Fire Ice

Austin plunked into the chair facing the altar, and, as he leaned back, a deep chorus of male voices poured from hidden speakers. The religious chanting welled throughout the chamber and echoed off the walls. Austin shot out of the chair like a jack-in-the-box, his revolver at the ready. The haunting music stopped.

Zavala saw the look of alarm on his partner's face and stifled a laugh. "A bit jumpy, my friend?"

"Cute," Austin said. He pressed his hand against the back of the chair and the chanting resumed. It stopped when he removed his hand. "A pressure-activated switch turns on the tunes. It gives a whole new meaning to the term 'musical chair.' Care to try it?"

"No, thanks. My musical taste runs more to salsa." "Remind me to rig a Barcalounger up to my collection of progressive jazz." Austin glanced at the door. "We're done here. Even a rat wouldn't be dumb enough to be caught in a trap like this."

They left the somber confines of the Romanov shrine and returned to the staircase they had climbed from the submarine pen. They went up another level and found themselves in a barracks similar to the one below. Whereas the lower dormitory was neat, here blankets were bunched on the dirty mattresses as if thrown there in a hurry. Cigarette butts and plastic cups littered the floor. There was the stale smell of sweat and rotting food.

"Phew!" Zavala said.

Austin wrinkled his nose. "Look on the bright side; we won't need bloodhounds to pick up the trail."

They followed a wide corridor that slanted upward like the ramp in an underground parking garage. After a few minutes, fresh air blew against their faces, replacing the foul odor emanating from the barracks. Natural light coming from a bend in the passageway began to fill in the spaces between the puddles of illumination from overhead bulbs spaced in the ceiling.

The passageway ended in a steel door that had been left ajar. A short ramp led to the interior of what appeared to be a warehouse or garage. The concrete floor was stained with oil and spotted with the droppings of small animals. Austin picked an old, yellowed copy of Pravda out of a pile of rubbish. The beetle-browed face of Leonid Brezhnev glowered from the front page.

Austin tossed the newspaper aside and went over to a window. Not a shard of glass remained in the metal frame, giving him an unimpeded view of several nearby steel structures. The warehouse was part of the complex of abandoned buildings Austin had first seen from the air. The corrugated exteriors were streaked with rust, and the seams on the walls and roofs had buckled with age. Concrete walks linking the complex were overgrown with tall grass.

Zavala caught Austin's attention with a sharp whistle. He was looking out from the opposite side of the warehouse.

Working his way around the rubbish, Austin crossed over and peered through the window. The warehouse sat on a rise overlooking a large weed-grown field that was roughly rectangular in shape and depressed a few feet, like a giant soap dish. The rusty framework of a soccer goal jutted from the grass at one end. Austin guessed that the area had once been an athletic field used for R amp;R by visiting submarine crews.

Now, horsemen were strung out along the perimeter of the field on three sides. Only the side nearest the warehouse and the other buildings was open. Austin recognized the gray tunics and black pants worn by the gang of Cossacks that had shot him out of the sky. There were at least three times as many riders, now all facing into the field.

"You never told me this was a polo club," Zavala said, in a bad imitation of a British accent.

"I wanted to surprise you," Austin said, focusing on a frightened-looking group of people huddled in the center of the field. "We're in time for the last chukker. Follow me and I'll introduce you to the chaps I met the last time I was here."

Austin and Zavala slipped out of the warehouse, dropped to their hands and knees and wriggled snake-style until they came to the edge of the field where the grass thi

Austin quickly figured out the one-sided rules of the game. The Cossacks were trying to break the group apart so they could run them to ground individually. The field had been left unguarded on one side to tempt someone to make a break for freedom. But the strategy wasn't working. With each charge, their prey bunched closer together, like zebras being stalked by hungry lions.

Yelping loudly, the riders galloped back to the edge of the field and took their place in line again. Austin expected another attack, maybe with more riders. Instead, a lone horseman broke from the ranks and put his mount into a trot as if he were out for a Sunday ride.

Austin shielded the binocular lenses with his hands to prevent the sun from reflecting. The rider was dressed in the familiar mud-colored belted tunic, baggy black pants and boots and fur hat, although the day was warm. Cartridge belts crossed his chest. He rode a big dark gray horse with wide flanks and shoulders like a draft animal.

Austin studied the man's long, unkempt red beard and let out an evil chuckle. The last time he'd seen the giant Cossack was over the barrel of a flare gun. "Well, well, we meet again."

"Is that clean-cut chap a friend of yours?" Zavala said.

"More a passing acquaintance. We had a glancing encounter not too long ago."

Taking his time, the Cossack put his mount into a parade strut and circled the field, showing off for the other horsemen, who cheered him on. Then he drew his saber, raised it high and let out a hoarse yell. Digging his spurs into his mount, he charged toward the center of the field like a bowling ball rolling down on tenpins. At the last second, he brought the horse to a skidding stop and pulled back on the reins. The big horse reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air.

The people huddled in the field scrambled to avoid the flailing hooves and to escape the crushing weight of the giant animal. In the confusion, one man tripped and fell, and became separated from the others. He got up and tried to regain the relative safety of the pack, but the Cossack saw the opening and wedged his horse between. The man feinted to the right and made a dash to the left. The Cossack anticipated the move and herded the man like a cowpoke culling out a steer for branding. Seeing no alternative, the man sprinted for the unguarded side of the field.

The ru

Alerted by the pounding hoofbeats, the ru