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Up near Constitution Avenue she caught sight of three cabs parked at the curb. One of those would be her chariot. The night air was cold, but thankfully arid. She stuffed her bare hands into her coat pockets and headed for the cab line. DC lingered in an early-morning slumber with little street noise and light traffic. The government buildings all around her sat dark, their business day not beginning for a few more hours. Her job, unfortunately, had never respected the clock. Running the Magellan Billet had been a twenty-four-hour-a-day task, and she could not remember the last time she took an actual vacation.
Many times she’d wondered how it would all end. Never had she imagined that it would simply disintegrate into nothing. Not that she expected any pomp or ceremony, but a simple thank-you would have been appreciated. And not from Danny. She knew how he felt. But from the new people. Seemed like common courtesy would mandate that the AG designee tell her face-to-face. But the ignominious bastard told the press instead and sent Litchfield to do the dirty work. She should not have been surprised. Politics had no memory, and no one cared that the Magellan Billet was gone. If truth be told the other intelligence agencies would be glad to be rid of it. Her relationship with the White House had long been their envy. But she’d earned that trust with proven results, a large part of which was thanks to Cotton. That was why she would see this last operation through, right until the new president finished his oath of office and shook the chief justice’s hand.
A black Cadillac sedan eased to the curb next to her and its rear window whined down. Alarm bells rang in her brain until she recognized a face.
Nikolai Osin.
Supposedly working for the Russian trade mission, Osin’s primary responsibilities were with the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, the SVR, the successor to the First Chief Directorate of the now debunked KGB, tasked with all Russian foreign intelligence operations. Osin headed the Washington, DC, rezidentura. And unlike during the Cold War days, the SVR and CIA now routinely identified their chiefs of station, the idea being so they could work faster and better together to counter global terrorism. Russia and the United States were supposedly allies, but tensions remained high, the old distrust never fading entirely. One problem came from simply defining terrorism. Caucasus separatists and Chechens were freedom fighters to the United States, as was Hamas or Hezbollah to Russia. More disagreements than cooperation seemed to exist. Which made Osin’s request, the one that had led to Cotton heading for Lake Baikal, all the more unusual.
She stopped and faced him. “Are you having me watched?”
He smiled. “I drove over after our call, hoping you might be leaving. I wanted to speak with you privately.”
She’d never known this man to play fast and loose. His reputation was one of skill and caution. “About what?”
“Forward Pass.”
How many years had it been since she last heard those words? At least twenty-five. And not far from here. Just a mile or so west on Pennsylvania Avenue. She wondered if the intelligence operation named Forward Pass remained classified. Nearly all of the once sensitive documents from the 1980s had been released, the passage of three decades and the fall of the Soviet Union transforming them from state secrets into historical perspective. Countless books had been written about Reagan and his war on communism. She’d even read a few. Some on target, others close, most missing the mark. But never had she seen the words Forward Pass.
“How do you know about that?” she asked.
“Come now, Stephanie. Ronald Reagan himself gave your operation that name.”
She stared at the president of the United States, having never before been this close to the most powerful man in the world.
“Al Haig tells me you’re a smart lawyer,” Reagan said. “He has great confidence in you.”
They sat in the Oval Office, she on a small settee, Reagan in an armchair, his tall frame perched upright, head high, legs crossed, looking like the actor he’d once been. A late-night call from Secretary of State Haig had told her she was expected at the White House and should head there immediately. A bit unusual to say the least for a lower-level State Department lawyer. She’d been home, about to go to bed, but she’d dressed and caught a cab. Now she was talking alone to the commander in chief.
“I’m told,” Reagan said, “that you came on board during President Carter’s time.”
She nodded. “In 1979. I decided that private practice was not for me. International relations have always interested me, so I applied to the State Department and was hired.”
“Cyrus Vance says you’re top-notch.”
She smiled at the compliment. Her former boss, secretary of state during most of the Carter administration, had become a friend and mentor. Like her, Vance deemed public service a duty and an honor.
“You spoke to Secretary Vance?”
Reagan nodded. “I wanted his assessment. He says you could even be secretary of state one day yourself.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept silent.
“How old are you?” Reagan asked.
She normally dodged that question, but not tonight. “Twenty-seven.”
“So you lived through the 1960s and 1970s. You know what the Cold War means.”
That she did.
“What is your assessment of the Soviet Union?” he asked.
A fair question considering she was assigned to the Soviet division at State. “A system flawed to the core. My father used to say that if you have to build fences to keep people in, you’ve got a serious problem.”
Reagan smiled. “Your father was right. I’m going to end the Soviet Union.”
Bold words, spoken nonchalantly. But not as bragging or bravado, just a simple statement of a purpose he seemed to truly believe in.
“And you’re going to help me.”
Her mind snapped back to the face in the car window. She hadn’t thought about that night at the White House in a long time. The seven years after that had changed her life forever.
“Stephanie,” Osin said, “I have confirmed that the plane your man was flying exploded on the lake.”
Her heart sank.
“But that was after it made a landing. Two bodies were found, burned to nothing. We know they are Russian.”
“No sign of Malone?”
“None. But those two men were probably driving something.”
She agreed, and felt better. Cotton could be on the move.
“Will my second envoy be given free rein?” she asked.
“Of course, just as I said.”
