Free The Fourth Rome by David Drake, Janet Morris Page B

separate plans might be the only viable
     alternatives if one or more ARC Riders were caught and interrogated by any of a number of Russian security services. The Soviets
     were unparalleled interrogators. A change in government didn’t mean that the apparatchiki—the functionaries—had lost their
     memories. Or their abilities. So you wanted to be redundantly prepared to ensure your own security. It was that kind of mission.
    If it all went to shit, Tim Grainger would do whatever it took to survive. He was armed and more dangerous than anybody on
     this horizon had ever dreamed a single person could be. He’d made every contingency preparation personally. He’d brought along
     every weapon he could think of, wrapping them in the mission-correct clothing provided by Central. His 20th-century weaponry
     was heavy in the black ballistic nylon gearbag on his shoulder.
    Less than half an hour into the recon, he was sure he was going to need every weapon he had.
    They’d planned to use the state-run guided tours of the Kremlin’s historical monuments as a cover, posing as tourists to get
     out the Kremlin gates unchallenged with their black nylon gearbags. They found a tour group examining the jasper floors, the
     Botticelli oil lamps, and the priceless icons encrusted with precious stones. They tagged along.
    The tour group was mostly Westerners. The default language of the tour guide was English. They hadn’t been with the group
     for more than five minutes when a sharp-nosed Russian spotted them. This Russian, emaciated, waxy-skinned, and wearing eyeglasses
     held together with paper clips, sidled up to Grainger.
    The Russian asked, sotto voce, “American?” His breath and body smelled of strange spices and raw garlic.
    Grainger saw the frown on Roebeck’s face before he answered, “Yes.” Central had costumed them purposely to clearly mark them
     as Americans, for whatever protection easy identification with the world’s single remaining superpower might afford. The ARC
     Riders wore white running shoes, blue jeans over regulation bodysuit, puffy quilted parkas complete with US flag patches on
     the arms.
    “Ladies should wear coverings on their heads in this place.” The Russian’s hair was greasy, unwashed for far too long. Even
     soap was scarce here now, let alone shampoo.
    Damn, of course. This was a church, after all. And newly won religious freedom was quickly leading to religious fervor. Central
     hadn’t bothered to tell them they needed babushkas—head scarves—for the ladies.
    Roebeck and Chun had heard. The team exchanged glances for an instant in silent evaluation of possible damage control measures.
    Grainger said, “Custom dictates scarves, ladies,” very quietly, and tugged at the comm membrane around his throat.
    Chun rolled her almond eyes ceilingward as she and Roe-beck pulled their comm membranes up over their faces and foreheads
     to cover their hair and ears—barely. To Grainger, the ARC Riders with comm membranes on their heads looked like high-tech
     washerwomen. The membranes were a mottled gray color when not in use. The material was like nothing from this century. But
     maybe they’d pass. Many things from the outside world were still alien to the cloistered populace of the former USSR. The
     Soviet empire’s main preoccupation had been protecting its citizens from decadent, corrosive foreign influences.
    The frail Russian sidled even closer to Grainger—disturbingly close. Grainger wanted to back up but remembered that this culture
     had a different set of criteria for personal space. So he held his ground. The indig looked at his feet, saying in a whisper:
     “Interested in icons? I have copper icon, 15th century, very waluable.”
    “Nan, Chun, let’s move on.” Grainger tried to ignore the solicitation. This Russian could be what he seemed: a black-market
     entrepreneur who’d sighted a rich American. Selling cultural items to outsiders was a serious infraction of