She retrieved the Saturday-morning paper at the end of a short walk leading to the front door. A shoulder-high boxwood fence protected a small garden from the street. She’d called from the hotel and knew that Kris was waiting. Her knocks were answered almost immediately, Kris greeting her with a hug in a terry-cloth robe. She hadn’t visited her old friend in many months, though they occasionally talked on the phone. Kris had always been thin and trim and matronly, with short silver hair and bright blue eyes. She was approaching eighty, and for nearly fifty years worked for the CIA, first as an analyst but retiring as a deputy director. When the Magellan Billet was created it had been Kris who helped formulate its guidelines, and it had been Kris who’d encouraged that the unit be independent of DC influences. Stephanie had worked her whole career to maintain that mantra but, in the end, it had been those DC influences that had led to its destruction.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Kris said. “I’d offer you coffee, but I know you hate it, and you didn’t come to drink.”
“No, I didn’t.”
They sat in the kitchen and she reported everything that had happened over the past few days ending with, “I need to know about the words Fool’s Mate.”
Neither of them dwelled on the fact that she’d been fired. It was the way of the political world they both knew, and nobody understood those ways better than Kris. No nonsense. To the point. Get the job done. Three things she respected about this woman immensely, and three things she’d practiced every day as head of the Magellan Billet. Unfortunately, combined with those pesky DC influences, those three things had also gotten her fired.
“I remember Fool’s Mate. It was a code name that we thought was associated with a rogue Soviet intelligence operation, one Andropov may have been personally involved with.”
Perhaps the last of the old communists, Yuri Andropov may have been the most dangerous of all Soviets. Smart, cagey, he rarely made a false move. Definitely a throwback to the time of Lenin, Andropov had been appalled by the corruption during Brezhnev’s regime. Stephanie recalled the investigations and arrests that happened after Andropov became general secretary. Many of Brezhnev’s former inner circle had faced execution.
“Andropov was no friend of ours,” Kris said. “He always tried to couch himself as a reformer, but he was a hard-liner. Luckily, he served as general secretary for only a short time and was really sick for most of that.”
She’d thought this would be the right place to come, more so than waiting for Osin or Danny or Edwin to brief her further. That was why she’d left the White House early, deciding that knowing the answers to the questions before she asked them might prove beneficial.
“It’s 1983,” Kris said. “As you know, Reagan’s popularity was skyrocketing. He’d dodged an assassin’s bullet and was challenging the Soviet Union on every front. Eastern Europe was imploding, Poland exploding. The Iron Curtain had begun to fall. Brezhnev dies in November 1982 and Andropov takes over. Nobody thought that would be good. He’d crushed the Hungarian Revolt in ’56 and the Prague Spring in ’68. As KGB head he suppressed dissidents, then advocated invading Afghanistan. He was a real badass. The Soviet Union was not going to change under him, and the Cold War definitely heated up when he became general secretary. So we redoubled our efforts and heightened intelligence operations. I spent a lot of time on Capitol Hill lobbying Congress for more money. Then, one day, Fool’s Mate came across my desk.”
“Is what Osin told me true? Were there Soviet weapons repositories in this country?”
“Nothing we could ever verify. But those spetsnaz units were good. The KGB was good. And homeland security back then was nothing like today. You could get things in.”
She listened as Kris explained more about Andropov. “He hated Reagan, and Reagan had a hard time dealing with Andropov. We had an asset back then inside the Kremlin. A good one. Stuff you could take to the bank. He told us that Andropov was readying something. If Eastern Europe did not settle down, especially Poland, Andropov planned to make sure there would not be a second Reagan term. If the truth be known, the old communist was afraid of that actor.”
She recalled the tension within the State Department when it was announced Andropov had become general secretary. George Shultz had not liked the prospect, but had dealt with the situation. Nothing changed with Forward Pass. Everything kept moving ahead. John Paul revisited Poland in June 1983 in a triumphant seven-day extravaganza that reenergized every dissident. She’d helped coordinate the timing of that visit as a way to openly challenge Andropov’s reach.
“The threat of Reagan not serving a second term didn’t raise alarm bells?” she asked.
“The Soviets back then threatened stuff like that all the time. Nobody thought the USSR wanted a war with us. And that’s what it would have been, if they’d done anything. No way they could win that fight.”
Maybe so, but today a threat like that would be taken much more seriously.
And with good reason.
“When you called earlier and told me about Fool’s Mate, I had to think back long and hard. We heard that four agents were sent on a special mission. I remember it because each was code-named with a chess move. The last part of that mission was called Fool’s Mate. But we never learned much about any of it. Just snippets here and there, with no substance. Andropov died in February 1984 and nothing ever came up about it again. We figured if there was anything to worry about, it died with him.”
“It may not have,” she said.
Kris had carried the highest security clearance that anyone within the government could hold, so Stephanie felt safe discussing this with her. But what did it matter? Her own security clearance had ended hours ago.
“We all thought,” Kris said, “that Andropov, if he’d lived, planned on stopping reforms. He would also have cracked down on Eastern Europe. Everything would have played out differently. But then he gets sick and dies. Problem solved. A year later we had Gorbachev, who was a pussycat, and the rest is history.”
“Reagan knew exactly how to handle him.”
“That he did. But I’m real concerned about this current split within the Russian government you told me about. The Daniels people knew how to deal with things like that. We have no idea how the new guys will do. Transition time is always tricky. I know you realize, but I hope the Fox people realize, too, that the new Russians play for keeps.”
“What’s your best guess here?”
Kris seemed to consider that question carefully, especially with what she’d told her about the 20th Amendment.
“Inauguration time is only a matter of hours away,” Kris said. “I do recall the Soviet fascination with presidential succession. It is a mess, no question. You would think after 9/11 Congress would be more vigilant, but nothing has changed. Of course, logic here says that Zorin wants to attack the inauguration. It certainly looks that way. But first he has to find an over-twenty-five-year-old suitcase nuke and hope it still works. Then, if it does, those things have to be positioned really close to the target. It’s a nuke, but a small one. Dogs, radiation detectors, EM monitors, you name it, they’ve got it in DC right now, watching everything. The odds of his getting close enough to take everyone out is virtually impossible.”
“Yet Zorin isn’t stopping.”
Kris sat back in her chair. “I know. That bothers me, also.”
“So what is it he knows that we don’t?”
Kris shrugged. “Impossible to say, but it must be good.”
Bell chimes disturbed their solitude. Kris’s cell phone. She reached for the unit lying on the table. “I’ve been expecting this call.”
“You want me to wait in another room?”
“Not at all. It concerns you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Luke drove northwest out of DC into Maryland. Fritz Strobl’s car had been returned by the Secret Service and he’d been provided with a nondescript, government-issued sedan. His Mustang still sat in the Virginia junkyard, where it mos
t likely would remain since he hadn’t carried much insurance. Just the minimum, since he never anticipated that it might one day be involved in a car fight. The repair bills to restore it would be in the thousands, far more than he could afford to sink into a nearly fifty-year-old vehicle. Too bad. It was great while it lasted.
He’d slept a few hours and even had breakfast. Stephanie had called just after 7:00 A.M. and told him what she wanted him to do, providing a Germantown, Maryland, address for Lawrence Begyn, the current president general of the Society of Cincinnati.
“We need to know about the 14th Colony,” Stephanie had said to him. “All the details with no bullshit. You have my permission to be your most charming, direct self.”
He’d smiled at that last part. Normally, she would demand diplomacy. Not here, though. He’d sensed that things were accelerating and she’d told him Cotton and Cassiopeia were back in the United States, north at the Canadian border, dealing with Zorin. Stephanie still carried Anya’s cell phone, which was activated, but had yet to ring. She’d assured him that they were ready if and when it ever did.
Of that he had no doubt.
Stephanie Nelle never entered a fight without being prepared. And getting fired yesterday had not seemed to slow her down. But having the current president of the United States in your corner, if only for a few hours more, had to count for something.
He found the address outside of Germantown in a tree-shrouded suburb, amid old spacious houses—Begyn’s a large, wood-sided, white rectangle atop a small knob. The area reminded him of where Charon’s house stood in Virginia, a similar wrought-iron gate denoting an entrance to a graveled drive. He turned in and followed the path through bare trees up to the house.
Two things immediately grabbed his attention.
A car parked in the woods just where the drive ended and the splintered front door, half opened.
He wheeled to a stop, gripped his Beretta, then hustled to the entrance, stopping short of entering, listening for any sound but hearing nothing. A glance inside revealed an entrance hall dotted with antique furniture. What was it about these Cincinnati people? They all seemed loaded. First Charon’s mansion, now Begyn’s.
He slipped inside and kept to the exterior wall, searching the sunlit interior for any sign of trouble. He glanced into other rooms and immediately spotted overturned furniture, slashed upholstery, armchairs gutted, and books off their shelves lying in a jumble on the floor. Bureaus were ransacked, drawers ripped out, the contents dumped and scattered about as though an earthquake had hit. Somebody had definitely been looking for something.
His attention turned to the staircase.
A body lay sprawled across the wooden risers near the top. Blood had flowed down and congealed in thick maroon patches. He climbed the stairs, sidestepping the puddles, and rolled over the corpse. An automatic rifle lay beneath, which clattered away down the steps. He came alert and looked around to see if the noise had attracted any attention.
Nothing.
The face on the corpse was of a man, mid-thirties, short hair, thick features. A deep gash had penetrated the throat with a wide smile, which explained the cause of death.
He heard a noise.
From downstairs.
Something moving.
He crept back to ground level and turned in its direction, closing his mind to all messages except those coming from around him. A dining room opened to his left where another body lay on the hardwood, the man’s throat slashed nearly identically to the first. A door stood just ahead, one that swung in and out, which he assumed led to the kitchen. He approached and pressed his body tight to the wall, sneaking a peek through the half-inch space between the molding and the jamb. He was right. A kitchen did lie on the other side. With his left hand he shoved the door inward and burst in.
Empty.
Sunlight poured in through windows, glittering off stainless-steel appliances and marble countertops.
What had happened here?
He was about to check the rest of the house when he heard another noise. Behind him. He whirled and was met by a sharp blow to his windpipe, which immediately triggered a choking response. He knew the move, it was taught to him in the army, but he’d never personally experienced it.
He fought to breathe, but never got a chance.
Something slammed into his left temple.
And the last thing he saw before everything went black was the glistening blade of a knife.
* * *
Malone sat in a café located in downtown Eastport, finishing off a plate of eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. Zorin and Kelly had been gone over two hours. He and Cassiopeia had watched as the two men came ashore in a small dinghy, bypassing the immigration booth located near the docks. As expected, they’d entered the town and called a cab on a cell phone Kelly produced, which arrived a few minutes later. He and Cassiopeia had not followed. Instead, the drone overhead had kept a distant watch, an open phone line providing them with a running account.
The cab had dropped the two at the Eastport Municipal Airport, which sat not far from the central business district. They’d entered the small terminal and exited a few minutes later, walking over to a row of parked cars and driving one away. Malone knew what had happened. Kelly had rented a vehicle, which would be an easy thing for him to do.
Finally, they’d caught a break.
While the drone kept watch, he decided to send Cassiopeia to follow them, cautioning her to stay way back. He’d been told that the drone’s airtime was drawing to a close, so Cassiopeia would become its replacement. He’d catch up to her later. The important thing was not to lose Zorin.
He’d already called Edwin Davis and told him more of what he had in mind. So while he waited, a hot breakfast had sounded good.
The waitress cleared his plate away.
Outside, Eastport remained quiet, understandable given that winter was in command, the morning skies rapidly becoming a solid mass of slate gray. Snow seemed to be on the way. Hopefully, he’d be headed south before it arrived. The café enjoyed a light business, but it was not yet 10:00 A.M. on a Saturday. A white Ford Taurus wheeled into an angled parking spot out front and he saw two men emerge, both dressed in the blue uniform of the Maine State Police.
They entered the café, found him, and introduced themselves.
“We’re told you need our help,” one of them said. “National security.”
He caught the skepticism. “You doubt me?”
The trooper smiled. “Doesn’t matter. When the state police chief personally calls on a Saturday morning and says that we’re to come here and do whatever you want, I come here and do whatever you want.”
He had to give Edwin credit, the man knew how to get things done. Malone had explained that the best way to keep Zorin and Kelly under surveillance would be a running tail. One car follows for a few hundred miles, then another takes over, then another. Hard to notice any interest that way. Right now that only would involve Maine, so Edwin had enlisted the state police’s help. Most likely, Zorin and Kelly were headed south farther into New England, so more tails would have to be ready in other states. So much easier to just have a drone follow the car, but he knew messy legal issues were associated with that on U.S. soil.
No matter, the old-fashioned way should work just fine.
Along with a backup.
He finished his juice and said, “We need to go out to the airport.”
The trip was quick, just over a mile, and inside the terminal he found a single rental car counter. He’d asked for the officers to come in with him just in case of a problem. Nothing intimidates more than uniforms, badges, and holstered weapons.
They approached the counter and he said, “About two hours ago you rented a car to two men. We need to see the paperwork.” The attendant looked like he was going to balk so he pointed a finger and said, “And the only correct response here is, Yes sir, here it is.”
His stern look and the two troopers beside him made the p
oint. The clerk handed over the rental agreement, which was in Jamie Kelly’s name, on a Canadian driver’s license, paid for in cash. No drop-off point noted.
“Is the car coming back here?” he asked.
The clerk nodded. “That’s what they said.”
But he knew that wasn’t true.
So he asked what he really wanted to know. “You have GPS in all of your vehicles, right?”
“Of course. We can find them, if need be.”
He gestured with the rental agreement. “We need the GPS frequency for this one. Now.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Stephanie listened as the male voice on the other end of the cell phone, dry and raspy, like the rattle of some creature in a pile of dead leaves, told her things she’d never known. Apparently, back in the 1980s, while she’d been engaged with Forward Pass, working covertly with Reagan and the pope, others had also been hard at work undermining the Soviet regime with more active measures designed to destabilize.
“It was quite a time,” the voice said. “You have to remember Andropov was head of the KGB when they tried to kill John Paul. He would have approved that operation.”
She listened as the voice explained how Andropov became convinced that John Paul’s papal election was designed by the Vatican to undermine Soviet control in Poland, part of a deliberate plan to collapse the Soviet Union. Ridiculous, for sure, but ultimately, thanks to circumstances that formed outside the church—mainly the election of Ronald Reagan as president of the United States—that’s exactly what happened.