“How did you find me?” she said.
“They tried for me and you were the next closest target,” Ravkin said. “We need to hurry.”
She hesitated, the Makarov still in her hand. But freezing up was crazy. Ravkin was a friend, an SVR agent, somebody she trusted. He stood there in his usual brown leather jacket, white T-shirt and jeans, wiry but plenty of muscle, his jawline showing the kind of rugged sharp edge she found irresistible. The worst was happening, and they needed to close ranks and regroup. She ran to Ravkin. He let the garage door drop shut and they ran to his car, which he’d left running in the alley. She piled into the passenger seat and Ravkin accelerated to the street ahead.
“Where are we going?” she said.
“Safe house.”
“They’re compromised!”
“I have my own. Nobody knows about it, not even Glinkov.”
“Did they get him?”
“I think so.”
Anastasia slammed a fist on the dash.
“Don’t hurt my car,” Ravkin said.
“This is no time for jokes.”
“Right now we need to focus. Once we get to the safe house, we’ll see where we stand.”
Anastasia put away her gun and looked ahead. Ravkin made another turn and headed for the freeway. No time for jokes, indeed. She wondered if they had any time left at all.
McLean, VA – C.I.A. Training Facility
STILETTO SAT on the dirt and folded his legs, placing his automatic, holster, and shooting glasses on the ground beside him.
Shots still popped inside the single-story building ahead of him, but his drill was finished. He’d returned from overseas with orders to head for The Farm, the C.I.A.’s training center, and get started on his brush-up of basic skills. He figured it was Fleming’s way of keeping him from moping around the office. Scott did find the concentration kept his mind off other things, and day-by-day he was feeling better. Just in time to leave in the morning.
This particular shooting range was located in an open field with green grass and rolling hills nearby. Other training areas were visible in the distance. It was almost a vacation. The wind blew gently, a few birds flew by now and then. Stiletto wished he had his sketch pad to draw some of the surrounding scenery, but he made mental notes to draw as soon as he returned to the barracks.
“Finished for the day?”
Stiletto looked up as David McNeil walked toward him, carrying his own shooting gear. McNeil was General Fleming’s chief-of-staff. A covert ops veteran, he’d only taken the chief-of-staff job after losing his left leg during an assignment. Nobody could tell he had a prosthetic from the knee down unless he wore shorts. He wore shorts now, his steel leg reflecting the bright sunlight. He liked to take his refresher courses at The Farm to show up the new recruits. He’d never see a field assignment again, but being able to keep up was almost as good.
“Pretty much,” Stiletto said. “Leave tomorrow.”
McNeil sat down, folding his left leg under his right, which remained outstretched with the prosthetic.
“Sorry about Belgium,” McNeil said.
“Thanks.” Stiletto stared into the distance.
“What else is on your mind?”
“Did you happen to see my report about San Francisco?”
Stiletto’s last mission to the bay city had been unofficial, but related to a mission that began in Switzerland. An old girlfriend, Ali Lewis, who also happened to be a former Agency employee, had needed help after somebody murdered her father.
“I saw it,” McNeil said. “What did you leave out?”
“Ali offered me a job.”
“Doing what?”
“Drawing sketches for her clothing lines. Or something like that. We didn’t have a lot of time to talk about it.”
“Are you thinking of taking the job?”
“I don’t know.”
McNeil didn’t respond right away. The shooting continued inside the building, single shots followed by strings of rapid fire.
“You can’t do this job forever, Scott.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re not getting any younger and, look at me, sometimes the worst happens even when you do everything right.”
“I can’t see myself doing anything else.”
“You’re not going to pull one of those riffs about the defenseless, are you?”
Stiletto laughed. “Hey. Have a heart.”
“In the end we put our butts on the line and nobody cares. If you have the chance to get out and settle down somewhere nice, I think you should do it. You’ll be given a desk job in two years anyway. ‘Cause you gettin’ old, buddy.”
“I know. I’m not ready to stop yet.”
McNeil tapped his steel leg. “Neither was I.”
STILETTO RETURNED home the next afternoon and parked his “new” car in the driveway.
He had a base model Chevy Cruze which was a good car but hardly a replacement for his restored ’77 Trans Am, which had been shot to pieces in his own driveway by an Iranian assassin firing from the cover of his own porch.
He locked the car and carried his suitcases inside. On the table against the wall in front of him sat a pile of mail, dutifully collected by one of the young bucks in Scott’s department who also made a daily security check of the home. Remembering his own days of such grunt work, Scott had left the youngster a six-pack of beer, and found to his delight that the fellow had left him two cans. The kid would do well indeed.
He drank the beer on the couch with Pawn Stars on the television and laptop on his lap. Perusing his email, Stiletto ignored Rick Harrison’s usual dribble about needing a buddy to check this or that and hit the delete button repeatedly until he came to a note from Vladimir Glinkov.
He muted the T.V. and read, his pulse quickening as he hit the major points.
…Zubarev murder in New York …
…planned coup to depose Putin…
…Russian mafia as Putin’s proxy…
…help…
Stiletto read the note twice, growing more alarmed by the second. Clicking on his internet browser, Scott searched for more on the Zubarev killings but found nothing more than the preliminary reports he’d seen aboard the submarine.
Back to his inbox. He saw a second note from Vlad, sent after the first. But this one was signed by his wife and chilled Stiletto’s blood.
…they came and took him…
…don’t know what to do…
Stiletto connected wirelessly to the printer down the hall in his office and printed both emails. Then he folded the sheets of paper into a pocket and grabbed the keys to the Chevy.
STILETTO PACED the floor while General Ike Fleming, the man in charge of the Special Activities Division, stoically read each of the printed emails.
Pictures around the office showed General Fleming in various stages of his Army career. He’d only been in charge of the Special Activities Division for three years, having joined after retiring from the military, but to his agents it felt like he’d been there forever. He knew how to champion his people; they wanted to do right by him because he took care of them.
No family pictures adorned the desk. Fleming kept family details private, but everybody knew he’d been married to the same woman for almost 40 years.
“Stop pacing and sit down, Scott.”
“I can’t stay still, sir.”
“Sit down so I can talk to you. Now.”
Stiletto paused. Fleming set the papers down, removed his glasses, and looked up expectantly. His dark eyes repeated the order. Stiletto took a seat in front of the General’s desk.
“What am I supposed to say about this?” Fleming said.