by Steve Berry
She slowly nodded.
“Can you tell me?”
She turned to leave.
“Not here.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LAKE BAIKAL
7:50 P.M.
Zorin returned to the dacha and immediately headed into the main house. He’d been told on arrival that the American, Malone, had been captured. So he took his time removing his coat and gloves. He’d be glad to leave this weather behind. Summer was so fleeting in this part of the world, and he longed for a steady warm breeze. What the next few days held for him was hard to say. All that he could hope for was that his recollections were correct, his research accurate, his planning thorough, and his resolve intact. He’d been idle far too long and he liked the feeling of being on the move again. Everything about him was primed and ready. Only this new wrinkle—the presence of an American—had proved unexpected.
Yet even that excited him.
He passed through the great room with its high ceiling and unobstructed views of the frozen lake. A welcomed fire burned in the hearth. He found the staircase to the basement and descended to where Malone stood handcuffed to a thick iron pipe. Light came from bare bulbs wrapped in iron cages that cut sharply etched shadows. The American’s coat had been removed, as had apparently a weapon since a shoulder holster hung empty.
“You killed two of my men,” he said.
Malone shrugged. “That’s what happens when you start shooting at someone.”
“Why are you here?”
“To find the old man, Belchenko, who clearly doesn’t want to be found. My mistake.”
“And two of my men are dead.”
“Whom you sent to kill me.”
“Are you a spy?”
“I’m a bookseller.”
He chuckled. “You told me on the radio that you are Cotton Malone. Where did you acquire such a name? Cotton.”
“It’s a long story, but since we have the time I’d be glad to tell you.”
“I have to leave.”
“Are you one of the Red Guard?”
This man was informed. “I served my country until the day my country dissolved.”
“And then you ended up here—in the middle of nowhere.”
“I came on my own, with others who believed as I did. We founded this place and have lived here peacefully for a long time. We have bothered no one, yet the government feels a need to spy on us.”
“I imagine millions of dead, innocent people would have said the same thing about the USSR.”
“I suppose they might. We did have a tendency to overdo things.”
Which seemed an understatement. Torture and death had been Soviet mainstays. He and every other KGB officer had been trained in their subtleties. Millions had indeed perished. When he first started with the KGB pain and violence had been its main tools of persuasion. He’d been trained extensively in how to twist their levels until the mind screamed. Then drugs became the more common tool to open closed mouths. After that, psychological tricks took over. Toward the end, physical stress rose in popularity. He’d read all about the CIA’s “enhanced interrogation techniques.” Just a fancy way to say torture. Which he, personally, didn’t mind. But judging by the look of this American—who appeared strong and confident—breaking him would take effort.
And he simply didn’t have the time.
“America has no idea what it meant to be Soviet,” he said. “Seventy-five million of us died in the 20th century, and no one gave a damn.”
“Most of whom were killed by either corrupt or stupid leaders. The Nazis were rank amateurs when it came to slaughtering people. You communists became the real pros. What were you, KGB?”
He nodded. “I led a spetsnaz unit, preparing for war with the United States.”
Which he liked saying.
“That’s all over now,” Malone said.
“Maybe not.”
He clearly remembered that horrible August day in 1991, watching from KGB headquarters as a mob stormed Lubyanka Square, spray-painting HANGMAN, BUTCHER, and swastikas across the building. They’d shaken their fists and cursed, then tried to topple Dzerzhinsky’s statue but could not bring the Iron Felix down. Finally a crane arrived and completed the task, leaving only a bare pedestal. Not a single person that day feared any retribution for desecrating the memory of the once feared head of the state police.
Their message came loud and clear.
Your time is over.
He recalled the paralyzing horror that had gripped him. The shouts, requests for calm, then a cacophony of sirens and chaos. For the first time in his life he had felt fear, that chilly sliver in the small of his back, something he’d made a career out of instilling in others. The incomprehensible possibilities in the future had sent a wave of doubt surging through his body that finally settled at his bladder, which voided. He’d stood at the window, watching below, feeling the shame of warm urine saturating his crouch and pant legs.
An awful moment.
Which he’d never described to anyone.
“Reagan was quite clever,” he said. “Much more so than Gorbachev. He set out to destroy us, and he accomplished the task.”
Thank goodness Americans believed in openness. Democracy thrived on a clash of ideas, a tolerance of viewpoints, and robust debate. Its proponents foolishly believed that truth would always prevail and the people were its best arbiter. The widest circulation of information was deemed good. Many American documents, once classified, had come to light thanks simply to the passage of time. Books had been written, which he’d read, that hinted at how the White House and the Vatican had worked together to bring Moscow to its knees. But where those books dealt only in speculation and conjecture, he knew things those authors did not. There had indeed been a plan, a conspiracy, a concerted effort to undermine the Soviet Union.
And it had worked.
He even knew its name.
Forward Pass.
“America has no idea the chaos it caused,” he said. “When you destroyed the Soviet political system all order ended, which allowed the criminals to take over. Everything I, and so many others, spent a lifetime defending disappeared. And did you give a damn?” He did not wait for a reply. “No one gave a damn. We were left on our own to wallow in failure.” He pointed a finger. “So we owe America. And I think it is time we repay that debt.”
It felt good to say those words. They’d lingered too long in the pit of his stomach. And though he was now in his sixties, the lessons learned from his youth had never been forgotten. In fact, those memories had helped sustain him for the past twenty-plus years. From this point on his actions would come swift and natural with no hesitation. There’d be no rationalization or quarrels of conscience.
Just results.
And he’d liked the freshness of that freedom.
Lately, he’d thought more and more about his time at the infantry academy, where before he became a spy he’d learned to be a soldier. His favorite instructor, a lieutenant colonel, had hammered into all of his students that the United States was glavny protivnik, the main adversary.
“To forget that will mean your death.”
And he hadn’t forgotten.
Many times in his career he’d been called upon to kill a foreign asset and, each time, he’d accomplished the task.
“Hate your neighbors, your classmates, even your friends, but never your fellow soldier. Remember, when the war comes all of you will have a common enemy. You must know and respect that enemy. Learn how America is organized. How it works. Know its strengths and weaknesses, and America makes that easy. They air their grievances to the world. Pay attention to them.”
And that war came.
But not from the main adversary he’d imagined. Instead, the battles had been fought with stealth, few even realizing they were being waged. Two generals, Reagan and the cursed Polish pope, had led the armies. Their weapons had not been bullets or bombs. Rather God, morality, and money had combined to pin the Soviet
Union into a political and economic corner from which it could not emerge.
No one saw it coming—until it was far too late.
Communists must thoroughly, carefully, attentively, and skillfully exploit every fissure, however small, among their enemies.
Lenin’s words from the 1920s, which the United States of America had followed with consummate skill.
Now it was his turn to follow that lead.
“You do know,” Malone said, “that the world has changed? The Cold War is over.”
“For you, perhaps. But not for me. I have a debt to pay, and I intend to pay it.”
In exactly 52 hours, but he kept that to himself.
His life as a spy had been both challenging and exhausting. He’d traveled the world, entering countries under false identities, hiding his true self and thoughts, his every action intended to manipulate, exploit, and betray. Cut off from his culture, language, and family he’d adapted, but never succumbed to the capitalist appeal. Survival had been his main concern, and he’d lived in fear every day of exposure, which could come from places far away and unexpected. Only an invincible loyalty to the Soviet cause had overcome that daily anxiety.
Which he still possessed.
He wore the pride of his past like a mantle on his shoulders. A KGB officer must have clean hands, an ardent heart, and a clear head. He hated all those who’d stolen that pride from him, both domestic and foreign. Once he was told that the only honorable way to leave the KGB was through death, and he’d come to believe that to be true.
He headed for the stairs. “I will send down the men you met earlier in the black bath. They have some business with you, and they are particularly motivated since the two you killed were their comrades.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Malone called out.
He stopped, turned, and offered a thin, self-satisfying smile.
“I never do.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WASHINGTON, DC
8:30 A.M.
Stephanie led Luke inside the Mandarin Oriental, the hotel she always frequented when in DC. They’d been dropped off by Nikolai Osin, who’d remained silent on the drive back from Virginia. She could tell that Luke wanted to press him for answers, but she’d telegraphed with her eyes that now was not the time. It was good to have the younger Daniels back on her team. She’d hired him originally as a favor to his uncle with the proviso that if he did not work out she was free to fire him. Danny had no problem with nepotism, but he despised incompetence no matter the source. Nobody got a free ride. Not even himself. Thankfully, Luke had proved to be an excellent agent, his Ranger training a valuable asset along with a brash personality, handsome looks, and a devil-may-care attitude. She also liked the fact that he called his mother every Sunday, regardless of where or what he was doing. Any thirty-year-old man who respected a parent that much was okay in her book.
“At some point,” Luke said, “am I going to be told what’s going on? I heard something back there about missing nukes. And I did just lose a car.”
They fled the cold morning air and entered the elegant lobby, people in overcoats hustling back and forth, the Friday business day beginning.
“And, by the way,” he said, “you let that Russkie off easy.”
“It’s clear he has a problem. We need to give him time to work it through.”
She turned and headed for the elevators.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To my room.”
“I’m not that kind of guy, if you know what I mean. And I don’t even work for you anymore.”
She smiled and kept walking.
They stepped onto the elevator and she pressed the button for the fourth floor. She could sympathize with Osin. Moscow had deliberately involved Washington in some internal affair. Surely they had a good reason, but that might have changed over the past few hours. The fact that 250 RA-115s once existed was disturbing enough, but the reality that five of those remained unaccounted for bordered on a crisis. She reminded herself that over twenty-five years had passed, and she doubted if any of those bombs would still be viable. Something that dangerous, that valuable, does not stay hidden that long. So the simple fact that none of those potential problems had ever surfaced brought her some comfort. She had to report this to the White House.
But first things first.
They left the elevator and she led the way down the quiet corridor to her suite. Inside, she sat before her laptop and sent an email that described the country and the house in Virginia, along with a grainy photo of the exterior she’d snapped with her phone.
“Is that to the White House?” Luke asked.
She nodded. “They’re all we have left. Officially, through the Justice Department, I’m not even supposed to be doing what I’m doing.”
“Pappy says you follow the rules about as good as he does.”
She knew the nickname Luke used for Malone, done more to irritate than anything else. The favor had been returned by Cotton with the label Frat Boy, which Luke was anything but.
“You need to stay away from him,” she said. “He’s a bad influence.”
“How bad is it for him right now?”
She’d tried not to think about it. “Enough I had to involve Cassiopeia. She didn’t like it, but she also didn’t refuse. She should be there shortly, if not already.”
“No idea if Malone’s dead or alive?”
She shook her head. “He’s good, so we have to assume he’s okay. You do realize, though, that by helping me out here you might kill your career.”
Luke shrugged. “Could be worse.”
He was just like his uncle. Both men loved swagger and bravado, and both could also back it up with action. Years ago, early in Danny Daniels’ first term, she and the president had not necessarily cared for each other. But a series of crises eventually drew them together until finally they both realized that feelings existed between them. Only Cassiopeia knew the whole truth. Cotton might know some, but he’d never insinuated a thing. It was a subject neither of them would ever broach. She knew that soon Danny would become the first American president, whether current or former, to divorce, his longtime marriage over, both Danielses having already amicably agreed to go their separate ways once they left the White House. Pauline had already found love somewhere else and her husband was happy for her. She deserves it, he’d said many times. Danny did, too, and he might find that happiness with her.
But that remained to be seen.
“Since I’m assuming you aren’t going to tell me a thing about those nukes, what is the Cincinnati?” Luke asked. “You said back at the house, not there. How about here?”
“It was America’s first homegrown boys’ club. It’s been around a long time, not bothering a soul.”
But for some reason the lover of a former communist spy had come all the way from Siberia to rifle through one of the society’s forgotten archives. How had Petrova even become aware that the cache existed? Stephanie knew enough about the Society of Cincinnati to know that they kept things fairly close, so she had to wonder if the group itself knew about the archive.
The laptop indicated an incoming message.
She and Luke read the response on the screen from Edwin Davis, the White House chief of staff.
The property in Virginia belongs to Bradley Charon. He died unexpectedly in a plane crash in 2002. An Internet search shows that the children and the second wife never got along. A probate fight is ongoing, lots of trials and appeals, the estate is nearly bankrupt. A fire six years ago destroyed part of the house. Definitely arson, probably started by one of the children, but nothing could ever be proved. Which is why no insurance claim was paid and the place fell into disrepair. Back taxes total in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. The county recently moved to sell the property at public auction. Hope that helps.
It helped a great deal since it provided a much-needed starting point. So she typed BRADLEY CHARON into Google and waited.
She narrowed the search by adding VIRGINIA, PROBATE FIGHT, and CINCINNATI.
The first page of results led to several newspaper accounts.
Charon had held a doctorate in political science, his family old money, he the last of a long line whose roots traced back to before the Revolution. He served as either a provost, dean, or president to three colleges and enjoyed a reputation as a learned man. He was married twice, the first for forty years, resulting in three children, the second for less than five, which seemed to have provided nothing but grief since the widow claimed she was entitled to everything.
“That’s a greedy bitch,” Luke said over her shoulder.
And she agreed. “Nobody wins those fights but the lawyers.”
“Kind of the way of the world, isn’t it?”
“It can be, when people lose sight of things.”
And losing seemed to be a Charon family trait. No one had emerged from the legal war with anything, the case bouncing between the local probate court and the Virginia appellate courts. So far, there’d been four judicial opinions and no resolution.
“After the house burned,” she said, “everybody apparently just abandoned it. The insurance company surely refused to pay on the claim, and none of the beneficiaries was going to sink a dime into the place. No one knew about the archive, or it would have been taken. Those books and manuscripts are worth a fortune.”
“So how does our foreign visitor know?”
That was the question of the moment.
Another of the entries on the Google page caught her attention and she clicked on it.
Charon’s obituary.
He’d been buried not far from the estate in a family plot near Manassas. It spoke of his family and his ties to the community, but it was the last paragraph that grabbed her attention.
He was an honored member of the Society of Cincinnati, responsible for the expansion of the society’s research library. Reminding America of the debt owed to the heroes of the Revolution was his life’s work. The honorary pallbearers at his funeral will include the society’s current president general.