“We’ve all changed,” Harry acknowledged, filing away the mental note for future reference. “Anything else out of the ordinary?”
She started to shake her head, then paused. “I don’t know how to say this…but you probably knew him better than I did. For more years.”
Worst thing of it, she was probably right. His eyes narrowed as he stared across the room, watching her closely. If she was lying, he needed to know it. “What of it?”
“What were his political views?” she asked, responding with a question of her own.
So much for seeing that coming. Harry allowed himself a wry smile. “Political views? The director was a political agnostic — registered Independent, but always claimed that he didn’t vote. I never heard him speak well of any politician. Why?”
Carol sat across from him in silence for a long moment, biting at her lower lip. “That’s what I thought. He’d become obsessed with the presidential election — I’d never seen him so angry as the morning the lower court approved those contested Hancock votes in New Mexico.”
It didn’t make any sense. Harry opened his mouth, about to ask another question, but footsteps resounded on the concrete of the hallway, signaling Sammy’s arrival.
“This is what I got,” Han announced, placing a laptop on the table between them. “Battery’s good for an hour, maybe two depending on your usage.”
Harry acknowledged him with a nod, reaching into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He saw Sammy tense involuntarily and he withdrew his hand with painful slowness, laying his TACSAT on the table beside the computer. “I loaded the Korsakov files onto my phone before leaving Langley. Everything right here. What’s the USB interface on this thing?”
Han propped the computer up and hit the power button. “Don’t know — it’s an old Dell Inspiron. USB 2.0, I think.”
“That’s going to be a problem,” Carol announced, looking at the men. Harry nodded.
“Why?” Han asked.
Carol spun the laptop around until it was facing her. “From the moment he inserts the SIM card and powers on the phone, we’ve got thirty seconds until Langley has our general location. Sixty seconds and they’ll have us down cold. The antique interface is going to slow the file transfer. Maybe too much.”
Harry started to speak, but she cut him off, shooting a look at the ceiling of the bunker.
“Is this the lowest level of the bunker?”
“No — the stairs down that hall lead to the generator and on toward the helipad.”
“How many feet below the surface?”
Han chuckled. “What Indian war are you fighting, girl? The generator room is located fifteen meters below the cabin.”
“It’ll be enough to block the signal,” was Carol’s reply, closing the laptop and tucking it under her arm as she stood. “Let’s do this. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
Chapter 9
They were going in blind. Korsakov pulled on the winter camouflage parka over his body armor and walked to the back of the Suburban. “Any ideas, Viktor?”
The night was cold, well below freezing, but sweat had beaded on the boy’s face. There was a look of desperation in his eyes as he bent over the laptop, typing in commands. “Nyet, nyet. It just disappeared.”
The assassin let out a sigh. He’d seen Viktor like this before, typically when something was going wrong. Crisis brought out the worst in the boy, a legacy of abuse. It had all started when the tracker had disappeared just over four hours before.
“Nichevo,” Korsakov whispered, placing a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. It doesn’t matter.
“Ready?” Yuri materialized out of the darkness, casting a critical glance at the wooded slope they had to traverse to reach the tracker’s last known position. Korsakov pulled a Steyr AUG out of the back of the SUV and slapped a 42-round magazine of 5.56mm NATO into the buttstock of the bullpup rifle.
“Da. Let’s do this.”
He still tied his own ties. Maybe that would be his footnote in history. Roger Hancock leaned closer to the mirror, fiddling with his collar as he adjusted the Windsor knot of his necktie. The face of the President of the United States stared back at him.
He hadn’t slept. There were dark circles under his eyes, but his makeup team would take care of that. They always did. Getting ready for the cameras required him to wear about twice as much makeup as your average streetwalker. An apt comparison, Hancock thought, reaching for his cufflinks.
The G-20 conference was going down the tubes, and the EU along with it. This was to be his legacy. Another four years might have fixed everything, but now that dream seemed to be vanishing too.
Two months ago, with backroom deals and the promise of Iranian oil flooding onto the US market, everything had looked bright. So bright to be extinguished so soon.
The door opened without preamble or ceremony, revealing Cahill’s diminutive form in the entrance, flanked by Secret Service agents. “Anna’s waiting for you, Mr. President. We’re on in fifty.”
“I’ll be there,” Hancock nodded, waiting until the Irishman disappeared and the door closed. He hadn’t heard anything from the States — a disturbing silence.
The President reached for his suit jacket and threw it on, glancing at his iPhone on the nightstand of the hotel suite. Traditionally, the Secret Service had controlled all forms of Presidential communication, but Barack Obama’s Blackberry had set a precedent that Hancock was only too happy to follow.
Just enough time to place a call.
The percolator was on the end of the counter, near the refrigerator. Harry made his way into the kitchen through the darkness, not bothering to turn on the lights.
He’d been that way even as a kid. Put him in a room once and he could find his way back through it in the dark. Times it came in handy.
They hadn’t found anything worthwhile on Korsakov the previous night. Maybe if they’d had access to Ft. Meade’s Crays…
Something told him that processing power wouldn’t have helped. The ex-Spetsnaz hitman had never worked in the Western Hemisphere. Everything was Eastern Europe, with a sole anomaly.
Korsakov had killed a Russian businessman in Sudan in 2008, back before the Sudan became two separate countries. The guy had been an arms dealer — the consensus in the intelligence community was that a rival had ordered the hit.
Carol had pored over the laptop until her eyes were red. Nothing.
Harry tipped the coffee pot back, eyeing the day-old brew dubiously. Well, he’d always liked it black.
He’d told her to go to bed at midnight. Get some sleep.
What disturbed him was that he actually cared. There was something about her…
Caring was dangerous. It had been years since he had pursued a relationship with anyone.
Years since he’d wanted to. Harry let out a heavy sigh and poured the contents of the coffee pot into a mug. Things would be clearer once he’d woken up.
Movement in the doorway. “Early riser, I see.” Sammy’s voice.
The SEAL was already dressed for the weather — the SCAR in the crook of his arm. Dawn patrol. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Harry shook his head. “You?”
“No,” Han replied, crossing the kitchen toward the outside door.