There was a long pause, so long that for a moment the DD(I) thought they’d been disconnected. Then Kranemeyer replied, “I placed both men on indefinite leave late yesterday, Shapiro. I thought you wanted them out of the loop.”
“I do — I mean I did — surely you have a way to contact them?”
“No,” came the flat reply. “It’s deer season — Richards’ spoke of taking a hunting trip. Knowing him, I’m reasonably sure they wouldn’t take their phones.”
Shapiro stood, walking over to an oaken credenza by the big window. A crystal decanter of brandy glistened in the chill sunlight. Alcohol and pills, the winning combination. He took a deep breath, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Well, do what you can.”
“…the gunman, later identified as John Warnock Hinckley, Jr.” Alicia reached for the remote and hit replay, leaning back against the couch as the footage rolled. The video was raw, grainy, but clear enough. A smiling face, a wave to the crowds. Then gunshots.
It was probably the tenth time she had watched the video. Enough times to know what wouldn’t work. Enough times to know that she wouldn’t be walking away afterward. And there would be no second chance.
Footsteps in the hallway outside her apartment door broke her concentration and she glanced at her watch. It was well past time that she should have been grading the math tests that her students had turned in earlier in the day, but she found it difficult to feel motivated. The principal was only going to raise all the failing scores by ten points. It was part of the legacy of George W. Bush’s No Child Left Behind Act. With school districts frightened of losing what little federal money there was to go around, the solution was simple: everyone cheated.
She didn’t want to stop and ponder what life lesson that was teaching the kids.
Alicia’s gaze shifted back to the TV screen and then to the small semiautomatic on the little coffee table. Didn’t really want to think about what lesson they’d learn from her own actions.
In the end, it didn’t matter. She’d majored in math, but she knew one thing about history: people always learned the wrong lessons from it.
Opulence had not been factored into the design plans used by the architects of CHRYSALIS. That much was obvious, even in the flickering, swaying glow of the Coleman lamp in Han’s hand. Harry and Carol followed close behind as he led his way down the steps into the bunker.
“From the beginning, CHRYSALIS wasn’t designed as a continuity of government installation,” the big man stated, lifting the lantern above his head. Light reflected off the stark concrete walls, casting strange shadows around them. “The whole idea was just to keep the military’s top brass alive long enough to mount a counterattack. You punch me in the chin, I kick you in the groin. That sort of thing — they never planned to shelter more than one hundred and fifty. Greenbrier came later, once the politicians woke up and realized they’d need a place to ride out nuclear winter. Don’t think they ever built bunkers for the civvies. Never have figured out what they thought they’d be governing, what with the rest of the country slagged.”
Harry snorted. “That’s bureaucrats for you. Cover your own butt institutionalized. Is there any electric down here?”
A shake of the head. “Disconnected. This whole thing was built to run off a huge diesel generator — I could probably get it up in running in a few hours if I needed to. The cabin’s power is separate from the bunker.”
“Makes sense,” Harry nodded, moving into the “living room” of the bunker’s upper level. “Do you have a computer?”
Han turned to look at him. “Yeah, I think…I mean it’s an old laptop, I don’t know — why?”
Despite the hour, they were nearly the only diners at the Denny’s. Korsakov took another glance around the restaurant, glad he had sent the other half of his team to the McDonald’s on the other side of town. Eight men would have attracted too much attention.
“Still nothing?” he asked, looking across the table. Viktor was seated on the opposite side of the booth, his laptop set up. He’d barely touched his burger, intensity written across his face as he stared at the screen.
“Nyet. I’ve run it through every satellite database I can access. No good. My maps show nothing there, just a mountain.”
Beside Korsakov, Yuri swallowed the french fry he’d been eating and cleared his throat. “Maybe you’re the one being blocked.”
“What are you trying to say?” Korsakov asked, shooting him a look. With Pavel’s death the previous day, Yuri was technically the second-in-command. Second-guesser, more like it. He’d been the loudest voice against accepting the contract on the CIA director. That hadn’t changed.
“I’m saying what I’ve said since the beginning,” Yuri replied, struggling to keep his voice to a conversational level. “I don’t believe for a minute that he’s actually inside the federal servers. We’ve been played — right from the start.”
Korsakov leaned back in the booth, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You doubt Valentin’s word? This is my decision, da?”
Yuri met his eyes and for a moment he thought the Leningrad native was going to challenge his authority.
“Da, it is your decision,” Yuri relented finally, looking away. “It’s nothing personal. I’ve never met Andropov. I don’t trust people I don’t know.”
Korsakov took another sip of his Coca-cola, eyeing the waitress out of the corner of his eye. She was still far enough away. “He’s a tovarisch, Yuri, from the old days. I’ve known him longer than I’ve known you. If he says we have access to the American intranet, I believe him.”
“Then what’s your solution?” Yuri fired back. Korsakov saw Viktor watching them over the top of his screen, his young eyes filled with anxiety — fear. Arguments always brought flashbacks of his time in the brothel.
Korsakov smiled indulgently and clapped his lieutenant on the shoulder. “You and I, Yuri, are going up that mountain. Tonight.”
It seemed a bad time to bring it up, but there wasn’t going to be a good time. “There’s something that’s been bothering me,” Harry announced, glancing across the small living room at Carol. Sammy hadn’t yet returned, but the Coleman sat on the low coffee table in front of her, its glow pushing back at the darkness.
“And that would be?” she asked, looking up at his words. Her golden-brown hair glistened in the lantern light, a dirty blond. Ignore it. Focus.
“That video — the director knew why he was being targeted. He knew in advance.” He crossed the room to take a seat on the couch opposite her. People were always more liable to talk to someone on their level. Put her at her ease. “Do you have any ideas?”
“No,” Carol replied slowly. She didn’t look at him, staring straight into the flame of the Coleman. “Dad never talked shop — never talked much at all.”
She lifted her head, a defiant knuckle brushing a tear from the corner of her eye. “We’d just started to reestablish a relationship, but he’s been different, moody these last couple months. Ever since the Jerusalem op. I thought it was just the discovery of a traitor in the Clandestine Service, but now I don’t know.”