The Entity Game: An Aurora Donati Novel

by Lisa Shearin

  “That’d be pushing it, but I could work on it.”

  I gave him the slightest of smiles. “Well, when you’re good enough, let me know.”

  It felt like it took forever to get to the end of the tunnel. We stopped a few times to listen for sounds of pursuit. There were none. Either Rees’s people had won, or there’d be an unfriendly welcoming committee waiting for us at the other end. A glance at my watch told me it’d only been twenty minutes.

  Berta stopped in front of another door.

  It was time to see what was out there.

  Gabriel moved up beside her. “You want to go play in the snow with me?”

  Berta shrugged, never taking her eyes from the door. “I can think of worse things to do.” She glanced at her partner. “Rees?”

  Rees had his gun out. He stepped in front of Barrington. “Have fun, children. And don’t play nice.”

  Marshall’s smile was more like a baring of teeth. “I never do.”

  Berta and Marshall stocked up from their duffel bags. He turned to me. “You got my Beretta?”

  The CIA officer was bristling with weapons and knives. “You need it back?” I asked in disbelief.

  “No.” He dug into his duffel. “Here’s two extra mags. Just in case.”

  If Marshall and Berta couldn’t handle what was out there, I seriously doubted two extra mags would do the rest of us a whole lot of good.

  Rees held up his hand for quiet. “Say again.”

  Comms were back up. Thank God. Being at the top of the ridge must have put us out of the jammer’s range.

  Rees told whoever he was talking to where we were, and that we had Barrington. From the back and forth, I gathered that the team had one wounded, though not badly. “We’ll be there.”

  “It was a team of six,” Rees told us. “Four dead, one captured, one unaccounted for. There’s a clearing on this ridge to the west. Our pilot should be able to land there.”

  “It’s about a hundred yards,” Barrington said.

  Rees nodded. “Let’s get there and go home.”

  The door opened into a shallow cave. Just as Barrington said, we were at the top of a ridge, home to Carter Perry’s solar array. The view across the mountain range was gorgeous in the midday sun, but we had a chopper to meet, and an unaccounted-for hired killer to avoid.

  That last one was easier said than done.

  Halfway to the clearing, we found ourselves pinned down by a lone and increasingly desperate sniper. To make matters worse, he was a really good shot.

  But there was only one of him against five of us—and two of us were Alberta Pike and Gabriel Marshall.

  “Any trip over four hundred miles from home, I will bring back a souvenir,” Berta declared.

  Marshall and Rees kept the sniper busy exchanging fire, and Berta circled around behind and bagged herself that souvenir.

  Four dead. Two captured. One CIA doctor recovered.

  Our day was looking up.

  While the sniper was still unconscious, Rees emailed a photo of him back to Washington to see who Berta’s souvenir was.

  Pyotr Kharkov. Enforcer for Russian oligarch Grigori Dementiev.

  “Dementiev conducts a lot of his Western business from Prague,” Marshall said. “I’m betting Barton Renwick paid him a visit while on vacation. Dementiev prides himself on his US investments.”

  David Barrington was looking a little queasy, and I didn’t think it was from the helicopter ride.

  “Do you know if he speaks English?” Rees asked, indicating our trussed passenger.

  Marshall bared his teeth again. “Let’s find out.”

  Berta was good. She’d hit Pyotr Kharkov hard enough to knock him out, but not enough to keep him that way for long.

  She’d knocked him out. Marshall woke him up.

  It turned out the air above upstate New York was seriously cold in January.

  Marshall opened a small window and shoved Kharkov’s face through it. Consciousness and the screaming that came with it only took a few seconds.

  Marshall indicated the back of Kharkov’s neck, which was bare. “Find out if he speaks English.”

  I put a hand to the Russian’s neck. There were plenty of words going through his mind, but none of them were in English.

  I drew back and shook my head.

  “Too bad. We’ll have to do this the hard way.”

  Marshall pulled him back in and asked him a question in Russian. I didn’t understand Russian, but to me, Kharkov’s smarmy reply sounded like an insult to Marshall’s parents and the manner in which he’d been conceived.

  Rees asked a question of his own, in Russian. I didn’t know he spoke Russian.

  Kharkov’s mouth moved, but it wasn’t to talk.

  Before he could spit, Marshall shoved his face back out the window.

  “I need to make him more afraid of us than he is of Dementiev,” Marshall told Rees, “or whoever’s paying him for this job. You said the pilot’s name is Mike?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mike?” Marshall call out.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m going to open the back door to let in a little fresh air.” He winked, then jerked his head at the Russian.

  “Go right ahead, sir. Fresh air is healthy.”

  Not for our Russian passenger.

  He was already bound hand and foot, but it was amazing how much fight he had when Marshall and Berta tied the Russian’s legs to the rope ladder. When Marshall opened the door, the man’s words came in a torrent of rapid-fire Russian.

  Marshall was unimpressed, or at least not impressed enough not to do what he did next.

  He kicked the Russian out of the helicopter.

  Beautiful.

  I couldn’t help but think that Grandad would approve. I’d have to tell him all about it.

  Berta’s smile lit her entire face. “I hope your knots hold.”

  Marshall grinned back. “Me, too.”

  I’d been wondering what it’d take to get those two on friendly terms. Now I knew.

  Berta leaned out and looked down. “Mike, can you get a little closer to the treetops?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  For the next few minutes, Russian was yelled back and forth. A shouted question from Marshall, then increasingly desperate words punctuated by screams from the Russian dangling from the ladder over the tall pines of upper New York State.

  Marshall leaned back in. “Fat, pasty American. Sound like anyone you know, Doc?”

  At the description, Barrington went a little pasty himself. “Barton.”

  “Somebody find a photo,” Marshall said. He and Berta got a good grip on the ladder. “We’ll haul him up for confirmation.”

  Rees got out his phone and found a photo of Barton Renwick. “Is this recent enough, Dr. Barrington?”

  “Yes.” He looked like he wanted to strangle the man on the screen.

  Rees handed Marshall his phone, who in turn showed the photo to the nearly frostbitten Russian.

  “Da.”

  We all understood that.

  CHAPTER 33

  I had to admit, the Russian was an inventive storyteller.

  Once in a comparatively hospitable interrogation room in the FBI’s Washington Field Office, Pyotr Kharkov was downright eager to sell out the pasty American who was the source of his present troubles. As to what a team of Russian commandos was doing in upstate New York, Kharkov insisted they were there to protect Barrington from CIA assassins as he fled into Canada and from there to Russia. He said Barrington had chosen the cabin for its proximity to the border. When told that two of his comrades had a drug that would have rendered Barrington unconscious for hours, Kharkov claimed to know nothing about it.

  Concerning his employer, oligarch Grigori Dementiev, he said nothing.

  An international APB had been issued for Dr. Barton Renwick and Elias Halverson, who had either wormed their way
even deeper underground here or had already fled the country.

  David Barrington was safely ensconced upstairs in what I could only describe as an in-house safehouse. The FBI actually had a set of rooms that looked like a hotel suite. Nothing that’d earn many stars, but it was friendlier than a cell or interrogation room. I imagined it came in handy for people you wanted in custody, but didn’t want to feel like prisoners.

  The doctor had been talking nonstop for the past three hours, that is, once he’d been assured that he wasn’t going to be charged with treason or kicked to the curb for the Russians to find. Right now, he was working with an FBI artist to make any needed adjustments to the photo Marshall had of Elias Halverson. A doctor was sworn to protect life, but right now, all David Barrington wanted was Halverson dead, and probably Renwick, too.

  We were in a small conference room adjacent to SAC Roger Hudson’s office. Rees, Berta, Marshall, and I were seated around the table. Roger Hudson came in and closed the door behind him. He was in his late fifties, with short salt-and-pepper hair, and brown eyes that could either warm you to your soul or pierce a hole straight through you, depending on what you’d done to be on the receiving end. He was a kind man and a straight shooter, but God help you if you messed with his people.

  “Ms. Donati, I am so sorry about your grandfather. Rest assured we are doing all we can to apprehend everyone involved. I consider both you and Ambrose part of our family here.”

  “Thank you for authorizing the guards at the hospital,” I said. “I want to be there, but your people protecting him puts my mind at ease.”

  “I wish I could do more.”

  “You’re doing all you can. We all are.”

  He extended his hand to Gabriel Marshall, who stood and shook it. “Officer Marshall, on behalf of myself and ADC Williams, thank you for your help and cooperation. Rees has briefed me on today’s events. You all have had a busy day.”

  “Yes, we have,” Marshall replied, completely at ease in the FBI’s WFO.

  I was pretty comfortable myself.

  I was also warm and full of fried chicken and doughnuts Rees had thoughtfully ordered sent over from Astro, and the only danger I was in was from dozing off. Even better than the icing on the maple bacon doughnut I’d just finished off had been a call from Gerald at the hospital. Grandad’s condition had improved a little, and he was showing signs of regaining consciousness. I desperately wanted to be there with him, but I needed to be here. I couldn’t do anything to help Grandad get better, but I could help catch and stop Elias Halverson. I knew exactly where Grandad would want me to be, and what he’d want me to be doing.

  “Dementiev is a mid-level oligarch who’s been angling for a way to move up the ranks,” Marshall was saying.

  “So, he bought his very own CIA research project,” Hudson said.

  Marshall nodded. “Dementiev isn’t a member of Putin’s inner circle, so he’s been able to avoid attracting too much attention and isn’t under sanctions. He won’t be satisfied with getting Elias Halverson in his personal arsenal. He’ll want more. If Halverson and Renwick escape and reach him, Dementiev will have bought himself the assassin of his dreams and the means to make more with the implants Renwick stole. No more novichok on a doorknob or polonium in a cup of tea. Halverson doesn’t need to carry a weapon, so he can pass through any security checkpoint. He only needs to see his target to kill them. Any world or religious leader could be assassinated anywhere at any time, and no one would be the wiser.”

  Except us.

  “We don’t know what Halverson’s connection is to Dementiev or whether his loyalty is to Renwick,” Marshall continued. “As far as Dementiev is concerned, he’s paid for Halverson and he wants what he paid for. Dementiev does his western business out of Prague. We have the city covered. When Renwick or Halverson show themselves, we’ll have them.”

  “And if they don’t show themselves?”

  Marshall’s smile was slow and dangerous. “Then I’ll go and find them.” He took his phone out of his pocket. “With your permission, I’d like to bring Theodore Chisholm in on this.”

  That was a name I hadn’t heard before. “Who is—”

  “The man I report to.”

  I turned to Rees. “Should we feel sorry for this guy?”

  “Very.”

  Marshall made the call and put his phone in the middle of the table.

  “Chisholm. About damned time you—”

  “I was busy finding Barrington,” Marshall told his boss.

  “You have him?”

  “He’s safe, though he came close to being drugged and on his way to Russia right now.”

  “Where are you?”

  Marshall grinned. “FBI Washington Field Office. The coffee’s not as good, but their hospitality more than makes up for it. As you can probably guess, I’m not alone.”

  Silence.

  “Call me back later,” Chisholm said.

  “I can’t do that.”

  Chisholm didn’t say anything, but I detected the faintest hint of a growl.

  “Hello, Theo,” Hudson said.

  More silence. “Roger.”

  Normally, I needed to at least see a person to get a read on what they were thinking. It wasn’t necessary with Theodore Chisholm. He felt ambushed and understandably unhappy about it. Also, he and Hudson were on a first-name basis. Interesting.

  “What are you up to, Marshall?”

  “My job, sir. You told me to find David Barrington and neutralize Elias Halverson. I’ve found Barrington. Locating Halverson is proving to be a challenge.”

  “If you’re not up to it—”

  “Nice try. You know I’ve never failed a mission and finding that human guinea pig isn’t going to be the first time.”

  “ADC Williams is on the Hill today or you’d be talking to her right now instead of later,” Roger Hudson told Chisholm. “So your people will have time to work on their story as to why they didn’t come to us sooner. I’ll be giving her a full report on what is said here.”

  Marshall leaned back in his chair with a wicked grin.

  He was enjoying this.

  So was I.

  I pulled a notepad out of my messenger bag. Going to be looking for a new job soon? I wrote.

  Marshall used his own pen to reply. Nah. I’ve done much worse.

  “I think it’s time for some of that agency cooperation we’re supposed to have been doing since 9/11,” Hudson said. “Two US senators and an aide dead in two days, murdered in their offices.”

  Hudson left Grandad out of it. I was grateful.

  “I know you don’t want to be the one who didn’t bring every resource to bear to take down their killer,” he continued. “Especially when creating that killer was the result of a CIA project? Don’t worry, Theo. Your people can still do the right thing and cover the company’s ass. Dr. Barrington told us Elias Halverson was to be deployed overseas for his first mission.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to have been activated yet,” Chisholm said. “Renwick reported a week ago that the project was proceeding to plan, but that Halverson wasn’t ready for deployment and was still in training. Those deaths prove Halverson is way past the need for training. The team overseeing the project called Renwick and told him they wanted to see Halverson’s progress for themselves.”

  “After that call was when Renwick cleared out the Bethesda lab,” Marshall told us.

  Silence again from Chisholm.

  “Yes, they know about MRT. The FBI was there this morning. I made myself available to assist.” Marshall flashed a smile. “Intra-agency cooperation at its finest. It’ll play well in the congressional hearings if this gets even worse than it already is. Barrington told us he’d made three more chips, and that Renwick stole them from the lab safe.”

  “Dammit.”

  “When Renwick asked for Barrington’s notes, that’s when the good doctor called Senator Pierce, who told him to
run for the hills.” Marshall then proceeded to tell his boss about Go Fish and our Adirondack adventure with a Russian oligarch’s goons.

  “Barton Renwick sold the Entity Project to Grigori Dementiev,” Chisholm said. “That son of a bitch.”

  No one here was going to disagree with his assessment.

  “We have an international APB out on Renwick and Halverson,” Hudson told him.

  “Dementiev does business out of Prague,” Marshall said, “and according to Barrington, that’s where Barton Renwick and his family spent some of their most recent vacation. When he came back, suddenly Barrington got everything he needed.”

  “We’ve got Pyotr Kharkov on ice,” Hudson said. “He gladly threw Renwick under the bus, but refuses to as much as say his boss’s name.”

  “Where are Barrington’s notes?” Chisholm asked.

  “He said he destroyed them,” Marshall replied. “I don’t believe he has, but I think he should have. When he got suspicious, he went to Senator Pierce to ask how much money the Senate Intelligence Committee had released for the Entity Project. It wasn’t nearly as much as Barrington had been given to spend. Barrington told Senator Pierce about the discrepancy. As Pierce’s senior aide, Alan Coe would’ve known that figure, as would Senator Dalton as the ranking member. Barrington told Pierce there was a problem with the project—either with the chip or Halverson. I don’t know how Dalton found out, but whether or not he knew a Russian oligarch had funded the project, Halverson was still ordered to kill him. I think we can safely assume Barton Renwick either gave that order himself or was directed to by Dementiev. Either way, Renwick is in this up to his neck.”

  “We’re keeping Dr. Barrington in protective custody for now,” Hudson said.

  “You may have to prove to some people here that you’re not holding him against his will,” Chisholm said.

  “Considering he doesn’t know who he can trust among those people, I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  “I’m so glad I have nothing to do with R and D,” Chisholm muttered.

  Marshall blew out a breath. “You and me both, sir.”

  Chisholm hesitated. “I’m being pressured to have you bring Elias Halverson in alive.”