C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

He tossed a file on the table before her. “I see you’re a linguist. You speak Russian, Arabic…many languages.”

She swallowed hard, but said nothing.

He pressed his palms flat on the tabletop and leaned into them. “We have computers, too, you know. And according to our records, you were given a psychological discharge from the Navy a year ago. Yet, this past summer, you were recalled to active duty and given a promotion to ensign. This is correct?”

“Y-yes.”

“Why?”

“You mean, why was I recalled?”

He nodded.

“I-” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. “I don’t think it’s a secret that the United States military has a hard time making their recruitment quotas these days. They needed me back.”

“Despite the fact they’d decided you’re crazy?”

Her eyes narrowed, and he had the satisfaction of knowing he’d hit a raw nerve. “I’m not crazy,” she said in a tight voice.

Andrei allowed a hint of a smile to touch his lips. He pushed away from the table to wander the room. “I ask myself, Why is this attractive young American woman traveling alone to Kaliningrad Oblast?”

He was aware of her watching him closely. She said, “You don’t get a lot of tourists?”

“Some. Mainly Germans who come to see the lost homes of their parents or grandparents, or to visit the beaches and sand dunes of the Curonian Spit. Tell me, Miss Guinness; are you German?”

She shook her head. “Irish. Among other things.”

He nodded. “Your father was Patrick Guinness?”

He saw the confusion in her eyes. Confusion and fear, as she wondered how he knew about her father. A decorated Vietnam vet, Lieutenant Colonel Patrick Guinness had died when his daughter was still in kindergarten. Andrei suspected he knew more about what had happened to her father than she did.

She swallowed again. “Yes.”

“You are to meet someone here?”

The sudden shift in topic obviously disconcerted her. She hesitated, uncertain how to answer. Despite the frigid temperature of the room, he saw a sheen of perspiration form near her hairline.

He said, “There is another American arriving this morning on a flight from Berlin. A man calling himself Jason Aldrich. You wouldn’t know him by any chance, would you?”

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing. As he watched, a bead of sweat rolled slowly down the side of her face. She had dark brown eyes and honey-colored hair. An unusual combination-especially for someone who claimed to be Irish.

Andrei leaned his shoulders against the wall, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his black designer jeans. “You’re not very well trained, are you?”

“I’m a linguist.”

The sound of the door opening behind her jerked her head around. A man walked into the room, flanked by two armed soldiers. Just above medium height and leanly built, he wore a pullover cashmere sweater and a black leather jacket that had the effect of making him look European rather than American. But then, that was one of the things they taught you in spy school-how to blend in with the natives.

He drew up just inside the doorway, his expression inscrutable as he gazed first at the woman, then at Andrei. “Jesus Christ,” said Jax, smoothing the cuffs of his jacket as the soldiers stepped back. “What the hell is going on here, Andrei? The Cold War is supposed to be over.”

Rodriguez was at the Kaliningrad airport when the call came through from Borz Zakaev.

“We may have something. Last night, at a village near Ayvazovskaya, a kid matching Stefan Baklanov’s description stole some clothes. A militiaman chased him, then lost him in the woods.”

Rodriguez shoved a stick of gum in his mouth and watched as a baldheaded Dane pushed open the battered doors from the Customs and Immigration hall. “Where is this Ayvazovskaya?”

“Southeast of Kaliningrad.”

“Could be him.” Rodriguez glanced at his watch. The passengers on the Aeroflot flight from Berlin would be coming out at any moment. He said, “We should be done here soon. Let me know when you have something positive. Once we get the little shit, all we need is the U-boat’s big boom, and we’re outta here.”

Borz gave one of his deep laughs. “You don’t like Kaliningrad?”

“I don’t like Russia.”

“Neither do I,” said Borz, and hung up.

Jax let his gaze travel from Andrei Gorchakove to October Guinness’s white, strained features, and thought, Sonofabitch.

When it came to delicate international situations, Jax didn’t like dealing with unknowns, and at the moment he was facing a shitload of them. Not just, What did the Russians know? But, How much had they managed to wheedle out of October? She wasn’t a field operative, and she’d never been trained to handle interrogations, and Washington should never, ever have sent her on an assignment like this.

“You took your time getting here, Jax,” said Andrei, pushing away from the wall. “We were expecting you last night.”

“Blame Aeroflot.”

Andrei made a sound deep in his chest that might have been a laugh. Dismissing the two soldiers with a nod and a snap of his fingers, he led them to a more comfortable room with a desk and a couple of upholstered chairs set before a window overlooking the bleak runway.

“Please, have a seat.” He glanced at his watch, said, “Excuse me a moment,” and left the room.

Jax watched October sink down on the edge of one of the upholstered chairs. From the looks of things, she was sweating and shivering at the same time-never a good sign. He frowned. “You all right?”

She glanced up at him, a lock of loose hair falling across her face. “Aside from being scared shitless, I’m great.”

He gave her a crooked smile. She might be untrained and way too far into woo-woo for his taste, but she wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t weak.

She jerked her head toward the door and lowered her voice. “Who is that guy?”

Jax went to lean against the window overlooking the tarmac, his arms crossed at his chest. “You do realize this room is bugged-and probably set up with a video camera, too?”

She blinked, and he knew from the expression on her face that no, that hadn’t occurred to her. God help him.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “But I think they already know who he is. And you know who he is. So the only person who doesn’t know who he is, is me.”

Jax said, “How much do you know about the KGB?”

“I thought it didn’t exist anymore.”

“Not technically. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the KGB basically split into two organizations. There’s the FSB, or Federal Security Service, which is like a combination of our FBI, Secret Service, Customs Agency, and DEA, all rolled into one. And then there’s the SVR, or Foreign Intelligence Service. They’re the Russian equivalent of the CIA.”

“Let me guess; this guy Andrei is with the SVR?”

“You got it.”

“So how do you know him?”

“The first time we met, we were in the jungles near Mandalay and I was right out of the Farm.” Jax glanced out the window at the heavy gray clouds pressing down on the runway and surrounding fields. A few drops of rain had begun to fall, beading on the glass to run down in long rivulets. “Andrei saved my skin.”

“So you owe him.”

“At the moment, we’re even. I saved his ass last year in Niger.”

“So does that make you friends or something?”

“Hardly. Don’t let him fool you. Andrei Gorchakove is a dangerous sonofabitch. He’s fiercely loyal to Russia, and he can be utterly ruthless when he needs to be.”

“I’d figured that part out myself,” she said dryly.

“That’s reassuring. Now I need you to tell me exactly what you told them-and nothing more,” he warned her.