"Perhaps he was hungry," Alexei said. "In any event, your presence is requested this evening at the Kremlin for a private dinner. Orlov wishes to thank you personally for your work."
Valentina thought about the last time she'd been in close proximity to President Vladimir Orlov. He'd pinned a medal on her tunic and allowed his hand to linger on her breast.
"I'll bet he does," Valentina said. "I don't think dinner is what he has in mind."
"Now, Valentina, our beloved President has been very good to you. It is to him that you owe your new promotion. Not that I tried to dissuade him. The least you can do is give him the pleasure of your company at dinner."
"And after?"
"That is up to you, but I'm sure you will do what is best for the service."
"You want me to play the whore with him."
She drained her glass. Without asking, she poured herself a second drink.
"It wouldn't be the first time," Vysotsky said. "Don't play innocent with me, I know you too well. Consider it another assignment."
"I admit, there is a certain attraction to seducing a man of such power. At least he's reasonably attractive."
"He has a reputation of sexual prowess, as I'm sure you've heard."
"Why are you determined that I should become his mistress?"
"If you succeed in involving him beyond simple sexual satisfaction, he will eventually begin to tell you things. You will have an inside track on what he is thinking."
"And you wish me to keep you informed of his thoughts."
"Naturally."
"You are placing me in a difficult position," Valentina said, "assuming a relationship develops in the first place."
"Because I'm asking you to take advantage of his lust?"
"Because he will insist on absolute loyalty. If he thinks I am betraying him by reporting to you, both of us will end up in a courtyard with a bullet in the back of our heads."
"Then you must make sure he has no need to be suspicious," Vysotsky said.
CHAPTER 16
Gregory Haltman watched the assassination of the Chinese ambassador from the comfort of a leather executive chair placed in front of the keyboard and monitor he used to control his empire. It had been simple to obtain video recordings of the assassination. The White House grounds were well covered with security cameras and all the security cameras were networked together. Wherever there was a network, there was a computer. Wherever there was a computer, there was a way in.
Finding a North Korean assassin had been a stroke of luck. The connection had happened through the shared mutuality of approaching death. Haltman had met Chun in the Beijing Cancer Hospital. The hospital was famous the world over. It was also one of the few foreign medical facilities permitted for patients from the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. Both men were receiving three weeks of experimental treatment for their cancer. The two had gotten to talking, in the way people do when they are sitting next to each other with poisonous liquids feeding into their veins. After the first week, they had almost become friends.
Chun's prognosis was terminal. Things were hard in North Korea, even for an officer in the government security service. He was facing a prolonged and agonizing death. Haltman had offered Chun the option of a quick death with dignity and a way to protect his family after he was gone.
Major Chun was no fool. The prospects for his family were bleak. Money changed hands, quite a bit of money. Chun had been spirited away to the U.S. and re-created as a South Korean tourist. His wife and children were now living near Flagstaff. Chun had said goodbye to them and then kept his appointment with death.
Time to let the world know who Chun really is, Haltman thought.
The Chinese would be angry when they learned a North Korean security agent had killed Ambassador Li, even more so once they'd read the files Haltman had planted on Chun's computer. The FBI had the computer, but that presented no obstacle. Haltman had just sent the files to the email account of an investigative journalist known for his inflammatory articles. It would appear as though they'd come from an anonymous source in the Bureau.
It was child's play for a man like Haltman. In an age of vulnerable computer networks and a corrupt national media more interested in sensational headlines than truth, it was easy to mislead people with false information.
The files pointed the finger at Yun for the assassination. The leak would create a firestorm of conjecture and denial and drive a wedge between China and her ally. That was just the beginning. Haltman had planted a second, hidden layer of encryption on the computer. In due course it would be discovered by the FBI. When it was, the hands on the famous doomsday clock would reset to a few seconds short of midnight.
It was time for another provocation to move things along, and the Russians had just given him an opening by assassinating the Ukrainian security chief. Even if they hadn't done it, it didn't matter. Perception was everything, and public perception was going to blame Moscow.
It was easy to stir up righteous anger in the American Congress, especially at Russia. They were far more comfortable on the hill pointing fingers at foreign enemies real or imagined than they were dealing with the enormous problems they'd created at home.
Washington had moved their nukes from Turkey to Romania and given the Ukraine advanced antitank weapons. They'd activated the so-called "missile shield" for Eastern Europe.
The Russians see that as a direct threat on their border, Haltman thought. If I were Orlov, I would too. His forces are on high alert. Tensions are high. I can find a way to exploit that.
To destroy the human race, Haltman needed as many participants as possible.
Haltman wished he believed in an afterlife, some cloud-filled heaven where he would see his beloved Carissa again. But he'd never been a believer, even though she'd tried her best to make him into one. She'd even convinced him to talk with a priest about converting to Catholicism, in the hope something would awaken in him.
He'd done it to humor her. After several pointless sessions with the priest he'd stopped going. She'd been hurt and disappointed. Then she'd been murdered, and he'd never had a chance to make it up to her. That worthless piece of human excrement had taken away the opportunity.
Soon she would be avenged.
CHAPTER 17
Nick swore under his breath when he saw the morning paper. It was going to be one of those days.
CHINESE AMBASSADOR MURDERED BY NORTH KOREA
The headline was followed by an article accusing the chairman of North Korea of ordering the assassination, based on confidential files leaked to the reporter. A gruesome color shot of the ambassador's severed foot lying next to his shattered vehicle added a distinctive visual touch.
The phone on Harker's desk had four designated lights not found on most office phones, each for a direct line. One was for the Director of Central Intelligence, one for the Director of the NSA, one for the Director of National Intelligence and one for the White House. When the White House line began flashing, Nick knew it was going to be about that headline.
How the hell did the press discover that Chun was a North Korean?
Rice sent a car to pick him up. When he arrived, Nick was escorted to the Oval Office. Clarence Hood was there ahead of him. So was General Marcus Adamski, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
During the Vietnam War, President Rice had been an athletic, young lieutenant in the Marine Corps. He still had the lean look but he was pushing seventy and showing it, worn down by eight years of backbiting politics, world crises and several assassination attempts that had nearly succeeded. His face was lined and tired. His hair was streaked with gray and thinning. But his eyes were as alert and piercing as ever. Few things escaped the attention of President Rice. Nick liked him and thought he was a pretty good president. For a politician, he'd managed to keep most of his integrity intact.