| wall was blank. But the lights stayed dim, so that when he spoke across the table he did so almost from the shadows. “The coup is right around the corner, Mr. Lake. Our worst fears are coming true. Every aspect of Russian society and culture is cracking and crumbling. Democracy is a joke. Capitalism is a nightmare. We thought we could McDonaldize the damned place, and it’s been a disaster. Workers are not getting paid, and they’re the lucky ones because they have jobs. Twenty percent do not. Children are dying because there are no medicines. So are many adults. Ten percent of the population are homeless. Twenty percent are hungry. Each day things get worse. The country has been looted by the mobsters. We think at least five hundred billion dollars has been stolen and taken out of the country. There’s no relief in sight. The time is perfect for a new strongman, a new dictator who’ll promise to lead the people back to stability. The country is crying for leadership, and Mr. Chenkov has decided it’s up to him.” “And he has the army.” “He has the army, and that’s all it takes. The coup will be bloodless because the people are ready for it. They’ll embrace Chenkov. He’ll lead the parade into Red Square and dare us, the United States, to stand in his way. We’ll be the bad guys again.” “So the cold war is back,” Lake said, his words fading at the end. “There’ll be |
engine die. He turned and quickly gave a thumbs-up, the sign to do it quickly. Buster stepped onto the track, caught up with Yarber, and for a few steps they walked together. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Yarber asked. “Yes. I’m positive.” The kid appeared calm and ready. “Then do it now. Pace yourself. Be cool.” “Thanks, Finn.” “Don’t get caught, son.” “No way.” At the turn, Buster kept walking, off the track, across the freshly cut grass, a hundred yards to some brush, then he was gone. Beech and Yarber saw him go, then turned to watch the prison. Spicer was calmly walking toward them. There was no sign of alarm around the courtyards or dorms or any of the other buildings on the prison grounds. Not a guard in sight. They walked three miles, twelve laps, at the leisurely pace of fifteen minutes per mile, and when they’d had enough they retired to the coolness of the chamber to relax and listen for news of the escape. It would be hours before they heard a word. Buster’s pace was much faster. Once into the woods, he began to jog without looking back. Watching the sun, he moved due south for half an hour. The woods were not thick; the undergrowth was thin and did not slow him. He passed a deer stand twenty feet up in an oak tree, and soon found a trail that ran to the southwest. In his left front pants pocket |
