Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  Berianov scowled, swiftly considering. Then he nodded. "Your President Stevens. He's got the World Bank, the IMF, and every industrialized country aligned to keep driving Putin deeper and deeper into capitalism. Stevens is destroying Russia. But when he's assassinated in front of the cameras of the world, Putin, his security team, and all Russia will be shamed. It's the kind of rough politics we Russians respond to. Vladimir Putin will be finished at home."

  "But the Keepers—your trained killers—are dead. You outsmarted yourself there. Are you planning to kill him yourself?"

  Berianov gave a wolfish grin that said nothing and everything. "The invitations, Hammond. Now!"

  He shrugged and locked eyes with Berianov as he eased a hand into his flannel shirt. He moved slowly, and then he began to talk in a low, rapid voice, hoping to provoke Berianov into making a mistake so he could take him down. "You think you're going to save Russia this way? Bring back the revolution? You're wrong. All you're doing is repeating Stalin's horrors. He began like you with a few 'necessary' deaths. First his so-called friends, like Ogust and Yurimengri. Then anyone in his way, like Ty Crocker and Stephanie Smith." With the tips of his fingers, he pulled out the four white envelopes and concluded, "Finally he sent masses of the expendable, like the Keepers, to their deaths. You're doing exactly the same thing, Berianov. You're no better than any murderer." He held the envelopes vertically in front of him.

  Berianov acknowledged the envelopes with a flicker of his eyes, but his expression was unreadable. "This isn't for me. It's for Russia. If you knew the death of one person would save millions, wouldn't you kill that person? If you'd had the chance, wouldn't you have killed Hitler? Of course you would!"

  "President Stevens is hardly Hitler. He's helping Russia."

  "You're a fool, Hammond. In Moscow, the morning weatherman reports conditions for today only. At night, he forecasts for tomorrow, never the day after. Do you know why?" His eyes flashed with anger, and he did not wait for an answer. "My country feels perishable, as if we've got an expiration date. That's not the way it used to be. We had real power when we were Communists. We had ideas, vision, commitment, endurance. All of us were pulling together. We could do anything in those days. We had a future!"

  Jeff studied Berianov's outraged face beneath the park ranger's cap. He saw longing there, too, and a wistfulness that made him even more uneasy than the anger. There was a thin line between honest aspiration and cynical justification, and Berianov was walking it too easily, as if he had done it so long that he was impervious to reason. "It won't work, Berianov. Even your own people want what we have."

  "Streets paved with gold?" He snorted with disgust. "That's enough talk. Hand over the invitations. Now."

  "In case you haven't noticed, General," Jeff said icily, "you're not the only one with a weapon. My gun is pointed at you, and I won't miss."

  From where she had been listening behind a pillar at the left side of the monument, Beth peered out at the two men, each armed, each unyielding in their post-Cold War game of chicken. She had a keen sense of déjà vu, as if she had witnessed scenes like this many times before. But as she continued to focus on Berianov, really study him for the first time, her stomach felt hollow and pain seemed to split the top of her skull. She leaned against the column, feeling weak. Was she imagining her physical reactions? Was she such a suggestible fool that the nightmares about landing on her head were coming back to haunt her now? She could not decide, her mind assaulted by images and thoughts, a cyclone of sensations. And pain at the crown of her head.

  Still, she forced herself to keep her gaze on Berianov. She searched back through her nightmares and saw him sitting at the campfire . . . running beside her with their weapons in their arms . . . lifting his head to shout a warning. She remembered him jumping up onto the motorcycle. . . . His shoulders square, his head particularly erect. He gave a little lift to his shoulders and tilted back his head as he pulled a helmet with a metallic visor down over his face. . . . She would not forget him. Could not.

  She glanced at Jeff and remembered three days before when she had feared he was a killer. Right now, watching him, she believed he could be, even though he was the same man she had slept with and whom she knew to be kind and gentle. For him, neither was an act. Not only would Berianov shoot to kill Jeff, but Jeff would shoot to kill Berianov. It was all she could do to remain hidden. To not go to Jeff's aid. Every fiber strained to step out with her Walther and take Berianov by surprise. The sight of him enraged her. Kill him. Kill him. Stop it, Mikhail. Do you hear me? I don't need you. Leave me alone! She must wait. Wait for whatever trick Berianov had planned.

  She did not have long. Berianov's low voice echoed a command in the cavernous memorial. "Ivan."

  "I am here, Alexei Petrovich." The guttural words sounded from behind the imposing six-foot granite pedestal.

  Again she had that queasy feeling of memory. She studied the squat, massive figure of Ivan Vok as he appeared at the cube's side, silenced pistol in hand. With the conditioned reflex of a trained agent, Jeff half turned in the shadows, his gun moving between the two targets. Beth returned her gaze to Vok. He was familiar. Like Alexei Berianov, he seemed like a haunting ghost from her past.

  Berianov smiled. "What will you do now, Special Agent Hammond? You can't fire at Ivan or at me before he kills you." He shrugged. "But you're right. We don't want to cause a furor here. So hand me the envelopes, and we'll let you live."

  Jeff stared from one to the other. He sighed and conceded, "I guess I don't have a choice." He lowered his pistol.

  As she watched, Beth made herself breathe slowly, evenly, willing her mind to stay free to react. This was the critical moment. Berianov would not let Jeff live; everyone knew that. Her pistol was steady in both hands as Jeff carefully extended the envelopes toward Berianov.

  But just as Berianov reached out, Jeff let them slip from his fingers and fall to the marble floor in front of his cowboy boots. "Come and get them."

  Berianov scowled. "Step back," he ordered.

  Jeff moved back, his tall frame looming toward the short, powerful Ivan Vok, but Vok held his ground, his weapon firmly aimed. There was no way Jeff could move on Vok without being shot and killed.

  Berianov stepped warily toward the envelopes and bent to pick them up. In that instant, as Berianov was looking down and Ivan Vok was focused on Jeff, a comforting certainty descended over Beth. It was almost as if she had spent her life preparing for this moment, even though she knew that was impossible. She raised her gun and stepped out from her hiding place.

  She said coolly, "Don't move an inch, Vok!" Her gun was aimed at him.

  There was a shocked moment in the shadowy rotunda with its big open spaces and crisp morning air. The two killers were motionless, Berianov in a crouch. But when Jeff started to move his pistol back up toward Berianov, the general suddenly flung himself forward into Jeff's legs.

  Ivan Vok reacted quickly. Protecting his boss, he swung his pistol onto Beth and, with no time to aim, fired. At the same moment, Beth squeezed her trigger.

  Vok took Beth's bullet through the collar of his white shirt, severing his carotid artery. Blood and red flesh erupted through the thin cloth and sprayed the air. The veteran assassin saw it and was astonished. Pizduk. Bastard. They were all bastards. Pain exploded in his head, and he landed at the base of the pedestal, slammed up against it as if he were litter blown against a curb. A shroud of black enveloped him, and he collapsed into death.

  At the same time, Vok's 9mm bullet ripped along Beth's side just above her waist. The impact was searing, and she felt a lurch of nausea. She spun away, her shoulder bag flying, frantic to keep her balance, but she hit her head against the marble pillar that had sheltered her. The pain was like a knife through her brain, and she fell.

  Within a second of the two shots, Russia's would-be leader, Alexei Berianov, was already up and moving. On the hard floor, bleeding and dizzy, Beth looked around in time to see him tear down the st
eps, the four white envelopes locked in his fist, as Jeff raised up on his elbows and squeezed off a shot.

  The bullet bit into the grass, never touching Berianov, and Jeff jumped up to pursue. His rugged face was a mask of determination. Then he saw Beth bleeding on the floor. "Beth!"

  She must have passed out. When she awoke, a park ranger—a real one this time—was using a cell phone to call for help, and Jeff was kneeling over her, rubbing her wrists and talking. "Beth, wake up. It's okay. It's only a small wound, and the ambulance is coming. You'll be fine. Beth?"

  "Easy for you to say. I'm the one with the wound."

  He smiled. "That's better. I'm more worried about your head. That was a rough fall."

  "Marble appears to be harder than bone." She gave a half-smile. Then she remembered. Where was Berianov? She sat up abruptly, but her head spun, and she had to lie down again. She asked anxiously, "Berianov?"

  "He got away, but at least he didn't get the invitations." At her suggestion, the sealed envelopes had held only cardboard pieces torn from the covers of an old AAA tour book of Washington they had found in Evans Olsen's glove compartment.

  "Thank God." Her side burned and throbbed. She saw Ivan Vok lying sprawled in blood, his pistol nearby. "Vok?"

  "Dead. That was some shot."

  She had killed another man. Thinking about it made her feel ill. Once more, she'd had no choice, but she would never get used to it. She took a deep breath and sat up again. This time her head did not spin.

  "What are you doing?" His voice rose. "Lie down!"

  She ignored him. Her side was bloody. She pulled up her sweater and looked at the wound. It was a purple slice just beneath her ribcage, still oozing red. "All I need is aspirin, an antibiotic cream, and a bandage."

  "Beth, you're nuts! You passed out!"

  Some indomitable spirit possessed her. She had to go on. Logically it made sense that Jeff could use her help, but this was no rational drive that pushed her to continue. "So I fainted." She rose to her feet. This time the dizziness was small and soon passed. She tried to smile at him. "You didn't really think you were going after Berianov alone, did you?"

  "You've got to have that wound looked at. With your transplant, you're susceptible to infection!"

  "Big deal. That's why I take all my meds on time, in case a little thing like a bullet happens to shake things up. Look, women used to have nine-pound babies and then go back into the field to plow. I think I can handle a scratch. Men can be such wusses. Where's my bag? I've got antibiotic wipes in it."

  Jeff was thunderstruck. Then he was angry. But there was no stopping her. Already she had waved good-bye to the ranger, picked up her shoulder bag, and was limping off across the rotunda.

  The park ranger stared at her as if puzzled. Then he checked out Jeff, and there was a strange expression on his face. "Don't I know you two? I swear—"

  Jeff turned away. They had to get out of there fast. "Maybe. We come here a lot. We're just tourists at heart. Well, I'd better get my wife home." He rushed after Beth. Somewhere an ambulance siren sounded, heading their way.

  "Hey!" The park ranger trotted after them and snared Jeff's shoulder. "You've got to stick around. There's a dead man here. The police will want to talk to you!"

  "Sorry, friend." Jeff turned, grabbed the man's arm, and flipped him over his back. The ranger landed hard, air gusting from his lungs. Jeff took off running down the steps after Beth.

  She was already sitting in the passenger seat of the Olds. As he got in behind the steering wheel, she said, "I hope you don't mind driving." She had found her moist antibiotic tissues and was wiping her side.

  "Hell, at least there's something you won't do!" He turned on the engine, circled the car around the lot, and accelerated toward the street.

  She leaned back tiredly. She felt dizzy again, but she was not going to tell Jeff. "Something weird . . . I've quit talking to my heart. When I was waiting behind the pillar, I actually started talking to Mikhail Ogust directly. I think it was because I saw Berianov. Maybe I'm losing my mind."

  He shook his head. "Just as long as it's not your life that you're losing."

  "Where are we going?"

  "You're one enormous pain in the butt, you know that?"

  She gave a little smile. "But I'm adorable, too. Come on, Jeff. You're not going to get rid of me. I have to see this through to the end. It's not just for me, it's for Stephanie and Ty and Mikhail Ogust. I owe all of them."

  "You don't owe Ogust a damn thing for getting you into this mess."

  "I've thought about that." She rolled her head to the side so she could study his intense profile. "Maybe not, but I think he wants me to stop Berianov for him." As they entered traffic on Ohio Drive, an ambulance rushed past toward the Jefferson Memorial. "But how are we going to find Berianov now? We don't have anywhere else we know to look. His whole plan is destroyed—he doesn't even have the invitations. If he gives up now, we'll never catch him without a countrywide, probably worldwide, search."

  "Once the Keepers were all dead, most people would've dropped the assassination. Aborted it." Jeff watched the ambulance for a moment, thinking. "But not Berianov. Everything we know about him says he won't give up. That he's unable to." He nodded as if agreeing with some decision he had just made. "Here's what we're going to do. First, I'm going to pull off and find a phone booth so I can make an anonymous tip to the Secret Service. Since the warning won't be tarnished by any connection to me, they'll at least heighten security. Plus they'll make an effort to convince the president to bow out of the ceremonies. "

  "I hope they succeed," she said fervently. "What else do you have in mind?"

  "All four of these invitations are in men's names, but one of them, for a Mercer Somebody, could be a woman's. I know an artist who can make us good fake ID. If you really think you're up to it, we'll use two of the invitations to get into the reception and press conference in the Rose Garden. That way, if Berianov tries to kill President Stevens, maybe we can stop him."

  As Bobby Kelsey sat alone in his darkened office in the Hoover building, he felt his rage build. He had lost all trace of Jeffrey Hammond and Beth Convey, and in the process he had probably destroyed his one chance for the final big score—helping Alexei Berianov to become the dictator of a reborn Soviet Union. It would have meant millions of dollars to him. Kelsey knew Berianov had other sources in the U.S. government, particularly one each in State and Commerce, but he was Berianov's prime contact in the American intelligence community. Berianov had paid and would continue to pay handsomely for that.

  Kelsey had no illusions. When he had reported the disaster about Hammond and Convey to Berianov, the general had sounded reasonable, not overly angry, but Kelsey heard behind the measured tones a depth of distrust that might never be bridged. Berianov could kill him and decide about replacing him later.

  Worried, he turned his executive chair around so he could check his personal e-mail. It was a long shot, but still—

  What he saw at first made his spirits soar. And then dread filled him. There was a new encrypted message from Berianov in his code name, but no clue in the subject line whether it was good news or bad. Instantly he opened it. With relief, he transcribed Berianov's message: "I need you, Kelsey. I'm not finished yet. I'll make this worth your while." Instructions followed to meet at Berianov's secret lair north of Washington.

  Nervous and suspicious, Bobby checked the message's posting time to make certain Berianov had sent it after he had received the bad news about Hammond and Convey. Yes, just ten minutes ago. Kelsey allowed himself a smile. Berianov still needed him.

  Activity in the Justice Department was picking up as workers arrived, computers flashed on, and the aroma of morning coffee floated through the halls. In Deputy Attorney General Millicent Taurino's corner office, she was already at work, glowering first at National Security Adviser Cabot Lowell and then at Assistant Attorney General Donald Chen. The three of them were sitting in a triangle, she behind her
utilitarian desk and the two men in the armchairs facing her.

  "We blew it," Millicent said glumly, chin resting on a fist. "We didn't bring Hammond in fast enough. So now he's killed the director. Besides all the usual police stuff, what are we doing about locating him before he does any more damage, Donald?"

  "Millicent, if I weren't deeply in love with my wife, I'd beg you to marry me. You're so supportive." Donald Chen's Buddha face was just as gloomy as hers. "I refuse to let the buck stop with me on this. What I want to know is where's Eli Kirkhart? He was our point man. He's the one who's fallen down on the job."

  Cabot Lowell's sleek head rotated from one to the other, his eyelids lowering and then rising. His lips were thinner than usual, scalpel sharp. "You've missed the point, both of you," the older man said. "We now have enough evidence to satisfy most people that Jeffrey Hammond is the mole. It would be gratifying to bring him in alive so he could tell us exactly what he's passed on to the Soviets and then to the Russians over the years, but it's not essential. In fact, for the good of the nation, it may be best that he not come in alive. It would save a lot of messiness, not to mention the expense of a trial."

  "Really, Cabot, you're outrageous, not to mention pitiless." Millicent Taurino glared at him.

  "But realistic," Cabot Lowell reminded her.

  "We're going to have to answer a lot of questions when he's arrested," Donald Chen agreed unhappily. "I don't like to think about the press inquiries. We're not going to look good. In fact, we're going to look plain incompetent."

  "If the shoe fits and all that." Millicent pressed her palms down on her desk top and arose, a small woman who exuded a towering sense of power. She growled, "Maybe we screwed up by not moving faster on Hammond, but it's too late to bring Director Horn back to life. If you think we look bad now, imagine what the public would say if word ever leaked out that you two had considered authorizing a hit on Hammond? Forget it, you ghouls. Not while I'm on the job."

  Cabot Lowell rose, too. "Now, Millicent, you know none of us ever said that. That certainly wasn't part of this conversation, was it, Donald?"