by Carr, Jack
Senator Phillip Stanton, another protégé of super-lobbyist Stewart McGovern, was one of the leading voices supporting Andrenov’s return to Russia. Stanton, who always insisted that “Combat Wounded Ranger Veteran” accompany his formal title, had become a staple on the cable news channels since his election to the U.S. Senate.
Stanton had won the Wisconsin Republican primary and breezed through the general election thanks, in no small part, to his status as a veteran of the Iraq War. Though he did serve as an Army officer in Iraq, his position as a signal officer meant that he rarely left the safety of the Forward Operating Base to which he was assigned. On one of his few forays outside the wire, his unit’s convoy was struck by an IED. The nineteen-year-old private first class driving his vehicle slammed on the brakes, causing then-lieutenant Stanton to suffer a laceration on his forehead when his head hit the dashboard of the up-armored HMMWV. He put himself in for a Purple Heart after receiving two stitches on his forehead, the same award that went to the young men who were killed in the lead vehicle that took the full force of the explosion. He spent the rest of his deployment writing a book about his overseas exploits and had reserved the Web domain www.phillipstantonforpresident.com years before. He now had three books published, all ghostwritten, leading some of his former soldiers to joke that he had completed more books than deployments.
Stanton wore a dark gray suit with a miniature Ranger tab and Purple Heart ribbon on the lapel and had grown a beard to complete the special operator “look” that had become popular on social media.
Reece shook his head as the senator espoused his expertise on global strategic policy thanks to his single overseas assignment as a junior officer. Calling himself a “Ranger” was intentionally misleading; he attended the Army’s grueling eight-week Ranger School after completing the Signal Basic Officer Leaders Course, but never served in the famed 75th Ranger Regiment. Technically, he was “Ranger-qualified” or “Ranger-tabbed” but was not “Ranger-Scrolled.” Having worked with Rangers on numerous deployments, Reece had nothing but respect for their capabilities, professionalism, and bravery. By calling himself a “Ranger,” Stanton was intentionally misleading the public to believe that he had been a member of the elite special operations unit rather than a graduate of the school. There was no dishonor in being a Ranger-qualified signal officer; why did guys like this have to make a good story better? Not really stolen valor. Borrowed valor, perhaps?
“Once again,” Senator Stanton stated in a tone that made Reece think he’d practiced his delivery more than a few times, “we have seen Islamic extremism rear its ugly head in its desire to build a worldwide caliphate. The murder of President Zubarev was yet another battle in the broader conflict. Russia needs a proven leader in the struggle against these terrorists. If the U.S. doesn’t act, our democracy could be next. To think that a fellow combat leader like President Grimes was nearly killed by these terrorists sickens me. We need a leader in Russia who will stamp out this aggression before it spreads. Vasili Andrenov has devoted his life to providing aid to the most impoverished countries in the world and he understands the geopolitical struggles of our time. The United States and the broader international community should support immediate elections in Russia. Andrenov would be a key U.S. partner in Moscow and, together, the United States and Russia can defeat Islamic extremism wherever it appears.”
The host of Morning Edition turned to Senator Bolls, who sat flanking her Senate colleague at the news desk with her hands folded in front of her.
“This is a rare issue on which the senator from Wisconsin and I can agree,” she began. “Though I don’t share his characterization of the many peace-loving Muslims in places like Chechnya and Syria, I do believe that Vasili Andrenov would be a natural choice to lead Russia in this time of crisis. The achievements of Mr. Andrenov’s foundation speak for themselves, and he would be a steady hand to stabilize the unrest that is seizing his country. His leadership would help stop the spread of toxic nationalism in Ukraine and help bridge the divide between Russia and the United States as well as the European Union.”
“Well,” the host responded, “when two leaders of our highly partisan Congress can agree on something like this, the world should take note.”
As pictures of a presidential-looking Vasili Andrenov filled the screen, Reece press-checked his SIG and deliberately placed it into the holster on his belt.
• • •
Stewart McGovern smiled as he watched the monitor backstage in the greenroom; both senators had delivered their talking points perfectly, and Stanton was even sounding presidential on foreign affairs. If he could actually get Andrenov elected president of Russia, he would turn his greatest client into his most lucrative financial asset. Every U.S. company wishing to build a business relationship with Russia, and its vast natural resources, would have to hire his law firm to make the deal. He would be the de facto trade minister of Russia. Maybe he would buy that house in Aspen that his wife had suggested they add to their growing list of properties?
CHAPTER 90
Beaufort National Cemetery
Port Royal Island, South Carolina
October
THE SERVICE HAD BEEN solemn but at times humorous as the pastor honored the life of Senior Chief Petty Officer Fredrick Alfred Strain (Ret.). It was obvious that the man knew him well despite Freddy having moved to Beaufort just a few months earlier. Reece figured this must have been Joanie’s congregation growing up. The church was crowded with family and friends as well as former and active SEALs. The media stayed away; none of them had yet made the connection between the attempt on the U.S. president and a local veteran’s funeral. Reece rode in the limousine at Joanie’s request as the procession made the short trip to the nearby veterans’ cemetery. It was a beautiful spot in South Carolina’s low country: live oaks dripping in moss shaded the graves of soldiers who had fought on both sides of the nation’s bloody Civil War and every conflict since. Freddy would rest surrounded by fellow warriors.
Reece helped Joanie out of the limo and gazed upon the line of cars parked along the cemetery’s asphalt driveway. A supercharged Range Rover with a custom flat-black paint scheme and green Vermont plates caught his eye. The door opened and a tall, fit man wearing a dark suit emerged. His eyes found Reece within seconds and, even at a hundred yards, Reece recognized Raife Hastings.
At the graveside ceremony, before military honors were rendered, the pastor read a passage from Isaiah 6:8. To some in attendance it had a special significance.
“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’ ”
Vic Rodriguez presented Joanie with the folded American flag and the SEALs in attendance lined up to press their golden Tridents into the mahogany veneer of their brother’s casket. Reece joined the line of frogmen, reaching into his pocket to run his thumb over the insignia that represented the brotherhood. Superimposed over an anchor signifying the naval service were a trident spear, an eagle with its head down searching for prey, and a musket that was cocked and ready for war. Those symbols represented the three mediums in which SEALs operate: sea, air, and land.
For a moment Freddy’s casket was replaced with that of Reece’s wife and daughter, his teammates lining up to render similar honors. Reece closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at Joanie, her arms around two of her three children, a daughter just shy of her teen years and seven-year-old Fred Jr., providing them comfort and support. Sam could not attend due to his genetic condition and was at home with a caretaker provided by the church. Reece removed the protective backings from his Trident and placed it on the coffin. He looked back to Joanie, then at the casket that held his friend before slamming his fist down onto the Navy SEAL Trident and cementing it into the mahogany, his dark sunglasses concealing his pain. As Reece passed the grieving widow, little Fred Jr. pushed himself off his chair and stood before the coffin. Then, standing at attention, he slowly li
fted his hand in salute. He remained standing until the last Trident was embedded in its final resting place. There was not a dry eye in attendance.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, the assembled parties gathered into groups of friends and loved ones. Soon the Team guys would find an Irish pub and give Freddy a proper send-off. The local sheriff’s office was informed of the commando’s death and had offered to drive any of the SEALs where they needed to go, no questions asked.
Reece offered condolences to Strain’s parents, whom he’d met years before, and stood uncomfortably between the groups, not feeling particularly at home among any of them. He was all too aware of the toxic environment created by some of the senior officers. The late Admiral Pilsner still had some friends in high places, and Reece didn’t want to put any of the active-duty SEALs in a bad position with rumors of them being too chummy with the man who had blown the admiral into tiny bits in his own office.
Reece felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Vic Rodriguez.
“Thanks for being there for Joanie and the kids, Vic.”
“Freddy was one of my guys. I brought him in. You’re one of mine, too, Reece.”
“We can talk about that later. I owe you a thank-you, though. I got the queen’s check. Didn’t think you guys would actually follow through with that.”
“I told you it was part of the deal. Regardless of what you may think, Reece, even in the intelligence business, our word is our bond.”
Reece nodded.
“I’m still working on the travel records for Grey and Andrenov. I should have it soon.”
“Thanks, Vic,” he said, turning to leave.
“There’s one more thing, Reece. After you left my office the other day, I asked myself, ‘What would my father do?’ ”
“What do you mean?” Reece asked, remembering the Bay of Pigs photo on Vic’s office wall.
Rodriguez pulled a manila envelope from his jacket pocket, handed it to Reece, nodded, and walked away.
Reece peered into the envelope and saw part of an aerial photo. What the? He took a few steps away from the other mourners and looked at the contents of the envelope: maps, photos, surveillance logs, and a flash drive. It was a target package.
Distracted by the package, he almost didn’t see Raife approach. Unlike the suit that Reece had bought at a local men’s store the day before, Raife’s was finely tailored and likely cost ten times as much. His skin was tanned to a deep copper, making the scar on his face all the more noticeable. His sandy blond hair looked sun-bleached from living in the elements. It was the eyes, though, that set Raife apart, those glowing green eyes. If he hadn’t opted to spend his life as a frogman, rancher, and businessman, he could have gone to Hollywood.
Reece shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket and extended his hand to his friend.
“Sad day, Reece.”
“It is, brother.”
“Were you with him?”
“I was,” Reece confirmed, “but I didn’t see it; sniper got him. We were in Odessa. He saved the president’s life.”
“Figured that was it. Timing was too close.”
Reece hesitated. “Thank you for what you did for me.”
“I owed you one.”
“Well, not anymore. I thought a lot about that on the boat, and about what’s important.”
“I have too, Reece. I don’t blame you for anything that went down in Iraq. I want you to know that I was angry at the system, and truth be told, angry with myself.”
Reece looked at his friend and knew it was best not to push.
“I spoke to Uncle Rich,” Raife said, changing subjects. “He sends his best. He says that you saved Solomon’s life and that’s what blew your cover. You’re a good oak, Reece; you always were.”
Raife broke into a rare smile as the men shook hands.
“Freddy told me what your family did for Sam. Incredible.”
Raife nodded. “It was the least I could do.”
Reece thought for a moment. “I have a question for you: do you miss it?”
Raife thought for a moment before responding. “Not the action. The mission. I miss the mission.”
“How would you like to avenge the deaths of both Freddy and your aunt?” Reece asked, bringing up the airline shoot-down he’d learned about in Mozambique. “Two birds with one stone?”
“How do you know about that? Ah, the PHs. They talk too much.”
“That Strela-2 that brought down her airplane. The guy that supplied that missile is the mastermind behind President Zubarev’s assassination and Freddy’s death.”
Raife turned his green eyes toward the gravestones and then back to Reece. “When do we leave?”
CHAPTER 91
Buenos Aires, Argentina
November
OLIVER GREY LOVED BUENOS AIRES. It was so alive. It reminded him of Madrid with its rich history and Old World architecture but there was a spark here that Europe lacked. Spain’s best days were behind her, but this nation had a bright future. San Telmo was not his favorite part of the city but, thanks to its Russian population, it was the safest place for him until things settled down. He would have loved to have explored his old neighborhood of Juncal but the chances of being spotted there by someone from the U.S. embassy were too great.
This working-class neighborhood was home to a group of Russian expatriates to which, of course, Andrenov’s network was connected. Grey was to go to ground until the next phase of the operation unfolded. Once the inevitable elections were held, Grey would take his place at Andrenov’s side in Russia. He got a taste of his future home each day when he looked to the bright indigo domes of the Cathedral of the Most Holy Trinity, shrine to the Russian Orthodox religion that Andrenov loved so deeply. Perhaps Grey himself would attend services there as part of his transformation.
He took a bite of the Milanesa and washed it down with half a glass of the house Malbec, his third. The hearty meal made him crave a smoke and he thought of the fresh supply of local flue-cured leaf that he’d bought for his pipe that morning. The operation had been a success, despite the escape of the U.S. president and the thwarted chemical attack. The lynchpin of the entire plan was the assassination of President Zubarev and the subsequent blame game. Zubarev was lying in state in Moscow and the international media was whipped up into a frenzy over the apparent alliance between Chechen, Syrian, and Ukrainian conspirators. It was a perfect storm, calculated and set in motion by a genius. Grey liked to think that he had picked the right mentor, conveniently forgetting that it was Andrenov who had selected him.
The sights, sounds, and smells of Buenos Aires brought him back to his first real field operation for Colonel Andrenov, one that took place on these very streets more than a decade before. After he’d discovered the identities of the U.S. MACV-SOG recon team members operating in Laos in 1971 in the Agency’s files, Andrenov had asked for his help in locating the team leader. Grey’s research was thorough. So much time had passed that no alarm bells went off at CIA headquarters when an analyst requested files on CIA operations in Vietnam. It was ancient history. Grey discovered that the same SEAL chief petty officer who had led RT Ozark on the raid that had killed a senior Soviet officer had become part of the Agency’s Clandestine Service after leaving the Navy. The man had been one of the famed Cold War operators who had dedicated his life to countering the Soviet threat. Grey could still remember his excitement at having successfully completed his first mission and could see the man’s name clear as day at the top of the dossier: Thomas Reece. Oh, how the world is small.
Though Tom Reece had retired from the Agency, he was one of those hard-core spooks who’d never really left and he had agreed to help with an operation in South America after 9/11. Grey had already recruited that sociopath Landry from the local embassy and this had been his first true test of loyalty. The old spy had been wise, but age had slowed his reflexes, and the four sicariatos, assassins from the Los Monos drug gang in Rosario whom Landry had hired
to complete the task, had the drop on him. He bled out quickly in a dark corner of the German section of the Cementerio de la Chacarita, the city’s historic cemetery. Grey glanced at the stainless-steel Rolex that Landry had brought him back as a trophy, its colors faded and edges worn smooth by decades of hard use. The death had been ruled a homicide and attributed to a robbery gone wrong, thanks in part to the theft of the very wristwatch Grey had worn ever since. He wished he’d had the courage to have done the deed himself, but he knew his limits. His weapon was his mind; it was up to Neanderthals like Landry to do the dirty work.
It was only after that operation that Grey had dug deeper into the Agency files and had come to appreciate its importance. The Russian officer had been Andrenov’s father, and the death of Thomas Reece, the man who’d killed him in the steaming Laotian jungle, was revenge decades in the making. That Grey had brought such closure for Andrenov cemented their relationship. By avenging the death of Andrenov’s father, Grey had found a father figure of his own. A father who was poised to become Russia’s next leader, a president who would lead Grey’s ancestral homeland back to greatness. All it would take now was patience, a virtue that was easy to embrace in the land of silver.
CHAPTER 92
Basel, Switzerland
November
YURI VATUTIN ALWAYS FELT exposed on Sundays. He had warned Colonel Andrenov more than once that his monthly church visits made him a predictable target but the old spymaster was stubborn about the church. They could vary the three-mile route over one of four bridges that crossed the Rhine without venturing across the borders of either France or Germany, but when leaving the compound and arriving at the church, they were completely exposed. He subconsciously tapped his left side, feeling the spare rifle magazine concealed beneath his suit jacket the way a civilian would confirm that he was carrying his wallet. Once he’d received word from his men that the route appeared clear, he nodded to his man at the door.