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"We're not an assault force," said the woman.

"You were seen entering the Presidential Palace with Major Pentti Aho--"

"He arranged our transportation. We came to try and find out who killed a British businessman--"

"The official report and remains were turned over to the British Embassy," said Rossky.

"Cremated remains," said the woman. "The British don't accept that he died of a heart attack."

"And we don't accept that he was a businessman!" said Rossky. "You have another nine minutes to turn yourselves in or join your dead friend. It's that simple."

"Nothing is ever that simple," said Orlov.

Only the faint crackle of static filled the line for what seemed like a very long time.

"To whom am I speaking?" the woman said.

"To the highest-ranking military officer in St. Petersburg," said Orlov, more for Rossky's sake than the woman's. "Now who are you? And spare us the cover. We know how you came here and from where."

"Fair enough," said the woman. "We're COMINT officers who work with Defense Minister Niskanen in Helsinki."

"You are not!" Rossky bellowed. "Niskanen wouldn't risk his resources to disinter a corpse!"

"DI6 could not agree on a course of action," the woman explained, "so they consulted the CIA and the Defense Minister. They agreed that it would be less provocative for myself and my colleague to come in and try and find out why he was killed-- and, once that was accomplished, to try and arrange a dialogue to avoid retaliation."

"Cutouts?" Rossky sneered. "You would have taken a direct flight with cobbled passports, gotten in quickly to make your case. You came by midget submarine because you didn't want to be seen at the airport. You're lying!"

"Which route crosses the Gulf of Bothnia?" Orlov asked.

"Route Two," the woman replied.

"How many provinces are there in Finland?"

"Twelve."

"This proves nothing!" said Rossky. "She was schooled!"

"That's right," she said. "In Turku, where I was raised."

"This is futile!" Rossky added. "She's in our country illegally, and in four minutes my forces will close in on her."

"If you can find me."

Rossky said, "The Kirov Theater is to your left, at the ten o'clock position. And there's a green Mercedes behind you. If you try to flee, you'll be shot."

There was another silence. While the woman may have swept the car for transmitters, Orlov knew that she probably hadn't noticed the cellular telephone in the trunk. The line was kept open when an agent was on the job. It didn't show up on transmitter detectors, but allowed them to triangulate the position of the car at all times.

The woman said calmly, "If anything happens to us, you'll lose an opportunity to communicate directly with your counterpart. Sir-- I'm addressing the ranking officer, not the ruffian."

"Yes?" Orlov said. In spite of himself, he liked the way she'd said that.

"I believe, sir, that you are more than just the military head at St. Petersburg. I believe that you are General Sergei Orlov, and that you're in charge of an intelligence unit here in the city. I also believe that more can be accomplished by putting you in touch with your counterpart in Washington than by killing me and returning my ashes to Defense Minister Niskanen."

Over the past two years, Orlov and his staff had tried to find out more about their "doppelgänger" in Washington, their mirror image. An intelligence and crisis center that functioned much as theirs did. Moles at the CIA and FBI had been turned loose to discover whatever they could. But the Washington Op-Center was much newer, smaller, and tougher to penetrate. What this woman offered-- because she was either very clever or very afraid-- was the one thing he could not afford to let go.

"Perhaps," said Orlov. "How would you communicate with Washington?"

"Put me through to Major Aho at the Palace," she said. "I'll arrange it through him."

Orlov considered the offer for a moment. Part of him felt uneasy about cooperating with an invader, but a larger part felt comfortable trying diplomacy rather than giving an order that was certain