TwelveBy eight the next morning, Slava and T. J. were at Bergstrom scrambling for a flight to Houston, and an hour later they were searching at Houston for a flight toward Marseilles. Archangelsky’s skeletal plan was no more than to surprise the dragon and learn the meaning of its prophecy.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be a wild-armadillo chase,” remarked D’Abro, who sometime after having stowed her sweater and jacket, accepted a beer from the flight attendant. Slava only tugged at his beard, bought a new supply of cognac and the two settled back for the long leg to Europe.
“I don’t think I’ve ever known a Russian, Dr. Archangelsky,” T. J. offered, mutilating his name as always. “I’ll get that right sooner or later. What part are you from?”
“Why don’t you just call me Slava; it’s
