Authors: Stephen England
The man shook his head in disgust, apparently thoroughly convinced by the act. “That way.”
Harry made a half-bow, then stumbled toward the exit. He collapsed into the nearest chair, keying his mike.
“His security is airtight, and they’re pros. We’re not going to bluff our way inside. Does anyone have any more brilliant ideas?”
11:29 P.M.
The abandoned mansion
Beverly Hills, California
“Yes,” Carol responded, almost before she could stop herself. The very thought of it still sickened her, but this was different, somehow. This went beyond revenge. The line between white and black—right and wrong—had been irreparably blurred. She felt as if she was looking out over an abyss.
“I have eyes on Andropov’s son,” she blurted. “We can make the grab and use Pyotr as a bargaining chip.”
Harry’s voice again. “What do you mean you have ‘eyes’ on him?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Carol replied, her gaze drifting over to the computer screen, the figures draped over a couch in a dimly lit room. “Using Pyotr’s Twitter account and cellphone data, we tracked him to an off-campus DKE frat house on the south side of LA. The HDTV in the main room of the frat house is equipped with an internally wired camera and microphones, all of which are tied into the building’s wireless network.”
She heard Vasiliev murmur a curse, then start laughing. “Are
all
Americans this stupid?”
“Can you be sure it’s Pyotr?”
On-screen, the figures continued to move together, a rhythm as old as time. “Affirmative.”
A moment, then Harry responded. “We can’t make that play, not here. Too many wild cards in a public venue like this. There’s no back-up plan in place if this should fail.”
Was this the way it happened? One thing led to another and by the time you woke up, you could scarcely recognize the face in the mirror. She was advocating for a kidnapping. She glanced over at Han, her face pale. “We have to do
something
…Tarik Abdul Muhammad didn’t come to Vegas for the roulette.”
“At the risk of sounding ignorant,” Vasiliev interjected calmly, “who is this man and why is he important?”
Carol cleared her throat. “In 2004, Tarik was captured fighting against American soldiers in A-stan and sent to Gitmo. At the time of his detention, he was sixteen.”
That elicited a snort from the Russian. “And you call me brutal…I thought your facilities at Guantanamo were reserved for high-value detainees. What was special about a teenager?”
“He had spent time with Ayman al-Zawahiri in Pakistan—his father was believed to be a close associate of the doctor. We always took information regarding al-Qaeda’s No. 2 seriously.”
“
If
this is all true, how did he end up here?”
She started to reply, but Harry cut her off. “This is ancient history, people. We need an action plan, and we need it now.”
Nothing. Han shot a look in her direction, as if waiting for orders. Then the Russian’s voice broke the silence. “If you want eyes inside the VIP,
tovarisch
, I
can
make it happen…”
2:34 A.M. Eastern Time
Graves Mills, Virginia
The flask was empty. Had been for several hours, and he found himself missing its fiery warmth. Thomas shifted position, brushing snow off the sleeve of his jacket. Surveillance was always a pain—doing it in “inclement” weather only made matters worse.
His radio crackled with static. “Sitrep, LONGBOW?”
It took a moment for him to respond, primarily because he hadn’t been paying attention—boredom setting in after so many long hours.
“I have movement near the back of the trailer—in a bathroom, I guess?” He found himself cursing his own inattention. This was the stuff that got you killed.
“Are you sure?”
“No, lights come on by themselves and shadows move in front of windows without anyone there.” It might have been the fatigue—might have been the liquor talking. Either way, he felt on edge. “Why?”
“I have someone at this end of the house—picking up a human signature.” Tex had their thermal imager. It might not have been the most recent generation of hardware—but on a night like tonight…
“Everything we found on Stevens,” Tex went on, “she doesn’t have children, does she?”
“No record of it.”
The Texan fell silent for several minutes. “One car in the drive—two people in the house? Something’s wrong here.”
There was milk in the refrigerator. A half-carton, a few days away from its expiration date. David Lay leaned heavily against the counter as he poured himself a glass.
He was still weak. Too weak.
It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t the only one awake—light coming from another part of the house.
The DCIA limped out of the kitchen, grasping hold of a chair to keep his balance. The smell of cannabis filled his nostrils, mixing with the taste of the milk in his mouth, and he fought the urge to retch.
Rhoda Stevens was in the living room of the double-wide, curtains drawn—a smoldering joint in the ashtray beside her laptop.
“What are you doing up at this hour?” he asked, leaning against the wall.
She didn’t even look up. “I could ask the same question, David. I doubt you’d have any better answer. Look at this.”
The Jamaican woman was gesturing to something on her screen. “What is it?” Lay asked, pain shooting through his body as he moved into the room, circling behind her.
“My insurance policy,” she retorted. “A backdoor into the intel community’s networks. A favor from a friend of a friend of a friend. They started running my name through their databases a few days ago—a request originating with the Clandestine Service.”
“Why are you just now learning about this?”
“It’s the malware—several years old and buggy. Not like we can go in and install updates. It only functions 45-50% of the time. Not much of an early warning system, but it’s the best I can do.”
His eyes scanned down the screen, a cold fear seizing hold. “They’re making the connection between us…if they haven’t made it already.”
“Running searches is a long way from actually finding us, David,” she replied, her brow furrowing as she brought up another window. “If you recall, we’re both supposed to be dead. They’re still searching for my real name, not the one I’m using now.”
It wasn’t that simple. “You think,” he countered, unable to suppress the agitation building inside him. A sixth sense. “You said the malware wasn’t reliable.”
Rhoda looked up from the computer and he could see it in her eyes. She felt it too. He lowered his voice as if afraid that someone could be listening.
“Do you own a gun?”
11:39 P.M. Pacific Time
The club
Las Vegas, Nevada
That moment when you put someone else’s life on the line…it was a feeling that you could never get used to. A dirty feeling.
“You don’t have to go through with this,” Harry whispered, his hand sliding across the girl’s shoulder and down her bare arm. As if he was one of her clients—all just part of the charade. As with so much of his life. “I’m not going to lie to you. If they suspect that you’re spying on them—they’ll kill you. And there will be nothing we can do.”
“I know…it’s always that way with Alexei.”
“How long?”
The young prostitute looked down at her hands, a finger tracing along the needle marks dotting her forearm. “Over a year. He’s the only reason I’m still alive. They think that I’m his…favorite. He’s connected within the
mafiya
, warned them that if anything happened to me—he would bring them down.”
If anything happened
. It was painfully obvious that “anything” didn’t include rape or drug addiction.
“Be careful,” he whispered, starting to rise.
She reached out, her hand brushing his cheek—the faintest hint of life, of warmth in those dark, vacant eyes. “You’re a good man.”
“Good?” A bitter smile crossed his lips at the thought. “How would you know?”
She slid down off the barstool, adjusting her skirt as she did so. “When your life depends on knowing whether a man will thank you or beat you when he finishes…you know.”
And she was gone, moving away from his side. Harry set his glass down on the bar and rose, keying his headset. “She’s going in. Do you trust her, Alexei?”
“More than I do you,
tovarisch
.”
It would have to be enough.
11:46 P.M.
It had been years since he had been in Vegas—long enough that he had forgotten the effect it had on him. Omar leaned back against the leather of the sofa, trying not to stare at the Russian’s companion across from him. A temptation of the flesh, calling the words of the
hadith
to his mind.
After me I have not left any temptation more harmful to men than women
.
Words of truth. How much could he be exposed to without losing his soul? Once again…
The sight of Andropov standing to his feet brought Omar’s attention back to the matter at hand. “I believe that concludes our business of the night,
da?
”
The shaikh nodded. “The money will be transferred to your account once we’ve taken delivery of the weapons tomorrow morning.”
“You are a cautious man, Tarik,” Andropov replied, a smile crossing the oligarch’s face. “I respect that. Still, it has been a very profitable deal for us both, has it not? I think it calls for a celebration, some entertainment at the end of a long day.”
What was going on? Omar leaned forward in his seat, his jacket falling open—exposing the Smith & Wesson holstered at his waist. The Russian depressed a small button on the endtable, the same smile still plastered across his face.
They were outnumbered—the black man realized that. If this was a trap, they would stand no chance. But if this was the time of Allah’s choosing…they would sell their lives dearly. Did the place of death matter to a
shahid
?
The door opened, the din of the club momentarily breaking the tense silence. One of the Russians stepped inside, holding the door open as six young women filed in—the foremost, a redhead bearing a bottle of champagne on a silver platter.
None of them out of their teens.
Whores
.
Images flooded his mind, perverse, sinful memories. Endless nights of his past. Omar buried his head in his hands, striving to block them from his mind.
No use
. A tightness seized hold of his chest, and it felt as if he could hardly breathe, the voices around him fading into the background. He saw Tarik take a seat on the couch, watched as the shaikh splashed champagne into a tall flute—a wide smile on his face as he beckoned to one of the young girls.
He felt himself rise, the urge to escape filling his mind. He heard a voice call after him through the haze, felt a Russian hand descend on his arm.
The black man shook it off with an angry gesture, brushing past the bodyguards and out of the VIP, his steps hastening as he moved down the corridor. Walking as if in a dream.
“
Omar!
”
A shout, barely audible over the techno beat pounding the club. Harry’s eyes came up, staring toward the VIP. It couldn’t be—not so soon after they had sent her in. She couldn’t be in danger.
The black man he had seen before came into the open, hustling, his powerful form carrying him across the club floor in long stride. His head down, brow furrowed as if in pain.
And then behind him, maybe fifteen feet back—the oldest of the quartet that had accompanied Tarik Abdul Muhammad, hurrying as if to catch up. He seemed as if he might call after his companion, then thought better of it.
“Alexei,” Harry whispered, “I have eyes on two subjects. Heading for the exit.”
“
Da
. I have them. Do you want me to follow them?”
It was a choice not without its temptations. “Negative. Our primary targets remain Andropov and Tarik. Stay in position.”
The cold night air struck Omar like a blow to the face, biting into his cheeks. He staggered to one side on the sidewalk, hands on his knees as the taste of bile filled his mouth—his stomach heaving.
A hand touched him on the shoulder and he looked up into the eyes of Abu Kareem. “Are you okay, my son?”
Coming from the man who had brought him into the light…it was an ironic question.
“How, father,” Omar began, his face distorted in anguish, “how can we expect the blessings of God on our mission? How, when we spit upon the teachings of the Prophet?”
He looked into the imam’s face, expecting to find an answer there and finding only turmoil. “You must understand, Omar…this is war. A war against the enemies of Allah. And to this war a strong man may offer his courage, the strength of his arms, and it is blessed by Allah—even if the man himself is immoral and licentious.”