Day of Reckoning (41 page)

“How soon will they make their announcement?”

“On the first of the new year, in a 5-4 decision. You’ll be sworn in on the 20
th
, right on schedule. We owe Coftey…his willingness to run with the ball on this has been invaluable.”

“I always pay my debts.” The President raised his glass. “To success—and the damnation of our enemies.”

“As ever.”

11:54 A.M. Pacific Time

The abandoned mansion

“How are things coming along?” Harry asked, coming back through the kitchen.

Carol didn’t look up. “Fine. I nearly have the botnet formed, just need to exploit a couple dozen more computers before I can run a test.”

“A botnet?” The term seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“This one laptop doesn’t give me nearly enough firepower to bring down the grid. LA has used DHS dollars to harden their defenses over the last few years. I’ve been working since last night to build a network of a couple hundred infected computers. With their combined power, I can brute-force the system and bring it down—at least for a few minutes. Long enough for you and Han to get in. That’s the good news.”

“And the bad news?”

“From the energy outputs I’m seeing, it looks like Andropov’s security system is hooked to his back-up generator, located in the poolhouse…here,” she said, tapping the satellite photo with her index finger.

“How long does that give us?”

She shrugged. “Some of the modern generators…ten, fifteen seconds.”

Yeah, that didn’t give them much time. Not much time at all. He cast a glance toward the door of the bathroom where Pyotr was imprisoned, his mind working through the possibilities. But she wasn’t done talking. “You might be able to get over the wall and to the door of the house in that time, but then…”

“There’s a security keypad on that side patio door, isn’t there?”

“Yeah.” She finally glanced up to meet his eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that Pyotr is going to give us those codes.”

A look of pain spread across her countenance. “Harry…”

“What’s wrong?” It seemed an inane question, but it was the one he asked. A human impulse.

“I don’t know.” Carol looked away, as if unwilling to face him. “He’s just a kid—a big, stupid kid. The panic on his face when Han ambushed him…”

She was silent for a long moment. “How do you deal with it—living life this way?”

He yearned to reach out, to hold her in his arms…to tell her that everything was going to be okay. But it wasn’t, and the walls he had built around his heart were too high, no matter what he might have wished.

“The same way you deal with anything in life,” he responded coldly. “Just keep putting one foot in front of another. Keep moving forward. Do what you have to do.”

“The end justifies the means?” she asked—a bitter echo of himself, years earlier. A lifetime ago, or so it seemed.

He shook his head. “No…no it doesn’t. It’s just a matter of deciding which set of consequences you can live with. That’s all it is, in the end. Nothing more complicated.”

3:57 P.M. Eastern Time

Graves Mill, Virginia

There’d been a six-pack of Coors in Stevens’ refrigerator. Past tense. There were only two left, including the half-empty one in Thomas’s hand as he leaned against the counter.

Nothing from Kranemeyer. He’d been gone for hours now, leaving them to guard the DCIA. Yeah…

He felt someone’s eyes on him and looked up to see Tex standing there in the doorway.

“How’s it going, bro?” he asked, registering somewhere in a dark recess of his mind that he was slurring the words. He hadn’t had
that
much to drink.

Tex crossed the kitchen, a strange look on his face.
Darkness
. “Just look at you.”

Before Thomas could react, the Texan reached out, ripping the beer can from his grasp and crushing it in one of his big hands.

“What are you doing?” Froth bubbled over the Texan’s fingers as he threw the demolished can into the sink.

“
You
are on duty, soldier,” he replied, taking a step into Thomas’s zone—a dark light shining from his eyes. It was the closest Thomas had seen the big man come to displaying emotion, but he ignored the warning sign.

“I…can handle my liquor,” he replied, putting up a hand. “You know that.”

“Handle it?” Tex demanded. “You
shot
the Director of the CIA. My op, my responsibility—you pulled the trigger.”

“It was dark, okay? He fired first.”

“
And
you’d been drinking.” It wasn’t a question, but a simple, cold accusation, hanging there between them. “I know Harry had been covering for you with Kranemeyer, before all this started. He never said anything, but he had to be.”

The Texan paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. “I won’t.”

4:09 P.M.

1806 I Street

Washington, D.C.

“
Convivial men the world over find pleasure and recreation in the association of others so minded
.” So began the 1884 charter of the Alibi Club, but its founders had faced a far different world.

As for Kranemeyer, he was in anything but a convivial mood as he approached the 19
th
-century Italianate brick townhouse that housed D.C.’s premiere men’s social club. On foot, he carried the laptop in a carrying case slung over one shoulder.

The building itself was nondescript, the DCS thought, waiting on the doorstep. So unremarkable that the National Register of Historic Places didn’t even list the name of its architect. Which was as it should be—perfect for men who valued their privacy.

The Alibi Club had never numbered more than fifty, but they had counted among their ranks Washington’s most powerful in their day, including Allen Dulles—the director of the CIA during the ‘50s.

He left his coat with the doorkeeper, retaining the H&K under his suit jacket as a young blonde woman ushered him up a flight of stairs and into a second-floor den, its walls decorated with over a century’s worth of memorabilia. The room exuded warmth, flames crackling in the fireplace to Kranemeyer’s right. Age.
Power
.

“Barney,” a familiar voice greeted him, a silver-haired figure rising from a leather chair on the far side of the den. “It’s been far too long.”

“Likewise, Roy,” Kranemeyer responded, managing what passed for a smile as he reached out to shake the senator’s hand. Currently on his sixth term as a U.S. Senator from Oklahoma, Roy Coftey was the chairman of the powerful Senate Select Committee On Intelligence. And, in another life…a Special Forces lieutenant. “You had enough of the Democrats yet?”

The older man laughed, a throaty rumble rising from deep within his belly. “They were good enough for my daddy, and his father before him. I reckon that means they’re good enough for me.”

Kranemeyer shook his head. “Give me that old time religion…”

“That’s right, Barney. Melody, will you bring us something to drink?” His attention turned from the blonde back to Kranemeyer. “You still take your bourbon neat?”

“Yes.”

“Then just bring us up a bottle.” The senator watched her sashay out of the room, an appreciative smile on his face.

“That girl’s got a great future ahead of her,” he observed, giving Kranemeyer a crooked grin that left little doubt as to who controlled that future or what she might be doing to obtain it.

She was hardly the first.

“Be careful, Roy.” The DCS paused. “A man in your position…can be vulnerable to blackmail.”

Coftey inclined his head to one side. “The only folks in this town who lose sleep over blackmailers are the people pretending to be saints. Everyone knows I’m an old goat.”

“If you say so.”

Before they could say anything further, the blonde returned, bearing a bottle of Maker’s Mark and a pair of shot glasses on a silver tray.

“So, tell me, Barney,” the senator began, splashing the amber liquid into both glasses. He passed one over to Kranemeyer. “What’s on your mind?”

Kranemeyer took a sip of his bourbon—waiting until the woman left the room, closing the door behind her. “Something’s come up and I need your advice, Roy…no, forget that. I
know
what has to be done. I just need air support.”

Coftey straightened in his chair, a glint entering his eyes. He was still a warrior, Kranemeyer thought, regarding his old friend carefully.

Still the same man that, in the early months of ’67, had led his Special Forces team across the border into Cambodia as part of Operation
Daniel Boone
. He knew what it was like to be out there, on the edge of the world. Knew what it felt like to have politicians trying to push you off.

“Go on,” the senator urged, gesturing with his glass. “What’s this all about?”

“The assassination of David Lay,” Kranemeyer said quietly, opening up his laptop case. “I believe that I know why he was killed—and who was behind the hit.”

“Then why are you here? You should be talking to the FBI.”

The DCS rose and placed the laptop on the edge of the desk. “That’s not an option. Not yet. Look at this.” He clicked through the first couple of photos.

Coftey’s brow furrowed as he stared at the screen. “That’s the Deputy Director, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Kranemeyer took a deep breath. “The photos and accompanying documents provide conclusive proof that Michael Shapiro has been passing CIA secrets to the Iranians over the last few months, at least as far back as Operation TALON.”

“The hostage rescue, correct?” Coftey asked, staring intently at the screen.

“Yes.”

“Who took these, Barney?”

“David Lay, to the best of my knowledge. Of several meets between Shapiro and members of the Iranian delegation to the UN. The man in the picture here is head of security for UN Ambassador Nasrollah Najafi. The PDF files are scanned pages of CIA documents with notes in Farsi scribbled over them. Apparently print-outs of the documents Shapiro passed to him.”

The senator shook his head. “How would we—or Lay—have access to
those?
”

“I have no idea. Unless David went behind my back and commissioned members of the Intelligence Support Activity for an off-books mission…”

“But you’re certain that all of this is genuine?”

“Yes. And I believe that it caused Lay’s death.”

For a moment, the senator sat there in silence, clicking through the photos. At length his face hardened. “If what you say is true, then we have a decision to make.”

We
. That was promising. “And that is?”

“You know that none of this would be admissible in court. We can’t play this that way. Which is why you came to me.” Coftey paused, ice-cold fire dancing in his eyes. “Which begs the question: how far are you willing to go?”

1:57 P.M. Pacific Time

The abandoned mansion

Beverly Hills, California

“Andropov is back,” Han observed, lowering the binoculars from his eyes. “And maybe eight men with him. Only one of the Mercedes came back.”

“Probably out looking for Pyotr.” Harry joined him at the window, staying a careful distance back from the glass. Far enough that the sun glare off the window would mask him from the eyes of anyone looking across the road. “You figured what—four in the house?”

“Five. And the pair of guard dogs.”

Another complication that Han had observed patrolling the grounds the preceding afternoon. A pair of massive Central Asian Shepherds, or
Volkodavs
, as they were commonly known. Roughly translated from the Russian, the name meant “Wolf Crusher”.

“Thirteen. An unlucky number.” Long odds, thirteen men against their three. He glanced at his watch. “As for the dogs…Vasiliev will be here in thirty minutes.”

“You think you can trust him?”

A hard question. Harry looked away, remembering the look in the Russian’s eyes.
Pyotr is part of the contract
.

“No,” he acknowledged. “But he’s brought us this far. Might as well go all the way.”

“Just like old times.” A sad smile crept across the SEAL’s face. “You know, I never thought I’d kill again, Harry. Funny thing—you never forget how. No matter how many years or how hard you try.”

“I’m sorry. If there had been another way—”

Han cut him off, an edge to his voice. “You would have taken it, just so long as the mission was accomplished in the end. You haven’t changed.”

It was hard to tell whether that was praise or condemnation. Likely a mixture of both. “If you want out…”

Silence. Finally Han shook his head. “Like you say—come this far, we might as well go all the way. You think the van will give us enough height to get over the wall?”

“Close enough.”

3:09 P.M.

Los Angeles, California

It was the little things that killed you. Always the little things. The dead leaves that concealed a sniper. The figure loitering on a corner near a parked car.

The shards of shattered plexiglass beneath a freshly broken streetlight.

Korsakov dropped down to one knee on the sidewalk, turning one of the rough shards between his fingers. The edge was sharp,

He heard the sound of footsteps behind him and turned to see Yuri approaching. “They smashed the streetlight before they took him,” Korsakov announced. “Would have made sure the street was dark—plenty of shadows to hide in.”

“They?”

“Hard to say. A man like Valentin…many enemies.”

Yuri’s face took on a dour expression. “As if
we
need any more of them.”

Korsakov ignored his lieutenant’s displeasure, his eyes roving the street for nearby security cameras.
“The liquor store there on the corner. Take Viktor with you and persuade the proprietor to let you look through his surveillance tapes from last night.”

“Viktor?”

“
Da
, and make it quick.” The assassin cast a glance toward the west, the setting sun. “We’re running short on time.”

5:15 P.M. Central Time

Police Headquarters

Dearborn, Michigan

One had to love modern technology…when it worked. And right now, the GPS locator on the tractor-trailer Nasir abu Rashid had been driving wasn’t.

Marika swore angrily, giving the computer screen in front of her a murderous look. Too much caffeine had her on edge. It had taken all day to convince the company to turn over their GPS records to the Bureau, only to have the signal trail die in central Colorado.

The alert had already gone out to the Denver field office and they were mobilizing half of the FBI team in Dearborn to fly into the region.

She took another look at the screen. The Rockies—the most forboding mountain range in the continental United States. And somewhere in those mountains, the trail of a terrorist sleeper cell had run cold.

Russell came bustling into the room at that moment, a small bag over his shoulder. “We’re going,” he announced without ceremony. “The S-A-C has given his approval.”

That was, in itself, a surprise. Maybe her career wasn’t over…just yet. “How soon do we leave?”

“Ten minutes. They’ve got a 737 on the runway at Detroit Metropolitan.”

6:27 P.M. Eastern Time

Washington, D.C.

It was dark when Kranemeyer left the Alibi Club, night enfolding the city like a heavy garment. Rain was falling, mingled with sleet—slippery beneath his dress shoes.
On the way back to his Suburban, he passed a panhandler on the street, the sign in his hands reading “Homeless Vet.”