall physicist, then turned to the Trouts.