by Steve Berry
Malone stamped on the brakes, gripped the wheel, and began skidding across the ice.
The other jeep veered left too fast, tires spinning upward, the vehicle twisting in the air then smashing back down on its side, sliding off with the grinding screech of metal on ice.
One down.
He straightened out the wheel and kept moving.
* * *
Cassiopeia saw a mélange of headlights lancing the night. Four pairs were pursuing one pair, all of them moving fast. In the night-vision goggles she saw they were off-road vehicles, like jeeps. One tried to cut off the lead one, ending up on its side skidding across the lake. Relief, disbelief, anticipation, and exhilaration tumbled through her mind.
She knew who was driving the lead vehicle.
The chopper roared north, skimming low over the lake. She watched the officer across from her as he studied the scenario. She knew the icy surface below stretched many kilometers, and if she’d not come along Cotton might have had some trouble getting out of this predicament.
The least she owed him was to save his ass.
“Let’s be sure it’s him,” she said in English.
The chopper swung around parallel to the chase. Through her night-vision goggles, in a faint reflection of dash lights, she saw a familiar face.
One it was good to see.
“It is,” she said.
Through the goggles she also saw two figures emerge from the passenger side of following jeeps.
Both aimed rifles.
“Those are Kozliks. Military,” she heard the pilot say to the officer in Russian.
“I know,” he replied. “Which is a problem. Are we to fire on our own people?”
She noted their confusion, but could not reveal she understood the concern, so she simply said in English, “We need to do something.”
* * *
Malone had no choice but to keep going. He was cold from the lack of a window, the Goat’s heater doing little to abate the frigid night. He heard pops and realized the shooting had started again, single rounds becoming repeated bursts, the lake’s smooth surface allowing for a better aim.
A few deep gulps of the cold air freed his brain.
Lights appeared in the sky before him, swooping down to a hundred or so feet off the ground. In the blackness, with nearly no illumination, it was hard to know exactly what had arrived. But the powerful heartbeat-like throb echoing around him signaled a helicopter.
He hoped Zorin did not have access to one.
The lights approached fast and he heard the distinctive sound of cannon fire. Since none of the rounds came his way, he assumed they were for his pursuers. In the rearview mirror he saw headlights scatter as the Goats broke formation. He whipped his head around and stared out the open rear window. The chopper was swinging for another pass, the Goats making a beeline away.
More cannon fire kept the taillights receding.
He slewed the front wheels into a sideways skid and stopped, but left the engine running. The chopper completed its assault and, seemingly satisfied that the problems were gone, swung back around and headed his way. He assumed it was the military to the rescue, which puzzled him, considering that the military may have been the ones after him.
The dark hulk of a gunship filled the sky. A light appeared in the rear cabin and framed a helmeted man crouched in an open hatch. Malone squinted against the blinding aurora. The rotors’ throbbing clatter seemed earsplitting as the chopper made a final descent, the blades’ downblast churning up a cauldron of snow.
Skids touched ice.
A figure hopped out and trotted his way.
In the penumbra of his headlights he began to see that the person was slim and small, clothed in a thick coat with a hood. Ten feet from the jeep he caught the dark hair and delicate features that showed a Spanish ancestry.
Then the face.
Cassiopeia.
She stopped at the Goat’s front end and stared at him through the windshield. Her dark eyes projected love and concern. The sheer joy of seeing her lifted his heart. She stepped around to the driver’s-side door, which he opened. There were so many things to be said, but the first word that came to mind seemed the most obvious.
Thanks.
He stepped from the truck, and before a sound could escape his mouth she brushed his lips with her gloved fingertips and said in a soft voice, “Don’t speak.”
Then she kissed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WASHINGTON, DC
Luke shoved Anya Petrova down into one of the dining table chairs and secured her to it with more duct tape. Back at Anderson House he’d used a roll to bind her hands behind her back, then led her from the building, making their escape just before the DC police arrived. Stephanie had stayed to deal with the authorities, made necessary by someone placing an emergency call. Not particularly what they’d wanted to happen, but understandable given the gunfire. He and Petrova had left the ballroom through a rear courtyard that opened to another street. From there, he’d found a cab that had taken them across town to his apartment, his Defense Intelligence Agency badge and a $20 tip calming the driver’s anxieties.
He lived near Georgetown in an ivy-veined brick building brimming with tenants in their seventies. He liked the quiet and appreciated the fact that everyone seemed to mind their own business. He spent only a few days here each month, between assignments, enjoying the place.
“Is that your family?” Anya asked him, motioning with her head to a framed photograph.
He’d been born and raised in Blount County, Tennessee, where his father and uncle were both known, particularly his uncle, who served in local political office, then as governor and a U.S. senator before becoming president. His father died from cancer when he was seventeen. He and his three brothers had been there for every moment of those final days. His mother took the loss hard. They’d been married a long time. Her husband was everything to her, and then, suddenly, he was gone. That’s why Luke called her every Sunday. Never missed. Even when on assignment. It might be late at night her time when he had the chance, but he called. His father always said that the smartest thing he ever did was marry her. Both his parents were devoutly religious—Southern Baptists—so they’d named their sons to correspond with the books of the New Testament. His two older brothers were Mathew and Mark. His younger, John. He was the third in line and acquired the name Luke.
The photo was of the family just a few weeks before his father died.
“That’s them,” he said.
He wondered about her interest. Most likely she was playing him, trying to relax things enough so she might be able to make a move. He should bind those legs, but that could prove dangerous as they definitely packed a punch. But she now realized he packed a punch, too, the bruise on her face evidence that he was not to be taken lightly.
“I like this place. Your home,” she said. “Mine is quite different.”
He hadn’t had many one-on-one conversations with Russian nationals, especially one up to no good like Anya Petrova.
He slid out another of the chairs, flipped it around and positioned it behind her. He sat with the high back nestled to her neck. “What were you after in that house in Virginia?”
She chuckled. “You expect me to answer?”
“I expect you to help yourself. You’re not going back home. You’re going to one of our prisons, where I’m sure you’ll be real popular.”
Her blond hair hung to just above her shoulders in a layered bob. She wasn’t overtly attractive, only alluring in a puzzling sort of way. Maybe it was her confidence—never any sign of misgiving or nerves or worry. Or the blend of femininity and athleticism. He definitely liked that.
“You and Zorin married?”
“Who is Zorin?”
He chuckled. “Don’t insult me.”
She kept her head facing away, toward the family photo across the room, making no effort to turn back toward him. “Are you close with your brothers?”
“As close as brothers can get.”
“I have no brothers or sisters. Just me.”
“Might explain why you don’t play so good with others.”
“Have you been to Siberia?”
“Nope.”
“Then you have no idea what difficult can be.”
He could not care less. “What were you after in that house?”
Another deep throaty laugh.
“Things you might wish I never find.”
* * *
Stephanie was ready to leave but the DC Police were not done with her. She’d answered their questions as vaguely as possible, but with an inaugural event scheduled for the Anderson House in three days, there were lots of inquiries. The last thing the Cincinnati people wanted was to be declared off-limits and their security clearance pulled. That would mean the end of the event, and everyone wanted the bragging rights of hosting something for the new administration. Finally, she made a call to Edwin Davis and the intervention of the White House chief of staff had sent the police packing. Edwin, of course, had wanted more details, as did the president, but she’d begged off.
At least for now.
All would have been fine except for the appearance of Bruce Litchfield, who arrived in a Justice Department car.
“You want to tell me what you’ve been doing,” he said, not even trying to keep his voice low.
They stood outside, beyond the main portico, just past one of the iron gates that led out to the street. The Anderson House staff had retreated inside.
“When you flashed your badge,” he said, “the locals called Justice to see what we were doing. Since it involved the Magellan Billet, the call came to me. I’m told there was shooting in there, and a fight, and you brandished a gun. Then you took control of some woman who’d threatened everyone in the house. Do you have her?”
She nodded.
Disgust filled his face. “I told you to leave this alone. What are you doing?”
She’d worked for a succession of AGs, some good, some bad, but all of them had shown her a measure of respect.
“My job,” she said to him.
“Not anymore.”
She caught the cold, satisfied look in his eyes.
“This is done. You’re fired. As of right now.”
She brushed past, intent on ignoring him.
He grabbed her arm. “I said, you’re fired. Give me your badge and your gun.”
“You know what you can do with your firing. And let go of me.”
He did and smiled. “I was hoping you’d go that route.”
He gestured with his free hand and three men emerged from the vehicle parked at the street, all middle-aged, short-haired, and dressed in dark suits.
Justice Department agents.
“I brought them along,” he said, “since I knew you were going to be difficult. Now you can either give me your badge and gun, or go with these men and be under arrest. I assure you, the White House won’t be able to help.”
Which meant this fool had been given the green light from the incoming administration to drop the hammer. Amazing his lack of loyalty to the president who’d given him his job. The talk seemed right. He was nothing but an opportunist. He was also not as unsure of himself as earlier. Instead, he brimmed with confidence, knowing that no harm would come to him from anything he was about to do, regardless of what the current White House might think.
He had her.
Game over.
She’d been given a temporary license to poke around, encouraged by the White House, and she’d raked up enough to make it all real, but that license had now been revoked.
She found her gun and badge and handed both to him.
“Go home to Atlanta, Stephanie. Your career is done. And do whatever you want with that woman. No one here cares.”
He started to walk away.
“Bruce.”
He turned back.
Her upturned middle finger told him exactly what she thought.
He shook his head. “The great thing is, your opinion doesn’t matter anymore.”
And he headed for the car and climbed back inside.
She watched as it drove away.
Thirty-seven years with the government. All that she’d seen, done, and been involved with. And this was how it ended? She heard the front door to Anderson House open and turned to see Fritz Strobl walk out into the cold late-morning air.
He walked over and said, “That didn’t seem good.”
“You were spying?”
“I apologize. But I was waiting for everyone to leave before speaking with you. So, yes, I was watching.”
She wasn’t in the mood. “What is it, Mr. Strobl?”
“What you did in there with that woman. We appreciate it. We don’t have incidents like that here. It was a first, actually. It was most upsetting. You seem like an honest person.” He paused. “I’m afraid I lied to you.”
Now he had her attention.
“When you mentioned the archive found at the Charon estate. I was aware of it, and we’ve wanted to reclaim it for some time.”
She understood. “But you did not want to get in the middle of a family fight.”
He nodded. “Precisely. We’ve kept its existence to ourselves. God knows we could not approach the Charon family. Several of our members knew of Brad’s secret room, including our current historian. We even contemplated what you suggested—appropriating it.”
She liked how carefully he referred to theft.
“That woman you carted off. She asked specifically about that archive. She was looking for something particular within it.”
She recalled the books strewn across the floor, stripped from their shelves.
“What was she after?”
“That she did not mention to me, but she wanted to speak with our historian.” Strobl hesitated. “This is a bit embarrassing. You see, an organization as old as ours certainly has … secrets. Most are harmless. Nearly all of them are meaningless in the overall scope of things. We have our share of those, too.”
“Did you tell the police this?”
He shook his head. “No one asked. I was wondering, if I direct you to our historian, could you have that archive retrieved?”
A deal? She smiled. “I do believe, Mr. Strobl, I smell a bit of larceny in your blood.”
“Heavens no. It’s just that, those books and records are important. They belong to us. Can you procure them?”
“Absolutely.”
She listened as he told her a name and address, the same one Petrova had been given. As he spoke, a plan formed in her mind so, when he finished, she asked, “Do you have a car?”
Strobl nodded.
“I need to borrow it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RUSSIA
Zorin waited aboard the jet, his departure from Ulan-Ude delayed now going on half an hour. He’d chartered the flight over the Internet, concluding the deal with a phone call made earlier after his talk with Belchenko in the black bath. He had to fly nonstop from Ulan-Ude to Prince Edward Island, Canada, where Jamie Kelly supposedly lived. He’d calculated the distance at just under forty-nine hundred nautical miles. The charter company understood his needs and recommended a Gulfstream G550, which they could have in Ulan-Ude by nightfall, ready to go.
He was back on duty—detached and alert—his training taking over. On arrival he’d thoroughly checked out the aircraft. About thirty meters long, it flew at a top speed of nearly Mach 1 with a range of 6,800 nautical miles. Its pressurized cabin allowed for an altitude of 51,000 feet, high above commercial traffic and any adverse weather or winds. He should be able to make a straight shot in about ten and a half hours. That would put him in Canada, compensating for the twelve-hour time difference, a little before 11:00 P.M. local time, still Friday night.
He’d been told that a representative of the company would meet him at the Ulan-Ude airport, which he assumed explained the delay, as no one had been waiting fo
r him save the two pilots. One would fly while the other rested. The company had recommended four, but he’d nixed that idea.
Far too many witnesses.
The jet’s interior was luxurious and spacious, adorned with crystal wine goblets and walnut paneling. Eight oval windows opened on each side as black spots upon pale beige walls. Nine cushy leather seats faced front and back and two long sofas stretched down one side. Galleys were forward and aft, and he’d requested meals. He’d not eaten all day and would require something in his stomach. There was a wireless network and satellite communication, both of which he might require to recon his destination and communicate with Anya.
Heaters inside kept winter at bay, the lighting low and soothing. Through the forward door a man entered bundled in a thick wool coat. He was stout with a mat of wiry black hair clinging to a squat turret of a head. High Slavic cheekbones flushed red from the cold. He wore a suit of little to no distinction and introduced himself as the company rep, here to conclude their business before takeoff. One wrist showed off a jeweled Rolex, the other sported a diamond ring on the little finger.
Neither impressed him.
“You’re late,” he said in Russian.
“I went for my dinner.”
“And kept me sitting here?”
The man’s dark eyes communicated a look of begrudging respect. “I realize you are in a hurry. But you must realize that I do business with men like you every day.”
“You know what I want?” he asked as the man sat in one of the leather seats facing him.
“I was told you need to go from point A to B, without anyone knowing a thing.”
The man added an irritating smile, which definitely rubbed him the wrong way. That was the thing about the new Russia. Everyone thought everyone else corrupt. No one ever considered the possibility that duty and honor might be motivators, too. But he decided to keep his irritation in check and projected a calm show of casualness. Which was unusual, since he was never casual.
“I was also told by my company to conclude our business before you left.”
