The Last Option

by Alex Lukeman

  "So he knew it was coming."

  "He had to."

  "Senator Palmer is attending a conference in Argentina three days from now. That can't be a coincidence."

  Senator Palmer is already in Argentina, Director.

  "What about Reynolds? Where is he?"

  President Reynolds is still in Washington. He is scheduled to attend the same conference as Senator Palmer.

  "I wonder what Morgan's doing," Stephanie said.

  I have been monitoring the activities of Charles Morgan, Stephanie. He left the country yesterday and is also in Argentina. His flight plan stated he was going to Córdoba.

  "Córdoba? Why would he go to Córdoba?"

  I do not have sufficient data to answer that question. I have also been monitoring activity of the German bank controlled by Hans Beck, as instructed. Beck is also in Argentina. He transferred the liquid assets of his bank to Buenos Aires last week.

  "Morgan, Palmer, and Beck? They're all in Argentina?"

  That is correct.

  "Morgan and Beck were instrumental in manipulating the markets and triggering the crash. Palmer knew it was coming and covered his ass before he lost everything. At the least, we're looking at insider trading and fraud. They're meeting up in Argentina. But why there?"

  As she said the words, Elizabeth felt the unique sensation that accompanied her intuition when it kicked in. It was as though an electrical current surged through her body, leaving her tingling and wide-awake. Over the years she'd learned to trust it, even when it pointed toward a difficult conclusion. She examined the thoughts that flooded her mind. She didn't like what she was thinking.

  "I had a conversation with Clarence this morning. NSA intercepted messages in the Federation that indicate Orlov is going to war against us."

  "What?" Steph said. "When?"

  "That isn't clear. If it happens, I think it will be soon. Let me ask you a question. If you knew war was coming with Russia, where would you go for the best chance of survival?"

  "Not here on the East Coast. Or anywhere in the U.S. for that matter. Or Europe."

  "What about Canada? Or China?"

  "None of those places would be safe. I'd probably try for Australia or New Zealand."

  "You mean somewhere in the southern hemisphere?"

  "Maybe not Australia. We have bases there. Someplace that wasn't going to be hit with missiles."

  Elizabeth's intuition was jabbing at her. "How about Argentina?"

  "I suppose..." Stephanie stopped. "You don't think...?"

  "I do think. I think those bastards know a war is coming and they're retreating to someplace safe. In Argentina."

  "How could they know war was coming?"

  "They couldn't. Unless they'd planned it."

  Stephanie was shocked.

  "Reynolds is going to Argentina for that conference. Could he be part of that?"

  "He's too close to Palmer," Elizabeth said. "I think he is."

  "How could he? Millions of people will die if there's a war."

  "Since when have the people who start wars ever worried about little things like that?" Elizabeth said.

  CHAPTER 37

  Vladimir Orlov steepled his hands and leaned back in his chair. The president of the Russian Federation was not happy with Vysotsky's report.

  "General Vysotsky. You are accusing an important officer of treason."

  "Yes, Mister President."

  "Based on a confession obtained by torture."

  "We both know torture works, sir."

  "Yes, but we also know that sometimes a subject will tell us things that are untrue in an effort to end the questioning."

  "My interrogator is very skilled. Information he has obtained in the past has always proven reliable and useful. He can accomplish things in an hour that used to take days."

  "Is he the one they call the doctor?"

  "Yes, Mister President."

  "I've heard about him. In my day we also had someone called the doctor. But that's neither here nor there. Have you arrested Denisovitch yet?"

  "Not yet, sir. I wanted to speak with you first due to the sensitivity of his position. It's possible Admiral Petroff is directly involved in these terrorist atrocities. I would like permission to question him."

  Orlov leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the desk.

  "You go too far, General. Admiral Petroff is an honored leader, a decorated hero of our country. His service to the motherland is beyond question. You will not bother the Admiral. You have permission to question his aide."

  "But Mister President..."

  "That is my decision, general. You are dismissed."

  Vysotsky knew it was useless to argue.

  "Yes, Mister President. Thank you for hearing me out."

  Orlov picked up a paper on his desk and waved his hand dismissively.

  On the ride back to SVR headquarters, Vysotsky considered what to do next, now that Petroff was off-limits.

  He was convinced Petroff was somehow involved in the bombings. If he was, and Petroff discovered he was under suspicion, then the Admiral would try to eliminate him. It gave him a bad feeling, thinking about Petroff. He'd learned long ago not to ignore that feeling when it came. It had saved his life in Chechnya. That was enough reason to be paranoid now.

  I need to watch my back, get out of Moscow for a while. I'll go to the dacha, Valentina should come with me. There are computers there. We can pursue our inquiries into Petroff away from prying eyes at headquarters. Discreetly, of course. I wouldn't want Orlov to think I was disobeying his direct order. Valentina is clever. Together we can find out if Petroff is a traitor. We should go immediately.

  His mind made up, Vysotsky picked up the phone in the back of his car and dispatched an aide to tell Valentina to meet him outside headquarters. That done, he opened a compartment on the back of the front seat and took out a bottle and glass. He poured a shot of vodka, drank it, capped the bottle and returned everything to its proper place.

  When the car pulled up in front of headquarters. Valentina was waiting outside, dressed in her uniform. She opened the rear door and got in beside Vysotsky.

  The driver was separated from the rear compartment by a thick piece of glass that prevented him from hearing anything said in back unless Vysotsky lowered the glass. He did so now.

  "Max, take us to the dacha. You have enough fuel?"

  "Yes, General."

  "Good."

  Vysotsky touched a button and the window rolled up, restoring privacy.

  "The dacha?" Valentina said. "Why?"

  "Orlov doesn't want us investigating Petroff. I thought you and I might find a way if we were away from Orlov's spies at work."

  "You might have asked me before risking my career. If he finds out you've gone behind his back, he won't forgive you. Or me, for being with you."

  "I need you, Valentina. You bring a different perspective. You are good at seeing things I don't, the connection between odd bits of information. Between us we make one good operative, no?"

  "If you say so."

  "I do say so. Now, relax and enjoy the drive."

  The driver took the ring road to the M-10 and headed northwest out of the city. An hour later they turned off the main road and headed through the countryside toward the dacha, still more than an hour away. Here the road was a two lane rural highway, lightly traveled. Up ahead, signs and orange barrels blocked the lanes. A traffic cop in dark blue uniform stood in the middle of the road. He held up his hand, signaling them to stop.

  The driver stopped and rolled down his window. He spoke with the cop. They argued, but the cop shook his head and pointed off to the left. Vysotsky rolled down the partition window.

  "What's the problem, Max?"

  "The way is closed ahead. We have to detour. I know the road. It's very bad, hardly used anymore. It will add another hour and a half to the journey, but there's no alternative."

  "Very well."

  The window went back up. Ma
x turned left. As they went, Valentina looked back at the cop. He was talking into a radio and looking after them.

  The road led them into a forest of pines. They hit a stretch of deep potholes. Max slowed. There were no other cars on the road. Valentina saw something move ahead in the thick trees at the side of the road, a glint of metal.

  "General..." she said.

  Men wearing balaclavas and carrying automatic weapons stepped from the trees and began firing at the car as it came abreast of them.

  Vysotsky's usual armored vehicle was in the garage for repair. Today he was riding in a limousine only slightly modified for protection. The bullets tore into the light armor of the car and quickly shattered the thick windows. The driver died in the first burst. The car drifted to a halt.

  The shooters were all on the right side of the car. Valentina was sitting on the left, in the rear. As soon as the men came out of the trees, she knew what it meant. As they fired, she opened her door. As the car came to a stop, she rolled out onto the road and came up behind the rear tire, pistol in hand.

  Vysotsky was a bigger target and not as fast. He scrambled toward the open door. Bullets hit him and he fell halfway out of the vehicle. Valentina fired three quick rounds and brought down one of the shooters. Bullets punched holes in the metal by her head.

  Seconds from death, her mind moved into an altered state. Things slowed in front of her. Her thoughts were lucid.

  If I stay here, I die.

  She rose up and sprinted across the road for the trees beyond. A bullet hit her and knocked her down. She picked herself up and ran into the trees.

  She pushed through thick branches and turned, looking back at the road and the car with Vysotsky's body. The attackers had stopped shooting. There was no sign of them.

  Must be behind the car.

  Blood seeped through her tunic and ran down her leg. The bullet had struck her left side. She tried to lift her arm and bit back a cry of pain.

  At least it's not my gun arm.

  She carried a Makarov PMM, with a capacity of twelve rounds. She'd used three. She had nine rounds and a spare magazine left.

  She watched the car.

  Someone called out to her.

  "Colonel Antipova."

  She waited. Bad, that they knew her name.

  "We don't want you. It was the general we wanted. Come out. We won't hurt you. We'll take you somewhere safe for a little while, then let you go."

  And Father Christmas is coming in his sleigh to take me there. Somewhere safe.

  She stayed quiet. There was no point letting them know where she was. She began moving through the pines in a crouch, working to her right, trying to get an angle on the other side of the car.

  "Colonel," the man called. "I won't ask again. Come out, and you will not be harmed. You are wounded. We will bring you to a doctor. Be sensible. We have accomplished our mission. No one else has to die."

  She reached a place in the trees where she could see beyond the back corner of the car. Two men squatted behind the vehicle, peering across the road where she'd disappeared into the forest. She steadied herself against a tree, took aim and fired, two rounds at each man.

  Valentina was an expert shot. One man screamed and fell, the other collapsed without sound.

  One to go. Where is he?

  Her eyes blurred and she swayed, suddenly dizzy. From the corner of her eye she sensed movement to her left. She ducked around the tree just as bullets chopped pieces of bark from the trunk where she'd been standing a second before. She kept moving around the tree, saw the last man, and fired four rounds. He gave a strangled cry and fell back into the shadows.

  She leaned against the tree, dizzy. Deep silence surrounded her. It was hot and still under the branches. She breathed in the smell of the forest. A carpet of pine needles under her feet muffled her steps as she walked over to the man she'd just shot. He was still breathing. He looked at her and grinned. Then he coughed. Blood spurted from his mouth. He stopped breathing. The sleeve on his left arm showed the edge of a tattoo. She pushed it back with her foot and exposed a black bat against the background of a yellow parachute.

  Spetsnaz.

  Someone had sent a kill unit from Russia's elite special forces after them.

  Valentina ejected the empty magazine in her Makarov, inserted the backup, racked the slide and set the safety. She holstered the pistol and winced with pain. She held pressure against the wound with her right hand and went back to the car. She remembered the cop, back where they'd turned off the main route, talking into his radio.

  The road where she stood was rarely used. Now that the false detour had served its purpose, the regular road would be open. If she were lucky, no one would come by here for some time.

  General Vysotsky lay half out of the car, hands flung out in front of him, face down on the pavement. His olive green tunic was dark with blood. She touched a finger to his neck and felt for a pulse, but knew he was dead.

  She reached inside the car, opened the liquor cabinet, and took out the bottle of vodka. The seat was covered with bits of glass from the broken windows. She set the bottle on the seat and took off her tunic and shirt, ignoring the pain. The bullet had hit her in the side. A deep breath brought sharp, stabbing pain.

  Maybe a broken rib.

  She reached for the vodka, opened it with her teeth, and poured some on the torn flesh, gasping at the fiery sensation.

  She took off her belt, tore strips from her bloody shirt, and improvised a bandage. When she had it tight, she went to the back of the car and put her tunic back on, leaving it unbuttoned. She leaned against the car and thought about what to do next.

  I can't stay here. Will the car run?

  She opened the car door and the dead driver fell out onto the road. She pushed the body aside and got in. She tried the key and the engine started. She left it running and got out. General Vysotsky's body was heavy, but she managed to get him out of the car. His satellite phone fell out onto the pavement. She picked it up and stuck it in one of the pockets of her tunic. She dragged his body off the road and rolled it into a shallow ditch.

  Her uniform was useless, stained with blood. She couldn't go anywhere in it. . She looked down at one of the men she'd shot. He lay on his side, an ugly hole in his forehead. He wore a dark jacket and a blue shirt. He had small feet, with boots that looked like they might be near her size. She stripped the rest of her uniform off. With difficulty, she worked the clothes from the body and put them on. They smelled of sour sweat and stale cigarettes.

  One by one, she dragged each of the dead from the road into the ditch. Except for bits of glass and dark stains on the pavement, there was nothing to indicate what had happened to anyone passing by.

  When they found Vysotsky and the others, they'd search the woods for her. When they didn't find her body, the hunt would be on. She climbed into the driver's seat, shut the door, and leaned back, exhausted.

  A GPS unit on the dash showed a blinking red dot where the car was stopped. Valentina studied the display. The road continued in a long half circle until it made its way back to the M-10, a distance of about eighty kilometers. The M-10 meant police. Police meant she'd be pulled over. The cop at the detour had been part of the ambush. What about the rest of the police?

  Murdering a man as powerful as Vysotsky was a serious move, almost incomprehensible, an attack on the state itself. When his body was found it would trigger a massive hunt for his killers. When she wasn't discovered with the others, they would assume she'd been part of the plot.

  The car was in bad shape. Bullet holes peppered the bodywork. The windshield and windows were shattered and starred. The first cop who saw the car would stop her and she'd be arrested.

  Whoever had ordered Vysotsky killed wanted her dead as well. Arrest was a death sentence.

  Think. What are your options?

  She stared out at the empty road and thought about the disaster her life had turned into. She'd never been happy. She'd always bee
n subject to the whims of faceless bureaucrats who cared nothing for who she was or what she wanted. She'd been trained from childhood as a servant of the state. Her personal life meant nothing to the ruthless men who ruled her life. Orlov could do whatever he wanted with her and there was nothing she could say about it.

  Her career, her high rank, the praise she'd gotten, it was all dust in her mouth. The reward for her patriotism and loyalty was this place of death and betrayal on a deserted highway.

  It felt as if the world had been swept away from under her feet. They'd never believe she had nothing to do with Vysotsky's assassination. She'd be interrogated, tortured. There was nothing left for her here. Only one option remained.

  Somewhere in the woods a bird cried, a sound of pain as old as Russia.

  CHAPTER 38

  It was two in the morning in Washington. Selena was in the kitchen making a cup of hot chocolate, unable to sleep. It was getting harder to sleep for more than an hour or two. The twins were kicking night and day. It was the strangest sensation, feeling two sets of tiny feet inside her. It was good they were kicking, but she was looking forward to getting her body back again.

  She glanced at the calendar hanging on the refrigerator, with the projected date marked in red.

  A little under two months to go.

  Her cell phone started buzzing and vibrating across the kitchen counter, where she'd left it after dinner.

  Who would call this late?

  Her phone was one of the encrypted units everyone used in the Project. Not many people had that number. The display showed a satellite call. Curious, she answered.

  "Yes."

  "Selena."

  Surprised, Selena recognized Valentina's voice.

  "Valentina?"

  "Sister, I need your help."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I'm in trouble. I want to defect."

  Selena couldn't believe what she was hearing.

  "What?"

  "I want to defect. There is nothing for me here. I need you to help me, you and your friends."

  "Are you safe?"

  "For the moment."

  "Where are you?"