by Steve Berry
A nod.
Give it to me.
Hedlund quickly handed it over.
He found the switch on the side and activated the silent mode. They made their way to the ground floor and he could hear Petrova and Stephanie talking in the study, noting that Petrova had not found what she came for. When Stephanie mentioned that her husband would be back home shortly, that was the code they’d arranged for the next step, if necessary.
Hedlund had to go in.
He grabbed the older man by the arm and led him to the front door, where he breathed, “You have to find out what this woman wants. I’ll have your back from here. Okay? Stephanie will be with you. Like we talked about earlier, just find out what you can without provoking her.” He motioned with the phone he held. “I’ll keep this so there’ll be no interruptions.”
Hedlund nodded. “Should we not call the police?”
“We are the police.”
He grabbed the doorknob and whispered, “You’re home.”
He opened, then slammed shut the front door, immediately seeking refuge inside a nearby closet, where he settled among heavy coats.
“It’s me,” he heard Hedlund say in a loud voice.
* * *
Stephanie realized what was happening. Luke had determined that she wanted Hedlund involved, so he’d made that happen in an inconspicuous way. Good work. But she would have expected no less. She glanced at Petrova, who motioned for her to alert her husband where she was waiting.
“I’m in the library.”
Hedlund appeared in the doorway.
“We have a guest,” she said to him. “This woman is after something from the society. Some book. She won’t say what it might be. She threatened to hurt me if I didn’t cooperate.”
Petrova had the gun concealed behind her thigh, which she now revealed. Shock came to Hedlund’s face.
“Are you all right?” he asked Stephanie, playing along.
“I’m fine. Really. Fine.”
“Enough,” Petrova said, her voice rising. “I need the Tallmadge journal.”
“How do you know of that?” Hedlund asked.
A bold inquiry.
And not part of the plan.
“Not your concern. I need the journal. Where is it?”
“It doesn’t exist. It’s a myth. I’ve certainly heard of it, but I’ve never seen it. And I wonder again how you would know of it. That is something only a few within the society knew about.”
“A long time ago people talked,” Petrova said. “We listened. We know.”
“Russians?” he asked.
“Soviets. Tell me what you know of journal?”
Stephanie wanted to hear that answer, too.
“It was written by one of our founding members, Benjamin Tallmadge of New York. He was a spymaster from the Revolutionary War, one of the first in this country. Colonel Tallmadge was instrumental in our victory over the British. Afterward, he served in the society until he died in 1835, I believe. He kept the journal, which supposedly was part of the society’s early records. But it disappeared over a century ago.”
“You lie,” Petrova yelled. “Do not lie to me. I know truth. It was there thirty years ago. Soviets saw it. You know truth. Charon knew truth. Where is that journal?”
“I told you—”
Petrova darted across the room and nestled her weapon tight to Stephanie’s temple. “I will shoot your wife dead, if you do not tell truth.”
The gun’s hammer snapped into place.
Signaling more trouble.
* * *
Luke heard what Anya had said along with the distinctive click of a gun being readied to fire. Bad enough that they had Hedlund in play. Now there was no telling what Petrova would do. She was definitely agitated and impatient. Stephanie had told him to use his best judgment as to when to stop the charade, but urged him to give as wide a leash as possible. This seemed their best shot at finding out what was happening, and it had to have a chance to succeed.
But they now knew what Petrova was after.
The Tallmadge journal.
He gripped his weapon.
And heard again Stephanie’s last order from earlier.
“For God’s sake, don’t kill her.”
That might be easier said than done.
* * *
Stephanie kept her composure but realized that Mrs. Peter Hedlund would not be so calm.
“Please,” she said. “Please take that gun away from me.”
But the barrel stayed pressed to her scalp.
“Where is the Tallmadge journal,” Petrova asked again. “It was with Charon years ago. That I know. You are now Keeper of Secrets. Tell me, or I shoot her.”
Stephanie stared straight at Hedlund, who displayed a remarkable calm.
“Do you know what I did before I retired?” he asked Petrova, who said nothing. “Thirty-two years with the FBI.”
Which was news to Stephanie, but it explained the calculating eyes glaring back at her. Petrova seemed to understand what that meant, too, removing the gun from Stephanie’s head and pointing it at Hedlund.
“I resent that you have come into my home and threatened us,” he said. “I told you, the journal does not exist.”
“You lie.”
“And how do you know that?”
Challenging this woman was not necessarily a good idea.
This needed to end.
Then she heard knocks coming from the front door.
* * *
Luke rapped his knuckles on the paneled wood.
Bursting into the confined library with a gun had not seemed like a smart idea. Somebody was likely to get shot. So he’d decided to see if he could draw Petrova his way and give himself room to maneuver. He’d listened to what Hedlund had said and realized that this man was definitely keeping things close.
So he had to do something.
* * *
Stephanie saw Petrova react to the possibility of a visitor.
“Who is that?” the Russian asked.
Hedlund shrugged. “How would I know? Do you want me to answer it?”
She caught the condescending tone, which came across as more of a challenge. Petrova clearly did not appreciate it.
The gun stayed aimed at Hedlund.
“Go see,” came the order. “You, too.”
And Petrova motioned with the gun for Stephanie to follow.
Hedlund disappeared out the library door.
She noticed that Petrova hesitated in the hall, just past the doorway, and suddenly realized what the woman planned to do. The French doors. In the library. They offered a quick way out and this front-door visitor could provide just enough distraction for her to make a hasty escape. Unfortunately, Stephanie was unarmed, her Beretta still inside her coat in the study where they’d first met Hedlund.
“Keep moving,” Petrova ordered.
Hedlund made his way into the entrance hall.
She needed to alert Luke but, before she could, Hedlund stopped and spun around—
With a gun in his hand.
* * *
Luke had assumed the high ground, retreating to the second-floor landing, which offered a clear view of the floor below. His hope was that the prospect of being interrupted would be enough to force Petrova’s hand. Since he knew that there was nothing here to find, he had to end this encounter without gunfire and with Petrova in custody.
But that now seemed like a problem.
Hedlund had armed himself, the weapon surely hidden somewhere in the master bedroom. He’d heard what the man said about being former FBI, but that wasn’t going to do him much good against a pro like Petrova.
Cockiness can get you killed.
He ought to know. His own arrogance had come close to getting him whacked several times. But hell, he was thirty years old and had an excuse. Hedlund was collecting a pension and Social Security, yet acting as he were still in the game.
Options here were limited.
In fact
, he had only one play.
* * *
Stephanie dove to the carpet runner, flattening her body and wondering who was going to shoot first. The answer came from Hedlund, who fired right past her. She rolled onto her spine and saw that Petrova was gone.
“Stay down,” Hedlund yelled.
She glanced back and saw Hedlund gripping the weapon with both hands, steadying his aim, his attention full ahead.
“Get back, you idiot,” she said to him. “Now.”
Petrova reappeared and fired twice, both bullets thudding into Hedlund, the man crying out in pain, then collapsing to the floor.
* * *
Luke heard the shots and moved, sliding down the slick curved railing that protected the stairway’s outer edge, slipping off as he approached the bottom.
He saw Hedlund drop to the floor.
He swung left, leveled his gun, and sent two rounds in Petrova’s direction, but the wiry woman had already retreated into the library. He kept his gun aimed and sought cover where the hall spilled into the foyer. Hedlund groaned on the floor. He needed to see about him, but his attention was drawn to Stephanie, who lay on her back across the hall.
Was she hit, too?
He heard doors open and felt a rush of cold air.
Stephanie came to her feet. “She’s gone outside through the library. Go get her.”
He looked again at Hedlund.
“I’ll deal with him,” she said, “Stop that bitch.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Zorin hunched down against the mid-Atlantic cold. Though he’d lived and worked in freezing temperatures all his life, he still hated it. Westerners thought that some sort of immunity against the cold developed over time, but that was the farthest thing from the truth. He’d been waiting nearly half an hour in the dark, and his patience was finally rewarded as a vehicle appeared down the street. The Ford eased to the curb and he climbed into the warm cabin. The driver was, like Zorin, in his mid-thirties, a three-day growth of beard dusting a fleshy neck and chin, a Chicago Bears cap on his head. The car sped away in a shower of snow and ice from its spinning tires.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at a nondescript bar on Baltimore’s north side, a neon sign showing a naked dancer, beneath which read NO COVER. He’d lived in the West long enough to know that a decadent fleshpot awaited inside. The driver had chosen the spot, which was understandable given this was the other man’s turf.
So he’d not objected.
The man now lived and worked here in Baltimore and went by the moniker Joe Perko. Zorin also had assumed an alias, one of several he possessed, using the false identity to easily gain entrance into the United States. For all its talk about a Cold War, America’s borders stood more like porous screens than solid walls. Both men spoke perfect English, all courtesy of a KGB training school that they attended.
They hustled inside.
Everything was shrouded in shadows except the lit bar and illuminated stage, where a ridiculously thin blonde with large breasts danced and stripped. He’d never cared for skinny women or lean steaks, preferring in both much more fat on the bone. He also liked women born with blond hair, as opposed to those who created an illusion from a bottle. Music played, but the woman’s actions were not in tune with the melody. In fact, she appeared agitated and bored.
Topless waitresses served the tables that ringed the stage.
“I like it here,” Perko said. “They all watch the women and no one pays you any attention.”
He saw the wisdom in that observation.
They grabbed a table near the stage and ordered a drink from one of the servers.
“I’m done,” Perko quietly said. “My part is finished.”
He knew what that meant. Another portion of Andropov’s plan, Backward Pawn, Perko’s responsibility, had been completed.
“It took five years, but I did it,” Perko said. “Hard to believe it’s been that long since we sat around that table with Andropov. So much has changed.”
How true. It was 1988. Andropov had died years ago and Gorbachev now ruled the USSR. Perestroika and glasnost dominated. Restructuring and openness had become national goals. The old ways were fading by the day.
“My orders, from inside the envelope I was given, were to report to you,” Perko said. “Once the mission was done. So that’s what I’m doing.”
He’d already heard from the man who’d completed another quarter of the mission, Absolute Pin, nearly two years ago. Like tonight, he’d met that officer, only in New York City, learning for the first time more than he was supposed to know.
The waitress brought their orders and he downed a long swallow of vodka. He was not much of a drinker, good at feigning otherwise. Perko seemed to enjoy his, tossing it back in one gulp.
“Żubrówka. Not anything like home,” Perko whispered as he tabled the glass.
He agreed. Polish vodka seemed a poor substitute.
“Have you completed your portion?” Perko asked.
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
Which was true.
After Andropov had left the safe house that night, they’d eaten their dinner, the envelopes with their respective orders remaining beneath their plates. The meal consumed, all four had left, each surely waiting until he was safely away before reading the contents. For the general secretary himself to have personally chosen them carried enormous weight, and by and large they all had adhered to secrecy. None, to his knowledge, communicating with the others. Only to him, once they were through. Per the orders in their envelopes.
“I finally got them in,” Perko said. “They’re all here.”
The blond twig on the stage had finished undressing, now offering the customers some naked bumps and grinds. A few of the patrons seemed to appreciate her newfound enthusiasm and rewarded her with money tossed to the stage.
He sipped more vodka.
“They came through Mexico, by way of Cuba,” Perko said. “I had to be sure there’d be no detection. We had a man drive them across the border. I took possession in Texas and brought them north myself.”
He was learning far more than he should, but he’d grown ever more curious about the whole operation, so he asked, “Everything in one piece?”
Perko nodded. “They’re all in their cases, powered up. Each running exactly to specs.”
“No problems?”
“Nothing. But they’re scary things,” Perko’s voice was barely a whisper over the music. “Amazing that something so small packs a nuclear punch.”
That it was.
His spetsnaz unit had been trained on the field deployment of RA-115s. He was aware of weapons caches in Europe and the Far East that included them, but this was the first time he’d learned specifically of one in the United States. Apparently, Andropov had indeed envisioned a grand scheme.
“I turned them over to Fool’s Mate, as my orders required,” Perko said. “Do you have any idea what he’s to do with them?”
He shook his head. “That is beyond both you and me.”
Perko finished his drink and motioned to one of the servers for another. “I’ve been recalled. I leave in two days.”
Which he already knew.
But he still said, “Then let us celebrate your return home.”
And they had.
For several hours, while the music played and more dancers slinked on the stage. One of those women he remembered. Tiny and dark, with Asian eyes, a broad nose, and raven-black hair. Perko had liked her, too, and had wanted to get to know her better, but he’d discouraged that and eventually led the drunk officer from the bar back to the car. He’d drunk little and still possessed all his senses. Once at the car, determining that no one was around, he’d clamped his left hand over Perko’s mouth, then bent his head to one side, then the other, wrenching the neck. Flesh gave way. Bone clicked. Death came instantaneously. Another talent taught him by the KGB.
Two-thirds of hi
s mission had been accomplished.
His orders were simple. At completion and reporting in, eliminate the other three officers.
Quiet Move.
Two were now dead.
And since neither man would be around to get him into trouble, he’d not discouraged them from talking. From Absolute Pin he’d learned of the creation of five RA-115s, specially crafted for long life and maximum output. From Perko and Backward Pawn he now knew that those RA-115s had been smuggled into America. Only Fool’s Mate remained a mystery. But he could guess its portion. Preservation and concealment.
And the officer assigned that part?
That name he learned from Vadim Belchenko.
A man trained, like himself, in the ways of the West, embedded in the United States, who ultimately assumed the name Jamie Kelly, now living in Canada.
Sitting in the quiet of the Gulfstream’s dimly lit interior, he thought again of the two men he’d killed, both of whom had done nothing less than their jobs, faithfully serving the motherland. It was human nature to want to talk about what they’d done, especially with someone they believed to be part of their mission. But Andropov had anticipated loose lips, which was why Quiet Move had been a part of the plan.
So he’d done his job, too.
But the two murders had always weighed on him.
The least he owed them?
That their deaths would mean something.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Luke bolted out of the French doors and spotted Anya Petrova as she disappeared over a chest-high hedge. He ran after her, leaping the bushes like a hurdler in an Olympic heat. He rounded the side of Hedlund’s house and, once into the front yard, saw Petrova racing toward the same car that still bore the scars from their encounter in Virginia.
“You’re not going to get away,” he called out to her.
Her head turned and their eyes met. He thought about taking a shot, but she was a hundred yards away, now leaping into the driver’s seat, revving the engine.
And he heard Stephanie’s final command.
“Bring her back alive.”
So he opted to veer toward the Escape that had brought him and Stephanie east from DC. He leaped inside and fired up the engine, backing from the drive and speeding in the direction Petrova had gone. The residential neighborhood came with wide streets, the kind built long ago when curbside parking was still allowed. A few cars had taken advantage of the opportunity and he wove his way around them while adding speed. Ahead, he spotted Petrova ignoring a stop sign and hanging a sharp right. He followed her, the Escape’s tires sliding across the cold pavement. He told himself to be careful. It would not be hard to flip over.
