‘It’s… What part of it is the problem, sir?’ the lawyer asked.
‘This is bullshit’ Gordon said. ‘We have to try to apprehend Kartsev first?’
His lawyer shrugged. ‘If the opportunity presents itself…’
‘There’ll be no opportunity,’ the CIA Director responded tersely. ‘The bastard never leaves his office! Even his aides don’t see him. He sends ’em e-mails like that bullshit reply to the President’s letter!’ He turned to Gordon. ‘Hell, sir. I don’t even know right now how we’re gonna do it.’ He raised his own copy of the Executive Order. ‘Much less “by appropriate means and in a manner designed to cause minimal collateral damage.” Now what the hell does that mean?’
White House counsel finally bristled. ‘It means you can’t pour hot lead down his throat!’
The rotund CIA Director squinted at the young lawyer. ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’
‘I’m just explaining that first clause. The “appropriate means” limitation.’
The Director opened his mouth… then quite obviously reined in his anger. ‘Are bullets “appropriate means”?’ The lawyer pursed his lips and nodded — the answer obvious. ‘Explosive devices?’ Again Gordon’s counsel nodded — a little more slowly this time. ‘Incendiary devices?’ This time the question drew hesitation and the beginnings of a shrug. ‘Poison? Garrote? Gas? Ice pick in the ear? Electric charge in a door handle? Prolonged exposure to microwaves? Accumulated doses of iridium? Biological contamination of the Kremlin water supply?’
The man could clearly go on. But his voice had risen to almost a shout. He cut himself short and waited for the reply.
‘This is why we went with the generic language “appropriate means.” It’s impossible for me to sit here right now and say which of the ways that the Subject could be executed would, or would not, be acceptable.’
‘You wrote the Goddamn language!’ the CIA Director burst out. ‘If you can’t tell me what the hell it means, how the fuck can I figure it out!’
‘All right, cut this shit out!’ Daryl shouted just as Gordon was about to do the same.
‘He’s trying to hang CIA out to dry,’ the Director continued. ‘Well, what do you propose we do? Gordon’s lawyer shot back. ‘Have the President sign this order and have you decide to carry it out by nuking Moscow?’
‘Who the fuck is this guy?’
‘That’s enough!’ Gordon snapped. He again raised his pen. ‘Here’s what we’re gonna do.’ He struck words — drawing a line straight through the middle of them. When he was done, he read what was left. ‘What if we say, “By order of me, et cetera, et cetera, be it hereby resolved and directed that Valentin Konstantinovich Kartsev be executed” — period.’
Gordon looked at White House counsel. He reluctantly assented. The Director of the CIA said, ‘Short, sweet, to-the-point. I love it.’
‘Now I want to tell you,’ Gordon said — waving his finger in the air at the smiling CIA man — ‘that I personally want to approve every aspect of that operation. When it happens, I don’t want to be surprised. Do you read me?’
The Director nodded.
Gordon signed the Executive Order. ‘I’ll go ahead and sign this marked-up version. You make the changes and I’ll sign a new one for the files.’ He handed it to the nodding lawyer. ‘And good job. I appreciate somebody trying to cover my ass.’
There was polite laughter from around the bed, and a broad grin of relief from the young attorney.
‘Now,’ Gordon said to the CIA Director, ‘what’s the plan?’
With apologies the man politely cleared the room. When he, Daryl and Gordon were finally alone, all he said was, ‘We have assets.’
Gordon and Daryl waited. ‘What the hell does that mean?’ Daryl asked.
‘I mean we have several people we think can get close to Kartsev.’
‘Who are these people?’ Gordon asked.
‘Disaffected ex-military types, mostly. And there’s this ex-pat Russian security officer living illegally in Philadelphia.’
Chapter Seventeen
Olga and Pyotr walked arm-in-arm from the movie theater. It was one of the few times they’d gotten out for an evening on the town. The girls, they finally decided, could be trusted not to tell a babysitter everything. But just in case they hired their neighbor’s thirteen-year-old daughter.
The downside to choosing the oblivious teenager was that she spent the entire evening on the phone.
‘I should try calling again,’ Olga said as they stood under the bright marquee lights.
‘Darling, if she’s on the telephone it means she’s there. Everything’s okay. Ladno?’
She wasn’t satisfied. But he’d bought enough time to make it to the restaurant for coffee and dessert. There would be a payphone there. The busy signal sure to come from it would provide thirty additional minutes of conversation.
The crowds thinned. The streets darkened. Olga was too busy silently fretting to notice the subtle change. But Pyotr grew more and more alert. He hadn’t seen the government car which usually shadowed him.
‘Pyotr Andreev?’ they heard from behind.
Olga gasped. She lowered her head and jammed her eyes shut.
But the accent was distinctly American.
Pyotr turned. Two men in dark overcoats stood behind him. A parked car turned on its headlights. It pulled up beside them.
It was unmarked. But to Pyotr it may as well have had ‘U.S. government’ printed on the door.
‘It’s all right,’ he said quietly to Olga.
‘And what is this “business” you’re talking about?’ Pyotr asked.
The man across the small table in the suburban house flicked his cigarette repeatedly.
‘It’s an operation,’ he said as if he were breaking significant new ground.
But to Pyotr it was stating the obvious. He drew a deep breath and looked around the room. It was dimly lit except for the bright light over the table. The other agents all loitered at a distance.
‘What kind of operation?’ Pyotr asked.
There was again a long delay. The talker took a drag of the cigarette. He slowly exhaled. ‘A foreign operation,’ he said — each syllable accompanied by puffs that were lit by the warm overhead bulb.
It was almost midnight. Olga would be home, worried sick. ‘Can you be more specific?’
The man had seen too many old movies. He took his time replying. ‘No,’ he finally said.
It’s in Russia, Pyotr surmised. And it’s so dirty they won’t talk about it till I sign on. ‘I’d like to help, bu-…’ he began.
‘Good,’ the man interrupted. ‘We thought you’d appreciate your position.’
Pyotr heard the thudding threat. He sat forward. His weight rested heavily on his elbows. He raised his voice for the microphone — wherever it was. Maybe someone out there was listening. ‘I have a wife and kids. My first duty is to them. If you’re proposing that I take some personal risk, then I cannot help. My wife and children need me… alive.’
Again there was smoke. Only this time the wait was sheer agony for Pyotr.