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I glanced up and shuddered the thought of the heavy block falling on us.
“Simple but effective way of closing it off if anyone ever discovers the tunnel,” West observed.
He took me into an embassy equipment room. It was full of emergency gear: torches, medical supplies, and flight cases lined up on neat racks. I watched the wall close, concealing the tunnel, and West went to the door and tapped a code into the keypad beside it.
A buzzer sounded and he pulled the door open, leading me into a basement corridor.
A uniformed Marine was waiting for us there.
“The Ambassador is here, Master Gunnery Sergeant,” he said.
He took us through a maze of identical corridors until we reached a bank of elevators. He escorted us to the top floor, hand just touching his sidearm the whole way. He knocked on the door to Ambassador Dussler’s office and opened it for us.
West and I stepped inside to find Dussler leaning against his desk talking to Erin Sebold, who sat on a couch on the other side of the room. Dussler hadn’t changed since our last meeting, and was still as confident and suave as ever, except in contrastto his usual tailored suit, today he wore navy sweatpants and a grey hooded top. Erin Sebold was in jeans and a thin sweater. The casual clothes looked out of place in the very traditional office but were the result of the lateness of the hour. There was the obligatory photograph of Dussler with the President, and framed artwork that dated from shortly after the Revolutionary War hung above antique furniture that was carefully arranged to impress visiting dignitaries.
“Jack Morgan, you sure know how to make a dramatic entrance,” the Ambassador said, stepping forward to offer me his hand. “Good to see you.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances,” I replied.
“What happened at the airport?” Erin said, getting up to greet me.
“Two guys tried to abduct him,” West responded. “FSB probably.”
“How did you stop them?” Erin asked.
“I improvised,” West remarked. “I’m going to need a new vehicle by the way.”
“That’s some improvisation,” Erin remarked.
“It was,” I said. “He saved my life. I owe you,” I told West. “I won’t forget it.”
“I reckon we’re even from before. The country owes you a debt,” he countered.
“So, what’s happening, Jack?” Dussler asked.
“A faction of Chinese nationals struck a deal with Valery Alekseyev to work together to advance their strategic interests. Private was the intended target. A secret Chinese group led by a guycalled Fang Wenyan was supposed to destroy my business, kill my people, and, when I’d suffered enough, kill me.”
“On Alekseyev’s orders?” Dussler asked.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I’m guessing it was supposed to be revenge for what I did here and in Afghanistan.”
“Alekseyev is bad news, Jack,” Erin observed. “It would explain what our sources told us. Yesterday morning, raids took place on the Private office here and the homes of every member of its staff. All your people were arrested and incarcerated somewhere.”
The thought of Dinara, Feo, and the others being held captive filled me with anger.
“I need to find them. And then I need to put Alekseyev out of action.”
Dussler and Erin exchanged a concerned look that indicated the sensitivity of the situation.
“We cannot be seen to be aiding a vigilante mission against a member of the Russian Government, Jack,” Dussler said. “Even if America’s strategic interests would be served by the removal of that man. I’m afraid we can only provide moral support.”
I was deflated. “I have to help my people.”
Erin eyed me sympathetically, but she and Dussler seemed resolved.
“Sir, ma’am, I have some annual leave due,” West responded. “I’d like to use it now to show Mr. Morgan around Moscow. Take in some sights.”
“Sights?” Dussler asked.
