“Hello,” he answered, putting the phone on speaker.
“The two of you need to go to ground,” the DCS announced, his words clipped, tension filling his voice. “And stay there.”
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll see it on the news soon enough.” Explanations weren’t Kranemeyer’s specialty. “Someone’s turning us inside out — an FBI agent was murdered last night and the murder weapon was…an Agency Barrett.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Like usual, the truth doesn’t really matter. I struck a deal with Haskel to throttle things back — keep your faces off the television for the moment…but the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division has expressed an interest in your whereabouts all the same. They’ll be looking for you within the hour, rattling the bushes to see what flies out. Go to ground, get out of sight.”
And then he was gone, breaking contact without so much as a farewell. The two men exchanged glances, absorbing the news.
After a long moment, Thomas inclined his head toward the salon. “We’re already here. Shall we?”
A nod.
When it came right down to it, it didn’t much matter if you were in San Francisco or Istanbul. Clandestine meetings were dicey business. You could never be sure what your “ally” might do.
Harry’s eyes scanned the bistro as the waiter led them to their table, outside on the veranda. This might have been America, but with the Consulate mere blocks to the west, it was Vasiliev’s turf. He counted at least two Russians near the front of the bistro, one more outside at one of the open-air tables. Might be security personnel from the Consulate, might be immigrants. Frisco was a melting pot.
Part of his mind insisted that Alexei would never attempt a snatch in public place, an American city — but he knew better, knew the danger of the course he had chosen. If America had made one mistake consistently through the last fifty years, it was what the intel community called “mirror imaging”. The belief that everyone made decisions the same way you did. That their rationale, their very definition of logic was the same. September 11th had proven otherwise, but not everyone had gotten the memo.
He ushered Carol into the chair closest to the garden wall and took his own seat, the Colt trembling beneath his light jacket. From where he sat, he could watch the front door of the bistro.
Meeting with Alexei wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. Unavoidable.
The tension was palpable, Carol thought, giving her menu a disinterested glance. She could sense it in his body language. This meeting was a bad idea, and he knew it.
Her gaze lifted from the table, scanning the surrounding rooftops. Nothing.
Not to say that no one was there. She saw Han enter the bistro, making his way to a table near the front door. Moments later, his voice came over her earbud: “In position.”
“Copy that,” Harry breathed beside her, acknowledging his receipt of the message.
Without warning, a shadow fell over their table and she looked up, feeling Harry tense. Vasiliev stood there across from them, one hand clasping the back of the chair, the other held in front of him, index finger extended from a clenched fist.
A smile played across the Russian’s weathered face, the breeze rippling through his silver hair. “Bang, you’re dead.”
It was a Nicholas Poussin, or so the head of Andropov’s security had said. Whatever that was supposed to mean.
Korsakov stood there for a moment, taking a speculative sip from the wine glass as he stared at the painting over the fireplace. King Midas at the Source of the Pactole River.
It was an ironic choice. Andropov had always been that way. Like the fabled king, everything he touched had turned to gold. And this…this mansion — the gilded fixtures, the Renaissance artwork, these were the fruits of it.
Korsakov turned, feeling Viktor’s eyes on him. “What do you think, tovarisch?” he asked, raising his glass as if in a toast. The boy didn’t drink — it brought back flashbacks. Memories of being drugged and raped.
Viktor hesitated, as if rendered speechless by the grandeur of the sitting room. The assassin smiled. “My old comrade has done well for himself, has he not? The Midas touch.”
The smile vanished from Korsakov’s face as quickly as it had come. Andropov had done well, which was why he was still in bed with his mistress while the two of them cooled their heels on the first floor.
The privileges of wealth. He threw back his head, draining the wine glass in a single, angry swallow. These cursed capitalists…
The Russian looked older than the fifty-eight years his CIA dossier indicated. Much older. He had once been a handsome man, that much was obvious, but his once-lean frame had now begun to carry the weight of middle age. Blue eyes stared out from a face worn and lined by the decades, his thinning silver hair swept back rakishly from the brow.
“I appreciate you coming, Alexei,” Harry began, motioning for his old adversary to take a seat. “I know it is not without its risks for you.”
Vasiliev sat down, gesturing for their waiter. “There was a time, tovarisch. There was a time when I would have had to write up a five-page contact report after this meeting.”
“And now?”
“And now…I am the head of security. I am, how would you say? Ah yes — a law unto myself.” His hands moving in quick efficient motions, Vasiliev spread the napkin across his lap, smiling as if very pleased with himself. “And who is your sexy lady friend?” he asked, switching into Russian.
“Someone who doesn’t make a practice of meeting with KGB thugs,” Carol replied in the same language, an icy calm in her voice.
The Russian looked startled for a brief moment, then his body shook with laughter. “Perhaps you should have warned me, Harry.”
“I didn’t know myself,” he replied, shooting her a sharp look. The message was clear in his eyes: watch your step. There was too much at stake.
“What did you find, Alexei?” Harry asked, leaning forward. “Do you have a name for me?”
“I do,” Vasiliev replied, scanning his menu as the waiter arrived. “May I recommend the Steak à Cheval?”
Harry responded with an impatient nod and Vasiliev passed their menus to the waiter, adding, “A steak for the gentleman at the table by the door as well. Just add it to my tab.”
They both followed the direction of his gaze: Samuel Han. Vasiliev smiled. “You thought I wouldn’t notice, tovarisch? I may be growing old, but I never forget a face. It was February of 2004. Qatar.”
Harry nodded in remembrance. Han had been there then, on “loan” to the CIA from the Teams. “Zelimkhan Yandarbiyev. You were in Doha to kill him. It was the first time I ever worked with the FSB.”
“The Chechen president?” Carol asked.
Harry acknowledged her comment with a nod. “And a driving force behind the Islamization of the conflict. We were all well rid of him.”
The waiter arrived with their drinks, handing a bottle of spring water to Harry and placing an empty glass in front of Vasiliev.
“You are learning, my friend,” the Russian observed with a smile.