Subtlety wasn’t Haskel’s strong suit. Never had been, but the Bureau chief wasn’t himself. Could be the recent wave of terrorist attacks. Could be something more.
Kranemeyer dropped his jacket on the back of the chair and pulled it away from the folding table. The Heckler & Koch USP .45 rode prominently on his hip, a reminder that the Delta Force operator was never far from the surface. “Shall we begin with what this Victor Caruso was doing at your apartment. What did he want?”
Silence. The DCS traded glances with the pair of FBI agents assigned to provide ‘oversight’.
“Give me something I can work with, Ron. I’ve gone through your file — you had no prior contact with Agent Caruso. Your only connection to him was during the aftermath of TALON in September. And the two of you never met. What’s with the late-night social call?”
Carter squirmed uncomfortably, eyeing Haskel’s men. He wasn’t trained for field work, and it was showing. His eyes revealed too much. “Can we go for a walk — alone?”
It was obvious why Americans loved California, even to a foreigner like Korsakov. Loved it in spite of themselves. A monument to hedonism, to the excesses of their beloved capitalism.
The Mercedes M Class slowed as it turned onto the access road. Two hours of surveillance detection runs had finally convinced Andropov’s driver that they were safe.
The driver reached into the center console, pulling out a small remote and entering his access code. He aimed it at the sculptured iron gates, a smile of satisfaction crossing his face as they swung open.
Opening outward. Another security measure, Korsakov noted. It would make them less vulnerable to a ramming attack. He glanced at the cameras evenly spaced along the perimeter wall as the SUV rolled into the compound. Paranoia? Not really — after all, Andropov had made his millions selling Kalashnikovs, not toothpaste. His rise from Spetsnaz colonel to mafiya arms dealer had been a bloody one.
Even the paranoid have enemies.
Korsakov slid his satphone surreptitiously from his jacket, consulting the screen. Nothing. He should have received confirmation from Yuri or Kalnins, something by now. Unless something had gone wrong.
As if on cue, the phone began to pulse. With a look toward the driver and the sleeping Viktor, Korsakov raised it to his ear. “Da?”
“Thirty-three percent,” came the announcement. Yuri, strain showing in his voice.
Korsakov swore softly. Thirty-three percent. One out of three targets taken out. A failure, by his standards. More importantly, by Andropov’s. “Where are you now?”
“Baltimore.”
“Kalnins?”
“With me, injured. A concussion, I would say.”
The assassin swore beneath his breath. “We need to regroup — ditch your equipment and get on a plane.”
“The contract is unfinished.” The hostility was still there in Yuri’s voice, ever simmering just beneath the surface.
Korsakov glanced out the tinted windows of the Mercedes, toward the portico of the mansion, palm trees shading the sidewalk. “To the devil with the contract.”
The Bureau had thrown the expected hissy fit at the very thought of Carter’s proposed walk. Even now, they weren’t truly alone — not if you counted the pair of Bureau sniper teams that were supposed to be providing overwatch.
As alone as they were going to be. Kranemeyer paused with one foot on the embankment, looking out across the murky waters of the Sassafras River. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
Carter took a final glance toward their minders, then turned his face away. He might lack field training, but he wasn’t dumb. The Bureau was known to employ lip-readers.
“The fiasco in West Virginia didn’t just happen,” he said finally, letting out the breath he had been holding, steam expelled into the chill morning air. “And it had nothing to do with Nichols.”
Kranemeyer glanced over at his analyst. “You’ve been on my payroll for, what, three years — give or take?”
A nod. “Moved over permanently from the Intelligence Directorate the year following NIGHTSHADE.”
“Then you know you have my confidence, Ron. But believe me when I say that this had better not be one of your hunches.”
“It’s not.” Carter took another look around him. Georgetown was a sleepy river town, particularly in the off-season. Almost no one on the nearby streets.
Just the FBI’s watchers.
“Someone inside the government is working with the terrorists, and they’re trying to make it look like Nichols is behind it. They had real-time intel in West Virginia.”
“What type of intel?”
“They were controlling the NRO satellite tasked to the Bureau’s mission. They were in command of the feed.”
“How is that even possible?” Kranemeyer almost turned to face Carter, then thought better of it. Watchers.
“It was a legit user account, set up a few days before the bombings in Virginia. Sundancer1350. No idea who is behind it, but they didn’t hack their way in. They were given access.”
“By who?”
A long pause, the silence falling heavy between the two men. “I don’t know…but they had the run of the place.”
The DCS swore. “You do know what you’re saying, Ron?”
“That’s what Marika asked,” Carter replied, a thin, humorless smile turning up his lips. He felt Kranemeyer’s hand descend on his arm and the color drained from his face.
“Would you mind telling me who that is?”
The analyst closed his eyes, cursing himself for the admission. Such a Freudian slip.
Kranemeyer’s hand fell away and Carter looked up to see the DCS fishing in the pocket of his jacket for his phone. “Yes?”
As hard as he might try, it was impossible to hear the other side of the conversation. The DCS said little, his face gradually distorting with anger as he listened.
At length, “Thanks, Danny.”
Kranemeyer thrust the phone back in his pocket and took Carter by the shoulder, propelling him back toward the road.
“What’s going on?”
The look on Kranemeyer’s face was frightening, dark coals of fire flashing in his eyes. The face of death incarnate. “Nichols was only the beginning — they’re taking the Service apart, Ron. One by one. My people…”
Finding a person who was supposed to be dead was about as hard as one might expect. Them having relatives helped. Being on a close timetable didn’t.
“How long will we have?” Thomas asked, glancing at his watch.
Tex shrugged. “I can give you five minutes to clone the SIM. In and out.”
Thomas looked out the tinted windows of the Malibu, across the street to the windowed storefront of the beauty salon. The proprietor was Rhoda Stevens’ sister, and he could make out the form of their target within the interior. “Her assistant goes on lunch break in fifteen. I can do this.”
“You sober?” The words contained no inflection, no accusation. Just a question, and yet he felt a flash of anger.
“Stone cold.”
The Texan nodded, but there was a reluctance there, a skepticism.
Didn’t anyone trust him anymore? Thomas’s phone rang suddenly, before he could utter the angry words rising to his lips. He palmed it off the dashboard, scanning the screen. Kranemeyer.