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“When you flashed your badge,” he said, “the locals called Justice to see what we were doing. Since it involved the Magellan Billet, the call came to me. I’m told there was shooting in there, and a fight, and you brandished a gun. Then you took control of some woman who’d threatened everyone in the house. Do you have her?”
She nodded.
Disgust filled his face. “I told you to leave this alone. What are you doing?”
She’d worked for a succession of AGs, some good, some bad, but all of them had shown her a measure of respect.
“My job,” she said to him.
“Not anymore.”
She caught the cold, satisfied look in his eyes.
“This is done. You’re fired. As of right now.”
She brushed past, intent on ignoring him.
He grabbed her arm. “I said, you’re fired. Give me your badge and your gun.”
“You know what you can do with your firing. And let go of me.”
He did and smiled. “I was hoping you’d go that route.”
He gestured with his free hand and three men emerged from the vehicle parked at the street, all middle-aged, short-haired, and dressed in dark suits.
Justice Department agents.
“I brought them along,” he said, “since I knew you were going to be difficult. Now you can either give me your badge and gun, or go with these men and be under arrest. I assure you, the White House won’t be able to help.”
Which meant this fool had been given the green light from the incoming administration to drop the hammer. Amazing his lack of loyalty to the president who’d given him his job. The talk seemed right. He was nothing but an opportunist. He was also not as unsure of himself as earlier. Instead, he brimmed with confidence, knowing that no harm would come to him from anything he was about to do, regardless of what the current White House might think.
He had her.
Game over.
She’d been given a temporary license to poke around, encouraged by the White House, and she’d raked up enough to make it all real, but that license had now been revoked.
She found her gun and badge and handed both to him.
“Go home to Atlanta, Stephanie. Your career is done. And do whatever you want with that woman. No one here cares.”
He started to walk away.
“Bruce.”
He turned back.
Her upturned middle finger told him exactly what she thought.
He shook his head. “The great thing is, your opinion doesn’t matter anymore.”
And he headed for the car and climbed back inside.
She watched as it drove away.
Thirty-seven years with the government. All that she’d seen, done, and been involved with. And this was how it ended? She heard the front door to Anderson House open and turned to see Fritz Strobl walk out into the cold late-morning air.
He walked over and said, “That didn’t seem good.”
“You were spying?”
“I apologize. But I was waiting for everyone to leave before speaking with you. So, yes, I was watching.”
She wasn’t in the mood. “What is it, Mr. Strobl?”
“What you did in there with that woman. We appreciate it. We don’t have incidents like that here. It was a first, actually. It was most upsetting. You seem like an honest person.” He paused. “I’m afraid I lied to you.”
Now he had her attention.
“When you mentioned the archive found at the Charon estate. I was aware of it, and we’ve wanted to reclaim it for some time.”
She understood. “But you did not want to get in the middle of a family fight.”
He nodded. “Precisely. We’ve kept its existence to ourselves. God knows we could not approach the Charon family. Several of our members knew of Brad’s secret room, including our current historian. We even contemplated what you suggested—appropriating it.”
She liked how carefully he referred to theft.
“That woman you carted off. She asked specifically about that archive. She was looking for something particular within it.”
She recalled the books strewn across the floor, stripped from their shelves.
“What was she after?”
“That she did not mention to me, but she wanted to speak with our historian.” Strobl hesitated. “This is a bit embarrassing. You see, an organization as old as ours certainly has … secrets. Most are harmless. Nearly all of them are meaningless in the overall scope of things. We have our share of those, too.”
“Did you tell the police this?”
He shook his head. “No one asked. I was wondering, if I direct you to our historian, could you have that archive retrieved?”
A deal? She smiled. “I do believe, Mr. Strobl, I smell a bit of larceny in your blood.”
“Heavens no. It’s just that, those books and records are important. They belong to us. Can you procure them?”
“Absolutely.”
She listened as he told her a name and address, the same one Petrova had been given. As he spoke, a plan formed in her mind so, when he finished, she asked, “Do you have a car?”
Strobl nodded.
“I need to borrow it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RUSSIA
Zorin waited aboard the jet, his departure from Ulan-Ude delayed now going on half an hour. He’d chartered the flight over the Internet, concluding the deal with a phone call made earlier after his talk with Belchenko in the black bath. He had to fly nonstop from Ulan-Ude to Prince Edward Island, Canada, where Jamie Kelly supposedly lived. He’d calculated the distance at just under forty-nine hundred nautical miles. The charter company understood his needs and recommended a Gulfstream G550, which they could have in Ulan-Ude by nightfall, ready to go.
He was back on duty—detached and alert—his training taking over. On arrival he’d thoroughly checked out the aircraft. About thirty meters long, it flew at a top speed of nearly Mach 1 with a range of 6,800 nautical miles. Its pressurized cabin allowed for an altitude of 51,000 feet, high above commercial traffic and any adverse weather or winds. He should be able to make a straight shot in about ten and a half hours. That would put him in Canada, compensating for the twelve-hour time difference, a little before 11:00 P.M. local time, still Friday night.
He’d been told that a representative of the company would meet him at the Ulan-Ude airport, which he assumed explained the delay, as no one had been waiting fo
r him save the two pilots. One would fly while the other rested. The company had recommended four, but he’d nixed that idea.
Far too many witnesses.
The jet’s interior was luxurious and spacious, adorned with crystal wine goblets and walnut paneling. Eight oval windows opened on each side as black spots upon pale beige walls. Nine cushy leather seats faced front and back and two long sofas stretched down one side. Galleys were forward and aft, and he’d requested meals. He’d not eaten all day and would require something in his stomach. There was a wireless network and satellite communication, both of which he might require to recon his destination and communicate with Anya.
Heaters inside kept winter at bay, the lighting low and soothing. Through the forward door a man entered bundled in a thick wool coat. He was stout with a mat of wiry black hair clinging to a squat turret of a head. High Slavic cheekbones flushed red from the cold. He wore a suit of little to no distinction and introduced himself as the company rep, here to conclude their business before takeoff. One wrist showed off a jeweled Rolex, the other sported a diamond ring on the little finger.
Neither impressed him.
“You’re late,” he said in Russian.
“I went for my dinner.”
“And kept me sitting here?”
The man’s dark eyes communicated a look of begrudging respect. “I realize you are in a hurry. But you must realize that I do business with men like you every day.”
“You know what I want?” he asked as the man sat in one of the leather seats facing him.
“I was told you need to go from point A to B, without anyone knowing a thing.”
The man added an irritating smile, which definitely rubbed him the wrong way. That was the thing about the new Russia. Everyone thought everyone else corrupt. No one ever considered the possibility that duty and honor might be motivators, too. But he decided to keep his irritation in check and projected a calm show of casualness. Which was unusual, since he was never casual.
“I was also told by my company to conclude our business before you left.”
He heard the unspoken words.
