Authors: Stephen England
The Mercedes M Class slowed as it turned onto the access road. Two hours of surveillance detection runs had finally convinced Andropov’s driver that they were safe.
The driver reached into the center console, pulling out a small remote and entering his access code. He aimed it at the sculptured iron gates, a smile of satisfaction crossing his face as they swung open.
Opening outward
. Another security measure, Korsakov noted. It would make them less vulnerable to a ramming attack. He glanced at the cameras evenly spaced along the perimeter wall as the SUV rolled into the compound. Paranoia? Not really—after all, Andropov had made his millions selling Kalashnikovs, not toothpaste. His rise from
Spetsnaz
colonel to
mafiya
arms dealer had been a bloody one.
Even the paranoid have enemies
.
Korsakov slid his satphone surreptitiously from his jacket, consulting the screen. Nothing. He should have received confirmation from Yuri or Kalnins, something by now. Unless something had gone wrong.
As if on cue, the phone began to pulse. With a look toward the driver and the sleeping Viktor, Korsakov raised it to his ear. “
Da
?”
“Thirty-three percent,” came the announcement. Yuri, strain showing in his voice.
Korsakov swore softly.
Thirty-three percent
. One out of three targets taken out. A failure, by his standards. More importantly, by Andropov’s. “Where are you now?”
“Baltimore.”
“Kalnins?”
“With me, injured. A concussion, I would say.”
The assassin swore beneath his breath. “We need to regroup—ditch your equipment and get on a plane.”
“The contract is unfinished.” The hostility was still there in Yuri’s voice, ever simmering just beneath the surface.
Korsakov glanced out the tinted windows of the Mercedes, toward the portico of the mansion, palm trees shading the sidewalk. “To the devil with the contract.”
11:24 A.M. Eastern Time
Georgetown, MD
The Bureau had thrown the expected hissy fit at the very thought of Carter’s proposed walk. Even now, they weren’t truly alone—not if you counted the pair of Bureau sniper teams that were supposed to be providing overwatch.
As alone as they were going to be. Kranemeyer paused with one foot on the embankment, looking out across the murky waters of the Sassafras River. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
Carter took a final glance toward their minders, then turned his face away. He might lack field training, but he wasn’t dumb. The Bureau was known to employ lip-readers.
“The fiasco in West Virginia didn’t just happen,” he said finally, letting out the breath he had been holding, steam expelled into the chill morning air. “And it had nothing to do with Nichols.”
Kranemeyer glanced over at his analyst. “You’ve been on my payroll for, what, three years—give or take?”
A nod. “Moved over permanently from the Intelligence Directorate the year following NIGHTSHADE.”
“Then you know you have my confidence, Ron. But believe me when I say that this had better not be one of your hunches.”
“It’s not.” Carter took another look around him. Georgetown was a sleepy river town, particularly in the off-season. Almost no one on the nearby streets.
Just the FBI’s watchers.
“Someone inside the government is working with the terrorists, and they’re trying to make it look like Nichols is behind it. They had real-time intel in West Virginia.”
“What type of intel?”
“They were controlling the NRO satellite tasked to the Bureau’s mission. They were in command of the feed.”
“How is that even possible?” Kranemeyer almost turned to face Carter, then thought better of it.
Watchers
.
“It was a legit user account, set up a few days before the bombings in Virginia. Sundancer1350. No idea who is behind it, but they didn’t hack their way in. They were
given
access.”
“By who?”
A long pause, the silence falling heavy between the two men. “I don’t know…but they had the run of the place.”
The DCS swore. “You do know what you’re saying, Ron?”
“That’s what Marika asked,” Carter replied, a thin, humorless smile turning up his lips. He felt Kranemeyer’s hand descend on his arm and the color drained from his face.
“Would you mind telling me who
that
is?”
The analyst closed his eyes, cursing himself for the admission. Such a Freudian slip.
Kranemeyer’s hand fell away and Carter looked up to see the DCS fishing in the pocket of his jacket for his phone. “Yes?”
As hard as he might try, it was impossible to hear the other side of the conversation. The DCS said little, his face gradually distorting with anger as he listened.
At length, “Thanks, Danny.”
Kranemeyer thrust the phone back in his pocket and took Carter by the shoulder, propelling him back toward the road.
“What’s going on?”
The look on Kranemeyer’s face was frightening, dark coals of fire flashing in his eyes. The face of death incarnate. “Nichols was only the beginning—they’re taking the Service apart, Ron. One by one.
My
people…”
11:57 A.M.
Norfolk, Virginia
Finding a person who was supposed to be dead was about as hard as one might expect. Them having relatives helped. Being on a close timetable didn’t.
“How long will we have?” Thomas asked, glancing at his watch.
Tex shrugged. “I can give you five minutes to clone the SIM. In and out.”
Thomas looked out the tinted windows of the Malibu, across the street to the windowed storefront of the beauty salon. The proprietor was Rhoda Stevens’ sister, and he could make out the form of their target within the interior. “Her assistant goes on lunch break in fifteen. I can do this.”
“You sober?” The words contained no inflection, no accusation. Just a question, and yet he felt a flash of anger.
“Stone cold.”
The Texan nodded, but there was a reluctance there, a skepticism.
Didn’t anyone trust him anymore? Thomas’s phone rang suddenly, before he could utter the angry words rising to his lips. He palmed it off the dashboard, scanning the screen.
Kranemeyer
.
“Hello,” he answered, putting the phone on speaker.
“The two of you need to go to ground,” the DCS announced, his words clipped, tension filling his voice. “And stay there.”
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll see it on the news soon enough.” Explanations weren’t Kranemeyer’s specialty. “Someone’s turning us inside out—an FBI agent was murdered last night and the murder weapon was…an Agency Barrett.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Like usual, the truth doesn’t really matter. I struck a deal with Haskel to throttle things back—keep your faces off the television for the moment…but the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division has expressed an interest in your whereabouts all the same. They’ll be looking for you within the hour, rattling the bushes to see what flies out. Go to ground, get out of sight.”
And then he was gone, breaking contact without so much as a farewell. The two men exchanged glances, absorbing the news.
After a long moment, Thomas inclined his head toward the salon. “We’re already here. Shall we?”
A nod.
9:48 A.M. Pacific Time
Baker Street Bistro
San Francisco, California
When it came right down to it, it didn’t much matter if you were in San Francisco or Istanbul. Clandestine meetings were dicey business. You could never be sure what your “ally” might do.
Harry’s eyes scanned the bistro as the waiter led them to their table, outside on the veranda. This might have been America, but with the Consulate mere blocks to the west, it was Vasiliev’s turf. He counted at least two Russians near the front of the bistro, one more outside at one of the open-air tables. Might be security personnel from the Consulate, might be immigrants. Frisco
was
a melting pot.
Part of his mind insisted that Alexei would never attempt a snatch in public place, an American city—but he knew better, knew the danger of the course he had chosen. If America had made one mistake consistently through the last fifty years, it was what the intel community called “mirror imaging”. The belief that everyone made decisions the same way you did. That their rationale, their very
definition
of logic was the same. September 11
th
had proven otherwise, but not everyone had gotten the memo.
He ushered Carol into the chair closest to the garden wall and took his own seat, the Colt trembling beneath his light jacket. From where he sat, he could watch the front door of the bistro.
Meeting with Alexei wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. Unavoidable.
The tension was palpable, Carol thought, giving her menu a disinterested glance. She could sense it in his body language. This meeting was a bad idea, and he knew it.
Her gaze lifted from the table, scanning the surrounding rooftops. Nothing.
Not to say that no one was there. She saw Han enter the bistro, making his way to a table near the front door. Moments later, his voice came over her earbud: “In position.”
“Copy that,” Harry breathed beside her, acknowledging his receipt of the message.
Without warning, a shadow fell over their table and she looked up, feeling Harry tense. Vasiliev stood there across from them, one hand clasping the back of the chair, the other held in front of him, index finger extended from a clenched fist.
A smile played across the Russian’s weathered face, the breeze rippling through his silver hair. “Bang, you’re dead.”
9:53 A.M.
The mansion
Beverly Hills, California
It was a Nicholas Poussin, or so the head of Andropov’s security had said. Whatever that was supposed to mean.
Korsakov stood there for a moment, taking a speculative sip from the wine glass as he stared at the painting over the fireplace.
King Midas at the Source of the Pactole River
.
It was an ironic choice. Andropov had always been that way. Like the fabled king, everything he touched had turned to gold. And this…this mansion—the gilded fixtures, the Renaissance artwork, these were the fruits of it.
Korsakov turned, feeling Viktor’s eyes on him. “What do you think,
tovarisch
?” he asked, raising his glass as if in a toast. The boy didn’t drink—it brought back flashbacks. Memories of being drugged and raped.
Viktor hesitated, as if rendered speechless by the grandeur of the sitting room. The assassin smiled. “My old comrade has done well for himself, has he not? The
Midas
touch.”
The smile vanished from Korsakov’s face as quickly as it had come. Andropov
had
done well, which was why he was still in bed with his mistress while the two of them cooled their heels on the first floor.
The privileges of wealth. He threw back his head, draining the wine glass in a single, angry swallow. These cursed capitalists…
9:54 A.M.
The Baker Street Bistro
San Francisco, California
The Russian looked older than the fifty-eight years his CIA dossier indicated. Much older. He had once been a handsome man, that much was obvious, but his once-lean frame had now begun to carry the weight of middle age. Blue eyes stared out from a face worn and lined by the decades, his thinning silver hair swept back rakishly from the brow.
“I appreciate you coming, Alexei,” Harry began, motioning for his old adversary to take a seat. “I know it is not without its risks for you.”
Vasiliev sat down, gesturing for their waiter. “There was a time,
tovarisch
. There was a time when I would have had to write up a five-page contact report after this meeting.”
“And now?”
“And now…I am the
head
of security. I am, how would you say? Ah yes—a law unto myself.” His hands moving in quick efficient motions, Vasiliev spread the napkin across his lap, smiling as if very pleased with himself. “And who is your sexy lady friend?” he asked, switching into Russian.
“Someone who doesn’t make a practice of meeting with KGB thugs,” Carol replied in the same language, an icy calm in her voice.
The Russian looked startled for a brief moment, then his body shook with laughter. “Perhaps you should have warned me, Harry.”
“I didn’t know myself,” he replied, shooting her a sharp look. The message was clear in his eyes:
watch your step
. There was too much at stake.