David Golemon - Primeval

Sagli looked through the clear plastic at the documents known as the Lattimer Papers and Xerox copies of the pages from a journal once owned by Colonel Iosovich Petrov of the Red Army. The map was clearly seen on the last page as Sagli turned it over. In L. T. Lattimer's own hand, the area was drawn from his eyewitness account of his find.

The copies had been taken from Lattimer's last remaining relative in Boston by the man who now called Deonovich and Sagli partners. Sagli assumed that the relative had met the same fate as Chavez out in California — at least that was the impression both Russians had when given the orders to find the originals, and for the fact that their new friend didn't seem to be the merciful type, nor did he seem to like loose ends.

Sagli knew they were close to starting on their final journey and he was anxious to get started. What waited was a new beginning for all involved, and a prize that few could ever attain in this jumbled and confusing new world — true power.

The director of the CIA paced in front of his desk, behind the backs of his seated assistant directors. Every word seemed like a dagger into the heart of Nancy Grogan. Even the usually cold-as-ice Stan Rosen was feeling for her.

"Has there been any communication from the Russians?"

"Nothing, sir. We, or I should say, I, have come to the conclusion that they have gotten what they wanted in Los Angeles, so there is no further need to communicate with the agency."

"Fifteen Los Angeles police officers are dead; highly trained SWAT personnel. How in the hell could they have known we were moving on Chavez so soon?"

"I took it upon myself to assist in that matter, sir," Rosen said, half turning in his chair to face his boss. "Sagli and Deonovich have had the police forces of most major cities plugged into their network for a while now, mostly to keep track of international warrants, Interpol requests, things like that. They basically pay for information. My operations people suspect they had a flier out to these moles about anyone suspected in the museum heist in Denver. Once informed, they released a hit team that was either already in the western states or close by."

Nancy Grogan turned in her chair and looked at Rosen, his eyes lowered as he knew he had overstepped his bounds and his department. Grogan wanted to say something about it, but knew he had acted where she hadn't. Her mind was on the lone fact that the two Russians no longer needed Lynn Simpson.

"Stan, you're guessing. I want facts. If there are informants in the LAPD I want to know who they are, and then I want them brought to justice. I don't believe that any brother officer would be a part of a massacre of their people. Now, what are we doing to find these Russians?" the director asked.

This time Nancy stood and buttoned her blazer. She took a deep breath and turned to face the director.

"The FBI and local law enforcement have been briefed on who they are looking for. I suspect there is going to be fallout about us… or me… not giving them everything before the raid."

The director pursed his lips and then paced to his desk and sat on it edge.

"The president wants to know what the odds are now that these two maniacs and their organization have what they want, on us getting our agent back."

Nancy Grogan's silence was enough. She swallowed and bent over to pick up her case and then turned and started for the door, she stopped with her right hand poised over the handle.

"She's my agent," she said without turning, "my responsibility."

Rosen cleared his throat and said what everyone was thinking.

"Director, Lynn Simpson is already dead. Sagli and Deonovich would never take the chance of keeping her alive. Remember their file: They executed ten hostages in a Prague antique shop for the simple reason they were late telling them where their third wall safe was located. The last three were shot after that safe was found. Yes, sir, Lynn Simpson is most assuredly dead."

"Then confirm her death, and then bring me those two bastards' heads on a platter!"

Before Jack had even entered the Europa clean room, Pete Golding and Carl Everett had already begun. Pete looked at Jack, newly clothed in white smock and gloves. He was as miserable having to wear the clean-room attire as Everett was.

"Colonel, Director Compton gave us a short brief, but it didn't give us much to go on. Europa did uncover these details as listed in the Montreal Police Departments computer. Even now, the Canadians are keeping the information limited, maybe slowing down the filing of their reports for security reasons."

Jack sat in between Everett and Pete, silent as he adjusted the microphone in front of him. The steel door that protected Europa was up and Collins could see the Honda robotic arms as they swung into action placing and removing small discs from racks and placing them into the mainframe.

"Right now, as I understand it at least, your sister is in charge of the northeastern desk at Langley. If you don't mind me asking, Colonel, why would she choose Simpson as her last name?" Pete asked as he started typing commands onto his keyboard.

"That was my mother's maiden name — Simpson."

"I see. The first thing we are checking on is the two names that seem to be popping up in the Canadian reports. Two Russian nationals are believed to have been responsible for the ambush in Montreal. At least those were the names placed on the all-points bulletins coming from Canada to all North American police agencies. Now, since Director Compton notified the captain and myself that we cannot expect cooperation from American intelligence apparatus, we have to use a little bit of stealth in finding what we need, am I correct?"

"At this point in time, Pete, yeah, you're correct. That may change very soon."

Golding saw Jack's eyes as they didn't waver from his own. The look wasn't one of determination as usual, it was a faraway look he had never seen in Collins's eyes before.

"Good. Now, the names of these two men are Dmitri Sagli and Gregori Deonovich. I ran them through Europa and she kicked back this" — Pete gestured at the blue writing scanning across the screen—"as you can see, they have… What is the police jargon? Oh yes, quite a rap sheet. Starting with their days in the old KGB, and what they learned of death in the early years of the Soviet war in Afghanistan. I believe that is where they acquired the taste for the more expensive decorations they probably have in their houses. From there, after their exodus from KGB, they quickly graduated to organized crime, financed principally from their thievery in Afghanistan and other war-torn places where Soviet occupation was in bloom."

"What about my sister? What is the correlation between them and her?" Collins asked as he read the blue printed letters on the large screen before them. It was as if he was burning the pictures and the words into his mind.

Carl Everett watched Jack and he knew he was doing exactly that — etching the faces into his brain.

"That is what we are about to attempt to find out. This is going to be tricky: If the president has ordered us to stand down, he may have also ordered the CIA to safeguard an attack on their Cray system from Europa. If that is the case, they will not only be able to track the backdoor entry, but cause a security shutdown, not only at Langley, but here also. Then, I dare say, the cat will be out of the proverbial bag."

"Do it, my authorization, my responsibility," Jack said as he ripped the gloves from his hands and then tossed them on the floor.

Everett removed his also, and instead of protesting, Pete followed suit.

"Okay, Colonel, here we go. Europa, we are going to ask for a protocol 2267 exception to security rule Langley 111-1. Do you understand?"