Carrie was flipping through the folder contents, circling words and scribbling small notes on the margins.
Adams leaned back in his chair.
“Is this all the intel?” Justin asked.
Adams nodded. “It’s all we have so far. We’ll give you anything else that might come in.”
Hu crossed his arms.
“Well, thank you, gentlemen,” Justin said and stood up.
Carrie placed all documents back into their folders. “We’ll keep in touch,” she said.
“I’m counting on it,” Adams said as they shook hands and headed for the door.
Chapter Seven
Justin paced in front of the Ambassador Theater on Broadway, searching in the flowing crowd of theater enthusiasts for Anna. He coughed, as the smoke from a rattling van formed a thin, hazy cloud around him. The temperature was in the mid-sixties, and it was a pleasant evening, except for the smog. He glanced at his wristwatch, then took out his cellphone from his inside coat pocket. Anna had not called and she was late for their show. Chicago was starting in twenty-five minutes, and Anna liked to arrive in plenty of time to find their seats and enjoy a drink before the show. She had dashed out of their supper for an urgent call with her office, telling Justin she was going to meet him at the theater. The call was supposed to have taken only a few minutes, but it seemed it might cost them the highlight of their evening.
Justin’s mind wandered back to the documents obtained from NCS. He had started pouring over them as soon as they left the CIA complex. Carrie drove, while Justin analyzed the reports. Before parting ways at Dulles International Airport, Justin made copies of all materials. Carrie took the originals CIS headquarters in Ottawa, to verify their authenticity, confirm the information, and brief McClain on this new development. Justin flew to New York and spent the hour-long flight and most of the night examining the NCS data.
When he finally allowed himself a short sleep, he was convinced al-Shabaab had obtained sensitive intelligence about CIS’s recent operations. Transcripts of calls intercepted by NCS among al-Shabaab militants confirmed they had prior knowledge of at least two CIS missions: the joint operation with the Navy SEALs in Somalia and Justin’s mission in Iran. He was unsure how and when that intelligence had been stolen or leaked, but had logically eliminated a few scenarios that were simply impossible. Together with McClain and Nathan, they were going to track their steps, in order to identify the weakest link in the chain of their secret communications.
Justin had tried to push away these thoughts and plans as he and Anna enjoyed the best of New York during their short vacation. They took a sightseeing helicopter flight that gave them some gorgeous views of Manhattan’s skyscrapers and the Statue of Liberty. The flight lasted only fifteen minutes, but Anna took hundreds of pictures, preserving their fond memories. They enjoyed a walk in Central Park, brunched in a cozy French bistro nearby, then boarded a tour bus for most of the afternoon. After the first hour, the images of city’s landmarks started to become a blur in Justin’s mind. More squares, more shopping centers, more churches. He was able to feign a reasonable amount of attention for Anna’s sake, but his mind inevitably returned to the daunting task waiting for him back at CIS headquarters.
Justin glanced again at his wristwatch. It was now seven forty. He thought about calling Anna. He had tried a few minutes earlier, only to be rebuffed by a busy signal. She’ll call me once she’s free, Justin thought. He felt a bit guilty for not being too upset about missing the show. Anna found true joy in watching musicals. Justin went along to please his fiancée. I hope she has already taken a cab or it might be too late.
He looked at a few taxis driving toward him. One stopped in front of the Ambassador Theater and an elegantly dressed middle-aged couple got out with some difficulty. Then a black stretch Mercedes-Benz slid out of the Crowne Plaza Hotel’s parking garage, across from the theater. The driver forced his way into the busy traffic and cut in front of a city bus, causing a volley of honking from other cars. Then he switched lanes and rolled to a stop in front of the theater.
Justin glanced at the dark-tinted glass of the windows, seeing nothing but the skyscrapers’ reflections in the glass. He noticed the wide tires of the low-riding limousine. It was probably an armored vehicle, the favorite of many New York celebrities and corporate executives. The front passenger stepped out. He was a big, muscled man, perhaps six feet five inches tall. He buttoned his black suit, straightened its collar, and walked toward Justin. Instinctively, Justin took a couple of steps back, putting some distance and a few obstacles — three bystanders and one of the metal traffic barriers along the sidewalk — between him and the passenger, in case the man was looking for a fight.
The man kept his brisk pace, a grin forming in his face framed by a buzz cut and a square jaw. When he was about six feet away from Justin, he stopped. His left hand pointed at the Mercedes-Benz, while his right hand casually brushed against the front of his suit. Justin noticed a small bulge where the man was likely wearing a shoulder holster, with the unmistakable shape of a pistol. As Justin’s mind was calculating his next moves, the man spoke in English with a thick Russian accent, “Mr. Romanov would like to talk to you.”
Justin flinched, then looked at the limousine. Yes, Romanov could both afford and thrive in such luxury. But I can’t be sure it’s him. How does he know I’m in New York? What does he want?
“I can’t talk to him right now.” Justin nodded toward the theater. “My show is starting right away.”
“Mr. Romanov said this will only take five minutes. And you will not miss your show.” His words were not a suggestion; they were an order.
A cab driver parked behind the limousine slammed on his horn to express his anger about the vehicle taking up the parking space designated for taxis. The Mercedes-Benz driver jumped out of his seat. He was a perfect copycat of the man talking with Justin, only the look ironed on his face was harsh. He marched to the taxi, his hands tightening into fists. A stream of expletives both in Russian and in English and a couple of swift punches that probably left dents on the hood of the taxi gave the cab driver the incentive to step on the gas pedal and disappear into the fast moving traffic. Justin remembered seeing the driver in Moscow four years ago — the last time he had seen Romanov face to face — but could not recall his name. He was one of Romanov’s trusted bodyguards and was always by his side.
“Mr. Romanov hates waiting,” the man said, impatience clear in his voice. “We should go now.”
Justin nodded. I can still take Anna’s call in the Merc. Let’s get this over with.
He followed the man to the limousine and waited for him to open the back door. He stepped inside and was greeted by a thin cloud of cigarette smoke and Romanov’s loud voice, “Welcome, Mr. Hall. I’m glad you could spare a few moments.”
“Romanov.” Justin sat across from him in the comfortable black leather seat and shook Romanov’s extended hand. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I was in town for a meeting and had some free time.”
Romanov was dressed in a pearl gray suit tailored to fit perfectly on his large body and somewhat hide his round belly. He had a crisp white shirt and a black bow tie. His shiny silver hair was neatly combed back and trimmed at neck length. The skin of his broad face with high cheekbones looked smooth and rosy. A bushy moustache a shade darker than his hair curled under his aquiline nose. A half-smoked cigarette dangled between the thick fingers of his left hand. His gold ring and Rolex glinted in the soft light inside the limousine.