The Church of the Holy Trinity.
He’d never been a very pious man himself — the morality of what he was about to do gave him no pause.
It wasn’t his decision…not really. It was his target’s — a decision that had been made when Shapiro decided to betray his country.
Send a message, Barney, the senator had said, his eyes glistening with a simmering wrath, the flames of the Alibi Club’s fireplace reflected in their depths. If the fools in this town want to dance, they’re going to have to pay the piper.
It had all been a mistake, Korsakov thought, staring murderously at his cellphone as Viktor used his still-active FBI access to read off a list of roadblocks.
The California State Police were sealing off every major artery. And Nichols was gone.
He cast a glance into the back seat of the SUV to where Yuri sat, chewing on a sandwich of deli meat. His lieutenant looked like death itself, his face seared with the heat of the explosion, the hair singed off his forearms.
Four men. That was all he had left — and that was if you counted in both Viktor and himself.
Even as he looked at it, the phone in his hand began to vibrate with an incoming call. His heart almost stopped.
No one had this number. No one living.
“Yes?” he asked, motioning to Viktor to attempt a trace as he answered the call.
“It’s time this was ended, Sergei.” Nichols’ voice. The tone of a man on the edge, barely in control of himself. Trembling with anger.
An encouraging development.
Korsakov listened in silence as the American continued. “Innocent people died last night…for what? You’re not going to get paid for this.”
The assassin cleared his throat. “I told you. This isn’t about the money — this is about the men you have killed. My men. And I don’t care who has to die, so long as you join them in the end.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Viktor hold up four fingers. “You were clever last night, Mr. Nichols. Audacious, even. What is that Latin phrase they teach in your military colleges? Fortune favors the audacious? And even more of my men died.”
Three.
“I gave you the chance to walk away last night,” Nichols responded. “Leave it all behind — make your way out of the country as best you could. That was before the freeway. No one else had to die…but now you do.”
Two. He could see the smile grow on the boy’s face. Keep stalling. Keep him on the phone.
“So now you intend to kill me?”
A click was all that answered his question, and he shot an anxious glance in Viktor’s direction.
Do we have it?
The look of intense concentration on the boy’s face was unbroken for a long moment, then he began to nod.
“Did he have time?” Harry asked, looking over to where Carol sat in front of her laptop.
It had been so close.
“All depends on how good his tech support is. It’s a reasonable hope.” She ran a hand over her forehead. “You couldn’t stay on the phone any longer — he would have gotten suspicious.”
“Do you still have your gun?”
She looked up as though startled by the sudden question, then nodded.
“Keep it handy,” he advised, catching Han’s eye from across the room. “Time to take up our positions.”
Dominoes.
Samir Khan watched, mesmerized, as the dealer shuffled a set of dominoes with slim, agile hands, dealing them out to the players surrounding the table.
Nothing could have prepared him for the luxury, the decadence.
“A drink, sir?” He turned to find a cocktail waitress at his elbow, a tray of drinks in her hand.
“No, not right now,” the lawyer responded, finding himself flustered by her smile. All the years he had lived in Vegas, practicing law, he had never entered one of the casinos — and now he understood why. Their allure was irresistible…seductive. “What is this that they’re playing?”
“Pai gow?” she asked, touching him lightly on the arm. “It’s a Chinese game, one of the most popular in the casinos of Macau. Do you want to take a hand?”
Samir shook his head, looking her up and down appreciatively before moving off into the crowd. He had a purpose for being here, he thought, forcing himself to focus.
Five years he had lived in this country, ever since leaving his native Pakistan with his men. For five long years they had labored in the house of war, waiting for this moment. For the word of the shaikh.
He thought back to that morning, a week ago — when the message had finally been left in the Drafts folder of his inbox. And he had known in that moment.
Their time had come…
“God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…” Childish voices, lifted in praise to the heavens.
Michael Shapiro leaned back in the pew, smiling as he regarded the form of his son in the choir, shifting awkwardly in his robes.
This was the life worth living. Away from his job, away from all the stresses of the day. Here with his kids, he almost felt at peace.
Almost.
A shadow fell across the pew and he looked up, half-expecting to see his wife. She was supposed to join them later, in time for mass.
“Good evening, Shapiro.” The form of Bernard Kranemeyer settled into the pew beside him, awaiting no invitation to sit down.
A puzzled smile flickered across the face of the deputy director. “And to you, Barney. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Kranemeyer nodded, his arm stretching out easily along the back of the pew as he gazed up at the choir of children toward the front of the dimly lit sanctuary.
“Didn’t imagine you would. Never had much use for church. Or for pious people, for that matter,” he added after a pause. “Most of them are frauds, in my experience. People living a lie.”
The strange look in the eyes of the DCS grew reflective as Shapiro watched. “Nichols was the only Christian I ever truly respected…and we both know how that’s panned out.”
“Yeah,” Shapiro assented, still puzzled by his appearance.
Those coal-black eyes turned upon him, contempt radiating suddenly from their depths. The deputy director felt a chill wash over his body.
Kranemeyer shook his head, reaching inside his trench coat and pulling forth a handful of photographs. He held one of them up, eyeing it critically in the flickering light of the nearby candles.
“What have you been playing at, Shapiro?” the DCS spat, throwing the photograph into Shapiro’s lap.
His fingers beginning to tremble as if in the grip of a fever, he reached for the photo, turning it over.
And there it was. The proof of his betrayal.
Shapiro looked up to see death in the eyes of his colleague — cold, implacable death. His gaze darted wildly around the sanctuary, toward the mute, silent icons along the walls.
No salvation to be found there.
“I–I…this wasn’t what it looks like.”
The DCS laughed softly. “You can do better than that, Mike. You might be the deputy director, but you’re a second-rate liar. I don’t have to guess what it ‘looks like’. I know what it is…you passing intel to the Iranians. You sold out my men. All I want to know is this: was it worth it?”
He looked over at Shapiro, watching contemptuously as the man trembled, his face ashen.