The First Order

by Jeff Abbott

  He thought his brother would try to strike here because as intense as security was it’d be even greater in America. Hundreds of guests. Danny might be among them. And he still had no way to stop him, no idea of how his brother might strike.

  Sam loathed Morozov and all he stood for, but he couldn’t let him die. But he couldn’t say to the guard, A man fitting this description is going to try to kill the president when he reaches America. They would gun down Danny on sight. Or arrest him, and he’d never be free. He’d die in a Siberian prison or before an execution squad.

  If he could prove Kirov was Firebird—that there was an active plot against Morozov—then the trip might be delayed. Or if Danny’s employer was in custody, Danny might abort the mission, considering he wouldn’t get paid. And he’d need to run, because the Russians would be looking for whoever Kirov had hired.

  But no Russian would believe him when they heard he’d tried to kidnap Katya. Irina, fond of Katya, was still trying to protect her. And Sam was the trump card to be produced once Morozov was in America. The agency would eventually have to acknowledge he was a former employee. No one would believe the former part. He’d be a criminal, a rogue, a talking point, blamed as part of the assassination if Danny pulled it off. Irina was setting him up for far more than she imagined.

  But he could talk. You’d be putting your own brother in their sights. Sam ran his fingers through his hair, torn, angry. And if they learn an American killed him, it could be war.

  He looked down the loop. At the end was a house that no one came from or went to. This struck him as odd; the rest of the estates were bathed in light, people drifting among them.

  A knock at his door. The guard opened it, looked at him, closed it, and locked it.

  Sam turned back to the window. He saw more helicopters landing—dignitaries fetched in from Moscow. The hundred families who controlled thirty-five percent of all of Russia’s great wealth were here in force. The copters were landing, though, close to the empty house. People streamed past it or were ferried down the road in limos.

  He heard a voice, softly speaking, pleading, then ordering. The door opened.

  Katya stepped inside. The guard stood there, watching, gesturing Sam to sit in the chair. He did. The guard told him in Russian to put on the handcuff attached to the chair. Sam did. The guard stood in the doorway, but hung back, watching.

  She whispered to Sam. “The guard doesn’t speak English. So say nothing in Russian.”

  He nodded. Sam said, “You look gorgeous.” She was dressed for the party, and for the photographers that would be swarming around her. She was stunning in a dress of emerald green, diamonds at her ears and throat, dark hair swept up like a czarina, the picture of modern Russian glamour.

  “I cannot believe you have a kind word for me.”

  He shrugged.

  She said, “Thank you. That’s my job for them all here. To look. Not to think.” She continued, not looking at him: “Why did you try to kidnap me?”

  “I couldn’t take you and your father. I thought he would do what I wanted if you were with me. And then you would also be safe from him, from Irina. From this. You know what Morozov will do to you if he finds out.”

  “Yes. I might…once I am in America…stay for a while.”

  As in forever. She meant defection. “I think that’s a wise course.”

  “You said why my father was taking the money…but you said nothing to Irina about it.”

  “She has her own theories. She thinks Yuri wants to use the millions in cash he hid in the Caribbean to pay off the CIA to let you go and never reveal you spied on the circle for them. I know the truth. You won’t like it.”

  “Tell me.”

  This was it. His only hope was to gain her help, and the only way to do it was to trust her. “The killer I’m hunting here is my brother.”

  Her gaze widened.

  “Years ago, Sergei Belinsky trained him as his protégé. As a hired killer. He saw Belinsky kill a CIA agent, he…witnessed Anton Varro’s murder. Sergei kept him as a secret. Now your father has, misguidedly, hired him to kill Morozov. Probably in an effort to protect you and to protect his holdings. That’s who the cash is for.”

  She paled.

  “I think he’s here tonight. I have to stop him—for the world’s sake, but for your father’s sake and your sake, too, Katya. If he sees me here he’ll abort the kill, I’m sure of it. But if he kills the president, you’re going to lose everything. So will your dad. So will I. Help me.”

  She seemed to need to steady herself. “You want me to take you out to the party? Irina won’t allow it. She said you have to be kept out of sight.”

  “Only this guy, another guard, Irina, and your father even know I’m here.”

  “Listen. You’re wrong about my father. I asked him about the money; he didn’t even know it was being brought on the ship.”

  “He’s lying. Of course he knows. It’s his money and it’s his boat.”

  “Sam. You saw what he’s like…the drinking. He said it was because he suspected what I’d done with the Americans. He has been watching me. Normally he pays me no attention…but now he has. He was upset over that.” Her voice broke. “He said Irina moves money for the Varros, for him, for others who are her clients. It’s an old trick from their KGB days, cash hidden in the West. So maybe she’s doing this for the Varros, stealing money from Papa, to make him look bad.”

  An old KGB trick. That had been how the oligarchs had gotten their initial cash to invest in denationalized companies in the looting of the Soviet Union.

  “She said she was told it was for me.”

  “Stefan could have told her that. She works for both families. Maybe Morozov was behind Anton’s death? Is that it? Is that the motive?”

  “The only question that matters is, do you let this terrible night happen, Katya? I can do nothing without your help. It all depends on your choice.”

  She weighed her decision. Her gaze met his.

  “Follow my lead.” Katya turned and made an obscene gesture at Sam. The guard smiled. Then she went up to the guard and formed her hand into a fist and punched him once, sharply, on the nose and then the jaw. She was strong and the man was so surprised he stepped back, blood coming from one nostril.

  Sam sprang. He was still handcuffed to the chair but he pivoted on his leg, swinging the chair with him and bringing it down on the man’s head. The guard staggered back and Sam hit him again with the free hand.

  The guard went down. Sam clubbed him again with the chair, four more times; the legs splintered and the guard was unconscious.

  “Don’t get blood on his shirt,” Katya said, calmly. “We need to dress you as him.”

  They used the guard’s key to unlock Sam’s cuff. He stripped out of his clothes and put on the guard’s suit. The man had an ID clipped to his pocket and an access wristband, like that of the guests. He had a pair of sunglasses in his pocket and Sam put those on. It was night but it was the best way to disguise his face, and the grounds and the houses were flooded with light for the partygoers. They bound the guard with his own handcuffs, gagged him, and tied his feet with knotted strips of sheet.

  “No going back now,” he said to Katya. “Thank you for your decision.”

  She nodded. “If Papa has done this, he has to be stopped. And if he hasn’t, then your brother still has to be stopped.”

  “Let’s see if he’s here.”

  “If he’s not?”

  “Then I leave. I’ll find a way out of Russia.”

  “Seaforth told me…if I was suspected, or scared, and had to get out of Russia and could do it myself, head to Helsinki. He would get me safely to America. So you might try there.”

  He nodded. “Katya, the fastest way for you to get out of here is to play along: go on the plane with Morozov, like you’re supposed to.”

  “You don’t think your brother put a bomb on the plane?”

  “No. Not his style. He’ll kill Morozov
alone, not innocent people.”

  “And if your brother is here?”

  “Then I’ll stop him.”

  57

  The Morozov Estate, Nebo, Russia

  SAM AND KATYA walked into the seething, happy, celebrating mass of people surrounding the Morozov estate. He walked one step ahead of her, sunglasses in place, scanning the crowd. She touched his arm lightly as he navigated the party. The signal both of them gave off was clear: He was her personal security. He waved off those that were approaching her, saying in Russian, “Later. Later. Katerina Yureyevna is late for the photographers.” Admirers stepped back and settled for a wave. The rest of the guards only gave him a cursory glance. He had taken the guard’s earpiece and he could hear the chatter of their communications on their network, reporting in that all was well. The guards who scanned at the entry gate let them pass without scanning wristbands after a peremptory word from Katya. Her wrists were dripping with diamonds and she did not bother with bar codes. She was Katya. They entered the grand hall.

  If he found Yuri Kirov, he could confront him and whisper in his ear: I know you hired a man to kill Morozov. Katya knows, too. Tell me where he is. And I’ll be silent forever about what you and Katya have done.

  Crowds of media, both the Russian press that did not dare openly question Morozov, and the Western press that did but that he often ignored, were in the main hall. Photographers, and the security assigned to them, rushed toward Katya. And Sam stepped away in the crush, as Katya had told him to do; the press fawned over her and no one paid him a bit of attention.

  The house was vast. He moved through the ballroom, the kind you’d expect in a five-star hotel.

  He saw Kirov, surrounded by a group of fawning admirers, women in elegant gowns, men in tuxes and suits. To his left, Boris Varro, in a group across the room, laughing and talking loudly. Gesturing. Katya was sure Firebird was the Varros—what if she was right? This was a gamble if he was wrong.

  Sam didn’t see Morozov anywhere. He thought the president would naturally draw the biggest crowd.

  Then Sam saw Irina, talking to Stefan Varro, both talking to another man. Sam turned away before they could see him.

  He slid into an adjoining, smaller salon. From this angle he could see Yuri Kirov in the big ballroom…and then Katya came to her father and hugged him. She saw Sam and began to steer Yuri toward the smaller salon. Yuri spoke to the man standing across from him, perhaps making apologies, with his back to Sam.

  And then that man, turning, looking straight at him, was his brother Danny.

  It was as if time froze. Sam felt as though he slid out of reality, then back into it, a strange shifting of focus. As if the past six years had been a dream, and this was the true world that he had suddenly awakened to. No Lucy. No CIA career destroyed, no Daniel, no Mila, no Jimmy, no abandoned village in the Hindu Kush, no horrifying video.

  His brother, back to life. There was the theory of it, a hope like a knot in your heart, and there was the fact of it. Sam heard the rasp of his own breath over the giggling and murmur of conversations.

  He stared and Danny stared—so much for being professionals of the subtle arts—and Katya noticed. Sam walked toward them. Yuri looked surprised and uncertain. Katya put on false enthusiasm. “Sam! I am glad you are here. I thought perhaps you did not feel up to the party.”

  He forced himself to breathe. Danny, here. Danny, alive. Danny, looking at him, the great lie of his death turning the air between them into an unseen storm.

  Sam forced himself to smile and nod. “Hi, Katya. Hello, Yuri.” He forced himself not to look at Danny. Sam thought he would suddenly burst into tears if he did. He never cried in front of his brother after Burundi. Ever. Danny didn’t permit it.

  Katya’s voice was like silk. Reminding him that other people were around. “Sam, have you met Ekaterina Vaslova? She is a very famous writer.”

  Sam nodded and said hello in Russian, shaking the woman’s hand. “And this is Marya Antonovna Romanova, one of Russia’s most famous actresses, as I am sure you know. Sam owns the Tsar Lounge in Moscow; do you know it?”

  “Ah, of course.” The actress gave Sam a warm smile. “There’s a very stylish crowd there.”

  He’d waited for Danny to flee. Danny stayed. Now, in the group, Sam looked full into his brother’s face. Danny looked slightly different. The cheekbones more prominent, the nose a bit narrower, the lips heavier. Just enough calibration, Sam thought, to fool the cameras for passports, to dodge the facial recognition software. Danny’s hair was darker. It was the strangest thought Sam could have had, but the slightly altered face was part of the reality of his brother.

  Sam wanted to hug Danny. Sam wanted to strike him. Sam wanted to hate him. Sam wanted to forgive him. It took every bit of his training, of his strength, of his desire to keep his brother alive, to keep his composure.

  “And this is Philip Judge. We also met him in the Bahamas.”

  “Hi. Sam Capra,” Sam said. He offered his brother his hand. Danny took it. Shook it. The flesh of Danny’s palm was dry.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Sam,” Danny said. His voice rang steady, same as Sam’s.

  Sam knows why you’re here, Danny thought. He knows. He knows, because he isn’t just looking for you. He is keeping his mouth shut. He felt like his heart might shut down.

  What are you going to do about him? Because he can’t interfere. He will get you both killed.

  “So what do you do, Philip?” Sam said, studying his brother’s face. He couldn’t believe the polite words spilling from his mouth. Everything he thought he would say to Danny—I forgive you, tell me why, are you all right, thank God you’re alive—fell away from his brain, dead leaves on a windy day.

  “I handle investments for Stefan Varro,” he said.

  Varro. Sam thought of the oil stock sell orders he’d seen on the yacht’s e-mail server; the price of oil would skyrocket when Morozov was killed. Maybe I’m wrong, Sam thought, and maybe Katya is right. Or maybe they’re just normal sell orders and have nothing to do with the assassination. Investors place those orders all the time.

  “I’m badly in need of investment advice. I’m going to get a drink; would you like to come with me?” Sam could not believe the calm in his voice. “Excuse us for a moment, Katya, Yuri.” He put a hand on his brother’s arm and Danny gave in, letting Sam steer him toward one of the bar stations. They walked together, smiles frozen on their faces.

  If Yuri tells Irina I’m here, I have three minutes. Maybe less.

  They went through the crowd, past the bar, outside onto the huge stone patio. Clumps of dignitaries moved, in laughter, in conversation.

  “Get out of here. Now,” Danny said in a low voice.

  “That’s what you say to me?” Sam said. “You’re alive. You’re alive and…” He felt heat light his eyes, his cheeks, his throat. To see him. To see him, right here. Six years. He’d missed him every day. And his grief had been a needless lie.

  “I’m trying to save you. Again. This isn’t the place for you, baby brother.” He put his hand on Sam’s wrist. “I need you to go.”

  “You’re not going to k…do what you’re planning to do to Morozov,” Sam said, low, barely a whisper.

  The words stopped Danny.

  “You’ll never, ever get away with it,” Sam said. “Never. They’ll hunt you down. They’ll find you. And they’ll kill you.”

  “I’m a dead man. No one hunts a dead man. Except you.” He tried a smile and Sam had to look away. “I should have known you’d come looking for me. You’re tougher than I thought you would be. You’re not like Mom and Dad. They sail in and fix the aftermath of the disaster. Not you. You go after the problem at the root. You’re like me.”

  “How would you know what I’m like now?”

  “Because I’ve watched. I’ve kept tabs on you. From a distance. I know about Jimmy Court and the Round Table. About those bastards in Nine Suns who tried to take you down. I know about your ex-wi
fe. I know about my nephew. Thanks for naming him for me.”

  “We can discuss what you know and what you don’t know about me later.” Sam tried to make his voice firmer. He felt his control slipping away. He had to get Danny away from this huge crowd, someplace where they could be alone and talk. Reason with him. “But tonight isn’t going to happen.” Sam scooped up a glass of dark red wine for each of them from a passing tray, pushed one into his brother’s hands. He could see over Danny’s shoulder Katya, standing at one of the French doors, watching them for a second, realizing who Danny must be.

  “I’ve already gotten away with it,” Danny said.

  “Really. I thought it was supposed to happen on American soil,” Sam said.

  Danny drank his wine. “Come with me.”

  He was suddenly afraid of Danny. “No.”

  “Or what, Sam? You’ll tell them who I am? And who you are? You won’t and we both know it.” He turned and walked away, and Sam followed, tagging after him, the old habits and relationship still defined and unchanged. The night air felt good and cool, the moon and stars hidden behind the cotton and silk of the clouds.

  They walked past the small groups gathered on the patio and the vast lawn beyond. Away from everyone. Sam realized the presence of others was the most powerful cork on his emotions, his relief, his anger. There was far more relief than anger. He still loved his brother. He could not comprehend what he had done, but love didn’t erode.

  “Danny.” He said his name for the first time.

  Danny froze him with a stare. “Don’t.”

  “You lied. The worst lie imaginable.”

  Danny started to walk away from the party, toward the Varro estate. “I cannot do this right now. Go to the airport in Moscow. Get out of Russia. Now. I’ll find you…later and we’ll have a long talk.”