Nasir shook his head, trying to keep his nerves in check, the fear that he’d felt while talking with the FBI woman threatening to overwhelm him. “And yet you expect me to drive the truck?”
“Just keep driving till we reach Joliet. We’ll stop for lunch there.” Omar inclined his head. “You’re an illegal, right?”
The question was so unexpected — it was impossible not to react. “What?”
The negro laughed, flashing a smile full of white teeth. “Easy there, bro. No need to take it like that — I give props to anyone that finds a way to beat the system.” A pause. “Speaking of beatin’ the system — how does an illegal get a CDL?”
Nasir’s knuckles whitened around the big steering wheel, a silent prayer racing through his mind. The Americans had helped him get his commercial driver’s license, in exchange for the information he had supplied to them. In exchange for his treachery. It was to have been only the beginning.
“There are ways,” he responded, struggling to keep his voice under control. “Long story.”
“Ways? Tell me about them, brother,” came the reply, an edge creeping into the black man’s voice. “We have all day.”
He would always remember the first time he had come to Arlington, as a small child. A young Marine, a friend of the family, killed half-way around the world in the bombing of the Marine barracks in Beirut. Taken too young.
The snowy grass crunched beneath Thomas’s feet as he moved up the hill, past row after row of markers. He had come alone, for the sake of safety.
There was nothing unusual about a lone mourner, particularly not at this time of year.
A cold wind whipped through the denuded branches of the maple trees near the top of the hill, tousling his brown hair. It was a lonely place, as all cemeteries.
He knelt by the headstone of Robert L. Krag, running his fingers reverently over the inscription. The lieutenant commander had perished with the crew of the ill-fated U.S.S. Thresher, back in ’63. Before his time.
A tragic footnote to history. Thomas pulled off his gloves, groping in the fresh-fallen snow. A moment later, he found what he was looking for — a small, waterproof tube.
Straightening, he broke the seal, unfolding the small scrap of paper inside, printed letters against the yellow back-ground of a post-it note. An address, in Graves Mills, Virginia. And a note: VOICEPRINT CONFIRMED 87 %. IT’S HER.
A smile of satisfaction crossed his lips, the same feeling he’d always had when a target entered his cross-hairs.
Rhoda Stevens was still in circulation. And he had her dead to rights.
Surveilling a target was nowhere near as exciting as Hollywood made it out to be. It was roughly as exhilarating as babysitting, with the caveat that you couldn’t watch TV.
You could eat. And the average stakeout consumed more snacks than a frat house’s Super Bowl party.
“This is just like Berlin back in ‘87,” Vasiliev groused, reaching for a handful of Doritos. “Two weeks watching a suspected Stasi defector — I gained eight pounds.”
The faintest hint of a smile crossed Harry’s face. “And you still lost the war.”
“You’re certain of that, tovarisch?” the former KGB field officer chuckled, arching an eyebrow. “When I was first assigned to the San Francisco consulate in February of 2009, I fly into LAX and what is the first thing I see upon disembarking? A magazine cover proclaiming, ‘We are all socialists now’.”
The man had a point.
Before he could come up with a suitable rejoinder, Harry’s two-way radio sitting on the card table before him crackled with static. Han. “EAGLE SIX, we have movement. Looks like they’re coming out.”
Vasiliev swore in Russian, brushing crumbs off his shirt as he rose, his eyes focusing on the slowly opening gates of the oligarch’s estate. They had been prepared for this, but so was Andropov.
Three vehicles. A pair of gleaming Mercedes M Class SUVs took point and rearguard positions in the convoy, providing security for a sleek black Maybach Landaulet. All three of them were riding low — the limousine most of all — undoubtedly heavily armored.
“So, this is the way a billionaire travels,” Harry breathed, training his binoculars on the limo in an effort to penetrate the tinted windows. No dice.
The Russian smiled. “Who said the wages of sin were all bad?”
There was no time for deliberation — not with their target on the move. “We’ll need to tail them.”
Vasiliev shook his head. “What are you thinking, tovarisch? Three security teams, you’re looking at 10–12 men. On the move, they’ll be at the highest alert possible.”
“I know how executive protection works, Alexei. I also know he could be leaving the country.” Harry laid down the binoculars and picked up his leather jacket, drawing it on over his tall frame. “Carol, can you get us into the CalTrans camera network?”
“Anything’s possible — I just need time and processing power. I’ve been working all morning on building a bot-net to supply extra juice, but it will be a couple hours.”
“Then stay here with Sammy,” he instructed, his fingers lightly brushing over her shoulder. It didn’t feel right, to leave her. It was the only choice.
There were so many things he wanted to say in that moment, but he found it impossible to voice them.
Kiss them goodbye, a voice from the past whispered, the words echoing within his mind. It took him a moment to place the speaker, and then he remembered.
Samuel Han, standing on the sidewalk outside his suburban Virginia home. Twin boys under his powerful arms, squealing and kicking in the spring breeze. Innocence.
The American dream.
And then they had left, together, for Yemen. And all that followed. Always kiss them good-bye.
“Stay safe,” he whispered, scarce trusting himself to speak. As if his very voice might reveal more than he dared. “We’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Alexei, you’re with me.”
And they were gone.
Patience. It had always been Korsakov’s watchword, the only reason he had remained alive. He waited a full thirty minutes after Andropov’s departure to make his way upstairs, toward the quarters of the young American woman.
Just like before. Whatever had triggered Viktor’s panic, his disappearance, the answer seemed to lay with her. Whether she knew what it was or not was another question.
Korsakov surmounted the carved staircase and made his way down the hall, his movements quick, purposeful.
The house exuded opulence, an interior decorator’s ecstasy — the hallway lit by electric lights in golden sconces. Real gold? He wouldn’t have doubted it for a minute.
His old friend had changed. Whether he had lost his edge completely remained to be seen.
He hadn’t. There were two bodyguards stationed outside the girl’s door and Korsakov passed right by them, careful not to break stride. He turned farther down the hallway, down yet another corridor of the massive house. Two men? To guard a woman?
It seemed excessive, even given Andropov’s legendary jealousy. The assassin allowed himself a momentary flash of humor at the thought that the men might be eunuchs.
In the end, it didn’t really matter. Asking to speak to the girl was only going to get him trouble for his pains. Trouble he didn’t need.