The 14th Colony_A Novel

by Steve Berry

  “He firmly believed that the pope was dangerous, and largely because of John Paul’s charm, especially toward journalists. I remember reading a memo where Andropov went on and on about how the pope went for cheap gestures with a crowd, like wearing a Highlander’s hat in England, or shaking hands with people, kissing children, as if he were running for office. Andropov seemed terrified of what the pope might do.”

  And rightly so, since John Paul orchestrated his actions with the direction of an American stage manager. Interestingly, though, never once had either Reagan or the pope warned her about Andropov.

  “The KGB went through the Bulgarians to have John Paul shot,” the voice said. “That much we know. And they chose their assassin with care. Ali Ağca supplied them with perfect plausible deniability. He was weak and stupid and knew nothing about nothing. All he could do was babble nonsense, and that’s what he did. I remember when the pope went to the prison and forgave Ağca. What a brilliant move.”

  One that she’d helped arrange.

  John Paul made the decision, and Reagan approved.

  So in 1983, two years after the assassination attempt, the pope met privately with Ağca who, filled with emotion, cried and kissed the pope’s ring. Photographs and accounts of what happened consumed the press, which splashed the story around the world, along with those possible assassination links back to Moscow. The whole thing had been bold and assertive. A pitch-perfect example of how to make lemonade out of lemons.

  Or at least that’s how Reagan had described it to her.

  “When Andropov assumed the general secretary’s post,” the voice said, “there was talk of trouble. He knew what we’d been doing in the Eastern Bloc. Funneling money to dissidents, providing logistical support, offering secret intelligence on their governments, even taking care of a problem or two.”

  She knew what that meant.

  People had died.

  “Then Andropov gets sick and he knows it’s over for him. The doctors gave him eight months. That’s when we got scared. He had nothing to lose, and there were people in the Kremlin that would follow him right off the cliff. When Kris called earlier and asked me about Fool’s Mate, I immediately remembered it. We all thought it was going to be the old Russian’s last move.”

  She wondered who the aged voice belonged to, but knew better than to ask. If Kris had wanted her to know she’d have told her. Most likely he’d been CIA. High up. And she knew the score. Neither successes nor failures ever were aired in public. The agency was deliberately compartmentalized, its past laced with so many secrets that no one could ever know it all. And the big ones that really mattered? They were never written down. But that didn’t mean they were unknown.

  “Andropov hated Reagan. We all thought the KGB was going to make a move on him. He’d tried to kill the pope, so why not a president. The writing was definitely on the wall by late 1983. The Soviet Union faced serious economic trouble. They also had a leadership problem. The whole country was in flux. The Kremlin became fascinated by American presidential succession. Kris mentioned that you read a communiqué we seized. There were several like that. The zero amendment. That’s what they called the 20th.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Because, if an attack was done right, no one would be left in charge.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “I’m no scholar on the issue, but I remember being told that if you can wipe out the president-elect and vice-president-elect, the Speaker of the House, and the president pro-tempore of the Senate in one swoop, before the new president and VP are sworn in, you’re left with cabinet members who take power through a congressional act. That law is riddled with problems. It’s unclear whether cabinet officers could even constitutionally serve. There’d be so much infighting that no one would be in charge. Infighting, by the way, that the KGB would stoke. Those guys were masters at active measures like that. They manipulated our press a thousand times, and they would have done so there, too.”

  “And the purpose of all that?” she asked

  “That’s the moment the USSR would strike. When no one is sure who can give the military orders. You’d have total confusion. The tanks would roll across Europe. We’d be busy fighting among ourselves about who’s in charge. Some would say this guy, others this guy. Nobody would know for sure.”

  The tactic made sense.

  “We picked up intel that they were working on some active measures that involved the 1947 Presidential Succession Act. Of course, to make that work, they’d have to strike at an inauguration. Some of us believed that’s what Andropov had up his sleeve for Reagan’s second in 1985. But thankfully, the old man’s kidneys failed in early ’84. And everything was forgotten since the people who took over after that were not interested in World War III. All that loyalty to Andropov vanished.”

  She stared across the table at Kris Cox, who was watching her with eyes the color of glacier water. Everything about her friend’s countenance signaled that she was being told the truth by someone who knew.

  “How many people are aware of this?” she asked the voice.

  “Not all that many. It was one of those things that never happened, so it just went by the wayside. There was a lot like that back then. The KGB, if nothing else, stayed focused. Every day there was something new. It’s important now only because you seem to have a problem. I remember Aleksandr Zorin. He was a competent KGB officer. Our people respected him. It’s amazing he’s even still alive.”

  She decided to learn all that she could and asked, “What about RA-115s?”

  “Haven’t heard that term in a while, except on TV or in the movies. They existed, of that I’m sure. Others disagreed, though. The problem was that not one of them was ever found anywhere in the world. And you would think at least one would surface. Some thought it was part of a KGB misinformation campaign. Like I said, they were good at that. A way to get us to chase shadows.”

  “The SVR says now that they did exist, and that five are still unaccounted for.”

  “Then you should listen to them. That’s quite an admission.”

  One she was sure Nikolai Osin never should have made, considering the increasing division within his chain of command. The last thing Russian hard-liners would want would be for the United States to know anything about any possible suitcase nukes.

  “Could they be here?” she asked. “In the United States.”

  “Absolutely. The KGB was the largest, most expansive intelligence agency the world has ever seen. Billions upon billions of rubles were spent preparing for war with us. Those guys did anything and everything. Nothing was out of bounds. And I mean nothing. We know for a fact that arms caches were placed all over Europe and Asia. Why would we be exempt?”

  He was right.

  “It seems Zorin may be trying to implement Fool’s Mate,” she said. “Apparently he was privy to what Andropov planned.”

  “Four KGB officers were assigned to the operation. We never learned their names. So he could have been one of those.”

  “But it’s been so long,” Kris said. “Why now?”

  She knew the answer. “He’s bitter about everything that happened with the end of the Soviet Union. He was an ideologue, one who truly believed. Osin told me that he blames us for everything bad in his life and he’s been stewing on that a long time.”

  “Which makes him especially dangerous,” the voice said through the phone. “My guess is that he wants to use the 20th Amendment to generate the same political chaos here that we did over there. But he needs a workable RA-115 to make that happen. You’d have to take a lot of people out at once.”

  A problem, for sure, but one Zorin seemed intent on solving.

  “We’ll have a new president in a little over twenty-four hours,” the voice said.

  And she knew what that meant.

  The next opportunity to apply Fool’s Mate.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Luke opened his eyes.

  He was sit
ting up, bound to a wooden chair with tape, nearly identical to how he’d restrained Anya Petrova. His arms and legs were strapped tight, preventing him from moving in any direction. His neck was free, his mouth unobstructed. But his head hurt from a nasty pop and everything was still out of focus. He blinked to correct the problem and eventually saw that he was in the kitchen of Begyn’s house.

  A woman stood on the other side of the room.

  Short, trim, not an ounce of fat on her. She wore a tight-fitting jogging suit that revealed highly toned muscles. He wondered how many hours of push-ups, chin-ups, and bench pressing had gone into that sculpting. He envied her dedication. It took all he had to work out. A pair of enameled, dark-hazel eyes appraised him with a look that was all alert. Her auburn hair was cut short, close to the ears, in what he thought was a military style, and that conclusion was further reinforced by her demeanor. She was attractive, the face bearing no malice, but neither did the features convey much compassion. Instead, she stared at him like an elephant. Calm, solitary, watchful, but encased inside a dangerous stillness. She held a seven-inch, stainless-steel blade, not unlike one he once carried as a Ranger.

  “You military?” he asked.

  “Riverine.”

  He knew the unit. Part of the navy, focusing on close combat and military operations within rivers. Riverine forces in Vietnam were the most highly decorated with the largest casualties. Women had been part of them for several years now.

  “Active duty?”

  She nodded. “On leave, at the moment.”

  He watched as she continued to twirl the blade, its tip gently resting against her left index finger, the right hand slowly rotating the black handle.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  His wits and composure were returning. “I’m sure you already know that.”

  She stepped across the black-and-white-checkerboard floor, coming close and pressing the flat side of the blade to his throat. “You know it’s not true that women don’t have an Adam’s apple. Actually, we do. It’s just that the male version shows more than ours. Which is good, since I can clearly see where to split it.”

  Goose bumps prickled his skin. Which, to say the least, was not normal for him. She had the cool of a priest with the eyes of a jaguar, which made for an unnerving combination. He did not like the helpless feeling that surged through him. This woman could slit his throat and there was nothing he could do to stop her. In fact, one wrong move—a hiccup, a sneeze—and he’d carve a dark smile in his throat for her.

  “I’m going to ask this one last time,” she said. “You saw the other two in there. You understand what I’m capable of.”

  “I got it, darlin’.”

  “Who. Do. You. Work. For?”

  His cool was returning as he sensed that this woman did not intend to hurt him. In fact, she was unsure about him. Which seemed vastly different from the two bodies he’d already seen. Those she’d harbored no doubt about. But the blade was still biting against his skin at a vulnerable spot. One twist and—

  “Defense Intelligence Agency. On assignment to the White House. But you already know that, don’t you? You got my badge.”

  He was guessing, but she withdrew the blade and reached into her back pocket, fishing out the leather case and tossing it in his lap.

  “What does the White House want here?”

  “Your turn. Who are you?”

  “You should know that I have the patience of a two-year-old and a temperament not much better.”

  “That’s okay. Most people just call me an arrogant ass.”

  “Are you?”

  “I can be. But I also have my charms.”

  He kept assessing this woman, who seemed plain in speech and rough in manner. He noticed the running shoes at the end of her strong legs.

  “You been joggin’?”

  “Out for my daily five miles. When I got back, men were ransacking the house.”

  “They picked the wrong place.”

  She shrugged. “That’s the way I see it.”

  “Any idea who they work for?”

  “That’s the whole reason why you’re still breathing. Unlike you, those guys were Russian.”

  Now he was curious. “And how would you know that? I can’t imagine they carried little ID cards in Cyrillic.”

  “Better. They spoke to one another. I heard them, after I snuck back inside.”

  Interesting. No calling the police or simply staying away. This woman moved straight into the fray. “What’s your rank?”

  “Lieutenant, junior grade.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant, how about you cut me loose.”

  She didn’t move. “Why are you here?”

  “I need to speak with Larry Begyn.”

  “His name is Lawrence.”

  “And you would know that because?”

  “I’m his daughter. Why do you need to speak with him?”

  He debated being coy but decided that would only keep him taped to the chair longer. “He took a call a few hours ago from a man named Peter Hedlund. I need to talk to him about it.”

  “On what subject?”

  “The 14th Colony. The Society of Cincinnati. The state of world peace. You choose.”

  She stepped toward him and used the knife to cut his bindings away. He rubbed his arms and legs to stimulate the circulation. His head remained woozy.

  “What did you hit me with?”

  She displayed the stainless-steel butt end of the knife. “Works good.”

  More of that military training. “That it does.”

  She appraised him with coy eyes. “There’s something you need to see.”

  He followed her from the kitchen, through the dining room, to a short corridor that led back toward the front of the house. A third body lay on the floor, this one with wounds to both the chest and neck, the mouth frozen agape in death.

  She gestured with the knife. “Before that one died, he told me they were looking for a journal. He also mentioned the words 14th Colony. Why do you and these Russians want the same thing?”

  An excellent question.

  Her voice stayed level and calm, never rising much above room temperature. Everything about her seemed wary and on guard. But she was right. These men had come straight here, which meant the other side knew more than Stephanie thought they did.

  “You kill with a great ease,” he said to her.

  They stood close in the hall, she making no effort to add space between them.

  “They gave me no choice.”

  He kept his gaze locked on her but gestured to the corpse. “Did he happen to say exactly what they were looking for?”

  “He called it the Tallmadge journal.”

  Which meant the Russians were not two steps ahead, more like half a mile. “I need to speak with your father.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Take me to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because these guys aren’t going away, and unless you plan to slit a lot more throats, I’m going to have to deal with this.”

  A wave of uneasy understanding passed between them. She seemed to believe him. And for all her coolness, she had a tenacious air that he liked.

  “All right,” she finally said. “I can take you to him.”

  “I’m going to have to call in these bodies,” he said. “The Secret Service will handle the cleanup. Nice and quiet. We can’t afford any attention right now.”

  “Lucky for me.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  She turned toward the dining room and kitchen, walking away.

  He wanted to know, “Why didn’t you kill me, too?”

  She stopped and faced him. “I can still smell that stench of army on you.”

  “Spoken like true navy.”

  “But I almost didn’t take the chance,” she said.

  He couldn’t decide if she was serious or not. That was the thing about her. You just didn’t know.

  “Y
ou found out my name,” he said to her. “What’s yours?”

  “Susan Begyn. People call me Sue.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Malone caught a ride with the two Maine state troopers. They’d left Eastport and headed back to the mainland across the causeway, then west. Zorin and Kelly were two hours ahead, already on Interstate 95, headed south. The GPS frequency for the rental car was sending real-time data back to the Secret Service, which allowed them to track the car with perfect precision. To be safe, though, a tail on the highway stayed at least two miles back in traffic, impossible for them to see or notice.

  “These guys you’re after,” one of the troopers said from the front seat, “they’re not real smart.”

  He noticed the statement contained a hook. Who wouldn’t be curious? It wouldn’t be a cop’s nature just to come out and ask. Instead, they liked to fish, throwing out conclusions that invited disagreement in the hope he would volunteer something. But this wasn’t his first rodeo.

  So he kept it simple.

  “These guys didn’t have much choice. Stealing a car would have been dumb.”

  “But stealing a boat? That was okay?”

  “No choice there, either. And they only needed it to get to Maine. A couple of hours on the water, at night. Little risk. But snatching a car and driving south? That could be a problem.”

  “They never heard of GPS?”

  He felt safe in offering, “They’ve both been out of touch for a while.”

  And they had.

  Last time Zorin was in the field GPS had not even been invented. Kelly probably knew about its capabilities, but neither one of them thought the United States cared about what they were doing. Certainly what happened at Kelly’s house told them someone was interested, but he was betting Zorin had concluded that would be his own countrymen.

  Cassiopeia had handled the tail until Bangor, then the Maine state troopers took over in an unmarked car and would stay on them until Massachusetts, then the Secret Service was waiting to assume the task. Where this would end was anybody’s guess, but they had to give Zorin a long leash. Answers would come only from patience. Were there risks? Absolutely. But for the moment they had the situation in hand.