The 14th Colony

by Steve Berry

  He then listened as she told him more about Aleksandr Zorin, who supposedly held a grudge against the United States, and a KGB archivist named Vadim Belchenko.

  “Cotton was looking into the Belchenko angle.”

  The Escape’s little engine packed a surprising punch, and they were making good time down the highway, the Friday-afternoon traffic light.

  “Have you heard anything from Cassiopeia?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not a word.”

  Which was not good. “You think Cotton’s okay?”

  “I’m hoping so.”

  He heard the concern, which he echoed.

  Her cell phone dinged and they looked at each other. She studied the display and shook her head again. “It’s Osin.”

  She took the call, which lasted only a few moments. When it ended she said to him, “Petrova’s on the move.”

  She’d already explained that Osin had driven Petrova to Dulles International, handing her a ticket for a KLM flight straight to Moscow. Osin’s men escorted her into the terminal, leaving her as she made her way through the security checks. Of course, there was no doubt that she’d promptly double back and flee, finding a cab, which should take her to a street two blocks away from Anderson House, where her dented rental car remained parked.

  “She headed straight for the car,” Stephanie said. “That puts her not far behind us. She’ll come to Annapolis.”

  “You always right about people?”

  “More so than not.”

  “What about those missing nukes?”

  “It’s unlikely they still exist and, even if they did, even more unlikely they’re operational. Yet Zorin is definitely focused on them.”

  “You okay?”

  He knew her well enough to know that she was bothered by what had happened with Bruce Litchfield.

  “I never thought my career would end like this,” she said, her voice trailing off. “Thirty-seven years.”

  “I was but a twinkle in my daddy’s eye thirty-seven years ago.”

  She smiled, and he left her to her thoughts as they rode for a few minutes in silence.

  “It was an exciting time back then,” she said, more to herself than him. “Reagan planned to change the world. At first, we all thought he was nuts. But that’s exactly what he did.”

  Luke knew little about the 1980s, his life focused more on the here and now. He considered himself dependable, tough, and pragmatic. He took life as it came—daydreams, nostalgia, and the charms of the world held little appeal. History was just that to him—the past—not exactly ignored, but not to be obsessed about, either.

  “I was part of that great change,” she said.

  He could tell she wanted to talk, which was unusual. But everything about this day fit into that category.

  So he kept his mouth shut and listened.

  Stephanie followed the pope into a courtyard on this, her twenty-ninth visit to Rome. John Paul had specifically requested the meeting. Much was happening in the United States. Reagan’s two terms as president were drawing to a close. Vice President Bush and Massachusetts governor Michael Dukakis were engaged in a bitter battle for the White House, the outcome of which remained uncertain. The pope was concerned about the future, so she’d come to alleviate his fears. A marble villa and a two-story loggia surrounded them, the courtyard dotted with statues, empty benches, and a fountain. They were deep inside the Vatican, in a space reserved for residents, of which there were but a precious few.

  “President Reagan will soon be out of office,” he said to her. “Will that end your service, too?”

  She decided to be straight. “Most likely. Either side will select its own people to carry on.”

  To her knowledge Vice President Bush had never been part of Forward Pass, and an open bitterness was festering between the Bush and Reagan camps. At the Republican National Convention, when accepting the party’s nomination, Bush had told the delegates that he wanted a kinder, gentler nation. Which had brought a swift rebuke from the Reagan people of, What the hell are we?

  “The new wash away the old,” the pope said. “It is the same here. The same all over the world. And if you are no longer here, what happens to what we’ve done these past six years? Does that end, too?”

  A fair question.

  “I don’t think what has been started can be stopped,” she said. “It’s too far along. Too many moving parts are in motion. Our people think it will be but two or three years, at the most, until the USSR ends.”

  “That was October 1988, the last time John Paul and I spoke,” she said. “But I was right. Bush won and a new team took over at State, one that did not include me, and other people finished what I started. That’s when I moved to Justice. A few years later I was given the Magellan Billet.”

  “How friggin’ amazing,” he said. “You were there? Right in the middle of what happened when the Berlin Wall came down?”

  “Which Bush got credit for,” she said. “But by the time he was inaugurated, the Soviet end was a foregone conclusion.”

  “Didn’t help him get reelected,” he offered, hoping to make her feel better. He wasn’t entirely oblivious to history.

  She grinned. “No. It didn’t.”

  “How did you do it?” he asked.

  “That’s a complicated question. But by the late 1980s pressure was coming on Moscow from nearly every angle, both internally and externally. That pressure had been building for a long time. Reagan, to his credit, developed a way to exploit it. He told me once that all we needed to create was the straw that would break the communist back. And that’s what we did. The operation was called Forward Pass.”

  Which started with Admiral John Poindexter, a key member of the Reagan National Security Council. Others had postulated the concept before, but Poindexter hammered the idea of a strategic defense initiative into a workable concept. Why match the Soviets bomb for bomb, as had been American policy for decades? That accomplished little to nothing, except mutual assured destruction.

  MAD.

  An appropriate label.

  Instead, America’s advantage was its strong economy and innovative technology. So why not a resource shift—a change from offense to defense. The United States possessed tens of thousands of nuclear warheads to launch east. Why not develop a way to stop Russian warheads from coming west? Poindexter’s idea was presented to the White House in late 1982 and the president immediately embraced it. Reagan had many times said that he considered MAD immoral, and he liked the idea of shifting to a strategic defense. The whole thing was kept quiet until March 1983 when the president announced the change, on television, to the world.

  Initially, the idea had been to actually develop SDI. But technological challenges began to overwhelm the effort. Simultaneous with SDI came a massive defense buildup of conventional weapons and equipment. New aircraft, ships, and submarines. Billions upon billions of new money flooded into the Defense Department in what became the largest peacetime escalation in American military preparedness ever.

  Which the Soviets had no choice but to match.

  And they did.

  The Soviets were genuinely shocked by the concept of strategic defense initiative. Moscow called the plan a bid to disarm the USSR, claiming the United States sought world supremacy. But for the Soviets the true danger of SDI came more from the technological effort itself, one that might lead to new offensive weapons—innovations that they may not be able to counter without a strategic defense initiative of their own.

  So they poured billions into development.

  Which they could not afford.

  Creating the straw that broke the communist back.

  “You’re tellin’ me that the U.S. worked a con on the communists?”

  “Not so much a con. More we exploited the other side’s clear weakness, using our strengths to maximum advantage.”

  He chuckled. “Like I said, a con.”

  “It was more complicated than that. The Vatican soot
hed the hearts and minds of the Eastern Bloc, keeping the people motivated, while we applied economic and political pressure. That wreaked havoc on Moscow. Then SDI comes along and throws them a real curve. But once the Soviets believed strategic defense to be a real threat, they had only two choices. Match our effort or circumvent it. They attempted both. The KGB was all over SDI, trying to learn every detail. The CIA stayed a step ahead, feeding them false information, exploiting their overeagerness. Reagan played the hand perfectly. No way Moscow could win.”

  He kept an even speed down the highway toward Annapolis while maintaining a watch in the rearview mirror.

  “You have to be proud of yourself,” he said. “To have been a big part of that.”

  “The history books know little of what really happened. When I first met Reagan in 1982, he told me of his idea to use money and morality as weapons—to engage the Vatican as an active ally. He was obsessed by the fact that both he and John Paul survived assassination attempts. He thought that some sort of divine message. At first, I thought the whole plan far-fetched. But he was determined. I was there when he traveled to Rome, in June 1982, and made the pitch, face-to-face, to John Paul. That took balls.”

  That it did.

  “Then the pope did what popes do best. He appealed to faith and God and called on the Polish people to not be afraid. And they weren’t. So Solidarity survived. Moscow wrongly thought martial law would quell the Poles, but they were wrong there, too. Instead, a call for freedom spread throughout the Eastern Bloc and slowly weakened every one of those puppet governments. When the collapse finally came, everything fell hard. Together, Reagan and the pope were unbeatable. But it was Reagan who was smart enough to put the deal together.”

  “Like I said, a helluva con.”

  “Call it what you want. All I know is it worked. The Soviet Union and the Cold War both ended. Thanks to an actor whom many shrugged off as incompetent and ineffectual. But that actor knew the value of a good show. Communism is no longer important. Instead, militant radicals and religious fanatics have taken center stage.”

  “None of whom possesses a country or any allegiance to anything beyond their own insanity. Not a Cold War anymore. More a Crazy War.”

  “Today,” she said, “one error, one small omission, a single piece of bad luck, and the next step is desperate measures. The bad guys actually act today. Back then it was all posturing.”

  He recalled those nukes. “But a remnant from the old days might still be around.” He saw that she agreed. “One last parting shot.”

  She nodded. “For us to handle.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SOUTHERN FRANCE

  8:40 P.M.

  Cassiopeia climbed down from the Russian fighter. She and Cotton had just landed at the air base not far from her château, the long flight from Siberia over. The pilots had said virtually nothing on the trip, most likely told not to engage their passengers. Cotton’s stunt in thwarting their attack on Zorin apparently had not been anticipated. She’d half expected that the planes be ordered to return to Irkutsk immediately, but that had not happened. She was glad to be back on French soil.

  Cotton descended from his high-speed taxi and walked over to her. “I need to call Stephanie.”

  “I’m assuming there’s a lot more to this story than I know.”

  “You could say that.”

  They entered one of the buildings and asked for a private office. Base personnel seemed to have been expecting them, as it wasn’t every day that two Russian fighters touched down at a NATO air base. The officer-in-charge directed them to a small conference room. Inside, Cassiopeia found her cell phone, the same one they’d not been allowed to use back in Siberia, and redialed Stephanie’s number.

  Then she hit SPEAKER.

  “It’s midafternoon in DC,” Cotton said.

  The line on the other end rang.

  “Where’s Zorin headed?” Cassiopeia asked him.

  “Prince Edward Island, Canada. I’ve already done the math. He’ll be on the ground around 11:00 P.M. local time.”

  Another two rings.

  “Do we need to go there?”

  Before Cotton could reply, a voice answered the phone. Not Stephanie’s. Male. One she immediately recognized. Danny Daniels.

  “We were worried,” the president said.

  “I was, too,” Cotton said. “It’s been an interesting few hours. And how did I get you? Is Stephanie there?”

  “She’s indisposed at the moment, handling Zorin’s lover, who’s proved to be quite a pain in the ass. You might like to know that my nephew got his butt kicked.”

  Cotton smiled. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you say.”

  “You know, I got, what, less than a day and a half left on the job. Let me tell you, there’s not a whole lot for a president to do in his last two days, except pack up things. I feel as useless as tits on a boar hog. So tell me something that will cheer me up.”

  “Zorin’s headed for Canada. He’s looking for hidden nuclear weapons.”

  “Stephanie has reported in the same thing from this end.”

  Daniels told them all that he knew. She then listened as Cotton recounted what had happened over Lake Baikal, then at the dacha, culminating in Vadim Belchenko’s death. “That archivist believed those men were military, sent to kill him. Any idea what he meant by ‘Fool’s Mate’ or ‘zero amendment’?”

  “Not in the least, but you’ve given me something to do, which I greatly appreciate. Stephanie is running a little operation of her own and had all calls to her phone forwarded here to the White House. I’m waiting to hear from her. In the meantime, what do you need from us?”

  “A fast ride to Canada.”

  Cotton told the president where they were.

  “It’s being arranged right now. Just stay put.”

  “Tracking Zorin’s plane would also be a good idea.”

  “Already thought of that one. We’ll keep you posted on its route.”

  “We have to know if this is real, or just wishful thinking on Zorin’s part,” Cotton said. “We don’t know if he’s working alone or what. He certainly had help at the dacha. Then there’s the Russians. They definitely wanted that old archivist dead.”

  “Back on the lake, in the helicopter,” she said, “the men recognized the vehicles chasing Cotton as military. That fact seemed to be an issue for them.”

  “Hello, is that Ms. Vitt?” Daniels asked. “Long time, no see.”

  “It has been a while, Mr. President.”

  The last time they were together had been on the second floor of the White House, after another ordeal in which both she and the president discovered some surprising things about themselves.

  “This whole thing stinks,” the president said. “Moscow specifically asked for our help. I obliged them and sent you in, Cotton. They then alerted us to Anya Petrova, who’s here for Zorin, so I sent Luke to bird-dog her. They also allowed Cassiopeia to enter the country to see about you.”

  “Then something changed,” Cotton said. “They told us to not let the door hit us in the ass on the way out of the country.”

  Daniels chuckled. “Haven’t heard that one in a while. But I agree. Things did change fast. Let me make some inquiries. I may be headed out to pasture, but this bull can still buck.”

  That she did not doubt.

  “We also need any information the CIA has on a man named Jamie Kelley,” Cotton said. “Supposedly an American, now living on Prince Edward Island. He works at a college there. Belchenko told me this guy was once a Soviet asset. That’s who Zorin is after.”

  He’d done the math on the ride over. No private jet could match the speed of a military fighter. So they should be able to beat Zorin across the Atlantic by at least an hour.

  “I’m told your rides are being arranged,” Daniels said. “Keep us posted.”

  The call ended.

  She stared at Cotton. This was the first time they’d been alone to actually speak to
each other.

  “I was wrong,” she said. “I handled things horribly in Utah.”

  “It was tough on all of us. I’m sorry it turned out the way it did.”

  She genuinely believed he meant that. This man was no hardened killer. For him to pull the trigger meant that there’d been no choice, and there had not been.

  “I’ve decided that I don’t want to live my life without you.” She’d told herself to be honest with him and, for once, not mince words. She was hoping he would return the favor.

  “That makes two of us,” he said. “I need you.”

  She realized what it took for him to make that admission. Neither one of them was a clingy personality.

  “Can we forget about what happened,” she said, “and pick up where we left off?”

  “I can do that.”

  She smiled. So could she.

  They both still wore Russian flight suits. She unzipped hers, wanting to be rid of it. “I’m assuming we have to be stuffed into another fighter and flown across the Atlantic?”

  “That would be the fastest way.”

  “And what do we do once we get there?”

  “Find a man named Jamie Kelly, before Zorin does the same.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

  3:20 P.M.

  Stephanie admired the house that belonged to Peter Hedlund, the current historian for the Society of Cincinnatus. As explained, the colonial brick mansion had been built in the mid-1700s, and a succession of owners had kept it standing. Most of what was now visible came from a mid-20th-century remodel. She loved the artful mix of marble, walnut, and plaster, along with the careful blend of bold colors, all of which reminded her of the house she and her husband once owned, which had sat not all that far away.

  Annapolis was familiar territory. Though currently only the capital of Maryland, for a short time after the Revolutionary War it served as the national capital. Always compact, less than 40,000 people living there, and it had not grown much since her time here back in the late 1980s. Fritz Strobl had called ahead and alerted Hedlund to their visit. She and Luke now sat in a lovely study with a brick hearth, in which burned a crackling fire. Hedlund had already listened to their purpose for being there, and had agreed to everything she’d asked.