The 14th Colony: A Novel (7 page)

“Did you send a chopper here?” she asked.

“There’s a French military base not ten miles from you. I made a call and can have you in Russia within five hours. I need you to make a decision. Either get on that chopper or send it back.”

“Why would I go?”

“I can give you the practical reasons. You’re highly skilled. More than capable. Discreet. And you speak fluent Russian. But you and I know the real reason.”

A moment of silence filled her ear.

“You love him, and he needs you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Luke made a decision. He would follow orders and just observe. Malone had taught him that field agents could pretty much do whatever they wanted, as long as they delivered results.

But not tonight.

This was clearly an off-the-grid, unofficial op being done at the personal request of the president of the United States. So he remained a good boy and stayed put as the light played off whatever lay beyond the gash in the wall.

He heard a series of soft thuds, like something hitting the floor.

A pause.

Then a few more.

Anya Petrova was obviously here for something specific. After all, she’d traveled thousands of miles to this exact spot. He had to admit, his curiosity was getting the best of him, but he kept telling himself he could come back later and see what was there.

The light beams re-angled toward the makeshift entrance and an instant later Anya appeared, climbing through the gash with nothing in her hand besides the flashlight. He did not linger. Instead, he retreated into a room across the hall and hoped she didn’t come his way. He heard a click and the flashlight beam extinguished, plunging the interior back into darkness. He flattened himself against the wall and listened to her determined steps, one click after another, as she marched back toward the front door. He assumed she was wearing the same pair of leather boots from the past couple of days.

He hesitated an instant, then peered out to see her about to leave through the front door. He waited a few seconds more, then, making little to no sound, hustled in the same direction, coming to the outside door and expecting to see her departing.

But no one was in sight and the car was still there.

Before he could react to the obvious repercussions she pounced, leaping onto his back, wrapping a cord around his throat, forming a garrote, which she tightened, cutting off his breathing. She’d apparently twisted the rope as it had been applied, making it easier for her to choke the life out of him, and he had to admit she was doing a pretty fair job of it.

Oxygen to his brain rapidly depleted.

His head exploded in lights and black circles that whirled before him.

But he was no amateur.

So he broke with the code of a southern gentleman and rammed his right boot into her knee, moving closer to reduce her advantage, which kept the rope from accomplishing its fatal duty.

Never pull away when someone is choking you
.

Self-defense 101.

She absorbed his first blow, but a second gave her pause.

He spun and jammed his elbow into her shoulder, wrenching her backward and freeing her grip on the rope. She spun on her heels, steadied herself with outstretched arms, and laughed.

“That all?” she asked.

He lunged forward swinging his right leg around for a full body blow. But she was quick as a bird and dodged his attack, landing a kick of her own to the small of his back.

Which hurt.

He was still recovering from the choking, grabbing as many breaths as possible, and she seemed to sense his quandary, vaulting into the air and planting her right boot into his chest. The blow propelled him backward and he lost all balance, dropping down where the back of his head found something hard.

Everything winked in and out.

She fled out the front door.

He climbed to his feet. That woman was strong and knew how to fight. She also seemed to have enjoyed it, and apparently her orders were not similar to his own.

“Don’t get made.”

She’d gone out of her way to engage him.

He staggered out and heard an engine growl to life, then watched as she made her escape. He grabbed hold of himself and rushed into the night, reaching for the Beretta and a shot at her tires or the rear window, but the receding taillights trailed away like a meteor down the lane.

He ran toward the Mustang.

Cold air seared his lungs and throat, but he kept moving, glad that he maintained a steady physical regimen that included five miles of jogging each week. His thirty-year-old body was mainly muscle and he intended on keeping it that way for as long as the good Lord allowed.

He made it to the Mustang, hopped inside, and fired up the V-8. Time to put that power to use. Tires spun on the cold ground as he backed out then sped through the wrought-iron entrance to the highway. No cars were in sight either way. He assumed she’d headed back the same way she came, so he turned left and floored the accelerator. Being in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night had advantages, so he gained speed trying to catch up. The road ahead remained devoid of taillights and nothing appeared in his rearview mirror. He recalled from earlier that the highway was fairly straight all the way from the interstate.

So where was she?

The answer came with a bang as something popped into his rear bumper. Headlights suddenly ignited in his mirror and he realized the bitch had waited for him.

No problem.

He relaxed on the accelerator and veered left into the oncoming lane. She matched his move and slammed once again into his bumper.

She was about to really piss him off.

Tires squealed and he was forced back to the right, the steering wheel nearly torn from his grip. He drifted too far and found the road edge, wobbling in the soft shoulder. At this speed that could lead to disaster. He yanked the wheel left and once again acquired hard pavement. Anya had used his moment of distraction to maneuver into the left-hand lane and come parallel. He glanced over but could see little in the pitch dark. The interior cabin light in her vehicle came on and he saw her face, staring at him through the windows.

She puckered her lips and threw him a kiss.

Then the lights extinguished.

And she veered her car into his.

Now she had pissed him off.

This was a 1967 Mustang in mint condition. But not anymore. So he jammed the accelerator to the floor and decided to see how fast she wanted to go. He alternated his attention from her on the left to the road ahead. They’d already passed beneath I-66, now heading north into rural Virginia. The road ahead vaulted up a short hill. She was still beside him in the other lane seemingly unconcerned with what might lie over that rise.

So he decided to amplify her problems.

He yanked the wheel and started to force her from the road. What did it matter? That side of the car needed a body shop now anyway.

A guardrail protected her on the left side.

He heard the grinding screech of metal hitting metal and realized she was pinned. From the corner of his eye he caught movement. A quick glance and he saw the passenger-side window in her car descend. Anya’s right arm extended and he saw a gun. No time to do anything but duck, which he did, shifting right and trying to drop below the window while keeping his foot on the accelerator and hands on the steering wheel.

He heard a bang, then the driver’s-side window exploded inward. He shut his eyes as glass spewed across the front seats. Fragments stung his face and hands. His foot slipped from the accelerator, which instantly slowed the car enough for her to scoot past. He settled back in his seat and was about to head her way when she veered into his lane and slowed, challenging him to hit her from the rear.

He spun the wheel left.

The Mustang hurled into the oncoming lane and he passed her. But as he did, a spray of bullets peppered the car’s right side, thudding into the panels, obliterating one of the rear windows.

Two loud bangs signaled a new problem.

Tires blown.

He jerked the wheel hard right. The rear end swished side-to-side. A curve was approaching that he knew could not be negotiated on two tires. The risk of flipping loomed great, and this car came with no shoulder harnesses. Sweat stung his eyes and he eased off the gas, trying to regain equilibrium as his speed slowed. The wheels chattered. A loud clatter of metal against roadway signaled the end of the line.

Anya sped ahead, then fishtailed around a curve and disappeared into the night.

He stopped, opened the door, and stepped out to the road.

He rounded the car and saw smoke billowing from the two gone tires. Bullet holes dotted the entire side, along with massive dents, missing paint, and a shattered window.

A friggin’ 1967 first-generation Mustang.

Destroyed.

He slammed the palm of his hand onto the hood and cursed. He kicked the side of the car and cursed some more. Thank goodness his mother wasn’t here to hear him. She never had liked a foul mouth.

“Don’t get made.”

The last thing Uncle Danny told him.

That hadn’t worked out.

CHAPTER NINE

Stephanie headed toward the ground floor of the Justice Department building. There was little she could do from here with a dead telephone line as her sole means of communication. She hoped Cotton’s phone was simply broken or out of service, not destroyed in a plane crash. She’d called her Russian counterpart, the man who’d first requested American assistance, who assured her he would have the situation assessed. He also agreed, though, that Cassiopeia could come, acting as American eyes and ears. Whatever was happening seemed unusual, to say the least. But soon none of this would be her problem anymore.

She buttoned her coat and left out the front doors, past a security checkpoint. Though her watch read 3:40
A.M.
she wasn’t the least bit tired. She decided to head back to the Mandarin Oriental and wait for news in her hotel room. At least there she was free of Litchfield, though she doubted he’d be bothering her again until he was truly in charge.

Normally there would be a car waiting to drive her but that perk went with the end of the Magellan Billet. She was, for all intents and purposes, a private citizen, on her own, which wasn’t so bad. She’d learned long ago how to take care of herself.

Up near Constitution Avenue she caught sight of three cabs parked at the curb. One of those would be her chariot. The night air was cold, but thankfully arid. She stuffed her bare hands into her coat pockets and headed for the cab line. DC lingered in an early-morning slumber with little street noise and light traffic. The government buildings all around her sat dark, their business day not beginning for a few more hours. Her job, unfortunately, had never respected the clock. Running the Magellan Billet had been a twenty-four-hour-a-day task, and she could not remember the last time she took an actual vacation.

Many times she’d wondered how it would all end. Never had she imagined that it would simply disintegrate into nothing. Not that she expected any pomp or ceremony, but a simple thank-you would have been appreciated. And not from Danny. She knew how he felt. But from the new people. Seemed like common courtesy would mandate that the AG designee tell her face-to-face. But the ignominious bastard told the press instead and sent Litchfield to do the dirty work. She should not have been surprised. Politics had no memory, and no one cared that the Magellan Billet was gone. If truth be told the other intelligence agencies would be glad to be rid of it. Her relationship with the White House had long been their envy. But she’d earned that trust with proven results, a large part of which was thanks to Cotton. That was why she would see this last operation through, right until the new president finished his oath of office and shook the chief justice’s hand.

A black Cadillac sedan eased to the curb next to her and its rear window whined down. Alarm bells rang in her brain until she recognized a face.

Nikolai Osin.

Supposedly working for the Russian trade mission, Osin’s primary responsibilities were with the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, the SVR, the successor to the First Chief Directorate of the now debunked KGB, tasked with all Russian foreign intelligence operations. Osin headed the Washington, DC,
rezidentura.
And unlike during the Cold War days, the SVR and CIA now routinely identified their chiefs of station, the idea being so they could work faster and better together to counter global terrorism. Russia and the United States were supposedly allies, but tensions remained high, the old distrust never fading entirely. One problem came from simply defining terrorism. Caucasus separatists and Chechens were freedom fighters to the United States, as was Hamas or Hezbollah to Russia. More disagreements than cooperation seemed to exist. Which made Osin’s request, the one that had led to Cotton heading for Lake Baikal, all the more unusual.

She stopped and faced him. “Are you having me watched?”

He smiled. “I drove over after our call, hoping you might be leaving. I wanted to speak with you privately.”

She’d never known this man to play fast and loose. His reputation was one of skill and caution. “About what?”

“Forward Pass.”

How many years had it been since she last heard those words? At least twenty-five. And not far from here. Just a mile or so west on Pennsylvania Avenue. She wondered if the intelligence operation named Forward Pass remained classified. Nearly all of the once sensitive documents from the 1980s had been released, the passage of three decades and the fall of the Soviet Union transforming them from state secrets into historical perspective. Countless books had been written about Reagan and his war on communism. She’d even read a few. Some on target, others close, most missing the mark. But never had she seen the words
Forward Pass.

“How do you know about that?” she asked.

“Come now, Stephanie. Ronald Reagan himself gave your operation that name.”

She stared at the president of the United States, having never before been this close to the most powerful man in the world.