by Steve Berry
But here he was again, working against the main adversary, defending the motherland. Fulfilling his oath. So many had dedicated their lives to that endeavor. Tens of millions more had given their lives for the same reason.
It couldn’t all be for nothing.
He heard again his wife’s plea.
“Don’t waste your life.”
“We shall do this together,” he said to Kelly.
“That we will, comrade.”
* * *
Cassiopeia thought she was an independent person. Her parents raised her to be strong. But a part of her liked the fact that she felt safe and comfortable with Cotton.
Was that weakness?
Not to her.
She’d saved Cotton in Canada, as he’d done for her many times before. There was something to be said for trust, an element sorely lacking in her previous relationships. She assumed Cotton had experienced a similar lack with his ex-wife, whom she’d come to learn was once quite difficult but now much more manageable. She’d like to meet that woman one day. They had lots to talk about, and she’d love to know more about Cotton’s past, a topic he discussed only in tiny doses.
Seeing Stephanie Nelle at the White House had, at first, been difficult, but they, too, made their peace. She was relieved that the rift between them had not yawned into a chasm. Too much was happening here to allow events that could not be changed to interfere with clear thinking.
What’s done was done. Now was what mattered.
She liked to think she was a pro. Definitely, she possessed experience. And as she and Cotton drove deeper into the dark Virginia countryside she wondered what awaited them.
Success?
Or disaster?
That was the trouble with cheating fate.
The best odds on the table were only fifty-fifty.
* * *
Zorin felt the snow as it hit his face then tingled away. Everything was so much wetter on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. He was more accustomed to the dry, Siberian variety that fell in abundance from mid-September to early May. Not much of a summer graced Lake Baikal, but he’d always enjoyed the few weeks of fleeting warmth.
He hated the feeling of getting old, but he could not escape or disguise the impressions his body was beginning to force upon him. The jump from the plane had taxed him to the max. Thankfully, he would never have to do that again. For so long the lights upon which his ambition seemed founded gleamed in isolation. Over the past few days they’d changed to definable bright bulbs, strung together, himself the cord that would prevent them from extinguishing.
But he could not escape the doubts.
That was another thing age had brought, which youth ignored.
Reflection.
He kept pace with Kelly as they walked across a drift of loose shingle, boots digging in, legs laboring. He wore his coat and gloves and held the shovel they’d bought earlier. He was careful with his steps, aware of the fragility of ankles and the price of stumbling. Kelly toted a shopping bag with some of the items they’d bought. The sledgehammer, bolt cutters, and hasp lock had been left in the car. Apparently, they were not needed here. They each carried a flashlight.
“I took control of this property long ago,” Kelly said. “It was fairly isolated then, nothing around for miles. Still is, but in the 1980s there was even less out here.”
He’d seen only a few farmhouses and even fewer lights on the drive.
“It’s titled in a different name, of course. But I pay the taxes and the power bill.”
The last part caught his attention.
“All this time?” he asked, as they kept walking.
“It was my duty, Aleksandr. We’re not talking about a lot of money. The power is barely used.”
Kelly stopped.
Ahead he saw where the trees gave way to a darkened clearing, where the hulks of what appeared to be a farmhouse and barn could be seen.
“It’s not in the best repair,” Kelly said. “But it’s livable. What attracted me was a hidden extra the previous owner installed. He was a veteran of the last world war, a bit eccentric. Quite a character.”
The air chilled him, but he took in the draft and allowed the cold to cleanse his lungs.
“He was terrified of nuclear war,” Kelly said. “So he built a bomb shelter.”
Now he realized why they needed a shovel.
“That old man died years ago. The KGB covertly took ownership from him and planned to use this as a standard cache. But once I saw it, I knew it was perfect for Fool’s Mate. So I was given control.”
Alarm bells rang in his head. “Then there could be a record of this place.”
Kelly considered the inquiry a moment. “I suppose there could.”
Memories of what happened on Prince Edward Island filled his brain. He came to full alert and found his weapon.
Kelly nodded, understanding the implications, and gripped his gun, too. “It was so long ago, Aleksandr. Maybe it’s been forgotten. And even if they know of the property, they’ll not find the hidden shelter.”
He wasn’t comforted. They’d found Kelly, so why couldn’t they find this place, too?
“And don’t forget the booby trap,” Kelly said.
Zorin motioned for them to advance, checking his watch, the luminous figures swimming as his eyes focused on the glowing circle of numbers.
10:40 P.M.
They should hurry.
Only 13 hours to go.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Stephanie entered the Justice Department, the night doors staffed by the usual security teams. She’d come and gone a thousand times at all hours and the personnel there knew her on sight. She’d wondered about Litchfield. The SOB had sat smug during the presidential summit, speaking only when spoken to, but demonstrating exactly where his allegiance lay. Danny, though a lame duck, had clearly established who was still in charge. After Cotton and Cassiopeia had left she’d asked him why he did not just fire Litchfield and be done with it.
His answer was trademark Danny Daniels.
“It’s always better to have your enemy in the tent pissin’ out, than outside pissin’ in.”
Two hours later when a call came from Litchfield, asking her to meet with him, she’d begun to understand that wisdom. What could he possibly want? But Danny had insisted she go, saying “Don’t argue with an idiot, he’ll only beat you with experience.” Little was happening at the moment anyway. Cotton and Cassiopeia were off to Virginia to deal with Zorin, and Luke was somewhere, she wasn’t sure where, as he hadn’t reported in. She tried once to contact him but the call had been immediately directed to voice mail. She was curious about what the president general of the Society of Cincinnati had to say. Danny’s question about the group’s interest to the former Soviet Union was a good one.
She found Litchfield in his office, alone, working before an assemblage of books and paper. Interestingly, here he wore rimless spectacles that gave his eyes a more singular, intense look.
“Please, have a seat,” he said to her, his tone noticeably different.
She accepted his offer.
“I want to apologize,” he said. “I’ve been an ass. I realize that. The president slammed me in my place back at the White House, and rightly so.”
She checked her watch. “At 10:00 P.M. on a Saturday night, on the last day of the administration, you’ve finally realized who’s in charge?”
“President Fox climbed my ass, too. He said to either work with the team or get out. And the team still includes Daniels.”
“So contrition has been forced upon you.”
“Okay, Stephanie, I deserve that, too. I get it. I’ve been rough on you. But we have a serious problem here, one that I think I can help with. We are, after all, on the same side.”
You could’ve fooled her. But Danny had also told her, “Turn on the vacuum cleaner, sucking in far more information than you let out.”
“I’ve been reading about the 20th Amendment and the 1947
Succession Act,” he said. “If the president- and vice-president-elect both die before being sworn in, and there’s no Speaker of the House or president pro tempore of the Senate, it definitely could generate a host of novel issues. I didn’t realize, but I’m even in the line of succession. I’m not the actual AG, but when I was made deputy AG I was appointed by the president and confirmed by the Senate, so under the 1947 act, as acting AG, I’m eligible to be president, provided of course six other people are dead.”
“Which is entirely possible here, thanks to Fox’s refusal to bend.”
“He told me after we left that if credible evidence of an imminent threat materializes, he’ll make changes in the inauguration. He just wasn’t going to admit that to Daniels. He wants you and me to assess things and determine if the threat is real.”
Now she got it. This was a way to draw her inside their tent. “You know everything I know. There are no secrets.”
Which was not exactly true, as she still did not know what Luke had been able to learn and she’d withheld from Fox any mention of what was about to happen in Moscow.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
She waited.
“Would you be willing to speak with someone?”
She nearly smiled, but caught herself. Danny had told her to expect a divide and conquer. One of the oldest political tricks that, surprisingly, never went out of style. And for good reason. It worked. People who made it to the highest levels of government were, for the most part, highly ambitious. At the moment those same people were also anxious. Though many were civil service and legally immune from dismissal or a pay cut by the incoming administration, that did not mean they would keep the same job or the same responsibilities. Reassignments were common and dreaded. For political appointees like Litchfield things were even worse. Their jobs hinged totally on the new people wanting them. No safety net existed. Their jobs ended at noon on January 20 unless reopted by the new people. Danny had forced her reinstatement. Now the other side was looking to find out how badly she wanted to keep it.
“Sure,” she said.
“Just don’t act too agreeable,” Danny had warned.
So she added, “You know that I don’t give a damn whether I stay or not.”
“I get that. Your allegiance is to Daniels. Fox admires that.”
Litchfield quickly worked the keyboard on the laptop before him. She heard the distinctive chimes of Skype activating, then its trademarked rotary sound effect as a line rang. He tapped the trackpad, then angled the machine so it faced her way. The screen blinked to life and she saw the attorney-general-designee.
“Stephanie, I want to sincerely apologize for my comment earlier. It was out of line. Yes, you were insubordinate and I went along with your firing, but an apology from you could have solved things, too.”
She got it. Her turn to be put in her place. Petty, but she knew what had to be done. So she faced Litchfield and said, “He’s right. I was wrong to do what I did. It was highly unprofessional.”
He accepted the gesture with a nod.
“I’m glad we can get all this out of the way,” the AG said. “It’s important that we work together.”
She wanted to say that he had no idea what it took to run an ongoing intelligence operation, especially one that involved something as volatile as the new Russia. Whatever this man may have learned at his New York law firm, none of it would help with what he was about to experience. That was why AGs needed people like her. But she kept her thoughts to herself and said only, “I disobeyed a direct order. Bruce was justified in what he did. I would have done the same to one of my people.” Her stomach was churning. “With that out of the way, may I ask why you asked to speak with me?”
“I want you to stay on and work with us.”
“Doing what? The Magellan Billet is gone.”
“We will bring it back.”
Score another premonition for Danny.
“I’m beginning to see that the Justice Department needs the unit,” the AG said. “But, Stephanie, I need something from you.”
Finally, the point.
“We don’t want to be blindsided. We want to hear it from you, a person who plans to be part of the next four years. Is this threat real?”
“It is. But President Fox was right, we don’t have all of the pieces. It’s a lot of speculation. Those missing pieces are being gathered, though, as we speak.”
“Which I assumed was the case. We want to be kept informed, immediately, as things happen. No filters. Direct information. Will you do that for us?”
She nodded. “I can keep my eyes and ears open and report what’s happening.”
“This is not about betraying anybody,” the AG said. “It’s just about our getting the best information from which to make informed decisions. All any of us wants is to be right about this.”
Interesting how he made deceit sound so reasonable.
“Communicate directly with Bruce. He’ll pass things to me and the president-elect. That keeps you out of trouble. Fox is not reckless. He’ll do what’s necessary, but only that. The Daniels administration is over. It’s important that we start tomorrow fresh, all of us marching to the beat of a new tune. Not more of the same. But we don’t want to make a stupid mistake, either.”
“That would not be good, for anyone.”
“I wanted you to hear this directly from me,” he said. “That way there’s no misinterpreting what was said. Are you on board?”
Suddenly she no longer minded that the Magellan Billet was gone—and gone it was, no matter what this lawyer might have said. This man had no intention of doing anything more, or less, than what had already been done. What he lacked was a credible spy on the inside and, to his mind, he’d just recruited one. Did they think her so weak and shallow? Clearly that description fit Bruce Litchfield. And to the next attorney general, it apparently fit her, too.
Memo to herself.
Quit at 12:01 tomorrow.
But for now—
“You can count on me. I’ll make sure you’re not blindsided.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Zorin used the flashlight as they found clear patches of earth the snow had yet to whiten. The temperature remained low, but he wondered if it was cold enough for any real accumulation. Most of the ground and the bare tree limbs above them were only lightly dusted. His breath smoked with each exhale and he was puzzled why they’d not just driven all the way to the house. Then he saw why. The road ahead was blocked with downed trees.
Kelly stepped over them. “I dropped these a few years ago to discourage visitors.”
Smart. So far this ex-KGB officer had shown good work. Amazing that time had not dulled a single one of his abilities. But neither had it affected his own.
“When I lived in DC,” Kelly said, “I came out here regularly. Now it’s once a year, but usually only in summer. Some things require maintenance. I was just here last August.”
The only sound was their footsteps on the hard, rocky soil, and the only movement, the snow drifting down in a sparse procession. No sign of any other visitors so far. Ahead were more slabs of darkness without features, pricked and squared only by their flashlights. His hearing moved beyond his heartbeat, trying to take in all that surrounded him, searching for any danger, but he encountered only more silence.
They came to the house and he saw that the walls and roof were intact, the windows whole, the door closed. A brick chimney rose from one side.
“It’s in okay shape,” Kelly said. “I stay here when I come. Not a five-star accommodation, but it serves the purpose. I thought it was important that it not become derelict.” Kelly motioned with his light. “Over here.”
They rounded the house to where the clearing continued for another fifty meters before the forest began again. A black rectangular hulk, grim and sooty, stood in the dark, maybe ten meters long by five wide.
“A barn,” Kelly said. “Built there for a reason.”
The
y walked over and Kelly used a key from his pocket to remove a padlock from the doors. The inside smelled of damp mustiness. Bare rafters spanned overhead. No windows. Tools, a wheelbarrow, and a riding lawn mower lined one side. Stacked against the opposite wall were rows of cut logs. A long-handled ax angled upward, its blade buried into the wood. Back in Siberia he’d kept a constant supply of firewood, too, most dried and aged for a year or more, ready to burn in the dacha’s hearths.
“It’s underneath,” Kelly said, scraping his shoe on the dirt floor. “No one would have any idea.”
Zorin spotted an overhead incandescent fixture and stepped back outside to check on things. Using his light, he scanned overhead, noticing a power line, already thickened and white-leaved with frost, tracing its path to the roof of the house.
“The previous owner had a generator down below. I needed constant power, so I wired a line from the house through the barn wall. There’s never been a problem with the power. Sure, it might go off here and there from storms, but there are backup batteries.”
Kelly laid the shopping bag aside and settled his flashlight on the ground. No attempt was made to switch on the overhead lights.
“We have to clear away some of the wood.”
* * *
Malone and Cassiopeia studied the rental car, parked in the center of a narrow lane between rows of bare trees. The GPS monitor had led them straight here. Neither of them spoke, knowing that their quarry was nearby. Ahead, maybe a quarter mile away, he saw the sporadic streaks of flashlights.
He recalled reading about KGB weapons caches in the Mitrokhin archives, published back in the 1990s, and the booby traps. To date, the SVR had never once publicly acknowledged that the caches existed, much less offered any assistance in their removal. All of the ones he’d ever heard about had contained only communications equipment. So he could only imagine what safety precautions had been taken to safeguard five RA-115s. Kelly and Zorin were leading the way, so he assumed they knew what they were doing. That meant he and Cassiopeia had to allow them time to neutralize the site.
He noticed something in the car’s backseat.
A blue nylon duffel bag.
