Drug laws were broken on a daily basis in these neighborhoods — the four-one-five that had been reported was probably nothing more than a wife screaming at her movie star husband about a just-discovered affair. Or, better yet, that the blackout made it impossible to do her hair!
The young police officer pulled his car off to the side of the road at the front of the Andropov estate, blocking the driveway.
He cast an envious glance up at the mansion, through the massive steel gates. Now that was what one called living. The way a man could live if he were lucky in life.
He’d never been lucky, he thought, shaking his head as he climbed out of the car. And paying child support every month took most of his paycheck.
Might as well deal with this “crisis.” Another day, another dollar.
“Are you sure you want to do this, tovarisch?” Vasiliev asked, glancing cautiously out the window. Down the driveway toward the front gate, through the fronds of the palm trees lining the asphalt, they could see the flashing lights of the patrol car. “You know your face has been on the television.”
Harry shook his head, unslinging his H&K and carefully laying it down on the step. “You’re not going to do it,” he said, gesturing toward the Russian’s bandaged arm. “That leaves me.”
He pulled the balaclava off his head and stuffed it in his pocket, running a hand through his tousled black hair. “Don’t kill anyone till I get back, okay, Alexei?”
There were lights on within the mansion, Deputy Lambert thought, speaking once more into the call box mounted on the gatepost. “This is Deputy Lambert of the Los Angeles County Sheriffs’ Department. We received a report of a domestic disturbance.”
Nothing.
He felt a chill wash over his body. His lieutenant had warned him to tread carefully around the politically-connected Andropov. No way he was going into the estate under his own authority.
A tall figure in black materialized out of the night on the other side of gate, the red flashers of the Crown Victoria reflected from ice-cold blue eyes above the scruffy black beard that covered the lower half of his face. “Can I help you?” he asked, his expression unconcerned, almost that of boredom, as he stared at the cop. There was something familiar about him, something he couldn’t place — but he found it unsettling.
“Who are you?”
The man’s identification appeared in his hand almost before Lambert had even realized the hand was moving. “Maxim Fedorenko,” he replied, allowing him a brief glimpse of the name on the driver’s license. “I’m Mr. Andropov’s head of security. Do we have a problem?”
“We had a report of a domestic disturbance,” Lambert replied nervously.
“Well, it wasn’t here. I’ve had men on the grounds all night with the blackout in the neighborhood. If something like that had happened, we would have heard it.”
“Do you mind if I come in and speak to your boss?”
He made no effort to open the gate, instead favoring Lambert with something that was more sneer than smile. “I do mind. Mr. Andropov has retired to bed, leaving strict orders that he was not to be disturbed.”
Lambert took a deep breath. “I’d prefer to have your cooperation, Mr. Fedorenko, but if I need to come back with a warrant, I will.”
The man seemed to find the suggestion amusing. “Be my guest. Deputy Lambert, you said?”
“Yes,” the deputy replied, feeling a chill run through him.
“I’ll make a note of that to your superiors. Have a good night, deputy.”
“Everything okay?” Andropov asked pleasantly as Harry reentered the room. Even in the momentary respite, the man had recovered his confidence.
Harry stripped off his gloves, throwing them on the desk. “You and Sergei Korsakov…you served together in Chechnya, didn’t you?”
The oligarch seemed to consider the question from all angles, puzzled at the sudden change in tactics. “Da, we did. He was one of the best there was, but I have not seen him in many years.”
Harry nodded, his eyes narrowing as he gazed into Andropov’s pale countenance. “Tell me,” he began, “what does Korsakov think of your alliance with al-Qaeda?”
The shadow of fear passed across the Russian’s face, leaving him rattled. “What nonsense are you talking about now?”
Harry paced across the room to the window. “You fought together against the mujahideen in the midst of the Chechen winter. As jihad spread across the Caucasus, you watched your men bleed and die. I wonder if Sergei knows the prostitute you’ve become? Selling your services to the highest bidder.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out the cellphone he had taken from Andropov’s desk. It was nothing more than a simple flipphone, prepaid. Two incoming calls on the SIM, both of them missed. “Shall we tell him?”
“Go ahead,” Andropov scoffed contemptuously, pulling himself together with an effort. “You know nothing to tell.”
“Nothing? Is that what you would call your meeting with Tarik Abdul Muhammad?” Harry asked, turning to watch the effect of his words.
Devastation. Surprise washed across the Russian’s features, surprise coupled with fear.
“Be sure your sins will find you out, Valentin,” Harry laughed, moving in closer — the phone still in his hand. He lowered his voice, his lips only inches from Andropov’s ear. “Now you have a choice…you can give me the information I want, and everything of your life can go back to the way it was. Or I can call Korsakov, and give him the whole story. You can use your own imagination as to how that ends.”
Andropov was sweating, his body trembling with rage and fear. “I will destroy you, I swear to God, you will die for this.”
Harry glanced over to where Vasiliev stood, a masked figure by the door. “I’ve heard that song before. Tick-tock…”
The oligarch swore, a desperate oath escaping his lips. “You really have no idea who you’re up against, do you?” He took a deep breath. “I can give you the name of the man who placed the hit on David Lay. Just give me your word that this will be the end of it.”
“Go on.”
“Roger Hancock financed the operation to take out Lay. That’s right,” Andropov nodded, taking in the look in Harry’s eyes, the moment of confusion. “The American president contracted the hit.”
Nothing of the hell of the previous eight days had prepared him for that. It felt as if he had been struck. His eyes searched Andropov’s face, searching for any guile, any deceit.
Nothing.
Take her, Harry, take her and run — far and fast. Go dark. Trust no one. Lay’s words, coming back to him with new immediacy.
“Why?” he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.
Andropov shrugged against his restraints. “I don’t ask such questions of a client — it was enough that he was well prepared to pay to finance such a risky operation and to provide sufficient cover to enable Korsakov to elude American law enforcement. It was clearly implied that Lay knew more than was good for him.”
It was insane, pure madness. And yet…
“He was the only target?” He saw a hesitation in Andropov’s eyes and cautioned, “Think carefully, Valentin. You don’t want to lie to me.”
“By daylight, we’re going to have agents all over those mountains. We will find them, sir.”
Director Haskel rubbed his brow with his thumb and forefinger. “And what if you don’t — what then?”
There was a long pause before the voice on the other end of the phone replied. Then, “We’re working with HHS on casualty projections, sir. There are over thirteen major population centers within the potential target radius, with Denver and Colorado Springs being two of the closest. If they have a chemical or biological weapon, the result of an attack would be devastating.”