by Gayle Lynds
Bates demanded, "Where are we, men?"
Until the glitch with Olsen arose, Bates's morning had been nothing but gratifying. First there had been the news that Marty Coulson's parents had done such a credible job yesterday at the Hoover building of backing up the fabricated story of Jeff Hammond's threats to their son that they had convinced the FBI that Hammond was the killer. Then came Fedorov's excellent report of the fiery deaths of the meddling Beth Convey and the psychologist Stephanie Smith.
"The Commie president's plane is on time, due to arrive at thirteen-hundred hours at Andrews, and our traitorous President Stevens will meet it." It was Sergeant Austin with his buzz-cut hair, big ears, and massive muscles. No longer in their camos, he and the two other men were dressed in sports shirts and pleated slacks similar to Bates's. "Our man at the airport will let us know if there are any changes."
"Very good. What else?"
"The tape is loaded, sir."
"Let's have it." Bates turned toward the big-screen television.
The sergeant punched buttons on the remote control. The four men remained standing as they watched, an indication of their seriousness of purpose and that they could not, would not, relax before the successful completion of their mission. The operation was upon them, just a day away. As Bates considered the approaching event, a sense of renewed urgency swept aside his brief nostalgia and good feelings about last night's accomplishments.
He focused on the TV screen, clinically analyzing detail after detail of the Rose Garden, lawns, shrubbery, walkways, windows, pillars, and the placement of podiums and Secret Service agents and rooftop snipers as Yasser Arafat, Tony Blair, and a host of other heads of state, and foreign and domestic dignitaries paraded across the screen in official White House news conferences and staged tête-à-têtes recorded for television over the past year and taped on Bates's orders. Everyone watched intently until it was finished.
Bates nodded. "Notice how the number of snipers on the roof has increased. Play it again."
After three more run-throughs, Bates ordered the composite film shown later in the morning to all the Keepers, each of whom had assignments for tomorrow. It was a harmless exercise, not useful to most, but it kept them focused on their outrage over the "selling of America," feeling fanatical, and very much part of the team.
"Any problems?" he demanded.
"No, Colonel." The muscular sergeant was in charge of the actual operation. He had hand-picked three men to go with him. "My people are more than ready to go. We've rehearsed a variety of possible scenarios, and they know the terrain inside out. They're beyond ready, sir. They need to get into action."
Bates inclined his head. "Mr. Bitsche?"
Max Bitsche hunched his shoulders. "Supplies are in excellent order. Everyone's received their kits. The vans are painted. We've distributed cash for emergencies. Additional supplies are planted in our various depots. I've got everything except the four White House invitations." He pursed his lips and added irritably, "I don't like waiting so long. What if the guy doesn't deliver? Who is he, anyway, that he's got such an intimate connection with this decadent government?" Bitsche's gaze flitted angrily around the conference room as if seeking an answer. "He can't be one of us. We need to get those invitations right away before something goes wrong. They're critical."
"Mr. Bitsche," Bates's voice was soft, almost caressing, but layered in it was such incipient violence that Bitsche froze mid-sentence and lowered his gaze in fear. It was a reaction Alexei Berianov had elicited many times in the ranks of the KGB, back in the days when it had been worthy of his respect.
Bitsche swallowed, and his round, soft body seemed to disintegrate around the edges. "Sorry, sir. I know you're handling it. I hope you'll forgive—"
But Bates had made his point. Never relax discipline. Never let them forget who was in charge. But avoid, as his own mentors had taught him, pushing beyond a point once it had been made, because beyond that had to be the threat of real, tangible punishment. Fear of the unknown—in this case, fear of what Bates would do—was the ultimate weapon.
He pointedly shifted his attention to Otis Odet. "Communications?"
"Yes, Colonel." Odet's beach-boy good looks had puckered and tightened during the exchange. He fiddled with the pen in his shirt pocket as he reported briskly, "All the vans and personnel have radios. I've assigned cell phones, too, to strategic staff so we'll have alternate lines of communication. It's all scrambled so no hot dog with a reader can listen in. Everything's been checked out and is in prime working condition, but, just in case, I've got repair people stationed at the supply depots. And finally, I've installed tracking devices with computer chips in everyone's belt buckles. Our roving van is now fully equipped to coordinate with Sergeant Austin."
Bates's expression was unchanged, but inside he was smiling. With the exception of Olsen, everything was going right. And a failure by Olsen, while making it damn difficult, still could be overcome. Now it was time to improve the mood in the room, and by doing so to reaffirm and solidify his control. For a leader, psychological dominance was paramount. "Well done. I mean that. We're on the verge of saving our country. And it's all due to President Stevens." He snorted with derision. "We should thank him for crossing the line, men."
"We'll put a stop to him," the sergeant said promptly. Military all the way, despite the contradiction of his fanatical antigovernment stance, Austin had been unfazed by Bates's flexing of power. In fact, he seemed to bristle with new energy because of it. He added the Keepers' rallying cry: "We've got to take back America for Americans!"
Bates let his face thicken with outrage and disgust. "How dare the president invite Putin into the White House? Putin can claim he's reformed all he wants, but once a Communist, always a Communist!"
Otis Odet instantly chimed in, "That's the God's truth. A Russki president sleeping in Lincoln's bedroom? It's a travesty. It's an insult to everything this country believes in and stands for. It's like putting Satan on Jesus's cross. Stevens is—"
Until now, the chastised Max Bitsche had been silent and subdued, but this was a subject close to his heart, close to all the Keepers' hearts. And as Bates had expected, he rejoined the team with an enthusiastic outburst: "Stevens wants to make America disappear into the Global Plantation! He's worse than everyone he followed. They tore down what was left of our trade protection and gave foreigners huge pieces of our economy—"
Sergeant Austin interrupted, his grim face flushed with fury, "He's making our military pussy-weak by assigning more and more of it to serve under foreign leaders! NATO. The UN. Next it'll be France. Or England. Or even Germany calling the shots for Uncle Sam's armed forces! Why—"
They all spoke at once, voicing their outrage at the new president, but Odet's voice surged highest, fueled with hate and righteous anger: "And don't forget all the wetbacks crossing our borders and stealing our jobs, and how every day President Stevens sells our American bases and personnel to foreigners to train their soldiers on our very own soil."
The sergeant jabbed a finger and roared, "The Luftwaffe at Holloman and McGregor! I thought we beat the Germans in World War II, but now they're taking us over. They've won!" With the Pentagon's permission, Germany had established a Tactical Air Center at Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico with hundreds of pilots and support personnel to fly and service European-made Tornado jet fighter-bombers and German F-4 Phantom fighters, and now the government had leased part of the McGregor Range at Fort Bliss, outside El Paso, Texas, to the Germans for aerial refueling exercises and combat tactics.
"There's not going to be any place in this country safe for its citizens!"
"Foreigners run us abroad. Foreigners run us here—"
"—steal our expertise, and then use it to whip our asses."
"Next thing you know, they'll be putting us real Americans on reservations and issue us blankets and tin plates to eat off!"
Behind the mask of Caleb Bates, Alexei Berianov listened with a mixture of
amusement and solid satisfaction. Their skewed logic made him want to laugh, but their fanatical sense of violence toward the government they perceived as their enemy was what he was depending on. It was Yuri Andropov, the powerful and intellectual KGB leader when Berianov was just starting out, who had told him that it seemed as if no bad idea ever died. There was always someone who could turn it for his own purposes.
Inwardly, Alexei Berianov exulted. There are moments when all the objectives for which one has worked fuse in perfection. This was one of those moments. Equipment, people, and plans were aligned. Nothing stood in his way. Like Napoleon, Berianov had once been legendary for boldly pitting small elite forces against larger ones and winning spectacular victories. Excitement surged through him as he surveyed the aroused faces and knotted hands of his three chief lieutenants. They would fight to the death for Caleb Bates, and they would take their men with them.
As he was savoring all this, and the three were running out of patriotic steam, his cell phone vibrated against his chest. He told his disciples heartily, "In just over a day, it'll all be over, and everyone in America is going to have a lot to celebrate, thanks to us. Carry on, men."
"Yes, sir." Sergeant Austin's eyes were alight with the glorious future as he marched toward the door that opened into the upstairs foyer.
"Thank you, sir." Otis Odet followed, his back ramrod straight, despite his lack of military background.
"Colonel?" Max Bitsche hesitated. "I was out of line, and I just want to apologize again."
Bates clapped Bitsche on the back. "It was in the zeal of the moment. You're a valued member of the movement. We need you and respect everything you've done for America. In the scheme of things, one slip isn't so bad." As the phone vibrated once more, he finished in a cooler voice that reasserted his authority: "I'm sure it'll never happen again."
"Never," Bitsche vowed.
As the door closed, the room suddenly seemed warmer and friendlier in its emptiness. Berianov pulled out his cell phone and allowed himself the brief luxury of letting his mind drift back in time, and he was once again walking the cobbled paths of Gorky Park. His chest swelled with happiness as he savored the sound of the wind in the linden trees and watched their rustling leaves catch the sunlight and glisten like silver paper against Moscow's iridescent blue sky. His Moscow. His Soviet Union.
He remembered the old men sitting beneath the trees' swaying branches with their glasses of tea and chess games. As a child, he had roller-skated beneath those same trees and stopped to eat cubes of sugar passed out by sweet-faced babushkas as they related mythic folktales that filled a young boy's head with the kinds of dreams on which greatness was built. Dreams that could never be forgotten and must never be betrayed.
Shaking out of his reverie, Berianov settled into the armchair at the head of the long, polished conference table and spoke into his cell phone. "Yes?"
It was Nikolai Fedorov, and instantly Berianov knew something was wrong. His chest tightened as he listened to the bad news: Not only had Beth Convey survived the fiery car crash, but Jeff Hammond had escaped the FBI.
Fedorov said, "The Virginia patrol found only one corpse in the car, but they're not reporting it yet. If Stephanie Smith had survived, she would've stayed at the scene. Only the Convey woman would've run." He hid his mortification well. Still, he had worked with Berianov too long to think he could fool him. A complete professional, haughty, Fedorov was galled not only because he had missed his quarry, but because he had reported success prematurely.
Berianov kept his voice under control. "Where's Convey now?"
"I wish I knew. I've looked everywhere we could expect her to appear. Vok's people are watching for her."
"Sukin syn!" Berianov cursed. "And Jeff Hammond?"
"I don't know that either, sir."
Berianov felt a sudden stab of apprehension, even doubt. Grimly he brushed it aside. He refused to fail, but as long as Hammond was free they would never be really safe. Especially not now. The threat that Hammond posed had to be ended. "Perhaps they won't harm us, perhaps they will. We can't take the chance. Find them both, Nikolai Mikhailovich, and kill them. At this late date, we can afford no more mistakes. Everything is riding on tomorrow. Everything. You understand? Everything."
If Fedorov failed again, he would send in Ivan Vok. The burly Mongol was still the deadliest assassin the KGB had ever produced. He had learned his lethal trade during the height of the Cold War under teachers who had never been matched. He was the master who had taught Fedorov. Vok did not have Fedorov's finesse, but he had something more—he never missed his mark. Nothing stopped the short, square man with the high-planed face. He loved to kill too much.
22
Beth Convey awoke slowly. In the darkness of her jumbled mind, she was unsure where she was or what had happened. She ached everywhere . . . and with a jolt of fear remembered: Some man dressed from head to foot in black had overpowered her and tied her up. He had been swift, strong, and efficient, a karate master, and she had expected him to murder her. Her chest tightened, and she opened her eyes. Maybe he was still in the house, searching.
Her blindfold was gone. That was strange. She blinked in the sunlight. It was morning. Friday morning, she reminded herself. From the east, sunshine filtered in through the pittosporum bushes outside the tall windows and made lacy patterns across the chaos of pulled-out drawers, scattered papers, and overturned furniture in the large office. The black-clothed stranger had left nothing untouched. But what had he been looking for? And had he found it?
Apprehensive, she listened. The house was silent. Emptiness had a sound of its own, an absence like a vacuum, and this house sounded and felt empty. But why had he left her alive and unharmed? Even taken off her blindfold?
She started to struggle against her ropes, but there was no struggle. The ropes gave with her first movement. She pulled with both arms and legs. All the ropes were loose. As much as she had tried last night, she had been unable to free herself. She had fallen asleep—or perhaps passed out—working on them.
The stranger again. He had needed to get her out of the way while he pawed through the house. Then, inexplicably, he made it possible for her to leave when she awoke. It gave her chills.
She was sure it had not been Hammond. Hammond had brown eyes, and the karate expert's were chilly blue. Some inner voice—her heart?—assured her he was a trained killer. It was in his predatory movements, in the cold precision of his karate, and in all the ways he had made certain she would not be able to identify him. Which ensured she would never forget his arctic eyes or the scar on his right wrist. She shivered. She had just had another brush with death. But as soon as she thought that, she saw in her mind the image of poor Stephanie trapped and dying in her car's inferno.
A surge of grief changed almost instantly into rage. She flung the ropes across the room and instantly had another thought. Maybe the intruder was the one who had saved her from Hammond on Wednesday night and then driven her to the motel for safekeeping. It seemed possible. But it also made her wonder even more who—and what—he was, and what he wanted. And would he remain "friendly"?
She stood up and stretched, her achiness easing. She gathered herself and moved across the office to stare into a mirror between two wall sconces. Her blue eyes looked haunted; her cheeks were hollow. Her dark brows seemed lifeless against pasty skin. Her short blond hair stuck out like straw. She pushed it back behind her ears. The only good thing was the ugly bruise on her forehead was smaller and paler. She smoothed down her bangs. That helped, but she needed food, rest, medicine. And answers.
As she turned away, she spotted her bag—dumped out behind her chair. Her pill bottles had been lined up on the floor like toy soldiers. She dropped to her knees and examined everything. With relief, she saw nothing was missing. But whoever had inspected her bag had also established she was on heavy-duty medication. Shaking her head, she put everything back except the clipping about Mikhail Ogust.
Then she
looked for the rest of the papers that had been hidden in the cigar box. They were on the floor, too. She checked them for the fencing bill from Stone Point and for the advertisement for the Pennsylvania dairy farm. When she found neither, she searched the room, but they were gone. Perhaps more was missing, too.
Interesting . . . the man in black was after what she was after. Fortunately, she was accustomed to digesting and remembering huge briefs and arguments. She concentrated and was soon able to recall the text of both clippings. She tucked her bag under her arm and hurried to the kitchen, where she could take her pills with water. From there, she would phone the pharmacy and order a new backup set. As she strode past rooms, she saw the intruder had capsized them, too, in his search.
In the kitchen, she glanced again at her donor's photo. It sent shivers through her, but also a yearning. His handsome, Slavic features made her think of a quotation by Nikolai Gogol, the romantic Russian writer. Maybe she had read it in her Russian studies classes . . . or perhaps she had inherited it as part of her cellular memories. It seemed perfect as she considered Mikhail Ogust—
On with the journey! Russia! Russia! When I see you, my eyes are lit up with supernatural power. Oh, what a glittering, wondrous infinity of space. . . . What a strange, alluring, enthralling, wonderful world!
* * *
Jeff Hammond was tired and alarmed. He had spotted two men watching the Post, and by the lack of smoothness to their surveillance, they could not be from the Bureau. Of course, they might not be waiting for him, but he was taking no chances. He disappeared around the corner, hailed a taxi, and directed it to the residential area behind Capitol Hill, where he stopped the driver two blocks from his condo.
