by Jeff Abbott
“Be still,” Irina said. So he lay still.
He remembered their conversation after he left the plane:
There’s a problem, Philip. Would you please come with me?
What’s the problem? Thinking: Kill her if you have to and make a run for it.
It involves that man you were talking to before. Sam.
I only just met him.
We have a problem with him and I need your help. Please.
A problem with Sam. He could not walk away. Danny felt a mortal fear take hold of his bones.
They’d walked through the woods toward the empty house on the edge of the compound, and when he’d looked back the two men seized him, gagged and handcuffed him, and dragged him, hooded, through the woods and into a house. He didn’t fight back because…Sam. They had Sam. Down a flight of stairs and then across concrete.
He lay on the floor and then he heard footsteps leaving, the door shutting.
Then silence.
“Hello?” he said to the quiet.
“I’m still here,” Irina said.
“What’s happening, Irina? I don’t think the president or Stefan will appreciate my being treated this way.”
“Morozov isn’t going to have a lot of worries for long. Thank you for that.”
He kept still. “I see.”
“You’ve fallen under my suspicion for being an enemy of the people and the state. Not that it matters as much as being an enemy of the inner circle.”
He struggled against his bonds. “Irina…”
“You’re just going to sit and wait here for a while,” she said. “We’re going to let your wonderful plot with the polonium play out. I figured out your method. It’s very…Sergei.”
He bit his lip. “You think they won’t connect me to you?”
She let five long seconds tick by. “I’m quite sure of it.”
“You’re Firebird. Not Kirov or Katya or Stefan or his father.”
“Sergei called me that. His nickname for me, because of my red hair. I was his firebird.”
He tried: “I didn’t poison him. I didn’t have the chance. You have to let me get on the plane…”
“I hope you’re a better killer than you are a liar. I know you were on the plane. I made sure the lounge was cleared for you.”
“Irina. Listen to me. I knew your husband. Sergei. I was loyal to him… He saved my life. I don’t know why you want Morozov dead…”
“You killed my husband,” she said.
He was silent. “I didn’t.”
“You tampered with the bombs. At the Morozov brothers’ orders.”
“You’re wrong.” His voice sounded oddly flat.
“Don’t lie to me. I know what you are. My husband’s secret weapon. The one I was never supposed to know about. The one who turned on him.”
“The Morozovs never ordered me to kill him,” Danny said. That part was true.
“Then you’re just unlucky.”
“So what happens now? Morozov falls deathly ill to the polonium about the time he lands in America and you put my head on a stake?”
“I’ll have been the one suspicious of you, who caught you,” she said.
She shut the door behind her and he heard four bolts click into place.
Get out of here, Sam, now, get out of here.
63
The Presidential Ilyushin
MIDNIGHT. THERE WAS a grand procession to the plane. Morozov, Kirov, Varro. Stefan and Katya and their entourages. Journalists. People that they did business with in the UK, Spain, Canada, the United States, Switzerland, Japan. Members of the press. Members of the American diplomatic corps. Waving, the cameras rolling.
Names of those flying to Washington, DC, were checked off the lists displayed on the tablet computers held by both Belinsky Global Security personnel and the Russian federal agents charged with protecting the president on the plane, before arrival in the United States, before the Americans took responsibility for his safety.
The security man checked off the name of the last boarding passenger—an American software CEO—and then glanced at the list on his tablet computer. One more, Philip Judge. Suddenly the Judge name was stricken from the list. Must be a last-minute cancellation, he thought.
He tapped and sent the finalized list to Irina Belinskaya, who messaged him back her thanks and told him to proceed. As the oligarchs would be protected by American security personnel while on US soil, she would not be accompanying the group on the plane.
Everyone who was supposed to be aboard was, and the guard helped the ground crew wheel the stairway away from the plane.
On the plane, Katya Kirova found a seat. Her hands were shaking and she folded them in her lap. She would call Seaforth’s people once they landed. Her father sat by her for a moment. He patted her arm.
“I need you, Katya. You stay with me when we get to America. All the time.”
“Yes, Papa,” she lied.
In the front of the Ilyushin, the steward told an aide that the tea in the samovar was ready, as per custom for the president. The aide filled the double-eagle mug, stirred in a teaspoon of jam, and brought the hot, dark brew to Morozov. He toasted to their journey, to their success in going to the West.
They raised their cups and they drank.
Morozov took a long sip from the cup and smiled for the journalists, who snapped his picture in the toast. He waved.
Then he noticed the investment report script in his seat. Ah, the pushy, oddball American investor friend of Stefan’s. Morozov liked him. This investor, leaving him something to read on the plane, thinking he had no other concerns. He admired, however, his persistence. Such people got what they wanted. He handed the report to one of his assistants and told him to put it in his briefcase.
Then he finished his tea and listened to the chatter of his staff around him.
“More tea, sir?” the cabin steward asked. The man had been trained well.
“Yes, another cup. But make sure no more alcohol is to be served. If anyone has overindulged then get them tea or coffee.”
“Yes, sir.” The steward took the mug to the samovar and refilled it. He added a generous dollop of jam, stirred it into the hot tea, and brought the mug back to Morozov, who took another sip. This mugful tasted better, he thought, than the first one.
He sat down and closed his eyes for just a moment, as those around him chattered and settled in for the long flight. He could sleep in the double-eagle chair. He had already heard from the Western press that the “party plane,” as they had dubbed it, suggested that the Russian delegation would arrive in DC looking much the worse for wear and at a disadvantage. He was ready to prove them wrong.
A few minutes later the Ilyushin speared the night in a thunderous rise, flying on a northern trajectory, toward the United States, winging toward its destiny.
And Morozov sipped his tea.
64
The Empty House, Nebo
THE GUARDS STOOD inside the entry hall of the small house. Sam could hear them, speaking softly in Russian. One he recognized as the guard he’d beaten earlier, freed and back on duty. Then the two guards went back to the kitchen.
He considered his nearly nonexistent options.
He circled the mansion, staying below the windows. He listened at each of the windows, best that he could, the noise of the crowd and the music of the farewells drifting on the wind.
He didn’t hear Danny. He didn’t hear anything.
But he did hear the engines of the presidential Ilyushin power up. He hoped Katya was on it, escaping to America. The takeoff would be loud, momentarily deafening as the jet soared above Nebo. It might give him a chance.
He tried the back door. It was locked. A window beckoned. He broke it, softly, using his suit jacket to shield his hand and the roar of the departing jet to mask the sound. He listened. No sound of an alarm from the house.
He shoved up the window and crawled inside, into darkness.
He was in a s
tudy. A sofa, a desk, comfortable chairs.
He moved quickly through the house. No sign of Irina or the two guards. Irina detaining Danny after his visit to the presidential plane, without turning him over to the police—it could mean only one thing.
She was Firebird.
He didn’t know why but if Kirov didn’t know about the money, then she was stealing it from where she knew the oligarchs had hidden it. She was robbing them to pay Danny. Hiding it on the yacht, in a secured room. She wanted Morozov dead for some reason. Why didn’t matter. He just had to find Danny and get him out. Their only advantage was that if Morozov wasn’t dead yet, she could hardly raise the alarm without implicating herself in the plot.
And with Mila’s car maybe they could make a run for Latvia or Finland. Seaforth had told Katya to try for Finland, and so would he. The border was over twelve hours away by car, but the police normally wouldn’t stop a car with diplomatic plates. Unless ordered to.
A thought, borne of his love for his son and his parents, crept into his mind: You could leave right now. With Mila. He’s made his choices. He’s caught. He walked away from you. He chose to let you think he was dead. He was cruel. You owe him nothing.
The first order, remember, we don’t ever leave each other behind. Whispered in Burundi. Long ago. Still true.
He moved down a hallway, into the empty kitchen. Beyond was another room, a dining space for the staff, he guessed, and he heard a muted conversation between the two guards. The kitchen was well-appointed, and he took a cooking knife off the magnetic strip that hung above the stove’s granite island.
The guards were checking in with the wider network. Sitting in the chair, drinking water, was the guard he’d beaten earlier. “Echo Two, Echo Three, at small house, per orders.” The guard on the right said, “All clear,” and the time code and copy, signing off. They walked into the kitchen, one stripping off his headset. Sam was behind the island as one came around. Sam rose and put the knife to the man’s throat as he turned.
“Freeze or I’ll cut his throat,” Sam said and the second man—the one Sam had beaten with the chair—froze. He looked at Sam with a burning fury. Sam pulled the first guard’s gun—an MP-443 Grach pistol—from its holster and gestured the second guard to lie flat on the floor, hands behind him. The man obeyed.
The guard with the knife at his throat was older, grizzled, head shaved bald, in his fifties but thickly built. He said, “You’ve made a very bad decision.”
“I know,” Sam said, “but it’s mine. On the floor.” The bald man obeyed. He relieved the second guard of his holstered Grach, keeping the gun aimed at the back of the first man’s head. And as he did so the second guard—younger, face contorted with anger at having been surprised—tried to grab at his legs and yelled something in Russian at the bald guard.
It was like a coordinated play from a coach. The younger guard kicked out Sam’s legs, catching one. Sam fired and missed, the bullet hammering into the floor. The bald guard jumped to his feet, trying to wrap a meaty arm around Sam’s throat. Sam slashed at the man’s arm with the knife and the bald guard grunted but didn’t cry out. These were tough men, hardened in Chechen service and Russian intelligence.
The younger guard barreled into Sam before he could shift position for better advantage. Sam’s head snapped back and hit the kitchen counter. He leaned back, spinning free of both of them, fighting to stay on his feet, raising the Grach to fire again. The younger guard sent a hammering blow into Sam’s temple.
He fell, and the bald guard stood on his hands, forcing first the knife and then the Grach from his grip, and then the younger guard started hitting him. Four hard blows.
At some point the man stopped. Sam heard them arguing over whether or not to kill him. Irina’s name was mentioned. Then the men dragged Sam down the basement stairs.
65
The Empty House, Nebo
SAM OPENED HIS eyes to grogginess and pain, feeling the touch of fingers on the pulse in his throat. His brother lay next to him, staring into his face.
“Are you all right?” Danny asked.
Sam stared at him. “Yes.” He struggled to sit up. He was bound with zip ties. He could see Danny was bound as well. His face hurt and he was bleeding from his nose and his ear.
“Not long now,” Irina said. Sam blinked. They were on a concrete floor.
He tried to sit up; he couldn’t. “What…what have you done?” Sam said.
“Are you asking him or me?” Irina said. She knelt by Danny. “Thanks for doing your job so well.”
Danny closed his eyes.
She glanced at her watch. “We just need to wait a few hours.”
“You’re Firebird. Not one of the oligarchs,” Sam said.
“Shut up,” Danny told him.
Irina said nothing. She ran a fingertip along Sam’s jaw. “Little fool.” Then she slapped Danny. “Murderer.”
“Are you going to kill us?” Sam asked.
The most important question garnered a response from her. “It’s important, for history, for justice, for the people of Russia, that you be captured trying to escape the country. So in a bit, we’ll go for a long ride. Security forces will catch up with you just before you cross the Latvian border.”
“Captured and killed,” Sam said.
Irina shrugged.
“You’re framing us.”
“You can hardly call it a frame when Philip here actually has poisoned Morozov.”
Sam looked at him. She didn’t call him Danny. She didn’t know they were brothers. “With what?” Sam asked.
“Polonium-210. It was in an eyedrops bottle. I put a drop in a tea mug only he uses.”
She held up an eyedrops bottle she’d pulled from Danny’s jacket. “We’ll put this back in your jacket once you’re dead.”
Danny was silent. So was Sam.
Irina crossed her legs and picked a bit of dust off one of the heels. “Look at our guilty parties. Our two noble players on the stage. A man the world presumed dead, and a CIA operative who attempted to kidnap a Russian heiress whose father was collecting cash to pay the assassin. You’re the icing on the cake, Sam. The Americans will look very, very guilty. Killing poor Morozov just as he came to make peace with the West.”
“Maybe Morozov ordered Sergei dead, but I didn’t do it,” Danny said.
“I heard a rumor, more than once, that he had a man he’d found in Afghanistan, trained, made into his weapon. When I asked him about you he denied it. But others told me you existed. And then Sergei was dead. And you were the only person he trusted. The only one who could have gotten close enough to kill him. It took a long time to find you.”
Danny said, “This is personal. I mean…” He said it almost in shock.
“This isn’t an assassination,” Sam said. “This is a small-town murder, just on a big stage. You want him dead. Not for politics. For simple revenge.” He wriggled in his bonds, trying to sit up, his mind clearing while his body ached from the punches he’d taken.
Irina said nothing.
Sam said, “Sergei ran the heroin smuggling out of Afghanistan. He was the Big Man. But why is an FSB agent running heroin? Why? It’s because he was doing these side jobs for the Morozovs: arranging murders of enemies, buying off officials; the heroin money funded all these dirty jobs.” He twisted to look at Danny. “Am I wrong?”
Danny stared at him, then closed his eyes.
“There was a letter in Anton Varro’s pocket in that village. He wrote it to you, Irina. Who else would have had influence over Sergei in his dealings with the Morozovs? Trying to warn you about what Sergei had done, asking you to reason with him. That he planned to kill a CIA agent.” He realized now the brothers referred to in the letter weren’t the Brothers of the Mountain; they were the brothers Morozov, who could not have kept a man close to them who’d killed a CIA operative. It was too politically dangerous if the truth came out.
She looked confused. Of course. She’d never seen the letter
. It had never been sent.
“Sergei killed a CIA agent?” she asked.
“Yes,” Danny said. “And I have photographs to prove it was him. If you don’t let us go, they’ll be published.”
Sam wondered if that was a bluff.
But Irina laughed. “Thank you. So kind of you. When it comes out that Morozov’s right-hand man”—she choked a bit as she called Sergei this—“killed a CIA agent,” she said, “and that the CIA was trying to turn Katya, and sent an agent after her…no one will look at me. And Morozov will have paid for what he did to Sergei. He’ll be dead and his memory ruined.”
She glanced at him but knelt down by Danny. “I’m tired of confessing. Although it is a relief. I’m more interested in your confession.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Irina stood. “I have to go deal with the guards and the remaining guests. Presumably there will be news soon from the plane, bad news. Thank you for that.” She turned and left.
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” Danny said. “I’m so sorry.”
Irina went upstairs, talked to the two guards, and gave instructions. She put the eyedrops in her pocket, although carrying them made her nervous. Then she walked out of the house, took a steadying deep breath on the steps, and headed toward the presidential mansion.
From the shadows, Mila moved forward.
66
The Empty House, Nebo
THE CELLAR DOOR opened. Mila.
“Mila,” Sam said. “Irina and her men are upstairs.”
“The men are not a problem. They let their guard down once you arrived.”
“Hello again,” Danny said.
Mila cut Sam’s bonds with a knife that already had blood on it. She made no move to cut Danny’s.