“These are surveillance photos — taken here in D.C,” the deputy director stammered, a drowning man clutching desperately at a straw. “You’ve violated the CIA’s charter — this will never stand up in court.”
Kranemeyer closed his eyes, the H&K under his coat seeming to quiver with anger. “Who said anything about court, Mike? Did Davood Sarami get a judge? A jury? God only knows what other assets you compromised.”
Silence. He could still remember standing there at Dover, the fall wind rippling through his hair as uniformed Marines carried Davood’s body out of the back of a C-5.
“You’ll get what you gave, Mike. That’s justice, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s just retribution — I couldn’t give a flying crap either way.”
“You don’t understand, Barney. It’s not like that. I didn’t have a choice.”
A bitter smile crossed Kranemeyer’s face. “That’s an old refrain. And false as it is old. We all make choices. What did the Iranians have on you?”
The deputy director seemed to shrink into his seat, his voice growing soft. “It wasn’t the Iranians.”
“Indeed?”
Shapiro shook his head desperately, licking his lips with the very tip of his tongue. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”
“No one who’s powerful enough to save you from me, I know that much. But why don’t you enlighten me?”
“I can — but I want this all to go away. All of it, the photographs…everything.”
It was amazing, Kranemeyer thought — the deputy director was still playing politician. Making deals.
“You don’t have anything I want that badly,” he retorted, staring up at the rows of white-robed children, their faces smiling down like a heavenly choir of angels. The last innocents left in this city. “And if you get a deal, it will be on my terms.”
Shapiro ran a hand along the collar of his shirt, his fingers coming away damp with sweat. “Anything. What do you want?”
“Tell me everything you know — I want details, names of everyone involved. Everything.”
“And what do I get in return?”
“You get to take the honorable way out. And your family — your kids — never have to know the type of man their father was.”
“You mean…” Shapiro’s voice trailed off, trembling querulously.
“I do,” came the remorseless reply. “Or, so help me, I will destroy them as well.”
“Are you sure they’re here?” Korsakov lowered the binoculars from his eyes, glancing back to where Viktor sat in the back seat.
The boy hesitated. “They were here. Less than four hours ago. That’s all I know.”
Korsakov glanced toward the oil field once again, the ghostly spires of the derricks looming out of the gathering twilight. It would have to be good enough.
He pushed open the passenger door of the SUV, moving around to the back to retrieve his Steyr AUG. Korsakov’s night-vision goggles were the only pair they had left — everything else having been lost at Andropov’s mansion.
They would have to move cautiously, the three of them.
Viktor came around the corner of the vehicle at that moment, his youthful eyes shining above the scraggly black beard that cloaked the lower half of his face. The Glock Korsakov had given him was in his hand, his fingers fumbling with the slide.
“I’m ready.”
Korsakov shook his head, stepping forward to put both hands on the boy’s thin shoulders. “Nyet, tovarisch. I need you here in the car, monitoring communications.”
It was a lie, and he could see in the boy’s eyes that they both knew it. The assassin hesitated for a long moment, emotions warring within him, then he drew the boy into a fierce embrace.
Guided as if by a premonition, his hand slipped into the pocket of his assault vest, drawing forth a small password-protected thumb drive and pressing it into Viktor’s palm. “I’ll be back soon, Vitya. Ne volnuysia.”
Don’t worry.
Another lie, but he would see this through to the end.
There were some things a man simply could not walk away from, the death of his brothers being one. That none of his men were related to him mattered not at all — the bonds of battle were far stronger than those of blood.
Korsakov turned away, motioning for Yuri and Misha to follow him. Spread out, they moved down the side of the road toward the abandoned oil field, flitting from cover to cover like wraiths in the dusk.
Fifty meters and the assassin paused, pulling back the charging bolt of the Steyr to chamber a round. The weapon felt cold in his hands, cold as the certainty of what was to come.
“And that’s all you know?” Kranemeyer asked quietly, staring into the eyes of the deputy director. He ignored the singing with an effort, still struggling to process what he had just been told.
“And in despair, I bowed my head. ‘There is no peace on earth’, I said.” The children knew not the gravity of which they sang. Nothing of the evil that lurked around them.
Shapiro swallowed hard, nodding. “Haskel’s not in it alone, but he never trusted me.”
The DCS snorted. “I wonder why.”
“There’s someone up higher, I always knew there was. Haskel’s too cocky — has to have someone covering his back. Someone powerful. They ordered Lay’s murder. I didn’t want to be a part of it, you know that, don’t you?”
“Go,” Kranemeyer whispered, his voice devoid of mercy. Of pity. He had heard enough. He thought for a moment of asking why — then decided against it. It could be any one of a dozen things: threats, blackmail, money — to name but a few. Or perhaps most likely, a simple lust for power.
"For hate is strong, and mocks the song of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
He saw the plea in Shapiro’s eyes and his face hardened. “Go.”
“How do you know that I won’t run once I leave this building? That I won’t call the police?”
Kranemeyer nodded toward the white-robed boy in the front of the choir, his cherubic face smiling down upon the darkened sanctuary. “Because you know what will become of him if you do. Do you want him to live his life the son of a traitor? Do you want him to remember you that way?”
Indecision. He saw the father glance up toward his son, agony on his countenance. Then a nod. Shapiro rose, pulling his jacket close around his body as if to shut out the cold. “I’m sorry.”
There was no suitable response, and Kranemeyer made no attempt to offer one.
He remained in his seat, arm over the back of the pew, as Shapiro made his way to the aisle, hurrying toward the vestibule. And still the children sang. “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
Wrong? Right?
There were times when he could scarce tell the difference. He listened as the strains of the final stanza died away, watched as the priest dismissed the children. Watched as a little boy scampered down from the platform, his eyes searching the darkness for a father that was no longer there.
A father that would never return again.
Rising from the pew, Kranemeyer walked forward, taking a candle from the tray and mounting it. Pulling his Bic from his pocket he touched fire to wick, watching as it blossomed into full flame, casting dark shadows across his face as it flickered.