Her handwriting had been exquisite as well, and she had this unique way of writing the letter T where she didn’t lift her pen to cross them. He had emulated her for a brief while until she broke his heart, turning her attentions to a mullet-sporting boy nicknamed Ace.

  Tragic.

  He finished reading Gail’s statement, far more thorough than his, as she had gone with a narrative rather than point form. He looked up to see her smiling at him.

  “Where were you?”

  “Huh?”

  “At one point you weren’t reading. Your eyes stopped moving. It’s like you were lost in thought.”

  His cheeks burned once again. “Umm, middle school.”

  She faced him, curling her leg up under her knee. “Oh? What was her name?”

  His eyes drifted to the floor. “Thea.”

  “Sexy.”

  “She’s nothing compared to you.”

  “I should hope not, if she was in middle school.”

  He laughed. “You know what I mean.”

  She patted his cheek. “I wish my name was Thea. Much sexier.”

  “Trust me, there’s no one sexier than you.”

  She leaned in, pressing her forehead against his and closing her eyes. “Oh, you were going to get so lucky tonight.” She sighed heavily then pulled away, tapping her notepad. “Unfortunately, we’ve got a phone call to make first.”

  He groaned as he leaned back, but not before reaching out and taking her hand and clasping it to his chest. He stared into her eyes. “Please tell me we’ll get a second chance at this.”

  She grinned. “Who knows? They might not want to see us until the morning.”

  He bolted upright. “Then let’s make that damn call!”

  She giggled and grabbed him by the back of the head, drawing him in and kissing him, a long slow tender kiss that left no doubt in his mind that she was as interested as he was, and his heart fluttered with the thought that this could be his last first kiss.

  K

  14 |

  Chief of Station’s Office, Embassy of the United States Moscow, Russia

  Carl struggled to control his racing heart and Gail reached out, taking his hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. He smiled weakly at her then rapidly let go when there was a noise at the door. They were sitting in the outer office of the Chief of Station, waiting for her to arrive, and this could be her.

  Gail had made the call, since it was her apartment. She had given the code word indicating a foreign contact, and they were ordered in immediately, a car from the embassy picking them up fifteen minutes later. When they had arrived, they had met with the duty officer who read the letter, read their statements, then called in the Chief of Station.

  And they had been waiting since, slowly sobering up.

  The door opened and Moscow Chief of Station Patricia Arbuckle entered wearing casual clothes and a yawn. Carl leaped to his feet, Gail a split second behind him. “Good morning, ma’am,” they both echoed.

  Arbuckle waved them off as she unlocked her inner office, beckoning them to follow. “Sit. It’s too early in the morning for formalities.” She dropped in her chair, placing a large thermos on the desktop along with a file folder sporting a classified tag. “How drunk are you two?”

  “Fairly,” replied Carl as Gail contradicted him.

  “Not very.”

  They both exchanged nervous glances.

  “Well, which is it?”

  Gail leaned forward. “I wouldn’t drive, but I only had a few drinks. I have plans in the morning.”

  Arbuckle redirected her focus to Carl. “And you?”

  “Half a dozen beers maybe. I definitely wouldn’t drive and I certainly wouldn’t come into work. If you’re asking if I’m floor-licking pissed, then no. I’m not slurring my words.” He suddenly doubted himself and his head spun toward Gail. “I’m not, am I?”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Good,” said Arbuckle. “Then we’ll begin informally. In the morning things will really get going when you’re both legally sober.” She shook the file folder. “I’ve read your statements. Good thinking, by the way.”

  Carl jerked a thumb at Gail. “That was her idea.”

  “Well, it was a good one. Record everything while things are still fresh. Now, about this letter—”

  “Do you think it’s serious?” asked Gail.

  Arbuckle regarded her. “Would I be here at this ungodly hour if I didn’t?”

  Gail leaned back, staring at her hands. “Sorry.”

  Carl leaped to her defense, perhaps a little too quickly. “I think it’s a reasonable question.”

  Arbuckle poured what turned out to be coffee from the thermos, filling her mug that sat on her desk, the side of it emblazoned with MFWIC, and Carl wondered what the acronym meant. The inebriated part of his brain wanted to ask, but thankfully it had minimal control right now.

  She tapped the file. “In your statement, Carl, you said you recognized him.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen him at the bar before.”

  “Have you ever spoken to him?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think so. Certainly never had a conversation with him. Might have said hello or something like that if we bumped into each other in the crowd.”

  “So, you’ve never formally met Victor Stepanov?”

  “No, definitely not.” His eyes narrowed. “Why? Have I?”

  “I’d be stunned if you did.” Arbuckle opened the file folder and leafed through several pages before lifting a photo of the man who had handed them the letter. “Is this him?”

  They both nodded. “Yeah, that’s him,” said Gail. She squinted. “Why do we have a file on him?”

  “Because his father is very high profile. Have you ever heard of Alexei Stepanov?”

  Head shakes.

  “Well, he’s a Russian oligarch. Mining. And a huge supporter of the Russian president. So, naturally, we keep tabs on him and his family.” She tapped the photo. “This is his son who recently started his career as a translator in the Russian president’s office.”

  Carl’s eyes shot wide. “Holy shit, so then this is legit?”

  “It could be, and it’s the only reason why I’m here at this hour. When the son of one of Russia’s wealthiest men, whose family is a staunch supporter of the Russian president, and who actually works in the president’s office, claims to have valuable intelligence and is essentially requesting to defect, it gets my attention.” She again held up the photo. “And you’re positive this was him, not just someone who looks like him?”

  Carl hesitated. It had been dark. The man had his hood up, covering some of his features. “I’m pretty sure. I mean, looking at him, it does look like the guy, doesn’t it?” he asked, turning to Gail.

  She shifted in her chair. “I think it is. But am I one hundred percent positive? No. It was nighttime. We were a little drunk and it was cold out, so he had his hood up. He didn’t have a scarf on or anything like that, but it certainly looked like him. And the fact that his name matches the letter, doesn’t that kind of mean it is him?”

  Arbuckle firmly dismissed the assertion. “No, it doesn’t. The FSB could have had somebody who looked like him play the part to trick us. We’d go through a song and dance, get our hands on this intel, it would turn out to be false, but we’d waste days, weeks, or maybe even months figuring that out. It’s a game both sides play. You’re always trying to hand the other guy garbage just so that the one time it’s real, it has them doubting it, hopefully long enough to mitigate the leak.”

  “You mean we could be getting played?” asked Carl. The idea pissed him off. Right now, he should be making love to Gail, instead he was here at work on a Friday night, rather than sealing the deal with a woman he had been infatuated with for months.

  “Yes, but I don’t think that’s what’s happening in this case.”

  “Why not?” asked Gail.

  “The FSB would never use so high profile a person to impersonate. They would use a nobody. The fact this letter claims to have been written by Victor Stepanov, I have to assume this is genuine, and act accordingly.”

  “What do you think this document he claims to have come across deals with?”

  “No idea. However, with the current state of affairs between Russia and our country, and much of the world for that matter, there’s a very good chance it actually is something critical, as opposed to the exaggeration of somebody who’s just trying to escape the draft.”

  Carl grunted. “Something tells me with his father, he doesn’t have to worry about that. Little rich kids rarely have to live in the reality the rest of us do.”

  Arbuckle regarded him. “Do I detect a hint of bitterness?”

  Carl dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “Sorry, ignore me. My filter is faulty right now.” Unfortunately, his filter failed him again. “It’s just that I had to work for everything I have. My parents couldn’t afford to put me through college, so I worked my ass off washing dishes, busing tables for four years. Then I had to compete to get my first government job and work my ass off to be able to get a foreign posting. My father was a long-haul trucker. Nobody ever gave him anything and nobody ever gave me anything. If my dad tried to make a call to get me a job, whatever senator or rep that claimed to be looking out for us wouldn’t have given him the time of day.”

  “Is this going to be a problem for you?”

  Carl regarded the woman, already regretting what he had said. “No. What does it matter? It’s not like we’re involved anymore.”

  “Oh, you’re definitely still involved.”

  Carl’s stomach flipped. “Why’s that?”

  “Because, according to both your statements, our rich boy tried to give you the envelope.”

  K

  15 |

  En route to Chkalovsky Air Base Moscow, Russia

  Kane cleared the checkpoint on the outskirts of Moscow, his forged documents provided by Moscow Station passing muster as expected. Langley had him on what might potentially be a wild goose chase, though that didn’t mean it was no less dangerous. After the incident at Peskov’s residence, the NSA had detected a flurry of communications between the Russian president’s office and eight different military facilities across the country. He was headed to one of them, Chkalovsky Air Base, where one of the communications had gone out to. It was a known home of the Kh-47M2 Kinzhal hypersonic missile, a missile designed to be attached to a fighter jet and dropped from high altitude where it would then reach speeds of up to Mach 5 as it descended toward its target, almost unstoppable, though every time the Russians used one in Ukraine, NATO collected more data, and he had no doubt weapons designers the world over were working on an effective countermeasure.

  But that could be years in the offing.

  If he could get evidence that there were Kinzhal, or “Dagger” missiles ready for shipment, as opposed to launch, it could at least confirm what the Russians were selling the Chinese. Right now, he was Captain Maxim Mironov, assigned to the post. The real Captain Mironov, whose face had been copied by Moscow Station, was passed out in a cheap hotel room, surrounded by photos of him doing unspeakable things with a prostitute named Olga, and a note.

  Don’t report for work until tomorrow.

  Mironov had a known drug problem and it wouldn’t be the first time he missed a day of work, though someone always took his place, and today that was Kane. Setting the poor bastard up had taken a full day, leaving Kane to twiddle his thumbs most of yesterday at the safe house until a good friend had arrived that had helped kill the time.

  But he was eager to be back in the game.

  Mironov’s car reeked of air fresheners, no doubt to cover up the stench of the meth smoked inside it on occasion, but it solidified his cover. It didn’t take long to reach the base on the outskirts of Moscow, and he was quickly cleared through with knowing frowns by those who regularly manned the front gate, no doubt unimpressed they wore the same uniform. But it was perfect. The fewer words exchanged, the less familiarity shown, the better.

  Since Mironov had been used before, they knew a lot about him, including where his office was, an office he manned alone, and a position that gave him free rein of the base. His orders from Langley were to hole up in the office and wait for nightfall, then take a tour of the hardened storage facilities to see what he could find. He intended to catch up on his sleep, and if he were caught in such a compromising position, he would be 100% in character.

  He just wondered which straw would break the camel’s back and have poor Captain Mironov, victim of the pipe, transferred to the front.

  K

  16 |

  Molly Malone’s Irish Pub Moscow, Russia

  “You have to relax, sweetie. You’re even making me nervous.”

  CIA Operations Officer Sherrie White stood in the corner of the Irish pub, a quintessentially Irish AK-47 sitting on a nearby table. Langley had sent her in yesterday. She had only been back stateside less than a week after the events involving Jack. Her poor boyfriend, CIA Analyst Supervisor Chris Leroux, was probably thankful for the break. With everything she had gone through in those couple of days, she had come home with an insatiable sexual appetite that demanded satisfaction, and he had paid the exquisite price.

  When she had been briefed about the op, it sounded rather routine except for who was involved, and she had to agree it needed to be taken seriously. And while she would have loved to stay at home for another week, recovering from her bumps and bruises and the most stressful situation she had ever been in in her life, she loved her job and couldn’t imagine doing anything else. But it wasn’t for everyone. Through the course of her brief career, she had been beaten, stabbed, shot, and blown up, with the scars to prove it. But she wouldn’t change a thing. Well, perhaps she would have chosen not to be shot. Or stabbed or beaten for that matter. And if the rank amateur she was working with didn’t settle down, if this were a setup, the no doubt experienced FSB agents in the room would identify her and pick her up for interrogation despite all she had done for their country two short weeks ago.

  “Just relax, it’ll be fine.”

  Carl glanced over at her and she cursed.

  “Don’t look at me!”

  His head quickly jerked away and she rolled her eyes.

  This better not be a setup.

  An embassy worker, properly trained and part of Moscow Station, had bumped into Victor on his way leaving work earlier today, a message whispered in his ear.

  9:00 PM at the bar.

  She resisted the urge to check her watch, and instead took a drink, using the glass to hide her mouth. “Time check.”

  “8:59. Still no sign of him,” replied the love of her life in her ear, Control Actual for the op.

  He better show.

  She was dying to know what the intel was. The eldest child of one of the most powerful families in Russia, who just so happened to work in the Russian president’s office, had to have found something juicy if he were demanding asylum. To walk away from billions was a decision she hoped she could make if she were put in the same situation he apparently was.

  But this could all be bullshit.

  “Stand by, Skylark. We’ve got eyes on the target.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and raised her glass, bringing her CIA-customized Ballon Blue de Cartier watch near her mouth, the device paired to the earpiece tucked deep within Carl’s ear canal. “Victor’s on his way in.”

  Carl flinched but said nothing, instead resuming what appeared to be an awkward conversation with Gail.

  “He’s entering now,” reported Leroux.

  Sherrie casually glanced over to see Victor step inside the bar, white as a ghost, his eyes wide. He scanned the room and she averted his gaze. His search ended the moment he spotted Carl and Gail sitting at their table. She pushed off the wall and headed for him, her form-hugging outfit accentuating all of her assets. She smiled at him as her finger traced the lip of her glass. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No, I’m meeting someone.”

  “Actually, you’re meeting me.”

  He flinched, staring at her. “I don’t understand.”

  “I work with your friends at that table over there. Come sit with me at the bar and have a drink so that we don’t draw attention.”

  He shook out an uncertain nod then followed her. She held up her glass. “Can I get another Stoli on the rocks?” She turned to Victor. “What would you like?”

  “The same, I guess.”

  “Two Stolis coming up,” said the bartender.

  Sherrie leaned forward and stroked Victor’s outer thigh as if she were hitting on him. “Just relax. We want everyone to think we’re two potential lovers getting to know each other.”

  He gulped. “All right. Wh-what happens now?”

  “We’re going to have our drink, then we’re going to leave. We’re going to get in a cab, then go somewhere safe and talk.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  She smiled. “You trusted them.”

  “I had no choice. I didn’t know who else might be able to help. How do I know you actually work with them?”

  “Watch.” Their drinks were delivered and Sherrie picked up her glass, raising it to her mouth. “I want you to both raise your glasses and clink them together, then put them down without taking a drink.”

  She didn’t bother looking, Victor’s bulging eyes confirming her instructions had been followed to the letter.

  “How?”

  She smiled. “Does it matter? Now you know that I’m with them. If you trusted them, you have to trust me. They’re nobodies. They don’t have the power to get you what you want.”

 

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