by Jack Carr
“What have you found out on your end?”
“I can only share that with cleared Ground Branch staff.”
“If I don’t get thrown in prison for what I’m about to do, I might be just that. What do you know?” Reece pressed.
“This morning I received a call from a retired spook from the old days. He was Moscow station chief near the end of the Cold War. Knew your dad. He told me he got a personal call from a Russian intelligence officer named Aleksandr Zharkov, who warned him of an attack in Montana targeting James Reece and Raife Hastings.”
“What? Why would an SVR official want to save my life?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, Reece. I don’t know. Zharkov’s father is Ivan Zharkov, a Russian mob boss. He runs the Tambov Gang out of St. Petersburg.”
“That fits. The EKIA look like Russian mafia. They’re covered in prison ink.”
“FBI made the same assessment. So, my first instinct is that this is directly related to the intelligence package I gave you last year on Colonel Andrenov.”
Reece remembered firing the RPG-32 that turned Vasili Andrenov, a man responsible for manipulating markets with terrorist attacks across Europe and an attempted Russian coup that almost killed the president of the United States, into mulch.
“Vic, I’m going to have to get back to you. I have work to do.”
CHAPTER 48
SVR Headquarters, Moscow
THE FULL INTELLIGENCE REPORT on the Hastings family was on Aleksandr’s desk when he arrived that morning. It was more robust than even he would have imagined, with information going back to the 1970s. Soviet intelligence assets had aided insurgencies throughout the world and the Rhodesian Bush War was no exception. Detailed records of these operations were kept, and many duplicate reports from satellite nations were provided to the Soviets. The result was a treasure trove of information in the SVR’s records that spanned nearly a century.
The GRU had identified two brothers, Jonathan and Richard Hastings, as members of the elite Selous Scouts and further identified the family’s ranch in the nation’s lowveld as a possible target in years and wars gone by. Jonathan Hastings’s name came up again in Angola before he emigrated to the states and fell off the communist intelligence radar. Richard, it appeared, had never left the continent of his birth.
The remainder of the information had been gathered from open-source information and by hackers, including biographical, educational, and financial records on the entire family. They had significant landholdings in Montana as well as sizable sums in various investment vehicles. Jonathan Hastings had done very well for himself.
He examined the reports for Raife and Victoria Hastings and found nothing actionable. The final report was for Hanna Hastings. According to her social media profile, she was working in Romania on some type of agricultural project.
Aleksandr’s thumb and forefinger sensuously rubbed the human hair bracelet on his desk. Feeling a spark of arousal, he picked up the phone and placed a call.
CHAPTER 49
Saint Petersburg, Russia
GREY WALKED INTO THE office. His steps were slow and heavy and the gleam in his eyes had been replaced by a dull stare. He had aged over the last forty-eight hours. Svetlana felt a flicker of empathy for the man, as not all of her affection for Grey was false. Over the years, she had learned to find some attractive quality in each of her subjects so that she could make the illusion of her attraction to them real. In Grey, she had found intelligence and an almost boyish innocence that brought out her own maternal instincts. Still, his seduction was a job, a way to survive. Her mother had taught her that if she did not look out for herself, no one would. Her mother had been right.
The look on her face was one of genuine sympathy when she took his coat and bid him good morning. Grey acted as if she were invisible as he walked into his office and stared blankly at the monitor before him.
His plan had failed. Reece was alive, and a dozen of Zharkov’s men were presumed dead. His operation had been a complete disaster. If this had happened back at the Agency, he would have been ruined, banished to sort mail the remainder of his career. Here, however, he was afraid that he would meet a different end, one that might involve a bullet and a ditch.
There was nowhere else for him to run. He would march down to Ivan’s office, give him a full report, and throw himself on the mercy of the Pakhan. He asked Svetlana to set the meeting and occupied his time by arranging the documents for the brief. Forty-five minutes later he looked at the Rolex on his wrist. It was time. He rose from his desk and marched dutifully toward his judgment.
One of the double doors to Ivan’s office was partially open and Grey rapped lightly to announce his presence. The patriarch looked up from a stack of papers on his desk and beckoned the former CIA man inside. To Grey’s relief, there was no plastic on the floor and no thugs waiting in the corner to drag him away. The office, half-encapsulated in the mirrored glass that made up the building’s exterior, was tastefully decorated with relics of Zharkov’s travels: a basket of tribal spears in the corner, a Cossack’s saber hanging on the wall. The most striking element, though, was the lion. A snarling black-maned cat stood mounted behind Ivan like a guardian in contrast to the Russian’s measured demeanor. It stood for the power of the brotherhood that he led. Ivan could speak softly because there was an army of lions behind him, waiting to pounce.
He motioned for Grey to sit and offered him tea. Grey politely declined.
“Pakhan, I will get right to the point. I have some very bad news to deliver.”
“Go on.”
“The operation in the U.S. appears to have met with unexpected resistance. Someone must have warned James Reece of the attack; he stopped just shy of the ambush, turned around, and sped off. Vitya’s team pursued him to the Hastingses’ ranch but that was the last we heard from them. I cannot reach Dimitry. I fear the worst.”
Ivan paused as if deep in thought. He already knew about the disaster in Montana but feigned ignorance.
“What do you think went wrong, Oliver?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s possible that U.S. intelligence caught wind of it somehow, but I used every method available to avoid their detection. I know how they work. The only plausible explanation is that we were betrayed.”
“You’re saying we have a traitor in our midst?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if we can figure out the ‘why’ we will figure out the ‘who’? Why would someone in your organization, our organization, want to help Reece?”
“What do you know about lions, Oliver?”
“Lions?” Grey asked, slightly confused.
“Yes, lions. Panthera leo. African lions.”
“I’m not much of an outdoor person.”
“Well, I know them, Oliver. I hunted for twenty-one days before I took this brute behind me in Mozambique. We shot bait animals and chained them up in trees. We waited and waited until his hunger overcame his sense of danger. He was an old male who had been kicked out of the pride to die alone. One day he was the most powerful animal on the block and the next he had lost all respect. Do you know who did this to him, Oliver?”
“No, sir.”
“His son. When a lion’s son gets to maturity, he challenges his father for the right to lead the pride. Eventually this comes to a head, and they fight, sometimes to the death. If the father is lucky, he survives, and he limps away to live in solitude for the rest of his days. It’s the natural order of things, Oliver.”
“I don’t understand what this has to do with James Reece, sir.”
“That’s because—forgive me for being blunt—you didn’t have a father, and you don’t have a son. It’s a struggle as old as mankind itself.”
Oliver took a moment to consider the situation and everything the old man had just relayed.
“Your son, Aleksandr, is an intelligence officer. He wants to take over the bratva and would have his own assets imbedded in your organization?” Grey asked, thinking of Svetlana and
finally comprehending the significance of the lions. Could she have betrayed him?
Ivan nodded slowly.
“But why? Why would he want James Reece alive?”
“So that he can hunt him, Oliver.”
CHAPTER 50
Boundary County, Idaho
United States/Canadian Border
THE ALBATROSS CIRCLED THE lake, its iridescent waters a colder version of Caribbean blue. Officially known as an “inholding,” Senator Thornton’s wilderness retreat was located in a remote section of the Kaniksu National Forest, on the border between Idaho and Canada. Privately held from a time before the area was designated a national forest in 1908, Thorn used it as an escape during his years in Congress so his staff could truthfully answer that he was “out of the state” when he needed a reset.
Reece remained in the back of the plane with their prisoner, curiously studying the man he would soon kill. The Russian’s head was bagged, his eyes underneath taped over with riggers’ tape. They’d given him four oral disk fentanyl wafers for the pain, and to knock him out for the flight to a more remote location. Reece’s memory flashed back to the chaotic days at the height of the war when enhanced interrogation techniques were the order of the day, and a time when Iraqi units who did not abide by such rules did what came naturally. War brought out the best and worst in one’s fellow man.
Reece saw the Russian leveling his AK at those he cared about, those who had provided him sanctuary: Katie, Raife, Annika, Jonathan, Caroline, Thorn. It was his fault. He had been targeted on U.S. soil and even with all the security precautions in place, they had found him. Reece was going to find out who they were. As the plane began its final approach, he saw the prisoner level his rifle at Katie’s head and pull the trigger, her frightened face turning into that of his beautiful wife before being riddled with bullets. Suppressing an urge to choke the life out of the man before him, Reece closed his eyes.
Patience, Reece. You need him.
As Liz put the plane down with expert precision and floated to a dock, Reece unbuckled his harness and stuck his head into the cockpit.
“How’s Khrushchev doing back there?” Liz asked.
“He’s still alive. Where’s the cabin?”
“You’ll be able to see it back in the woods momentarily.”
“Beautiful spot,” Reece offered.
“Yeah, Thorn usually flies in alone, but, every now and again, he’ll have a guest and I’ll ferry them to and from the airport. Make yourself useful and tie us up.”
Reece jumped from the side door of the antique aircraft and secured the amphibious bird to the cleats spaced along the mooring. Liz cut the engine and joined her friend on the pier.
“I’ll need your help getting him to the cabin, Liz. After that, I want you to come back to the plane and wait. I don’t want you to see this.”
“Are you forgetting what those savages almost did to me in Iraq? You think I’m squeamish about this? Whatever you are going to do, I can help. These Russian clowns almost killed me and the closest thing we both have to a family. Whoever sent them wanted you and Raife dead for a reason and they didn’t care who they had to kill to get to you. Whatever you are going to do to this asshole, not only does he deserve it, but it’s not you who’s responsible; it’s whoever sent him. Find out, Reece. And don’t feel one ounce of pity.”
“Did you see the prison tattoos? This is going to take a bit of work.”
Reece and Liz secured the Russian to the plane’s Israeli stretcher with wrap upon wrap of riggers’ tape and maneuvered him through the hatch and up to Thorn’s cabin. Steps offered access to a spacious yet rickety deck adorned with a basic black Weber grill showing its age next to a handmade picnic table. Liz opened the door, allowing Reece to take stock of his surroundings. It was a humble structure by necessity, quite literally cut from the wilderness. Each and every piece had been flown in or borrowed from the surrounding environment. The result looked more like a trapper’s cabin than an escape for one of the wealthiest men in Montana, and that was just what Thorn was after. The main room hosted a small kitchen, one round table, and an old iron wood-burning stove. A loft with a narrow staircase overlooked the gathering area, and a short hallway led to two guest bedrooms. Tall trees surrounded the refuge, filtering the late afternoon sunlight and leaving the room in perpetual shadow. It was perfect.
“Let’s get him in a chair. I’ll take it from there.”
CHAPTER 51
Community Agricultural Project, Moldavia, Romania
THE SUN WAS SETTING as Hanna Hastings leaned against the fender of her Renault pickup, making notes on her tablet. The harvest was going well, despite a lack of modern combines. The single machine they had dated back to the 1970s and had already broken down twice. What these farmers lacked in technology, they made up for in resilience. When the machinery malfunctioned, the most skilled mechanics of the group would go to work on it, despite a complete lack of replacement parts. While those repairs were taking place, the community came out and continued the harvest with hand tools just as they’d done for centuries. These were hard men and women from a harsh land; they reminded her of her family in Montana.
Windswept hills provided fertile soil but droughts threatened to ruin crops and crush wills. Hanna had received a grant to dig a well, build a basic irrigation system, and introduce the local farmers to modern seeds and chemical fertilizers. The results of their efforts were paying off. This year’s yield appeared to be the best that anyone could remember, despite a relatively dry summer.
Hanna was a horticulturist and crop specialist with a master’s degree from Utah State University. She had been born in the United States after her family had immigrated to Montana and, as the baby of the family, she had always rooted for the underdog.
She was only eight years old when she found her first cause. The ranch hands had moved some cattle to a fresh pasture and a newborn calf had been separated from the herd. They quickly discovered the oversight and reunited the calf with the herd, but her mother would not claim her. The calf was dehydrated and weak when Hanna first became aware of her plight. Caroline drove her to the feed store in Winfred, where she used her allowance to buy a nursing bottle and a large bag of milk replacer. She also made a deal with her father: if the calf survived, she would never be sent to auction. Jonathan reluctantly agreed; he’d never been good about saying no to his youngest daughter. She named the calf Patches and nursed her back to health in a hastily built pen. Patches regained her strength and was soon able to rejoin the herd, living a long life and having many calves of her own. Those calves earned thousands of dollars in revenue for the ranch, which Jonathan dutifully placed into Hanna’s savings account. One of the family’s favorite photos was a snapshot of Hanna sitting inside Patches’s pen with her legs crossed, bottle-feeding her rescued calf.
It came as no surprise when Hanna turned down a potentially lucrative career with a seed company and chose to work for an NGO educating farmers in developing countries. She was currently helping modernize the farming practices of one of the poorest countries in the European Union. She stayed in touch with her family through email and Skype and planned to return to Montana for Christmas.
Her father always joked that Hanna was the bleeding heart of the family, but that wasn’t exactly true. Though she was incredibly compassionate, she was very much of the “teach them to fish” mind-set. Her father was right about one thing, though: she couldn’t save the entire world by herself. She looked forward to going home in a few short months. She’d been away too long.
* * *
An hour later Hanna picked at her dinner at the small table that served as a dining room, her laptop next to her. The living conditions of the small farmstead apartment should have been uncomfortable for a wealthy American, but she had a genuine appreciation for the simplicity of it all. She tried to email her parents, but the farm’s satellite internet signal was down, as usual.
Headlights flashed across the ceiling as a vehi
cle turned onto her lane, the beams casting eerie shadows as they filtered through the high window frames. She heard footfalls on the stone walkway as a figure approached. Visitors after nightfall were not a normal occurrence. Listening to her sixth sense, Hanna looked around for something to use as a weapon and picked up a battered kitchen knife. The knock at the door sent a shiver down her spine, but a woman’s voice put her at ease.
“Excuse me,” the woman said in Romanian.
Hanna peeked through the window shade and saw a young, well-dressed female.
“Can I help you?”
“My husband and I are lost. Is this the road to the bed-and-breakfast?”
She could see that the woman was holding a smartphone, presumably trying to find a location on the map that would not come up due to that lack of coverage in the area. Still suspicious, Hanna unlocked the door and stepped out to help, holding the knife in her right hand, the blade pressed upward against her forearm to conceal it. The woman smiled and held out the phone so that Hanna could see the map. She leaned in to see where she was pointing.
“Thank you so much.”
Hanna opened her mouth to respond but was grabbed in a powerful bear hug from behind. She slashed backward with the knife and felt the resistance of clothing, flesh, and bone. The vise grip loosened as her attacker grunted in pain. Twisting away, she turned and ran back through the doorway, sprinting through her home for the back door that led into the night. If she could get out of the house, she would have a two-hundred-yard dash to the forest. She heard footsteps behind her and threw a chair into the doorway to slow her pursuer.
Almost there. The back door. A chance to escape.
Slamming her shoulder into the back door, she catapulted herself toward the tree line and was knocked to the ground with a two-by-four to the face. She fell backward, crashing back into the door frame, the knife slipping from her grasp. Bloodied and barely conscious against the side of the house, she had no defense when the man she had stabbed appeared and struck the left side of her head. Before the others pulled him off, he landed another blow where her jawline met her ear, sending her spiraling into darkness.