“You have a few choices.” Parker thought fast on his feet—like the combat vet he was. “One is tell the world you’re alive while we stash Scarlett under guard somewhere. The other is you both go under the radar until we find proof linking the Russians to the attempted murder of a federal agent, which should be enough to at least expel Dorokhov regardless of his diplomatic status… Actually that’s pretty much it.”
So either he helped Scarlett avoid these assholes, or someone else did. Matt rubbed the back of his neck as he watched her. She was now trying to fix her hair in the mirror above the sink, looking frustrated that one side wanted to stick up.
“What?” she demanded when she caught him staring.
He said nothing.
It was Christmas.
It was a hell of a time to drag other federal agents or US Marshals away from their wives and families on indefinite assignment. After the goatfuck up in Minnesota where two US Marshals had been shot dead by a bunch of terrorists while protecting Vivi Vincent’s eight-year-old son, the organization was still reeling from loss. Matt had no plans for the holidays aside from taking a few days off to spend Christmas with his mom, but the gut-wrenching bottom-line was she wouldn’t care if he was here or not.
The other thing he’d learned in the teams was the job came first. A personal life happened when the smoke cleared. As much as he wanted his life back, he didn’t want to abandon Scarlett when he could protect her just as well as anyone else could. Better than most.
“The bastards blew up my boat,” Matt told Parker, which seemed to be answer enough.
“Can you access a computer? I’m going to send you the case files Frazer copied—should keep you occupied for a few hours.”
“Yup.” Matt kept a laptop in a locked desk here so that he could work and keep his mom company at the same time.
“Good. Don’t even turn it on until I get you a new email identity that can’t be tracked back. Then I’ll forward your email to that account. First, I need to organize some transportation and supplies for you. It’ll take time. An hour tops.”
For a cyber-security guru, the guy was savvy about what someone needed to disappear. The advantages of working clandestine ops for the CIA? “I appreciate it. Thanks.”
“Lazlo,” Parker said, his voice serious this time. “They think you’re both dead. My advice—keep it that way.”
Chapter Nine
Andrei Dorokhov’s head pounded from the aftereffects of lack of sleep and the alcohol he’d used to drown his fury last night. The dull pain in his brain and gritty feel at the back of his eyes suited his mood. He got off the metro at Farragut North, rode the escalator up to 17th Street. Taking his time, he cut through the park, past the statue of “Damn the torpedoes” Admiral Farragut. The double chalk mark on the bench closest to him told him where to meet. A rush of satisfaction washed through him and he let out a long, slow breath. It had been a long time.
He didn’t pause or stare too long at the chalk, just walked on by, head up, black fedora pulled low. The streets of Washington DC had altered little in the time he’d been away, and the codes he’d used to communicate with his assets were etched in his brain.
It was old-fashioned tradecraft, but sometimes the old ways were the most effective against those who relied on electronics and biometrics. Still he didn’t take chances. The hat and glasses disguised most of his face. The cane he carried and his slight affected limp deceived the human eye. Dorokhov was confident in his ability to blend into an American landscape. Easy as apple pie.
He’d been a good handler, a top spymaster, but now, rather than enjoying the spoils of his success, he was worried he was going to get exposed. More than a decade after the fact. It was intolerable. All because a stupid little girl hadn’t understood that the game was over, and he’d won.
His lip curled.
He came to Lafayette Park and looked at all the Christmas lights decorating the nearby streets.
He usually enjoyed the American holidays. He wasn’t a religious man. He liked the glitter, the superficial sense of affinity for one’s fellow man regardless of religious or political ideology. Stone’s runt had ruined it for him, but she’d paid for her audacity. A nice little Christmas bonus for the disgraced former FBI agent who’d been the bane of his existence until he’d framed the bastard for the very crimes Stone had accused him of committing. It was his crowning moment in the SVR, but unfortunately the spy ring had fallen apart after that, and he’d eased into his diplomatic role, deflecting any attention he might have gained by becoming inactive. There was no benefit in burning his former sources—it gave the opposition too much information on what secrets might have leaked and you never knew when leverage might be useful. Russia played the long game with more patience and stealth than the Americans dreamt of.
Andrei forced himself to relax. The CIA and FBI hadn’t spotted anything fourteen years ago, no reason to believe they were any smarter now. And they’d have to tread very carefully before they accused him of anything untoward. He was the Russian Ambassador, not some low level attaché.
He kept walking through the bustling streets, people busy trying to get their work done so they could go home for the holidays. The politicians were done, of course, but their minions kept the hive buzzing with activity. He’d always liked minions.
A pain shot through his forehead, reminding him of his over-fondness for vodka and his current situation. Andrei had insurance—knowledge was power after all—but maybe it wasn’t enough. Perhaps a little extra-incentive was wise at this stage. His phone vibrated against his hip. He answered it. “Yes.”
“You blew up a fucking FBI Agent? One who just happened to be a decorated Navy SEAL? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“You told me to take care of my side of the problem. That’s what I did.” Dorokhov enjoyed the sputter of anger on the other end of the line.
“I told you ‘low profile’. Now we have a Crisis Management Unit on scene and NCIS screaming blue fucking murder. Every Navy SEAL in the world just joined the cause. Shit.”
He ambled down the western side of the White House. The current US President, Joshua Hague, was an indecisive twit. He enjoyed seeing him squirm as the threats of Islamic extremists hit closer to home. They’d been threatening his homeland for decades. “Let them all get involved. Let NCIS and the FBI fight amongst themselves trying to figure it out. I can arrange some chatter so that they are all nicely pre-occupied with a possible terrorist plot against retired Navy SEALs, rather than looking at me, or you.”
He walked around to get a good view of the White House from the National Christmas Tree. It was an elegant building, so small for all the power it contained. A sniper stood and changed position on the roof. Andrei watched for a moment. Security had been beefed up in the aftermath of the recent assassination attempt, and the unexpected death of the Vice President.
Dorokhov wasn’t sure who was replacing Ted Burger, but whoever it was had to be better for the Kremlin. Burger had been an intractable curmudgeon who hated Russians on principle. The guy had been smart, and ruthless. He had feelers out among the politicians and had people searching for dirt on those most likely to be chosen to replace the VP. Dirt was worth more than a diamond encrusted Fabergé egg to men like him.
“The FBI know you were after the girl. You’re going to be top of the suspect pool.”
“I have a solid alibi, as do all my people, not to mention ‘diplomatic immunity’.”
The man growled. “I should have cut your throat all those years ago—”
“Da. You should have.” Dorokhov taunted him. Or not betrayed your country. “Did you do your part yet?”
“It’s arranged.”
“The other loose ends?” Dorokhov walked further along the path heading to the Mall.
“I’m taking care of them.”
“Then we’re done talking.”
“Wait.” There was a beat of silence. “What about the other woman?”
“What about her?” Dorokhov looked up at the pewter sky. He wanted snow to coat the city in beauty and remind him of home, but it looked like he was going to get nothing but dreary rain.
The long pause on the other end of the line suggested the man was weighing his options. “It might be worth holding onto her for a while…”
Dorokhov smirked. His thoughts exactly. He hung up. Strolled onwards, past the peaceful Vietnam Memorial, which shimmered in the dawn. He’d never been a fan of war; he saw his former role as a way of preventing needless death by balancing the scales of power. Every country did it. He’d just been better than the rest.
He continued onward. The streets were quieter. Workers at the office now. Too early for tourists. Too cold for locals. He strolled toward the Lincoln Memorial, a familiar sense of anticipation uncoiling inside him that made him feel alive again. He’d missed this.
His contact sat on one of the stone benches at the base of the lower steps. Woolen hat. Tall collar. Sunglasses.
Dorokhov sat heavily, about a foot away, breath freezing in a cloud of mist. The bench was unforgiving, reminding him he was too old for this kind of life.
“I want my daughter back.”
He smiled. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
LeMay’s knuckles shone brightly against pale skin. “Do you want me to expose you?”
Andrei’s upper lip twitched in a sneer. “And sacrifice yourself? You don’t have the balls.”
“I want my daughter back,” LeMay repeated. “I’m not kidding.”
Dorokhov narrowed his gaze, the headache still grinding his temples. “Why was she there? What were you hoping to find?”
“I didn’t know she’d gone until the feds turned up. I told her to decline the invitation.”
“Are you telling me it was a coincidence she just happened to take Stone’s daughter there?”
“Angel and Scarlett have been best friends since they were toddlers. I tried to discourage the relationship but…”
“You didn’t know Stone’s brat planted electronic listening devices in my office?”
LeMay’s face went waxy pale. “She did not.”
“Oh, but she did.”
“That stupid little bitch. Did she discover anything?” LeMay’s eyes were now wide with fear.
Self-preservation always trumped real compassion—an asset in an asset. Dorokhov smiled. “No. I’m more careful than that. So you didn’t set this up?”
“Why would I?”
“Maybe you were craving a little excitement?”
“I like my life just fine. The past is the past.”
“The past is never the past. I still have all the evidence I had before.”
LeMay’s lip curled. “I’m not working for you ever again.”
“Not even to save your daughter?”
The eyes shifted nervously to scan the trees that edged the Mall. “The FBI are in my house and watching my every move.”
“Were you followed here?”
“Of course not. I told them I needed some air. They didn’t have time to sort out a tail before I left.” The heaviness of the bags under LeMay’s eyes suggested lack of sleep and parental worry.
“You know how much I dislike being crossed. I dislike being crossed by Richard Stone worst of all.”
The laugh was bitter. “I think you got your revenge on the man. I didn’t cross you. My daughter didn’t cross you. Scarlett loves her father; he must have told her he suspected you were the spymaster back then. What does it matter anymore? Stone is dying, did you know that?”
“He needs to die faster. No one makes a fool of me and gets away with it.”
“Please let my daughter go,” LeMay tried to cajole, but had always been bad at this part of the game. “She’s just a young woman who likes to party—she meant no harm.”
Dorokhov allowed a small smile to crease his cheek. “I’m sure she’s enjoying quite the party right now, wherever she may be.”
“If you touch her…” LeMay’s voice vibrated with anger.
Dorokhov laughed quietly and stood. “Empty threats, my friend. You’ll be grateful to get her back even if she’s in pieces.” He sauntered away down the Mall. Once his official duties were over for the day, he might just pay a visit to Angel LeMay and see exactly how much she liked to party. He was intrigued, and feeling a little vindictive. He’d earned it.
* * *
Richard Stone lay on the bed after receiving his latest dose of chemo and wished he was dead. Every cell in his body rebelled from the poison in his system. He didn’t know why he bothered. Maybe just to cost the system as much time, trouble, and money as possible—a tiny fleck of revenge in comparison to what it had done to him. Maybe he kept going because death was the ultimate admission of failure. It wasn’t because he hoped to be exonerated. Whoever had set him up had taken care of that long ago.
He looked around at concrete walls, at the grim-faced doctor and nurses in charge of his treatment. This was his life, this barren existence of mental and physical purgatory. He’d be better off dead. If he wasn’t so damned stubborn, he could just refuse treatment and let the cancer invade his body and ravage what little was left. With his luck, it would anyway.
Three other patients were receiving treatment. One was on dialysis. Another, a diabetic, was having blood sugar levels checked. The last was writhing in pain on his bed.
One guy was a terrorist, another a member of a Mexican drug cartel, the other had killed four people while holding up a gas station. These were his peers. No wonder he felt sick. Thank God for isolation, although some days he thought his head would explode from the pure monotony. He wanted to hike a mountain, feel the sun on his skin, and make love to his wife.
Fat chance.
Years ago, he’d offered to conduct psychological studies on his fellow inmates, but the people in charge didn’t want him talking to anyone. He knew the cover story was because he might pass on more secrets to the Russians—as if he knew anything the real spy hadn’t already divulged to his Russian benefactors. The reality was someone, somewhere, didn’t want him figuring out, and revealing, exactly who had set him up. They were scared of him, and that made him ecstatic.
Another bout of nausea rolled through him, and he curled onto his side, panting against the desire to puke. Sweat made what was left of his hair stick to his forehead. He caught a whiff of rank odor and realized he stank of BO. Great. With his luck, he wouldn’t get the chance to wash up before Susan visited and this was how she’d see him on Christmas Eve. Stinking and sickly. Jesus.
Anger at the unfairness still hummed in his veins, not because his life had been ruined, but for Susan. No one should have to endure what she’d endured. It was a long time to hold onto the hate, but he had plenty of reason and little else to occupy his time.
It wasn’t healthy—he smiled grimly at that thought—but it beat the other thing in this hellhole that was even worse than anger, apathy. He hadn’t figured out which of his colleagues was the real spy, but he’d narrowed it down to six names—all so-called friends.
He swallowed the saliva that pooled in his mouth.
What difference did it make? He couldn’t reveal them without putting Susan and Scarlett at risk and no way was he doing that. He was so proud of them, and so sorry for everything he’d put them through. He’d never in a million years imagined he’d end up here.
He’d written his suspicions in a notebook using a code he and Susan had developed when they were first dating. At the time, it had been harmless fun. Now it was life and death. No doubt, the warden would pass that book onto the FBI after his death. With his luck it would fall into the wrong hands and no one would ever discover his suspicions.
No one would care.
He did it anyway.
Nausea boiled in his stomach. He leaned over and vomited into a cardboard tray, heaving until his throat hurt. Great. He rinsed his mouth out with some water, then wiped his hand through his hair, pulling out a few st
rands as he did so.
Poor Susan, she’d wasted her entire life on him. At least Scarlett was young. Hopefully one day she’d move past all this ugliness and have a good life.
His shackles jangled as he moved his legs. At least he hadn’t crapped his pants this time. He was grateful for small mercies.
A big guy with tats on every inch of skin shuffled past, baring his teeth.
Asshole.
While Richard might be “the biggest traitor of the new millennium” according to the judge who’d sentenced him to six life sentences without the chance of parole, he was still a former fed in the eyes of many inmates. He was glad to have a cell to himself. In the general population, he wouldn’t last an hour.
Another wave of nausea rolled over him. Sweet Jesus, chemo sucked.
He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and instinctively jerked his knee around to defend himself. It deflected a shank that had been aimed straight for his gut, and the hard plastic slid deep into his thigh instead, going through muscle like a red-hot knife. Pain shot though him and flamed up his body. The other guy’s shackles rattled noisily across the floor. Fuck! The guy—a member of a Mexican drug cartel—lunged again, aiming at his face this time. Richard grabbed the guy’s wrist and held on tight, trying to cry out, but his voice wouldn’t work, and he had no real strength in his arms. Where the hell were the guards?
Chanting started nearby, like some schoolyard brawl.
“Stick the fucker,” said the white supremacist asshole in a rare show of interracial harmony. Richard’s hand was slipping, and the knife was edging closer to his eye. Damn. This was not how he wanted to go out.
His muscles were shaking, but he twisted sideways, some old FBI training coming back to help him. The guy fell across him, pinning him to the bed. The IV stand crashed to the floor as he twisted, and he shoved the Mexican’s head in his bedpan. The skinhead started laughing his ass off. Finally, there was a yell, and the alarm was pressed. Sirens wailed. Lights flashed.
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