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"Russians?"
"My guy said they were thick as thieves. Also said he got a call from your old friend at KGB."
"You mean SVR," Kennedy reminded him of the Russian Intelligence service's new name.
"Yeah, but, he referred to them as KGB. Same assholes as before. Just a new name."
"What did Mikhail want?" Stansfield asked, referring to Mikhail Ivanov, the deputy director of Directorate S, perhaps the most ruthless outfit in the espionage business.
"Not happy," Powers said with an emphatic shake of his head. "I guess he made some pretty heavy demands."
"Such as."
"He wants to know who did it, and he expects full cooperation. Said he's going to make life very hard for anyone who doesn't cooperate fully. Pushy bastard."
"Any witnesses?" Kennedy asked.
"Not one," Powers said with a grin. He looked at his watch. "The Turk's been dead for five hours. It looks like it was professional. Five hours means the guy who pulled the trigger is long gone. They're screwed."
"Guy?" Kennedy asked.
Powers shrugged. "Just my guess. No offense, but it's pretty much an exclusively all-men's club.
Kennedy smiled to let him know she wasn't offended.
Stansfield asked, "Your source ... he's good?"
"Great. Very dialed in."
"Loyalties?"
"To the almighty dollar, but he prefers to do business with people he likes. We can trust him."
"Keep me posted. I want to know what Mikhail is up to. If he starts swinging his velvet hammer, we might be able to win over a few more hearts in Ankara."
"Good idea."
"Anything else?"
"I'll have my gang put together a full workup for you."
"Thank you." Stansfield looked to the door, letting Powers know he wanted to get back to his meeting with Kennedy.
As soon as the Near East chief was gone, Kennedy was on her feet. She made a beeline for Stansfield's desk and grabbed the handset of his secure phone. She started punching in numbers, pausing for prompts and then hitting more numbers. After an interminable twenty seconds she accessed the voicemail. Kennedy listened intently to Rapp's brief coded message and then slowly hung up the phone.
Stansfield twirled his glasses in his right hand and asked, "Well?"
Kennedy nodded, cleared her throat, and said in near disbelief, "It was him."
CHAPTER 24
THE handsome young man loosened his tie and nudged his beg toward the Customs desk at John F. Kennedy Airport. He casually, yet carefully studied the face of every officer who was checking passports and clearing people through customs. He had a U.S. passport and thus was spared the more stringent and crowded queues that were serving foreigners seeking to visit the United States. He chose this particular line, not because it looked like the fastest, but because the officer manning it looked to be the oldest and most uninterested of the six currently on duty. When it was his turn he stepped to the elevated desk and slid his passport across the cheap blue laminate surface.
The officer, a fifty-some-year-old gray-haired man, gave him a serious look and then glanced at the passport. He was all business. In a voice devoid of real interest he asked, "Did you have a good trip, Mike?"
The man gave a relaxed shrug and said, "Business."
"What do you do?"
