“I want him,” Kranemeyer announced suddenly, sizing up his opponent.
The FBI director looked up, startled — as if he hadn’t heard the question. “What?”
“I want Carter transferred to my custody.”
A disbelieving look crossed Haskel’s face. “That flies in the face of every procedure in the book. No way. Not happening.”
“Think about it,” Kranemeyer said, taking a step toward Haskel — moving in close, into the man’s comfort zone. “Just think about it, Haskel. This nation’s been under attack for the last five days. You’ve lost more agents than any prior director. Let me take responsibility for Carter’s protection — we’ll use an Agency safehouse.”
“Two of my agents go with you?” The FBI director’s acquiescence seemed sudden, unnatural. Kranemeyer’s eyes narrowed. What are you playing at?
There was nothing to do — nothing except play it through, to the end. “Of course.”
Try as you might, you never really slept on a plane. Not really. Then again, he hadn’t really slept in years.
Korsakov roused himself as the Gulfstream’s landing gear touched down, striking the tarmac with a barely discernible thump. This pilot was good — a lot better than the underpaid, underfed Federation pilots that had flown he and his comrades into Chechnya.
The fall of communism had brought no freedom to Russia — they had but traded one set of shackles for another. Party had been replaced by capital, the ruble by the petrodollar. But the end was the same. The few controlled everything.
A few — the oligarchs. Like Valentin Stephanovich Andropov. Those who had succeeded where he’d failed.
In the end, it was curious how little resentment he felt, Korsakov mused, drawing back the curtain of the luxury jet’s windows to gaze out at the airport lights — the convoy of vehicles awaiting him, the nose of Andropov’s Sikorsky executive helicopter peeking out of a nearby hangar. Perhaps, in his younger years, he would have. Now? Now he was only concerned with parlaying his talents to the highest bidder — grateful that there still were high bidders like Andropov.
Perhaps he too was a capitalist. Perhaps. As the Gulfstream taxied to a stop, the assassin rose from his seat, touching Viktor on the arm as he moved toward the door. “It is time to be going.”
Keep her safe. Those were his orders. She was his responsibility. That was all.
Or was it? He looked back toward the bed to where Carol lay, her form outlined beneath the sheets. He couldn’t describe how he felt, except that he had started to care and it bothered him.
Out in the field, you learned to fear your emotions. Isolate. Compartmentalize. Don’t let anything break down those barriers. Never become emotionally attached to your principal. All those cardinal rules — so easy to recite, so hard to keep.
He clipped the holstered Colt into the waistband of his pants, padding softly across the carpeted room. Day was coming, all too soon.
Her hair was splayed out against the pillow, a tousled mess of gold in the dim glow of the nightlight. Beautiful.
Focus. It had been years since he’d felt this…this reluctant stirring within. Years since he’d permitted himself to care — about anyone.
Perhaps, after all this was over…
Don’t go there. She stirred in her sleep, and he turned away, turning his back on her, and those emotions.
It would do nothing…except get them both killed.
“It is a beautiful weapon,” Tarik announced, sliding a hand across the polished receiver of the Kalashnikov, fingers brushing the folding polymer stock, an aftermarket American addition. “Have any of you ever fired one?”
Jamal looked over to see al-Fileestini and Omar shaking their heads. The shaikh’s eyes drifted across the room to rest on him. “Have you, my brother?”
“No.”
A smile of amusement crossed the face of Tarik Abdul Muhammad. “Now this will never suit our purposes. How many of you have fired a weapon before — any weapon?”
Omar inclined his head. “A few pistols back in my days on the street, nothing more. Guns were for intimidation, for show.”
“I was a young man during the First Intifada,” al-Fileestini said at last, clearing his throat. “I did what I could, but it has been many years.”
The shaikh paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. “Your prowess does not concern me, father. Allah has not ordained that you accompany us on this holy mission. As for the others — they will need to become accustomed to the feel of the weapon in their hands. You have ammunition?”
“Indeed.” Al-Fileestini spoke briefly to Omar, and the negro disappeared into a back room. “But any shots here in the city…the Dearborn police are corrupt and inadequate, but not so much so as to ignore automatic weapons fire.”
“Allah will provide,” Tarik replied with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Did you not say that we have a brother several hours north along the peninsula? You spoke of a …cabin, I believe. Secluded?”
The imam nodded, reaching into the pocket of his trousers. “I will make a few calls.”
As crime scenes went, this one was messy. Or so he’d been told. Bullets and brass everywhere. He watched a crime scene investigator emerge from behind the apartment building, a small plastic evidence bag in his hand. They’d been digging spent rounds out of the building behind the apartments. Apparently, one didn’t mess with a .338 Lapua Magnum. Haskel took another step away from his agents, listening carefully to the voice on the other end of the phone.
“You’re certain she was here last night? You’re sure?”
“Of course I am,” the voice replied, no longer calm. That in itself was disturbing.
They’d met back during Haskel’s days as an attorney with the Holder DOJ, exchanging their dreams over lunch on K Street. The world needed a leader, a man of unimaginable vision and tenacity. The ability to remake the world and the ruthless determination to see it through.
Over the years he had never known the man to lose his cool. Until now. With the stakes higher than ever.
“I didn’t want her killed,” the FBI director hissed, taking another look around him. “What are you trying to accomplish?”
“Wrapping up loose ends, Eric. They were close. Very close. The threat we buried with David Lay…we can’t risk its reemergence.”
“How much does she know?” Haskel asked, passing a hand over his forehead. He didn’t really want to know. He’d never dreamed that it would come to this, but one thing led to another.
He listened for another few minutes, then nodded. “Don’t do anything else unless you talk to me first. I can sideline her easily enough — have her working something else. As for the CIA angle…that’s covered.”
The safehouse was nothing special, just your standard split-level. Nondescript was the order of the day. Reinforced locks, bulletproof windows, and a sophisticated security system were the only real additions. And the alarm alerted Langley, not the local PD.
Kranemeyer pulled back the drapes of the top-floor window, taking a look down the quiet street. The FBI wasn’t happy with security arrangements, which suited him just fine. They’d nearly parked a pair of black Suburbans with government tags out front, announcing their presence to the world.