But why was Minkin being targeted? If he gave the briefing, didn’t that mean he was in charge? Wouldn’t he have the most to lose if the plot were to come to light? Killing Boykov made sense, and killing Minkin only would if he weren’t actually the one in charge.

  His eyes widened slightly. If Minkin wasn’t in charge, then it had to be one of the other two men in the room. It made no sense why they were there, as they didn’t seem to have done anything. Minkin seemed to be directing things, Boykov was the shooter, West was responsible for commandeering the American frequencies, and the other unknown subject was in charge of getting Boykov into the building to take the shot.

  What were the other two men doing? They had to be there for a reason, yet they appeared to have no assignment.

  They had to be the brains behind it.

  Perhaps not the brains, but the men in charge.

  One of them has to be behind this.

  His eyes widened at a thought. This woman was the right age to have had a father that was involved. They had managed to determine she had no uncle, but her father had been a major in the KGB. He could have been in the room that day, he could be one of the two unidentified men.

  He rolled his chair closer to Tommy. “Send the files we have on Major Ivashin to Agent West. Let’s see if he recognizes the man.”

  31 |

  Third Ring Road Moscow, Russia

  Kane gunned the engine, shooting down the shoulder of the road, horns honking in annoyance as he blazed a trail toward the offramp that should let him intercept his target. It hadn’t been hard to determine what vehicle Minkin had transferred to—it was the one blasting through the gate at the parking garage while gunfire took its toll overhead.

  Leroux’s team had retasked the drone to follow it, but time was running out on the small device. He was questioning Morrison’s decision to keep this within the family, despite the CIA now cleared of involvement, and the only thing he could think of was that the man felt guilty about what had happened so long ago.

  And he understood the guilt. Morrison had kept his mouth shut. Perhaps if he hadn’t, perhaps if he had told his handlers what had happened, those involved could have been apprehended, and the innocents now dead would still be alive.

  But hindsight was always 20/20, and there was no point living in the rearview mirror. Kane as well had done it for too long, blaming himself for a mission gone terribly wrong where women and children had been killed. It hadn’t been his fault. There was no way he could have known, but he had watched it unfold in horrifying clarity through his scope, and had blamed himself for years, drinking himself into oblivion whenever possible, living a life of debauchery when not on duty.

  Fang had changed all that. He had confronted his demons and was pushing through them, though his dreams were still on occasion haunted by what he had seen that day.

  And he wondered if Morrison was now a haunted man.

  Whatever the man might be feeling, he was compromising the mission by not bringing in a full team and the entire resources of the Agency to bear.

  “Take a left immediately after you clear the offramp, then an immediate right. That should put you ahead of them.”

  “Copy that.”

  He was thankful Sonya Tong was on the team. She was excellent in these situations, and was a huge asset to his buddy, who while the best at what he did, couldn’t do everything himself. He executed the turns, hammering on the gas as he surged ahead.

  “Okay, traffic is clear. They’re half a mile out from your position. Do whatever it is you’re going to do.”

  “Copy that.”

  He kept the accelerator floored, the target vehicle in sight ahead, then hammered on his brakes, bringing him to a shuddering halt as he cranked the wheel, blocking both lanes. The target SUV came to a halt only feet from him, four men jumping out, guns drawn as he exited the vehicle, his hands raised.

  “Tell Mr. Minkin that his representative from the insurance company would like to talk to him.”

  This surprised the men enough to not shoot, and words were exchanged with someone in the back seat. The guard stepped back and Minkin climbed out, a slight smile on his face.

  “So, you’re the man Svetlana talked of.”

  “I am. She’s quite the woman. I would have assumed you’d be taking her with you.”

  He chuckled as he strode slowly toward Kane. “She’ll be sent for, don’t you worry. A woman like that, well, you don’t let get away.”

  Kane smiled. “I agree.” He ended the pleasantries. “We’re both in a hurry, so I’ll cut to the chase. I need to know who arranged your meeting to hand over the Novichok. I need to know the name of her uncle.”

  “And why should I tell you?”

  “Because they’re also targeting a friend of mine, and I intend to stop them. If I succeed, then you’ll be able to rest a little easier.”

  Minkin nodded slowly. “This is true. But I think the young lady who tried to kill me won’t be stopped by killing her uncle, nor am I certain he’s behind this.”

  “Then there’s no harm in giving me his name.”

  “Nor is there any in giving me hers.”

  Kane thought for a moment, and only for a moment. She was a murderer, and deserved no protection from him. “Her name is Natasha Ivashin.”

  “Interesting. It means nothing to me. I had hoped I might recognize it. It might have explained a few things.”

  “And the name of the uncle?”

  Minkin regarded him for a moment. “Surely, if you know her name, you can figure that out yourself?”

  Kane shook his head. “She has no uncle.”

  Minkin’s eyebrows rose. “Very interesting. Now, why lie about that?” He tapped his chin. “I’m going to give you the name, American, as long as you tell me one thing.”

  Kane frowned. “And what’s that?”

  “Who do you work for?”

  Kane smiled slightly. “I told you, I’m with your insurance company.”

  Minkin chuckled. “Bullshit. You’ve got Agency written all over you.”

  “If you’re so sure, why bother asking.”

  “I just wanted to be certain.” He turned, heading back to his vehicle and his impatient security detail. He glanced back at Kane. “The man you’re looking for is Cheslav Aristov.” He began to climb inside when he paused. “And CIA, be careful. He’s a powerful man.”

  “Thank you.” Kane held up a finger. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “You gave the briefing, but you weren’t in charge, were you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who was?”

  “I don’t know his name, but he was in the room. Figure out who everyone was, and you’ll figure out who’s behind all this.”

  Minkin shut the door and Kane climbed back in his vehicle, Minkin’s already steering past him, the few cars blocked, too scared to honk their horns with all the guns on display, inching past. And as he headed back toward central Moscow, a smile spread.

  They finally had a name that might lead somewhere.

  32 |

  Natasha Ivashin Residence Moscow, Russia

  Viktor Zorkin pushed open the rear door to the humble home, its World War Two era plaster cracked and failing on the back, all efforts to maintain respectability reserved for the front, a little of the apparently limited funds left for the sides. It was so typical of the area, and so sad. Everyone tried to make it appear as if things were good, at least on the outside, but the reality was far from different.

  People were hurting.

  Sanctions coupled with a government out of control on military spending, along with corruption at unparalleled levels that had their glorious leader’s net worth pegged north of $50 billion and possibly as high as $200 billion, were reminding him of the collapse of the Soviet Union, when the communist-run government spent itself into bankruptcy trying to keep up with the faked American Star Wars program.

  It had been a masterstroke of deception, and he tipped his hat to his former foe for the victory.

  But today, all fault lay with their own leadership, and he saw no end in sight short of an assassin’s bullet.

  Here we are, thirty years later, and assassination is still the only answer?

  If Boykov had succeeded, what would the world have been like? A hardliner would have taken over the Communist Party, there would have been a purge of anyone that had supported glasnost and perestroika, and the population would have been rallied to support the renewal of the Iron Curtain.

  And perhaps there might have been the war to truly end all wars.

  And today, should someone eliminate their glorious leader, what would happen? Would their once fledgling democracy be allowed to flourish once again? Would another hardliner take over? Would the military stage a coup? Would the egoist’s foreign policy be put to an end so peace between the two “sides” might finally be achieved?

  He had no idea, nor did he care to speculate. That wasn’t his problem anymore. It wasn’t his generation’s problem anymore. It was up to the youth of the nation to chart its future, and so far, with their support of the current leadership, he held out little hope. They were allowing themselves to be brainwashed by a former KGB colonel, and deserved whatever they got.

  He closed the door behind him, the heavy closed curtains plunging him into darkness. He left the lights off, instead relying upon a pair of night vision goggles he now slipped over his eyes. The house was empty, of that he was certain—Natasha Ivashin had just murdered Boykov and half of Minkin’s team. He didn’t have a problem with that, especially the killing of Minkin’s team—they had just slaughtered dozens of innocent police. As for Boykov, the man had lived far longer than one in his line of work normally did, and probably was pleased to die in a hail of gunfire, rather than in some lonely apartment, gripping a bottle of vodka and a pistol.

  He would have liked to have seen Minkin buy it. Anyone who would give up Novichok to save his own skin didn’t deserve to share the same air with its possible victims. But Kane’s message from only minutes ago, indicated Minkin’s survival had borne at least one positive thing.

  They now knew who the uncle was, and he had little doubt the CIA was pulling every piece of information they could while he tried to discover more about Natasha and her possible motivations.

  He was in the kitchen at the back of the house, a dated affair that was tidy though neglected, half a rotting loaf of bread reeking of mold. He made quick work of the room, finding nothing of interest, then moved into the main living area of the home, a single room at the front of the house, all the curtains drawn, nothing out of place beyond a box of tissues, a handful crumpled up on a side table where someone had obviously sat in tears.

  He opened the drawers on an antique rolltop desk sitting in the corner, probably worth more to some collector than the rest of the contents of the home, and riffled through the papers there, finding nothing of interest. With no other possibilities of paperwork in the room, he turned his attention to the mantle over a fireplace home to a dozen framed pictures. Their suspect was featured in several of them at varying ages, her smiles forced or missing in all but the few of her as a tiny child.

  Probably before her father killed himself.

  There were several of the man in question, most in Soviet-era uniform, but one stood out. He was smiling with another man, both with their arms around each other, both in KGB uniforms. Happier times, and perhaps someone close to the man who might be identifiable. He took photos of all pictures on the mantle, sending them to Kane’s team, then headed up the narrow stairs to the second floor.

  The master bedroom had nothing beyond a few more photos and some personal documents belonging to the late mother, the lone bathroom, of course, had nothing, but the second bedroom, clearly Natasha’s, revealed a treasure trove of information in a single document.

  A letter, sitting open on her nightstand, written by hand and dated over thirty years ago, her father’s signature on the bottom.

  And its contents explained almost everything if it were only recently opened, which he suspected, the paper and the envelope that had contained it in far too pristine condition for three decades of handling.

  It was her father’s suicide note, addressed to her, clearly meant for when she was older, explaining that he had been involved in something he described as shameful, which Zorkin thought was an interesting way of describing it. He would have thought the man would be proud of what he had tried to do, though it was dated several years after the attempt, so perhaps he had changed his mind in the aftermath.

  His reason for killing himself was also interesting, even more so than his characterization of the plot. He had taken his life to protect his family from what he feared might happen in the future. That suggested he was concerned someone would get to him through his family, and by killing himself, had felt he would eliminate that motivation in his enemies.

  But who were his enemies? Konstantin Ivashin was a major in the KGB, and Kane’s team had determined that Minkin was only a captain. If Ivashin were in the room, which they still didn’t know if he was, then he would have outranked Minkin. But if he had enemies, it meant there were others that might want to kill him, others who likely outranked him.

  Could it be the sixth man? Did he fear him enough to take his own life? Would the sixth man have killed Ivashin’s wife and daughter for revenge? To keep him silent? Or were there more involved beyond those in the room? It was possible. Definitely possible, though he suspected if there were any, they were few, as something like this would be kept to a tightknit group.

  In fact, he suspected there might not be anyone else involved, for the mere fact Minkin was in the room, and apparently not in charge, if Kane’s last message were to be believed. That meant one of the two men they had yet to identify was likely in charge, and he had a feeling one of them was Major Ivashin, and the other was his superior, for if he weren’t, then who was Ivashin scared of?

  Everyone involved was in that room.

  It was the only explanation that made sense. The senior man was probably a colonel, perhaps a lieutenant colonel, and a control freak. Most at that level in the KGB were. He would want to make sure every single instruction was relayed properly and in its entirety, and a micromanager like that would need to be in the room, even if he remained silent. If anything was missed or inaccurate, he would, after the fact, tell his second-in-command, a major like Ivashin, who would then correct things.

  Or pass on secondary commands, like the command West hadn’t heard in the room to kill the guard at the door, a command obviously given to Boykov after the fact.

  And the target, another thing not mentioned in the meeting.

  It all made sense when thought of from that perspective. A commanding officer who had to control every aspect of an operation. A trusted second-in-command like Ivashin, who could be used as a fall guy should it become necessary, and to pass on any secondary orders so the man in command could deny ever giving any such orders. A handpicked assassin known to have issues with the reforms, then his removal from the KGB orchestrated with the rumors spread about why he had been forced out. A poor expendable to be used to let the assassin into the building to make the shot. And an American, added at the last minute, allowing them to solidify the frameup taking place.

  A small, contained unit, with no one on the outside to let the details slip. A unit small enough to eliminate after the fact with little effort, should it become necessary.

  He liked it. It made sense. It was clean.

  Except for one thing.

  Why now? Why thirty years later? He could understand the daughter wanting revenge if she were off her rocker, but she had to be getting the information from somewhere. There was no way she could discover by herself who was involved, which meant she had a source, and it could only be the sixth man.

  Zorkin’s eyebrows shot up.

  Could the uncle be the sixth man?

  It had to be, yet it couldn’t. Why would Natasha’s father fear him? Why would he kill himself to save the lives of his family? Cheslav Aristov had to be close to Natasha and her mother. A girl didn’t call a man her uncle when he wasn’t, unless they were close. And for him to help her now, to use his connections to procure a nerve agent as deadly as Novichok, he had to care for her very deeply.

  And for her father.

  Was he too seeking revenge? That made sense.

  He smiled, his jaw slowly dropping.

  His good friend, Natasha’s father, told him everything before he killed himself. Aristov wasn’t involved, but knew everything he did because his good friend, his friend so close that his daughter called him uncle, told him everything. And if Ivashin were the second-in-command of the operation, he likely would have handpicked Minkin, the shooter Boykov, and the guard Boykov was ordered to kill. Ivashin would have been recruited himself, probably by the sixth man, so he would know who that was. And as the second-in-command, he likely would have been responsible for the cleanup after the fact, so would have discovered that Kulick and Morrison were the agents who had helped foil their plans.

  But how was West brought in?

  He chewed his cheek for a moment, then shook his head. The weapon purchase made through his old rival would have been done through standard channels. Things like that were done all the time, and no one would think twice about being given an order to purchase the weapon and deliver it to a drop point, none of the five already involved revealed to those handling the deal. West’s request to join would have been passed on, the mystery man in command would have approved it as he intended to frame the Americans, and West would have been brought in and used as the fall guy.

 

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