Viking Bay (27 page)

They took a long walk around the campus, looking at the dorms and cafeterias and the labs in the science buildings. Kay thought the campus was gorgeous, with its grassy quads and ponds and flower-lined paths, and she was excited her daughter might be attending school there. Jessica, who had read about the place and liked to show off, informed Kay that the architecture was neo-Gothic, whatever that meant.

“Did you know that Richard Nixon went to law school here?” Jessica said.

“It looks like he should have paid more attention,” Kay said. “And no, I didn't know that. The only name I know associated with Duke is Mike Krzyzewski.”

“Who's he?” Jessica asked.

“You gotta be kidding me, Jessica! He's the guy who coached the Blue Devils to like a dozen basketball Final Fours. You know, the NCCA championship?”

“Whatever” was Jessica's response. Basketball was not high on the list of things she cared about.

Kay also liked the town of Durham, particularly the Bull City area. Bull City used to be home to the tobacco industry, but now the buildings and warehouses were occupied by restaurants, shops, and bars. She liked the Southern cooking, not bothered a bit that everything was fried. Kay wondered if Jessica and her boyfriend would split up when she left for college.

As they were driving back to D.C., Kay thought about Eli Dolan. Though she'd only seen him once since the hunt for Anna Mercer had begun, she thought about him all the time. He'd been spending most of his time in New York, and when she'd asked Callahan what he was doing, all Mr. Need-To-Know Callahan would tell her was that Eli was looking into something involving the World Bank and an unnamed third-world country—and that's all he'd say.

One time, she ran into Eli in the reception area. It didn't help that Henry was at his desk and able to hear what they were saying. It was an awkward encounter, both of them seemingly tongue-tied. She wanted to tell him how good he looked and how she missed him, but all that came out was “How have you been?” He said “Fine,” then mumbled that he was late for a meeting and left before she could say anything else.

She could tell he was still attracted to her, but she figured that he'd moved on with his life. He was probably dating some supermodel in New York—or maybe three supermodels simultaneously. As for her, even though she missed him, she was beginning to think that maybe separating was for the best. She told herself again that it wasn't smart to date a coworker and that his preferring to live in New York made things too complicated.

And it wasn't like the damn guy was perfect. He was obviously stubborn, overly sensitive, and he hadn't shown much interest in Jessica. And Kay still hadn't forgotten what he'd said about divorcing his first wife: how he became bored with her after five years of marriage. How
long would it take before he became bored with her? So maybe it was for the best—but she missed him.

When Kay returned to work the day after her vacation was over, the first thing she did was call Callahan and ask how the search for Anna Mercer was proceeding. In answer to her question, Callahan said, “Goddamnit, quit hounding me.”

42
|
Kay entered Callahan's conference room to find Morgan and Callahan already there, and she had the feeling that they'd been talking about her—which she didn't like. She hadn't seen Morgan since Geneva, and he didn't say, “Hey, great to see you! Glad to be working with you again!” He just nodded and said, “Hamilton.”

A moment later, two more men entered the room. One of them was Bowman, the big bastard Kay had kicked in the nuts during the hand-to-hand combat course. He stared at Kay for a moment, then smiled and said, “Stay away from me, Hamilton. I might want kids someday.” Maybe Bowman was all right.

The other man was almost as big as Bowman, maybe six-two, and built like a serious weight lifter. Like Bowman, his hair was cut military short. Callahan didn't bother to introduce the man; Kay later found out his name was Dotson.

Callahan started off by saying, “The CIA has its big tit caught in the wringer, and half an hour ago I was asked to help them out.

“In 2005, they faked the death of a guy named Leonid Viktoryvich Titov and snuck him out of Russia. It was a brilliant operation and, of course, you've never heard about it because it was a roaring success. The reason we wanted Titov was because of the kind of job he had. He was a weapons inspector and he had extensive knowledge about where the Russians store nuclear materials, the kind that can be sold to terrorists to make suitcase bombs. The CIA got him back to Langley and spent two years bleeding him dry. He identified storage locations, how well
they were secured, points of vulnerability, that sort of thing. He also identified the people who basically had the keys to the facilities. In other words, people who, if they got desperate enough or greedy enough, could make a deal with al-Qaeda or Hezbollah or whatever group of nuts might want to build a dirty bomb.

“In 2007, the agency figured they'd gotten all they were going to get out of Titov, gave him a new identity and a nice severance package. He bought a bookstore in Middleburg, Virginia, and then, in 2010, got himself a Russian mail-order bride. I guess he was lonely and wanted to hear his native tongue again. His wife is a gorgeous bimbo named Natalya who's twenty-five years younger than him, and when the CIA vetted her they found out she'd been a hooker in St. Petersburg—but Titov didn't care. He saw her picture and fell in love. The story should have ended with
They lived happily ever after—
but it didn't.

“Natalya has been kidnapped. By Chechens. We don't know how many or their identities. They snatched her out of Titov's house while he was at work, then called him and said they wanted information related to a specific nuclear facility in southern Russia. The CIA doesn't know why they selected that particular place other than it's close to Chechnya, but what the Chechens wanted was basically the same information the CIA wanted when they debriefed Titov. They wanted to know the type of security systems installed, where cameras are located, how many guards were normally on each shift, people who had access codes, et cetera. Titov was told to draw a detailed map of the facility and write down the information they needed. They also said they wanted two hundred and fifty grand in cash, which is almost exactly how much money Titov has in his bank account.”

“How did they know how much money he had?” Morgan asked.

Callahan shrugged. “I don't know. They probably forced the information out of his wife. Or maybe they had some way to access his accounts. I don't know. Anyway, to make sure Titov had an incentive to cooperate they e-mailed him a photo of Natalya, sitting naked in a
chair, wearing an explosive vest. Titov could see dynamite sticks attached to the vest. They told him if he didn't give them what they wanted, the lovely Natalya would be blown to bits, and likewise if anyone tried to free her. They gave him three hours—two and a half hours from now—to get the money together and write down everything they wanted. He convinced them he'd need the time to get the money.

“So. Our job is to make sure the Chechens don't get the information. Or if they do get it, to make sure it doesn't leave the country. I hate to say this, but we don't really care about Titov or his wife. We'd prefer not to see them killed, of course, but Titov has no more value as an intelligence asset and his wife never had any. Everybody understand?”

Everybody nodded—except Kay.

“Right now, Titov's wife is located in a house outside of Middleburg and—”

“How do you know that?” Kay asked.

“Natalya Titov is severely allergic to practically everything on the planet. She's allergic to shellfish, peanuts, eggs. A bee sting will kill her. She wears a medic alert device, one with a button she can push to call the medics, and the device has a GPS chip so she can be located. Because Natalya didn't want to wear a big clunky device like you see on grandmas at nursing homes, her device is contained in a heart-shaped locket she wears. The guys who kidnapped her might not have even noticed the locket, and she was still wearing it in the picture they e-mailed to Titov. And these guys probably aren't all that worried about Titov getting the cops or the FBI involved. They know he wouldn't put his hot young wife in jeopardy, not with a bomb strapped to her.”

When Callahan mentioned Natalya's medic alert button, Kay had a fleeting thought about Anna Mercer—something Mercer had once said—but she didn't have time to think about Mercer now because Callahan was still talking.

“The problem,” Callahan said, “is we don't know where Titov is or
where he's going to meet the Chechens to pass on the information. And the reason we don't know is because Titov doesn't want us to know. Titov's not a dummy. He knows all the CIA would have to do is grab him so he couldn't pass anything on to the Chechens, and he isn't going to allow that. He wants us to try to free his wife, and if we can't do that, then he's going to give the Chechens what they want.”

“Wait a minute,” Kay said. “Back up. How do we know any of this stuff? And why isn't the CIA or the FBI dealing with this?”

“I don't have time—”

“Yeah, you do,” Kay said. “Just give us the condensed version.”

It looked like Callahan was going to refuse, then probably figured it would take less time to tell her than to argue with her. “When Titov was told his wife had been kidnapped, he contacted his handler at the CIA, who was the main guy he worked with when the agency was debriefing him. He told his handler about his wife's medic alert device, gave him the data, and the CIA located Natalya. Or, I should say, they located the device. I'm just assuming she's still wearing it.”

“So why doesn't the CIA go get her?” Kay asked. “Why us?”

“Two reasons,” Callahan said. “First, as I'm sure you already know, the CIA isn't allowed to operate in this country. They're not a law-enforcement agency.”

“Yeah, right,” Kay said, “like that would ever stop them.”

“The second reason is the CIA doesn't know how the Chechens found Titov. There are maybe a dozen people at Langley who knew he was living in Middleburg, and Titov's handler is afraid one of those people might have sold Titov to the Chechens. The CIA will eventually find out if they have a traitor in their ranks, but for now, Titov's handler doesn't want to use anybody at Langley because he doesn't know who he can trust.”

“That still doesn't explain why they're not using the FBI,” Kay said.

“They're not using the FBI because the CIA doesn't want to end up with egg all over its face. They know if the FBI frees Titov's wife and
captures the Chechens, it'll be all over the news. I mean, have you ever seen an FBI hostage operation, Hamilton? They'd have fifty agents involved, communication vans, personnel carriers, guys dressed in body armor, and five minutes after the operation started, ten news helicopters would be circling overhead. The end result would be the CIA having to deal with the embarrassment of having a turncoat in their own house, not to mention the Russians finding out that we slipped Titov out of Russia under their noses and know a whole lot more about their nuclear facilities than they probably want us to know. Okay? Can we stop with the questions now? We're running out of time.”

Kay nodded, but she knew Callahan was keeping something from her. How would the CIA know to contact Callahan, since he supposedly worked directly for the president?

“The reason you four were picked,” Callahan said, “is simply because you were all here in Washington and can get down to Middleburg in a hurry. The reason you were picked, Hamilton, is because you're a woman. If these guys raped Titov's wife—and they may have, judging by the naked picture they sent to Titov—I figured it would be nice if there was a woman along to comfort her. Or whatever. While we've been talking, Henry's packed a couple of bags containing what I think you'll need. Bowman, your rifle is in the bag.”

Kay figured that meant Bowman's personal sniper rifle.

Callahan looked at his watch. “You now have two hours and fifteen minutes to get to Middleburg, scope out the house where she's being kept, and figure a way to get her out of there.”

—

THE HOUSE WHERE
Natalya Titov was being held captive was on an unpaved road twenty miles west of Middleburg. It was a small, unkempt place with paint flaking off the siding and a cedar shake roof covered with moss. There were no other houses within sight. Callahan had called to say that the house was a rental property owned by an
elderly woman in nearby Front Royal, and the current tenant was a man named Malik Zakayev.

Morgan drove the Ford SUV they were using past the house and stopped in a place where it couldn't be seen from the house. Everyone was wearing earbuds and throat mikes so they could communicate. Dotson—the man Kay had never met before—got out of the SUV and belly-crawled through weeds and shrubs until he had an unobstructed view of the house. He pointed a thermal imaging camera at the house, and a moment later Kay heard him say: “There are only two people in the house. They both appear to be sitting down in a room that's just to the left of the front door. All the curtains are closed, so I can't see them visually.”

“We could approach the house from the back,” Morgan said, “and as long as whoever's with Titov's wife stays where he is, we can enter through the back door. The problem is, if the guy with Natalya is really hardcore, he might detonate the bomb as soon as he sees us.”

As Bowman was saying this, a UPS truck drove by.

“How good are you with that rifle, Bowman?” Kay asked.

“Very good.”

“If somebody drives down the driveway, the guy with Natalya will pull back one of the curtains to take a look.”

“So?” Morgan says.

“So if Bowman's as good as he thinks he is, Bowman can shoot him in the head. But he has to turn the guy's lights off instantaneously. His brain can't have time to send a signal to a finger with a button on a detonator. Can you do that, Bowman?”

“Yeah. The ammo I'm using will turn the guy's brain to mush so fast he won't even know he's been shot.” Bowman paused. “I know this. I've been in a situation like this before.” Kay figured that before Bowman came to work for Callahan he was probably a military sniper or maybe a cop used in hostage situations. But there wasn't time to review Bowman's résumé.

“But how would we approach the front door without alarming the guy?” Morgan asked. “If he sees someone coming down the driveway, he might think he's being attacked and detonate the bomb as soon as he sees someone coming.”

“That UPS truck that just drove by,” Kay said. “Let's go get it. One of us will swap places with the driver and drive it down the driveway. The guy with Natalya will pull back the curtains, and relax when he sees the truck and the driver wearing his little UPS uniform. Then, while he's thinking about what to do, whether he should open the door for the UPS guy or pretend no one's home, Bowman shoots him. If Bowman misses, we're fucked, of course.”

“I won't miss,” Bowman said.

“Then let's go kidnap a UPS driver,” Kay said. She couldn't help it, but she was actually enjoying herself.

—

THEY ALL PUT ON
ski masks and left Dotson watching the house with the thermal imaging camera. They caught up with the UPS truck two miles down the road. Morgan swerved in front of the truck and hit the brakes, forcing the UPS driver to stop. Bowman and Kay jumped out of the SUV and pointed their guns at the driver's face. The driver, who turned out to be a woman, immediately screamed when she saw two masked people pointing weapons at her face.

Kay said, “Shut the hell up before I shoot you.”

Kay told the driver to get out of the truck and walked her around the side of the truck not visible from the road. They were lucky they were out in the sticks and traffic was sparse. “Take off your uniform,” Kay told the woman. Kay had assumed the UPS driver would be a man and that Morgan or one of the other guys would have to impersonate the driver. So much for assumptions.

The driver was about two inches shorter than Kay and thirty pounds heavier. She was wearing a standard UPS uniform: brown short-sleeved
shirt, brown shorts that came down to her chunky knees, and a brown baseball cap with the UPS logo. She appeared to be about forty, had short dark hair and brown eyes that were currently about the size of hard-boiled eggs. She was so scared she was almost hyperventilating.

“Take a deep breath and calm down,” Kay said. “We're not going to hurt you. We just want your truck and your uniform. We're not even going to steal the packages from your truck. So get undressed.”

When the woman just stood there, Kay yelled, “Move!”

The woman started to unbutton her blouse. Kay was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and low-topped boots. She stripped off the jeans, wishing she'd chosen a pair of panties that morning that weren't quite so revealing. Bowman was getting an eyeful. She put the UPS uniform shirt on over her T-shirt, and when the driver had her shorts off, Kay put on the shorts. To keep the shorts from falling off her hips, she had to cinch the UPS driver's belt as tight as it would go. She plucked the driver's ball cap off her head but didn't put it on, because she was still wearing the ski mask.