As his tension eased, stray thoughts popped into Petrov’s mind. “I wish we could have done something to slow them down.”
“I managed to cause them some trouble,” Samant replied smugly as he drove.
“But the warheads were locked away.”
“Orlav won’t be able to do any work for a while, though.” Petrov could see him smiling broadly even in the dim light. “I cut the cords on all his power tools and took them with us in the duffel.”
Petrov laughed, imagining Orlav’s face when he saw Samant’s handiwork.
They had to park about a block away, but the nighttime crowds didn’t slow them at all. The café offered food as well as coffee and tea, and they paid for the drinks and snacks with a minimum of fuss; they also purchased some rental time on one of the café’s machines.
While Samant logged on, Petrov reinserted the valuable memory card and connected his camera to a USB port on the computer. They’d talked about what to do with the images for hours, and finally worked out a procedure: First they’d log onto a cloud file storage service account they’d established that afternoon; then they uploaded not only Petrov’s photographs but the ones Samant had taken earlier aboard Chakra and at the weapons depot. While the images were being uploaded, Samant drafted an e-mail to Jerry Mitchell and Joanna Patterson from a recently created e-mail address with the link to the account.
At Patterson’s express request, they did not send the pictures to the media or any official agency. Both Petrov and Samant had resisted at first, arguing for as wide a distribution as possible. She had pointed out, however, that Dhankhar and the others were still free to act, and Kirichenko, the man who had peddled the bombs, was still on the loose. The sound and fury that would follow from the disclosure of the plot to the public, or even to other government agencies, would only complicate their search for all the plotters. Patterson then appealed to their submariner nature, arguing that “running silent” was the best course of action — for now.
She also promised Samant that his government would be officially notified very soon, in a way Dhankhar could not interfere or control, and reassured Petrov that the Russian government would be fully informed. In the end, the two men agreed. After all, if the Americans didn’t come through, they’d still have the cloud storage sites, and the memory card.
After the first e-mail was sent, Petrov relaxed a little. The information was out there. He and Samant had done what they needed to do. He still kept looking at his watch, though, and had turned his chair so he could see the street. Samant was already uploading the photos on to a second, different cloud service.
Petrov didn’t know what to expect. The only thing he could be sure of was that whoever came through the door, it wouldn’t be the man who had tried to kill him twice. Samant had wondered aloud earlier if there might be someone new hunting for him now. In the movies, the second opponent was always much more dangerous than the first. And what if they sent more than one? After all, they didn’t know the size of the conspiracy. Those thoughts had not been helpful.
They were uploading the photos for a third time, to a cloud storage service in Germany, when two Caucasian men walked in. One was in his mid-thirties, and blond. The other was a little younger, with dark crew-cut hair. Both were dressed in jeans and casual shirts, but the younger man wore a jacket, in spite of the heat. They were obviously looking for someone. The younger man paused just inside the door, placing himself where he could see both the interior of the café and the street. The older man, after only a moment’s hesitation, headed toward Petrov and Samant.
Samant, focused on the keyboard, hadn’t seen them, and Petrov tapped him gently on one arm. “Company.” His tone carried a warning.
“I need two more minutes. Keep him occupied,” Samant said bluntly.
Petrov was determined to do just that, but couldn’t do more than stand and position himself between the approaching stranger and the seated Samant. The stranger didn’t appear threatening, and had both hands in sight. He wouldn’t try anything here, in a public place, would he?
The stranger, still looking directly at Petrov, reached around to his back. Petrov braced himself for some sort of attack. Lacking anything else, he slid a nearby chair in front of him. Of course, if the stranger had a gun…
There was a dark object in his hand, and while Petrov was still trying to recognize it, the stranger stopped, a good six feet away from Petrov and his defensive furniture.
“My name is Paul McFadden. I’m from the U.S. Consulate in Hyderabad.” He opened the object and offered it to Petrov. It was his identification, and Petrov had heard enough American-accented English to recognize it when it was spoken. Almost collapsing into the chair with relief, Petrov took the credentials with his left hand and offered his right. Mr. McFadden was assigned to the political-economic section of the consulate.
As they shook hands, McFadden said, “We have a car outside, and a long way to go.” Samant was standing up behind him, and handed Petrov the camera. McFadden turned and headed toward the door, with Petrov and Samant close behind. McFadden hadn’t introduced his companion, who waited until the other three had passed, eyes on the café, before going outside himself.
McFadden headed toward a well-used SUV, a dark green Tavera illegally parked in front of the café. A third man was waiting by the driver’s-side door. He was older, and also had the short haircut of a military man. He waited outside the car, scanning the street, until McFadden reached the door. By the time the others had belted in, they were moving. McFadden took his cell out, and after pressing a key, waited a moment, and then said, “We have them. We’re moving now.”
Sitting in the backseat, Petrov smiled and reached over to shake Samant’s hand. The Indian wasn’t smiling, though, and Petrov knew that his feelings were very different. Petrov had sought safety in a foreign land suddenly turned hostile. But however justified, Samant was collaborating with a foreign country against his own military. His future was uncertain, as was India’s, especially if the conspiracy succeeded. Samant might not be the type to regret his choices, but they came with an uncertain cost.
After a short conversation, McFadden put the cell phone away. “Once we’re out of town, the traffic will be light, and we should make good time. We should arrive at the consulate a little before noon. You should both try to get some sleep.”
“Can you please confirm that Dr. Patterson got our e-mails?”
“Yes, she told my boss that the files were being downloaded right now.”
The last bit of tension left him, and fatigue washed over Petrov. It would be a ten-hour drive to Hyderabad, and he thought he might sleep through all of it.
Cursing her lack of forethought, Patterson had commandeered a secure conference room after looking at the first few photos, bumping a legislative planning session, and probably whatever came after it. She’d had Allison Gray move operations down there, while her secretary Kathy started calling people.
President Myles walked in, unexpected and unannounced; the sudden quiet near the door caught her attention. She started to stand, along with everybody else in the room, but Myles motioned for them to sit down. “Back to work!” he said with a stern tone, but he was smiling.