by Gayle Lynds
As he stood and gazed at Lowell, Chen frowned, puzzled. Then he realized that the NSA director was covering all their asses with his disclaimer. "You're right. Absolutely. We're all lawful here. Murder is against the law."
Millicent studied first one then the other. "Good. Then we're in agreement. If either of you comes up with any serious ideas about how to bring in Hammond more quickly, I'd like to hear them. Now is a good time."
But Cabot Lowell shook his head. "Sorry. Nothing occurs to me."
Chen added, "I'll give you a call if I think of something."
As the two men left and the door closed, Millicent Taurino sank worriedly into her chair. She picked up her phone to ask for the latest reports on Hammond and on the group of loonies who had apparently, at least according to Ty Crocker's mysterious informant, planned to assassinate the president. The public did not know about the assassination allegation, and the few in government who had been told were not at liberty to talk about it. But it all made her wonder whether the two events—the mole's murder of Director Horn and the patriot group's alleged plot—were connected.
She listened to her assistant's report, which was full of gory details about the terrorist group's painful end. Her assistant excused herself and was back instantly. "The Secret Service received a tip early this morning that some defector guy . . . wait a minute, I've got his name here." She spelled it: "B-e-r-i-a-n-o-v. That this Berianov guy is going to try to assassinate President Stevens in the Rose Garden this morning."
"Oh, no. This we do not need. General Alexei Berianov! I'll be damned. What's the Secret Service doing about it?"
"The Secret Service says it's stepping up security measures. You know, the usual increase in sharpshooters on the roof. Detailed inspections of employees and guests and their IDs when they enter the grounds—"
Millicent cut her off. "I know the drill. Is there anything else about Berianov and who might be with him?"
"No, ma'am. That's all I've got here."
"Thanks." Millicent Taurino hung up and leaned back in her chair. She stared up at the portrait of Chief Justice John Marshall, thinking. At last she snatched up the phone again and dialed Dean Jennings. "I hear you boys have a hot alert about an attempt on the president's life during that reception for Putin in the Rose Garden."
"You know I can't comment."
"Okay, I've got another tip for you: I think our mole's involved somehow. We believe he was working for Alexei Berianov, and one of them is your potential shooter today. That being the case, you'd better watch out for both of them. Yes, that's right. Jeffrey Hammond and General Alexei Berianov. You have photos of both? Good. Plaster them everywhere. Oh, and Dean, put me on the staff list for this shindig. I'll be there. Yes, honey, with my war paint on!"
48
In Moscow, Professor Georgi Malko had arisen at noon, completely recovered from his long but fruitful duty at his Russian Roulette club the night before. The morning papers and newscasts were full of the tragic death of Oleg Dudash and the rumor that he had sold True or False the very night he had perished. All morning long, the phone rang and the door knocker sounded at Malko's mansion, but the butler deflected all press inquiries until Malko could breakfast, shower, shave, and dress in one of his proper banker's suits, this one a dark-blue blend of silk and wool.
Looking admirably dependable and prosperous, Malko then met the suspicious media in his office high above the city center, where he displayed the signed contract and expressed his sorrow for the great publisher's passing. He had no idea whether they believed him. In any case, it did not matter. The completed sales agreement spoke the loudest.
Now it was night again, and as he strolled along Tverskaya Street near the Kremlin, he decided his day had been satisfying. Yes, quite enjoyable. He liked being on the way up again. Skirting the curb, he clasped his hands behind him and moved smartly along with the other pedestrians hurrying through the starry night. Above them, neon signs glowed raucously, advertising Volvo, New Balance, and designer clothes and jewelry. Yes, there was a splendid future here in Russia, for those who knew how to take advantage of it.
As he was thinking that, a long black Zhiguli sedan pulled alongside him and slowed. The back window rolled down. Feigning surprise, Malko leaned over and said in a low voice, "General Kripinski. What a surprise."
"Get in, Malko," the general growled. "No one's staring yet. But they will."
Without another word, General Igor Kripinski slid across the seat, and Malko climbed in, smiling coolly. He rolled up the window, the driver pressed the gas pedal, and the sedan slid into the thick traffic.
"We've got twice as many cars now," the general grumbled as he stared at the congestion, "but half the amount of wheat. Explain the wisdom in that, Mr. Oligarch."
"There's nothing to explain. It's a free market. People would rather spend their money on cars. It's that simple."
The general shook his head. "It's not simple. It's stupid. We've let all this free-market shit get out of hand. Keep your billions, Malko. That's over with, and I don't care. But enough's enough. We've got to get this country back on track. When I was a boy, we used to hunt down the rich and jail them. Now my soldiers moonlight guarding them. For money, because I don't have enough to pay them even the stinking little pittances Putin grudgingly promised. Look around at all the new buildings going up. They're awful. Our country's losing its traditions. Everything's pretentious, and the construction itself is nothing but cheap crap." He grimaced and asked hopefully, "What's the situation in Washington? Is Berianov going to pull off this thing?"
"I spoke to him yesterday, and the event's on schedule."
General Kripinski gave a satisfied grunt. "Good. I can't wait. We three are a strange troika, aren't we? Berianov, the unrepentant Communist. You, the free-wheeling entrepreneur. And me, the old war horse who wants nothing more than stability. But that's the way it's always been in our country, right? Byzantine, to be sure, but we understand that strength . . . real power . . . comes from a sword that's sharpened by many. And we do love our troikas. One of us will arise as the supreme leader eventually, as Lenin did over Stalin and Trotski, but until then, we will work together for the good of Russia."
He shot a cagey look at the oligarch, remembering that after Lenin died, Stalin took over and later arranged to have Trotski killed in Mexico. He wondered whether Malko was thinking the same thing. Or perhaps Malko was recalling Khrushchev, who had beaten out Molotov and Malenkov to run the country and then, to solidify his position, had exiled the ailing Molotov to Mongolia where he nearly died, and Malenkov to run a minor power station in Ust-Kamenogorsk, after which he was never officially heard of again.
But the former math professor said nothing, his gaze on the teeming street.
General Kripinski studied his short, oxlike face, which looked as innocent as a baby's. Finally he shrugged. "You expect to take over eventually, don't you, Malko? The supreme leader. Let me assure you, you're not electable, neither by the people nor by an old-fashioned Politburo. You've burned too many bridges. No one loves a man who loves only money, especially not here, not today. We've learned at least that much."
Malko gave a cold chuckle. "Unless, of course, you're the one with the bank accounts and investments. Or you hope someday it'll be you. There's always the chance that after Berianov's event and the change of leadership that you'll become rich, too. Then what will you think? Who will you be? What affluence does to the individual is not only an interesting question, but a critical one. In fact, one on which empires rise and fall. Certainly it's been true of Russia. After all, what is communism about if not money and the distribution of it? No wonder they were so easily corrupted."
"What a crock." The general launched into an outraged tirade against what he called the professor's cynicism, and they continued arguing about politics and the country's proper future as the driver rounded two more corners and slowed. The man walking along the sidewalk had just stopped to talk to two women. As the car pulled up n
ext to him and stopped, he bent down and scribbled into one woman's small book and then into the other's.
"Must be a couple of fans," Georgi Malko explained to the general.
"That's Roman Tyrret? Doesn't look like much." Kripinski studied the man under the ermine-trimmed hat. In his late thirties, he was of medium height and gave off no sense of athleticism. His overcoat was expensive, his wing-tip shoes shined, and his profile clean-cut. To the general, he looked soft and spoiled.
Malko said, "You've got to watch his TV show."
"I hate all that populist bullshit. They prey on everyone's fears, and then they never offer any kind of real solution, except send me money, money, money."
Malko nodded. "You're learning, General." He rolled down his window. "Mr. Tyrret, could we have a word?"
They could hear Tyrret excuse himself. He turned and reached for the door handle. "Professor Malko? Is it really you?" There was something boyish and earnest in his freckled face. "I'm so honored, sir. May I get in?"
"Of course. That's why I called."
Georgi Malko turned to glare at the general, who grudgingly slid closer to the door. Malko followed him, and the television celebrity climbed into the luxury sedan. As soon as the door closed, the general grunted, and the driver returned the car into traffic.
The professor began the introductions: "This is—"
But Roman Tyrret interrupted. "—General Igor Kripinski. Our great scourge of Afghanistan and Chechnya. You're one of my heroes, sir. I'm very honored to meet you, too."
There was a rumble of disgust in Kripinski's throat that never quite got started as Tyrret's honeyed flattery affected even him. Instead, he listened and watched as Professor Malko asked Tyrret to tell them about himself and his goals. Roman Tyrret had charisma, there was no doubt about that. He was also a lot smarter than he wanted anyone to know, and more needy. Beneath his modest claims for wanting simply a bigger audience so he could help people, the general saw hunger for applause and personal influence. The general nodded to himself. Yes, perhaps Malko was right again. There could be all sorts of uses in a new Soviet Union for someone like Tyrret.
Harvey Grossman's apartment overlooked the Potomac River in the historic town of Alexandria just south of Washington. Mediocre abstract paintings hung on the walls and stood against every piece of furniture. The odor of oil paint permeated the rooms, a reminder that an artist—in more ways than one—lived and worked here.
Beth and Jeff were in Grossman's second bedroom. Jeff was searching through the closet, while Beth rested on the bed.
Her side still ached. "How do you know this man Grossman?"
As Jeff searched for the right clothes to disguise them, he told her, "Once when I was consulting with Treasury on a counterfeiting case, Harvey was one of the suspects. We never could get enough evidence to charge him, which was unfortunate then."
"But useful now."
"Harvey needs the money so he can afford to paint his masterpieces."
"I hope he's a better forger and counterfeiter than he is a painter."
She was tense, even though they had plenty of time to reach the White House by 9:00 A.M., which they must do in order to have time enough to pass through the security checks with the other invited guests. She felt a little sick, but she got up to help Jeff look through the clothes. At the back of the closet she found a few women's things, faintly scented with perfume. She pulled out a long, tailored coat, white microfiber pants, and a sun-colored silk blouse. "These look as if they'll work. I'll go dye my hair now."
"Good. A shower will make you feel better. Be careful of that wound." A variety of hair colorings were among the items Jeff had taken from the black box in the assassin's station wagon.
As she grabbed one of the dye packets and disappeared into the bathroom, he continued to pull out and try on clothes. He went into the studio, told Grossman to hurry up, and returned to the bedroom. When Beth emerged from the bath with brown hair, her torso wrapped in a towel, he stared. The dark hair altered her appearance more than he had expected. It made her skin and eyes paler. The eyes were sea blue, startling in their light color as they contrasted with the dark-brown hair.
She picked up sunglasses from the bedside table and put them on. "I bandaged my side. The wound's sore, but it looks clean and uninfected. And I do feel better now. What do you think?" She had dried her hair and teased it, so that instead of its lying against her head in a sleek corn-silk cap it was fluffy and curly brown. With the sunglasses hiding much of her face, no one would easily recognize her.
"Good. In fact, excellent. I particularly like that towel. A nice touch."
She grinned and opened it. Her slender body was damp and luminous from the shower. A gauze bandage was taped to her side. He was gripped by her sensuous curves, the pink nipples, and the triangle of blond fur. The long scar down her chest seemed normal to him now. It took every ounce of his self-control not to rip away the towel and take her to bed again.
He checked his watch and shook his head ruefully. "Now she decides to seduce me. Four hours ago I could've done something about it—"
Careless of her side, this time she ran to him, wrapped the towel around him, too, and pressed her naked breasts against his shirt. She could not resist him. She nipped and kissed his neck.
He growled, "Your timing stinks. But what the hell." He kissed her long and deep.
She wriggled from his arms, her face flushed, her eyes beginning to shimmer as she fought for restraint. "You wouldn't. There's no time. You said so yourself."
He laughed. "Gave you some of your own medicine. I'll dye my hair now."
She pressed into him again and kissed him. "You're awful."
He kissed her back. "I know. You'll get used to me. But now I have to take care of my hair color."
She sighed. "Well, if you must." As she watched him disappear into the bathroom, she smiled and stretched gently, trying her side. It was tender, but that was all. No fresh blood had soaked through the bandage. She put on the new clothes and hurried out to have Grossman shoot her photo with her new brown hair. In the kitchen, she took her meds. By the time she returned to the bedroom, Jeff had finished his shower and dressed.
She stared. "You look different."
"That's the goal." No longer the cocky renegade, he wore a dark, pinstriped suit. The sleeves and trouser pants were a little short, but Grossman's wide girth compensated enough for Jeff's height that the suit was passable. What was more remarkable was the change in his face. With his hair colored black and his naturally golden skin, he took on a faintly Mediterranean look. He enhanced the shift with some kind of inserts in his cheeks that made his face rounder. With oval, wire-rimmed glasses, the transformation was striking.
"You look mainstream," Beth decided. "I don't think I'd recognize you." It gave her an odd sensation, and she smiled, aware there was still a lot more to him she could look forward to discovering. "We'd better go."
"Are you really sure you're up to it? You can back out. I won't think any the less of you." He studied her face. "I know your side hurts. Really, Beth. For both our sakes. I don't want to lose you."
She held his chin in both her hands. He had shaved, and his skin had the silky texture of a baby's. "Who would've thought I'd ever be with an undercover spy? I must be out of my mind."
He gave a dry chuckle. "We both are. Imagine me with another lawyer."
"What else could you expect in Washington? It's a lawyer's town. But what a way to go. God forbid we'd die in some boring fashion."
Jeff held her shoulders. "Don't say that. Don't even think it. We're going to make it."
His gaze was fierce, and she wanted to believe him. "You're right." She shook off her uncertainty. In last night's nightmare, it had been her heart donor whom Berianov murdered, not her. She had survived Ivan Vok's bullet just a few hours ago. They were going to be fine. Had to be fine.
In his large, sunny studio, Harvey Grossman leaned back from his drawing table, finished with both ID
s. Brushes and paint cans stood on a paint-splattered worktable and in clumps on the floor. An easel displayed a half-finished canvas with disjointed slashes of red and yellow. Colorful koi swam in a large aquarium across the room. Grossman stood up, a tall, heavyset man with jowls and a pink face.
He waved two Virginia driver's licenses at them. "Ready, folks. That'll be one thousand dollars cash, the cheapest piece of art in the building."
"But among the best, no doubt," Beth said smoothly.
"Let's have a look." Jeff studied the driver's licenses Harvey had rebuilt from stolen ones. "Good job," he decided. "Now how about a couple of your hidden guns?"
"W-what?" Grossman seemed to shrink.
"Don't bullshit me, Harvey. We both know you're a gun dealer, too. The thing was, we couldn't find them last time. I don't have a badge now to keep me from doing something illegal. You don't want me to do anything illegal, do you, Harvey?" He took out his Beretta and aimed it casually at Grossman. "I really need those guns, Harvey. Something that will go through X-ray machines without being detected."
Grossman swallowed. He had a prominent Adam's apple that bobbed and seemed to catch midway. He swallowed again. "Right. But it'll cost you extra."
"I don't think so. A thousand dollars seems plenty, considering the circumstances." They did not have enough cash to pay more, but Grossman did not need to know that.
Grossman's gaze flickered to the gun. "Guess so."
He crossed the studio to the big aquarium, where sea grass waved, and the koi swam lazily. He pressed a panel at the back of the wood cabinet on which the tank sat. There was a quiet whir, and a three-inch-deep drawer slid out of the cabinet just beneath the tank. Grossman pulled it all the way out.
The drawer held three pistols with ceramic barrels and firing pins, metal springs, and the rest of the parts in hard, clear plastic. They could be disassembled and sent through an X-ray reader as camera or machine pieces. Plus there was a sturdy-looking cane, about three inches in diameter.