by Chris Hauty
He heads east on Michigan Avenue, to where he’s not entirely sure. Anywhere out of fucking Washington DC. Without his riding jacket, he feels the bracing cold of a nighttime temperature dipping into the fifties. His right hand cramps around the throttle control, but fuck it feels good to be on the bike. He thrills at the thrum of the Honda’s engine, yowling between his thighs. Lights and sights flash by in the blur of his peripheral vision.
Rafi rolls on the throttle and goes faster still. Almost 250 million people over the age of eighteen reside in the US, which translates into 122 million women who refuse to sleep with him. So fuck all of those vile, conniving cunts who never give him any sex. And fuck all the brainless nitwits who do get laid by the vicious cunts who won’t fuck him. Fuck ’em all. He’s bet—
The cab that jumps out from the intersection at Thirteenth Street clips the Honda motorbike with only a glancing blow. Just enough to separate the rider from his machine. The cab’s driver had been looking down at his phone, at a message from his seven-year-old daughter. He is thirty-seven and from South Korea. His name is Min-jun, in the US for eight years. Colliding with the Honda ridden by the soon-to-be infamous domestic terrorist, Rafi Zamani, is the biggest thing that will ever happen in his entire life.
And Rafi? He is free. Truly free. Unconstrained by earth’s ghastly chains, he is a human projectile, hurtling through the air headfirst. Zamani unbound. In these brief, airborne seconds—just before impact into a brick wall—he has attained the very best version of himself. And so, as his spine shatters into a thousand pieces, Rafi Zamani smiles.
* * *
SHE SLEPT THE entire way to Houston, waking up only when the flight crew switched on the cabin lights for landing. Otto Jr. remains asleep beside her, even as the aircraft rolls toward its gate. It’s after two in the morning. The airport runways are mostly quiet. Has Rafi Zamani been apprehended? Were there any further cyberattacks? Is the US at war with Russia after all? Anxious for news, Clare Ryan powers up her government-issued phone. Even though the plane has been on the ground for almost five minutes, she can’t seem to get a signal. The other passengers in the first-class cabin are asleep. Their stop in Houston is scheduled for only forty minutes; passengers continuing to Mexico City need not deplane.
Otto Jr. rouses from his slumber as the plane jerks to a stop at the gate. Clare lays a comforting hand on the boy’s back.
“Go back to sleep, darling. We’re just stopping here for a few minutes.”
She wishes they’d turn the lights off. Surely the passengers can leave the plane without veritable floodlights illuminating their way.
Otto Jr. stares dazedly out the window. “Where are we?” he asks.
“We’re in Houston, baby. Just a short layover.”
There seems to be some delay in getting the aircraft’s door just forward of the first-class section open. The pilot’s voice crackles over the aircraft’s public address system. “Seat belt sign is still illuminated, folks. If you could remain seated for just a couple more minutes, thanks.”
Finally, Clare can hear the plane’s door pulled open and low voices from that direction. Next, she sees four federal marshals come aboard and look in her direction. They move in on her. She understands these are her last few moments of real freedom. That she is about to undergo the truly unique degradation of an extremely public arrest.
The federal marshals stop in the aisle beside her seat.
“Clare Ryan?”
“I’m Clare.” What else is there for her to say?
“Ma’am, please stand up.”
Otto Jr. is understandably confused and alarmed. “Mommy? What’s happening?”
Clare looks past the federal marshals and sees a middle-aged woman, an agent with child welfare services. A kind face, the soon-to-be disgraced cabinet secretary decides.
“It’s okay, Otto darling. Mommy is going with these nice people for a little chat.”
Marshals hoist Clare up from her seat by her arms.
“Mommy!”
The child welfare agent moves forward, anxious to calm the boy.
“Hi, Otto,” she says too brightly for Clare’s taste. “My name is Susan. Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat?”
The boy is now hysterical.
“Mommy!”
Clare Ryan is on her feet. The marshals deftly handcuff her, as if by magician’s trickery. They hustle their prisoner up the aisle to the door not fifteen feet away.
Over her shoulder, Clare says, “Be a good boy, Otto. Be safe!”
Within a few seconds, the marshals have rushed the cabinet secretary off the aircraft. The only sounds on board are the wails of an eight-year-old child.
11
THE KICKER
One Week Later
These first few days back home have been disorienting. Having spent all but the first year of his life in the US, Monroe finds the country of his birth to be hopelessly outclassed in manners large and small by its superpower rival. Russia is the second world in every respect but its ability to wage war. The food his handlers put on his table is good enough. The private villa where he has been installed is undoubtedly luxurious. They have even offered him female company of the highest caliber, a ludicrous proposition that he had rejected out of hand. But Yuri Sergeev, aka Richard Monroe, can’t shake the nagging feeling that he’s playing for the losing team. Moscow seems so dreadfully provincial in comparison to any major metropolis in the West. The Russians aren’t even playing a game of catch-up; there will never be true parity in standards of living and cultural leadership between the superpowers. Instead of equivalence, Moscow’s strategy is one of disruption. Degrading America’s ability to thrive is a much less expensive form of competition. His fellow Russians are killjoys, he muses. They are spoilsports. Losers.
Naturally, Yuri Sergeev keeps these thoughts to himself. His best leverage over the Kremlin is his value as an instrument of propaganda. How great can the United States be if it had managed to elect a Russian intelligence agent as its highest leader? Monroe’s eventual deterioration while in the Oval Office notwithstanding, Operation Polkan had been a stupendous coup. From just about any perspective, the Russian mole is worth more alive than dead. That is, as long as the truth of the Americans compromising him remains a take-it-to-the-grave secret.
From the first conversation with his handlers at the GRU, and then in the earliest hours home with ministers in the Kremlin, Yuri Sergeev has resisted a plan to exile him to the hinterlands. He actively promoted the notion that he has much more to offer than propaganda value. Raised as an American boy by Russian parents, enjoying a long and lustrous career in the US military, and then elected to the highest office in the land, Yuri Sergeev has experienced the epitome of the American dream. He knows all of the important players. He understands the US political system at its highest levels, inside and out. In a future crisis or with long-term strategic planning, Yuri Sergeev’s advice could prove to be a decisive boon to the decision makers in Moscow.
He knows allies in the Kremlin have taken his proposal for a more active role to the highest levels of the government. Waiting for further news has been agony, despite the luxuriousness of his temporary home off the Minsk highway, ten kilometers from Moscow. He couldn’t care less for its home theater, indoor swimming pool, billiard room, and wine cellar. Yuri Sergeev is a prisoner in this twenty-room, €27 million monstrosity, built by some forgotten oligarch who got on the wrong side of the Russian president. Having been at the center of action—in one arena or another—all of his life, Richard Monroe/Yuri Sergeev is bored in this opulent, backwater villa.
At long last, on the morning of his seventh day back in Russia, he is told to be ready at noon for a car driving him to the Kremlin. Whether it will be a bullet in the back of his head or a battle plan, Yuri Sergeev, the most successful mole in the history of espionage, is prepared to learn his destiny.
* * *
SATURDAY, 6:57 A.M. He knocks on her apartment door ten minute
s after Hayley has returned home from her morning run one week after the president’s calamitous “suicide.” Hayley can guess it’s him. Who else would knock on her door at seven a.m.? No doubt, he had been waiting in his car and saw her return. Spooks can be so predictable. Confirming her hunch through the peephole, Hayley opens the door for Andrew Wilde. Her deeper state supervisor is tanned, as always, and wears his uniform of a blue suit, double monk leather shoes, and a blue oxford shirt.
“Lieutenant Wu is doing better,” he announces without ceremony as he crosses the threshold, walks to the dinette set, and sits.
Hayley closes the door and stops halfway to the table. She is wary but customarily composed. “I’ve seen her every day since she entered the hospital, sir.”
“I know,” Wilde says, his tone desert dry. “I was only making conversation.”
Hayley feels no need to defend her conduct. Her conscience is clear. Consequently, she says nothing.
Wilde stares at her with his best impression of sympathy, one that isn’t very convincing. He has always been impressed with her. It would be impossible not to be impressed with Hayley Chill. She is a magnificent operative. But he is not in charge. He’s not sure who is. His orders come to him from another man whose alias is Garcia. And Garcia’s superior in Publius? What difference does it make? Wilde is committed to the organization’s cause. The directive is clear. But where will they ever find another like her?
Wilde asks, “You know why I’m here, Ms. Chill?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“You were asked to assist Lieutenant Wu. That didn’t mean dereliction of your primary duty. Our enemy has injured us because of your mission failure.”
“Mr. Wilde, sir… ?”
He won’t be interrupted. “Of course, averting the collision of two jetliners and saving the lives of hundreds of people is the very best reason possible to take your eye off the ball. But Richard Monroe was everything. It wasn’t your decision to prioritize one operation over another.”
Hayley’s face expresses only transitory impatience. Without saying another word, she retrieves her laptop from her desk and brings it to the dining table where Wilde sits. Taking the chair beside him, Hayley opens the computer and begins tapping keys.
“What?” he asks, gesturing mildly at her computer.
It dawns on Wilde that Hayley’s holding all the cards even before she shows them. His familiarity with the young woman allows him to intuit that much. We all have our roles to play, he muses. In the second or two before Hayley responds, Andrew Wilde reflects without judgment on the undeniable fact that his role, in this situation, is to get properly ass-kicked by this twenty-seven-year-old woman from West Virginia.
She says, “I’ve done many things in my life, sir. Drugs. Sleeping with gorgeous deadbeats. I’ve stolen from convenience stores and driven fifty miles per hour in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone. I’ve lied to a priest and even ripped tags off a sleeping mattress. But, sir, not once have I been in dereliction of my duty.”
Having pulled up the computer application she requires to prove her point, Hayley pauses her finger over the volume button on the keyboard.
“What time is it in Moscow, sir?”
Without checking his watch, he says, “Two o’clock.”
“And what happens in Moscow at two p.m. on the first Saturday of every month?”
Wilde sighs. “You tell me.”
“Members of the Security Council of the Russian Federation gather in a conference room of the Senate building at the Kremlin. The president. The chairman of the government. Ministers of all the important departments, including their foreign intelligence service and internal affairs. They’re all there. At this very minute, sir. The first Saturday of every month at two p.m., local time, is when shit happens.”
Here it comes, Wilde thinks. The kicker.
Hayley taps the volume up on the laptop. Over the computer’s tiny speakers, the sound of men talking in Russian can be heard. The sound quality is poor, but it’s clear enough for the two Russian-speaking agents of the deeper state to understand the conversation.
A baffled Andrew Wilde asks, “Malkin… ?” referring to the Russian president.
Hayley nods. “Yes, sir.”
They hear another voice now, speaking in response to whatever Fedor Malkin had said.
“Thank you, Mr. President. I thank the chairman and other ministers as well. Your trust in this humble son of Russia will not go unrewarded. With all my heart, for love of country, I believe I can be of service! Thank you, gentlemen!”
Wilde looks to Hayley. He still can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “That’s our guy. That’s Richard Monroe.”
Hayley simply nods, without a trace of gloat.
Gesturing at the laptop, he asks, “This is in real time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How… ?” He simply cannot form the words.
Hayley is unnervingly matter-of-fact. “The president’s cover had been blown, sir. The Russians were taking Monroe out, one way or another. Our operation, running him as a double agent in the Oval Office, was over.”
“What convinced you Moscow was onto him?”
“Actionable intelligence, sir, with the highest level of confidence in its integrity.”
He can see that she doesn’t intend to elaborate further on the source of her information. Wilde can undoubtedly appreciate her reticence. A good operative in the field maintains his or her spy network, independent of his or her superiors. More often than not, those sources are religiously protected, lest third-party interventions spook an asset. Wilde imagines this isn’t the last time he’ll hear Hayley Chill utter these words.
She says, “I couldn’t know for sure if they were going to terminate Sergeev or exfiltrate him, but I was prepared if the GRU returned him safely to Moscow. An intelligence asset in the Kremlin’s inner sanctum could be useful, yes?”
“Yes. It would be useful in the extreme. His cooperation… ?”
“We have file cabinets filled with incriminating evidence that substantiates his betrayal of his Russian masters. If they were to find out that we had compromised Yuri Sergeev, then no more twenty-room villa off the Minsk highway.”
“No more Yuri Sergeev.”
“No, sir. No more Yuri Sergeev.”
Wilde reaches to volume up the feed from the Kremlin Senate building conference room. A different gruff Russian voice crackles from the laptop speakers. He lowers the volume again to barely audible.
“Every fart, every belch,” she says, quoting him. “Every meeting and every phone call, if he participates, we will hear it.”
“The Fauchard bug?” Wilde asks, already knowing the answer.
* * *
IN HIS PRIVATE sitting room, just off the bedroom, the president sits in an easy chair by the fireplace. A small fire crackles in the hearth, despite the warm spring weather outside. He seems mesmerized by the comforting flames. Pressed, a distracted Richard Monroe agrees to her demand to produce Alberto Barrios for her interrogation.
“Yes. I understand.” The president’s voice sounds remote and robotic.
“There’s one more thing.” Hayley retrieves the jewel case containing the Fauchard bug.
“What is that?”
“Your new crown.”
Monroe sits up from his slouch, alarmed. “Crown? I don’t need a new crown. My teeth are fine!”
“Don’t worry, sir. This one requires no drilling. And no one will ever know it’s inside of your mouth.” Hayley’s expression is placid. “Where you’re going, we need to know what’s being said. Every word.”
“Going? Where am I going?” he asks with commendable disingenuousness.
She stares at the president in a manner that utterly unnerves him, despite his impressive military résumé. He may have conquered dictators in the past, but Hayley Chill won’t be bamboozled or bluffed.
“You signaled your GRU masters, sir. You’ve led them to believe your cover wa
s under threat. You alerted them, sir, because you wanted out.”
“That’s all preposterous! What’s your proof?”
“My proof?” She can’t resist a small grin. “Spetssvyaz.”
Monroe’s head jerks backward, involuntarily. How… ? Who? Then it dawns on him. “Belyavskiy!”
Hayley nods, faintly, modest to a fault. “You told me who your handler was, sir. I made you tell me. He resisted recruitment by me for several months, but eventually, I turned him.” She pauses, unsure whether or not to elaborate her methods further. “He’s extremely fond of you, you know. Your grandparents showed kindness to his family back in Mirnyy. Aleksandr Belyavskiy has repaid that generosity by informing me of Moscow’s intentions regarding your imminent exfiltration. We can still protect you, sir, but you must protect us.”
Monroe once again must resign himself to his fate, one that is imposed upon him by this relentless girl and her deeper state superiors. He had attempted to orchestrate an escape from the soul-crushing pressures of his life as a double agent. He had imagined that he could outsmart Hayley Chill. The president realizes now that he was delusional thinking either goal was achievable.
Hayley says, “This listening device will allow us to continue our mutually beneficial collaboration, without risk.” She displays the crown for Monroe to see. “Congratulations are in order, Mr. President. For your new life, and new responsibilities, in Russia.”
* * *
IN HER APARTMENT, Hayley nods in answer to Wilde’s question. “And if that one is ever lost or becomes inoperable, Sergeev knows our other assets in Moscow will be able to replace it immediately.”
“Publius doesn’t have any other assets in Moscow… or all of Russia for that matter.”
Hayley grins ever so slightly. “Yuri Sergeev doesn’t know that.”
Andrew Wilde broods a moment. A troubling thought occurs to him.
“How do we know he isn’t playing us?”
