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She nodded. “For us to handle.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SOUTHERN FRANCE
8:40 P.M.
Cassiopeia climbed down from the Russian fighter. She and Cotton had just landed at the air base not far from her château, the long flight from Siberia over. The pilots had said virtually nothing on the trip, most likely told not to engage their passengers. Cotton’s stunt in thwarting their attack on Zorin apparently had not been anticipated. She’d half expected that the planes be ordered to return to Irkutsk immediately, but that had not happened. She was glad to be back on French soil.
Cotton descended from his high-speed taxi and walked over to her. “I need to call Stephanie.”
“I’m assuming there’s a lot more to this story than I know.”
“You could say that.”
They entered one of the buildings and asked for a private office. Base personnel seemed to have been expecting them, as it wasn’t every day that two Russian fighters touched down at a NATO air base. The officer-in-charge directed them to a small conference room. Inside, Cassiopeia found her cell phone, the same one they’d not been allowed to use back in Siberia, and redialed Stephanie’s number.
Then she hit SPEAKER.
“It’s midafternoon in DC,” Cotton said.
The line on the other end rang.
“Where’s Zorin headed?” Cassiopeia asked him.
“Prince Edward Island, Canada. I’ve already done the math. He’ll be on the ground around 11:00 P.M. local time.”
Another two rings.
“Do we need to go there?”
Before Cotton could reply, a voice answered the phone. Not Stephanie’s. Male. One she immediately recognized. Danny Daniels.
“We were worried,” the president said.
“I was, too,” Cotton said. “It’s been an interesting few hours. And how did I get you? Is Stephanie there?”
“She’s indisposed at the moment, handling Zorin’s lover, who’s proved to be quite a pain in the ass. You might like to know that my nephew got his butt kicked.”
Cotton smiled. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you say.”
“You know, I got, what, less than a day and a half left on the job. Let me tell you, there’s not a whole lot for a president to do in his last two days, except pack up things. I feel as useless as tits on a boar hog. So tell me something that will cheer me up.”
“Zorin’s headed for Canada. He’s looking for hidden nuclear weapons.”
“Stephanie has reported in the same thing from this end.”
Daniels told them all that he knew. She then listened as Cotton recounted what had happened over Lake Baikal, then at the dacha, culminating in Vadim Belchenko’s death. “That archivist believed those men were military, sent to kill him. Any idea what he meant by ‘Fool’s Mate’ or ‘zero amendment’?”
“Not in the least, but you’ve given me something to do, which I greatly appreciate. Stephanie is running a little operation of her own and had all calls to her phone forwarded here to the White House. I’m waiting to hear from her. In the meantime, what do you need from us?”
“A fast ride to Canada.”
Cotton told the president where they were.
“It’s being arranged right now. Just stay put.”
“Tracking Zorin’s plane would also be a good idea.”
“Already thought of that one. We’ll keep you posted on its route.”
“We have to know if this is real, or just wishful thinking on Zorin’s part,” Cotton said. “We don’t know if he’s working alone or what. He certainly had help at the dacha. Then there’s the Russians. They definitely wanted that old archivist dead.”
“Back on the lake, in the helicopter,” she said, “the men recognized the vehicles chasing Cotton as military. That fact seemed to be an issue for them.”
“Hello, is that Ms. Vitt?” Daniels asked. “Long time, no see.”
“It has been a while, Mr. President.”
The last time they were together had been on the second floor of the White House, after another ordeal in which both she and the president discovered some surprising things about themselves.
“This whole thing stinks,” the president said. “Moscow specifically asked for our help. I obliged them and sent you in, Cotton. They then alerted us to Anya Petrova, who’s here for Zorin, so I sent Luke to bird-dog her. They also allowed Cassiopeia to enter the country to see about you.”
“Then something changed,” Cotton said. “They told us to not let the door hit us in the ass on the way out of the country.”
Daniels chuckled. “Haven’t heard that one in a while. But I agree. Things did change fast. Let me make some inquiries. I may be headed out to pasture, but this bull can still buck.”
That she did not doubt.
“We also need any information the CIA has on a man named Jamie Kelley,” Cotton said. “Supposedly an American, now living on Prince Edward Island. He works at a college there. Belchenko told me this guy was once a Soviet asset. That’s who Zorin is after.”
He’d done the math on the ride over. No private jet could match the speed of a military fighter. So they should be able to beat Zorin across the Atlantic by at least an hour.
“I’m told your rides are being arranged,” Daniels said. “Keep us posted.”
The call ended.
She stared at Cotton. This was the first time they’d been alone to actually speak to
each other.
“I was wrong,” she said. “I handled things horribly in Utah.”
“It was tough on all of us. I’m sorry it turned out the way it did.”
She genuinely believed he meant that. This man was no hardened killer. For him to pull the trigger meant that there’d been no choice, and there had not been.
“I’ve decided that I don’t want to live my life without you.” She’d told herself to be honest with him and, for once, not mince words. She was hoping he would return the favor.
“That makes two of us,” he said. “I need you.”
She realized what it took for him to make that admission. Neither one of them was a clingy personality.
“Can we forget about what happened,” she said, “and pick up where we left off?”
“I can do that.”
She smiled. So could she.
They both still wore Russian flight suits. She unzipped hers, wanting to be rid of it. “I’m assuming we have to be stuffed into another fighter and flown across the Atlantic?”
“That would be the fastest way.”
“And what do we do once we get there?”
“Find a man named Jamie Kelly, before Zorin does the same.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
3:20 P.M.
Stephanie admired the house that belonged to Peter Hedlund, the current historian for the Society of Cincinnatus. As explained, the colonial brick mansion had been built in the mid-1700s, and a succession of owners had kept it standing. Most of what was now visible came from a mid-20th-century remodel. She loved the artful mix of marble, walnut, and plaster, along with the careful blend of bold colors, all of which reminded her of the house she and her husband once owned, which had sat not all that far away.
Annapolis was familiar territory. Though currently only the capital of Maryland, for a short time after the Revolutionary War it served as the national capital. Always compact, less than 40,000 people living there, and it had not grown much since her time here back in the late 1980s. Fritz Strobl had called ahead and alerted Hedlund to their visit. She and Luke now sat in a lovely study with a brick hearth, in which burned a crackling fire. Hedlund had already listened to their purpose for being there, and had agreed to everything she’d asked.
