by Saul Herzog
“You’re right, sir.”
“And if anyone can get the job done, it’s you.”
“I’m going to need full command over Zhukovsky. Tell the Western Military District they answer to me now. Zhukovsky answers to me.”
“Very well,” the president said.
“I need to be able to authorize … anything.”
“Anything?” the president said.
The food arrived, a large silver platter containing a dozen whole birds, each about six inches in length. In France, they were known as Ortolan, and they had to be illegally trapped in nets before their annual migration south.
“They keep them in dark boxes,” the president said.
Kirov looked at him blankly.
“When they catch them,” the president said.
“Them, sir?”
“The birds.”
“Oh,” Kirov said.
“The birds think it’s winter and that they’ve failed to make it south.”
“I see,” Kirov said, watching in horror as the president picked one of the birds up by the head.
The waiter then handed the president a large, cloth napkin, which the president put over his head. Then, beneath the napkin, he put the bird in his mouth whole, including its feet and head, and then removed the napkin.
Kirov watched as the president spit the larger bones onto a side plate.
The waiter then handed a similar napkin to Kirov.
“Thank you,” Kirov said weakly.
“Go ahead,” the president said. “It’s tradition to use the napkin.”
“How curious,” Kirov said, eyeing the beak on the president’s side plate.
“According to legend, the practice started when French priests, to hide from God the fact they were doing something so cruel, put a cloth over their heads as they ate the birds.”
“I don’t see how it’s any more disgraceful than eating other birds,” Kirov said, praying he didn’t throw up on the table.
“Well,” the president said, “the birds, in the darkness of their little boxes, they don’t know what to do. They think their migration has failed. They think winter has caught them. They eat compulsively. They can’t stop.”
“I see,” Kirov said.
“They feed them millet, and they eat almost to the point that it kills them.”
Kirov thought he was about to find out what that felt like.
“They double in size in a matter of weeks, Kirov.”
Kirov nodded, looking at them. The beak, the eyes, the feet. He couldn’t imagine putting all that in his mouth at once.
“When they’re ready to cook,” the president said, “they’re drowned in Armagnac.”
“At least they’ve been plucked,” Kirov said, unfolding the napkin, which was almost as large as a pillowcase, and putting it on his head.
“Go on,” the president said again.
Kirov picked up one of the birds by the head, just as the president had done, covered his face, and inserted it into his mouth. He chewed, spitting out the larger bones, and as the waiter topped up his wine, Jacob Kirov knew that this could be the biggest opportunity of his career.
He would have the most powerful part of the Russian army answering to him. As GRU overseer, every officer in the Western Military District’s would be terrified of him. He could have them disappeared at the drop of a hat. He could have their families disappeared. His power over those men would be absolute.
It might even be the opportunity he’d been waiting for.
If he was risking nuclear war, nuclear annihilation, not just for Russia, but perhaps for the entire planet, then why not risk a coup.
Maybe it was his turn to wear the crown, to sit on the throne.
Then he could choose the menu at dinner, and other people would have to stomach his tastes.
They took turns eating the birds, and Kirov wondered if he’d ever be able to enjoy the taste of Armagnac again.
When the last of them were finally gone, the president beckoned the waiter back over and ordered a bottle of an exceedingly expensive Bordeaux to accompany the meat course.
Then he put another cigar in his mouth.
“Kirov,” he said, sucking noisily to get the cigar lit. “The strike must be like a ballet.”
Kirov could see that the alcohol was beginning to have its effect, and that the serious business of the evening would soon give way to the hard-drinking debauchery the president was famous for.
In fact, Kirov was surprised no women had been brought in to the restaurant yet.
He clinked his glass against the president’s.
“I want you to overwhelm them with everything we’ve got. Nothing’s off the table to you, Kirov. Nothing.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. President. It may be necessary that I cross a few lines.”
“Cross them all,” the president said. “I don’t give a flying fuck about the lines you cross, so long as you deliver. Sow fear. Sow confusion. But get me that prize.”
“Sir,” Kirov said, looking over his shoulder before saying more. “The new Kosmos weapon? Is it operational?”
The president smiled. “You see,” he said, slapping his hand on the table loudly. “You see. That’s why you’re my number one, Kirov. That’s why you’re my top lieutenant. Because you think on your feet. You show initiative.”
Kirov nodded. “I want to blind the eye of the cyclops.”
“Blind everything,” the president said. “Internet, radio, cable, satellite, all of it.”
The waiter came over with the Bordeaux and two fresh glasses.
“I think we can dispense with the tasting this time,” the president said.
The waiter nodded and poured the wine. Then he said, “Are you ready for the meat course, sir?”
The president examined his cigar. “Give us a few minutes,” he said.
The waiter left, and the president let about two inches of ash fall to the floor.
“Sir,” Kirov said, leaning in closer to him, “would it be possible to clear the room for a moment.”
The president was feeling increasingly celebratory. He stood up and said to the guards, “Give us a moment alone, gentlemen.”
The two guards looked at each other, then bowed slightly and backed out of the restaurant. The waiter had already gone to the kitchen, and it was just the two of them in the room.
The president brought his attention back to Kirov. “What are you planning, you sly fox?”
“The coup de grâce, sir. The thing that justifies everything that follows.”
“And what would that look like?”
Kirov glanced toward the door, checking that they were still alone. Then he said, “An old fashioned false flag operation.”
“A false flag operation?”
Kirov checked the room again.
“You’re nervous,” the president said.
“Sir,” Kirov said, his heart was pounding, “not just any false flag operation. But I’m thinking, if we really want to avoid a war with the Americans, we’re going to need to give ourselves a rock-solid pretext for this invasion.”
The president nodded.
“This would have to be something that would shock the world.”
“All right,” the president said.
“It would have to be a massacre, sir.”
“A massacre.”
“A massacre of ethnic Russians by Latvian soldiers.”
Very slowly, a smile spread across the president’s face. Then he clapped Kirov’s shoulder. “That’s perfect,” he said quietly. “That’s perfect.”
Kirov smiled.
The waiter re-emerged, carrying a silver tray. On it were two plates, and when placed on the table, Kirov almost threw up.
“La pajata,” the waiter said with a flourish.
The president clapped his hands. He was positively ebullient.
“Now leave us,” he said to the waiter.
Kirov dug his fork into the pile of intestines and
put the food in his mouth before the president could tell him what it was.
“Tender, aren’t they?” the president said.
Kirov nodded as he chewed.
“Intestines,” the president said. “Taken from calves before they’re weaned from their mother’s milk. That’s why they’re so succulent. They’ve never eaten solid food.”
Kirov nodded and put more of it into his mouth. He had to get through it as quickly as possible before he lost his nerve.
“That cheese texture,” the president continued.
“Ricotta?” Kirov managed to say.
“No. Mother’s milk. In the calf’s intestine when it died. The enzymes cause it to curdle like that.”
Kirov stopped himself from grimacing as he shoveled another forkful into his mouth.
The president filled his mouth with a large helping of intestine and then took a gulp of wine.
“What’s wrong?” he said. “You look pale, Kirov.”
“No, no,” Kirov protested, putting another forkful into his mouth. “It’s delicious.”
The president’s eyes remained on him as he chewed. He forced himself to swallow.
“I think you like it,” the president said, smiling.
Kirov nodded and ate more. The president watched him clean the entire plate, and when he was finally done, the president stood up.
“Bravo, Kirov. You’ve done very well.”
Kirov nodded. His stomach felt like a revolving ball. His eyes were watering. He’d done it.
The president was looking down at him. He hadn’t touched his own food.
“Me,” the president said, “personally, I find this dish difficult to stomach.”
Kirov nodded.
“But you, you ate every last bite.”
“I have a strong stomach, sir.”
“I see that,” the president said, and he picked up his plate and put it on top of Kirov’s, right in front of his face.
“Sir,” Kirov said. “That’s not necessary.”
“Nonesense, my boy,” the president said. “Eat.”
8
Laurel hadn’t spoken to Lance since the day before.
She was avoiding him.
The truth was, she didn’t know what to say.
How did you talk to someone who said what he’d said?
Who’d done what he’d done?
How did you follow that?
It was unnatural.
Inhuman maybe.
It wasn’t tragic. Tragedy was a human condition. What he’d done, killing the pregnant mother of his own child, that wasn’t human. It wasn’t even bestial. No wild beast did a thing like that.
She was standing at the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil.
She heard him approach from behind and turned around.
“These are the passports?” he said.
An open package was on the table, and he rifled through its contents.
“They were couriered during the night,” she said. “Straight from the State Department.”
Lance nodded and picked one up. He leafed through it and stopped at the photo.
“They made me look like a choir boy.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to run a comb through your hair once in a while.”
“When I start taking fashion tips from the federal government, that’s when you know I’ve gone off the deep end,” he said.
Laurel tried to smile but couldn’t. She couldn’t treat him the same way any more. As far as she was concerned, he’d gone off the deep end a long time ago.
Before she’d ever met him.
Before she’d allowed Roth to alter her appearance so that she would look like Clarice. A woman he’d murdered.
She couldn’t blame him for everything that had happened. He’d been straight with her the very first time they met.
He’d warned her in no uncertain terms that there were things about him she didn’t know. Things she didn’t want to know.
He told her he had reasons not to come back.
He told her to find someone else.
He told her he’d done things that no man could ever atone for.
That he was damaged goods.
That’d he’d crossed the line.
Now, she realized, he wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. He’d been telling the truth.
He wasn’t fit to serve his country.
He wasn’t worthy.
She watched him put the passport in his inside coat pocket.
“At least you get to go home,” she said.
He nodded.
“That girl’s still there, right?”
“Sam. I think so.”
“I hope she is,” Laurel said.
She bit her lip. There was nothing so sad, she thought, as looking at a man you’d respected, a man you’d even loved, and not seeing it any longer.
She’d had to work hard to persuade the president to sign off on his passport. Hers was easy, but Lance, the president saw him as a liability.
It seemed that the more Lance did to protect the country, the less people trusted him.
The less they wanted to see him.
Laurel was no different.
It was like he reminded them of the things that had to be done that they knew were indefensible, unconscionable even.
Everyone knew that in order to protect the country, bad things had to happen. Ugly things. Violent things.
They knew it, they understood it, but they sure didn’t like being reminded of it.
And that was all Lance was.
A reminder of all the ugly things that had to happen for a cuntry with enemies to remain safe.
And no one could forgive him for it.
Not the president.
Not the director of the NSA.
And now, not even Laurel.
There was an irony there. A paradox. The only reason she even knew his name was because she’d been assigned to recruit him back to the CIA. He’d wanted to quit, he’d wanted to stop being an assassin, and she’d put every ounce of herself into convincing him to kill again.
And now, the sin he’d confessed to her, the sin that she hated him for, that made it difficult now even for her to stand there and look at him, was that he’d obeyed an order.
He’d done what he was told.
Because it was necessary.
Because some had to do it.
She’d been a traitor.
But she was carrying his child. If her actions made her a traitor, what did his make him?
Only Roth, he was the only one who didn’t despise Lance Spector. He was the only one who ever stuck his neck out for him. He was the only one who looked at him, who knew the things he’d done for, and didn’t turn away in disgust.
Laurel looked into his eyes, it looked like he was about to say something to her, but before he could, the kettle on the stove came to a boil. It whistled loudly, and Laurel turned around and took it off the heat.
Whatever it was he was going to say, she didn’t want to hear it. She focused on making the coffee.
“I guess this is it then,” Lance said.
There was resignation in his voice. Acceptance. He knew she was finally going to do what he’d wanted all along. She was going to leave him alone.
And it was breaking his heart.
“I’m going to leave first thing tomorrow,” she said.
“Back to Langley?”
“Heading up the Special Operations Group, it’s important. I can’t turn that down.”
“Of course.”
She looked at him closely, trying to detect any hint of cynicism in his voice. Even now, she couldn’t help seek some sort of approval from him.
“Of course you want the job. It makes sense for you.”
“It’s not the power,” she said.
“I know, Laurel. I was you once. Not so very long ago.”
She smiled thinly. “I know you were.”
“It all turned to ashes for me, but believe me when I say
I hope for you its different.”
“Thank you, Lance.”
The coffee was ready, and she poured herself a cup.
“You want some?” she said.
He shook his head, turned to leave.
“I’m leaving at dawn. Roth will have a plane waiting in Galveston.”
Lance nodded.
“Come with me,” she said.
The words startled her. She didn’t know why she’d said them.
Was it pity?
Or did she mean it?
She knew it didn’t matter. He wasn’t coming back. He looked into her eyes for a second but said nothing.
The last sight she had of him was from her bedroom window. He was sitting out on the pier, lighting one of his Mexican cigars, looking out at the moon.
“Goodbye, Lance Spector,” she said quietly.
When she woke in the morning, he was gone.
She prayed she would never see him again.
9
Agata didn’t feel safe until she was on the main highway back toward the capital. She kept looking in her rearview mirror, half expecting to see a chopper, but no one was following her.
She was looking in the mirror when she had to swerve around a slow-moving motorcycle. The driver careened to avoid her, and she realized she could have killed him.
She needed to calm down.
She told herself she was safe, but she knew what the Russian military was capable of. She wasn’t being paranoid.
If she’d just seen what she thought, a weapons cache belonging to the Russian army, then there was no limit to the danger she was in.
She tried calling Kuzis, but it went straight to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message. She was too afraid of who else might be listening.
She kept driving, thinking about what she’d seen, wondering if the man she’d shot had called in her license plate, wondering if there were cameras watching over the cache.
The Sunday traffic was light, and she made good time. The sun was setting, and she was just an hour from the city when Kuzis finally called her back.
“Agata,” he said, his voice distressed. “Nine missed calls. What the hell’s going on?”
“Why didn’t you pick up?”
“I was at the dacha.”
“I had to check up on a lead.”
“I got your message from yesterday. Something about a missing plane?”
