“Several times,” Korsakov replied, turning back to the laptop. “He suffers from flashbacks — the line between reality and memory blurs.”
He looked up to find Andropov regarding him with a look of disbelief. “Then why haven’t you rid yourself of him before this?”
Why? An impossible question, really. “I’m the only thing he has left in the world,” the assassin responded, looking his old comrade in the face. How the years had changed them.
Andropov sniffed. “When did you go soft on me, Sergei? He’s jeopardized our mission and your contract. Remember that. With him gone, we will need to move rapidly. Go ahead and pull up the tracking device — there is no time to wait on the rest of your team.”
“Da.” Korsakov took a deep breath, reminding himself of the Golden Rule as he typed an authentication code into the laptop. He who has the gold makes the rules.
If he didn’t give Andropov what he wanted, the oligarch would find someone who would. That was the life of the mercenary.
With the authentication code entered, the tracking software booted up, a whirring sound coming from the computer. And then…a second authentication screen.
The assassin’s brow furrowed in bewilderment. A second authentication? He only knew one code.
After a brief pause, he began again, hesitant fingers dancing over the keyboard — entering the same code once more. He tapped enter, and almost instantly his ears were assaulted with an insistent beep, the log-in menu fading away only to be replaced by a blue screen. SYSTEM LOCKDOWN INITIATING…
A curse exploded from his lips as the laptop began to enter shutdown mode. They were flying blind…
“Satellite photos aren’t going to be enough,” Han observed, placing his glass of water on the counter and walking over to stand beside Harry.
The two of them had papered an entire wall of the safehouse with satellite imagery, showing every available detail of the Andropov estate. They were all open-source images, supplemented by Google Street View — Carol’s laptop didn’t begin to give her the firepower needed to hack into the NRO.
Han’s comment always held true. As good as PHOTINT was, it was no substitute for an actual reconnaissance. Nothing like being there.
“The van’s going to attract attention in that neighborhood. Can’t just go rolling around unnoticed,” the former SEAL added, as if reading Harry’s mind. Perhaps he was…they had worked together for years.
Harry’s eyes focused in on one of the Street View images, on the house in the image. Across the street, two down from their target. There was something about it, a certain feel…
“We may not have to,” he whispered, removing the picture from the wall and turning away from his friend. He stalked back across the room to where Carol sat, working on her laptop. A wireless printer was propped up on a cardboard box at her feet, sheets of paper print-outs strewn over the floor seemingly at random. “What do you have?”
“There aren’t many public security cameras in the area,” she responded. “Most of them are on private networks, protected by the best encryption money can buy.”
“No use in giving the paparazzi a leg up,” Harry mused, handing her the picture. “What can you find on this?”
He watched as she entered the address into the computer, page after page of search results filling the screen within seconds.
It was as he’d hoped. The top results were real estate listings.
“The house has been on the market since 2011,” Carol announced. “Ten million dollars. No takers.”
“Big surprise there,” Han observed, turning to face them.
A smile touched the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Always have loved an empty house.”
“According to his reports, Nasir abu Rashid was rooming with another Lebanese immigrant, a student at University of Michigan named Jamal al-Khalidi.”
Marika looked up from the computer in front of her. “Was there any connection between the two men? Any prior history?”
Russell shook his head. “If there was, he never mentioned it in his reports. Beyond both men being native to Lebanon…nothing.”
“Could he have been hiding something?” It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. Informants were always hiding something. “The file mentions his contact with a local imam, Abu Kareem al-Fileestini.” Marika lifted her eyes, glancing across the room to where the police chief stood beside the coffee percolator. “What can you tell me about him?”
There was a long pause before the chief turned to face her, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “Al-Fileestini? Not very much, I’m afraid.”
“Have you met him?”
“Yes.” A guarded edge had crept into his voice, a hesitation Marika hadn’t heard before. There was something he wasn’t saying.
“And? What is your opinion of the imam?”
The chief took a long sip of his coffee. “I don’t have one. Doesn’t pay.”
“Bull,” Marika shot back. She rose to her feet, taking full advantage of her height. “I’m asking you for a straight answer and I’ve no intention of asking again.”
A look of resignation passed across the police chief’s face. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and extracted two photos, handing her the top photo. “I don’t want to have an opinion, because there’s no margin in it. It’s a career-ender. This is your man, Dearborn’s most influential imam. He’s heavily tied in with the Muslim Brotherhood and chairman of the IICSO, the Islamic Inter-Collegiate Students’ Organization. You don’t get crossways of al-Fileestini’s influence and hold office in this town.”
Local politics. That was always an obstacle. Marika sighed, glancing over at Russell. “I couldn’t care less. I work for the feds, not the town of Dearborn.”
He didn’t respond directly, just handed her the second photograph. It was as he did so that she realized his fingers were trembling. “This is al-Fileestini last fall, at the FBI training center in Quantico. Under the Hancock administration, he’s become heavily instrumental in making sure that new agents are trained to be sensitive to issues of Middle Eastern culture and Islamic law. He’s been a guest at the White House four times. If you think you’re going to launch an investigation involving him, think again. He’s politically connected — untouchable.”
She looked up from the picture into his face, her eyes narrowing. “Do you think there’s any chance that he’s involved in this? Off the record.”
The police chief held her gaze for a moment, then reached out, taking both photos back in a quick, brusque motion. “I have nothing to say.”
Marika let a sigh escape her lips. Fear. It was always the worst obstruction any investigation faced. But this was the chief of police! She turned back toward Russell. “Abu Rashid’s original handler is…where?”
“Maternity leave,” Russell replied, his focus still on the police chief.
She ran a hand over her forehead. “Get her on the phone.”
“Now?”
“Of course, Russell. Now. If she’s got a screaming infant, she’ll be up.”
The night was cool, a slight breeze rustling in the trees over their head. Harry shifted his weight from one leg to another, the Colt heavy in his gloved hands. “Any progress?”