Authors: Stephen England
All men were the same, in the end. They all wanted more than you were prepared to give—whether your body or your loyalty. He stared down through a haze of tears at the SIM card in his hand.
Call him
.
The impulse was there, never so strong.
Resist it.
The leering face of the oligarch rose up before him. Just the way he remembered him.
The way he remembered everything. That feeling of helplessness. He fingered the SIM card aimlessly, replacing it at last in the pocket of his jacket.
He had to. But not yet…
10:32 A.M. Central Time
I-80
Northern Illinois
He wasn’t used to driving without music. American rap, turned all the way up.
Not this unbearable quiet, just the sound of wheels against the road, the hum of a powerful engine.
“Where are we headed?” Nasir asked, glancing across the cab of the tractor-trailer at the negro.
Omar looked up from his pocket copy of the Qur’an, dark fingers paging through the flowing script. “That’s not for me to say. The shaikh will answer your questions—or not, as Allah guides him.”
Nasir shook his head, trying to keep his nerves in check, the fear that he’d felt while talking with the FBI woman threatening to overwhelm him. “And yet you expect me to drive the truck?”
“Just keep driving till we reach Joliet. We’ll stop for lunch there.” Omar inclined his head. “You’re an illegal, right?”
The question was so unexpected—it was impossible not to react. “What?”
The negro laughed, flashing a smile full of white teeth. “Easy there, bro. No need to take it like that—I give props to anyone that finds a way to beat the system.” A pause. “Speaking of beatin’ the system—how does an illegal get a CDL?”
Nasir’s knuckles whitened around the big steering wheel, a silent prayer racing through his mind. The Americans had helped him get his commercial driver’s license, in exchange for the information he had supplied to them. In exchange for his treachery. It was to have been only the beginning.
“There are ways,” he responded, struggling to keep his voice under control. “Long story.”
“Ways? Tell me about them, brother,” came the reply, an edge creeping into the black man’s voice. “We have all day.”
12:38 P.M. Eastern Time
Arlington National Cemetery
Virginia
He would always remember the first time he had come to Arlington, as a small child. A young Marine, a friend of the family, killed half-way around the world in the bombing of the Marine barracks in Beirut. Taken too young.
The snowy grass crunched beneath Thomas’s feet as he moved up the hill, past row after row of markers. He had come alone, for the sake of safety.
There was nothing unusual about a lone mourner, particularly not at this time of year.
A cold wind whipped through the denuded branches of the maple trees near the top of the hill, tousling his brown hair. It was a lonely place, as all cemeteries.
He knelt by the headstone of Robert L. Krag, running his fingers reverently over the inscription. The lieutenant commander had perished with the crew of the ill-fated
U.S.S. Thresher
, back in ’63. Before his time.
A tragic footnote to history. Thomas pulled off his gloves, groping in the fresh-fallen snow. A moment later, he found what he was looking for—a small, waterproof tube.
Straightening, he broke the seal, unfolding the small scrap of paper inside, printed letters against the yellow back-ground of a post-it note. An address, in Graves Mills, Virginia. And a note: VOICEPRINT CONFIRMED 87%. IT’S HER.
A smile of satisfaction crossed his lips, the same feeling he’d always had when a target entered his cross-hairs.
Rhoda Stevens was still in circulation. And he had her dead to rights.
10:14 A.M. Pacific Time
The empty mansion
Beverly Hills, California
Surveilling a target was nowhere near as exciting as Hollywood made it out to be. It was roughly as exhilarating as babysitting, with the caveat that you couldn’t watch TV.
You could eat. And the average stakeout consumed more snacks than a frat house’s Super Bowl party.
“This is just like Berlin back in ‘87,” Vasiliev groused, reaching for a handful of Doritos. “Two weeks watching a suspected Stasi defector—I gained eight pounds.”
The faintest hint of a smile crossed Harry’s face. “And you still lost the war.”
“You’re certain of that,
tovarisch
?” the former KGB field officer chuckled, arching an eyebrow. “When I was first assigned to the San Francisco consulate in February of 2009, I fly into LAX and what is the first thing I see upon disembarking? A magazine cover proclaiming,
‘We are all socialists now’
.”
The man had a point.
Before he could come up with a suitable rejoinder, Harry’s two-way radio sitting on the card table before him crackled with static. Han. “EAGLE SIX, we have movement. Looks like they’re coming out.”
Vasiliev swore in Russian, brushing crumbs off his shirt as he rose, his eyes focusing on the slowly opening gates of the oligarch’s estate. They had been prepared for this, but so was Andropov.
Three vehicles. A pair of gleaming Mercedes M Class SUVs took point and rearguard positions in the convoy, providing security for a sleek black Maybach Landaulet. All three of them were riding low—the limousine most of all—undoubtedly heavily armored.
“So, this is the way a billionaire travels,” Harry breathed, training his binoculars on the limo in an effort to penetrate the tinted windows. No dice.
The Russian smiled. “Who said the wages of sin were all bad?”
There was no time for deliberation—not with their target on the move. “We’ll need to tail them.”
Vasiliev shook his head. “What are you thinking,
tovarisch
? Three security teams, you’re looking at 10-12 men. On the move, they’ll be at the highest alert possible.”
“I know how executive protection works, Alexei. I also know he could be leaving the country.” Harry laid down the binoculars and picked up his leather jacket, drawing it on over his tall frame. “Carol, can you get us into the CalTrans camera network?”
“Anything’s possible—I just need time and processing power. I’ve been working all morning on building a bot-net to supply extra juice, but it will be a couple hours.”
“Then stay here with Sammy,” he instructed, his fingers lightly brushing over her shoulder. It didn’t feel right, to leave her. It was the only choice.
There were so many things he wanted to say in that moment, but he found it impossible to voice them.
Kiss them goodbye
, a voice from the past whispered, the words echoing within his mind. It took him a moment to place the speaker, and then he remembered.
Samuel Han, standing on the sidewalk outside his suburban Virginia home. Twin boys under his powerful arms, squealing and kicking in the spring breeze. Innocence.
The American dream.
And then they had left, together, for Yemen. And all that followed.
Always kiss them good-bye.
“Stay safe,” he whispered, scarce trusting himself to speak. As if his very voice might reveal more than he dared. “We’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Alexei, you’re with me.”
And they were gone.
10:37 A.M.
The Andropov estate
Patience. It had always been Korsakov’s watchword, the only reason he had remained alive. He waited a full thirty minutes after Andropov’s departure to make his way upstairs, toward the quarters of the young American woman.
Just like before
. Whatever had triggered Viktor’s panic, his disappearance, the answer seemed to lay with her. Whether she knew what it was or not was another question.
Korsakov surmounted the carved staircase and made his way down the hall, his movements quick, purposeful.
The house exuded opulence, an interior decorator’s ecstasy—the hallway lit by electric lights in golden sconces. Real gold? He wouldn’t have doubted it for a minute.
His old friend had changed. Whether he had lost his edge completely remained to be seen.
He hadn’t. There were two bodyguards stationed outside the girl’s door and Korsakov passed right by them, careful not to break stride. He turned farther down the hallway, down yet another corridor of the massive house. Two men? To guard a woman?
It seemed excessive, even given Andropov’s legendary jealousy. The assassin allowed himself a momentary flash of humor at the thought that the men might be eunuchs.
In the end, it didn’t really matter. Asking to speak to the girl was only going to get him trouble for his pains. Trouble he didn’t need.
His phone vibrated in the pocket of his shirt, an incoming text. Undoubtedly the weather-bound Yuri, Korsakov thought, flipping it open. Andropov’s injunction that he not move until the rest of his team arrived from Chicago was chafing at him.
It wasn’t Yuri. The sender was blocked and the message contained only an address, followed by the admonition:
Meet me now. Alone. Unarmed.
Mapt
17.
Viktor.
Mapt
17, the seventeenth of March, the day he had rescued him from the brothel. There was no use in sending a reply—the boy would already be powering down the phone, removing the SIM card. The way Korsakov had taught him.
Taught him well.
Unarmed.
He contemplated going back to his room, retrieving his pistol at the very least. The idea of going out without it…
12:09 P.M.
San Fernando Valley
California
If Harry had harbored any doubts about Vasiliev’s “other” roles at the consulate, they’d been answered when he first saw the Russian’s car. It was a dingy gray Ford Taurus, a bit of rust near the tailpipe—the paint faded and chipped. It also had a V-8 engine.
It might as well have been built for the job they were asking it to do.
“Any ideas,
tovarisch
?”
Harry looked up from his maps and shook his head. They’d spent an hour and a half tailing Andropov’s convoy around the Valley as his drivers went through surveillance detection route after surveillance detection route, or SDRs, as they were called.
It was dangerous to stay behind a target this long—ideally they would have had multiple cars, at least four teams, more likely five. Dangerous if your quarry knew what he was doing or had hired people who did. Taking the oligarch’s money into account, Harry had no doubt he’d have hired the best.
But that wasn’t the uppermost thing on his mind. Harry cleared his throat. “Won’t they be missing you back at the office, Alexei?”
“I cleared my schedule,” the Russian replied, his eyes on the road ahead. He tapped the gas, accelerating powerfully into the passing lane. “Anything for a friend—and as I’ve said, I am a law unto myself.”
“Yeah…you’ve mentioned that a time or two.” A pause. “But that’s one load of bullcrap I’m not buying.”
“What?” Vasiliev demanded, feigning surprise. He glanced over, then down at the Colt held in Harry’s lap. Pointed straight at him. And this time the surprise was real. “What are you playing at, my old friend?”
“Just keep driving,” Harry ordered. “You’ve got an angle in all this—care to fill me in?”
The older man smiled. “An angle? I took your call when you had no one else to turn to. If that gives me an agenda…distrust is one thing, Harry. Paranoia is another.”
It was there, in his eyes. Nothing more than a flicker in their dark depths. He was lying.
“That wasn’t a request, Alexei.” Harry thumbed off the Colt’s safety, the pad of his finger caressing the trigger.
“If I thought you’d really pull that trigger, I would have crashed this car by now,” the Russian observed coolly. Distract. Divert.
No profit in backing down. Not now. “If you think I won’t, you’re getting too old for this business. A straight answer, Alexei. That’s all I’m asking.”
Vasiliev looked over again, seeming to consider his options. At length, he nodded.
“You’re right,
tovarisch
. I am getting too old for this.” He let out a heavy sigh. “And I have my reasons for helping you.”
“Using me, you mean,” Harry interjected, his face hardening with anger.
The Russian shrugged, easing back on the gas to maintain a safe following distance from their quarry. “
Using
is such a harsh word. It would imply that you got nothing from the arrangement.”
“I don’t have time for semantics.”
“As you wish. Valentin Andropov
is
the man you are looking for—if anyone in the
mafiya
could bring the
Spetsnaz
into your country, it would be him.”