The 14th Colony: A Novel (43 page)

“So you’re thinking they may have locations staked out?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption.”

He agreed.

Which meant they needed to stay on their toes.

“Taking out the inauguration of a new president,” she said. “That borders on insane. Not even hard-liners would be that stupid. The U.S. would annihilate them. The smart play is they want this contained, kept to themselves, and those bombs held by them for the future.”

Ahead, he saw the McDonald’s he’d been directed to and pulled into the parking lot. Inside, two Secret Service agents, dressed like men about to head out on a winter’s hunt, nursed steaming cups of coffee.

“The car stopped a few minutes ago,” one of the agents said. “About ten miles from here.”

“Are we it?” Malone asked.

“As you requested. Just the four of us.”

The last thing he wanted was for every intelligence and law enforcement agency within a hundred miles converging here, spooking Zorin, each one intent on taking the credit for stopping the threat.

This was not about accolades.

It was about results.

“We’ve been tailing them since Pennsylvania,” the agent said. “They made one stop, at a Target in Maryland. We sent agents in after they were long gone. From the security footage and register records we know they bought a shovel, sledgehammer, two flashlights, bolt cutters, a hasp lock, and five heavy-duty six-volt batteries.”

An interesting list, the last item grabbing his attention. Edwin Davis had briefed them on the RA-115s. They needed battery power to be portable. Zorin was certainly coming prepared.

“We have a chopper on standby at Dulles. It can be here fast,” one of the agents told him.

“Keep it there, for now. It won’t be much help in this weather.”

“You two going to handle this all by yourself?” the agent asked, sounding skeptical.

“That’s the plan. We’ll keep it simple. We need them to lead us to whatever there is to find, then we’ll take them both down. Preferably, alive, as we have lots of questions.”

“What exactly are we looking for?”

The fewer who knew anything the better, especially considering the widespread panic information like this might cause. Foreign nukes on American soil? Talk about a bad news day.

So he ignored the question.

“Tell me where Zorin is.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Zorin sat in the parked car, listening to the patter of sleet against the roof. With the rain earlier he wondered about ice, as some had already sheeted on the windshield, the wipers scraping hard over its rough surface. He needed to stretch his legs from the ride, but was waiting for Kelly to make some decisions. Ever since they’d arrived, Kelly had been studying a map that he’d brought inside his travel bag. He liked this scenario. No high-tech gadgets. No electronics. Nothing to lead anyone to where there were. Just proven tradecraft, the kind he’d made a reputation performing.

“What are we waiting for?” he asked.

“You’re becoming impatient in your old age.”

“The weather is deteriorating.”

“Which is to our advantage.” Kelly folded the map. “When Backward Pawn told me the weapons had arrived, I wasn’t fully prepared. I told the officer I was, but I wasn’t. The parameters Andropov laid out were tough to meet. My orders were to be ready in time for the 1985 presidential inauguration. But Andropov died a year before that. After, everything went quiet. Then, three years later, in 1988, the call suddenly came that the bombs were in America. I was shocked that things were still moving forward. I had to hustle to have my part ready.”

“Maybe things would have been different, if Andropov had lived.”

Kelly shook his head. “That was not the time.”

He wondered about the observation. “Why do you say that?”

“The response from the world would have been unanimous and devastating. Killing an American president? Setting off a nuclear explosion in Washington, DC? Soviet leaders far overestimated both their power and their importance. They could not have defeated the entire world.”

He hated hearing about more weakness.

“History has confirmed that, Aleksandr. By the late 1980s the USSR was over. It was simply a matter of time before everything collapsed. Then in 1991 it finally did.”

And he saw the other difference between then and now. “This time it’s just you and me. There will be no retaliation since there is no one to retaliate against. We will achieve the effect of what Andropov wanted, but without global repercussions.”

“Exactly. The timing is perfect. Like you, I’ve thought about this for a long time, never acting on it, just thinking. The United States emerged from the Cold War as the dominant world power, and over the past thirty years it’s grown into an arrogant monster. We will finally put it in its place. Do you remember the oath we took as KGB?”

Vaguely. Such a long time ago.

Kelly found his wallet. From inside, he slipped out a folded scrap of paper, whose creases and color showed that he’d carried it a long time.

In the din of the cabin light Zorin silently read the printed words.

Of being a Soviet citizen and joining the ranks of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army, pledging to be an honest, brave, disciplined, and vigilant fighter, to guard all secrets and obey all orders.

Then, the important part.

To be prepared to come to the defense of the motherland and defend her courageously, skillfully, creditably, and honorably, without sparing life or blood to achieve victory.

And the final sentence.

If through evil intent I break this solemn oath, then let the stern punishment of the Soviet law and the universal hatred and contempt of the working people fall upon me.

His comrade offered a hand to shake, which he gladly accepted. Pride swelled inside him as that sense of duty, of purpose, thought lost, returned. He’d long known fear and isolation, both of which had worn him down, leaving only a blind desire for some kind of action.

Like Kelly.

But here he was again, working against the main adversary, defending the motherland. Fulfilling his oath. So many had dedicated their lives to that endeavor. Tens of millions more had given their lives for the same reason.

It couldn’t all be for nothing.

He heard again his wife’s plea.

“Don’t waste your life.”

“We shall do this together,” he said to Kelly.

“That we will, comrade.”

*   *   *

Cassiopeia thought she was an independent person. Her parents raised her to be strong. But a part of her liked the fact that she felt safe and comfortable with Cotton.

Was that weakness?

Not to her.

She’d saved Cotton in Canada, as he’d done for her many times before. There was something to be said for trust, an element sorely lacking in her previous relationships. She assumed Cotton had experienced a similar lack with his ex-wife, whom she’d come to learn was once quite difficult but now much more manageable. She’d like to meet that woman one day. They had lots to talk about, and she’d love to know more about Cotton’s past, a topic he discussed only in tiny doses.

Seeing Stephanie Nelle at the White House had, at first, been difficult, but they, too, made their peace. She was relieved that the rift between them had not yawned into a chasm. Too much was happening here to allow events that could not be changed to interfere with clear thinking.

What’s done was done. Now was what mattered.

She liked to think she was a pro. Definitely, she possessed experience. And as she and Cotton drove deeper into the dark Virginia countryside she wondered what awaited them.

Success?

Or disaster?

That was the trouble with cheating fate.

The best odds on the table were only fifty-fifty.

*   *   *

Zorin felt the snow as it hit his face then tingled away. Everything was so much wetter on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. He was more accustomed to the dry, Siberian variety that fell in abundance from mid-September to early May. Not much of a summer graced Lake Baikal, but he’d always enjoyed the few weeks of fleeting warmth.

He hated the feeling of getting old, but he could not escape or disguise the impressions his body was beginning to force upon him. The jump from the plane had taxed him to the max. Thankfully, he would never have to do that again. For so long the lights upon which his ambition seemed founded gleamed in isolation. Over the past few days they’d changed to definable bright bulbs, strung together, himself the cord that would prevent them from extinguishing.

But he could not escape the doubts.

That was another thing age had brought, which youth ignored.

Reflection.

He kept pace with Kelly as they walked across a drift of loose shingle, boots digging in, legs laboring. He wore his coat and gloves and held the shovel they’d bought earlier. He was careful with his steps, aware of the fragility of ankles and the price of stumbling. Kelly toted a shopping bag with some of the items they’d bought. The sledgehammer, bolt cutters, and hasp lock had been left in the car. Apparently, they were not needed here. They each carried a flashlight.

“I took control of this property long ago,” Kelly said. “It was fairly isolated then, nothing around for miles. Still is, but in the 1980s there was even less out here.”

He’d seen only a few farmhouses and even fewer lights on the drive.

“It’s titled in a different name, of course. But I pay the taxes and the power bill.”

The last part caught his attention.

“All this time?” he asked, as they kept walking.

“It was my duty, Aleksandr. We’re not talking about a lot of money. The power is barely used.”

Kelly stopped.

Ahead he saw where the trees gave way to a darkened clearing, where the hulks of what appeared to be a farmhouse and barn could be seen.

“It’s not in the best repair,” Kelly said. “But it’s livable. What attracted me was a hidden extra the previous owner installed. He was a veteran of the last world war, a bit eccentric. Quite a character.”

The air chilled him, but he took in the draft and allowed the cold to cleanse his lungs.

“He was terrified of nuclear war,” Kelly said. “So he built a bomb shelter.”

Now he realized why they needed a shovel.

“That old man died years ago. The KGB covertly took ownership from him and planned to use this as a standard cache. But once I saw it, I knew it was perfect for Fool’s Mate. So I was given control.”

Alarm bells rang in his head. “Then there could be a record of this place.”

Kelly considered the inquiry a moment. “I suppose there could.”

Memories of what happened on Prince Edward Island filled his brain. He came to full alert and found his weapon.

Kelly nodded, understanding the implications, and gripped his gun, too. “It was so long ago, Aleksandr. Maybe it’s been forgotten. And even if they know of the property, they’ll not find the hidden shelter.”

He wasn’t comforted. They’d found Kelly, so why couldn’t they find this place, too?

“And don’t forget the booby trap,” Kelly said.

Zorin motioned for them to advance, checking his watch, the luminous figures swimming as his eyes focused on the glowing circle of numbers.

10:40
P.M
.

They should hurry.

Only 13 hours to go.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Stephanie entered the Justice Department, the night doors staffed by the usual security teams. She’d come and gone a thousand times at all hours and the personnel there knew her on sight. She’d wondered about Litchfield. The SOB had sat smug during the presidential summit, speaking only when spoken to, but demonstrating exactly where his allegiance lay. Danny, though a lame duck, had clearly established who was still in charge. After Cotton and Cassiopeia had left she’d asked him why he did not just fire Litchfield and be done with it.

His answer was trademark Danny Daniels.

“It’s always better to have your enemy in the tent pissin’ out, than outside pissin’ in.”

Two hours later when a call came from Litchfield, asking her to meet with him, she’d begun to understand that wisdom. What could he possibly want? But Danny had insisted she go, saying
“Don’t argue with an idiot, he’ll only beat you with experience.”
Little was happening at the moment anyway. Cotton and Cassiopeia were off to Virginia to deal with Zorin, and Luke was somewhere, she wasn’t sure where, as he hadn’t reported in. She tried once to contact him but the call had been immediately directed to voice mail. She was curious about what the president general of the Society of Cincinnati had to say. Danny’s question about the group’s interest to the former Soviet Union was a good one.

She found Litchfield in his office, alone, working before an assemblage of books and paper. Interestingly, here he wore rimless spectacles that gave his eyes a more singular, intense look.

“Please, have a seat,” he said to her, his tone noticeably different.

She accepted his offer.

“I want to apologize,” he said. “I’ve been an ass. I realize that. The president slammed me in my place back at the White House, and rightly so.”

She checked her watch. “At 10:00
P.M
. on a Saturday night, on the last day of the administration, you’ve finally realized who’s in charge?”

“President Fox climbed my ass, too. He said to either work with the team or get out. And the team still includes Daniels.”

“So contrition has been forced upon you.”

“Okay, Stephanie, I deserve that, too. I get it. I’ve been rough on you. But we have a serious problem here, one that I think I can help with. We are, after all, on the same side.”

You could’ve fooled her. But Danny had also told her,
“Turn on the vacuum cleaner, sucking in far more information than you let out.”

“I’ve been reading about the 20th Amendment and the 1947 Succession Act,” he said. “If the president- and vice-president-elect both die before being sworn in, and there’s no Speaker of the House or president pro tempore of the Senate, it definitely could generate a host of novel issues. I didn’t realize, but I’m even in the line of succession. I’m not the actual AG, but when I was made deputy AG I was appointed by the president and confirmed by the Senate, so under the 1947 act, as acting AG, I’m eligible to be president, provided of course six other people are dead.”