The intercom activated again; Khalila Dufour had arrived. A moment later, a woman of Middle Eastern descent entered. Although Kendall was attractive, Christine had to admit that Khalila was stunning. She was six feet tall, only two inches shorter than Harrison, with straight black hair falling across her shoulders, wearing a short skirt emphasizing her long, lean legs.
Pat shot Khalila a wicked look, then fixed her gaze on the DDO as her hands clenched into fists. Khalila, on the other hand, ignored Pat as she approached, stopping beside her without even a glance in her direction, her eyes surveying Harrison instead. She made no effort to introduce herself, standing with her arms folded across her chest, projecting a why-am-I-here attitude.
“Okay, Harrison,” Rolow said, “this is how it goes. Pat will accompany you stateside and herd you through indoc. Whenever our leads take you to the Middle East or any of the stan countries, you’ll go with Khalila. Her contacts in the region and linguistic skills are the best the agency has to offer. Any questions?”
Harrison shook his head. “No, sir.”
Rolow motioned for Pat and Khalila to exit Christine’s office, then stood and shook Harrison’s hand. “Good luck.”
Harrison joined the two women as they left the office. After the door closed, Christine turned to Rolow. “There’s obviously bad blood between those two. What’s the deal?”
Harrison walked down the seventh-floor hallway bracketed by the two women, with neither one speaking until they reached the elevator. While they waited for the doors to open, Pat turned to Harrison.
“Be careful while working with Khalila. Her partners have a habit of ending up dead.”
“Only the incompetent ones,” Khalila replied. “It’s not my fault your boy toy of the month got himself killed.”
The elevator doors opened and after they stepped inside, Pat replied, “John wasn’t my boy toy. We were in a committed relationship.”
“He had a strange way of showing it,” Khalila said. “He couldn’t keep his hands off me; said I was way better in bed than you.”
“I doubt that,” Pat replied, “you clitless camel-jacker.”
Khalila swiveled toward Pat, her body tensed for action.
Harrison stepped between the two women. “I understand I’ll be working with you separately. Which sounds like an excellent plan.”
“You don’t need to worry about me,” Khalila said. “It’s Kendall you need to watch out for. I can smell when someone’s corrupt, and she’s as dirty as they come.”
“That’s yourself you’re smelling,” Pat replied.
The elevator doors opened to the fifth floor.
Khalila asked Pat, “How long are you going to have to babysit him?”
“The rest of today and tomorrow,” Pat replied coldly.
Khalila turned to Harrison. “We leave for Pakistan tomorrow night.” Then she headed down the corridor.
When the elevator doors closed, Pat smacked the symbol for the second floor. “That bitch! She knows how to press my buttons.” She fumed for a while as the elevator descended, then turned to Harrison.
“I was serious about watching your back around Khalila. The word is she’s very good, but she usually leaves a trail of carnage. Her partners end up dead more often than not. I don’t know what the deal is with her, but I’ve gleaned enough to know that the DDO doesn’t completely trust her. He lets her off her leash only on important missions where the risk is worth the gain, and apparently, tracking down Mixell falls into that category.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harrison said, pondering the unusual situation he was in. As a Navy SEAL, he had trusted his team members without question.
As the elevator doors opened, Harrison asked, “What’s the plan for today?”
“I’ll take you to outfitting, where you’ll get issued weapons and tactical gear, and get you a locker to store everything. Then we’ll head to the analysis center, where we’ll review what they’ve come up with regarding Mixell. I understand you were good friends with him. Go through his file. Tell us what we’ve missed.”
Harrison nodded.
As they walked down the hallway, a woman carrying a stack of files approached, flashing Harrison a smile as she passed by. The look wasn’t missed by Pat. “I bet you get that a lot.”
Harrison wasn’t sure how to respond; he hadn’t yet figured Pat out. She was friendly, at least toward him, yet he sensed a hard-nosed and flip-switch personality; someone you didn’t want to get across the breakers with.
He decided to offer a quid pro quo. “I bet you get a lot of looks yourself.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Nowadays, most guys would have tap-danced around my comment, afraid of being hauled into HR for offering a simple compliment. I just might end up liking you, Jake. If you stay alive long enough, that is.”
10
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
Not far from Patriarch’s Pond, its surface already frozen for the winter, Lonnie Mixell navigated the busy sidewalk along Spiridonyevsky Lane. Had he not been told what to look for, he might have passed by the entrance — the door to an old house crammed between two modern buildings, marked by a small sign that said Mari Vanna. He knocked on the door, which was opened by a man wearing slippers and a jogging suit who took Mixell’s coat as he entered.
Mixell scanned the small residence, which had been transformed into a restaurant offering home-cooked Russian cuisine with a complementing ambience: shows playing on an ancient TV, shelves full of photographs, old cameras, and other knickknacks from bygone days, a bicycle leaning against a wall, and a parrot in a cage hanging above potted plants on a windowsill. Adding to the homey atmosphere were a woman in a pink nightgown with curlers in her hair clearing dishes from a table, and a sleepy cat curled in a basket, opening its eyes temporarily to assess the new customer.
The man Mixell was scheduled to meet was already seated at a small table in the back. Mixell slipped into the empty chair across from the Russian captain, who made no attempt to greet him, although there was a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. Mixell spoke first.
“I’d like to thank you for your assistance.” Since Aleksandr Plecas didn’t speak English, Mixell spoke in Russian.
Plecas replied, “Your Russian is quite good. Where did you learn it?”
“My mother is Russian, an immigrant to America. My father knew enough to get by, and we spoke Russian at home.”
Mixell’s thoughts drifted momentarily to his childhood and the friendships he had developed due to his Russian heritage. Almost ten percent of his hometown population were Russian immigrants, and his mother had become good friends with two other Russian women, getting together often for tea and social activities. As a result, Mixell had become good friends with two other second-generation Russians: Jake Harrison and Christine O’Connor.
Christine, who went by Chris until she left for college, was a tomboy growing up, hanging out with the guys all the way through high school. She was fast and strong, more than capable of holding her own during the rowdy outdoor games, at least until the boys hit puberty, when they gained a significant size and strength advantage. By then, however, their focus was less on roughhouse games and more on girls, and as Chris developed into a young woman, the guys began to look at her in a different light. Mixell had to admit he’d been quite jealous when Chris chose Jake over himself.
Jake Harrison. His former best friend, the man who betrayed him. While sitting in prison, Mixell had made a mental revenge list, and Harrison was near the top. But first, he would pay America back for what it had done to him. He had fought valiantly against his country’s enemies, risking his life countless times, but now that America had turned its back on him, his new path in life was clear — he’d help America’s enemies instead. Once that score was adequately settled, he would focus on more personal issues, and exact his revenge on Jake.