The Asset

by Saul Herzog

  And here he was, sipping a beer like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  She’d change that.

  She couldn’t wait to see his brains splattered across the mirrored glass of the bar.

  The bartender brought her drink and she took it with her as she rounded the bar. On her way, she caught Mansfield’s eye, and when he saw her, she thought for a second that a look of recognition flashed across his face.

  Maybe he knew her. Maybe his GRU contacts had shown him pictures of her.

  This was it. She had her hand on the gun and was ready to pull it out and put a bullet in his smug face. But then he smiled.

  He didn’t recognize her, or if he did, he’d mistaken her.

  “You must be Diamond,” he said.

  Tatyana smiled. She let go of the gun. In her sweetest voice, without hiding her accent, she said, “They never told me you were so handsome.”

  He offered her the seat next to him but she shook her head.

  “I’ve got a room,” she said. “And I’ve got a friend already up there, warming the bed for us.”

  “A friend?” Mansfield said. “What are you talking about?”

  “And a message,” she said, caressing his hand and pulling him off his seat.

  “Wait a minute,” he said.

  She brought his hand to her mouth and sucked seductively on his thumb.

  “Holy shit,” he said, taking some cash from his pocket and leaving it on the bar.

  Tatyana smiled at him and led him to the elevator, letting him hold her around the waist.

  “What’s the message?” he said, stepping into the elevator with her.

  She waited for the doors to close, then leaned in and put her lips to his ear. “From Moscow, with love,” she said.

  Then she jammed the barrel of the gun into his groin. His eyes suddenly widened as he realized his mistake.

  “What is this?”

  “Don’t move or I’ll blow it off,” she said.

  The elevator dinged and she pushed him forward. They walked down the corridor and she opened the door to her old room, pushing him inside. She brought him to the center of the room, where she knew Igor’s cameras had the best picture. She wanted to make sure he got this message loud a clear.

  “Hello, Igor,” she said in Russian.

  Mansfield was confused.

  “What is this?” he said, his face beginning to break into panic.

  “This is check mate,” Tatyana said.

  “You don’t have to do this. I’m with you guys. I work for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re Russian, right?”

  “Yes,” she said, “And you’re the director of the NSA. My orders are to kill you.”

  “Kill me? No. Those can’t be your orders.”

  “My orders come straight from the Main Directorate.”

  “The Main Directorate? Who in the Main Directorate?”

  “What difference does it make to you?”

  “You’re making a huge mistake. Listen to me. Who gave you your orders?”

  “Igor Aralov.”

  “No. Listen to me. Tell him to call the Prime Directorate right now.”

  “He can’t call the Prime Directorate.”

  “Yes he can. Please. He’s making a huge mistake. He needs to speak to Davidov. Evgraf Davidov.”

  “Evgraf Davidov?”

  “In the Prime Directorate. Just make the call. This goes straight to the Kremlin. I swear, your boss will thank you. ”

  Tatyana was about to pull the trigger when the door burst open. She grabbed Mansfield and swung him around, using him as a human shield as bullets flew at her. Two men dressed entirely in black were standing in the hallway and as their bullets continued to strike Mansfield’s body, she raised her gun and put a bullet in each of their foreheads.

  She let Mansfield’s corpse slump to the ground.

  Then, looking in the mirror above the vanity, one of Igor’s favorite locations for placing a camera, she said, “Igor, I’m coming for you next, you son of a bitch.”

  71

  Vasily Ustinov had killed a man before. It was years ago, a local politician in his home town of Izerbash in Dagestan. The man had been swindling Vasily’s grandfather out of his farm. When the police refused to get involved, Vasily took the law into his own hands. He’d been fifteen years old.

  He hadn’t meant to kill the man, but things got out of hand. They got into a fight and the man’s head hit the ground. Vasily tried to revive him but he was dead.

  Vasily had always thought of it as the day his own life ended too. He’d felt cursed afterward, and was sure nothing he ever did would atone for the blood on his hands.

  So he was willing to kill this general, this man who’d caused the death of so many innocent people, and he didn’t care if that meant losing his own life in the process. As far as Vasily was concerned, it was a price worth paying.

  He felt as if everything he’d done in his life had been a preparation for this day.

  After leaving the train station, he got a cab back to his apartment in the city, where his grandfather’s old Nagant seven-shot revolver was hidden beneath the floorboards. He loaded the gun with its distinctive Type-R cartridges and put it in his coat pocket.

  Then he drove his own car back to the compound. When he got to the front gate, he saw that security was in disarray. There were soldiers and military vehicles coming and going, as well as ambulances and fire trucks.

  The soldier at the gate couldn’t have been older than eighteen and Vasily showed him his credentials.

  “There’s been an explosion at the institute, sir,” the soldier said. “We’ve been instructed not to let anyone pass.”

  “I know there’s been an explosion,” Vasily said. “I’m here on the orders of Major General Yevchenko.”

  “Yevchenko?” the soldier said.

  “Go speak to your commanding officer,” Vasily said. “Tell him Yevchenko’s science liaison is here.”

  The soldier went into the guard post and came back with the officer.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Vasily said. “Yevchenko will have all our heads if I don’t report to him pronto.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Vasily Ustinov. Assistant to the director. I’m here to replace the science team that just got taken out.”

  Vasily saw the uncertainty on the officer’s face before he said, “All right, let him pass.” Then to Vasily he said, “The Major General is at the institute now.”

  As Vasily drove toward the institute, he saw that the fire had been put out and dozens of soldiers, firefighters and paramedics were gathered around the building.

  The science team from Moscow was still there but there wasn’t much they could do now that the samples had been destroyed. Vasily shielded his face from anyone who might recognize him and parked right in front of the main entrance.

  In situations like this, appearing to have authority was what counted.

  “Hey,” he said as he stepped out of the car. “Where’s the Major General?”

  The soldiers pointed to the building. “He’s still inside.”

  “Watch my car,” he said to them as he went up the steps.

  From the first floor lobby, he saw that the office was empty now. His colleagues, who’d been kept there with him since the beginning of the outbreak, were gone.

  There were more soldiers by the elevators and Vasily said, “You men, where are the scientists who were here?”

  The soldiers looked at each other.

  “Who are you?” one of them said.

  “I’m the Major General’s science liaison,” Vasily said. “Who are you?”

  The soldier looked at his comrades. Vasily had his hand on the gun in his pocket and was ready to pull it out but the other soldier said, “The Major General had them taken to Novouralsk.”

  Vasily was relieved. Taking them to Novouralsk wasn’t ideal, but it meant the governm
ent still had a use for them. They would be used in some new project. They wouldn’t have much of a say in the matter, but it was better than being locked up in a prison cell, or worse.

  “Is the Major General still on the second floor?” Vasily said, guessing that was where he’d be.

  “Yes,” the soldier said, and then hesitated before adding, “sir.”

  “Have the elevators been restored?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vasily brushed past them and got in the elevator. He pushed the button for the second floor and waited for the doors to shut. Then he drew his gun, checked it, and concealed it in the sleeve of his coat.

  When the doors opened, Vasily was surprised to see Yevchenko standing right in front of him. He was with another soldier and the two were arguing about what had to be done now that the samples had been incinerated. They barely looked at Vasily as they stepped into the elevator.

  “Going up?” Vasily said as the doors shut.

  Yevchenko looked up but it was already too late.

  “You,” he said, feebly.

  Vasily had the revolver by his waist like an old western sheriff and he pulled the trigger twice. Yevchenko and the soldier fell to the ground.

  The elevator stopped at the top floor and Vasily pulled them out and dragged them to the nearest office. Then he went back to the elevator, rode it the ground floor, and walked out of the building as briskly and officially as he’d entered.

  72

  Laurel jammed the car into gear and slammed her foot down. She was speeding along a muddy forest track in Timokhin’s Mercedes, running on pure adrenaline. She had no idea where she was going or what her plan was.

  All she knew, the thought blaring through her skull like a fire alarm, was that she had no time.

  The Russians would realize very quickly that Timokhin wasn’t answering. She also knew there was a tracker built into the vehicle. There was little doubt security services were stationed close by too, all of which meant there was virtually zero chance she was getting out of that forest alive.

  She felt like she was going to start hyperventilating at any moment. The car careened down the track, swerving madly around each curve.

  She knew she wouldn’t make it. She didn’t even have proper clothes. She’d taken Timokhin’s driver’s shirt and pants, and his gun and ammo, but none of it would get her very far.

  Her only chance was to get to the city as quickly as possible and disappear into the crowds.

  But how would she get there?

  She didn’t even know where she was. And she couldn’t keep this car. Just looking at the fancy navigation screen reminded her that every move she made was being tracked.

  She had Timokhin’s wallet, a little money. It was enough to keep her off the grid for a while.

  A few days max.

  Her mind was running at a million miles an hour and she had to shut her eyes to clear her thoughts. The image of Timokhin’s head being blown open flashed through her mind.

  The car swerved wildly and she jammed on the breaks, sending it into a spin.

  “No,” she cried as the car skidded off the track and crashed into the brush. It came to a sudden halt against a large tree, glass shattering and airbags filling the vehicle on all sides.

  She was jolted violently against the front airbag and it took her a few minutes just to realize what had happened.

  The airbags deflated and she looked around. The car was a write off. It wasn’t going anywhere.

  She was fucked.

  She let that sink in for a moment. That, and the thought of being brought back to the cellar and strung up again on the rope. She banged her fists down on the steering wheel over and over and screamed as loud as she could for as long as the air in lungs allowed.

  Then she forced herself to get a grip. She could still run. She’d be on foot, but it was better than waiting to be picked up.

  All she could see was forest and snow in every direction. She had no shoes. No supplies. No idea where she was. And the GRU was on its way. But she knew she’d rather die naked in the forest, being hunted by dogs, than let them take her back to that cellar.

  Out of desperation, she tried starting the car. She pressed the button over and over but it made only the feeblest of attempts to fire up.

  She sat there, frantically trying to come up with a plan as her body got colder and colder. That was another thing she needed to worry about. The cold. Very quickly it would start clouding her judgment. If she even had any judgment left.

  Then she saw a vehicle approaching along the track.

  They’d been even faster than she’d expected. She still had the gun and she checked it. It was ready.

  She would go out in a hail of bullets. Better to die fighting than surrender.

  The car came to a halt where her vehicle had skidded from the track and a man in a black coat stepped out. She trained her gun on him and waited to see if anyone else followed. No one did. It was just him. One man. Easy. Maybe she could kill him and steal his car.

  She aimed at his head. If she spared his clothing she could take those too. She wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving the shoes a second time.

  She put her finger on the trigger and was about to pull it when a sudden realization flashed through her.

  She didn’t believe it at first, she thought her mind was playing games with her, but she kept looking and there was no denying it. The man she was looking at was him. That was his face. There was no way this wasn’t real.

  It was Lance Spector.

  She dropped the gun, opened the door, and ran to him.

  By the time she reached him, she was crying so hard she could barely see.

  She’d thought she was going to embrace him but when she got to him, all she could do was pound her fists on his chest. She hit him over and over, so hard he had to put up his hands to block her from hitting his face.

  “Easy,” he said. “It’s over now. It’s all over, Laurel.”

  She let him hold her and then she screamed, long and hard, into the collar of his coat.

  When she was finally done, she took a deep breath and let herself look at him. She still couldn’t believe it. She wondered if it was a trick, a trap, but when she touched his face she knew it was him.

  “What the hell took you so long?” she cried. “Where were you? Where were you?”

  “Laurel, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  She wasn’t listening. She struggled to get free of his arms, pounding him with her fists as he kept hold of her. She struggled until her body gave up and went limp.

  “You ready?” he said, loosening his grip.

  She was out of breath, still crying. When he let her go, she slumped to the ground and he had to pick her up and carry her to the back seat of the car.

  He drove out of the forest and only when they got back to the highway, headed toward the city, was she able to calm down enough to think.

  “Laurel, I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Where were you?”

  “I didn’t get your location until a few hours ago. I came right here. I didn’t waste a second.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Roth found you. I don’t know how. I was in Yekaterinburg and I came immediately. I swear to you.”

  “You should have been in New York,” she said.

  They were entering the city and Lance got off the highway and stopped at a shopping mall.

  He turned to face her.

  “I know,” he said. “I should have been there. I should have been with you. I should have listened when you came. I never should have sent you away.”

  “If you’d been there…”.

  “I know, Laurel. I’m sorry. I know I should have been there.”

  She looked at him and was just so grateful he was there with her now that she started to cry again.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Are you hurt?” he said.

  “
I’ll recover.”

  “I’m going to go into this mall and get you some clothes,” he said. “Then we’ll go to a hotel.”

  She nodded. “Twin beds,” she said.

  “You don’t want to pick up where we left off the first night we met?”

  She began crying again and he had to calm her down all over again before leaving her alone in the car.

  When he left, she lay on the back seat and covered her face. She shut her eyes. It would take time before she was ready to face the world again. When he got back, he tapped lightly on the window. He’d brought her clothes and food and waited outside while she got dressed. His taste in clothing wasn’t quite to her standard but the fit was close enough.

  “Not bad,” he said when he got back into the car.

  “Not bad? I look like I’m about to enroll in a convent.”

  “It suits you,” he said.

  She shook her head. “What now?”

  “We need to get you to a hotel. Your body is exhausted. You need sleep.”

  They got back on the highway and made their way into the city. On the way, Lance pulled out a cell and handed it to her.

  “Roth’s worried,” he said. “You should call him.”

  73

  Roth entered the oval office and took a seat. He’d been told the president would be along shortly and poured himself a scotch from the bottle on the bar cart.

  It was a liberty, giving himself a drink before the president arrived, but he felt a celebration was in order.

  Laurel was alive. He’d just gotten off the phone with her. She was recovering at a hotel in Moscow, was operational, and she and Lance were ready for their next mission.

  Roth took a sip of the scotch, it wasn’t bad, and went to the window.

  “I see you’ve made yourself at home,” the president said, entering the room.

  Roth turned to face him. “Oh,” he said, embarrassed, “I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I heard you had some good news.”

  “And about time we got some, if you ask me.”