“We’ve done it before,” Harry responded evenly. “It never bothered you then.”
“Different times and a different place — it was our mission.”
Harry shot a glance toward the closed bedroom door, lowering his voice so that she wouldn’t overhear. “The director was assassinated, Sammy. We both know that. It’s still our mission.”
“Pyotr Andropov’s mother was a Hollywood starlet in the days before she met Valentin. Before she died in a car accident over eighteen years ago — shortly after his birth,” the former SEAL replied, tapping the dossier with a long index finger. “He holds dual citizenship in the United States and Russia. There’s no road back from this.”
He was right. Harry knew that. Knew he had to offer a way out. He rose from his seat at the table. “I’ve been accused of complicity in Lay’s death, Sammy. My face is on the television. That’s already the case for me. But you don’t need to go down with me.”
He laid a hand on Han’s shoulder. “You don’t owe me this. If you’re not here when I return, I’ll understand.”
“Where are you going?”
Harry inclined his head toward the bedroom. “Wish me luck.”
Her back was turned to him when he entered the room. Her laptop was open on the bed, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Carol, I—”
She held up a hand to silence him. “One moment…here, I have it.”
“Have what?” he asked, stopping in the center of the room. She turned the laptop to face him, revealing a maze of code and what looked like schematics onscreen.
“Your way in.”
He took a seat on the bed beside her. “What am I looking at?”
“The power grid that services Beverly Hills and the western half of Los Angeles County. I can take it down.”
She was good.
“NIGHTSHADE,” he whispered, grasping her intent in a trice. He could still remember the night of that operation in Paraguay, the smell of gunpowder and burning fuel in his nostrils. Carter had overloaded the Ciudad del Este power grid, giving him the diversion he needed to escape. This would give them a way in.
“The blackout will take Andropov’s security systems off-line, and should give you enough time to breach the perimeter.” She smiled. “And we don’t need to kidnap his son.”
If only things could be that simple, Harry thought, his lips pressing together into a single, bloodless line. She had solved one of their problems, but only one. And getting inside had never been his uppermost concern.
He reached out, his fingers touching her arm lightly. “Once inside, we will need leverage. Andropov was Spetsnaz, and although he may have grown soft over his years in the West, I doubt he’s forgotten his training. He was trained to resist interrogation…as I was.”
She looked up and he could see the pain in her eyes. “He’s just a college kid.”
“Then perhaps it’s time he realized how his old man made his billions.”
There was a long silence before she spoke again, and he let it hang. Most people talked too much. It was enough to plant the seed — one never tried to force the decision.
At length, she closed the laptop, glancing into his eyes. “Promise me that you won’t hurt him.”
He nodded. “I promise.”
Her blue eyes burned with a fierce intensity. “Swear it…”
Nothing was ever certain in a field op. She’d been Agency long enough to know that. It was the nature of the business. But he wasn’t going to get this done without her cooperation.
“He won’t be harmed,” he whispered, holding her gaze. “I swear before God.”
Her face stared back at him from his computer, the face of a bold woman. Defiant. Brazen. Unbowed.
Tarik Abdul Muhammad placed his fingertips together, staring pensively at the screen, at the image of Congresswoman Laura Gilpin. So close, yet so far away. One mistake, and years of planning could be all for nothing. All those years behind barbed wire, staring out at the sea. Knowing that his destiny was out there. Vengeance…
Just one mistake, like the one Walid had made on an icy highway. Fate. Yet how could this be anything but the will of Allah?
He scrolled down the open itinerary there on her website, searching for any possible alternate targets. Another way to accomplish his holy mission.
There were none. They had to strike at the appointed time. No other choice.
He looked up to see al-Fileestini standing in the open doorway, a sober look on the imam’s face.
“My mind has been made up,” al-Fileestini announced. “I will accompany you to Nevada.”
The Pakistani clicked his mouse to minimize the browser, gesturing for the older man to take a seat across from him.
“I thought we had already discussed this,” he began carefully. The imam was too influential to risk offending. “None of us will be returning, Insh’allah. You, father, are too vital to our cause in this country to die the death of a shahid, worthy as that is.”
The imam turned away to cough, a violent, hacking sound. “I am not asking your permission, Tarik. I have supported your operation and this is what I require in return. As to where I am most useful, do not presume to instruct Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala.”
“I would not dream of such blasphemy, father,” Tarik responded, his blue eyes narrowing as he gazed across the desk at al-Fileestini. Something was present here, some motive he couldn’t discern.
“Then it is settled.” The imam smiled, fishing a cellphone out of his suit jacket, laying it on the desk between them. A text message was displayed on the screen, consisting of a series of GPS coordinates and the brief message: EARLY DELIVERY APPROVED. MORNING OF THE 21st.
“Andropov has come through for us, just as I said he would. We leave before nightfall.”
Tarik nodded. “Inshallah.”
It had happened once before. The memory was still fresh in Korsakov’s mind. Three months after he had rescued Viktor from the brothel, the boy had run away. They’d been in Budapest at the time and the teenager had seen a face in the crowd. Or thought he had, his frayed nerves making it impossible to ever know the truth.
It had been three days before Korsakov had found him, huddled under a bridge on the banks of the Danube, living out of a cardboard box and reeking of urine and human waste.
He murmured a curse under his breath, scanning the map of the location where they’d lost Viktor’s cellphone signal. Andropov wasn’t going to give him three days. Not with their contract already at a critical phase.
The assassin ran a hand through his hair. Looking back he still couldn’t remember why he had decided to rescue the boy. One of those moments when a man acted, not from logic or reason — simply because a voice inside him said that he must.
A long-dormant conscience? God? The question brought a faint smile to Korsakov’s face. It begged the question of why God would bother speaking to a man who had never believed in His existence…
He felt movement behind him, a presence entering the room. The assassin turned to find Andropov standing there.
“Any progress?”
Korsakov shook his head. “Viktor — Viktor is not like other young men. Years of trauma have left him…delicate. Prone to snapping.”
The oligarch took off his gloves, a baffled look on his face. “Prone? This has happened before?”