Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

“I suppose that’s true, Mrs. Ponder.”

“You know, Mr. Colton, Amos was very fond of that LaCrosse. It was the nicest car we ever had. He was very proud of it, too. He kept it clean, polished, and in perfect running condition. We—”

Matt heard unintelligible chatter on the other end. Then Ruth Ponder’s melodic voice came back on the line.

“I apologize, Mr. Colton. My daughter tells me that I’m rambling and I need to get to the point. You’re a very busy man, no doubt.”

“No apologies necessary, Mrs. Ponder. You’ve just lost your husband. Please, take your time.”

“Thank you for being such a gentleman, Mr. Colton. It still hasn’t hit me, I suppose, and when it does I’ll probably shut up and stop talking for days. Anyway, here’s my point: The scary-looking guy bought two vehicles, cash, from Mr. Rob Brock less than a quarter mile from the truck stop. He bought a 1996 forest-green Ford Windstar minivan and a 2001 or 2002 white Chevy Caprice. The Windstar had a small dent in the passenger door. They still have their original tags. The state of North Carolina tag number for the Windstar is WYF2312 and for the Chevy Caprice the number is MTR7213…”

“This is enormously helpful, ma’am.”

“Will you be able to find the scary-looking man?”

“We’ll run this through our systems and forward it to all of the appropriate law enforcement agencies, Mrs. Ponder.”

“But do you think you’ll get him?”

“Ma’am, we have a pretty good idea who this man is. He’s not an ordinary criminal. For that matter, he’s not an ordinary person. Honestly, I can’t make any promises because getting him will be very, very tough. I can tell you this: The very best people in the country are looking for him, and we will do our very, very best to get him and his foreign-looking friends. And your information helps. A lot.”

“Well, Mr. Colton… May I call you Matt?”

“Always, Mrs. Ponder.”

“Thank you, Matt. That’s all one can ask. Will you do me one favor, though?”

“What’s that, ma’am?”

“When you do find him and his foreign-looking friends, would you please call me to let me know? I left my number with your answering lady.”

“You can bet on it, Mrs. Ponder.”

“Thank you, Matt. And good luck.”

Matt disconnected and instantly made another call.

“Dwyer.”

“I have the license numbers for the vehicles Bor’s driving.”

“Outstanding. Alert our folks, starting with Garin. Then law enforcement, starting with the FBI. Olivia’s right here. She’ll get them to Brandt. How in the world did you find him?”

“I didn’t. Mrs. Ponder did.”

MOSCOW,

AUGUST 17, 4:15 P.M. MSK

Major Valeri Volkov was appropriately terrified.

Seated outside the tyrant’s office for the last fifteen minutes, he’d searched his memory for every possible mistake, offense, or indiscretion he may have committed in his career. The problem with conducting such a search was that it was nearly impossible to determine what Aleksandr Stetchkin considered a mistake, offense, or indiscretion. As far as the tyrant was concerned, Volkov having been born to his parents might qualify as a mistake, having coffee instead of tea could be an offense, and saying hello to the doorman may have been an indiscretion.

The face of the aide who sat at the desk revealed nothing. He simply looked at Volkov impassively. Maybe the aide gazed that way at everyone who entered the office. Or maybe the look was reserved only for the doomed. Volkov resisted the urge to ask, afraid the question itself might be the very thing that would tip the scales against him.

The phone on the aide’s desk buzzed and he lifted the receiver to his ear. After replacing the receiver in the cradle, he stood and motioned for Volkov to enter Stetchkin’s office.

Volkov took a breath to compose himself and proceeded through the door and into an anteroom beyond which Stetchkin was standing at his desk with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Major Volkov. Please sit down.”

Volkov did as told. Stetchkin strode slowly from behind the desk and stood to Volkov’s right, towering over him.

“Thank you for coming, Major. It is most considerate of you.”

The comment bewildered Volkov. Of course Volkov was going to come. He had been commanded to come. No doubt he’d have been shot if he hadn’t come. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your file is quite interesting. Impressive. Consistently at the top of your class at university. Exceptional evaluations. When you substitute for Colonel Egorshin the unit appears to function at least as efficiently.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Your career path was not as smooth as Colonel Egorshin’s. Whereas he seems to have had to overcome comparatively few obstacles, you have had to work hard for your attainments.” Stetchkin strode back behind his desk. Volkov exhaled quietly.

“What are your ambitions, Major?”

“Sir?”

“Your personal ambitions, Major. Someone with your talents often seeks a specific command.”

Volkov grew more uncomfortable. Discussing personal ambitions with any superior was risky. With Stetchkin, it was treacherous. Volkov felt as if he were being lured into a trap. When in doubt, Volkov thought, be obsequious.

“My ambition at this point is to do my job as well as I can, sir. Where that may take me is up to others. And ultimately, you, sir.”

The answer pleased Stetchkin. “Tell me about Colonel Egorshin, Major. How do you assess his performance?”

“Outstanding, sir. Colonel Egorshin’s knowledge and capabilities are unsurpassed. He is the primary reason we are about to achieve a great success. Those under his command aspire to be as accomplished.”

Stetchkin strode around his desk and stood next to Volkov again.

“Your loyalty to your superior is noted, Major. And admirable. Yet I hear differently.”

Volkov looked straight ahead. He had no idea where Stetchkin was going and didn’t want to say something wrong. He waited for Stetchkin to continue.

“He seems to prevail upon you whenever something important must be done. He is rather impudent whenever I give a directive. I note that he often delegates matters to you. This causes me concern about his competence, not to mention his loyalty.” Stetchkin rubbed the back of his neck in a display of deliberation. “It strikes me as prudent to consider a reorganization of the unit. Understand, this is no slight to Colonel Egorshin, for whom it is clear you have a great deal of regard. But going forward—especially given the continuing importance of the unit—I think it wise that someone with unimpeachable dedication and loyalty take command. Most importantly, someone who does not equivocate.”

Volkov remained silent. Was he actually suggesting Volkov would be given command? Was this a test to judge Volkov’s loyalty to his superior? A response, any response, could be a misstep.

Again Stetchkin strode to the other side of his desk. He stood behind the high-backed leather chair, resting his forearms across the top.

“I need your frank assessment on a very specific matter, Major. This is critical. It reflects not only on Colonel Egorshin, but on your entire unit, including yourself, since you have had such an instrumental role. The operation is scheduled to begin shortly and President Mikhailov expects that it be flawless. In fact, he insists he be provided one hundred percent certainty that it move forward as scheduled. I gather from what you have just told me that it will move forward as scheduled—that your unit has completed all preparations and needs only to initiate the process. Correct?”