by Alex Lukeman
Sirko wouldn't be exposed outside the building. Even if he were, all the possible places where an assassin might wait would be covered by the security services. He'd have to be taken on the inside.
Sometimes it was easy to get to someone at an event. A sports arena, a party, a conference, all presented opportunities when the intended target would be surrounded by people and security could be distracted. But Sirko was no ordinary target. He was paranoid and suspicious, with good reason. There had already been two failed attempts to take him out of the picture. He would be surrounded by bodyguards.
Valentina was the daughter of two spies. Deception was bred into her genes. Her father had worked for the American CIA, her mother the KGB. She was Selena Connor's half sister, by way of a Cold War liaison in Berlin between Selena's father and Valentina's mother.
Valentina had been raised almost entirely by the State. Learning that she had a sister had been the bizarre fulfillment of a long-held wish for family, even if family turned out to be the enemy. She wasn't sure what the revelation had meant to Selena.
She took a last look in the mirror and touched the PSS silent pistol tucked into the small of her back. The pistol used a special 7.62 mm cartridge that was self-contained. When the gun was fired, the casing was hermetically sealed by a piston that cut off smoke and sound. The effective range was about seventy-five feet, more than enough for close wet work. The pistol had been a favorite assassination weapon of the old KGB. It had found new use with SVR and the FSB.
She stepped out of the ladies room.
"There you are! They're calling for appetizers and drinks, get out there."
The voice belonged to the head waiter.
"Yes, at once," she said. "I just wanted to make sure I looked nice for the President."
Before he could say anything more, Valentina brushed past him into the kitchen and picked up a tray of appetizers. She headed out into the central event hall, where hundreds of conference goers were milling about. The sound of their voices was a babble of languages and laughter. The crowd was happy. Why shouldn't they be? The food was good, the drinks flowing, and they were getting an all expenses paid trip away from the dreary offices most of them occupied.
Pigs at the trough, Valentina thought.
She moved about the room offering her tray and looking for her target. It wasn't until the next time around with a new tray that she spotted him, standing in a corner talking to a short man in a bad suit who looked as though he might be Serbian. She noted four bodyguards nearby.
Sirko was nibbling on a blini. Valentina's tray was filled with them. She'd tried one, they were almost irresistible.
Concealed under the sash wrapped around her waist was a small, plastic cylinder with a button. Nobody was paying attention to her, another waitress circulating through the crowd. One of the things she'd learned in Russia's schools for spies was sleight-of-hand. It was easy for Valentina to withdraw the cylinder from the sash and palm it in her hand without being seen. She depressed the button and passed the cylinder over the tray of food in a casual gesture. A fine, almost invisible mist drifted down over the blinis.
As she neared the little group surrounding Sirko, one of the guards stopped her.
"That's far enough."
"I just wanted to make sure you and your friends had enough to eat," Valentina said. "Try one, they're delicious."
The guard took one and bit into it.
"You're right, they're good. Give me that."
"But…"
"Give me the tray. I'll take it to them."
Valentina shrugged and handed him the tray. As she turned away, the guard pinched her on the ass. In another time and place, he would've been on the floor within seconds in great pain. Valentina simply gave him an indignant look. He grinned at her, wiping a trace of sugar from his lips. He took another blini from the tray.
Last thing you'll ever eat, asshole.
Heading to the kitchen, she looked back at the group. Sirko had picked up a blini from the tray and was biting into it. She had almost reached the kitchen door when a large man gripped her left arm.
"What did you do?" he said. "I saw you do something to your tray. Who are you?"
A second man dressed in a bad blue suit came up to them.
"Is there a problem, Andriy?"
"I think this bitch did something to the food she brought to the director."
If they search me, it's over.
Valentina didn't wait to see what they would do next. She reached behind her, drew her pistol and shot Andriy. The pistol made a dull thump. She fired again and Andriy let go of her arm and fell to the floor. The second man was reaching under his coat when Valentina shot him.
Thump. Thump.
Two holes appeared in his jacket and he staggered back into a couple standing nearby. People were beginning to turn as they noticed that something was happening. Across the room, the bodyguard who had pinched her fell to the floor, writhing in agony. Then Sirko doubled over and vomited blood. Two of his bodyguards began choking and coughing. Valentina pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen, holding the gun down at her side.
She started down an aisle where chefs were working.
"You. Stop."
The voice came from the doors she'd just gone through.
Valentina broke into a run. She knocked down a man dressed in white kitchen garb who was chopping vegetables, sending the food flying. Shots sounded behind her. They struck a row of hanging pots by her head with a ringing, metallic sound. A fat man dressed in white stepped into the aisle in front of her. He had a large bread knife in his hand.
"You…" he said.
Valentina didn't wait to hear the rest of what he wanted to say. She raised her pistol and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Misfire!
She threw the pistol at him. As he ducked, she grabbed a pan of vegetables frying in fat from a stove. The handle was hot and burned her hand. She ignored the pain and hurled the boiling fat into his face. He screamed and stumbled back. She dropped the pan, dodged around him and reached a door at the back of the room. Shots peppered the wall as she went through the door and slammed it shut.
She was in a service hall that led to one of the back entrances of the building. A heavy cart loaded with produce stood nearby. She pushed it up against the door, sending bolts of pain through her hand. It wouldn't hold them long.
She ran to an exit door at the end of the hall, opened it, and stepped out into the winter cold. Traffic was moderate, cars passing on the street. She ran down a short flight of steps to the curb, stepped out into the roadway and flagged down a dark sedan.
As soon as the vehicle stopped, she pulled open the passenger door, slipped in and slammed it shut. From her carefully styled hair she pulled out a thin blade and pressed the point against the driver's neck. He was about forty years old, dressed in a dark sweater.
"Get out," she said.
"But…"
"OUT!"
He looked at her and scrambled from the car. Valentina slid over, put the car in gear and her foot on the gas. She reached over and slammed the door shut as the car accelerated away. In minutes, she'd disappeared into downtown Kiev.
Her hand screamed at her as she gripped the wheel. There were blisters on her palm. She thought about Vysotsky.
You owe me for this one, she thought.
CHAPTER 5
A cold wind coming off the Potomac clawed against the windows of Nick and Selena's loft, trying to penetrate the warmth within. Nick stirred a pot of pasta bubbling on the stove. Selena worked on building a salad on the island counter in the center of the kitchen. Most Wednesdays, if they were home, Nick would cook spaghetti. It had become a ritual, something consistent and normal, an anchor in the abnormal world they lived and worked in.
"Almost done," Nick said. His ears were still ringing from the explosion that afternoon.
"I'll open a bottle of wine."
Selena put the salad on the kitchen table. It was
already set for two. She went over to the wine rack and selected a Spanish Rioja to go with the meal. Nick took the pot off the stove, drained the water from the spaghetti and placed it in a bowl. He took it over to the table and sat down.
Selena opened the bottle and poured the wine. She held up her glass.
"A Spanish toast," she said. "Health, money and love."
"And time to enjoy them," Nick finished. They clinked glasses.
A shadow passed across Selena's face and was quickly gone.
"What's the matter?" Nick asked.
"Nothing."
"Nothing? You had this odd look on your face."
"I just had this thought out of nowhere, about time running out."
"That's kind of depressing. What brought that on?"
"I suppose what happened today at the White House. The Chinese ambassador thought he had plenty of time, then he didn't. It seems something happens every day and we end up right in the middle of it. One day time is going to run out for us, too."
"Maybe you ought to finish that wine and pour yourself another glass."
"I'm serious, Nick."
"I know you are. But nobody gets out of here alive."
"That's all you can say? Nobody gets out of here alive?"
"At least while we're here we can try to do something to keep the bad guys at bay."
"That's the problem. We keep them at bay, but they come back again. Whoever killed the ambassador has an agenda. You can bet that whatever it is, it isn't good for us or anyone else."
"It could just be some fanatic making a statement. The Jihadis do it all the time."
"I don't think so," Selena said. "If it's a statement, how come no one's claimed responsibility? There's been plenty of time for a video or a Facebook post or something to show up."
"Okay, but what good does it do? What point does it make?"
"Maybe none. Maybe a lot. Li and Rice were going to discuss the North Koreans with Zhang. Now that discussion is off. The Chinese are upset and wondering what happened. It makes things that much more difficult between us and them."
"You think someone's trying to create tension between Beijing and Washington by killing their ambassador? That's pretty far out, Selena. There's no reason Beijing would think we did it."
"No reason we know of."
"Anyway, Li's murder doesn't concern us. That's FBI territory."
"Unless Rice decides to involve us. Then all bets are off."
Selena drained her glass and poured another. She topped off Nick's at the same time.
"Speaking of North Korea, why do something as stupid as sinking one of our subs? It's asking for trouble."
"Yun is crazy, you know that."
"That's the problem, isn't it?" She said. "Crazy people like him with nuclear weapons. He's gearing up to invade the South and he must know we won't let him get away with it. California had nukes."
"Little ones," Nick said. "Tactical."
She snorted. "As if that makes a difference. Look what happened in Latvia when a little one went off. It almost started World War III, and there are plenty of big ones to back the little ones up. What would've happened in India if we hadn't stopped that madman who wanted to wipe out Pakistan? That's what I mean about us always getting involved."
She downed the glass and poured another.
"Thirsty?" Nick said.
"I'll drink the whole damn bottle if I want."
"Hey, I'm on your side, remember?"
Selena looked down at her plate. "Sorry. It's just that I see us getting caught up in this and I'm not looking forward to it."
"If we do get involved we'll probably be right here at home, looking for the traitor who gave the Koreans the plans for that drone."
"Maybe," Selena said. "There's something else."
"Does it have anything to do with that letter you got today?"
"You don't miss much, do you?"
"Hey, I'm a trained investigator. Also I could see it was from a museum."
"I was going to tell you about it. It was from the curator of the Jewish Museum in New York, Alan Friedman. I met him at a conference on biblical languages several years ago."
"Let me guess," Nick said. "He wants you to come to New York and look at something."
"That's right. It's a scroll, around three thousand years old, written in some sort of variant of Hebrew and Aramaic. It's got him stumped and Friedman thinks I might be the person to translate it. It's important and I want to do it."
"Another scroll? The last one you got involved with almost got us killed. What's so important about it?"
"Friedman thinks it's an account about the death of King David."
"Don't they already know about his death? It's in the Bible, isn't it?"
"In a general sense, yes. But not the specifics of what he said beyond telling Solomon to follow the ways of Yahweh. Friedman thinks the scroll may even be a last will and testament."
"You've made up your mind to go, haven't you?"
"It's part of what I was saying earlier. I feel time is running out to do the things I want to do. I'm tired of the Project, Nick. This isn't fun anymore. I don't want to end up like the Chinese ambassador because I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time. I want to go back to doing what I love, working with languages that no one has been able to understand."
"You're saying you want to quit?"
Selena took a deep breath. "Yes."
"Damn it, Selena, you can't just quit."
"Yes I can. You knew this would come one day," she said.
"Look," Nick said. "You don't have to quit in order to go look at the scroll. We're not in the middle of a mission. You could go to New York, study it, spend a week and come back when you're done."
"It could take more than a week."
"Can't Friedman send you photographs to look at? Something to give you a head start? You could study those and then if you still feel you have to go, you'll know what you're getting into."
"I suppose so," Selena said. "But it's not the same as having the document right there in front of you. There's something about that I can't quite describe. It helps me get to a solution."
Nick poured the last of the wine into his glass.
"If you leave the team right now, it will create problems for me. I understand you want to quit. I can't make you stay, but you owe it to the team to give me time to find someone to take your place."
Selena could hear the annoyance in his voice. "I wasn't planning on leaving before you find someone. I've been thinking about it a lot. Besides, it's possible President-elect Corrigan will disband the Project. It may not even be an issue."
"Any chance you'll change your mind?"
"I wouldn't count on it."
CHAPTER 6
Gregory Haltman still looked reasonably healthy for a man in his late seventies, in spite of his illness. He had most of his hair, though it was now gray and thinning. He still had the broad shoulders, stocky build and thick legs of his university days, when he'd been a force to be reckoned with on the playing field.
His face could have been chiseled out of New Hampshire granite by an unhappy sculptor. The corners of his lips were perpetually turned down. Deep creases on either side of his mouth sent a message of someone who seldom smiled. His eyes were brown, topped by heavy eyebrows now going gray. If the eyes were windows into the soul, then Haltman's soul lived in a cold, dark place.
His IQ approached one hundred and ninety, a number high enough to make writing complicated computer programs no more than an interesting challenge. Haltman designed and built guidance systems for missiles. All kinds of missiles. Everything from the new ground-to-air systems designed to intercept an enemy attack, to the big nukes waiting quietly in their silos for Armageddon.
There was something about designing systems to rain death upon millions that appealed to Haltman. The defense contracts had made him a billionaire and an admired man. People envied him his success and good fortune. They might not have felt that way if the
y could have seen the seething blackness inside his mind. Hiding behind the outward persona of the aging, successful entrepreneur was a man enraged with life and obsessed with vengeance.
Vengeance was something Haltman knew about. In the heady days when he'd made his first millions, he'd fallen hard for an Italian fashion model named Carissa. After a whirlwind courtship they'd married. She'd gotten pregnant. They were in love. The government was throwing contracts at him. Money was pouring in.
Haltman's world was perfect.
Then Carissa went jogging and didn't come back. Her battered body was found a week later. She'd been repeatedly raped before she was murdered. Her attacker had been caught, but the investigation had been botched. The killer had gotten off on a technicality.
He'd smirked at Haltman as he left the courtroom.
Haltman hadn't become rich by following the rules or being nice to people. Sometimes he'd found it necessary to hire someone to take care of a difficult problem for him. The people hired for that sort of work were never seen at the charity and celebrity events of Silicon Valley.
Money couldn't bring Carissa back, but it could buy revenge. He was haunted by an image of Carissa lying underneath her killer, begging for her life. It ate away at him like a poisonous worm.
He'd waited for the better part of a year before acting. Not long after, the mutilated body of the man who'd murdered Carissa was found in pieces in a dumpster. Haltman was the obvious suspect, but no evidence could connect him to the crime. Motive was there and the means was simple enough: all one needed was a sharp knife and a chainsaw. Opportunity couldn't be proved, since Haltman had been a hundred miles away at a corporate retreat when the murder occurred. After the furor died down, the case faded from people's minds. The police moved on. No one cared about the man who'd been killed.
Haltman's parents were long gone. His family consisted of his younger brother, his only genuine human connection. When he was with his brother, Haltman could feel a stirring of love.