He never stopped scanning the surrounding cars for threats, but his lip curled up in what passed for a smile. “Not that I know of.”
Andropov actually laughed, clapping his security chief on the shoulder. “Come, let us go. I have a — how do the Americans say it? A prodigal son to find…”
There was a paper trail associated with renting a storage container, but it was relatively minimal compared with other means of storage. Nothing Lay wouldn’t have been able to fake, particularly if he’d had the help of Rhoda Stevens.
Kranemeyer stared through the heavily tinted windows of his Suburban toward the Alibek E-Z-Store storage facility across the street, taking in the single dome security camera near the gate.
That was the risk. If the NSA were wired into the camera’s feed — and these days it was never safe to assume that they weren’t — his appearance would raise red flags. Cause them to take a look at the facility.
He stared down at the key in his hand. He’d come this far. Might as well play it through to the end.
Reaching for the Washington Senators baseball cap on the passenger seat, Kranemeyer pulled it low over his forehead, wrapping a long black scarf around his neck and lower face.
Time to roll.
Bluffing his way past the rent-a-cop at the front gate hadn’t been hard, Kranemeyer thought twenty minutes later, moving on foot down a long row of self-storage containers. It had been painfully obvious that the man had never seen a security threat greater than a rowdy group of teenagers bent on vandalism.
Which was to his advantage. The container matching the number on the key was nearly all the way to the western end of the facility and Kranemeyer paused, glancing toward the security fence. No passerby in the parking lot outside. No further cameras that he could detect.
The door came open with a heavy, grating noise — metal against metal. He cringed, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he peered inside.
Nothing.The storage container was, to all appearances, empty.
Dropping to his good knee, Kranemeyer ran his fingers along the concrete edge of the container, feeling for a tripwire, a pressure mat, anything. He was being paranoid.
At length, he straightened, stepping cautiously into the interior of the steel box.
He hadn’t been sent out here to find an empty box, that much he knew. The fear in Rhoda Stevens’ eyes had told him that.
There was something here…unless someone had traced this container back to David Lay and already removed it. If they had managed to make the connection, getting in wouldn’t have been hard, as he had proved.
Nothing to do but cover every inch.
“Ah, Ms. Morgan, it’s good to finally meet you.” Brooke Morgan looked up to see the Bellagio’s events manager striding across the ballroom toward her.
The young woman smiled, reaching out her hand. “Likewise — we’ve talked on the phone so many times. I love what you’ve done with the room.”
The “room” might have been an overly casual way to refer to the Bellagio’s 38,000-square-foot Tower Ballroom, but the events manager didn’t seem to take offense.
“I certainly hope it meets your expectations.”
“It surpasses them,” she replied, flashing him another dazzling smile as her gaze took in the room — the red, white, and blue bunting-bedecked stage, a color scheme that spilled over onto the hundreds of round banquet tables. “You’ve made all the arrangements for the evening’s entertainment?”
“Of course. The evening for your guests will begin here, with the banquet and speakers, then transition into the Cirque du Soleil for a special evening performance of ‘O’. A delightful way to spend Christmas Eve, I should say.”
“And Congresswoman Gilpin wished me to convey her most sincere thanks for the way your hotel has gone out of their way to accommodate our requests. The Cirque du Soleil is indescribably magnificent.”
“It is truly our pleasure. As you know, our owner was one of the congresswoman’s most enthusiastic backers. He couldn’t be more happy to play host to this celebration of her victory.”
Brooke nodded, an almost wistful smile crossing her face. “It’s been a hard-fought campaign. I finally got home last week to see my kids. First weekend I had spent at home since September.”
“Then, may I say, that this celebration is most well-deserved. There’s no place to party like Las Vegas, and no one knows how to party like we do here at the Bellagio…”
It had taken Kranemeyer three searches of the storage container before he’d finally found what he had been looking for. A small USB thumb drive tucked beneath a lip of metal near the back of the container and secured with duct tape.
He swung his leg up into the Suburban and closed the door, holding the drive up to the light. If it was password-protected, he was going to be in difficulties. With Carter still in CIA protective custody and sequestered down at Camp Peary, he could hardly turn to him for aid…
Opening his laptop, he plugged the drive into the USB port on the side, waiting as the computer booted up.
His eyes drifted out the window, locking in on a passing vehicle. It was nothing…probably, but he hadn’t seen a great deal of traffic. He reached inside his overcoat, pulling the H&K USP semiautomatic pistol from its shoulder holster and laying it on the center console, within easy reach.
A Welcome screen appeared, and Kranemeyer entered his password, swearing as his fingers played clumsily with the trackpad. Computers were a necessary evil of life in the 21st century. Didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
The USB drive opened automatically, revealing several scanned documents and a folder full of.jpegs. He turned to the pictures first and clicked to open one. It had clearly been taken from a distance, probably with a high-powered telephoto lens.
Agency surveillance?
Two men, standing beside a park bench, a briefcase in the taller man’s hand. But it was his companion that caught Kranemeyer’s attention — the silhouette. So familiar.
He clicked to advance to the next picture, and his breath caught in his throat. The man had turned ever so slightly, his face standing out in full relief.
Yes. It was him. And they were in more trouble than he could have imagined.
Kranemeyer dug his cellphone out, dialing a number from memory. Two, three rings.
“Roy, we need to meet.” No pleasantries. No time for such things — he was too shaken.
He remained silent as the man on the other end of the phone responded, barely listening. Rhoda Stevens’ words still ringing in his ears.
“This is only the beginning.”
Cahill’s arrival in the Oval Office was as unceremonious as it was unannounced. He was ushered in through the protective ring of Secret Service by Curt Hawkins himself and shown in to see the President with only the briefest of delays.