by Jack Carr
“Why would Grey want to kill you? Why wouldn’t he just lie low in Russia?”
“I can think of a couple reasons. First is that he knows I’m going to track him down. He’s right about that. He’s one of two people left who had a hand in killing Freddy. He wanted to put me down before I got the chance.”
Katie frowned at the casual way Reece referred to killing like it was a normal everyday occurrence and she had to remind herself that for him, it was.
“And the second?”
Reece thought of the stainless steel Submariner that used to adorn his father’s wrist. He’d purchased it in a PX in Vietnam, and worn it every day Reece could remember.
“I think Grey had my father killed, Katie. I can’t prove it, but I’ve been doing some reading while I was in the mountains. I asked Vic for some files after the Odessa incident.”
“When you save the life of the president it probably opens a few file cabinets.”
“It doesn’t hurt. I had Vic put together a list of my father’s postings at the CIA from just before 9/11 until his death. Oliver Grey was in Buenos Aires the night my father was killed.”
“I thought you told me he was an analyst, a desk guy.”
“He was. I think he used the recruitment skills that Andrenov taught him to recruit a contract agent named Jules Landry to do the actual killing.”
“But why, Reece? Why would a former Soviet spy want to kill your father? Because of something that happened in the Cold War? I thought a lot of the warriors on opposite sides of the Iron Curtain were actually friends now?”
“I wondered the same thing. It goes back farther than that. It turns out that Grey signed out a file in 1993. That file was an after-action report from a MACV-SOG operation in Vietnam that resulted in the death of a Russian advisor. Can you guess the advisor’s last name?”
“Andrenov.”
“That’s right. And can you guess who led the mission?”
“Tom Reece.”
“Right again. I think Andrenov recruited Grey to find out who killed his father and then all those years later finally got his revenge.”
“I think we need to switch to something stronger than Black Rifle coffee. I need a drink,” Katie said, standing up to retrieve two glasses from the cabinet.
“I don’t have any Semper yet, but I do have a nice bottle of Sea Smoke.”
“That’ll do.”
“It’s a 2013 TEN. My dad gets a case on his birthday every year from his golfing buddy, Nick Coussoulis. He and his wife, Tina, own a golf course out in California and get it at cost for the restaurant there. My dad always saves me a bottle,” Katie said as Reece organized his thoughts.
“That’s nice of him.”
“That reminds me. There’s no good time to tell you. He sent me three boxes to give to you. My parents were listed as next of kin when your mom passed away. You were presumed dead, so the nursing home shipped the last of her things to my parents. I have them in the back closet when you want them.”
“Thanks, Katie. I’ll go through them when this is all over. Now, where were we?”
“You were just getting to the part where Grey almost kills us.”
“Right. I think Grey saw an opportunity to use both the protection and resources of the Russian mob to launch a hit on me on U.S. soil.”
“Why Raife as well?”
“That’s a question I’m going to put to Vic tomorrow.”
“And who tipped off the CIA about the attack in Montana?”
“That’s where this gets a little strange. A former Agency case officer who spent a lot of time in Russia got a call from a Russian intelligence official named Aleksandr Zharkov, warning him of the attack. He called Vic, who contacted us just in time.”
“Any relation to Ivan Zharkov?”
“It’s his son.”
“So, let me get this straight.” Katie’s analytical mind was going to work. “A Russian mob boss hires a former CIA mole who then plans your murder but gets sold out by the mafia don’s son?”
“As best as I can figure it.”
“Anywhere else but Russia, that would be crazy.”
“Fair point,” Reece conceded.
“Maybe they went after Hanna when the attack in Montana failed to draw you and Raife out so they can try again?”
“It’s possible.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
Reece nodded.
“During my interrogation of the Russian who survived the attack he told me that Aleksandr Zharkov imports humans to his own private hunting ground on an island off the Kamchatka Peninsula.”
“To do what?” Katie asked, already dreading the answer.
“He hunts them. Raife is on his way there now. I’m going to see if I can talk Vic into mounting a rescue operation but the odds of that happening are slim. What I really need from him is information.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“This is the part you might not want to hear.”
Katie took off her small pair of black-rimmed glasses and set them on the legal pad covered with her hastily scribbled notes and looked at him, her blue eyes clouded with sadness.
“Even if the CIA says no, you’re leaving again, aren’t you?”
“It’s my fault, Katie; the attack in Montana, Hanna’s disappearance, now Raife. I need to find her. One way or another, after I get what I can from the Agency, I’ll have to go.”
“Where?”
“Medny Island.”
CHAPTER 56
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia
IT WAS EARLY AND they’d beaten rush hour, so traffic on the George Washington Parkway was relatively light. It was already hot and oppressively humid, the aging 4Runner’s air-conditioning struggling to cool the SUV’s interior. As they made the scenic drive along the Potomac River, Reece couldn’t help but think about the last time they’d been on this road together, going to say good-bye to his parents at Arlington. It looked different now, the deep snow having transformed into lush green grass. They drove by the airport on the right and then the Pentagon on the left and eventually passed Arlington National Cemetery. Sweat-soaked joggers and cyclists were out in force on the sidewalks that flanked the river, many of them crossing the Memorial Bridge into D.C. proper.
Katie took the exit that led directly to the north security gate and rolled down her window as they approached a team of guards wearing body armor and BDU-style uniforms. Reece leaned over the console and held out his green contractor badge for the officer to inspect.
“She’s just dropping me off. I’ve got a meeting at six thirty.”
“No problem, sir, but you’re going to have to get out here. We can give you a ride up to the building.”
“Thanks.” He turned to Katie. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”
“You be safe, James Reece.”
“Semper,” he said with a wink.
The security officer directed Katie to where she could make a U-turn and another waved Reece toward a Chevy Equinox with a light bar on the roof for the short drive to the headquarters building. Reece had been to CIA headquarters on a few occasions in the past but had never asked about a large black aircraft that towered above the road on a pedestal.
“Is that an SR-71?”
“Everyone thinks that but it’s actually an A-12 Oxcart, the Agency’s version. It was a tad faster than the Blackbird and it only had one crew member.”
“Guess you’ve answered that question before.”
“Every day, man, every damn day. Here we are,” the officer said as he pulled the small SUV to the curb outside the “new” and “old” headquarters buildings.
“Thanks for the ride.”
He had scrounged up a collared shirt but even if he’d worn a suit, there was nothing about James Reece that blended in at Langley.
He entered the hallowed ground of the old building, stepping across the mosaic Central Intelligence Agency seal. As was his cu
stom, he walked to the Wall of Honor on the north side of the lobby, where black stars representing the fallen were chiseled into the white marble. Flanked by the flag of the nation and the flag of the Agency, the stars were a daily reminder to those who crossed the threshold that they were the country’s first line of defense. Above the 133 stars were the words:
IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THE COUNTRY
Reece looked down at the glass case protruding from the wall that held the Book of Honor under lock and key. A black Moroccan goatskin logbook lay in wait for its inch-thick glass to be opened yet again; for another date to be inscribed and sometimes a name to correspond with a new star on the wall above. Reece slowly scanned the names visible through the glass in silent respect, hovering over those he knew. He was in the company of warriors. The page had already been turned on the seventy-ninth star representing Johnny “Mike” Spann from one of the first battles in the War on Terror. It had also been turned on the page with Chris Mueller and “Chief,” whose actions under fire in Afghanistan defined heroism. The current pages displayed under protective glass were almost at capacity and soon the page would be turned yet again. Reece’s eyes hovered over the names of [Redacted], Glen Doherty, Ty Woods, and [Redacted]. Nineteen other stars stood out on the page, names withheld. Reece knew more than a few, their names and the circumstances of their deaths locked away on secure hard drives and in the memories of those who were there.
Reece ran his fingers over the newest star, the one that represented his friend Freddy Strain. Reece had been there for the ceremony, as had the president. Memories of his old teammate flashed through his mind: sniper school, their first post-9/11 deployment, Mozambique, Odessa, the funeral, Freddy’s family. Reece closed his eyes, Freddy’s face coming to him from beyond the grave.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Reece whispered, knowing that if it were not for him, Freddy’s kids would still have a father. He closed his eyes tighter. I’d trade places with you if I could. I should be the one in the ground. Freddy smiled, his face blurring in Reece’s memory, morphing into another face. This one was hazy, and Reece couldn’t quite make it out. But the blur had a name; Nizar Kattan, the Syrian sniper who had pressed the trigger that took Freddy as he rendered aid to a wounded Secret Service agent on a rooftop half a world away. Reece had anonymously set up a trust to take care of Freddy’s special needs child. The money he’d used had been a reward from the British Crown for taking out the terrorist some had come to call Europe’s Osama bin Laden.
Reece knew that Freddy’s was one of the names not written next to his star; classified, just like the star that represented Thomas Reece. A bureaucrat somewhere in the building had decided omitting the names was necessary so as not to expose certain sources and methods.
Reece stepped back and took a breath, composing himself as CIA staff came and went behind him, wearing suits and carrying briefcases. Glancing at the opposite wall, Reece read the unofficial motto of the Central Intelligence Agency from Scripture, John 8:32: “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
We’ll see, he thought.
Reece badged through the turnstile and headed for the elevators. He felt the eyes of staffers, agents, executives, and security officers burning through him. As he navigated the maze of the world’s premier intelligence service, he remembered that it wasn’t that long ago they’d been part of the manhunt to capture and kill him.
Vic’s administrative assistant waved him through the open door into a spacious office. They didn’t bother sitting; instead they walked directly into the adjoining SCIF, Secure Compartmented Information Facility, which was a fancy name for a secure conference room. Reece placed his iPhone into what looked like a small post office box, locking it inside and pocketing the key. Once inside the soundproof room he took a seat across from the director of Clandestine Services.
“It’s good to see you, Reece. Thanks for coming in.”
“Good to see you, too, sir.”
“If you came on board full-time, we could do this on a regular basis. You might even get a parking spot one day.”
“We’ll see how it goes. What do you have for me?”
Reece had briefed Vic on the phone from Billings, speaking in riddles in case unwanted ears were listening.
Vic tapped a key on a secure laptop that was connected to a large LCD screen on the wall.
“The Bureau folks have been surprisingly generous with sharing information on this one. Frankly, I think an attack on U.S. soil against a former senator, whether he was the target or not, scared the shit out of them.”
Reece nodded.
“As you know, there were two teams: the one that attempted to ambush you on the highway and the second that moved on your friend Raife at the ranch.”
A group of pictures, along with an aerial photo of the ambush site, appeared on the screen.
“After you drive out of the ambush, the first team moves to the ranch, where Caroline Hastings puts a world of hurt on them until you arrive. We believe that everyone on that team has been accounted for.”
Vic advanced the slides and a close-up of six dead bodies were displayed.
“Except for the female they used as bait,” Reece said.
“Correct,” Vic continued, tapping the arrow key again.
A photo of an attractive young woman filled the screen.
“We’ve determined that she was working in Whitefish as a bartender. She’s a Russian national on a valid green card. Our guess is that she reconned this entire operation. She has not been back to work since this went down but we’ll find her.”
“She looks familiar. I’ve seen her around town.”
“On that second group, the initial forensics report says that one of them is missing; there was blood on the scene with no body to match. You know anything about that?”
Reece shook his head.
“Didn’t think you would. They’re still running full profiles, but it looks like they were all ethnic Russians.”
“The tattoos made that clear. Anything on the weapons?”
“ATF is working on it but they were all Russian-made AKMs, so they didn’t come through legal channels. Millions of those guns were made so that probably won’t give us much to go on.”
“What about Hanna Hastings; anything on who might have grabbed her?” Reece asked, wanting to confirm his findings from the interrogation.
“Nothing yet. We pulled in some local assets to investigate and our station chief in Bucharest is working with their national police force, but honestly, I’m not optimistic.”
“Do you have any theories?”
“Smart money says they grabbed her as a consolation prize when the attack on you and Raife failed, but there’s something else, something darker.”
“What?” Reece asked.
“After the accusations and evidence of Russian intelligence meddling in our elections, infiltrating social media platforms to influence our political process, the director is not in the mood to play games with them. The power vacuum left by the assassination of their president has their intelligence agencies running wild without adult supervision. Financial crimes, the election meddling, it’s like we’re back in the Cold War but without the rules. We’ve done a deep dive on their leadership, particularly Aleksandr Zharkov. Our cyber capabilities are impressive, thanks to some help from Silicon Valley. We all know that there is human trafficking that’s being facilitated through the Dark Web, and we’ve found evidence tying Zharkov to brokering humans as prey for trophy hunting. For a half a million dollars, you get to hunt what they call ‘criminals destined for the gallows.’ ”
“ ‘The Most Dangerous Game.’ ”
“Exactly. Our records show that Zharkov is a big hunter type, shot animals all over the world while posted overseas for the SVR. At some point, his tastes crossed over from four-legged to two-legged game. You know what Hemingway said, ‘Once you’ve hunte
d man…’ ”
“That all squares with what I found out on my end.”
“Oh, really?” Vic asked with renewed interest.
“Do you think that Aleksandr blows his father’s op so that he can have a crack at me and Raife?”
“That’s my own pet theory, yes.”
“And he’s using Hanna for the bait.”
Vic nodded.
“That confirms what I learned in a conversation with a recently deceased Russian mobster.”
“I am going to pretend I believe it was just a conversation,” Vic said.
“Now your intel is confirmed via my HUMINT. What are our next steps?”
“The director is preparing a presidential finding that would authorize a hostage rescue mission. She thinks the connection to you and Freddy, and the attempted assassination, will help sway the president. He’s not running for reelection and if we can convince him that this won’t start World War III, I think we have a chance. You did save his life after all.”
“Even so, he’s not going to green-light a hostage rescue on Russian soil.”
“Don’t be so sure. The operators will all use AKs to make it look like it’s a Russian criminal syndicate hit on the son of bratva leadership, just enough plausible deniability and confusion to make this a nonattributable action. Believe me, if you knew half the classified history of this place, you’d know this is one of the most sane paramilitary operations the CIA has ever proposed. If denied, we’ll have no choice but to pass it to Alpha Group via diplomatic channels.”
“Alpha Group? Vic, we do that and she’s dead.”
“I know.”
“Who’s got it from our side? [Redacted]?”
“The [XXX] commander has two COAs,” Vic continued, using the acronym for courses of action. “The first is SEALs from [Redacted] jumping into the Pacific just south of the Bering Sea to link up with an amphib. From there they head south to rendezvous with a submarine carrying a platoon from SDV1 on a [Redacted X X X X X]. They’ll come from the sea, hit the lodge, and extract back out to sea just like we’ve done with [XXX] [Redacted] [Redacted] in the past. It’s a proven COA.”