The older man laughed, a throaty rumble rising from deep within his belly. “They were good enough for my daddy, and his father before him. I reckon that means they’re good enough for me.”
Kranemeyer shook his head. “Give me that old time religion…”
“That’s right, Barney. Melody, will you bring us something to drink?” His attention turned from the blonde back to Kranemeyer. “You still take your bourbon neat?”
“Yes.”
“Then just bring us up a bottle.” The senator watched her sashay out of the room, an appreciative smile on his face.
“That girl’s got a great future ahead of her,” he observed, giving Kranemeyer a crooked grin that left little doubt as to who controlled that future or what she might be doing to obtain it.
She was hardly the first.
“Be careful, Roy.” The DCS paused. “A man in your position…can be vulnerable to blackmail.”
Coftey inclined his head to one side. “The only folks in this town who lose sleep over blackmailers are the people pretending to be saints. Everyone knows I’m an old goat.”
“If you say so.”
Before they could say anything further, the blonde returned, bearing a bottle of Maker’s Mark and a pair of shot glasses on a silver tray.
“So, tell me, Barney,” the senator began, splashing the amber liquid into both glasses. He passed one over to Kranemeyer. “What’s on your mind?”
Kranemeyer took a sip of his bourbon — waiting until the woman left the room, closing the door behind her. “Something’s come up and I need your advice, Roy…no, forget that. I know what has to be done. I just need air support.”
Coftey straightened in his chair, a glint entering his eyes. He was still a warrior, Kranemeyer thought, regarding his old friend carefully.
Still the same man that, in the early months of ’67, had led his Special Forces team across the border into Cambodia as part of Operation Daniel Boone. He knew what it was like to be out there, on the edge of the world. Knew what it felt like to have politicians trying to push you off.
“Go on,” the senator urged, gesturing with his glass. “What’s this all about?”
“The assassination of David Lay,” Kranemeyer said quietly, opening up his laptop case. “I believe that I know why he was killed — and who was behind the hit.”
“Then why are you here? You should be talking to the FBI.”
The DCS rose and placed the laptop on the edge of the desk. “That’s not an option. Not yet. Look at this.” He clicked through the first couple of photos.
Coftey’s brow furrowed as he stared at the screen. “That’s the Deputy Director, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Kranemeyer took a deep breath. “The photos and accompanying documents provide conclusive proof that Michael Shapiro has been passing CIA secrets to the Iranians over the last few months, at least as far back as Operation TALON.”
“The hostage rescue, correct?” Coftey asked, staring intently at the screen.
“Yes.”
“Who took these, Barney?”
“David Lay, to the best of my knowledge. Of several meets between Shapiro and members of the Iranian delegation to the UN. The man in the picture here is head of security for UN Ambassador Nasrollah Najafi. The PDF files are scanned pages of CIA documents with notes in Farsi scribbled over them. Apparently print-outs of the documents Shapiro passed to him.”
The senator shook his head. “How would we — or Lay — have access to those?”
“I have no idea. Unless David went behind my back and commissioned members of the Intelligence Support Activity for an off-books mission…”
“But you’re certain that all of this is genuine?”
“Yes. And I believe that it caused Lay’s death.”
For a moment, the senator sat there in silence, clicking through the photos. At length his face hardened. “If what you say is true, then we have a decision to make.”
We. That was promising. “And that is?”
“You know that none of this would be admissible in court. We can’t play this that way. Which is why you came to me.” Coftey paused, ice-cold fire dancing in his eyes. “Which begs the question: how far are you willing to go?”
“Andropov is back,” Han observed, lowering the binoculars from his eyes. “And maybe eight men with him. Only one of the Mercedes came back.”
“Probably out looking for Pyotr.” Harry joined him at the window, staying a careful distance back from the glass. Far enough that the sun glare off the window would mask him from the eyes of anyone looking across the road. “You figured what — four in the house?”
“Five. And the pair of guard dogs.”
Another complication that Han had observed patrolling the grounds the preceding afternoon. A pair of massive Central Asian Shepherds, or Volkodavs, as they were commonly known. Roughly translated from the Russian, the name meant “Wolf Crusher”.
“Thirteen. An unlucky number.” Long odds, thirteen men against their three. He glanced at his watch. “As for the dogs…Vasiliev will be here in thirty minutes.”
“You think you can trust him?”
A hard question. Harry looked away, remembering the look in the Russian’s eyes. Pyotr is part of the contract.
“No,” he acknowledged. “But he’s brought us this far. Might as well go all the way.”
“Just like old times.” A sad smile crept across the SEAL’s face. “You know, I never thought I’d kill again, Harry. Funny thing — you never forget how. No matter how many years or how hard you try.”
“I’m sorry. If there had been another way—”
Han cut him off, an edge to his voice. “You would have taken it, just so long as the mission was accomplished in the end. You haven’t changed.”
It was hard to tell whether that was praise or condemnation. Likely a mixture of both. “If you want out…”
Silence. Finally Han shook his head. “Like you say — come this far, we might as well go all the way. You think the van will give us enough height to get over the wall?”
“Close enough.”
It was the little things that killed you. Always the little things. The dead leaves that concealed a sniper. The figure loitering on a corner near a parked car.
The shards of shattered plexiglass beneath a freshly broken streetlight.
Korsakov dropped down to one knee on the sidewalk, turning one of the rough shards between his fingers. The edge was sharp,
He heard the sound of footsteps behind him and turned to see Yuri approaching. “They smashed the streetlight before they took him,” Korsakov announced. “Would have made sure the street was dark — plenty of shadows to hide in.”
“They?”
“Hard to say. A man like Valentin…many enemies.”
Yuri’s face took on a dour expression. “As if we need any more of them.”
Korsakov ignored his lieutenant’s displeasure, his eyes roving the street for nearby security cameras. “The liquor store there on the corner. Take Viktor with you and persuade the proprietor to let you look through his surveillance tapes from last night.”
“Viktor?”
“Da, and make it quick.” The assassin cast a glance toward the west, the setting sun. “We’re running short on time.”