by Tom Clancy
She had her hands in the air, the pistol still in her grip, but at least they were facing each other now.
“I saw you come from the bridge,” he said. “Your jet crashed back there, yes?”
“If you don’t lower your gun, when the Spetsnaz get here, I’ll tell them you were trying to take me prisoner,” she said.
Or at least she thought she’d said.
Her Russian was “okay.” She’d been studying the language every day since the war had broken out, but her instructors said she still had a lot to learn.
Indeed . . . because the man looked at her funny, then reared back his head. “You’re going to tell the Spetsnaz what?”
She turned up the steel in her voice: “I don’t have time for this. Lower your weapon.”
“You’re not Russian, are you?”
She spaced her words for effect: “Let me go. I won’t ask again.”
He took a step toward her and spoke in perfect English. “Are you an American?”
Knowing her reaction might give her away, Halverson bit her lip, her eyes flicking up to the sky as the Interceptors came around for yet another pass, the shouts still echoing down from the bridge—her mind now filling with images of those troops working their way down the mountainside to capture her.
Yes, his English surprised the hell out of her, but she wouldn’t fall for his ploy . . .
“No, I’m not an American,” she insisted in Russian, a few breaths away from bolting.
He shook his head and continued to speak in English. “No more lies.”
“Who are you?” she asked in Russian.
“My name is Aslan,” he answered in English. “Do you want help or not?”
“Help?” Halverson caught herself. Damn it, she’d just spoken in English—
Which immediately had him lowering his rifle.
“You are an American. They’ll capture and torture you.”
Slowly, she lowered her hands, and then, her eyes never leaving him, she slid the pistol back into her holster, then showed him her palms once more.
“What’re you doing out here? Why do you want to help me?” she asked.
“We have a mutual enemy.”
“You’re not Russian?”
“Chechen. Come on. I’ll get you up this mountain.”
He started away from her. She remained. He glanced back. “You have to trust me.”
“How do you know English?”
“I went to school in California for many years before I came back to my homeland. Now either you come with me, or you die. They’ll bring dogs, and you won’t stand a chance.”
Repressing a shudder, Halverson fell in behind him, and he led her through the forest, working hard and fast toward the north.
“My father was killed by the Russians back in 2004. They called him and his friends terrorists, but all they wanted was freedom for our people and our country. You had your American revolution and we wanted ours. My father fought to drive the Russians out of Chechnya and have the UN recognize our independence.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“They meant well, but their methods were questionable.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated. “They took over a school in Beslan, held it hostage for three days until the Russians came in with tanks and other heavy weapons. My father was killed. Nearly two hundred children were killed.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yes. And the Russian government lied about everything.”
Halverson shook her head. “You can’t go your whole life chasing revenge.”
“I already am. And I won’t stop.”
She groped for something to say, then thought better of it. They climbed in silence for several moments, and then Halverson blurted out, “Stephanie.”
“What?”
“You never asked my name.”
“Okay, Stephanie.”
Silence again. This time Halverson succumbed to it and concentrated on the path ahead.
* * *
About twenty minutes later, with the approach of helicopters quickening their steps and Halverson ready to give up trying to match his gait, they neared a more rocky portion of the mountain, the trees giving way here and there to ice-covered faces of stone, and just ten meters ahead appeared a shallow crevice. As they drew closer, the opening became a narrow and easily dismissed entrance to a cave.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Big rocks,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and followed him inside, where he grabbed a flashlight hanging from a hook drilled into the stone.
“Your place?” she asked.
“Not really,” he said. “I just work here.”
He led her down a tunnel no more than two meters wide, ducking in places, the air growing warmer, a dense, musty scent filling her nose.
“I’m going to Vladikavkaz,” she said.
“And what will you do there? Try to get a job?”
She smirked. “I thought I’d catch a flight home.”
“Are you serious?”
“Pretty much.”
“You’ll never make it.”
“Actually, I was feeling pretty good about my chances until you came along.”
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“You think I’m alone?”
Before he could answer, the tunnel ended in a wider antechamber shielded by a broad iron gate that he unlocked after fishing out an oversized ring of keys. The chamber led toward a cave about half the size of a football field and nearly four meters high, dim lights mounted to the walls exposing the room’s breadth, with hundreds of pallets of crated and boxed materials stored in neat rows that stretched off into the darkness.
“What the hell?” she gasped.
“There’s a much wider tunnel on the other side,” he said, pointing. “That’s where we bring in the forklifts and transfer the shipments.”
“Shipments of what?”
He answered her in a deadpan: “Bathing suits and stuffed animals.”
Halverson crossed to the nearest box, losing her breath as she read the label: FGM-148 Javelin. She glanced back at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Those aren’t bathing suits?”
“You can joke about this?” Halverson rushed to the next crate, and then to the next, and the next. Portable missile launchers, assault rifles, grenades, mortars—some the property of the Joint Strike Force of the United States of America, others belonging to the Russians, the European Federation, and South Africa. She stood back. “You guys are Chechens?”
“We have allies in Turkey, Syria, Iran, and Uzbekistan.”
“And this is a weapons depot?”
“No, this is a cave with big boxes.”
Her frown deepened. “You’re the only one guarding this place?”
He laughed under his breath. “Take a look.” He pointed toward the ceiling, from where hung multiple cameras and remote-operated 5.56-millimeter machine guns with suppressors fitted to their barrels. “There were also guards back by the gate, but you didn’t see them, did you? We have an operations center on the other side of the cave. We like to keep a low profile.”
Halverson narrowed her gaze on him. “You shouldn’t have taken me here.”
“You’d rather be outside? I told you, they’ll bring the dogs.”
“You’re not letting me go. And you’re not Chechen militants. I know who you are. Forgotten Army, right?”
“Not really. Not anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’ve been forgotten. The Ganjin has changed. We’re not true partners anymore.”
“Ganjin? Partners? What’re you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. Like I said, we have a m
utual enemy, and I’ll take care of you. We’ll let them search the mountain, and then I’ll get you down into the city. You can ride along with one of our shipments.”
“Why should I believe you?”
He came up and suddenly clutched her by the shoulders. “Because this is not an accident.” He shoved her behind one of the crates, away from the cameras. “Because we need each other. Because you’re going to help me escape.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
TWELVE
SinoRus Group Oil Exploration Headquarters
Sakhalin Island
North of Japan
Christopher said she would enjoy the killing.
He had been right.
Major Alice Dennison had never felt such great pleasure as she had after putting a bullet in Colonel Doletskaya’s chest. Shooting Fedorovich and Patti and watching them die took her breath away.
She wanted more . . .
She wanted to feel that excitement coiling around her spine again and again, even more so now as Christopher led her into the back of the helicopter, buckled her into the rich leather seat, then leaned over and shoved his tongue down her throat. She wanted to rip off her clothes and make love to him before they even took off.
His Sikorsky S-76C++ was a luxury helicopter with an open passenger and pilot interior that Dennison loved. She liked to watch the pilot and co-pilot go about their business when she wasn’t watching TV or sipping on a cocktail from the well-stocked bar. Christopher knew how to treat women right, and nothing made her feel warmer than to make him happy. Why had this once seemed so demeaning and sexist to her?
He pulled away as she grabbed his crotch and cried, “Not now, my love.”
She pouted. “All right.”
They donned their headphones with attached mikes, and he linked his to his smartphone.
While he took a call, she stared through the window at the refinery, the colossal tanks and pipes blurring into a single dot and fading into the darkness like a lighthouse while they headed out to sea.
She thought about Colonel Pavel Doletskaya. How she’d interrogated him after he’d been captured in Moscow. How he’d gotten into her head. How she thought she might be controlled by someone. How he knew things about her that were impossible to know.
And how she’d fallen in love with him—even though she knew he was obsessively devoted to the Snow Maiden, who had in turn crushed his heart.
Why did she feel nothing now? Was the chip capable of erasing her feelings? And why did knowing the chip was in her optic nerve no longer bother her?
She could ask Christopher, but she knew he’d offer only quieting words, tell her not to trouble herself. She glanced back at him, his silky blond hair hanging in his eyes, his jaw angular and firm—an extension of his personality. A curious boy still lurked in his eyes, the crow’s-feet and graying temples vanishing in the light of his passion and commitment. She listened to him speak, forceful and commanding, his South African accent rising and falling in a magnificent lilt:
“Then I’ll make myself perfectly clear. I need positive confirmation that the Spetsnaz have captured her, not suppositions. No, I don’t care what you have to do. All right. Call me when you have it.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Those fools Fedorovich hired . . . don’t worry about it . . .”
“What about all the bodies?”
“It’s all taken care of.”
Dennison smiled tightly. “I’m sorry about her.”
His brow tightened. “Patti?”
“No, Viktoria. She’s a terrible loss, isn’t she.”
“We don’t need her.”
“Did you like her?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know . . . in that way. She has very long legs. She seemed very athletic. We could have both made you happy.”
He smiled and clutched her chin. “You’re more than enough.”
“More than your diamond mines and real estate investments? More than all your homes and your yacht and your aviation companies?”
“Of course. History has made it clear: A man’s empire is nothing without a woman at his side.”
Suddenly, he had a pistol in his hand and pointed it at her head. “If I killed you right now, would you care?”
She felt absolutely no fear, only love for him. “If doing that made you happy, then I would be happy.”
He lowered the gun and shook his head. “I’ve waited all my life for somebody like you—because I’ve fought with every woman I’ve ever known. And now that I have you—”
“What? You don’t want me?”
“No, I, uh, I just need to get used to you.”
“Haven’t I done well? I told you about the Ganjin, about Dr. Ragland and what I could about the X-2A Wraith project, and I’ve delivered all the other information you requested.”
“You have.”
“Then what else can I do?”
“Nothing else yet.”
“Are we going back home to South Africa?”
His brows came together. “Why are you asking so many questions?”
“So I can prepare to make you happy.”
“Prepare?”
“Yes, if we’re going back home, I can make some arrangements.”
“Some of those memories you have . . . I keep forgetting how real they are to you.”
“They’re not real?”
He put a finger to her lips. “Yes, they are. Anyway, no worries now. We need to stop in Tokyo for a little while.”
“All right. Will your friends with the Bilderberg Group be even more pleased with your work now?”
“You’re back to the questions, huh?”
“I can’t help it. I need to know if you’re happy. It’s like a compulsion. I can’t control it. It makes me feel so good.”
“I understand,” he said. “Do you even know who they are? I know you’ve heard me mention them.”
“I did some research, but what I found seemed confusing. I don’t understand why some people are afraid of you.”
“They’re only afraid of change.” He took her hands in his own. “Imagine, if you will, some of the world’s greatest thinkers from politics, finance, industry, labor, education, and communications. Not just the richest people in the world but some of the smartest. Put them in a room once a year and have them talk about the world, about the human condition, about how we can all live more happily and productively—without the boundaries and prejudices of nationalism. Ever since the bombs were dropped on Saudi Arabia and the Russians become the dominant oil suppliers, we’ve been working toward stability. The Ganjin threatened to destabilize the global economy even more, so that’s why my colleagues charged me with seizing control of the organization and redirecting its efforts toward our mutual goals. The Committee of Five . . . they were once good people, but they lost their way. Do you understand?”
Her eyes lit. “The Bilderberg Group controls the world.”
He grinned, as though her statement sounded ridiculous. “I prefer the word influence.”
“Okay. So . . . Mr. Christopher Theron, leader of the Ganjin, member of the Bilderberg Group, can I influence you into pouring me a drink?”
“Absolutely.”
“And when we get to Tokyo, will there be time for us?”
“Of course.”
His smartphone flashed.
She made a face as he turned away, broke their grasp, and read his message. His expression soured.
“What is it?” she asked.
“An interesting turn of events. You told me they were testing a radar system for the Wraith over North Ossetia.”
“That’s correct. I wish I could tell you more
about the system, but my clearance wouldn’t allow me to get in.”
“Yes, you told me. Well, the Russians shot down that pilot. We’d put some of our allies on alert in that area, and it seems one of them got lucky. He has the pilot.”
“Major Stephanie Halverson?”
“You know her?”
“Yes, I’m sorry I never mentioned her name. I didn’t think it was important. She’s one of the best.”
“Then this is fantastic news. We need her. In fact, we need her more than the Snow Maiden.”
“You’re a man who gets what he wants.”
“Because I work hard.”
“No, because you’re so damned hot.” Her hand went for his crotch once more—
But then his phone rang and she sighed.
“Yes? You have him on the line?” he asked. “Okay, put him through. Hello? Yes, Colonel, it’s good to hear your voice. So you’ve confirmed on the network that they’ve just picked her up. Excellent. I assume they’ll transfer her directly to Moscow? What do you mean, you’re not sure? Well, update me immediately when you find out. Yes, I will. Thank you.”
“Who was that?”
“One of our Russian friends. They’ve captured Ms. Antsyforov in the woods outside the refinery.”
“Are you worried? She has intel that could damage us.”
“Maybe, but I doubt anyone will believe her. Either way, I’ll take care of the problem.”
“Good.” Dennison smiled. “Now you promised me a drink.”
“Vodka, right?”
She had to think about it. She’d hated vodka. Why did she like it now?
THIRTEEN
Situation Room
West Wing, White House
Washington, D.C.
The Situation Room was a five-thousand-square-foot command-and-control center located in the basement of the West Wing. Three principal conference rooms served as the centerpiece, with a breakout room for small group meetings, a private room so the president could make calls to other heads of state, and the main watch floor with its cocoon of computer terminals where more than two thousand pieces of information were “fused” or analyzed each day.
