Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

“That is the fate that awaits me? The same as Uganov? That is why you are telling me this?”

“Piotr, once again, Uganov was a rival.” Morosov saw that his nephew was not mollified. “I will speak with Vasiliev so you may rest assured.”

“Thank you, Uncle Sergei. I do not mean to burden you, but the matter of Uganov and Stetchkin’s evident dislike for me makes me anxious.”

“I can see.”

The men heard Tatiana turn off the shower. The SVR agent stood. “I will be on my way,” Morosov said. He patted Egorshin’s shoulder. “Do not be concerned. Mikhailov needs you.”

Egorshin walked Morosov to the door and gave him a hug. Morosov walked into the hallway and waved good-bye as Egorshin’s phone vibrated. He waved as his uncle entered the elevator, closed the door, and took the call.

“Colonel?”

“Yes,” replied Egorshin as he watched Tatiana, her hair wet, emerge from the bathroom in search of a robe.

“Colonel, this is Major Volkov.”

“I know, Major. What can I do for you?”

“Colonel, Mr. Stetchkin is looking for you.”

Egorshin felt a bolt of anxiety.

“And?”

“Colonel, he asked why you did not arrange the video link earlier.”

“I did arrange the video link. I instructed you to do it. That is your function, and the link was established.”

“Colonel, to be clear,” Volkov said nervously. “He asked why you did not personally set up the link.”

Anxiety mixed with bewilderment in Egorshin’s mind. Setting up the link was a task for someone several levels below Egorshin’s rank. No one could possibly expect Egorshin to perform such a task. It would be akin to expecting the regional vice president of Exxon to pump gas at a filling station.

“What does he want?” Egorshin asked, looking blankly about the apartment, oblivious even to the undressed form of Tatiana Palinieva.

“Colonel, he directed me to find you and tell you to report to his office at six A.M.”

Egorshin stared at a smiling Tatiana, standing naked in the middle of the living room with a hand just above the curve of her hip, her legs shoulder-width apart. But in his head, all Egorshin could see was the image of a husk of a human being that had once been Ivan Uganov shuffling obediently down the aisle toward his master.

WASHINGTON, D.C.,

AUGUST 15, 5:55 P.M. EDT

Olivia had attempted to reach James Brandt upon leaving the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, but his secretary said he was still in a meeting with Iris Cho, President Marshall’s chief of staff. Olivia took a cab back to her office at the OEOB, where she searched for any and all reports she could find that might shed some light on the troop movements on Laura Casini’s screen.

James Brandt, exercising his best judgment, could discount the importance of a slight increase in activity at Russian industrial sites. He could dismiss the possibility of any correlation between such increased activity and the shootings in Georgia that bore a familiar, if not unique, signature. But with the addition of Russian troop movements, Olivia was confident Brandt would bring the matter to the president’s attention.

None of the intelligence summaries spanning the last week, however, revealed anything out of the ordinary, nothing that would shed light on what was going on in the satellite images on Laura Casini’s screen. In fact, the summaries contained no mention of any unusual or unexpected Russian military maneuvers. According to the reports, it appeared everything in Russia was business as usual.

No matter, thought Olivia. Russian troops near the borders of Baltic nations might not be unusual; Russian troops moving southward along the Caspian was strange, to say the least. From the outset of their collaboration, dating back to her undergrad days at Stanford, James Brandt had taught Olivia to take seriously any strange or unusual Russian behavior. There was rarely, if ever, an innocuous explanation for such behavior.

Olivia was prepared to log off her computer and call Brandt’s secretary again when a footnote in one of the summaries caught her eye. But for the satellite images Olivia had just seen, the footnote might otherwise be anodyne. In the last week there had been increased Russian naval presence at Bandar Abbas, the Iranian Persian Gulf port on the northern coast of the Strait of Hormuz. There was no description of the Russian vessels other than they appeared to be part of the Russian Pacific fleet out of Vladivostok.

Olivia dialed Laura Casini’s number.

“Casini.”

“Laura, take a look at Bandar Abbas for me, will you? Time lapse the last week. Let me know what you see, okay?”

“On it.”

Olivia hung up. “There are no coincidences in this business,” Dwyer had said. The coincidences were piling up. She looked at the time on the lower right corner of her computer screen. Brandt’s meeting with Cho had to be over by now. Iris was famous for terseness and time management.

Olivia called Brandt’s cell. It went to voice mail. Olivia terminated the call and dialed Brandt’s secretary, Jess, who picked up on the first ring.

“Jess, it’s Olivia. Is he available?”

“He wasn’t feeling well and cut short the meeting with Iris, Olivia. He left a while ago and is probably over the bridge by now. Did you try his mobile?”

“Straight to voice mail.”

“Oh, well, is there anything I can help you with?”

“If he calls in, please ask him to call me. Tell him I think I have some new information that he’ll find interesting.” Olivia thought for a moment. “Information that’s important.”

“He may not be in tomorrow. I have a feeling he may be working from home. It will be a while before he gets there, though.”

“I’ll try him there a bit later. Thank you, Jess.”

Frustrated at being unable to reach Brandt, she dialed Dan Dwyer’s number. Although she had to be circumspect talking with a civilian, even one privy to certain classified information, she had to talk to someone. The new information on the Russian movements was beginning to instill in her a vague sense of urgency. And the buzzing in her ears persisted.

BETHANY BEACH, DELAWARE,

AUGUST 15, 8:25 P.M. EDT

The patrician took the assassin’s call while standing on the balcony of the beach house. Again, as always, he spoke sterilely.

“Yes.”

“We have arrived,” Bor said. “We will complete preparations shortly.”

“Good.”

“But I have not heard from Trident’s runner. I assume, therefore, that the impediment remains.”

“I received a report a short time ago,” the patrician said. “The impediment does, indeed, remain.”

“The impediment must be removed. No compromises.”

“Unfortunately, the assets have been eliminated and we do not have capable substitutes in place.”

There was a short silence. “There are capable substitutes here. Perhaps not at the level of the assets, but they can compensate with numbers.”

“I see.” The patrician took a long drag on his Winston and exhaled slowly. “To whom do they belong?”

“One of our friends from Georgia,” Bor replied.

“Yes, I know our friend. In the past he has been reliable. Somewhat expensive, if I recall. How much do you estimate?”

“Does it matter?” Bor asked.

The patrician took another drag and exhaled. “No. Just curious. But we will need to assemble the compensation, nonetheless.”

“Considering the difficulty in removing the impediment, and considering the removal will occur here…” Bor calculated. “Five. US.”