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“You do know,” Malone said, “that the world has changed? The Cold War is over.”
“For you, perhaps. But not for me. I have a debt to pay, and I intend to pay it.”
In exactly 52 hours, but he kept that to himself.
His life as a spy had been both challenging and exhausting. He’d traveled the world, entering countries under false identities, hiding his true self and thoughts, his every action intended to manipulate, exploit, and betray. Cut off from his culture, language, and family he’d adapted, but never succumbed to the capitalist appeal. Survival had been his main concern, and he’d lived in fear every day of exposure, which could come from places far away and unexpected. Only an invincible loyalty to the Soviet cause had overcome that daily anxiety.
Which he still possessed.
He wore the pride of his past like a mantle on his shoulders. A KGB officer must have clean hands, an ardent heart, and a clear head. He hated all those who’d stolen that pride from him, both domestic and foreign. Once he was told that the only honorable way to leave the KGB was through death, and he’d come to believe that to be true.
He headed for the stairs. “I will send down the men you met earlier in the black bath. They have some business with you, and they are particularly motivated since the two you killed were their comrades.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Malone called out.
He stopped, turned, and offered a thin, self-satisfying smile.
“I never do.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WASHINGTON, DC
8:30 A.M.
Stephanie led Luke inside the Mandarin Oriental, the hotel she always frequented when in DC. They’d been dropped off by Nikolai Osin, who’d remained silent on the drive back from Virginia. She could tell that Luke wanted to press him for answers, but she’d telegraphed with her eyes that now was not the time. It was good to have the younger Daniels back on her team. She’d hired him originally as a favor to his uncle with the proviso that if he did not work out she was free to fire him. Danny had no problem with nepotism, but he despised incompetence no matter the source. Nobody got a free ride. Not even himself. Thankfully, Luke had proved to be an excellent agent, his Ranger training a valuable asset along with a brash personality, handsome looks, and a devil-may-care attitude. She also liked the fact that he called his mother every Sunday, regardless of where or what he was doing. Any thirty-year-old man who respected a parent that much was okay in her book.
“At some point,” Luke said, “am I going to be told what’s going on? I heard something back there about missing nukes. And I did just lose a car.”
They fled the cold morning air and entered the elegant lobby, people in overcoats hustling back and forth, the Friday business day beginning.
“And, by the way,” he said, “you let that Russkie off easy.”
“It’s clear he has a problem. We need to give him time to work it through.”
She turned and headed for the elevators.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To my room.”
“I’m not that kind of guy, if you know what I mean. And I don’t even work for you anymore.”
She smiled and kept walking.
They stepped onto the elevator and she pressed the button for the fourth floor. She could sympathize with Osin. Moscow had deliberately involved Washington in some internal affair. Surely they had a good reason, but that might have changed over the past few hours. The fact that 250 RA-115s once existed was disturbing enough, but the reality that five of those remained unaccounted for bordered on a crisis. She reminded herself that over twenty-five years had passed, and she doubted if any of those bombs would still be viable. Something that dangerous, that valuable, does not stay hidden that long. So the simple fact that none of those potential problems had ever surfaced brought her some comfort. She had to report this to the White House.
But first things first.
They left the elevator and she led the way down the quiet corridor to her suite. Inside, she sat before her laptop and sent an email that described the country and the house in Virginia, along with a grainy photo of the exterior she’d snapped with her phone.
“Is that to the White House?” Luke asked.
She nodded. “They’re all we have left. Officially, through the Justice Department, I’m not even supposed to be doing what I’m doing.”
“Pappy says you follow the rules about as good as he does.”
She knew the nickname Luke used for Malone, done more to irritate than anything else. The favor had been returned by Cotton with the label Frat Boy, which Luke was anything but.
“You need to stay away from him,” she said. “He’s a bad influence.”
“How bad is it for him right now?”
She’d tried not to think about it. “Enough I had to involve Cassiopeia. She didn’t like it, but she also didn’t refuse. She should be there shortly, if not already.”
“No idea if Malone’s dead or alive?”
She shook her head. “He’s good, so we have to assume he’s okay. You do realize, though, that by helping me out here you might kill your career.”
Luke shrugged. “Could be worse.”
He was just like his uncle. Both men loved swagger and bravado, and both could also back it up with action. Years ago, early in Danny Daniels’ first term, she and the president had not necessarily cared for each other. But a series of crises eventually drew them together until finally they both realized that feelings existed between them. Only Cassiopeia knew the whole truth. Cotton might know some, but he’d never insinuated a thing. It was a subject neither of them would ever broach. She knew that soon Danny would become the first American president, whether current or former, to divorce, his longtime marriage over, both Danielses having already amicably agreed to go their separate ways once they left the White House. Pauline had already found love somewhere else and her husband was happy for her. She deserves it, he’d said many times. Danny did, too, and he might find that happiness with her.
But that remained to be seen.
“Since I’m assuming you aren’t going to tell me a thing about those nukes, what is the Cincinnati?” Luke asked. “You said back at the house, not there. How about here?”
“It was America’s first homegrown boys’ club. It’s been around a long time, not bothering a soul.”
But for some reason the lover of a former communist spy had come all the way from Siberia to rifle through one of the society’s forgotten archives. How had Petrova even become aware that the cache existed? Stephanie knew enough about the Society of Cincinnati to know that they kept things fairly close, so she had to wonder if the group itself knew about the archive.
The laptop indicated an incoming message.
She and Luke read the response on the screen from Edwin Davis, the White House chief of staff.
The property in Virginia belongs to Bradley Charon. He died unexpectedly in a plane crash in 2002. An Internet search shows that the children and the second wife never got along. A probate fight is ongoing, lots of trials and appeals, the estate is nearly bankrupt. A fire six years ago destroyed part of the house. Definitely arson, probably started by one of the children, but nothing could ever be proved. Which is why no insurance claim was paid and the place fell into disrepair. Back taxes total in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. The county recently moved to sell the property at public auction. Hope that helps.
It helped a great deal since it provided a much-needed starting point. So she typed BRADLEY CHARON into Google and waited.
/> 42,800 results.
She narrowed the search by adding VIRGINIA, PROBATE FIGHT, and CINCINNATI.
The first page of results led to several newspaper accounts.
Charon had held a doctorate in political science, his family old money, he the last of a long line whose roots traced back to before the Revolution. He served as either a provost, dean, or president to three colleges and enjoyed a reputation as a learned man. He was married twice, the first for forty years, resulting in three children, the second for less than five, which seemed to have provided nothing but grief since the widow claimed she was entitled to everything.
“That’s a greedy bitch,” Luke said over her shoulder.
And she agreed. “Nobody wins those fights but the lawyers.”
“Kind of the way of the world, isn’t it?”
“It can be, when people lose sight of things.”
And losing seemed to be a Charon family trait. No one had emerged from the legal war with anything, the case bouncing between the local probate court and the Virginia appellate courts. So far, there’d been four judicial opinions and no resolution.
“After the house burned,” she said, “everybody apparently just abandoned it. The insurance company surely refused to pay on the claim, and none of the beneficiaries was going to sink a dime into the place. No one knew about the archive, or it would have been taken. Those books and manuscripts are worth a fortune.”
“So how does our foreign visitor know?”
That was the question of the moment.
Another of the entries on the Google page caught her attention and she clicked on it.
Charon’s obituary.
He’d been buried not far from the estate in a family plot near Manassas. It spoke of his family and his ties to the community, but it was the last paragraph that grabbed her attention.
He was an honored member of the Society of Cincinnati, responsible for the expansion of the society’s research library. Reminding America of the debt owed to the heroes of the Revolution was his life’s work. The honorary pallbearers at his funeral will include the society’s current president general.
