Authors: Stephen England
8:35 A.M.
The abandoned mansion
From Han’s account, it seemed that the kidnapping had gone as well as possible, Harry thought. Those ops were always dicey—the target turned out to be accompanied, there were witnesses—any one of a hundred things.
Pyotr sat in the chair opposite him, bound hand and foot to the legs of the chair. Hooded.
Claustrophobia. Most people were susceptible to it, particularly when it was brought on by sensory deprivation. In training at Camp Peary, Harry had seen trainees panic within moments of the hood going on.
He had nearly done so himself, the first time. The fear was so overwhelming. It was one of the most effective methods of torture on an untrained subject—and, like all good methods, never required physical violence. The human mind would supply all the violence necessary.
And two hours without sight had worked its effect on Pyotr, as the stench proved. He had soiled himself, urine soaking the leg of his pants.
Harry glanced over at Vasiliev, a masked, silent figure there by the door. The two of them had been back from Nevada a scant twenty minutes.
Time enough. He stood, dragging his chair loudly over the marble tile of the bathroom. The young man flinched as if he had been struck, beginning to whimper again.
“What do you want? I can pay you—my dad has money, lots of money. You can be rich men, all of you, but you have to let me go!”
Harry pulled the ski mask down over his face till only his eyes, his lips, were visible. They couldn’t risk him being able to identify any of them.
“What do you think,
tovarisch
?” Vasiliev asked, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I think,” Harry responded, ripping the hood off Pyotr’s head without warning, “that there is nothing we
have
to do. Do you understand me?”
The boy sat there, blinking like an owl caught in the daylight—eyes wide and trembling with fear. Harry circled around to his front, Pyotr’s wallet open in his hands. “Money? Do you think we’re after your father’s money?”
Hope flickered in those eyes. “Everyone wants money.”
“They do?” With a sudden gesture, Harry pulled a handful of hundred-dollar bills from the wallet, holding them up before the boy’s eyes. A Bic lighter appeared in his right hand, flame spurting from the tip. “Are you sure?”
He could see the hope turn to uncertainty, then fear—the flame reflected in their captive’s eyes. Another inch and the flame leaped from the lighter to the paper, igniting first one bill, and then the next. And the next.
Harry held on until the heat licked at his fingers, then threw the flaming mass onto the marble floor between Pyotr’s bare feet, eliciting a scream.
He stepped in close until his lips nearly touched the boy’s ear, his voice no higher than a whisper. “Do you think I care about your money?”
A vigorous shake of the head. The arrogant confidence of the college frat boy was long gone, tears sliding down his cheeks.
“Then you’d better start thinking of what you might have that I could want,” Harry observed, pulling the hood back over the boy’s head as he thrashed against the chair.
“Think fast. You’re on the clock.”
9:01 A.M.
Las Vegas, Nevada
“No, no, you listen to me, Sergei.” Andropov swore under his breath, glancing over at his bodyguard. “I don’t care what you were planning—I’m paying you and
this
is now what I expect you to do. I want you to find out where he’s gone.”
A pause as he listened to Korsakov on the other end of the phone. “No, he’s not with one of his girlfriends. How? Because he drives them everywhere in his car. And we’ve found it—and the girl that he was sleeping with last time anyone saw him. This is important to me, Sergei. I have a business deal going down in the next few days and I don’t want him running around loose.”
He listened for another long moment, his face growing more pained by the moment. “You still have the tracker beacon,
da
? Then here’s what you will do. Find Pyotr. If you can’t find him by nightfall, finish the contract.”
The oligarch shut his phone with a vicious gesture, a curse exploding from his lips. A cold wind swept over the Vegas parking lot, tugging at the edge of his coat. “Do you have a son, Maxim?” he asked, turning to the head of his security detail. The man was former MVD, Russia’s infamous Ministry of Internal Affairs, and had won the right to wear the much-coveted maroon beret during his time in the service. Short, heavily-built, and in his late forties, he worked through punishing exercise routines on a daily basis, hammering his body into shape.
He never stopped scanning the surrounding cars for threats, but his lip curled up in what passed for a smile. “Not that I know of.”
Andropov actually laughed, clapping his security chief on the shoulder. “Come, let us go. I have a—how do the Americans say it? A prodigal son to find…”
12:39 P.M. Eastern Time
Outside Alexandria, Virginia
There was a paper trail associated with renting a storage container, but it was relatively minimal compared with other means of storage. Nothing Lay wouldn’t have been able to fake, particularly if he’d had the help of Rhoda Stevens.
Kranemeyer stared through the heavily tinted windows of his Suburban toward the Alibek E-Z-Store storage facility across the street, taking in the single dome security camera near the gate.
That was the risk. If the NSA were wired into the camera’s feed—and these days it was never safe to assume that they weren’t—his appearance would raise red flags. Cause them to take a look at the facility.
He stared down at the key in his hand. He’d come this far. Might as well play it through to the end.
Reaching for the Washington Senators baseball cap on the passenger seat, Kranemeyer pulled it low over his forehead, wrapping a long black scarf around his neck and lower face.
Time to roll.
Bluffing his way past the rent-a-cop at the front gate hadn’t been hard, Kranemeyer thought twenty minutes later, moving on foot down a long row of self-storage containers. It had been painfully obvious that the man had never seen a security threat greater than a rowdy group of teenagers bent on vandalism.
Which was to his advantage. The container matching the number on the key was nearly all the way to the western end of the facility and Kranemeyer paused, glancing toward the security fence. No passerby in the parking lot outside. No further cameras that he could detect.
The door came open with a heavy, grating noise—metal against metal. He cringed, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he peered inside.
Nothing.The storage container was, to all appearances, empty.
Dropping to his good knee, Kranemeyer ran his fingers along the concrete edge of the container, feeling for a tripwire, a pressure mat, anything. He was being paranoid.
At length, he straightened, stepping cautiously into the interior of the steel box.
He hadn’t been sent out here to find an empty box, that much he knew. The fear in Rhoda Stevens’ eyes had told him that.
There was something here…unless someone had traced this container back to David Lay and already removed it. If they had managed to make the connection, getting in wouldn’t have been hard, as he had proved.
Nothing to do but cover every inch.
10:05 A.M. Pacific Time
The Bellagio Hotel & Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Ah, Ms. Morgan, it’s good to finally meet you.” Brooke Morgan looked up to see the Bellagio’s events manager striding across the ballroom toward her.
The young woman smiled, reaching out her hand. “Likewise—we’ve talked on the phone so many times. I love what you’ve done with the room.”
The “room” might have been an overly casual way to refer to the Bellagio’s 38,000-square-foot Tower Ballroom, but the events manager didn’t seem to take offense.
“I certainly hope it meets your expectations.”
“It surpasses them,” she replied, flashing him another dazzling smile as her gaze took in the room—the red, white, and blue bunting-bedecked stage,
a color scheme that spilled over onto the hundreds of round banquet tables. “You’ve made all the arrangements for the evening’s entertainment?”
“Of course. The evening for your guests will begin here, with the banquet and speakers, then transition into the Cirque du Soleil for a special evening performance of
‘O’. A delightful way to spend Christmas Eve, I should say.”
“And Congresswoman Gilpin wished me to convey her most sincere thanks for the way your hotel has gone out of their way to accommodate our requests. The Cirque du Soleil is indescribably magnificent.”
“It is truly our pleasure. As you know, our owner was one of the congresswoman’s most enthusiastic backers. He couldn’t be more happy to play host to this celebration of her victory.”
Brooke nodded, an almost wistful smile crossing her face. “It’s been a hard-fought campaign. I finally got home last week to see my kids. First weekend I had spent at home since September.”
“Then, may I say, that this celebration is most well-deserved. There’s no place to party like Las Vegas, and no one knows how to party like we do here at the Bellagio…”
1:23 P.M. Eastern Time
Outside the Alibek E-Z-Store Storage Facility
Alexandria, Virginia
It had taken Kranemeyer three searches of the storage container before he’d finally found what he had been looking for. A small USB thumb drive tucked beneath a lip of metal near the back of the container and secured with duct tape.
He swung his leg up into the Suburban and closed the door, holding the drive up to the light. If it was password-protected, he was going to be in difficulties. With Carter still in CIA protective custody and sequestered down at Camp Peary, he could hardly turn to him for aid…
Opening his laptop, he plugged the drive into the USB port on the side, waiting as the computer booted up.
His eyes drifted out the window, locking in on a passing vehicle. It was nothing…probably, but he hadn’t seen a great deal of traffic. He reached inside his overcoat, pulling the H&K USP semiautomatic pistol from its shoulder holster and laying it on the center console, within easy reach.
A Welcome screen appeared, and Kranemeyer entered his password, swearing as his fingers played clumsily with the trackpad. Computers were a necessary evil of life in the 21
st
century. Didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
The USB drive opened automatically, revealing several scanned documents and a folder full of .jpegs. He turned to the pictures first and clicked to open one. It had clearly been taken from a distance, probably with a high-powered telephoto lens.
Agency surveillance?
Two men, standing beside a park bench, a briefcase in the taller man’s hand. But it was his companion that caught Kranemeyer’s attention—the silhouette. So familiar.
He clicked to advance to the next picture, and his breath caught in his throat. The man had turned ever so slightly, his face standing out in full relief.
Yes
. It was him. And they were in more trouble than he could have imagined.
Kranemeyer dug his cellphone out, dialing a number from memory. Two, three rings.
“Roy, we need to meet.” No pleasantries. No time for such things—he was too shaken.
He remained silent as the man on the other end of the phone responded, barely listening. Rhoda Stevens’ words still ringing in his ears.
“
This is only the beginning
.”
2:09 P.M.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
Cahill’s arrival in the Oval Office was as unceremonious as it was unannounced. He was ushered in through the protective ring of Secret Service by Curt Hawkins himself and shown in to see the President with only the briefest of delays.
Hancock looked up from the Resolute desk as his chief of staff entered. “Tell me you have some good news, Ian.”
The faintest hint of a smile passed across Cahill’s face as he collapsed into a chair. The Irishman was typically rumpled, his tie loose around his neck—his sweat-stained collar unbuttoned. “You might call it that. You’ll be sitting behind that desk for another four years.”
The President fairly beamed. “I take it Senator Coftey was able to bring the Justice around?”
“As I had told you he would,” Cahill replied. “I’ve known the man for years—he didn’t become a Chief Justice by being a risk taker. Given a hard decision…and the right inducements, of course, he’ll make the safe choice.”
“And they say the Court is apolitical,” Hancock mused, getting up from his chair. There was a decanter on the endtable and he poured three fingers of brandy into a crystal snifter, handing it to Cahill.