The Lone Patriot

by JT Brannan

  Somebody, somewhere, had betrayed them.

  He let out a long, slow breath, concentrating back on the job in hand.

  First things first, Mark; you’ve still got a job to do.

  ‘Find Makarova,’ Cole told his daughter. ‘Please.’

  9

  Bruce Vinson was in a rage.

  Normally a man who dealt with things in a calm and completely unruffled manner, today he found himself simply unable to keep a lid on his temper.

  ‘What do you mean, he won’t see me?’ he shouted down the line to Rebecca Grayson, Clark Mason’s private secretary.

  ‘He says he’s too busy,’ Grayson answered.

  ‘This is a matter of national security!’

  ‘The president understands that,’ the secretary continued, ‘but he suggests that you follow the established protocols for contacting him. Perhaps you should first speak to Ms. dos Santos?’

  Vinson was about to shout back his answer, thought for a moment about just smashing the handset of his phone across his desk; but the moment passed and he just sank into his chair, head down.

  Clark Mason, that fucking son of a bitch, had sold out his own troops, Vinson knew it as clearly as he knew anything.

  He’d made his deals with Mikhail Emelienenko, and this was the result.

  Four CIA officers down in Athens, a safe house shot all to shit, and a close call on Cole himself; on the highway between Moscow and St. Petersburg, an unknown number of CIA agents and his own men and women were missing, out of communication, presumed dead. Along with how many innocent civilians?

  Vinson shook his head in sorrow. He was still waiting for word from Russia, but he had to assume the worst. The security services had attacked the tour bus convoy in force, and it was unrealistic to assume anyone had survived. He held on to a thread of hope, but he had to realize that’s all it was – just a thread.

  He’d known Clark Mason was a traitorous, untrustworthy bastard ever since he’d first met the man, and his opinion of him had only become worse over time. And now he was the President of the United States of America, able to do whatever the fuck he wanted.

  Well, not for long, you son of a bitch . . .

  Vinson was going to make the bastard pay, one way or another, no matter how long it took, no matter what he had to do to make it happen.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Just pass him this message, okay? Tell him I know what he’s done.’

  ‘You know what he’s done?’ Grayson asked, obviously a little confused.

  ‘Yes. Tell him I know what he’s done. And tell him that there are going to be repercussions.’

  ‘He said that?’ Mason asked, brandy hidden in a desk drawer along with his cigars.

  ‘Yes,’ Grayson confirmed. ‘“There are going to be repercussions”, his exact words.’ She paused, a look of concern over her face. ‘What did he mean? Isn’t he just the director of some local think-tank or something?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mason said, ‘he is. Obviously, he has ideas above his station, don’t even worry about it. Must be his English blood or something, the guy’s eccentric. You know what the Brits are like, think they still rule the Empire.’ He smiled at the girl, but even he could recognize how false it was.

  The trouble was, Vinson’s message had him worried. The man still had those recordings, and Mason wasn’t so established in the presidency yet that they wouldn’t cause him harm. Was that what Vinson meant by ‘repercussions’? Or was there something more? Mason couldn’t help but remember that the man was fully ensconced in an organization of what amounted to nothing more than hired killers. Surely he wouldn’t . . .?

  But, he reminded himself, two could play at that game.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he asked Grayson, suddenly realizing that she had been talking to him.

  ‘I said, will there be anything else, Mr. President?’

  There was that look in her eyes again, teasing him.

  He looked at his watch. It was nearly lunchtime, and he had no meetings scheduled until afterward.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said with a serpent-like smile. ‘Come here.’

  Ten minutes later, Mason was sat back at his desk, head in his hands.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Grayson was saying as she smoothed out her dress, ‘you’re under a lot of pressure, and –’

  ‘Get out,’ Mason said sharply. ‘Just get out of here. Go on.’

  She left the office as quickly as she could, but Mason didn’t move a muscle. This had never happened to him before, not once; it hadn’t mattered how drunk he’d been, how tired, how stressed . . . No matter what, he’d always been able to perform, to do what a man should do.

  Damn that Vinson, he thought angrily, it’s all his fault.

  It’s all his damn fault!

  Without thinking, he was already reaching for the secure telephone.

  He dialed, and another phone was picked up, nearly five thousand miles away.

  ‘Mikhail,’ Mason greeted the Russian president. ‘Sorry to trouble you so late. I need a favor.’

  Once you’d made a deal with the devil, Mason told himself, you might as wring all that you could out of it.

  10

  Cole drove the van past the Temple of Olympian Zeus and the Arch of Hadrian, still visible in the waning light of evening, the red fireball of the sun slowly retreating beneath the opposite horizon.

  He was less than ten minutes from the mansion house now, and he went with traffic around the curve of Vasilissis Olgas Avenue where it bordered the southern edge of the National Gardens.

  Cole knew that the police were usually responsible for the security of government figures, even the top echelon; since Russia got involved though, a lot of the security was being handled by the Russian Presidential Security Service, and these numbers had received an additional top-up now that Boris Manturov was also here.

  Cole was still finding it hard to figure out what was going on – the Russian prime minister was here, along with the Greek leader – a friend of Russia’s – and both politicians were being protected mainly by Russian troops. And yet, at the same time, one of Russia’s top assassins was here too, seemingly on the orders of Colonel Vladimir Dementyev, the architect of a mysterious plan known as Project Europe.

  So what was the plan?

  Cole still couldn’t come up with a relevant target, and he wondered if Michiko was having any more luck with the guest list.

  ‘Michiko,’ he said after dialing her direct line, ‘how you getting on with that list? I’m literally almost on the doorstep.’

  ‘I was just calling you. Richard Irvine is going to be there.’

  ‘The American ambassador?’ Cole asked. ‘How did nobody know this earlier?’

  ‘Last minute addition to the roster, apparently. Although it looks like it was more for security reasons, he was probably always supposed to be there, his name just wasn’t on the list.’

  ‘Shit,’ Cole said, ‘that’s it.’

  His mind was racing. Makarova was pretending to be Latvian, she’d met with Latvian and German agents, and she was on her way to kill the American ambassador. Was Project Europe designed to set Europe and America against each other?

  It made sense, Cole knew; Latvian and German cooperation would indicate some sort of EU-wide decision to attack America, and someone like Mason would almost certainly want to respond in kind. Could it lead to some sort of transatlantic conflict, another world war? It would be a great time to precipitate it; with major American forces committed to Iran, it would level the playing field with the EU, make the contest more even.

  But Cole didn’t think war would result, didn’t even think that Emelienenko expected one. It would be enough for the Russian president if the conflict was economic, a refusal to trade or do business between the two huge blocs. Russia, whose own economy was struggling, would become perhaps the major trading partner of each bloc as a result, catapulting the nation’s finances sky-high.

  Cole explained his thoughts to Michiko as he wai
ted at the lights to turn left onto Ardittou, less than a kilometer away from Maximos Mansion.

  ‘I thought the same thing,’ said his daughter in reply, ‘I’ve already sent Bruce a message about it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Cole as the lights changed and he pulled the van out, heading northeast from the National Gardens. He realized that, with the US ambassador inside, there would also be Secret Service personnel there with him. ‘Get him to pull Irvine out of there, will you? Alert the Secret Service, pass them Makarova’s picture, get them to arrest her if they see any sign of her. And tell them I’m on my way there.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ Michiko said, signing off.

  Damn. The American ambassador. How the hell had they missed that?

  He passed the road that led to the mansion house on the left; it was a one-way street, and Cole wasn’t going the right way, so he kept on driving. It had never been his intention to go straight up to the prime minister’s home in this stolen Russian van anyway; his aim was to stop on one of the nearby side streets and approach on foot.

  As he passed, he looked up the street, saw a variety of marked and unmarked cars gathered outside, effectively blocking the road around the building. Security was probably tight, but he hoped the Secret Service got the word to get their man out of there.

  He would try and meet the Secret Service agents at a side door if they were still there, gain access to the building that way; it was a risk, given the presence of Russian troops and the fact that it was probably the Russians that had just tried to kill him back at the safe house, but it was a risk worth taking. If Makarova was there, Cole would recognize her.

  He pulled the van left between the white-walled apartment blocks on Skouze, then turned right on Rigillis. He went straight over the crossroad with Vasileos Georgiou, then pulled into an open parking space on the street, between the Athens Conservatoire on one side and the Turkish Embassy on the other.

  He got out of the van, having given serious consideration to taking with him the arsenal he’d picked up from the safe house, before deciding against it. He felt bad, heading into the lion’s den with just his bare hands and a cellphone, but there was no way he was going to be able to get a pistol, much less an assault rifle, past security.

  He walked around the corner, back onto Vasileos Georgiou, and started moving cautiously down the sidewalk of the narrow, tree-lined street.

  Soon he was approaching another crossroad, and he could see the presidential palace on the left, the rear of the Maximos Mansion on the right. Up ahead, he saw the side gate, a police guard unit outside, supported by men who could only be Secret Service.

  Had the ambassador been moved out of there yet?

  He felt the vibration of his cellphone in his pocket and pulled it out. ‘Is Irvine still there?’ he asked as soon as he answered the call.

  ‘Yes,’ Michiko said, ‘and that’s not all. Listen – Mason has declared you rogue, he’s sent warnings through O’Hare to arrest you if they see you.’

  What the hell?

  Dennis O’Hare was the Director of the Secret Service; he was a good man, but if the president told him to do something, he’d have no choice. What on earth was going on in Washington?

  Cole slowed down as he walked, careful to avoid sharp movements that might draw the attention of the security guards, eventually stopping as if he needed to concentrate on his phone call. He sensed the security personnel up ahead looking in his direction, and he retreated into the shade of a tree, hoping they didn’t know who he was.

  ‘But he’s warned Irvine, right?’ Cole persisted.

  ‘Word is that he doesn’t believe you. You’ve gone rogue, remember?’

  ‘Holy shit, is Mason fucking insane?’ he asked, amazed at what he’d heard. He was starting to think that the man must be some sort of Russian sleeper agent. Hell, maybe the crazy bastard had been recruited by Dementyev himself?

  ‘Shut up and listen,’ his daughter told him, and he did as she said, getting his mind back on the job at hand; slightly annoyed at being spoke to like that, but impressed with her business-like attitude. ‘Listen,’ she repeated. ‘I think I know where Makarova is.’

  ‘You got them?’ Dementyev asked, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Yes, my friend,’ Emelienenko said, sat next to the hospital bed to which his comrade was still confined. ‘We still have to identify the bodies from the attack on the tour bus, but there is no sign that any of the agents were left alive. There were some civilian survivors found near the vehicle, and we are checking their identities, but it looks as if everyone else was killed, either by the explosion, or by our own troops.’

  Dementyev reached forward, grabbed his president’s sleeve. ‘There is no chance that anyone escaped?’

  Emelienenko shrugged. ‘You know how these things are, Vladimir Vladimirovich. There are no guarantees. But there were no tracks, of that much we are sure.’

  Dementyev was silent for a moment as he observed the snow falling outside his window. ‘It was snowing?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I do not know,’ Emelienenko said. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Maybe I am paranoid,’ said the colonel, ‘but send in tracker units, put them into the woods, with dogs.’

  ‘That will take time to arrange,’ Emelienenko said with concern, looking closely at his friend. ‘Are you sure you are okay?’ he asked. ‘I thought you would be pleased.’

  ‘I will be pleased when we are fully committed,’ Dementyev said, ‘the point at which there is no turning back. Loose ends bother me.’ He shifted in his bed, obviously uncomfortable. ‘Tell me again about Athens.’

  ‘The safe house was hit,’ Emelienenko said, ‘two CIA officers were killed. Makarova was being followed but managed to avoid her pursuers, killing two of them.’

  ‘But four of our own men were killed?’

  ‘Yes. But we’ve been warned about this man that did it, he shouldn’t remain a problem for long.’

  ‘Well,’ Dementyev said, gesturing to the television on the wall of his private room, ‘we will know soon enough, won’t we?’

  ‘We will,’ Emelienenko said with a little laugh as he observed the news channel. There was nothing about the state dinner yet, but soon . . . soon . . .

  Emelienenko turned back to Dementyev, a quizzical expression on his face. ‘While we wait,’ he said, ‘I was wondering . . . what do you know of a man named Bruce Vinson?’

  11

  Irina Makarova moved her hips, her shoulders, feeling the flow of the music and going with it, and she could see that the audience appreciated it, especially the men . . . always, the men.

  She took hold of the microphone then, from her elevated position on the stage, and started to sing, her voice smooth and sweet. Most of the numbers were in English, which suited her just fine; there were a couple in Greek, but she was comfortable enough with the language to get away with it.

  The band’s original singer had been taken unfortunately ‘ill’ just a few days before, and the agent of ‘Rika Papanika’, the name she was now going by, had been quick to impose his client on the group. One look at her photograph had been enough to convince them, and that had been before they’d even heard her voice.

  When she’d lost the CIA surveillance, she’d met up with the band, gone over some numbers, and traveled with them to the Maximos Mansion. The CIA team waiting for her there hadn’t even noticed her; they’d just seen the band, and assumed she belonged.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  But, in her line of work, she traded on stupid.

  She was singing now, in full flow, and she knew her voice was good; it had, after all, been coached for this sort of thing at the Sparrow School, where the training hadn’t been too dissimilar to that of an Edo-period Japanese geisha. Everything that could give men – and sometimes women – pleasure, was taught to them, and Makarova had excelled in all areas; until, that is, she’d been transferred to the Wolf’s Lair, the secret training facility for
assassins in the countryside outside the small town of Chekhov, just fifty miles south of Moscow, where her talents had truly started to shine.

  She looked at the attentive audience, seated at the various tables, although she was really only interested in one table in particular.

  It was right in front of her, in pride of place; seated there were Alexis Thrakos, Andreas Andreou, Boris Manturov, Richard Irvine, their assorted wives, and a few others who Makarova neither knew nor cared about.

  She continued to sing, to melt the hearts of the people before her, and with every note, she primed herself for the killing that would soon follow.

  12

  Cole knew his options were limited. Disavowed by Mason, he had no official recourse, no legitimacy in warning the security personnel at the mansion.

  He had been in contact with the CIA team detailed to watch over the mansion house; they’d seen the band, but not recognized the girl. It was annoying, but hardly surprising; she was a master of deception, she had proved that on more than one occasion.

  He’d contacted Keegan, asked him to use his contacts to warn the group, but the CIA chief was already persona non grata in Athens; he had a working relationship with the ambassador, but by the time his team had been hit, Irvine was already on his way, and O’Hare had directed the Secret Service to ignore the intelligence services until Cole had been found and arrested.

  All in all, it was a clusterfuck of immense proportions. The one saving grace was the intelligence and resourcefulness of his own agency, Force One, and especially that of his daughter, Michiko.

  It was she who had downloaded the itinerary for the state dinner, noting the presence of a band; it was also she who had followed up on that, tracing the identities of the band members. She had noted the absence of the lead singer, the replacement with Rika Papanika; had searched for information on the woman, had found a fake website set up to legitimize her; had used the facial recognition software she had programed to make a match between Papanika and Makarova.