by C. G. Cooper
No. He couldn’t think that way. He was the president of the United States. She was his chief of staff. No chance this could happen. And besides, it was all in his head. He was acting like a sex-starved teenager and she was the consummate professional trying to get him to see reason.
“You’re right,” Zimmer said, looking away a second too late to notice the curve of her skirted hip as she adjusted just so. “I’m sure everything is fine. I have to trust Cal.”
“Do you believe that or are you saying it to convince yourself?”
They’d been round and round on this topic. To trust Cal or not to trust Cal. That was the question.
“What do you think?”
Haines shook her head. “You’re not dodging it this time. Do you trust him or don’t you?”
He’d had time to dissect what he believed were Cal’s motives and his own. The result was one point Cal and zero points Zimmer. Cal was a man of conviction. A true friend. Even if he did bend the rules more than the leader of the free world might like. Zimmer was the one having a hard time looking at himself in the mirror. He’d turned into exactly what Cal had said—a politico with ambitions that clouded his judgment. Cal wasn’t worried about his legacy. Cal was worried about doing the right thing.
“I trust him,” Zimmer said, this time with real conviction.
Haines clapped her hand down on his. A jolt of electricity went through it.
“Good! Now we’re on the same page.”
“Wait, you said I shouldn’t trust him.”
“I said no such thing.”
Zimmer thought back to the long talks, the late nights of debating a dying friendship. She was right. She’d never made her true feelings known. She’d only listened, playing devil’s advocate when needed, as a good chief of staff should do.
He got another whiff of her perfume, noticed how her breath stretched her blouse in all the right places.
Get yourself together, man!
“You’re right, dammit.” He turned away, ashamed of having looked at his friend in such a way. He was weak. There was no way around it. Time to button things up. He was damn sure it was the heat of moment that had his gut tangled in knots. “I hereby promise not to be such a crybaby.”
She hadn’t let go of his hand. Why hadn’t she let go of his hand?
Zimmer felt a trickle of sweat creep down from his neckline. He slid his hand out from under hers and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about our next stop. How many hands will I have to shake and how many babies will I need to kiss?”
“At least a thousand of each.” She was looking at him with an intensity that made him want to look away. “But I think there’s a more important question that we need to ask ourselves.”
“Oh?”
Zimmer tried to make his gulp sound nonchalant.
Haines nodded gravely, showing off the perfect angles of her jawline.
“The most important question we need to answer is how are the Russians trying to manipulate our friend’s current predicament?”
Zimmer had to gulp again before answering in a manner he deemed worthy of his station, and not the squeaky voice of a lovesick teenager.
Chapter Sixty-Six
VOLKOV — MOSCOW — 1980
Cold—real cold—becomes the great equalizer in any situation, even among boys who’ve spent most of their lives in barren climates, resplendent with howling blizzards. That first year was not kind to the recruits who’d arrived with Aleksandr. Twenty got frostbite. One lost a foot. Another boy, whom Alek had come to loathe for his lack of personal hygiene, fell off a cliff in the middle of a snowstorm. No whoosh. No scream. Just a silent fall into the great unknown. And then, no ceremony. Just a permanent marker scratching the boy off that day’s chores list. Alek picked up the slack with his now-characteristic solitude.
He sat on his cot and picked another dead toenail from his battered feet. He’d only gotten grazed by frostbite, had a few dead spots that would heal over time, but what had him going now was the fact that he hadn’t stepped foot on a real ski slope since coming to this hellish white hole in the middle of nowhere. They could’ve been on the surface of Pluto and he wouldn’t know the difference. No TV meant no news. No news meant that when they had the time and energy to talk, mostly late at night before being shushed to quiet, they spoke of laggards who’d left, or an older boy who the speaker wanted to shove into a snowbank and whack in the back of the head with a snow shovel.
If there was a frozen hell, this was it, Alek was convinced. And yet, he didn’t complain. He went about his tasks with resolute calm, even when the others wailed through frost-bearing wind like needles on the skin, even when his peers made comments about his manhood. Even when he might pass out from bone-weary exhaustion.
“Volkov!”
Alek jumped to his feet landing at the perfect position of attention, just like he’d been taught. “Sir!”
“Come to the office.” It was Mr. Pus Face, the only one of the elders who pestered Alek. He had a nasty habit of sneaking up on him and tripping him from behind and pushing him face down into the snow. The day before Alek had anticipated the move and guided the pimple-faced bastard onto his own face. That turned into a tirade and Alek suspected it had something to do with why he was being called to the office after hours.
He went to put his boots on.
“You won’t need those,” Mr. Pus Face said through a sneer. Yes, this was going to be bad.
Alek didn’t let it get to him. He was used to shoving down his indignation by now. He didn’t have friends. He had whatever this slave-like life was. Still, at least they were fed well. Much better than home. And he was pleased to see that he continued to grow both in height and muscle. Not all the boys could say the same.
Mr. Pus Face pushed him out of the room, then rode his rear until they hit the door to the outside. Alek opened it and waited for his ‘friend’ to follow.
“I’m not going out in that shit,” the older boy said, slamming the door closed before Alek could reply.
The reality hit him then that maybe this was a trick. Maybe there was no call to the office, which was down a constantly cleared path and a hundred meters away.
“No?” Alek said, gritting his already chattering teeth. The wind howled in response, and instead of standing there like an idiot, Alek took off at a comfortable lope down the path, careful not to slip.
He’d never been to the office. Well, not inside. That was for the older boys. He’d cleared this path so many times that he could do it with his eyes closed. His feet were tingling when he hit the mat in front of the office. Smoke burbled lazily from the chimney top. An angry burst of breeze rushed it away as Alek knocked on the door.
“Come in,” someone said, and Alek wasted no time in obeying. He didn’t want frostbite. He liked his toes very much, thank you.
The first thing he noticed was the intense smell of tobacco. Not cheap tobacco like his father used to smoke. No, this was rich and unctuous, fragrant, like the smell of palaces. Wherever it came from, it was expensive.
“Where are your shoes?” asked a figure half-hidden in shadow, sitting in an enormous leather armchair. Smoke seeped from his nose and mouth when he talked.
“I was told not to bring them, sir.”
The man let out what could’ve been a snort. Alek wasn’t sure.
“First, don’t call me sir. Second, you don’t have to listen to that pimple-faced sadist anymore.”
“Yes…” he caught himself before saying sir. “I understand.”
The man cocked his head in such a way that Alek could see his face now. Rugged. Blonde beard and blonde hair tickling the tops of his ears. He looked like he might’ve been just as comfortable on camelback as he might be on snowshoes on top of the world’s tallest mountain. He had the tan to prove both, and the physique of an athlete. All lean muscle in his well-worn overclothes.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I do not.”
The man reache
d down and grabbed a file folder from the ground, flipped it open, and started reading. “Aleksandr Volkov. Fifteen years old. Best in his age at slalom, moguls, and Super-G. Father works as a traveling salesman. Mother is... dead.”
Those last three words hit Alek with a dull thud.
The man cocked his head. “You didn’t know about your mother.”
Alek couldn’t find his breath. He shook his head instead.
The man set the file back on the floor and rose from the chair. He was taller than he first appeared, and basically unfolded his long form up to standing. “I’m sorry they didn’t tell you. I can make them pay if you’d like?”
Alek blinked through involuntary tears and stared at the man. “I don’t understand.”
The man stepped closer, smoldering pipe in hand.
“The boys who were told to inform you and didn’t, I can punish them.”
Alek sniffed and wished he didn’t feel sadness. After all, what was his mother to him? Just a womb that had passed its prime? Love he felt in some distant, fading dream?
“No, sir. You shouldn’t punish them.”
“Very well. I will overlook their infraction.” He took a long pull from his pipe. “Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I summoned you. I’m sure you have many questions. So why don’t we start there. What question would you like to ask me?”
Alek already knew. It was the aura of the man. He was a living, breathing anomaly in this wretched place.
“What do I call you?”
The man smiled, and Alek could see that the question pleased him, like it was unexpected and not many things surprised him. The man reached out a hand and said, “My name is Orlov.”
Orlov—derived from the Russian word for eagle. Alek’s name, Volkov, was derived from the word for wolf.
The eagle and the wolf.
Alek knew in an instant that this was a man who he would go to the ends of the Earth to please.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
STOKES — JEFFERSON GROUP HQ, CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA — PRESENT DAY
The slope took a quick jog left and up, the steep incline littered with loose rocks and dirt. Cal took it at a sprint, his legs burning, but the top was in sight.
One last push.
He made it and skidded to a stop, turning around to find his companion. Matthew Wilcox came up the rise a few moments later, his face red with exertion.
Cal wanted to gloat, but it wasn’t his style. He waited for the comment that was sure to come.
“You’re not as fast as you used to be,” Wilcox said, hands on his knees.
“You on the other hand aren’t as nimble as you used to be.”
Wilcox nodded, struggling to catch his breath. “It’s the short one’s fault.”
He meant Gaucho. The two hadn’t stopped trading barbs and at one point the jabs almost became real blows. Wilcox had a knack for getting under Gaucho’s skin.
“If he’d nabbed me earlier in Copenhagen instead of bitching about the weather and everything else under the sun, I wouldn’t be this out of shape.” To punctuate the point, Wilcox flopped onto his back right in the middle of the path.
Cal looked up at the buzzing over his right shoulder. The tiny drone the rest of the team was using to monitor them dipped like it was saying hello. Cal nodded to the camera and turned back to his companion.
“Get up. We need to get back.”
Wilcox didn’t move. “Unless you got us double dates with the Kardashian sisters, I’m not going anywhere.” He raised himself onto his elbows. “Besides, look at the view, Cal. Soak it in, man. No telling whether we’ll get a view like this where we’re going.”
Wilcox was right but Cal was on a schedule. Now that their plan was rolling, there wasn’t time to waste. Wilcox’s promise to help, combined with his impressive intel apparatus, meant they were one step closer to finding this mysterious Russian. All signs pointed to Russia, so Russia was where they needed to go.
Cal’s first thought was to involve Yegorovich, but that meant he’d be further in debt to the man. That was like owing the mob a couple bucks and putting his family up as collateral. No thanks.
No, the president was a last resort. Actually, both presidents, American and Russian, needed to stay out of their way. For their own sakes and for Cal’s fear that the mystery man might run and hide if whispers up the echelons told him that he was being hunted. That meant no American assets and no Russian favors, period. That left Cal with Wilcox since SSI and The Jefferson Group were still under federal investigation.
Cal reached out a hand, and he wondered if Gaucho was watching. Everyone told him not to take Wilcox on this little run, but Cal needed to see what kind of shape his newly minted ally was in.
“Come on,” Cal said.
Wilcox took his hand and was hoisted to his feet.
“Hey, I was wondering, do you think you could introduce me to the president? I’d really like to tell him what I think about the deal he made with the Chinese.”
“Not a chance,” Cal said, pointing Wilcox back down the trail. “And don’t make me give you a play-by-play on how to get home.”
Wilcox rolled his eyes and Cal knew that meant that despite taking no fewer than twenty turns through the meandering woods, this guy had memorized every turn. Wilcox took off down the trail, and Cal reminded himself that whenever possible, this was exactly how he needed to keep an eye on the man. Because while their missions might be temporarily aligned, Wilcox was just as likely to double cross Cal.
Or worse, put a bullet in his back.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
LENA — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY
“You’re sure you have everything?”
“Yes, Daddy. I told you.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?” her father pressed.
“I was trained to work alone. You know that.”
He bobbed his head but didn’t look happy about it. She didn’t want to go either. She’d tried to convince him that they forget about the old vendetta and disappear. They could do it. They didn’t need much. She could live off Ramen noodles if it meant being with her father.
He’d been curt and unwavering. So here they were, about to be separated once again.
“Look how far you’ve come, Little Rabbit. I can’t tell you how proud I am of what you’ve become.” He kissed her on the top of the head.
“I’ll be fine. I promise.”
She kissed him on the cheek, the malformed one. She’d started doing that so he wouldn’t feel so self-conscious about his wounds, and maybe it helped. He turned away less, and that made her happy.
He handed her the rucksack first and rifle next.
“Thirty rounds,” he said, patting the front pocket of the bag.
She knew. She’d packed the bag. He’d apparently inspected it as well.
“I won’t need two,” she said, adjusting the straps on her pack and cinching the belt around her waist to carry more of the weight.
One more kiss and wink from her father for good measure.
She disappeared into the tree line, the sniper on the hunt once again.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
BRIGGS — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY
He scratched his beard and then scratched the top of Liberty’s head. She barely moved but let out a dull hum not unlike a purr. It was easy to lose track of days. The trees. The rain. The gentle sway of the Earth. It was enough to put most men to sleep. But not Daniel Briggs. And not his companion.
They slept when their target slept, which was typically during the hours between 10 p.m. and 5 a.m. Their target was always up before dawn, quick to take perch on the balcony overlooking the first rays of day.
It was only after the first three days of watching the primitive structure that Daniel felt comfortable enough to make a run for provisions. Now he left every couple of days for fresh tropical fruit, whatever protein the locals had scavenged from the jungle, and water. You could ne
ver have enough water. Daniel had filters, of course, but nothing beat the refreshing first sip of a factory-packaged bottle, even if it was lukewarm.
Their target never left. Ever. Groceries were delivered every week. Water every other day. There was a maid who stayed for exactly one hour. Sometimes the hired help stayed to chat. On occasion she would bring a home-cooked meal. Daniel’s prey tipped well, and the maid always went home happy.
The Marine was a patient man. The Corps had instilled in him a sniper’s calm, the ability to lay in a prone position for days, stalk one inch at a time. Life had taught him the rest, the necessity to take things slow, soak in the moment, watch, and listen.
It was those skills that paid off now, long after a normal man would’ve bailed.
Liberty lifted her head as Daniel reached for the scope. Two men coming up the trail. Not the regulars. Not dark skinned. No. These were westerners. No weapons that he could see, but that didn’t mean much. They each wore untucked shirts over cargo pants. Plenty of places to hide a weapon.
But these men didn’t look the tough guy part. There was nothing tough about them. One wore a paunch like it had been issued to him at birth. The other huffed and puffed like he lived on tobacco and caffeine. Even at this distance, Daniel could see their faces were red with exertion.
His nerves settled and he leaned forward to watch.
Chapter Seventy
DIANE MAYER — VIETNAM — PRESENT DAY
The Wi-Fi was on the fritz again. Diane tapped the router a couple times and then fiddled with the antennae. Still nothing. The high-priced gadget failed more times than it worked.
