by Steve Berry
She could see that this man was genuinely afraid. Interesting what it took to jar the nerves of someone who dealt with people of no conscience.
“No one wants a new Cold War,” he said. “That’s bad not only for my benefactors, but also for the world. You consider those I represent to be criminals. Okay, they can live with that. But they don’t bother you. In fact, they do business with you. They have no armies and no missiles.”
“But they do export crime.”
He blew a contemptuous funnel of smoke skyward and shrugged. “Everything can’t be perfect. They would say that’s a small price to pay, considering the alternative.”
She was definitely intrigued. “Your people are going to take down all of the problems?”
“There will be many funerals across Moscow.”
The United States never officially sanctioned assassinations, but reality was far different. It happened all the time. “What do you want from us?”
“Stop Aleksandr Zorin.”
“You know what he plans?”
“We know what he wants.”
“Which is?” She wanted to hear it.
“To make the upcoming inauguration the most memorable in history. Don’t allow him to do that.”
Finally, confirmation of the endgame.
There’d been lots of talk over the past few years about a new Cold War. All agreed that if it materialized it would be fought with money, oil, and especially social media propaganda. Half-truths backed by just enough evidence to make them both interesting and supportable. Easy to do today. The Internet and twenty-four-hour news had changed everything. The old rules were long gone. Large closed societies were next to impossible to sustain. Look at China, which had failed miserably. The Soviets once believed that ruthless discipline worked best, that the West could be forced down simply by standing firm and never blinking. Unfortunately, that philosophy had failed, too, since communism only bred poverty and repression. Both tough sells. So eventually the USSR had been forced to blink. Then collapse.
Now parts of it seemed to want a resurrection.
She hated herself for asking, but had to. “When will they act?”
He finished the cigarette and flicked the butt away. “In a matter of hours. There are arrangements to be made. It would be better if this was seen as an internal power struggle, discrediting both the dead and the living. Done right, they will destroy themselves.”
“And you and your benefactors keep making money.”
“Capitalism at its truest. I can’t see how anyone here would have a problem with that.”
One thing she had to know. “Is Zorin on to something?”
“Those fanatics think he is. When he moved on Vadim Belchenko, that drew their attention. They watch archivists, and that one particularly. They sent the military to kill Belchenko in Siberia. They managed to get him, but your agent left five dead Russians, three of them soldiers, in that dacha beside Lake Baikal. I hope he stays that good. He’ll need to be to stop Zorin.”
“There are suitcase nukes here?”
He smiled. “We know Osin told you about them. That’s fine. You should know. And that was the thing about Andropov. For all his bravado, he truly believed the USSR would lose the ideological and economic war with the West unless drastic steps were taken. So he took those. He called it Fool’s Mate. Everyone thought both it and him forgotten. Now here he is, risen from the grave, to wreak havoc. So yes, there are weapons here.”
She felt a little numb, fatigue and the cold beginning to take their toll. Being part of an illegal conspiracy wasn’t bringing her any comfort, either. But the man sitting beside her was not bluffing. His benefactors had worked too long and too hard to have idiots take it all away, so they were going to do this with or without her. Oh, yes, there’d be funerals in Moscow. But there might be a few here, too.
Already, Anya Petrova had died.
How many more were to come?
“The SVR made a move on Zorin in Canada,” she said. “How much do these crazy people within the government know?”
“I’m told quite a bit. They have full access to classified KGB archives, including Andropov’s personal papers. These are records few have ever seen. When Zorin brought Belchenko east, then your agent was allowed into the country, that raised alarms. It seems they already knew of Fool’s Mate, but not its full potential. So they educated themselves and found out about Jamie Kelly. That’s when they decided to kill Zorin and Belchenko to keep it all contained. Your agent thwarted their attempt to take Zorin out in the air, which would have ended things. They were not happy. Now they’re here to tidy up all the remaining loose ends, which include Zorin, Kelly, and your agent. So be ready.”
“They know where the nukes are?”
He shook his head. “That’s the one thing we have going in our favor. They need Kelly to lead them, as does Zorin, by the way.”
She’d heard enough and stood from the bench. “We’ll handle things here.”
“Keep an eye on the television. The cable news channels will alert you when it starts on the other side.”
She started off.
“I can offer you a ride back to the hotel,” he called out.
The thought turned her stomach.
“Thanks, but I’ll find my own.”
And she walked away.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Luke followed Sue Begyn out of the car. They’d driven two hours east to Annapolis, then south along the Chesapeake shore. Sue had said little on the trip and he’d left her alone with her thoughts. Instinct and training cautioned him against revealing too much to her. Instead he’d tried the bare minimum to see what she made of it.
Which had been nothing.
The White House assured him that all would be handled at the Begyn house, with no traces remaining of the bodies. Sue had changed from tight-fitting workout clothes into jeans, a long-sleeved twill shirt, coat, gloves, and boots. She was armed with both a hunting rifle and handgun, her father’s study stocked with weapons. Apparently, Lawrence Begyn believed in the 2nd Amendment.
The rain started about halfway along their journey, a cold steady drizzle that reduced visibility on the roads. She’d directed him along on a series of highways, ending up at the coastal village of Long Beach. Her father owned a house nearby, one where, she’d noted, he retreated from time to time. Luckily, Begyn had chosen yesterday to seek solitude, ahead of the uninvited visitors to his house. But Luke wondered about that timing. It seemed far too coincidental with Peter Hedlund’s call.
“I was headed back to the base today,” she said as they walked in the rain. Bare limbs rattled overhead, scattering drops of freezing water onto the nape of his neck.
“You goin’ to get in any trouble?”
“I’m not officially due back until tomorrow.”
Fifteen whole words. That’s the most she’d said since they’d climbed into the car. Before him rose a rambling white-framed house with long verandas, landward sides, and a cedar-shingled roof. A detached two-car garage stood off to the side. It sat nestled among bare maples and beech trees in the curve of an oxbow from the bay. Sue had called earlier and told her father the situation.
Waiting for them under the veranda was a tall pencil of a man with a square face and brownish-gray hair. He wore what looked like hunting clothes and carried a Browning bolt-action rifle. Luke and his brothers had each owned one, too. His father had also been a big supporter of the 2nd Amendment.
“You okay?” Begyn asked his daughter.
“She slit three men’s throats,” Luke answered.
The senior Begyn eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt.
“My daughter is a soldier,” he said. “She knows how to defend herself.”
Luke stepped out of the rain onto the covered porch. “On that, we agree.”
“I just met you,” Begyn said, “but I don’t like you.”
“I get that a lot. But here’s the thing. Either we do this nice and e
asy, or we do it hard with a whole lot of federal agents around. Personally, I don’t give a crap which one you choose. But I need answers and I need them now.”
Begyn still gripped the rifle, its barrel pointed skyward, but the threat remained as the right index finger rested on the trigger.
“I assure you, Mr. Begyn, you’ll never get the chance to use that. I know how to defend myself, too.”
“There’ll be two of us,” Sue said.
He faced her down. “Bring it on, honey. I can handle you.”
She stood silent, studying him with marble eyes. Whoever trained this woman should be proud. She seemed to have taken every lesson to heart. Especially the one about listening, as opposed to talking, which he’d never been able to master. But Stephanie had told him to get answers with whatever method worked.
“What do you want?” Begyn asked.
“The 14th Colony. Hedlund said to ask you about that.”
The older man looked at him with a studied gaze.
“Hedlund called you yesterday. He told you, ‘It has to be that. We thought all of this was long forgotten, but apparently we were wrong. It’s starting again.’ The ‘that’ must be the 14th Colony. So I want what, why, when, how. Everything.”
“Peter said I’d probably be hearing from you.”
“I love it when folks expect me. Makes the job so much easier.”
Then he noticed something out in the rain, past the garage, near where the tree line began. A pile of frozen clods of dirt and a shovel plucked into them.
“Been doin’ some excavating?” he asked Begyn.
“Why don’t you shut up and come inside.”
* * *
Stephanie negotiated the sidewalk back to 7th Street and turned the corner, heading south toward central DC. The rumble and roar of car engines filled the air, the skies overhead thick with low hurrying clouds rushing in from the northeast. A cold rain and probably snow looked to be on the way, and she was a long way from anywhere warm.
Her gloved hands stayed in her coat pockets and she kept a watchful eye out for a taxi. But DC was not like New York where rides scurried everywhere at all hours of the day and night. Of course, she could always use her cell phone and call for one. She’d hardly ridden in a taxi for the last decade, ground transportation and security usually provided for her. The effects of being unemployed were beginning to set in, but she might as well get used to it.
Cotton had tried to find her, the phone noting a missed call. She needed to try him back, and would shortly. In the meantime she switched the unit off silent mode.
She’d resented Ishmael’s attitude, as if they were long-lost allies, each fighting a righteous cause. Russian criminal syndicates were some of the most complex, violent, and dangerous in the world. That was in no small part due to the fact that their activities inside Russia were nearly institutionalized. Not a whole lot was different, as Ishmael had said, from the early days of organized crime in America. Still, having thieves and thugs as partners was not all that comforting. But she supposed if anyone could take down the problems within the Russian government it would be the oligarchs and their private army, organized crime.
Her cell phone chimed in her pocket.
She removed the unit and answered.
“I need you back here now,” Danny Daniels said. “Where are you?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
So she did.
“You’re right. That is unbelievable.”
“Yet it happened.”
“All the more reason for you to be here. Stay put. I’ll send a car to get you.”
“What’s happening?”
“We’re going to have a chat with the next president of the United States.”
* * *
Luke entered the house, immediately struck by its cozy, rustic appeal. He guessed it rambled for maybe fifteen hundred square feet over two levels. Begyn propped his rifle beside a club chair and knelt before the hearth, where he lit a fire, flames licking at the kindling, then consuming the split logs, orange light flickering through the room.
“I held this until you got here,” Begyn said. “It’s cold out there.”
And raining, but that was not the point. “Your daughter said you left the house yesterday evening to come here,” Luke said. “That’s not a coincidence.”
“I had no idea people would invade the house.”
“I didn’t say that you did. But now that you’ve brought it up, tell me about the Tallmadge journal.”
Sue had retreated to the windows, where she gazed out past the venetian blinds, as if on guard, which bothered him.
He removed his coat.
“This is a nightmare,” the older man said. “One that I thought was long over.”
There it was again. A reference to something in the past.
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” he said. “I need information and I need it quickly.”
“What are you going to do?” Sue asked. “Arrest us?”
“Sure. Why not? We can start with the three men you killed. Self-defense or not, we’ll let a jury decide. Just the allegations, though, will end your military career.”
“No need to threaten,” Begyn said.
“What was so important that Peter Hedlund tried to protect it? And what have you been diggin’ up outside?”
So far he’d asked four questions and received no answers.
“Mr. Daniels—”
“Why don’t you call me Luke,” he said, trying to relieve the tension.
Begyn eyed him hard. “Mr. Daniels, all of this is quite difficult for us. It involves the society, and that has always been private. I’m the president general of the society. Its head. I owe it my allegiance.”
“Then you can explain all of that to the FBI, the Secret Service, and the CIA, who will all want to question you and examine all of the society’s records.”
He allowed that threat to sink in.
“Dad, you need to tell him whatever it is,” Sue said. “There’s no point in keeping any more secrets. Look where it’s got you.”
Begyn stared across the room at his daughter. That was the first thing she’d said Luke actually agreed with. Maybe reality was finally setting in. Every high came with a low, and killing was never easy, no matter who you were.
His host motioned toward a doorway and led the way through it. They stepped into a long, narrow kitchen with windows that pointed out toward the bay. A small room opened off to the right, where a glass door led outside. Wind buzzed just past its frame, jostling the rain that continued to fall.
A mudroom.
His boyhood home in Tennessee had one, which he and his brothers had made good use of. Lying on its hardwood floor atop a layer of newspaper was a plastic box caked in mud.
“I dug it up,” Begyn said.
Luke bent down and eased up the lid. Inside lay bundles of opaque plastic wrapped around what looked like books and paper.
“What are these?”
“Secrets that Peter Hedlund thought he had to defend.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Stephanie slipped into one of the chairs surrounding the oval table within the White House Cabinet Room. Nineteen others guarded its perimeter, but only a few were occupied. Present was the current president and the president-elect, along with the incoming attorney-general-designate and Bruce Litchfield, the current acting AG. Edwin Davis was likewise there, along with Cotton and Cassiopeia, both of whom she was glad to see. There’d been no time for pleasantries. She’d walked straight from the car that had found her on 7th Street to the conference room.
This was her first time inside the room, where for decades presidents had met with their cabinets. She knew the story about the table, bought by Nixon and donated to the White House. The president always sat at the center of the oval, opposite the vice president, with his back to the Rose Garden, his chair a few inches taller than the others. Cabinet members were a
ssigned places according to the date their department had been established, the oldest seated closest to the president. Each administration selected portraits to adorn the walls, designed surely to offer inspiration. Right now, Harry Truman, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Theodore Roosevelt kept watch. But she knew those would most likely change in the coming week.
With no vice president here, President-Elect Fox sat opposite Danny. Everyone else chose sides depending on their boss. She moved to the end of the oval at Danny’s right, Litchfield between her and the president, while Cotton and Cassiopeia assumed neutral ground at the oval’s opposite end.
After a flurry of introductions, Fox said, “You mentioned this was urgent.”
She caught the dismissive tone of How could anything be urgent at this late hour in your term. And the demeanor. Like a schoolmaster encouraging a slightly backward pupil. But Danny seemed to keep his cool. She knew he and Fox were nothing alike. Physically, Danny was tall, broad-shouldered, with thick bushy hair and piercing eyes. What had one observer noted? A great flint-eyed hulk of a man. Fox was short, pinched, pursed, and solemn with ash-gray hair and watery blue eyes. From what she’d read, he considered himself a northeastern intellectual, a financial progressive but social conservative. Danny was southern to the core and totally pragmatic. Pundits had tried to pigeonhole him for years, but none had ever been successful. To her knowledge the two men did not know each other, and compounding their estrangement was the fact that they were of opposite parties, neither owing the other a damn thing.
“We have a developing situation,” Danny said. “One this idiot sitting next to me was aware of, but decided wasn’t our problem.”
She smiled at his reference to Litchfield, who could say nothing.
“I understand,” Fox said, “how you could be irritated that we okayed the firing of Ms. Nelle, but we had an agreement that everything would be okayed by my people, especially at this late hour.”