Back then, Lay had been in his closing days as Station Chief Tel Aviv, and Harry entered his territory running an op for what was then called the Directorate of Operations.
He’d struck Harry as a man of principle back then, a hard man — but fair. Unafraid.
Their relationship had grown distant over the years, as Lay climbed the ladder and won the political appointment of DCIA.
How he had done that, Harry had no idea, but to all appearances, he had kept his integrity. Maybe that was what had gotten him killed.
He heard them well before he saw them, three helicopters swirling in from the south. Anyone laying in ambush would have as well.
Kranemeyer zipped up his jacket and shoved his hands into his pockets, sheltering them from the raw December wind.
Snipers from the Special Activities Division were posted across the roof, their slate-gray ghillie suits melding into the concrete. For most of them, it was the first time they’d ever unslung their weapons on American soil.
The H-76 Sikorsky pulled into a hover and settled down toward the helipad, the twin Apache gunships remaining above, providing cover.
He cast a critical glance in their direction, taking in the pintle-mounted 30mm chain gun under the chin of each helicopter. God help the man who got caught in their crossfire.
The Sikorsky came to rest on the roof, and Kranemeyer strode forward before the rotors had even stopped turning.
A short man in a business suit emerged from the side door of the helicopter, his jacket flapping wildly in the downwash of the rotor blades. A pair of bodyguards with drawn weapons flanked him as he moved to meet the DCS.
Michael Shapiro.
“Any problems on the way in, sir?” Kranemeyer asked as he moved in close, yelling to make himself heard over the noise of helicopter engines. Despite his personal dislike for Shapiro, the man was in command now, and they had a crisis to deal with.
“No, no,” the Deputy Director responded with an effort. His face had taken on a slightly greenish cast. “I hate flying. All those evasive maneuvers…”
Kranemeyer ignored the comment as the men moved toward the utility door. “My team has contingency plans drawn up and on your desk. They will need your approval for implementation.”
“Contingency plans?” Shapiro wheezed, still getting his breath.
“A list of operations that need to be shut down ASAP. Assets in need of extraction. It’ll take a lot of resources to get them all out, but we owe these people.”
Shapiro stopped short and stared at the DCS with a look of bewilderment. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“As calloused as it sounds,” Kranemeyer responded, a hard look in his eyes as he returned the stare, “it would be a lot better for all of us if we knew that Lay was dead.”
“What?”
The DCS held up a hand. “As long as he’s alive out there, potentially in the hands of terrorists, we have to assume that every operation, every asset of which he had detailed knowledge, is compromised. For sale to the highest bidder. It’s a list longer than my arm.”
“My God, you don’t think he would betray us, do you? You don’t know David…”
“All due respect, sir,” Kranemeyer growled, moving in close enough to Shapiro that his bodyguards reacted, “but you’ve never been in the field. Any man can be broken, given enough time and resources. And that’s the assumption we have to act on.”
To say that the CIA dossier on Korsakov was incomplete would have been an understatement of epic proportions. There were massive holes in their knowledge, gaps in the file. No one seemed to know what he had been doing in the interval between his discharge from the Russian army in 2000 and the assassination of Mayor Anton Suvorov in 2002.
One thing seemed certain. During those two years, Korsakov had become a trusted member of the mafiya.
An annoying beep alerted Harry to an incoming e-mail and he scrolled through the windows, expecting to see an update from Tex or Carter. Unfortunately, ignoring messages wasn’t an option on this morning.
It was his private e-mail, he noted with a growing sense of disquiet. Not too many people had that one, and still fewer used it.
The subject line read, “CRITIC”. .and the sender’s address, well, it was a jumble of letters — the provider itself a free e-mail service originating from somewhere in the Czech Republic.
The body of the e-mail was as terse as the header, his eyes narrowing as he scanned over the text. Parking garage, sub-level. Fifth column. Freefall.
It was the last word that caught his attention. Freefall. Not one word, not really. Two. A codephrase from long ago.
And he knew in that moment who the sender was, knew all that the message portended.
They had been betrayed — again…
The name on his identification badge read Alex Hall. The employee of one of the dozens of private contractors brought in by the CIA to perform maintenance, he had spent the last five days re-wiring lights in the parking garage beneath the headquarters building.
He allowed a tight smile to creep onto his face as he neared the final checkpoint. Like so much of security all over the world, they weren’t nearly as concerned with the people leaving as the people trying to get in. Beyond a physical search of his person and vehicle — as of all the outside contractors — he had experienced no trouble.
“Leaving early?” the guard asked as he handed over his identification. No personal interest there, no smile. Just a cold, searching question.
Hall nodded, taking a hand off the steering wheel to cover a weary yawn. “Spent a long night replacing circuitry. Soon the lights in the underground garage will actually come on when you want them to.”
The guard nodded and handed back his badge, motioning for the gate to be raised.
He tapped the gas and the car accelerated gently down the access road, heading out toward the main highway. Home free.
The cell phone in his pocket buzzed and he reached for it with one hand. “Hello.”
“Aleksandr,” a familiar voice began, “is the package in place in the garage?”
“Yes.”
“Spasiba bolshoi,” the voice responded. Thank you very much. “I will see you shortly, tovarisch.”
The call ended as Aleksandr turned out onto the main highway and he rolled down the driver’s side window, carefully throwing the prepaid cellphone out onto the asphalt.
Within seconds, it was crushed by the wheel of a passing car.
Betrayed. And once more, it had claimed the life of a friend. Harry glanced up into the ever-watchful eye of the security camera as the elevator doors opened, revealing darkness beyond. Contractors, all of them carefully vetted by the FBI, had been at work rewiring the lights for weeks. Apparently their work wasn’t done, just yet. At least not on this level.
The underground parking garage was one of the Agency’s better-kept secrets, constructed under the New Headquarters Building in the years following 9/11. They weren’t the only ones with spy sats — not anymore.
Fifth column. A pair of words loaded with double entendre. Moving among the cars, he made his way forward…silently counting off the concrete support columns as he moved.