“Anything’s possible—I just need time and processing power. I’ve been working all morning on building a bot-net to supply extra juice, but it will be a couple hours.”
“Then stay here with Sammy,” he instructed, his fingers lightly brushing over her shoulder. It didn’t feel right, to leave her. It was the only choice.
There were so many things he wanted to say in that moment, but he found it impossible to voice them.
Kiss them goodbye, a voice from the past whispered, the words echoing within his mind. It took him a moment to place the speaker, and then he remembered.
Samuel Han, standing on the sidewalk outside his suburban Virginia home. Twin boys under his powerful arms, squealing and kicking in the spring breeze. Innocence.
The American dream.
And then they had left, together, for Yemen. And all that followed. Always kiss them goodbye.
“Stay safe,” he whispered, scarce trusting himself to speak. As if his very voice might reveal more than he dared. “We’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Alexei, you’re with me.”
And they were gone.
10:37 A.M.
The Andropov estate
Patience. It had always been Korsakov’s watchword, the only reason he had remained alive. He waited a full thirty minutes after Andropov’s departure to make his way upstairs, toward the quarters of the young American woman.
Just like before. Whatever had triggered Viktor’s panic, his disappearance, the answer seemed to lay with her. Whether she knew what it was or not was another question.
Korsakov surmounted the carved staircase and made his way down the hall, his movements quick, purposeful.
The house exuded opulence, an interior decorator’s ecstasy—the hallway lit by electric lights in golden sconces. Real gold? He wouldn’t have doubted it for a minute.
His old friend had changed. Whether he had lost his edge completely remained to be seen.
He hadn’t. There were two bodyguards stationed outside the girl’s door and Korsakov passed right by them, careful not to break stride. He turned farther down the hallway, down yet another corridor of the massive house. Two men? To guard a woman?
It seemed excessive, even given Andropov’s legendary jealousy. The assassin allowed himself a momentary flash of humor at the thought that the men might be eunuchs.
In the end, it didn’t really matter. Asking to speak to the girl was only going to get him trouble for his pains. Trouble he didn’t need.
His phone vibrated in the pocket of his shirt, an incoming text. Undoubtedly the weather-bound Yuri, Korsakov thought, flipping it open. Andropov’s injunction that he not move until the rest of his team arrived from Chicago was chafing at him.
It wasn’t Yuri. The sender was blocked and the message contained only an address, followed by the admonition: Meet me now. Alone. Unarmed. Mapt 17.
Viktor. Mapt 17, the seventeenth of March, the day he had rescued him from the brothel. There was no use in sending a reply—the boy would already be powering down the phone, removing the SIM card. The way Korsakov had taught him.
Taught him well.
Unarmed. He contemplated going back to his room, retrieving his pistol at the very least. The idea of going out without it…
12:09 P.M.
San Fernando Valley
California
If Harry had harbored any doubts about Vasiliev’s “other” roles at the consulate, they’d been answered when he first saw the Russian’s car. It was a dingy gray Ford Taurus, a bit of rust near the tailpipe—the paint faded and chipped. It also had a V-8 engine.
It might as well have been built for the job they were asking it to do.
“Any ideas, tovarisch?”
Harry looked up from his maps and shook his head. They’d spent an hour and a half tailing Andropov’s convoy around the Valley as his drivers went through surveillance detection route after surveillance detection route, or SDRs, as they were called.
It was dangerous to stay behind a target this long—ideally they would have had multiple cars, at least four teams, more likely five. Dangerous if your quarry knew what he was doing or had hired people who did. Taking the oligarch’s money into account, Harry had no doubt he’d have hired the best.
But that wasn’t the uppermost thing on his mind. Harry cleared his throat. “Won’t they be missing you back at the office, Alexei?”
“I cleared my schedule,” the Russian replied, his eyes on the road ahead. He tapped the gas, accelerating powerfully into the passing lane. “Anything for a friend—and as I’ve said, I am a law unto myself.”
“Yeah…you’ve mentioned that a time or two.” A pause. “But that’s one load of bullcrap I’m not buying.”
“What?” Vasiliev demanded, feigning surprise. He glanced over, then down at the Colt held in Harry’s lap. Pointed straight at him. And this time the surprise was real. “What are you playing at, my old friend?”
“Just keep driving,” Harry ordered. “You’ve got an angle in all this—care to fill me in?”
The older man smiled. “An angle? I took your call when you had no one else to turn to. If that gives me an agenda…distrust is one thing, Harry. Paranoia is another.”
It was there, in his eyes. Nothing more than a flicker in their dark depths. He was lying.
“That wasn’t a request, Alexei.” Harry thumbed off the Colt’s safety, the pad of his finger caressing the trigger.
“If I thought you’d really pull that trigger, I would have crashed this car by now,” the Russian observed coolly. Distract. Divert.
No profit in backing down. Not now. “If you think I won’t, you’re getting too old for this business. A straight answer, Alexei. That’s all I’m asking.”
Vasiliev looked over again, seeming to consider his options. At length, he nodded.
“You’re right, tovarisch. I am getting too old for this.” He let out a heavy sigh. “And I have my reasons for helping you.”
“Using me, you mean,” Harry interjected, his face hardening with anger.
The Russian shrugged, easing back on the gas to maintain a safe following distance from their quarry. “Using is such a harsh word. It would imply that you got nothing from the arrangement.”
“I don’t have time for semantics.”
“As you wish. Valentin Andropov is the man you are looking for—if anyone in the mafiya could bring the Spetsnaz into your country, it would be him.”
Harry glanced forward, toward the convoy several cars ahead of them. “Your point?”
“Putin wants him dead. That’s the reason for the heavy security, the reason he moved to the US in the first place.”
The irony of it all. That a man who had made his billions selling weapons to terrorists would find refuge in the land of the free. He watched Vasiliev’s eyes, careful for any signs of further deception. “What did he do?”
“No idea. In Russia, when you hear that Vladimir wants a man dead—you do not ask why, only how.”
Harry shook his head. “The more things change…I suppose you want my help killing him?”
A smile. “I had assumed that was part of your plan. You would get what you want—and I would get a promotion from Moscow. Maybe even retirement.”
It was clever—and typical of the Russian. It was why Han had advised against contacting him. Always had an angle, a pawn to sacrifice in order to advance his own agenda.
“All I want is information,” Harry said finally. “Who paid him to assassinate David Lay. Once I have that information, he’s yours.”
The smile never left Vasiliev’s face. “See? There was no reason for us to disagree.”
“No reason for you to deceive me, either,” Harry retorted, lowering the Colt. There was a click as he put the safety back on, letting the gun rest in his lap.
“True.” Vasiliev inclined his head. “I always find myself forgetting how different you are from your countrymen. Their emotionalism is difficult to work with—b
ut you, you are different. Almost Russian.”
Coming from Alexei, that was the ultimate compliment. Almost as if he was leading up to something.
Ahead, their target was slowing, the convoy heading for the freeway exit and Vasiliev slid into the right-hand lane, moving into position two cars behind them.
“There is one other thing.” The Russian paused, as if choosing his words very carefully. “Pyotr is part of the contract.”
2:31 P.M. Central Time
The mosque
Dearborn, Michigan
“I’m fairly certain that Haskel didn’t intend for you to interpret his orders this way.”
And she hadn’t wanted to do it this way. Marika unbuckled her seatbelt, looking across the street from where they had parked toward the mosque. Her hand on the door, she looked back across at him. “If you’d rather sit in the car, Russell, have at it. In the mean time, I’ll see if Abu Kareem can spare a few moments for a woman.”
She hadn’t taken five steps across the street before she heard the car door open and close behind her. A tight smile.
Russell had never been known to balk at bending a few rules in order to achieve his ends. The difference between the two of them was that he had always been able to “negotiate” his way out of the resulting trouble.
She hadn’t.
Her orders had been clear, but even the clearest orders left room for creative interpretation. The FISA request was denied. She was not to continue “harassing” Abu Kareem al-Fileestini. They hadn’t said anything about not interviewing him…
There was something wrong about this, she realized halfway across the street, her boots crunching against the thin layer of ice. There was a vacant feeling to the building, just looking at it. Couldn’t quite place it. She glanced up at the overcast, snow-laden sky, then back at the mosque.
No interior lights.
There was a shoulder-high iron fence around the exterior of the building—iron bars covering the windows. That wasn’t uncommon, this was Dearborn, after all, and even religious institutions had to protect themselves against vandals—copper thieves in particular.
The front gate was secured with a chain and heavy padlock, and she hefted both in her gloved hand, staring through the gate at the imposing building. “Look at this, Russell.”
The padlock was encased in ice. Thick ice.
The negotiator shook his head, looking up and down the street. “There’s no one inside.”
1:05 P.M. Pacific Time
Los Angeles, California
The address he had been given was for an abandoned industrial park about fifteen minutes off the 405. Of course that was going by the directions Korsakov had printed off the Internet. Given the legendary LA traffic, it was more like thirty.
The main gate no longer existed, rusty sections of chainlink pushed down all along the perimeter. The buildings were faded and weather-worn, windows shattered by vagrants—weeds growing in the cracks of the asphalt. The picture of desolation. A billboard atop the office building near the gate supplied the ultimate irony. GreenTek Energies: The Jobs of the Future.”
Korsakov swore under his breath, casting a wary eye to his surroundings as he drove deeper into the industrial park. He should have brought a gun.
His phone buzzed and he slowed the Suburban to a crawl, digging it out of his jacket. GET OUT OF THE CAR.
Okay. That meant line of sight. Meant Viktor was watching him. The assassin paused with his hand on the door, gazing out from behind the SUV’s tinted windows. Scanning for threats.
Nothing. But a hundred places to hide. And Viktor was treating him like the enemy.
No use delaying the inevitable. Korsakov pushed the door open and stepped forth, keeping his hands in the open. Keeping them raised.
Silence. A solitary gull hopped across the broken pavement, the only movement as far as the eye could see. Had he been played?
And then he felt it. Eyes on his back, his neck hairs prickling with danger.
Hands still raised, the assassin turned. Ever so slowly. Viktor was standing there, not five meters away—a Glock clutched in his outstretched hands. Aimed straight at his head.
His hands were shaking, tears running down his cheeks—his breath coming in ragged sobs.
“Please…just talk to me, Vitya,” Korsakov whispered, using the diminutive of the boy’s name as he cautiously extended a hand toward him. “What is it?”
The pistol wavered, fear and indecision playing across the young face, salty tears clinging to the scraggly black hair of his beard.
“You’re safe, Vitya,” the assassin continued, his tones gentle. “You’re safe. You have my word, no one is going to do you harm. The people who abused you…they are dead.”
The Glock came back up, a light flaring in the boy’s eyes. He swore hoarsely, choking out the oath. “Not—another—word.”
1:28 P.M.
I-15
California
“She doesn’t have to see it,” Vasiliev commented, taking his eyes off the road long enough to glance over at Harry. “None of you do. What is that great American expression…‘out of sight, out of mind’?”
Harry looked up from his map, his eyes flashing with anger. “I gave her my word that Pyotr would not be harmed.”
The idea was clearly the source of some amusement for the Russian. “Your word? I know you better than that, tovarisch—you know how to handle a situation like this. You tell her what she needs to hear, then do what you need to do.”
It was true. Harry closed his eyes, the memories flooding over him. Another day, another time—it’s exactly what he would have done. For the greater good. Or just out of sheer pragmatism, he hardly knew the difference anymore.
“We’re not having this conversation, Alexei,” he returned coldly, focusing his attention back to the maps. They had what Carol optimistically called “limited” access to the CalTrans camera system. While the situation wasn’t ideal, it was enough to let them drop about ten cars back of Andropov’s convoy.
Breathing room. But if they stayed on I-15 for much longer, they were going to cross into Nevada—and lose their coverage.
“You love her, don’t you?” The question came out of nowhere, taking Harry off-balance. Of all things he might have expected the Russian to say…
“What makes you ask that?”
“I’ve never been to Langley—is that something they teach you there? To answer every question with another question?” A long pause. “I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
Harry took a deep breath, his mind racing. Never give someone anything that could be used against you. Never expose a weakness. “Of course I’ve looked. She’s a beautiful woman. That’s all.”
The lie felt hollow even as it left his lips, and it drew a laugh from Vasiliev. “Is it? You should never be ashamed of your heart, tovarisch. Never.”
It was Harry’s turn to laugh. “That’s good, coming from you. You’ve been married what—three times, Alexei? Were you ashamed of your heart or did you just weary of their bodies?”
The Russian kept driving, but the look on his face was that of a man that had been physically struck. At length he cleared his throat. “You know me well, Harry. Perhaps even a little too well. And it is as you say. They were young, they were desperate, and I represented everything they lacked. If I hadn’t been there—where might they have ended up? In a brothel? Beaten and raped on the Internet for the viewing pleasure of teenage boys here? It doesn’t change the fact that I used them. I am not without my regrets.”
The former KGB field officer dug into the pocket of his shirt and retrieved a small wallet-sized photograph. “My wife, Anya.”
Harry took the photo from him and turned it over casually, knowing what he would find. Vasiliev’s first two wives had both been blondes, breathtakingly beautiful—and young enough to be his daughters, indeed barely out of their teens.
The face staring back at him from the photograph was not what he had expected to s
ee. A plain, unremarkable face lined and worn with age, the face of a woman in her mid-sixties. She was standing with her back against the rail of a ship, the sea breeze playing with her graying hair.
It was the eyes. The way they gazed into the camera. Confident. Full of love.
She was beautiful.
“It’s not what you were expecting…is it, tovarisch?” Vasiliev asked quietly. He went on without waiting for a response, an unusual earnestness filling his voice. “Love—true love—only comes to a man once in his life, and often he does not recognize the form it takes when it comes. I never knew what love was until I met her.”
Harry stared out the window of the car at the traffic, processing the Russian’s words. Afraid that he was right.
“You grow old,” the Russian continued, hesitating. “You grow old and realize one day that you are alone. All that you have done for your country, all that you have sacrificed—and you are left with nothing. A fistful of sand, your life slipping through your fingers.”
He felt a chill pass over his body as the older man kept speaking. A premonition of evil.
“You’ve been trained to distrust your heart, tovarisch, and there was reason for it, but do not let this stand in your way now. If you truly love this woman…never let her go.”
4:09 P.M. Central Time
The mosque
Dearborn, Michigan
“And what are you going to do if you trigger an alarm?” There was a quiet amusement in the negotiator’s voice as he stood above her, in the slush of the alley.
“Run like the devil,” Marika retorted, slipping on a pair of gloves and removing a set of lockpicks from an inner pocket of her coat. The back door of the mosque was protected by a heavy iron grate, secured with another padlock.
Any other partner she’d ever had would have been back at the vehicle by now, reporting her actions to D.C. That Russell wasn’t said more about his concern than his common sense.
Failing in their initial visit to the mosque, they had driven out to Abu Kareem’s house, a small bungalow in a housing development out in the suburbs. A suitably modest residence for a man of God.
There was no car in the garage, unmarked snow covering his driveway. He hadn’t been home since the previous night.
Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Page 30