His phone vibrated in the pocket of his shirt, an incoming text. Undoubtedly the weather-bound Yuri, Korsakov thought, flipping it open. Andropov’s injunction that he not move until the rest of his team arrived from Chicago was chafing at him.
It wasn’t Yuri. The sender was blocked and the message contained only an address, followed by the admonition: Meet me now. Alone. Unarmed. Mapt 17.
Viktor. Mapt 17, the seventeenth of March, the day he had rescued him from the brothel. There was no use in sending a reply — the boy would already be powering down the phone, removing the SIM card. The way Korsakov had taught him.
Taught him well.
Unarmed. He contemplated going back to his room, retrieving his pistol at the very least. The idea of going out without it…
If Harry had harbored any doubts about Vasiliev’s “other” roles at the consulate, they’d been answered when he first saw the Russian’s car. It was a dingy gray Ford Taurus, a bit of rust near the tailpipe — the paint faded and chipped. It also had a V-8 engine.
It might as well have been built for the job they were asking it to do.
“Any ideas, tovarisch?”
Harry looked up from his maps and shook his head. They’d spent an hour and a half tailing Andropov’s convoy around the Valley as his drivers went through surveillance detection route after surveillance detection route, or SDRs, as they were called.
It was dangerous to stay behind a target this long — ideally they would have had multiple cars, at least four teams, more likely five. Dangerous if your quarry knew what he was doing or had hired people who did. Taking the oligarch’s money into account, Harry had no doubt he’d have hired the best.
But that wasn’t the uppermost thing on his mind. Harry cleared his throat. “Won’t they be missing you back at the office, Alexei?”
“I cleared my schedule,” the Russian replied, his eyes on the road ahead. He tapped the gas, accelerating powerfully into the passing lane. “Anything for a friend — and as I’ve said, I am a law unto myself.”
“Yeah…you’ve mentioned that a time or two.” A pause. “But that’s one load of bullcrap I’m not buying.”
“What?” Vasiliev demanded, feigning surprise. He glanced over, then down at the Colt held in Harry’s lap. Pointed straight at him. And this time the surprise was real. “What are you playing at, my old friend?”
“Just keep driving,” Harry ordered. “You’ve got an angle in all this — care to fill me in?”
The older man smiled. “An angle? I took your call when you had no one else to turn to. If that gives me an agenda…distrust is one thing, Harry. Paranoia is another.”
It was there, in his eyes. Nothing more than a flicker in their dark depths. He was lying.
“That wasn’t a request, Alexei.” Harry thumbed off the Colt’s safety, the pad of his finger caressing the trigger.
“If I thought you’d really pull that trigger, I would have crashed this car by now,” the Russian observed coolly. Distract. Divert.
No profit in backing down. Not now. “If you think I won’t, you’re getting too old for this business. A straight answer, Alexei. That’s all I’m asking.”
Vasiliev looked over again, seeming to consider his options. At length, he nodded.
“You’re right, tovarisch. I am getting too old for this.” He let out a heavy sigh. “And I have my reasons for helping you.”
“Using me, you mean,” Harry interjected, his face hardening with anger.
The Russian shrugged, easing back on the gas to maintain a safe following distance from their quarry. “Using is such a harsh word. It would imply that you got nothing from the arrangement.”
“I don’t have time for semantics.”
“As you wish. Valentin Andropov is the man you are looking for — if anyone in the mafiya could bring the Spetsnaz into your country, it would be him.”
Harry glanced forward, toward the convoy several cars ahead of them. “Your point?”
“Putin wants him dead. That’s the reason for the heavy security, the reason he moved to the US in the first place.”
The irony of it all. That a man who had made his billions selling weapons to terrorists would find refuge in the land of the free. He watched Vasiliev’s eyes, careful for any signs of further deception. “What did he do?”
“No idea. In Russia, when you hear that Vladimir wants a man dead — you do not ask why, only how.”
Harry shook his head. “The more things change…I suppose you want my help killing him?”
A smile. “I had assumed that was part of your plan. You would get what you want — and I would get a promotion from Moscow. Maybe even retirement.”
It was clever — and typical of the Russian. It was why Han had advised against contacting him. Always had an angle, a pawn to sacrifice in order to advance his own agenda.
“All I want is information,” Harry said finally. “Who paid him to assassinate David Lay. Once I have that information, he’s yours.”
The smile never left Vasiliev’s face. “See? There was no reason for us to disagree.”
“No reason for you to deceive me, either,” Harry retorted, lowering the Colt. There was a click as he put the safety back on, letting the gun rest in his lap.
“True.” Vasiliev inclined his head. “I always find myself forgetting how different you are from your countrymen. Their emotionalism is difficult to work with — but you, you are different. Almost Russian.”
Coming from Alexei, that was the ultimate compliment. Almost as if he was leading up to something.
Ahead, their target was slowing, the convoy heading for the freeway exit and Vasiliev slid into the right-hand lane, moving into position two cars behind them.
“There is one other thing.” The Russian paused, as if choosing his words very carefully. “Pyotr is part of the contract.”
“I’m fairly certain that Haskel didn’t intend for you to interpret his orders this way.”
And she hadn’t wanted to do it this way. Marika unbuckled her seatbelt, looking across the street from where they had parked toward the mosque. Her hand on the door, she looked back across at him. “If you’d rather sit in the car, Russell, have at it. In the mean time, I’ll see if Abu Kareem can spare a few moments for a woman.”
She hadn’t taken five steps across the street before she heard the car door open and close behind her. A tight smile.
Russell had never been known to balk at bending a few rules in order to achieve his ends. The difference between the two of them was that he had always been able to “negotiate” his way out of the resulting trouble.
She hadn’t.
Her orders had been clear, but even the clearest orders left room for creative interpretation. The FISA request was denied. She was not to continue “harassing” Abu Kareem al-Fileestini. They hadn’t said anything about not interviewing him…
There was something wrong about this, she realized halfway across the street, her boots crunching against the thin layer of ice. There was a vacant feeling to the building, just looking at it. Couldn’t quite place it. She glanced up at the overcast, snow-laden sky, then back at the mosque.
No interior lights.
There was a shoulder-high iron fence around the exterior of the building — iron bars covering the windows. That wasn’t uncommon, this was Dearborn, after all, and even religious institutions had to protect themselves against vandals — copper thieves in particular.