Day of Reckoning (49 page)

As far as it takes
.

6:58 A.M. Pacific Time

An oil field

Tehachapi, California

Day was coming, the first faint rays of sunlight breaking across a cloud-streaked horizon. Abandoned derricks littered the oil field, standing silhouetted against the dawn like the skeletons of creatures from a time gone by.

Carol adjusted the cracked venetian blinds to let in the sun, moving back toward the center of the room. She’d set her laptop on the cheap metal desk that had once been the centerpiece of the office and she moved to boot it up, checking to see how much battery power she had left. Enough to send their signal for help.

Death and taxes—the two things of which every man was assured…and taxes had
brought
death to California’s oil industry. A slow, painful death as the state continued to grasp for more and more revenue to stave off its own slide into the abyss. Keynesian economics in their finest hour.

The oil field that had once employed hundreds now sat desolate, everything worth hauling off long since taken by metal scavengers and other thieves.

No more running
, Harry had said when they had arrived, and she’d found his grim certainty frightening. Perhaps this oil field would bear witness to their own demise.

Listening to the computer
whirr
, she moved back to the window, catching sight of him out near the car, his tall form moving swiftly through the semi-darkness. Assessing his tactical environment. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since they had arrived, hadn’t spoken a word beyond necessity since the death of Pyotr.

You swore that
he would come to no harm—does
this
look like ‘no harm’ to
you?
She would never forget the way his face had looked in that moment—pale, drawn…as if she had struck him. In a way, she had.

And then that man had disappeared—replaced by the man who had dragged her out of that house and placed her forcibly in the panel van as the police closed in. The man who had driven into a hail of gunfire to protect her, and the lives of others on the freeway.

The man outside.

In the end, was he truly responsible for the murder or Pyotr…or was she?

Who had set them on that course?

You want to find the man behind your father’s murder? This is the most linear path
. She could still see the look on Vasiliev’s face as he had uttered those damning words.

The door to the office trailer opened and he was there, his blue eyes fixed on her face. The way she was standing, he had to know she had been watching him.

“I have the connection established,” Carol said finally, breaking the awkward silence between them. “You can upload your message any time you’re ready.”

She drew the jacket tighter around her body as she moved toward the desk, covering up the bloodstains on her blouse. Pyotr’s blood.

She could feel him behind her, his hands coming up to rest tentatively on her shoulders. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ll be fine.” She was lying, and they both knew it. His hand slipped down, encircling her waist—drawing her close. A comforting presence, despite everything that had gone before.

“No one is ever fine,” he whispered. “Not after seeing that. And I deserve every bit of the blame.”

“
No
.” She found the words came out more sharply than she had intended, anger and remorse warring within her heart. “I do.”

The images of Pyotr’s shattered corpse flickered back across her mind and she buried her face in his chest, guilt washing over her, her body wracked with silent sobs.
I do
…

1:04 P.M. Eastern Time

The trailer

Graves Mill, Virginia

The sound of a car engine roused Thomas from his seat at the table, taking his Beretta 92 with him as he moved toward the front of the double-wide.

“It’s your boss,” Rhoda Stevens announced, giving him a disapproving glance at the sight of his sidearm. What the relationship between her and Lay was—or had been, he would probably never know. But she was taking the DCIA’s condition personally. And his role in the affair.

“Gotcha,” he retorted, peering through the blinds to see Kranemeyer emerging from the black Suburban, his trench coat flapping in the breeze as he advanced on the house.

The Dark Lord.

Thomas moved to the door, throwing back the bolt just as the DCS reached it.

“Have you established any contact with Nichols?” his boss demanded, not bothering with a greeting. The look on Kranemeyer’s face told him something was wrong.

A shake of the head. “I checked the sites this morning, all of them. No signal. What’s happened?”

“He’s popped back up on the radar,” came the terse reply. “A local LEO placed him at that mass shooting in California.”

“That Russian?” No way. He’d seen the reports on the morning news. A veritable bloodbath. Someone had gone after a key player of the
mafiya
, eliminating his entire security team and executing him with a bullet to the head. The media had reported the story with their typical glee, mingling blood and gore with their viewers’ raisin bran. Harry?

“Yes,” Kranemeyer responded, pushing past him into the trailer. “That’s the way it’s being reported. He’s running out of room to run, out of places to hide. Run the sites again.”

Thomas led the way back into the living room, firing up his Macbook on the table. “How’s David?” Kranemeyer asked as the webpage loaded, regarding Thomas with hooded eyes.

“Doctor says he’s stabilizing. A full recovery is weeks away, if ever.”

Silence. Thomas loaded the web forums, checking briefly through the new threads. Looking for the code, the signal that would indicate Harry had been there.

Nothing. The second site was the same. Two down, three to go.

He scrolled up to Favorites, selecting Ebay and running a search. And there it was…a new listing, only two hours old. A first edition copy of Ayn Rand’s massive tome
Atlas Shrugged
, its cover a blood-red sun glaring down tracks of glistening steel.

Rearden steel.

Despite the gravity of the moment, Thomas found himself smiling. It was Harry who had given him his copy, the outgrowth of a long ago conversation. And the inspiration behind this code.

“It’s here,” he breathed, mousing over the description until he found it, down near the bottom. A list of pages torn or missing from the book.

As Kranemeyer watched, he grabbed a sheet of notepaper and began jotting down the numbers in sequence.

“It’s GPS coordinates,” Thomas announced, realizing the import of his statement almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Harry
was
in California, after all.

“And this is a call for help.”

1:39 P.M.

The Russell Office Building

Washington, D.C.

“You said you would call me when it was done.” Roy Coftey frowned as he descended the marble staircase into the rotunda of what had been known as the Old Senate Office Building. He switched the phone to his right hand, checking his watch.

“Something’s come up,” the voice on the other end of the phone announced. “I need the use of your plane. A brief flight out to LAX. Two passengers out. Indeterminate on the return trip.”

The senator shook his head, making an effort not to use the man’s name. Not over the phone. “Do we need to meet?”

“Negative. This is unconnected to our other business. Your Lear
is
on the ground at Dulles, right?”

“Yes, but…everything’s grounded.” Coftey stopped short, lowering his voice as one of his staffers came hustling down the stairs after him. “I told you I would have your back, but there’s only so far anyone can protect you. And if I’m going to get that jet off the ground, I will need an airtight cover story.”

“You’ll have it. I want my people wheels-up by 1600.”

11:02 A.M. Pacific Time

The oil field

California

And his message had not gone unseen. A smile touched Harry’s lips for a fleeting moment as his eyes fell upon the top bid: $1186. The number of pages in the first edition of Rand’s magnum opus.

The countersign.

“Everything ready?” Han asked, entering the office trailer from the back. He was buttoning his faded black windbreaker over the tactical vest beneath it, the SCAR cradled in the crook of his arm.

Harry checked the file protocols Carol had set up one last time. Everything was in place. If a password wasn’t entered every twelve hours, what little information they had on Tarik Abdul Muhammad and his Christmas Day terror attack would go streaming out through cyberspace to the FBI, CIA, DHS, and a round dozen of the other members of the alphabet soup that was D.C. bureaucracy.

“Time to hang out our shingle,” he nodded, grabbing up his UMP-45. They were running low on ammunition, almost too low for what was to come.

If waiting had been an option, he would have waited. The cavalry was coming.

But Korsakov had to be taken out of the equation
now
. And the only way to lure the wolf into the trap was to bait it…with themselves.

4:03 P.M. Eastern Time

Washington, D.C.

Airborne
. Kranemeyer read the text message off the screen of his phone, marveling at the brevity. The Texan was as taciturn as ever.

He leaned back against the seat of the Suburban, gazing out the window at the setting sun, rays of light flickering out from behind snow-laden clouds the color of slate.

Valentin Andropov’s nineteen-year-old son had been found dead in a house across the street from his estate. Executed with a single bullet to the head—just like his father.

According to the early reports Kranemeyer had seen, the murder weapon had differed between the two, but that didn’t really matter. Nor did it matter that Nichols was supposed to be acting under Lay’s orders, sketchy as they had been.

They might have swept anything else under the rug—made it go away—but this…this was more difficult.

The son had been an American citizen. And Nichols was now well beyond redemption.

Something to consider when he reflected on his own plans. Kranemeyer flipped open the folder beside him, the printed sheet therein containing Shapiro’s evening itinerary.

The Church of the Holy Trinity
.

He’d never been a very pious man himself—the morality of what he was about to do gave him no pause.

It wasn’t his decision…not really. It was his target’s—a decision that had been made when Shapiro
decided
to betray his country.

Send a message, Barney
, the senator had said, his eyes glistening with a simmering wrath, the flames of the Alibi Club’s fireplace reflected in their depths.
If the fools in this town want to dance, they’re going to have to pay the piper
.

1:39 P.M. Pacific Time

California

It had all been a mistake, Korsakov thought, staring murderously at his cellphone as Viktor used his still-active FBI access to read off a list of roadblocks.

The California State Police were sealing off every major artery. And Nichols was gone.

He cast a glance into the back seat of the SUV to where Yuri sat, chewing on a sandwich of deli meat. His lieutenant looked like death itself, his face seared with the heat of the explosion, the hair singed off his forearms.

Four men. That was all he had left—and that was if you counted in both Viktor and himself.

Even as he looked at it, the phone in his hand began to vibrate with an incoming call. His heart almost stopped.

No one had this number. No one living.

“Yes?” he asked, motioning to Viktor to attempt a trace as he answered the call.

“It’s time this was ended, Sergei.” Nichols’ voice. The tone of a man on the edge, barely in control of himself. Trembling with anger.

An encouraging development.

Korsakov listened in silence as the American continued. “Innocent people died last night…for what? You’re not going to get paid for this.”

The assassin cleared his throat. “I told you. This isn’t about the money—this is about the men you have killed.
My
men. And I don’t care who has to die, so long as you join them in the end.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Viktor hold up four fingers. “You were clever last night, Mr. Nichols. Audacious, even. What is that Latin phrase they teach in your military colleges? Fortune favors the audacious? And even more of my men died.”

Three.

“I gave you the chance to walk away last night,” Nichols responded. “Leave it all behind—make your way out of the country as best you could. That was before the freeway. No one else had to die…but now you do.”

Two. He could see the smile grow on the boy’s face. Keep stalling. Keep him on the phone.

“So now you intend to kill me?”

A
click
was all that answered his question, and he shot an anxious glance in Viktor’s direction.

Do we have it?

The look of intense concentration on the boy’s face was unbroken for a long moment, then he began to nod.

1:44 P.M.

The oil field

“Did he have time?” Harry asked, looking over to where Carol sat in front of her laptop.

It had been so close.

“All depends on how good his tech support is. It’s a reasonable hope.” She ran a hand over her forehead. “You couldn’t stay on the phone any longer—he would have gotten suspicious.”

“Do you still have your gun?”

She looked up as though startled by the sudden question, then nodded.

“Keep it handy,” he advised, catching Han’s eye from across the room. “Time to take up our positions.”

2:39 P.M.

The Bellagio Hotel & Casino

Las Vegas, Nevada

Dominoes.

Samir Khan watched,
mesmerized, as the dealer shuffled a set of dominoes with slim, agile hands, dealing them out to the players surrounding the table.

Nothing could have prepared him for the luxury, the decadence.

“A drink, sir?” He turned to find a cocktail waitress at his elbow, a tray of drinks in her hand.

“No, not right now,” the lawyer responded, finding himself flustered by her smile. All the years he had lived in Vegas, practicing law, he had never entered one of the casinos—and now he understood why. Their allure was irresistible…
seductive
. “What is this that they’re playing?”

“Pai gow?” she asked, touching him lightly on the arm. “It’s a Chinese game, one of the most popular in the casinos of Macau. Do you want to take a hand?”

Samir shook his head, looking her up and down appreciatively before moving off into the crowd. He had a
purpose
for being here, he thought, forcing himself to focus.

Five years he had lived in this country, ever since leaving his native Pakistan with his men. For five long years they had labored in the house of war, waiting for this moment. For the word of the shaikh.

He thought back to that morning, a week ago—when the message had finally been left in the Drafts folder of his inbox. And he had known in that moment.

Their time had come…

7:39 P.M. Eastern Time

The Church of the Holy Trinity

Washington, D.C.

“
God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay
…” Childish voices, lifted in praise to the heavens.

Michael Shapiro leaned back in the pew, smiling as he regarded the form of his son in the choir, shifting awkwardly in his robes.

This was the life worth living. Away from his job, away from all the stresses of the day. Here with his kids, he almost felt at peace.

Almost.

A shadow fell across the pew and he looked up, half-expecting to see his wife. She was supposed to join them later, in time for mass.

“Good evening, Shapiro.” The form of Bernard Kranemeyer settled into the pew beside him, awaiting no invitation to sit down.

A puzzled smile flickered across the face of the deputy director. “And to you, Barney. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Kranemeyer nodded, his arm stretching out easily along the back of the pew as he gazed up at the choir of children toward the front of the dimly lit sanctuary.

“Didn’t imagine you would. Never had much use for church. Or for pious people, for that matter,” he added after a pause. “Most of them are frauds, in my experience. People living a lie.”

The strange look in the eyes of the DCS grew reflective as Shapiro watched. “Nichols was the only Christian I ever truly respected…and we both know how that’s panned out.”

“Yeah,” Shapiro assented, still puzzled by his appearance.

Those coal-black eyes turned upon him, contempt radiating suddenly from their depths. The deputy director felt a chill wash over his body.

Kranemeyer shook his head, reaching inside his trench coat and pulling forth a handful of photographs. He held one of them up, eyeing it critically in the flickering light of the nearby candles.

“What have you been playing at, Shapiro?” the DCS spat, throwing the photograph into Shapiro’s lap.

His fingers beginning to tremble as if in the grip of a fever, he reached for the photo, turning it over.

And there it was. The proof of his betrayal.

Shapiro looked up to see death in the eyes of his colleague—cold, implacable death. His gaze darted wildly around the sanctuary, toward the mute, silent icons along the walls.

No salvation to be found there.

“I—I…this wasn’t what it looks like.”

The DCS laughed softly. “You can do better than that, Mike. You might be the deputy director, but you’re a second-rate liar. I don’t have to guess what it ‘looks like’. I know what it is…you passing intel to the Iranians. You sold out my men. All I want to know is this: was it worth it?”

He looked over at Shapiro, watching contemptuously as the man trembled, his face ashen.

“These are surveillance photos— taken here in D.C,” the deputy director stammered, a drowning man clutching desperately at a straw. “You’ve violated the CIA’s charter—this will never stand up in court.”

Kranemeyer closed his eyes, the H&K under his coat seeming to quiver with anger. “Who said anything about court, Mike? Did Davood Sarami get a judge? A jury? God only knows what other assets you compromised.”

Silence. He could still remember standing there at Dover, the fall wind rippling through his hair as uniformed Marines carried Davood’s body out of the back of a C-5.

“You’ll get what you gave, Mike. That’s justice, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s just retribution—I couldn’t give a flying crap either way.”

“You don’t understand, Barney. It’s not like that. I didn’t have a
choice
.”

A bitter smile crossed Kranemeyer’s face. “That’s an old refrain. And false as it is old. We all make choices. What did the Iranians have on you?”

The deputy director seemed to shrink into his seat, his voice growing soft. “It wasn’t the Iranians.”

“Indeed?”

Shapiro shook his head desperately, licking his lips with the very tip of his tongue. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”

“No one who’s powerful enough to save you from me, I know that much. But why don’t you enlighten me?”

“I can—but I want this all to go away. All of it, the photographs…everything.”

It was amazing, Kranemeyer thought—the deputy director was still playing politician. Making deals.

“You don’t have anything I want that badly,” he retorted, staring up at the rows of white-robed children, their faces smiling down like a heavenly choir of angels. The last innocents left in this city. “And if you get a deal, it will be on
my
terms.”

Shapiro ran a hand along the collar of his shirt, his fingers coming away damp with sweat. “Anything. What do you want?”

“Tell me everything you know—I want details, names of everyone involved.
Everything
.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“You get to take the honorable way out. And your family—your kids—never have to know the type of man their father was.”

“You mean…” Shapiro’s voice trailed off, trembling querulously.

“I do,” came the remorseless reply. “Or, so help me, I will destroy them as well.”

5:06 P.M. Pacific Time

The oil field

California

“Are you sure they’re here?” Korsakov lowered the binoculars from his eyes, glancing back to where Viktor sat in the back seat.

The boy hesitated. “They
were
here. Less than four hours ago. That’s all I know.”

Korsakov glanced toward the oil field once again, the ghostly spires of the derricks looming out of the gathering twilight. It would have to be good enough.

He pushed open the passenger door of the SUV, moving around to the back to retrieve his Steyr AUG. Korsakov’s night-vision goggles were the only pair they had left—everything else having been lost at Andropov’s mansion.

They would have to move cautiously, the three of them.

Viktor came around the corner of the vehicle at that moment, his youthful eyes shining above the scraggly black beard that cloaked the lower half of his face. The Glock Korsakov had given him was in his hand, his fingers fumbling with the slide.

“I’m ready.”

Korsakov shook his head, stepping forward to put both hands on the boy’s thin shoulders. “
Nyet, tovarisch
. I need you here in the car, monitoring communications.”