by Saul Herzog
“They won’t stand down.”
“Then tell them to bring Medvedev.”
“You know I can’t do a thing like that.”
“I’ll pull this trigger if you don’t,” Lance said.
“You shoot, I shoot,” the president said.
Lance glanced around the room. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you’ve got more to lose from that exchange than I do.”
The president couldn’t argue with that.
“Your orders preclude you from killing a man like me,” he said.
“Fuck my orders,” Lance said. “You tell them to bring Medvedev to the door or you’re a dead man.”
For the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed the president’s eyes.
“Do it,” Lance said.
“You won’t kill me,” the president said. “You’re a dog, trained to obey orders.”
“You’ve read the reports,” Lance said. “You decide if I follow orders or not.”
The president stared at him, his beady eyes calculating the permutations, assessing the odds. They reminded Lance of the eyes of a crow.
“How much longer are you willing to risk your life for Medvedev’s?” Lance said.
Another moment passed, the president’s gaze darting from Lance’s gun to his eyes, then back, then the tension seemed to leave the president’s body. He lowered his weapon a fraction of an inch. His finger moved from the trigger.
“This doesn’t have to happen today,” he said.
Lance smiled. “It’s happening today.”
The president shrugged. “It took ten years to track down Osama bin Laden.”
“I’m not coming back to finish this ten years from now.”
The president knew it was over.
“Come on,” Lance said. “You’re not having a shootout with me.”
The president shook his head. He turned to the corridor.
“Bring Medvedev,” he called out. “Bring him now.”
Lance nodded. “Was that so difficult?”
“Not so difficult,” the president admitted, “but a shame nonetheless.”
Lance kept an eye on the corridor, the windows, the ceiling. Every second that passed brought them a second closer to the moment the president’s elite guard mounted an armed response.
“He was an intelligent creature,” the president said.
“You’ll find a new pet,” Lance said.
The president shook his head. “Not like this one. A truly unique creation.”
“No one’s unique.”
“He foresaw everything,” the president said. “He told me your president wouldn’t go to war over this.”
“There might be war yet,” Lance said.
“No,” the president said, shaking his head. “There will be no war. Your president will put the blame for this on you, Lance Spector. You’ll see. You’ll go down in history as a terrorist. A crazed mad man.”
“I’ve got more pressing concerns than my page in the history book.”
The president shrugged. “If I can be so bold as to give you some advice, Mr. Spector, you need to alter your priorities.”
Lance shrugged. The president was playing for time. “Tell them to hurry up,” he said.
Suddenly, there was an explosion from an adjoining room. A small set of wooden doors were blown off their hinges and came flying into the room, followed by a fireball and a wave of thick black smoke.
Simultaneously, the glass of the windows shattered, and Lance saw the beams of light from soldier’s weapons entering the room from all directions.
He’d been blown back against the wall by the blast but still had his two guns.
While the soldiers could see nothing but the smoke in front of their faces, Lance could follow the beams of light right to them. He fired off two shots and rolled, fired two more, and altered position again.
In the space of about ten seconds, he’d killed every soldier in the room without a single shot being fired in return, and as the smoke cleared, he was able to disarm the president and put his gun against his temple.
“Tell them to stand down,” Lance yelled.
The president was in a daze, disoriented, blood flowing from his ear. In the dust and smoke, he couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear because the blast had deafened him.
“Tell them,” Lance yelled, his mouth an inch from the president’s ear.
“Stand down,” the president screamed. “Stand down, for God’s sake. That’s an order.”
“Give me Medvedev, or it’s game over,” Lance yelled. “I’m not fucking around.”
A voice came back from the corridor. “Medvedev’s here.”
With the windows open, the smoke cleared enough for Lance to make out the frame of the doorway.
In it, he saw two soldiers, and between them, restrained in their grip, was the enormous hulk of the albino. Even in the darkness, his skin seemed to glow, translucent, like the skin of a cephalopod.
“Bring him closer,” Lance said, keeping the president held up in front of him as a shield.
The soldiers pushed Medvedev forward, and Lance reached out and pulled him by the collar.
“We meet again,” Lance said, pinching the man’s pasty cheeks, pulling at his mouth and eyelids, making sure there was no trickery here.
“It’s him,” the president said.
Lance was satisfied.
“The man himself,” he said. “The albino. The Polar Bear.”
“The orphan,” the president said.
Lance unceremoniously pulled up his gun, pressed against Medvedev’s pallid forehead, and pulled the trigger.
In the same motion, he pushed the president forward into the two soldiers who’d been holding Medvedev and ran straight for the window to his left.
Even as Medvedev’s enormous bulk was still falling to the ground, thumping the floor like a fallen sack of sand, Lance was in the air outside the room.
He fell a single story and hit the ground using all four limbs to spread the impact. Along the length of the palace, soldiers were rushing to windows, opening fire, and there were more ahead, out on the snowy lawn forming a perimeter around the palace.
Lance opened fire at the closest of them, then ran back toward the palace, fired two bullets at a ground floor window, then crashed through it into an enormous library.
There was a soldier at the adjoining window. Lance shot him and kept moving, crossing the library in seconds. He dove through another window on the far side of the building back outside.
From his knowledge of the compound, he knew there was a row of fir trees leading from the west face of the palace to a forested area used for hunting. He found the trees against the sky and followed them to the forest.
The security system was back up, and floodlights lit him up every step of the way. Helicopters and fighter jets flew overhead, some opening fire, but he made it to the forest, where the canopy gave him some cover.
The forest led to the compound perimeter.
The trees outside the perimeter had been felled for security, but no one had thought to clear the trees inside the barrier.
Lance climbed one of the trees, went out onto a limb, and once over the wall, dropped down onto it.
He landed on coils of razor wire and had to grab onto it when he lost his balance.
The blades cut deep gashes in his flesh, he couldn’t hold on, and a moment later, he was on the ground outside the perimeter, bleeding from a hundred razor cuts.
Helicopter searchlights panned the area. He could hear dogs and the sounds of men shouting. There was a cold, black-watered river a few yards ahead, a thin layer of ice along each shore but flowing at the center.
Without a thought, he ran to it and jumped into the water.
86
Roth waited impatiently as his car passed through White House security. The president had called him in, and it was so late it could only mean one thing.
The president had found out what Lance had don
e.
That meant trouble.
When he got to the Oval Office, he found the president dressed in his robe and slippers, sipping brandy.
“Mr. President,” Roth said.
“Roth,” the president said, the expression on his face revealing nothing.
“I take it there’s a problem, sir,” Roth said.
“A problem?” the president said. “Only if you consider outright insurrection to be a problem.”
“I ordered him to stand down, sir,” Roth said.
“You ordered him? What does an order even mean to a man like that?”
“I know,” Roth said, feigning dejection.
The truth was, he’d allowed Laurel and Tatyana to keep feeding Lance the information needed to complete his mission. But it wouldn’t do him, or Lance, any good to let the president know that now.
The president shook his head. He poured Roth a glass of brandy and said, “Have a seat, Levi. We need to talk.”
Roth sat on the sofa and took a sip of the brandy. It had a rich, bourbon aroma.
“You like this stuff?” the president said.
“I do, sir,” Roth said, taking another sip.
“Kentucky,” he said, holding up his glass. “Aged in old bourbon barrels. Good as any cognac.”
Roth took another sip. It was good. He leaned back on the sofa and told himself to enjoy the drink. Whatever the president had in store for him would not be good news.
“So,” the president said, leaning forward, “I won’t make you guess why I called you in.”
“I’m sure I have an idea,” Roth said.
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I’m a big boy, sir.”
The president inhaled deeply, buying himself time before saying, “I hear Spector’s already on a flight back.”
“He’s scheduled to land at Dulles in a few hours,” Roth said.
“My people tell me the flight was out of Kyiv.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Roth said, surprised the president had taken the time to familiarize himself with the details.
“And he’s got two Russian citizens with him.”
“Correct, sir. Two women. One of them was the initial source of the threat information.”
“Larissa Chipovskaya,” the president said.
“Correct, sir,” Roth said, growing increasingly worried at how much the president seemed to know about the operation.
“The sister of your recent defector, Tatyana Aleksandrova.”
Roth cleared his throat. “Half-sister,” he corrected, “but yes, sir.”
“And together, Spector and these Russian women masterminded their way into the presidential palace at Novo-Ogaryovo and killed the man behind the embassy bombings.”
“Mikhail Medvedev, sir.”
“The Polar Bear,” the president said.
“Correct, sir.”
The president leaned back and took a sip of his brandy. “So we’re in agreement as to the essential facts?”
Roth nodded.
This was bad.
He’d served under several administrations, and one rule stood as a constant. The greater the detail a president went into, the more trouble it meant.
“First off,” the president said, “I’d like to know what information Lance Spector had about the bombings before they occurred, and why he did nothing to stop them.”
“Sir,” Roth said, “Lance tried to raise the alarm. Our people locked him in a cell. In fact, the man they sent to question him was the same Medvedev who later turned out to be the bomber.”
“How was it that a Russian interrogated a CIA agent in the US embassy?”
“Sir,” Roth said, “embassy security was placed in the hands of a Russian contractor months ago.”
“And who authorized that?”
Roth didn’t want to tell the president he’d authorized it himself, so he said nothing.
The president sighed. He knew well what had led to that situation, and it had nothing to do with Roth or Lance Spector.
There was a humidor on the table, and he opened it. He took out two cigars and offered one to Roth.
Roth didn’t like where the conversation was going, but he took the cigar.
“Roth,” the president said, his tone taking on a more conspiratorial tone, “I want you to answer me bluntly.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Under the present circumstances, would military intervention against Russia and China be justified?”
“Justified, sir? Absolutely it’s justified. They attacked us. There’s no doubt. If we don’t respond to this provocation, we’re giving them free rein. We’re telling the world they can get away with anything. Who knows where that will lead? Or how many more deaths would come of it?”
“More deaths?” the president said.
“Yes, sir.”
“But surely, risking a war with such powerful adversaries also risks more deaths.”
Roth was getting heated. He could see the argument the president was gearing up to make, and he didn’t like it.
“With all due respect, sir, when someone punches you in the gut, you hit back. Otherwise, you’re inviting them to treat you like a punching bag.”
“Like standing up to a schoolyard bully.”
“Yes, sir. Exactly.”
The president nodded. He raised a hand to warn Roth he would not like what he was about to say, then said, “And what if the Kremlin and Beijing were not behind the attacks?”
Roth shook his head. “They were behind the attacks, sir. Beyond a doubt. Spector faced down Medvedev in person. The Russian initiated it. The Chinese went along with it.”
“From what I hear, he came face to face with the Russian president too.”
Roth nodded. He’d known that would become a bone of contention. There was nothing he could say to smooth over it. The Russian president was untouchable and Lance knew it. He shouldn’t have been anywhere near him.
“Look Roth,” the president said, “this is just you and I talking here. Spitballing, if you will.”
Roth sighed. There was only one way this could go. “Please don’t back down from this, sir,” he said. “This is a challenge. The Russians are testing us. Seeing if we have still have the stomach for a fight.”
“I disagree,” the president said. “If we find evidence, incontrovertible proof, that Russia and China were not behind these attacks, then there is no challenge.”
“But there will be no such evidence,” Roth said. “There can’t be.”
The president shrugged. “Still spitballing,” he said, “what would the benefits be if we were to find such evidence?”
“Sir,” Roth protested. “I don’t want Russia and China to be behind the attacks any more than you do, but they are. They did this. The generals in Moscow, the generals in Beijing, they hit us, sir, and they hit us hard. If we back down now, we’re telling the world we’re no longer the dominant superpower.”
The president grimaced, Roth knew his words struck a nerve, but the president persisted.
“Just answer the question, Roth.”
“Any benefits to our two largest rivals not attacking us?”
“Humor me, Roth.”
“Where to begin,” Roth said. “Fighting Russia would be a nightmare. There’s no question about that. Not only do they have a nuclear arsenal capable of destroying the entire planet, they’ve also shown an egregious willingness to break long-standing international norms. They’ve tampered in our elections, sought to foment domestic unrest, they’ve hacked into our infrastructure and cut power to entire sections of the national grid, they’ve used paramilitary and mercenary forces to directly challenge our military forces in the Middle East…”.
“So they’ll fight dirty?” the president said.
“They’ll fight dirty, and they’ll fight hard, sir. They’ve already shown a brazen willingness to challenge us around the world. It’s as if they no longer fear us.”
“And if we were to initiate a conflict now, with the elections so close?” the president said.
“Everything we’ve seen, they’d ramp up a hundredfold, sir. Cyber attacks, disinformation, voter tampering, all of it would go into overdrive.”
“They could sway the outcome.”
“They could pull down your entire administration, sir. Not just your career, but every single member of the cabinet. They’ve been gathering dirt for decades. I’ve seen some of the kompromat, sir. Our military leaders, key house and senate leaders, even you and I, they’d tear us to shreds with the things they know.”
The president nodded. He knew all this. He knew Roth knew it too. He was merely making his point. He wouldn’t fight Russia, because it would cost him his presidency.
“And you haven’t even begun to discuss actual war-fighting, Roth, have you?”
“No, sir,” Roth admitted. “Warfare against Russia would be like nothing in living memory. In terms of raw numbers, Russia has never ceased being a superpower. They have two million reserve personnel and sufficient conventional forces to make a ground invasion unfathomable. And in terms of budget, taking into account exchange rates, they have about one dollar to spend for every three dollars we give the Pentagon. That’s allowed them to modernize so aggressively that in virtually any scenario, an engagement would force us to incur costs we haven’t been willing to consider since Vietnam, maybe even since World War Two.”
“The Pentagon says they’re in a position to launch a ground invasion of the Baltic States in a matter of hours,” the president said.
“That’s correct, sir. They’ve tailored their ground forces precisely for that fight. The new T-14 tank, their fifth-generation fighter, the extended life of the Akula-class and Oscar-class subs, they’re ready for a fight in the Baltic region.”
“And then there’s their nuclear arsenal.”
“Of course, sir. That goes without saying.”
“You tell me anyway, Roth.”
Roth sighed. “Over eighty percent modernized. They’ve phased out the RS-36 ICBMs and replaced them with the Satan 2.”
“Aptly named,” the president said.
Roth nodded.
“Fair to say they’re formidable?”
“They are, sir.”
“Ready for battle?”