Дэвид Балдаччи: Hell's Corner

“All right,” said Stone, who actually thought that was the point.

“The Russian cartels control all the major drug distribution pipelines in the eastern hemisphere. The monies involved are truly enormous.”

Stone nodded. This he knew.

“Well, now they control it in the western hemisphere as well.”

This Stone didn’t know. “I understand the Colombians had been muscled out by the Mexicans.”

Brennan nodded thoughtfully. Stone could sense in the man’s weary expression the mounds of briefing books he had no doubt pored over today to understand this and a dozen other critical matters thoroughly. The presidency would suck up every ounce of energy and intellectual curiosity one cared to give the job.

Brennan said, “Pipeline trumps product, they finally figured that out. You can make the crap anywhere, but getting it to the buyer is the real key. And on this side of the world Americans are the buyers. But the Russians have kicked our southern neighbor’s ass, Stone. They have killed and clawed and bombed and tortured and bribed their way to the top, with the result that they are now in control of at least ninety percent of the business. And that is a major problem.”

“I understood that Carlos Montoya—”

The president brushed this comment aside impatiently. “The papers say that. Fox and CNN broadcast that, the pundits fixate on it, but the fact is Carlos Montoya is done. He was the worst of the scum in Mexico. He killed two of his own brothers to win control of the family business, and yet he proved no match for the Russians. In fact, our intel leads us to believe that he’s been killed. The Russians are about as ruthless as they come in the drug world.”

“All right,” said Stone evenly.

“So long as the Mexican cartels were the adversary it was manageable. Not ideal, of course, but it didn’t reach national security status. We could battle it on our borders and in the metro areas where the cartels had infiltrated primarily through gang ranks. It’s different with the Russians.”

“Meaning a connection between the spy rings and the cartels?”

Brennan eyed Stone, perhaps surprised he’d made the connection so fast. “We believe there is. In fact, our belief is that the Russian government and their drug cartels are one and the same.”

“That’s a very troublesome conclusion,” said Stone.

“And the correct one, we think. Illegal drug sales are one of the leading exports from Russia. They make it in the old Soviet labs, and ship it all over the world through various means. They pay off the people they have to and kill the ones they can’t bribe. The monies involved are enormous. Hundreds of billions of dollars. Too enormous for the government not to want its share. And there’s more to the equation.”

“You mean the more drugs they sell to America the weaker we become as a nation? It drains dollars and brain cells. It increases the level of both petty and major crime, taxes our resources, shifts assets from productive areas to nonproductive ones.”

Again, Brennan looked surprised at Stone’s nimble articulation. “That’s right. And the Russians know something about the power of addictions. Their populace certainly abuses both drugs and alcohol. But we have detected a purposeful, enhanced effort by the Russians to basically overwhelm America with drugs.” The president sat back. “And then there’s the obvious complicating factor.”

“They’re a nuclear power,” replied Stone. “They have as many warheads as we do, in fact.”

The president nodded. “They want back in the top tier. Perhaps they want to be the sole superpower, supplanting us. And on top of that they are vastly influential in the Middle and Far East. Even the Chinese and Israelis fear them, if only for their unpredictability. The balance is getting out of whack.”

“All right. Why me?”

“The Russians have gone back to old-school tactics, Stone. From your era.”

“I’m not that old. Aren’t there spies from my era still at the Agency?”

“No, there’s really not. There was a hiring freeze before 9/11 and a lot of voluntary and involuntary retirements of older personnel. After those planes hit the buildings, there was considerable ramp-up. The result is that three-quarters of the CIA is comprised of twenty-somethings. The only thing they know about Russia is they make good vodka and it’s cold there. You know Russia. You understand the trenches of espionage better than most of the people sitting in the executive offices at Langley.” He paused. “And we all know you have special skills. Skills this country spent good money instilling in you.”

The guilt factor. Interesting.

“But all my contacts there are gone. Dead.”

“That is actually an advantage. You go in with a blank slate, an unknown quantity.”

“How will we start?”

“By you going back in unofficially, of course. There will be training, getting you up to date on things. I suspect you will be ready to leave the country in a month.”

“Going to Russia?”

“No, Mexico and Latin America. We need you on the ground where the drugs are coming through. It’ll be rough work. And dangerous. I guess I don’t need to tell you that.” He paused and his gaze flicked to Stone’s close-cropped white hair.

Stone easily interpreted the observation. “I’m not as young as I was, obviously.”

“None of us are.”

Stone nodded, his mind racing ahead to the logical conclusion of all this. He really only had one question. “Why?”

“I already told you why. In many respects you’re the best we have. And the problem is very real and getting worse.”

“Can I hear the rest of it?”

“The rest of what?”

“Why I’m really here.”

“I don’t understand,” the president said irritably. “I thought I had made myself clear.”

“The last time I was here I told you some things and intimated other things.”

The president made no reaction to these words.

“Then I was offered the Medal of Honor.”

“And you turned it down,” Brennan said sharply. “A first, I believe.”

“You have to turn down what you don’t deserve.”

“Bullshit. Your actions on the battlefield more than earned it.”

“On the battlefield, yes. But in the greater scheme of things, I didn’t deserve it. And with an honor like that, all things have to be considered. Which I think is why I’m really here.”

The two men stared at each other across the width of the Resolute desk. By the look on his face the president very clearly understood what “all things” meant. A man named Carter Gray. And a man named Roger Simpson. Both prominent Americans. Both friends of this president. And both dead. Directly because of Oliver Stone, who’d had good reason to do it, but he’d still killed them. And there was really no legal or even moral excuse for that. Even as he’d pulled the trigger on each man, Stone had known that.

But it still didn’t stop me, because if anyone deserved killing those two did.

“You saved my life,” Brennan began in an uneasy tone.

“And I took two others.”

The president abruptly rose and walked over to the window. Stone watched him closely. He’d said it. Now he was just going to let the other man talk and let the chips fall.

“Gray was going to kill me.”

“Yes, he was.”

“So your killing him didn’t bother me as much as it ordinarily would have, to put it bluntly.”

“But Simpson?”

The president turned to look at him. “I did some research on that. I can understand why you would have wanted to eliminate the man. But no man is an island, Stone. And cold-blooded killing is unacceptable in a civilized world.”