Authors: Stephen England
“Pyotr Andropov’s mother was a Hollywood starlet in the days before she met Valentin. Before she died in a car accident over eighteen years ago—shortly after his birth,” the former SEAL replied, tapping the dossier with a long index finger. “He holds dual citizenship in the United States and Russia. There’s no road back from this.”
He was right. Harry knew that. Knew he had to offer a way out. He rose from his seat at the table. “I’ve been accused of complicity in Lay’s death, Sammy. My
face
is on the television. That’s already the case for me. But you don’t need to go down with me.”
He laid a hand on Han’s shoulder. “You don’t owe me this. If you’re not here when I return, I’ll understand.”
“Where are you going?”
Harry inclined his head toward the bedroom. “Wish me luck.”
Her back was turned to him when he entered the room. Her laptop was open on the bed, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Carol, I—”
She held up a hand to silence him. “One moment…here, I have it.”
“Have what?” he asked, stopping in the center of the room. She turned the laptop to face him, revealing a maze of code and what looked like schematics onscreen.
“Your way in.”
He took a seat on the bed beside her. “What am I looking at?”
“The power grid that services Beverly Hills and the western half of Los Angeles County. I can take it down.”
She was good.
“NIGHTSHADE,” he whispered, grasping her intent in a trice. He could still remember the night of that operation in Paraguay, the smell of gunpowder and burning fuel in his nostrils. Carter had overloaded the Ciudad del Este power grid, giving him the diversion he needed to escape. This would give them a way in.
“The blackout will take Andropov’s security systems off-line, and should give you enough time to breach the perimeter.” She smiled. “And we don’t need to kidnap his son.”
If only things could be that simple, Harry thought, his lips pressing together into a single, bloodless line. She had solved one of their problems, but only one. And getting inside had never been his uppermost concern.
He reached out, his fingers touching her arm lightly. “Once inside, we will need leverage. Andropov was
Spetsnaz
, and although he may have grown soft over his years in the West, I doubt he’s forgotten his training. He was trained to resist interrogation…as I was.”
She looked up and he could see the pain in her eyes. “He’s just a college kid.”
“Then perhaps it’s time he realized how his old man made his billions.”
There was a long silence before she spoke again, and he let it hang.
Most people talked too much. It was enough to plant the seed—one never tried to force the decision.
At length, she closed the laptop, glancing into his eyes. “Promise me that you won’t hurt him.”
He nodded. “I promise.”
Her blue eyes burned with a fierce intensity. “Swear it…”
Nothing was ever certain in a field op. She’d been Agency long enough to know that. It was the nature of the business. But he wasn’t going to get this done without her cooperation.
“He won’t be harmed,” he whispered, holding her gaze. “I swear before God.”
3:02 P.M. Central Time
The mosque
Dearborn, Michigan
Her face stared back at him from his computer, the face of a bold woman. Defiant. Brazen. Unbowed.
Tarik Abdul Muhammad placed his fingertips together, staring pensively at the screen, at the image of Congresswoman Laura Gilpin. So close, yet so far away. One mistake, and years of planning could be all for nothing. All those years behind barbed wire, staring out at the sea. Knowing that his destiny was out
there
. Vengeance…
Just one mistake, like the one Walid had made on an icy highway. Fate. Yet how could this be anything but the will of Allah?
He scrolled down the open itinerary there on her website, searching for any possible alternate targets. Another way to accomplish his holy mission.
There were none. They had to strike at the appointed time. No other choice.
He looked up to see al-Fileestini standing in the open doorway, a sober look on the imam’s face.
“My mind has been made up,” al-Fileestini announced. “I will accompany you to Nevada.”
The Pakistani clicked his mouse to minimize the browser, gesturing for the older man to take a seat across from him.
“I thought we had already discussed this,” he began carefully. The imam was too influential to risk offending. “None of us will be returning,
Insh’allah
. You, father, are too vital to our cause in this country to die the death of a
shahid
, worthy as that is.”
The imam turned away to cough, a violent, hacking sound. “I am not asking your permission, Tarik. I have supported your operation and this is what I require in return. As to where I am most useful, do not presume to instruct Allah,
subhanahu wa ta’ala
.”
“I would not dream of such blasphemy, father,” Tarik responded, his blue eyes narrowing as he gazed across the desk at al-Fileestini. Something was present here, some motive he couldn’t discern.
“Then it is settled.” The imam smiled, fishing a cellphone out of his suit jacket, laying it on the desk between them. A text message was displayed on the screen, consisting of a series of GPS coordinates and the brief message: EARLY DELIVERY APPROVED. MORNING OF THE 21
st
.
“Andropov has come through for us, just as I said he would. We leave before nightfall.”
Tarik nodded. “
Inshallah
.”
2:59 P.M. Pacific Time
Andropov’s mansion
Beverly Hills, California
It had happened once before. The memory was still fresh in Korsakov’s mind. Three months after he had rescued Viktor from the brothel, the boy had run away. They’d been in Budapest at the time and the teenager had seen a face in the crowd. Or thought he had, his frayed nerves making it impossible to ever know the truth.
It had been three days before Korsakov had found him, huddled under a bridge on the banks of the Danube, living out of a cardboard box and reeking of urine and human waste.
He murmured a curse under his breath, scanning the map of the location where they’d lost Viktor’s cellphone signal. Andropov wasn’t going to give him three days. Not with their contract already at a critical phase.
The assassin ran a hand through his hair. Looking back he still couldn’t remember why he had decided to rescue the boy. One of those moments when a man acted, not from logic or reason—simply because a voice inside him said that he
must
.
A long-dormant conscience? God? The question brought a faint smile to Korsakov’s face. It begged the question of why God would bother speaking to a man who had never believed in His existence…
He felt movement behind him, a presence entering the room. The assassin turned to find Andropov standing there.
“Any progress?”
Korsakov shook his head. “Viktor—Viktor is not like other young men. Years of trauma have left him…delicate. Prone to snapping.”
The oligarch took off his gloves, a baffled look on his face. “Prone? This has happened before?”
“Several times,” Korsakov replied, turning back to the laptop. “He suffers from flashbacks—the line between reality and memory blurs.”
He looked up to find Andropov regarding him with a look of disbelief. “Then why haven’t you rid yourself of him before this?”
Why?
An impossible question, really. “I’m the only thing he has left in the world,” the assassin responded, looking his old comrade in the face. How the years had changed them.
Andropov sniffed. “When did you go soft on me, Sergei? He’s jeopardized our mission and
your
contract. Remember that. With him gone, we will need to move rapidly. Go ahead and pull up the tracking device—there is no time to wait on the rest of your team.”
“
Da
.” Korsakov took a deep breath, reminding himself of the Golden Rule as he typed an authentication code into the laptop.
He who has the gold makes the rules
.
If he didn’t give Andropov what he wanted, the oligarch would find someone who would. That was the life of the mercenary.
With the authentication code entered, the tracking software booted up, a whirring sound coming from the computer. And then…a second authentication screen.
The assassin’s brow furrowed in bewilderment. A
second
authentication? He only knew one code.
After a brief pause, he began again, hesitant fingers dancing over the keyboard—entering the same code once more. He tapped
enter
, and almost instantly his ears were assaulted with an insistent
beep
, the log-in menu fading away only to be replaced by a blue screen. SYSTEM LOCKDOWN INITIATING…
A curse exploded from his lips as the laptop began to enter shutdown mode. They were flying blind…
4:52 P.M.
The safehouse
San Francisco, California
“Satellite photos aren’t going to be enough,” Han observed, placing his glass of water on the counter and walking over to stand beside Harry.
The two of them had papered an entire wall of the safehouse with satellite imagery, showing every available detail of the Andropov estate. They were all open-source images, supplemented by Google Street View—Carol’s laptop didn’t begin to give her the firepower needed to hack into the NRO.
Han’s comment always held true. As good as PHOTINT was, it was no substitute for an actual reconnaissance. Nothing like being there.
“The van’s going to attract attention in that neighborhood. Can’t just go rolling around unnoticed,” the former SEAL added, as if reading Harry’s mind. Perhaps he was…they had worked together for years.
Harry’s eyes focused in on one of the Street View images, on the house in the image. Across the street, two down from their target. There was something about it, a certain feel…
“We may not have to,” he whispered, removing the picture from the wall and turning away from his friend. He stalked back across the room to where Carol sat, working on her laptop. A wireless printer was propped up on a cardboard box at her feet, sheets of paper print-outs strewn over the floor seemingly at random. “What do you have?”
“There aren’t many public security cameras in the area,” she responded. “Most of them are on private networks, protected by the best encryption money can buy.”
“No use in giving the paparazzi a leg up,” Harry mused, handing her the picture. “What can you find on this?”
He watched as she entered the address into the computer, page after page of search results filling the screen within seconds.
It was as he’d hoped. The top results were real estate listings.
“The house has been on the market since 2011,” Carol announced. “Ten million dollars. No takers.”
“Big surprise there,” Han observed, turning to face them.
A smile touched the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Always have loved an empty house.”
11:03 P.M. Central Time
The Dearborn Police Station
Dearborn, Michigan
“According to his reports, Nasir abu Rashid was rooming with another Lebanese immigrant, a student at University of Michigan named Jamal al-Khalidi.”
Marika looked up from the computer in front of her. “Was there any connection between the two men? Any prior history?”
Russell shook his head. “If there was, he never mentioned it in his reports. Beyond both men being native to Lebanon…nothing.”
“Could he have been hiding something?” It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. Informants were
always
hiding something. “The file mentions his contact with a local imam, Abu Kareem al-Fileestini.” Marika lifted her eyes, glancing across the room to where the police chief stood beside the coffee percolator. “What can you tell me about him?”
There was a long pause before the chief turned to face her, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “Al-Fileestini? Not very much, I’m afraid.”
“Have you met him?”
“Yes.” A guarded edge had crept into his voice, a hesitation Marika hadn’t heard before. There was something he wasn’t saying.
“And? What is your opinion of the imam?”
The chief took a long sip of his coffee. “I don’t have one. Doesn’t pay.”
“Bull,” Marika shot back. She rose to her feet, taking full advantage of her height. “I’m asking you for a straight answer and I’ve no intention of asking again.”
A look of resignation passed across the police chief’s face. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and extracted two photos, handing her the top photo. “I don’t
want
to have an opinion, because there’s no margin in it. It’s a career-ender. This is your man, Dearborn’s most influential imam. He’s heavily tied in with the Muslim Brotherhood and chairman of the IICSO, the Islamic Inter-Collegiate Students’ Organization. You don’t get crossways of al-Fileestini’s influence and hold office in this town.”