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ChapterTwenty-Four
Reese
Now
We arrest Konstantin Petrov at his townhome in Georgetown. It’s a lucky break, and part of me wonders why he’s there and not buttoned up tight at the Russian embassy where we wouldn’t be able to touch him. Instead, we haul him off his couch, where he was snoring after what looks like a late night of vodka shots and Doritos.
Sometimes the life of an international spy isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.
He shouts at us in Russian, struggling as Sheridan and I wrestle him to the floor and cuff him. Hudson is with us, and he takes custody of Konstantin after we have him secured.
Curtains twitch in his neighbors’ windows when we haul him out. We have about ten minutes until the Russian embassy is in spasm and the phones blow up at the State Department while the diplomats try to unravel who arrested Konstantin without getting permission first.
Sheridan and I climb into the back of Hudson’s car and sandwich Konstantin between us. He looks from me to Sheridan before facing forward, glowering.
“Remember us?” I point to Sheridan. “Remember him? He kicked your ass in New York.”
Sheridan, dramatically, cracks his knuckles.
“That is not how I remember it.” Konstantin’s accent is thick, his voice deep.
“Where were you last night?”
Silence.
“What were you doing in Agent Ellis’s house?”
Silence again.
“How do you know Clint Cross?”
Not even a flinch.
We’re getting nowhere, and the clock is ticking. Hudson is chain-smoking and staring at his watch. We’ve got to move Konstantin to headquarters before the Russians send an intercept team.
Sheridan grabs Konstantin’s chin as I’m sliding out of the back seat. They stare at each other for a long, long moment. Konstantin doesn’t blink. Neither does Sheridan.
I don’t like this. I don’t like whatever is passing between them, a ferocious intensity that could be simple hatred and the overflow of New York and two men who tried to beat each other to death—
Or it could be something else, something I can’t put my finger on but that keeps edging into the periphery of my mind like a shadow gliding through a dark room.
I don’t want to face the questions I need to ask, but there are bullets and a memory card in my pocket, and I’ve got to find out what Sheridan was willing to breach protocol to keep hidden from me. What he was willing to lie to me about.
I rap on the window and wave Sheridan from the car. He shoves Konstantin away before he climbs out. He won’t look me in the eyes.
Hudson is listening to his radio. “Units have secured Agent Ellis’s home, sir,” he says. “They’re processing the scene.”
“Good. We need to get Konstantin to headquarters.”
“Yeah.” Hudson pulls out another cigarette. He’s nervous. Arresting a foreign diplomat is the kiss of death in Washington, and with the Russians, that’s not necessarily a figure of speech. He sucks down the whole cigarette in three long drags. “Lead the way.”
I flip on my lights and sirens and take us straight down Pennsylvania Avenue at full speed. We blaze past two DC Metropolitan patrol cars, and the radio crackles with complaints on the joint bands.
Hudson processes Konstantin into one of our holding cells in the basement. He’s doing everything by the book. Reading Konstantin his rights, fingerprinting him, photographing him. He’s expecting this to go under official review.
Konstantin turns down his phone call, which means the Russians already know he’s here.
“Text Marshall,” I tell Sheridan. “This is going to blow up. The vice president needs to know.” Part of me wants to keep Konstantin’s arrest quiet and let Marshall twist in the wind when the Russians come demanding answers.
