by Todd Moss
“No. Michael is gone.” The Bear checked his face in a compact mirror and slid the comb into a desk drawer. “You’re promoted, Nico.”
The Greek sat forward and dug his elbows into his knees. “You want me to find the bitch?”
The Bear considered his next move.
“You want me to hunt down this Queen Sheba?” the gangster asked, spinning a chunky ring on one hand. “Boss, you want her head in a box? Delivered right here? Just say the word.”
“What about New York?”
“Holden was arrested by the FBI. Harvey is done. Finished. But don’t worry, boss. We’ve got another man in New York ready to take his place. The business won’t even notice he’s gone. The only question is what you want me to do about Holden. Say the word, and the minute he steps inside Rikers Island . . .” The Greek drew a finger across his throat.
The Bear slumped back into his chair. “What’s our business, Nico?”
“Money.”
The Bear shook his head.
“Power?”
The Bear stared at the Greek with disappointment.
“Blood?”
“Mother Russia,” said the Bear. “We serve the motherland. That’s our business.”
“Yes, boss. If you say so.”
The Bear walked to the picture window. “The water of the Neva River, can you see it? It flows from where I drank my mother’s milk, through our glorious city, to the world. Everyone drinks from Mother Russia, but no one is aware. The Neva flows silently from me to everyone. I am everywhere, Nico.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Harvey Holden can’t tell them anything,” the Bear shook his head. “He doesn’t know anything. The American government doesn’t know anything.”
“Letting Holden live makes us look weak, boss. Let me deal with him. He’ll be leaving jail feet first. Or without a head.”
The Bear exhaled and then gave a subtle nod.
“And the bitch?”
“You’ll never find Queen Sheba,” the Bear laughed.
“She killed Mikey. You going to let her get away with that?”
“You’ll never find her, Nico.” He shook his head. “And if you did, you’d be lucky to get out alive.”
“I can do it, boss. I will get Queen Sheba for Mikey. I’ll get her for you. I want to do it.”
“I need you to deal with our Chinese problem. We can’t leave Moscow waiting any longer. Control your emotions. This is about business, not revenge.”
“Yes, boss. Whatever you say.”
“You deal with the Chinese,” he said with a wave.
“I will. Right away.” The Greek stood up.
The Bear watched his new lieutenant depart with a restored sense of order. Mikey had vanished, but now he had the Greek. His New York connection was gone, but that, too, was easily replaceable. There was no shortage of corruptible bankers in New York and London. The Chinese problem would go away once they found a new assassin. Moscow would be happy. The empire would expand. Mother Russia would be served. The Americans wouldn’t be any wiser. He would become even more powerful.
Then the Bear made one more decision. The Greek was right about one thing. He had to hunt down Queen Sheba.
60
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
SATURDAY, 7:04 A.M. EST
Where is Jessica Ryker?” the Deputy Director of the CIA roared. The veins in his forehead were pulsating. His secretary knew this was a terrible sign.
“Still trying to track her down,” she said.
“Keep trying, dammit!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call the FAA. Have them check every inbound flight over the past twelve hours.”
“I already did that. They’re reporting no one named Ryker on any inbound commercial flights.”
“Well, tell them to check again!” he roared. “And have the CBP check the private plane arrival logs, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And get me the goddamn Crime and Narcotics Center on the line. Right now!”
What the hell happened yesterday in Nigeria? The question spun in his head like a windmill in a typhoon. His last direct contact with Jessica Ryker was their agreement that she would take out the judge, then report back to Langley so they could plot their next move against the Bear. His last update from assets in the field reported that Jessica had arrived safely in Lagos but ditched her Agency fixer soon afterward. She’d thrown him right out of the car and took off by herself. What the fuck, Jessica?
The next thing the Deputy Director learned was that there had been an incident just off the airport highway involving a vehicle from the U.S. consulate. SIGINT monitoring of the police and local intelligence communications had reported a fire, multiple gunshots, and eventually a body discovered at the site. The photos from the scene were useless, as the corpse was charred beyond recognition. And he was still waiting for the DNA analysis of the sample an asset had swiped at the morgue. What the hell happened in Nigeria?
Then Jessica disappeared. No communication, no electronic footprint. She must have fled the country. But how?
“I have CNC on secure line four, sir.”
The Deputy Director snatched the phone out of the cradle. “What do you know about the Bear?”
“Chatter spiked yesterday, indicating some disturbance in their network. Someone important in the Bear’s inner circle seems to have gone missing.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know, sir. But the chatter has since dissipated.”
“Which means what?”
“We don’t know that, either. Not yet. But the channels we had been using to ghost-plant Queen Sheba are dead. Everyone in the chain has gone underground.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, sir. Looks like we lost him. Whatever happened in Lagos yesterday spooked the Bear. We’re back to square one.”
“Sweet Jesus, do you have any idea where Queen Sheba is now?” he demanded, trying to contain his temper.
“No, sir.”
“Do you have any new leads on the Bear’s links into the FSB or the army or the Politburo?”
“I’m sorry. Nothing new.”
“So we still don’t know if the Bear is a criminal or working for higher-ups in the Russian government? We don’t really know why he’s targeting Chinese oil executives?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“And now that Queen Sheba is burned, we’ve lost our best chance to find out?”
“Yes, I believe so, sir.”
“Assemble the team at eight o’clock,” he demanded. “We need to figure out what the fuck happened. What we need to clean up. And what the fuck we’re going to do next. Got it?”
The Deputy Director slammed the phone down before he heard an answer. He was too busy trying to decide what to do with Jessica Ryker. How many times can she go rogue without consequences? How many times can I let Jessica Ryker off the hook? To get back on the Bear’s trail, I’m going to need my very best operative. I’m going to need—
“Got her!” came a shout from outside his office.
The door flew open. “CBP has a ‘J. Ryker’ on a private plane that touched down at Dulles just after midnight this morning,” his secretary announced. “Two J. Rykers, actually.”
“She’s back in Washington? Are you telling me she’s been back for seven hours and hasn’t come back online?”
“Looks that way, sir.”
“So, where the hell is she?”
“I don’t know. She’s not picking up any of her phones. They’re all going straight to voice mail.”
“Keep trying. If she doesn’t turn up within the next sixty minutes, send a security team to her house in Georgetown to kick in the fucking door.”
How many times can I let Jessica Ryker off the hook?
61
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
SATURDAY, 7:12 A.M. EST
Landon Parker walked straight into the private dining room on the State Department’s seventh floor. Inside, the Secretary of State sat alone at an antique Victorian table having her usual early-morning poached egg and half a grapefruit with freshly roasted Ethiopian coffee.
“Good morning, Landon,” she said with a smile. “Breakfast?”
“No, ma’am. I’m just here to brief you—”
“Nothing at all?” she interrupted. “At least have coffee. I so hate to eat alone.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I won’t be here very long. Packed agenda today.”
“When isn’t it packed, Landon?”
“Yes, ma’am. I want to go over your talking points for your calls today with the Brazilian foreign minister, the President of Latvia, and the Prime Minister of Bangladesh. The World Bank president is paying a courtesy call at nine and then you have a drop-in from Senator McCall at nine-fifteen.”
“What does Bryce McCall want this time?”
“I will find out before he gets here. Then we’ve got back-to-backs with D, P, and G. The new head of the DEA is here at eleven, and then you’ve agreed to make remarks at the opening of the new panda habitat at the National Zoo.”
“Pandas.” She smiled. “Make sure Public Affairs alerts the New York Times.”
“Of course, ma’am,” he said. “I want your sign-off for a new high-level oil security initiative I’m launching. It’s called the Three Gulfs Oil Security Partnership.”
“Okay,” she said. “What is it?”
“As you know, ma’am, China is expanding its control of energy resources, grabbing petroleum blocks in every corner of the globe. I want to build a coalition of allies who will work together to ensure that oil continues to flow no matter what the Chinese do.”
“This is your South China Sea obsession, isn’t it, Landon?”
“No, ma’am. This is the opposite. We need to prepare for every contingency in the South China Sea. But I want an insurance policy if we fail. I want us to lock down other crucial oil-producing regions: the Persian Gulf, the Gulf of Mexico, and the Gulf of Guinea.”
“The Three Gulfs.”
“That’s it, ma’am. I’ve recruited Qatar to represent the Persian Gulf and the Mexicans are on board. The final piece is the Gulf of Guinea. I’ve been working quietly with the Nigerians on this, with their envoy here. I’ve been meeting regularly with Ambassador Katsina for weeks and she’s now ready to take it to her President. Once we get their official support, you can announce the Three Gulfs. Maybe ahead of the next NATO summit. This could be one of your biggest legacies.”
“Fine,” the Secretary said as she sipped her coffee.
“Ma’am, I want your approval for the Three Gulfs before I share any details with the regional bureaus.”
“You haven’t told any of the regionals?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Western Hemisphere or Near Eastern Affairs. They’ll go along. Africa might be trickier. You really haven’t brought Bill Rogerson into the loop?”
Parker raised his eyebrows at the Secretary of State, a sign he often used with his boss when she already knew the answer.
“Rogerson’s touchy. He’s is going to bitch and moan that you came to me with another end run,” she said. “I can see his face already.”
Parker nodded. “So I have your endorsement for the Three Gulfs, Madam Secretary?”
“Do it.” She scooped her grapefruit. “But what’s the plan for China?”
“Have you had your morning intel briefing yet?”
“The DNI was here already. You just missed him.”
“So you’re aware of the latest Chinese naval movements in the South China Sea?” Parker asked.
“Yes, that was in the briefing. And these new islands they’re building.”
“We’re going to add sea-lane security and sovereignty issues to the next round of the Pacific trade talks. It’ll be the first item on the agenda for your bilateral meeting with the Japanese foreign minister when he’s here on Monday. We’re also dispatching Tony on a Pacific tour to Manila, Canberra, and Bangkok to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
“Are we on the same page here in Washington?” The Secretary frowned at Parker.
“South China Sea is priority one at the NSC this morning. I’ve got Wendy camped outside the Situation Room to make sure your equities are defended. If they take any new strategy to POTUS, I’ll be sure you’re in the Oval when it happens. We won’t let the Pentagon jam us again. I’ve arranged for you to have an early dinner tonight with the SecDef. It’ll help smooth things over.”
“What about the Joint Chiefs?”
“Not yet, ma’am. When you go to Jakarta next week, we’ll add a stopover in Hawaii so you can get the full dog and pony show at PACOM.”
“But what’s our plan, Landon? We can’t have the Pentagon driving events in the Pacific without strategic guidance from State. The South China Sea is not just a military problem. Beyond your Three Gulfs idea, what’s our diplomatic plan?”
“East Asian and Pacific Affairs is assembling road map options for us to consider before we go to the interagency.”
“So, where are they?”
“EAP’s ideas are all fine, but you haven’t seen them yet because they’re not quite ready for prime time.”
“What’s the problem, Landon?”
“They’re too conventional, ma’am. We need more creative thinking. If it comes to blows between us and China, we’re going to need new ideas.”
“So, who’s working on that?”
“Judd Ryker.”
“Okay, so, where is he? Get him in here right now. Let’s see what he’s got. Let’s see what S/CRU can do.”
“Ryker’s finishing up another project.”
“Well, this is a priority, Landon. You just said so yourself. Whatever he’s doing now can wait.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Parker said.
“What exactly has Judd Ryker been doing?”
“Do you remember Tunde Babatunde? You hosted the groundbreaking ceremony for his hospital last Tuesday.”
“Of course I remember Tunde. What a lovely man. So tall.”
“Well, soon after he arrived in Nigeria, Babatunde was kidnapped—”
“What?” the Secretary interrupted, her face flush with horror. “Why wasn’t I briefed?”
“—and Judd Ryker has been helping me to get him back.”
“And?”
“Success,” Parker said, his face deadpan.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, her face overcome with relief. “That’s huge, Landon. Just huge. The State Department rescued an NBA player who was home opening a children’s hospital. A superstar and a humanitarian. We couldn’t write better copy. Get Public Affairs on this right away. We should bring Tunde back here to the Department for a hero’s welcome.”
“I don’t advise that, ma’am. I think we should be cautious promoting any State Department role in his recovery. At least until I get the full debrief from Ryker.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Landon?”
“Babatunde is back safely, but it was”—he shrugged—“complicated, ma’am. I assume you’ve been reading about Shepard Truman?”
“Of course. It’s all over the press. It’s A1 in the Washington Post this morning. What was that lunatic thinking? Taking campaign contributions from the Russian mafia. I mean, really, Shepard.”
“Well, one of Truman’s constituents is the owner of the Brooklyn Nets, which is Babatunde’s team. I’m not going to say any more. You don’t know any more, Madam Secretary.”
“That’s correct, I don’t,” she insisted.
“I’m going to keep it that way, ma’am. You should have full confidence that we didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve made sure of that. There’s also no email or memo trail between Truman’s office and State on this issue. The phone logs will show I’ve spoken with the Congressman on numerous occasions in recent weeks, but this is nothing out of the ordinary. The records reflect just the usual legislative affairs with a member of Congress.”
“You’re sure, Landon?”
“Yes, ma’am. But that’s why we’re better playing it low-key on the Babatunde incident.”
“Fine. Good.”
“And Ryker knows to keep quiet, too,” Parker said.
The Secretary of State narrowed her eyes. “Where is Judd Ryker?”
“I’m tracking him down now.”
62
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
SATURDAY, 7:52 A.M. EST
Judd opened one eye, unsure exactly where he was. Warm cotton sheets hugged his skin. A beam of soft, angelic light peeked through a gap in the bedroom curtains. His nostrils detected a mellow feminine, vaguely vanilla aroma. Home.
He rolled over to confirm it was all true, that he really was back home, that the nightmare of the past twenty-four hours was over. And there she was. Jessica lying motionless next to him, sound asleep. Her eyes fluttered gently, her lips barely open, a picture of peaceful serenity. The precise opposite of yesterday’s hurricane of violence.
Judd and Jessica had landed in Washington just after midnight and quickly cleared immigration and customs at the private terminal adjacent to Dulles Airport. Then they had all gone their separate ways. Tunde Babatunde got back on the plane to New York, Isabella Espinosa drove herself home to her condo in Arlington, while the Rykers took a taxi home to Georgetown.
Judd and Jessica let themselves into the house, checked on their sleeping children, woke and paid the babysitter, and then crawled straight into bed without a word. The only acknowledgment of what had just happened, and what might be coming next, was their cell phones. Judd turned his off and set it on his nightstand. Jessica removed the battery from hers and slid the separate pieces underneath their bed. They were both sound asleep within seconds.