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He heard a sputter.
Then a backfire.
He knew what was happening. Too much stress was being applied to the prop, which the engine resisted.
Power to the controls winked in and out.
“I’ve been hit by a surface-to-air missile,” he told Stephanie. “I’m losing control and going down.”
The engine died.
All of the instruments stopped working.
Windows wrapped the cockpit, front and side, the copilot’s seat empty. He searched below and saw only the blue ice of Lake Baikal. The An-2 rapidly changed from a plane to eight thousand pounds of deadweight.
Dread swept through him, along with one thought.
Was this how he would die?
CHAPTER TWO
WASHINGTON, DC
2:20 A.M.
Stephanie Nelle stared at the speaker on the desk. Her direct link to Cotton’s phone had gone quiet.
“Are you there?” she asked again.
Only silence continued to answer her.
Cotton’s last words rang in her ears.
“I’m losing control and going down.”
She stared across the desk at Bruce Litchfield, the current acting attorney general and her boss for two more days. “He’s in trouble. Someone shot his plane down with a surface-to-air missile.”
She was working out of an office in the Justice Department. Usually she would be ensconced inside her own secure space at Magellan Billet headquarters in Atlanta. But that was not possible anymore, and with the impending inauguration of a new president she’d been ordered north to DC.
And she knew why.
So that Litchfield could keep an eye on her.
Back in December Harriett Engle, who’d served as President Danny Daniels’ third attorney general, had tendered her resignation. The Daniels administration’s two terms were over and not only would there be a new president but a new party had seized control of both the White House and half the Congress. Danny had tried hard to get his man elected, but failed. It seemed the Daniels magic only applied to the man himself. Litchfield was here at this ungodly hour since he was in temporary command of both the Justice Department and what remained of the Magellan Billet.
Two months ago, on the day after Thanksgiving, she’d been informed that not only would she be reassigned from the head of the Magellan Billet, but the entire unit would be dismantled. The new attorney general, who would be confirmed by the Senate next week, had already stated that he considered the Billet duplicative of the countless other intelligence and counterintelligence units that populated the government. The Justice Department had no further need for those services, so the Billet would be abolished and all of its agents dispersed.
“Let the Russians deal with it,” Litchfield said. “They asked for our help, you gave it to them, now it’s their problem.”
“You can’t be serious. We have a man down. We don’t rely on others to take care of our own.”
“We do here. And don’t forget, you sent Malone in there without my okay.”
“The president of the United States asked me to do it.”
Litchfield seemed unfazed. “You and I agreed that all operational decisions would be run through me. But that didn’t happen. And we both know why. Because I would not have authorized it.”
“I didn’t need your authorization.”
“Actually, you did. You know there’s a working agreement that the current administration will keep the new one informed and that all operational decisions, starting last week, would be joint. It’s my job to keep the new administration informed. For some reason, though, this operation became unilateral across the board.”
Litchfield was career Justice with a respectable eighteen years. He was a Daniels appointee, confirmed by the Senate, and had served as deputy AG for the past five years. The new attorney general had yet to decide who, at the top level, would be kept on. Stephanie knew Litchfield was jockeying for a high-level post, so when the new president’s AG appointee indicated a desire to end the Magellan Billet Litchfield had seized the opportunity to show he could play with the new team. Any other time she’d never tolerate this level of bureaucratic interference, but with the inauguration so close everything had gone fluid. Authority swirled in a state of flux. Change, not consistency, ruled the day.
“You tried to keep this close,” Litchfield said. “But I found out about it anyway. Which is why I’m here, in the middle of the damn night. White House approval or not, this is over.”
“You better hope Cotton doesn’t make it out,” she said, with equal casualness.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Inform the Russians about what happened,” he said. “Let them handle it. And you never really explained why the president wanted Malone there in the first place.”
No, she hadn’t, even though Litchfield would surely understand the value of doing someone a favor. “Coin of the realm” is what they called it in DC. A favor done is a favor returned. That was the way things worked, especially years ago when she first started the Billet. Then her twelve agents were all lawyers, each additionally trained in intelligence and espionage. Cotton had been one of her first hires, brought over from the navy and JAG with a Georgetown law degree. He worked for her a dozen years before retiring out early and moving to Copenhagen, where he now owned an old bookshop. Periodically over the past few years, because of circumstances, he’d been drawn back into her world. Of late she’d hired him as contract help. Today’s assignment, a simple recon mission, was one of those hires.
But something had gone wrong.
“Make it h
appen,” he said to her.
Like hell. “Bruce, I’m still in charge of this agency for two more days. Until that time, I’ll run it as I see fit. If you don’t like that, fire me. But then you are going to have to explain yourself to the White House.”
She knew that threat could not be ignored. Danny Daniels was still president and the Billet had been his go-to agency for quite some time. Litchfield was a typical DC panderer. His only goal was to survive and keep his job. How he accomplished that mattered not. She’d dealt with him on only a few occasions in the past, but she’d heard the talk about being an opportunist. So the last thing he could afford was a pissing contest with the current president of the United States, not only one that he would lose but one that would draw a lot of attention, too. If this man wanted to be a part of the new administration, he had first to survive the old one.
“Look, don’t take this in a mean way, but your time is over,” he said to her. “So is the president’s. Can’t you both just let it go? Yes, you’re in charge of the Billet. But no agents work for you anymore. They’re all gone. You’re all that’s left. There’s nothing left to do except some cleanup. Go home. Retire. Enjoy yourself.”
The thought had occurred to her. She’d started back in the Reagan administration at State, then moved to Justice, eventually assigned to the Magellan Billet. She’d run the agency a long time, but now all that seemed over. Her sources had reported that the $10 million it took to fund the Billet would be redirected to social outreach, public relations, and other tools to bolster the new AG’s image. Apparently that was deemed more important than covert intelligence work. Justice would leave the spying to the CIA, the NSA, and all the other alphabet agencies.
“Tell me, Bruce, what’s it like to be second? Never the captain. Always the lieutenant.”
He shook his head. “You are an insolent old bitch.”
