The 14th Colony: A Novel (28 page)

“And Begyn?” Luke asked Hedlund again.

“He knows it all.”

Not good enough. “What specifically do we ask him?”

“It’s quite simple. Ask him about what the Founding Fathers wanted Canada to become after the Revolution. What we code-named the War of 1812 Canadian invasion plan. And what Roosevelt called his plan to invade during World War II. All three carried the same label.”

She waited.

“The 14th Colony.”

CHAPTER FORTY

P
RINCE
E
DWARD
I
SLAND

Zorin was making excellent time.

He was familiar with smartphones and GPS mapping, even the apps that came on the phones that provided precise directions, but he still preferred the old-fashioned ways. He’d stopped at a seaside motel and retrieved a map of the island, which provided directions to Charlottetown. The roads were pitch dark and lightly traveled, the trip southeast taking less than an hour. He was careful with his driving, keeping to the speed limit and obeying all signs. The last thing he needed was a nosy policeman to interfere.

He had an address for Jamie Kelly and located the street on the map. Thankfully, he was no stranger to the island. Its eastern half was heavily farmed and the most populated, the coasts dotted with countless fishing ports. The western half loomed a bit wilder, more forested, less settled. The narrow, central strip, where Charlottetown sat, stayed the most developed. The union of Canada had been born here, the confederacy arising from a famous 1864 conference. He’d visited Province House, in central Charlottetown, where that occurred.

He’d spent three years working out of Ottawa, then Quebec City, one of thirteen officers assigned to the Soviet-Canadian Friendship Society, ostensibly created to promote goodwill and cultural exchanges, but actually a KGB front. Stealing Canada’s national secrets had never been a Soviet priority. If it had, the task would have been relatively simple given the ineptitude of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. In his day that agency was less than a decade old, a baby in the spy business, no match for the much more mature KGB. Besides, it had been easy to exploit the countless pro-Canadians who despised the United States. He’d scored several coups, learning about American Arctic activities, means the United States and Canada used to track Soviet
Typhoon
-class submarines, and obtaining underwater maps of the northern seafloor, invaluable to Soviet submariners. He’d worked his job with diligence, living there alone, his wife and son staying behind in the Soviet Union. Unlike others who accompanied their spouses overseas, his wife had harbored no desire to live in the West.

He slowed the truck as he entered the Charlottetown historic district. Trees bare to winter lined wide streets. Striking churches, Victorian architecture, and clapboard houses reflected its British heritage, but he noticed how trendy cafés and modern shops now dominated. Different from his last visit so long ago. Reflective, he thought, of changing times, which suddenly made him feel old.

Many of the eateries remained open, enjoying a brisk Friday-evening business. He turned off the main boulevard and passed the Great George, the hotel where he’d stayed back in the 1980s. He noticed that another boulevard was named University, which had to be significant, but he wasn’t interested in the college. Only in one of its part-time employees, and Jamie Kelly lived in Stratford, an adjacent town just past the Hillsborough River.

He followed the map across a long bridge, past a dark ribbon of wide water that stretched straight as a highway. Then he veered south on a two-laned road and headed for the address. He drove like a robot, his mind numb, body automatically reacting to the conditions. The pastoral neighborhood he found contained more stylish Victorian homes on spacious wooded lots. Lights burned in only a few windows. The address he sought sat at the end of the lane, a two-story, brick-fronted square with bowed bay windows top and bottom. He grabbed his bearings and determined that the house faced east, the river maybe a few hundred meters behind to the west through the trees.

He parked the truck on the street and noticed that lights burned inside Kelly’s house on both floors. No mailbox or anything else identified the occupant. Only a house number. He stepped from the truck and grabbed his knapsack, deciding not to leave it outside unattended.

Whether trouble awaited him he did not know.

But he was ready.

*   *   *

Malone absorbed every detail of the pickup truck stopping in front of Jamie Kelly’s residence. Cassiopeia sat beside him in the car that had been waiting for them at the local airport when their two French fighter jets landed. Edwin Davis, true to his word, had taken care of all ground preparations. They’d been delayed a little in flight by some weather over Greenland, but had still arrived a solid half hour before Zorin’s plane passed over the island.

Canadian air traffic controllers, working with the Royal Mounted Police, had watched the jet carefully, noting a deviation in its flight path that avoided Nova Scotia and found Prince Edward Island’s north coast. Whether Zorin jumped was impossible to say, but Malone had assumed all along that would be his path. Less chance of discovery that way, even though a night leap from a fast-moving aircraft would take every skill of a
spetsnaz
-trained warrior, plus a little luck. If the jump somehow killed Zorin, then this was all over. If not, the ex-KGB operative would come straight here.

And that’s exactly what had happened.

“It’s him,” he said to Cassiopeia, studying Zorin through night-vision binoculars that had been waiting in the car, along with two Berettas and spare magazines.

They’d parked in one of the driveways lining the long street, hoping the occupants of the dark house were not home. That way they were just another unnoticed car, one of several in other driveways, nothing to arouse Zorin’s suspicions. A small slit from an open window leaked in cold air and kept the windows from fogging.

“What now?” she asked.

He slid down in the seat, leaning his head against the door frame.

“We wait.”

*   *   *

Zorin approached the front door, bright on both sides from curtained sidelights. The porch was columned and covered by an extension that jutted from the second story, the eight windows on three sides above glowing a burnt amber from inside lights. What sounded like opera played beyond the door.

He knocked loud enough to be heard.

The music dimmed.

He heard the scrape of soles on a hard floor and the sound of a bolt being withdrawn. The man who peered out through the rectangular strip of light between the door and the jamb was mid-sixties, a short gray beard adorning his chin. The last time he’d seen the face, in the safe house with Andropov, the hair had been black. Now it was thin, gray, and receding. The jowls bore a solid two-day stubble, the teeth still showing a tiny gap between the front two, just as he remembered.

“Hello, comrade,” he said.

The Russian who’d assumed the Western alias of Jamie Kelly appraised him with a studied glare.

Then a chilling smile came to Kelly’s thin lips.

One that signaled recognition.

“Aleksandr Zorin. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to come.”

*   *   *

Cassiopeia watched as Zorin entered the house and the door closed to the night. She was glad to be back with Cotton. This was where she belonged. They’d yet to have an opportunity to fully talk, only the short exchange back in France. Everything was happening so fast, and they’d not been alone, except for the past half hour here in the car. So she’d offered him no excuses, made no appeals for sympathy or forbearance, just acknowledged again that she’d been wrong, opening herself to a rebuff that he could have easily delivered.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, he’d accepted her admissions with grace and acknowledged mistakes of his own.

“Looks like the gang’s all here,” Cotton said.

She knew exactly what they were facing, thanks to Cotton’s call to the White House. Like a hunt, she’d thought. The kind her father once enjoyed. Several times he’d taken her with him to watch as he gave the deer a wide berth, following, but not too close, just enough to know exactly what the animal might do, waiting for the right moment to take a shot. And though hunting game was not her thing, she’d loved the time with her father. She and Cotton had followed this deer all the way from Siberia, even stopping another hunter from killing him.

“I’m assuming,” she said, “that we’re not just going to sit here.”

He smiled at her. “As impatient as ever.”

“We could make out?”

“Now, that’s a thought. And as tempting as the prospect is, we have a job to do.” He reached to the backseat and grabbed a duffel bag that had been there when they first climbed into the car.

“I wasn’t sure what would happen, but I decided to be prepared.”

He unzipped the top and rummaged through, removing a small electronic unit along with a cord. “We’ll need to attach this microphone to one of the windows. Then we can listen in. Not exactly state-of-the-art, but it should get the job done.”

“I assume one of us will be doing the attaching?”

“Seems like the perfect job for you.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be watching your backside.”

She tossed him a mischievous smile of her own.

“I bet you will.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Luke drove the Escape as he and Stephanie left Annapolis. Peter Hedlund would remain in the hospital for a couple more days.

“I made sure that Petrova’s death would remain a secret,” he told her. “The Maryland State Police agreed to cooperate,
after
the Secret Service intervened and slapped national security all over it.”

He liked having the White House as an ally.

“They’ll be saying publicly only that the victim is unidentified.”

He could see that his former boss was tired, and could sympathize. It was approaching midnight and they’d had a long day.

“I promised Fritz Strobl I’d return his car in one piece,” she said. “I appreciate your not wrecking it.”

“I assume we’re going to see Larry Begyn?” he asked.

“First thing tomorrow. I think we both need some sleep. Cotton has Zorin under control, and things here are at an impasse. I called Edwin and told him that some rest seems in order.”

On that he could not argue.

Her cell phone vibrated.

She checked the display and he heard her say, “This is not going to be good.”

She answered the call.

“You’re ignoring me,” Danny Daniels said through the speaker.

“Your chief of staff knows it all.”

“I want to hear it from you. Directly.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“You have no idea how much I do not like at the moment.”

Luke listened as she recounted the events of the past few hours, ending with Petrova’s death and Hedlund’s revelations. His uncle then told them the details about Cotton being in Canada with Zorin. For Luke, any man who could make a night jump into unknown territory from a high-speed jet commanded a high measure of respect. He’d done it twice while a Ranger, both harrowing experiences.

“But we’ve got a new problem,” the president said.

He didn’t like the solemn tone.

“Moscow has gone nuts.”

*   *   *

Malone led the way as he and Cassiopeia crossed the dark street toward Jamie Kelly’s house. Edwin Davis had located the address and provided some sketchy background info.

Kelly was sixty-four years old and once worked at Georgetown University as an assistant dean of students, serving the university with distinction from 1993 to 2005. He then moved to Canada, settling on Prince Edward Island, finding part-time work at the local university. No criminal record. His credit history was exemplary, and he’d never appeared on any watch list or radar screen. If Kelly had indeed been a Soviet mole, he’d apparently been damn good at what he did since not even a hint of suspicion had ever been directed his way. Once the Cold War was long gone, historians had learned that the KGB infiltrated nearly every society around the world. The United States ranked as their top priority, so there was little doubt officers were there. Occasionally, a name would pop up, an identity revealed, but by and large those assets had come and gone undetected. Little of that mattered anymore since, in theory, Russia and the United States were no longer enemies. Sometimes, though, that amicability could be difficult to see since old habits tended to die hard.

The crisp night air chilled his nostrils and parched his throat. Both he and Cassiopeia wore clothing loaded with Gore-Tex the French had provided. Darkness offered excellent cover, the quiet rural neighborhood bedded down for the night.

They found the end of a thick hedge that bordered the house and carefully made their way down a narrow alley between bushes and wall to the light from a ground-floor window. A murmur of voices could be heard inside. He risked a quick peek and saw Zorin and another man, with a goatee, sitting in a parlor. He nodded and watched as Cassiopeia found the listening device and carefully pressed its suction cup to the window’s lower-left corner. Its cord was already plugged into the receiver.

She inserted an earpiece and signaled that all was good.

He retreated.

But kept alert for any trouble.

*   *   *

Zorin admired Kelly’s home, which was like a double house with rooms laid out symmetrically on either side of a central hall. Wooden details such as ceiling rosettes, cornices, fluted molding, and arches all seemed crafted with skill and precision. The décor was likewise impressive, with lots of art on the walls and sculptures on the tables. The room where they sat in overstuffed chairs had a bay window that faced the front of the house and one on the side. His knapsack rested on the floor near his feet. Radiators and a raging fire inside a period hearth provided welcomed heat, and he caught a faint scent of eucalyptus in the warm air.

“It’s been a long time,” Kelly said in perfect English.