by Tim Tigner
“Tell me.”
“Sunrise will give the Americans complete control of space: spacecraft, space stations, and space satellites.” He emphasized the latter because that was the game changer. The death blow. Without satellites, both civilian and military communications would cease to function. Ignaty knew Korovin’s quick mind would grasp that implication immediately.
The president’s terse response confirmed as much. “How?”
Ignaty grabbed a chair, and laid it all out: the mechanical operations, the military implications, and the political fallout.
Korovin maintained a poker face throughout, but Ignaty wasn’t fooled. He knew his boss felt each revelation like a lash from a cane. It was a side of the great man to which only his closest aides were privy.
Behind all the posturing and poise, the collapse of the Soviet Union still weighed heavily on Korovin’s broad shoulders. He woke with the pain of disgrace each morning, and he went to bed limping from fatigue each night. In between, he smiled publicly for the cameras while privately vowing to set things right.
An average politician would accept Russia’s decline as the inevitable outcome of a failed ideology, but Korovin was determined to restore Russia’s parity with the U.S. before leaving office. And it was working. As the international press frequently lamented, he was making measurable progress — one sly step at a time. Russia’s voters were also taking notice. As the local broadcasts proudly proclaimed, the bold commander had put hope back on the horizon.
Sunrise would squash the dream like a beetle beneath a boot.
Again Korovin cut to the crux with a one-word question. “When?”
“It’s scheduled to go live in three.”
“That soon? Three years?”
“It leverages existing systems.” Ignaty saw evidence of the damage he was inflicting reflected in Korovin’s cornflower eyes. He may as well be slipping a stiletto between the president’s ribs.
Korovin blew air and leaned back, shifting his gaze to the shimmering crystals of his chandelier. After a full minute of somber silence, he said, “Give it to me.”
“What?” Ignaty asked, knowing full well. Long history or not, only a fool would interrupt the most powerful man on Earth with bad news alone.
“Our solution.”
Ignaty lived for moments like these — and he remained alive because of them. Still, he made the president wait a few seconds for it. “I call it Operation Sunset. Sunset will do far more than neutralize Sunrise. Sunset will bring America to its knees.”
By the time Ignaty finished presenting his masterpiece, Korovin was pacing like a caged tiger smelling prey. He kept moving for a few minutes after Ignaty concluded. When he finally broke the silence, his question caught Ignaty by surprise. As usual, Korovin’s mind had raced miles ahead. “What’s on the flash drive you held up when you first walked in?”
Ignaty extracted the silver sliver from his pocket. “A recording. It’s for our next discussion.”
“Next discussion? You’ve got something else? Something on par with Sunrise?”
Just wait till you hear this one. Ignaty was about to make himself utterly indispensable. “What can I tell you? Miss Muffet’s a goldmine.”
Korovin chuffed. “You can tell me how she does it.”
Ignaty simply proffered the drive. “We’ve discussed that, and we’ve agreed that it’s really better for your own peace of mind if you don’t know the operational details.”
Korovin accepted the device. “You want me to listen to it?”
“You’ll want to hear the original.”
Korovin accepted the recording without breaking eye contact. “What’s on it?”
“A conversation President Silver had yesterday aboard Air Force One.”
“Muffet’s got ears in the presidential plane? And you don’t want me to know how she does it?”
Ignaty said nothing.
“What are they discussing?”
Ignaty knew better than to prevaricate or sugarcoat. “Silver’s sending someone to kill you.”
Chapter 5
Sixth Sense
Palo Alto, California
ACHILLES LOOKED DOWN from the chin-up bar at the display on his vibrating phone: Caller ID Blocked. He could only smile, remembering some calls he’d made using that feature. It might just be a telemarketer, but he was feeling lucky.
He dropped to the ground, wiped the sweat from his brow, and hit accept. “Hello.”
“Achilles, do you know who this is?”
You betcha he did. He’d been waiting three months for Senator Collins to call. “I do.”
“If you’re still interested, I’d like to meet. Late tomorrow night.”
“I’m interested.”
“Can you be at my DC home by midnight? Best if you’re already there when I arrive.”
Achilles didn’t have her DC address. She was testing him. “I can.”
“Excellent. Please ensure that you’re not seen by anyone, or caught on any camera. I’ll leave the back door unlocked. Deactivate the alarm with my zip code, twice in succession. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing you. I’d say give my best to Katya, but of course she can’t know we spoke.” Collins clicked off before Achilles could acknowledge. Katya was his significant other, but not in the usual context. Theirs was a platonic relationship — for the moment. The remnant of a complicated history. Achilles thought of their relationship as a work-in-progress, when he thought of it, which was often.
* * *
Twenty-eight hours later, Achilles slid open the back door to Senator Collins' DC home. The security alarm was silenced by the double zip code as promised, but his mental alarm blared as he crept from the kitchen to the base of the stairs.
He wasn’t alone in the house.
Most people can sense another presence in a room — if they’re paying attention. They don’t know how they sense it, they just do. In fact, their lizard brain is registering a sympathetic energy field. Another biological grouping of bellowing lungs, pulsing arteries, and firing neurons. Another soul.
It’s an ability spies are wise to hone.
Unfortunately, determining intent is another matter altogether. There is no friend-or-foe identifier couched in biologic emissions. Perhaps the senator had arrived early, and was power-napping on the couch, but Achilles feared something far more sinister.
He stood silently in the dark, trying to get another ping on his mental radar.
Nothing came.
He’d planned to find a plush chair and wait in the dark, stakeout style, setting the mood for what he hoped would be the start of something big. Instead, he began to explore.
The ground floor consisted entirely of common areas, with the exception of Collins' study. Achilles cleared each room in quick order, finding no one.
He was halfway up the stairs when the next ping punched him in the nose. Or rather, the first hydrocarbon molecules. The unmistakable scent of gun oil. He didn’t know if the California senator kept a firearm in her home, but he doubted that she spent a lot of time with Hoppe’s oil and cotton rags. Sinister it was.
He’d come here to begin a mission, but apparently the mission had already begun. He just didn’t know what it was.
Freezing in place, ears perked, nose practically twitching, Achilles considered his options. He could retreat. He could call 9-1-1. Or he could attempt to intercept Collins on her way home. None of those felt right. There were a hundred million able-bodied patriots in the fifty United States, and from all of them the President had selected him. It wasn’t for his ability to retreat or pick up a phone.
Achilles just wished he’d brought a gun.
He didn’t routinely carry anymore. He liked to travel light, and as a civilian he didn’t feel the need to augment his capabilities with gunpowder and lead.
Determined to have that be the mission’s last stupid mistake, he palmed the slim ceramic knife that lived be
side the paperclips in the back pocket of his jeans. He engaged the blade slowly, so that it locked open without an audible click, and resumed his quiet climb.
Once he reached the upstairs hallway, he only needed seconds to pinpoint the source of both scent and vibe. They emanated from behind a single door, not the double. A guest bedroom, not the master. A bedroom that overlooked the front drive.
The shooter was in there, lying in wait. Achilles could sense him.
He pictured the intruder, clad in slim-fitting black fatigues, with leather driving gloves and a balaclava — a shadow peering through the blinds.
How long would it take that shadow to react to the opening door? How many seconds would he require to assess the threat Achilles presented, bring his weapon around, acquire a kill zone, and squeeze? About two seconds, Achilles figured. Closer to three if he was using a long gun — but a long gun seemed unlikely.
Why enter the house if you planned to take the senator out on the street? Better to wait for her to fall asleep, then creep down the hall and strike in the dead of night. A spray to an inhaling nose. A needle beneath a polished fingernail. A drop between open lips. So many swift and stealthy ways to stop a heart.
But why? Why would anyone want Collins dead? He wished she’d given him a clue. Whatever was happening, it was happening faster than she’d anticipated.
Achilles began rehearsing assault scenarios based on likely layouts of the hot bedroom.
He didn’t get very far.
Red and blue lights began dancing across the hardwood floor, simultaneously signaling he was out of time and complicating the situation. Senator Collins was home, and she wasn’t alone. She had arrived with a motorcade — the presidential motorcade.
Chapter 6
The Beast
Washington D.C.
ACHILLES BROUGHT THE LOCK BLADE up to eye level as he braced for the breach, and glanced at the gleaming tip. If he didn’t have steel poised atop the killing place within two seconds of turning the knob, he’d be on his way to dead. He pushed that thought aside with the same discipline he practiced on every rock climb, and turned his focus to execution.
Ready … set …
“Come in, Achilles.”
Achilles had probably heard that exact phrase a thousand times during his thirty-two years, but not once had it couched so much meaning. And never before had it been uttered by that voice.
The door between Achilles and the shooter was constructed from solid pine boards arranged in a boxy ornamental pattern. Dense enough to take the oomph out of all but a magnum round. But if the speaker intended to shoot him, surely he would have waited another half second for the door to open.
Achilles palmed the lock blade, poising it for an underhand throw. He focused in the direction of the voice, and twisted the knob.
The man standing before the bay window radiated a soldierly vibe. Thin lips sported a satisfied smirk beneath eyes that had undoubtedly witnessed war. They spent a second sizing each other up in the glow of red and blue revolving lights, then the man spoke. “Silver asked me to join your meeting with Collins. Name’s Foxley.”
Foxley’s fit body was average in height and looked to have about forty years’ worth of wear. Close-cropped brown hair, sharp features, and a confident disposition completed the picture. He was not visibly holding a weapon — but then neither was Achilles.
“Silver invited you?” Achilles asked, closing the gap between them as he spoke.
“Well, Chief of Staff Sparkman actually. I work for him from time to time. Off the books.”
The presidential limo, aka Cadillac One, aka The Beast, had stopped directly below them in Collins' semicircular drive. The Secret Service agent was shutting the door behind Collins as Achilles looked down. “Silver isn’t joining us?” he asked Foxley.
“I don’t know. At this point it really doesn’t matter, does it? By sending the limo, his endorsement of whatever Collins says is clear.”
“Why would Collins need a presidential endorsement?”
Foxley’s smirk broadened. “Obviously the ask is going to be both big and outrageous.”
“So you don’t know what this is about?”
“I only know two things: This op is classified tighter than the hit on Bin Laden, and I’m here to support you.” He spoke the last bit like it was an accusation.
They listened to Collins enter while the motorcade drove away and Achilles evaluated what he’d just heard. Experience with men in uniform taught him that it was wise to tackle trouble up front and head on. “You don’t sound happy to be serving as support.”
Foxley squared off. He had broad, angular shoulders that poked up like the poles on a tent. “I’m sure there’s a good reason for leaving the senior guy in the rear. That is where they keep the generals, after all.”
“What makes you think you’re senior — other than your birthdate?”
Foxley snorted. “Serbia, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Libya.” He stepped close enough that their feet nearly touched. “You’ve never set foot on a battlefield. Don’t get me wrong, I know you’re an accomplished athlete. Olympian and all. But it’s a whole different world when second place gets you a bronze casket rather than a silver medal.”
Obviously Foxley had only seen Achilles’ unclassified file.
“You boys can come down now,” Collins called.
Foxley broke eye contact and headed for the door. Five minutes later the three of them were seated in the senator’s breakfast alcove holding mugs of black coffee and speaking softly. All very normal — except that it was midnight rather than morning, and the topic of conversation was a presidential assassination.
Chapter 7
The Abduction
Sochi, Russia
MAX ARISTOV LEANED OVER to kiss the love of his life as the wheels of Aeroflot flight 1122 screeched down onto Sochi’s sun-drenched runway. Even though they’d been dating for years, he still felt a thrill every time Zoya Zolotova kissed him back. She was the Zoya Zolotova — actress, movie star, sex symbol.
While closing his eyes to savor the perfect start to their momentous vacation, a flight attendant triggered his sixth sense.
“What is it?” Zoya asked. “You were there with me, but I felt you slip away.”
Zoya was as attuned to people’s feelings as he was to potential threats. Max had literally identified, assessed, and dismissed the intruder in the blink of an eye, but she’d still detected the blip. “Nothing. A photographer.”
Zoya’s eyes smiled at the news. With a Golden Eagle nomination for Best Supporting Actress, she was finally, officially, a film star. In Russia at least. Outside the former Soviet Bloc nobody had ever heard of her.
She was dying to break through to the international stage, of course. Max secretly feared that would never happen. While she remained breathtaking, one in one-thousand, her beauty had peaked while the Russian film industry was in a dip. MosFilm was on the rise again, thanks to President Korovin, but not in time to capture Zoya in full bloom.
She flashed a disarming smile at the flight attendant. “May I see the picture?”
The flight attendant blushed, but obliged.
Max knew why Zoya was asking. As a schoolgirl, Zoya had received a poster of Robert Doisneau’s The Kiss as a gift, and had since spent countless hours living in that Parisian scene. Now her bedroom was full of pictures of kissing couples. Stolen shots, never posed. Some famous, some taken by Zoya herself. Nine included Max. Today, Zoya was hoping for the tenth.
“I like it,” Zoya said, her voice sincere. She could fake sincerity better than most politicians, but Max knew her well enough to recognize the genuine emotion.
Performing his part in their practiced routine, Max whipped out his own phone and accepted an AirDrop of the photo before Zoya surreptitiously deleted the original and returned the phone with a kind, “Thank you.”
As they entered the main terminal of Sochi International, a large, dark-suited man wearing thin black gloves st
epped into their path and spoke without preamble. “Come with me please.” His face was expressionless, and his attitude neither commanding nor deferential, but Max knew an order when he heard one. The gloved man beckoned toward an emergency exit which a second, equally large suit then opened.
“You didn’t tell me we were being met,” Zoya said, her tone inquisitive. Should I be worried?
Rather than replying, Max turned and kissed her. It was one for the wall, one of those Victory Day, just-off-the-ship kisses, with one arm on the small of her back and the other behind her neck. He bent her backwards and poured his heart into her as though worried their lips might never touch again.
They’d been dating for four years exactly, yet their love still grew day-by-day. Max remained amazed that Zoya had fallen for him. One wouldn’t expect an actress to find much in common with a spy. He sought shadows while she required bright lights. He eyed promotion, while she pursued fame. But at the end of the day, they were both actors. He just didn’t get retakes.
Confident that their flamboyant display of affection would generate plenty of witnesses with supporting photographs should this exit become a disappearance, Max took Zoya’s arm and followed the lead of their escorts.
The emergency exit took them down to an empty ground level hallway. Walking four abreast, with the big black suits on either end like mobile castle battlements, they marched toward distant double doors. Once they reached them, the suits opened both doors in unison, bombarding the corridor with hot air and bright light. While Max’s eyes adjusted and his pulse raced, the suits each raised an arm, gesturing toward the tarmac — and a waiting helicopter.
Chapter 8
The Silence