The 14th Colony: A Novel (24 page)

“Precisely. Four separate and distinct efforts, the results of which only I will know. None of you will communicate with the others, unless specifically ordered to do so. Is that clear?”

They all nodded, knowing that Andropov was not to be challenged. Here was the man who convinced Khrushchev to crush the Hungarian rebels. As head of the KGB he’d spread fear and terror, trying hard to restore the party’s lost legitimacy. He was more reminiscent of Stalin than any of the latest so-called reformers. His order of no contact among them was nothing unusual. Zorin knew how weaklings curried favor with their superiors by informing on others. Wives spied on husbands, children on their parents, neighbors on neighbors. Far better to never ask questions and have a poor memory. Every word, every act should be chosen with care. Better yet, as Andropov had just ordered, was to say and do nothing at all.

“Beneath your plate is an envelope,” Andropov said. “The orders inside detail your specific operational mission. The method of reporting your success is also detailed. Do not vary from those orders.”

He’d noticed that there had been no mention of failure. That was not an option.

One of the officers reached for his plate.

Andropov stopped him. “Not yet. Break the seal only after you leave here. That way you have no temptation to discuss this among yourselves.”

Everyone sat still.

Zorin understood a need to establish an aura of self-confidence and did not resent the clear subordination being forced upon him by Andropov. He, too, had a gift for intimidating and had played the same game with those under him many times.

“I want you to know, comrades, that what we are about to accomplish will strike America at its core. They think themselves so right, so perfect. But they have flaws. I’ve discovered two of those, and together, at the right time, we will teach America a lesson.”

He liked the sound of that.

And he liked being a part of it.

“Minimum effort, maximum effect. That’s what we want, and that is precisely what you will deliver. This will be the most important operation we have ever undertaken. So, comrades, we must be ready when the moment comes.”

Andropov motioned to the food.

“Now eat. Enjoy yourselves. Then we will begin our work.”

Slowly, over the past two decades, he’d pieced together each of the other three operations. Record declassification and the simple fact that the Soviet Union was no more had made his task easier. But there’d been precious little to find. His own part, Quiet Move, had involved six years of devotion, starting in 1983 with Andropov’s charge and functionally ending in 1989.

Just after the meeting, Andropov had in fact entered the hospital. The ten-year-old American girl he’d mentioned actually visited the Soviet Union, on Andropov’s personal invitation, providing a perfect propaganda opportunity which the Western media had devoured. Andropov himself had been too ill to greet her. Sadly, a few years later, she died in a plane crash, which had allowed for even more pandering. Andropov himself died six months after the gathering at the safe house, serving only fifteen months as general secretary. He was succeeded by Chernenko, a frail, weak man who lasted only thirteen months. Then Gromyko acted as caretaker until Gorbachev finally rose to power in 1985.

All in all, a turbulent few years by Soviet standards. So much confusion with little direction. Yet the four missions had continued. Never was any order issued stopping them. Riding in the plane, listening to the monotonous drone of the jet engines, absorbed in the eerie stillness and quiet, he now knew what all three of the other men had accomplished.

Andropov had done exactly as he’d said, telling the world that the Soviet Union would cease development of a space-based missile defense system. Which, of course, never happened. Secretly, the research continued with rubles spent by the billions. Zorin, and all other KGB assets, continued to work their sources for every scrap of information they could discover on SDI.

Absolute Pin.

Backward Pawn.

Both operatives completed their assigned tasks.

That he knew for certain.

He prided himself on not having much of a conscience. No good officer could afford such a liability. But the past twenty-five years had caused him to reassess things.

Was that guilt?

Hard to say.

He thought back to that night in Maryland.

And the last time he’d killed a man.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

M
ARYLAND

Stephanie maintained the illusion of being Mrs. Peter Hedlund, leading Anya Petrova back to the library.

“What is it you’re looking for?” she asked Petrova, concern in her voice.

“Just do as I ask, then I will be gone.”

They entered the library, afternoon sun pouring past open wooden shutters and through sheers that covered a set of French doors. Books filled walnut shelves that consumed two walls.

Petrova motioned, “Sit over there, where I see you.”

Stephanie retreated to a settee and watched as the shelves were carefully examined, Petrova definitely searching for something in particular.

The perusal did not take long.

“It is not here. I must find book your husband knows of. Old book, from the Cincinnati. He is Keeper of Secrets and I must know one of those.”

Her hope had been that Hedlund himself would not have to be involved. Now that seemed impossible.

Petrova pointed the gun her way. “Where is your husband?”

“He should be home soon.”

*   *   *

Luke had hustled away from Hedlund’s bedroom door, back to the other room where he’d first been hiding. He waited a few seconds, then crept back down the hall to the master suite, where he edged the door open and motioned for Hedlund. The older man still sat in the chair on the far side by the window, his phone call over.

Hedlund rose and stepped lightly toward him.

“We need to head downstairs,” Luke whispered.

They made their way through the second-floor landing to the top of the stairs. He needed to know who’d been on that call earlier without Hedlund becoming suspicious, so he mouthed,
Do you have a cell phone?

A nod.

Give it to me.

Hedlund quickly handed it over.

He found the switch on the side and activated the silent mode. They made their way to the ground floor and he could hear Petrova and Stephanie talking in the study, noting that Petrova had not found what she came for. When Stephanie mentioned that her husband would be back home shortly, that was the code they’d arranged for the next step, if necessary.

Hedlund had to go in.

He grabbed the older man by the arm and led him to the front door, where he breathed, “You have to find out what this woman wants. I’ll have your back from here. Okay? Stephanie will be with you. Like we talked about earlier, just find out what you can without provoking her.” He motioned with the phone he held. “I’ll keep this so there’ll be no interruptions.”

Hedlund nodded. “Should we not call the police?”

“We are the police.”

He grabbed the doorknob and whispered, “You’re home.”

He opened, then slammed shut the front door, immediately seeking refuge inside a nearby closet, where he settled among heavy coats.

“It’s me,” he heard Hedlund say in a loud voice.

*   *   *

Stephanie realized what was happening. Luke had determined that she wanted Hedlund involved, so he’d made that happen in an inconspicuous way. Good work. But she would have expected no less. She glanced at Petrova, who motioned for her to alert her husband where she was waiting.

“I’m in the library.”

Hedlund appeared in the doorway.

“We have a guest,” she said to him. “This woman is after something from the society. Some book. She won’t say what it might be. She threatened to hurt me if I didn’t cooperate.”

Petrova had the gun concealed behind her thigh, which she now revealed. Shock came to Hedlund’s face.

“Are you all right?” he asked Stephanie, playing along.

“I’m fine. Really. Fine.”

“Enough,” Petrova said, her voice rising. “I need the Tallmadge journal.”

“How do you know of that?” Hedlund asked.

A bold inquiry.

And not part of the plan.

“Not your concern. I need the journal. Where is it?”

“It doesn’t exist. It’s a myth. I’ve certainly heard of it, but I’ve never seen it. And I wonder again how you would know of it. That is something only a few within the society knew about.”

“A long time ago people talked,” Petrova said. “We listened. We know.”

“Russians?” he asked.

“Soviets. Tell me what you know of journal?”

Stephanie wanted to hear that answer, too.

“It was written by one of our founding members, Benjamin Tallmadge of New York. He was a spymaster from the Revolutionary War, one of the first in this country. Colonel Tallmadge was instrumental in our victory over the British. Afterward, he served in the society until he died in 1835, I believe. He kept the journal, which supposedly was part of the society’s early records. But it disappeared over a century ago.”

“You lie,” Petrova yelled. “Do not lie to me. I know truth. It was there thirty years ago. Soviets saw it. You know truth. Charon knew truth. Where is that journal?”

“I told you—”

Petrova darted across the room and nestled her weapon tight to Stephanie’s temple. “I will shoot your wife dead, if you do not tell truth.”

The gun’s hammer snapped into place.

Signaling more trouble.

*   *   *

Luke heard what Anya had said along with the distinctive click of a gun being readied to fire. Bad enough that they had Hedlund in play. Now there was no telling what Petrova would do. She was definitely agitated and impatient. Stephanie had told him to use his best judgment as to when to stop the charade, but urged him to give as wide a leash as possible. This seemed their best shot at finding out what was happening, and it had to have a chance to succeed.

But they now knew what Petrova was after.

The Tallmadge journal.

He gripped his weapon.

And heard again Stephanie’s last order from earlier.

“For God’s sake, don’t kill her.”

That might be easier said than done.

*   *   *

Stephanie kept her composure but realized that Mrs. Peter Hedlund would not be so calm.

“Please,” she said. “Please take that gun away from me.”

But the barrel stayed pressed to her scalp.

“Where is the Tallmadge journal,” Petrova asked again. “It was with Charon years ago. That I know. You are now Keeper of Secrets. Tell me, or I shoot her.”

Stephanie stared straight at Hedlund, who displayed a remarkable calm.

“Do you know what I did before I retired?” he asked Petrova, who said nothing. “Thirty-two years with the FBI.”

Which was news to Stephanie, but it explained the calculating eyes glaring back at her. Petrova seemed to understand what that meant, too, removing the gun from Stephanie’s head and pointing it at Hedlund.

“I resent that you have come into my home and threatened us,” he said. “I told you, the journal does not exist.”

“You lie.”

“And how do you know that?”

Challenging this woman was not necessarily a good idea.

This needed to end.

Then she heard knocks coming from the front door.

*   *   *

Luke rapped his knuckles on the paneled wood.

Bursting into the confined library with a gun had not seemed like a smart idea. Somebody was likely to get shot. So he’d decided to see if he could draw Petrova his way and give himself room to maneuver. He’d listened to what Hedlund had said and realized that this man was definitely keeping things close.

So he had to do something.

*   *   *

Stephanie saw Petrova react to the possibility of a visitor.

“Who is that?” the Russian asked.

Hedlund shrugged. “How would I know? Do you want me to answer it?”

She caught the condescending tone, which came across as more of a challenge. Petrova clearly did not appreciate it.

The gun stayed aimed at Hedlund.

“Go see,” came the order. “You, too.”

And Petrova motioned with the gun for Stephanie to follow.

Hedlund disappeared out the library door.

She noticed that Petrova hesitated in the hall, just past the doorway, and suddenly realized what the woman planned to do. The French doors. In the library. They offered a quick way out and this front-door visitor could provide just enough distraction for her to make a hasty escape. Unfortunately, Stephanie was unarmed, her Beretta still inside her coat in the study where they’d first met Hedlund.

“Keep moving,” Petrova ordered.

Hedlund made his way into the entrance hall.

She needed to alert Luke but, before she could, Hedlund stopped and spun around—

With a gun in his hand.

*   *   *

Luke had assumed the high ground, retreating to the second-floor landing, which offered a clear view of the floor below. His hope was that the prospect of being interrupted would be enough to force Petrova’s hand. Since he knew that there was nothing here to find, he had to end this encounter without gunfire and with Petrova in custody.

But that now seemed like a problem.

Hedlund had armed himself, the weapon surely hidden somewhere in the master bedroom. He’d heard what the man said about being former FBI, but that wasn’t going to do him much good against a pro like Petrova.

Cockiness can get you killed.

He ought to know. His own arrogance had come close to getting him whacked several times. But hell, he was thirty years old and had an excuse. Hedlund was collecting a pension and Social Security, yet acting as he were still in the game.

Options here were limited.

In fact, he had only one play.

*   *   *

Stephanie dove to the carpet runner, flattening her body and wondering who was going to shoot first. The answer came from Hedlund, who fired right past her. She rolled onto her spine and saw that Petrova was gone.