A heated exchange between Culder and Sanders ignited shortly after takeoff. Sanders had told the director the hit on Agent Cathy Moynihan was out of the question. The director had always been careful about keeping FBI staff away from assignments that might rouse suspicion about his secret operation, what he and Senator Soller often called their ‘special arrangement’. This had been a case where he needed to act quickly following the murder of Soller’s son. Culder had been forced to pull in one of the local agents since the work involved interviews, and that meant the job would have be done in the public eye. There had to be a face to this covert operation — at least initially.
Sanders’s anger rose to a boil as Culder continued to minimize his decision to take the agent’s life. The back-and-forth banter had nearly seen Sanders clean the floor with the Brillo Pad-like hair on the director’s head, before Pagano inserted himself between the two men. He sensed they knew there was something he wasn’t telling them. They had kept it to themselves through silent gestures they thought went noticed.
Culder hadn’t expected Moynihan to question his actions, and he had quickly determined she was the sort of loose end that could cause waves. He knew the only way to eliminate the risk of exposure was to stamp her out. Since his team leader wouldn’t take care of it, he’d find someone else to do the deed.
“Are we finished?” Culder said with a dark stare.
Sanders didn’t make eye contact. “For now.”
“We can’t have any distractions, Jake,” the director reasoned. “You’re no good to anyone if you’ve checked out mentally.”
Sanders shifted his eyes to Pagano. “I said I’m done talking about it.”
After an uncomfortable silence, Culder said, “You said for now.”
Sanders shot the director a menacing look. “I’m not your bitch. I’m finished discussing this, for now,” he responded with a seething finality. “It’s not going to affect my ability to execute.”
Culder knew pushing back right now wouldn’t do any good.
Sanders looked to Pagano and then Culder. “You’re smart enough to know that. If you have a problem beyond that, with the fact that I’m not gung ho about killing a fucking coworker, we can keep talking about it until I start swinging.” He crossed his arms and locked eyes with the director, then offered a defiant shrug. “If that’s what you’d like. You’re the boss.”
Culder was already regretting his reaction to the news about Moynihan. His anger had blinded him to the fact that his behavior and disregard for an FBI agent’s life would be suspect to his men. It was a stupid mistake, the price for paying too much attention to the prize and ignoring the details. He needed to diffuse the situation quickly before it spun further out of control. His greatest achievement was so close he could almost taste it, and he needed Sanders on his side to pull it off. He decided it was time to swallow some pride in the name of his ultimate goal.
“I’m sorry, Jake,” Culder said. He worked hard to sound sincere.
Both of his men shifted uncomfortably, and he realized it was probably because this was the first time he’d ever apologized.
“Look, I get it,” Culder said. “We’ll think of another way to deal with the situation.”
Sanders raised his chin and said, “Okay?” It was more of a question. He wasn’t convinced.
Culder realized it was high time to change the subject and motioned to the table in between them as the wheels touched down.
“Let’s look at the blueprints for the Studebaker Theater and figure out the best way to approach this,” he said. “Whoever this Trent is, let’s hope he’ll have Francis Millar with him, so we can kill two birds with one stone.”
Sanders remained silent, visibly annoyed.
Pagano was the next to speak. “The place looks pretty big.” His gaze shifted between the two men. “We’ll need at least two more — four if we want to keep things zipped up tight outside.”
The director didn’t like the idea of any more agents getting involved. He had already ordered a surveillance team to keep tabs on Francis Millar, and it had managed to lose him after he had left the airport. Culder wasn’t sure if it was due to incompetence or skill, and was concerned that with this Trent person, it could be the latter.
“Let’s keep it to a minimum. You two take care of this on your own. Just be sure he doesn’t make it out the door.” Culder thought about the exponential increase in risk for each local agent they brought on board. “It’s only one man,” he continued, “two of them if Millar is there, but if he is there, the hacker will do him more harm than good when we move in.”
He could tell by the expressions on their faces that Sanders and Pagano weren’t happy. They had rarely worked with agents outside the team, but the previous night had seen the ranks of the HVT squad cut down to just the two of them. Culder knew they were currently motivated by revenge, and he would use that to his advantage.
He finally accepted the silent consensus that he would have to bring agents in from the local field office; otherwise, the risk of failure was too great. The trick would be making up a good story to go with the job. He was in a position of power, so he would exercise his option to keep the details fuzzy.
“I think we’ll have an advantage if Millar’s there. We’ll do it your way,” Culder agreed. “We’ll keep it to a minimum.” He nodded to Pagano. “Two locals, as you said. This will go down in a public place, and we can’t afford mistakes from untested agents.”
Culder had made a good point, and the three men nodded in agreement as the plane came to a stop in the hangar.
“All right,” Pagano said.
“They won’t get away with what they’ve done,” Culder assured. “Just keep a level head. Time for payback will come soon enough.”
Chapter 94
Pavel Kozlov whistled triumphantly along with the classical music thundering out of his Bang & Olufsen sound system. Music had always been therapeutic for the Russian and helped calm his nerves. This day would be one of the most important of his life. Not only was he a major player in the operation that would destroy the United States and see the Soviet Union rise once again, but he would also achieve something significant on a personal level. He knew Victoria Eden would become one of the most important violinists of his time, possibly of all time. This evening’s performance would showcase him as the man who brought her talent to the world.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror in his master suite checking the fit of his Brioni tuxedo. He had a penchant for Italian fashion. The finer things in life were a satisfying reward for decades of sacrifice. He considered how his appearance had changed over the years. The gray hair and weathered face projected an air of sophistication. It was a façade that helped to mask his ruthless tendencies.
A sideways glance through the floor-to-ceiling windows was his gateway to the lake. His sprawling stone-crafted residence took advantage of the coveted views his neighborhood was famous for. A smile formed on his lips as he considered others who might also be taking in the view at this moment. His look of satisfaction had nothing to do with the beauty outside. The Russian knew many fortunes would change from his actions, and Tuesday morning would bring with it a catastrophic wake-up call for many who shared this view of the lake.
His smile disappeared as he placed a call. “You have been very disappointing to me lately,” Kozlov said.
“I know,” Bruce Campbell said.
The Russian fixed his eyes on a boat in the distance, and after a few moments decided he owed the man one more chance. His view would be that of a jail-cell wall if it wasn’t for the man on the phone.