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“Quick work for a couple of holiday makers,” she replied. “Can you give them to Cecily?”
The older of the two analysts turned and held out her hand for my phone.
“I’ve unlocked it,” I said, passing it to her.
She gave me the withering look I’d seen on Mo-bot’s face numerous times.
She connected the phone to one of the devices at her station, and soon my photo library was displayed on a large screen that formed one side of the container. Cecily highlighted all the photos I’d retrieved that day and scrolled through them.
“We should be able to acquire the vehicles on Hawkeye,” Erin suggested, and Cecily nodded.
“Hawkeye?” I asked.
“A few years ago, the Agency realized we often only appreciated the significance of an event long after it happened, so we changed the way we approach satellite data. High-resolution, near-constant surveillance and long-term storage. We keep a permanent record, a history of everything that has happened,” Erin explained. “And we do this on a global level.”
Cecily took the timestamp and geolocation data fromMrs. Minsky’s photos and input them into the Hawkeye program.
A moment later, an overhead satellite image popped onto the big screen and I recognized it as Dinara’s neighborhood. I could see her building and the park opposite. And, more importantly, the three vehicles that had taken her away.
“We can tag them and the AI will follow them through the city,” Cecily said as she used the cursor to attach markers to three target vehicles.
She typed a command and the image changed, jumping forward a few seconds. The vehicles were now on the road. Then it changed again and they were partway round the square, and then again and the system had picked them up in a different neighborhood. The intervals between these images shortened as the AI got better at processing their route. We followed it on a series of high-resolution satellite images of Moscow that had been taken more than twenty-four hours ago.
“We lose them on the edge of the city,” Cecily said, drawing my attention to a country road beside thick forest.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but next to the last image we had of the SUVs and van that had taken Dinara, I saw the distinctive wreckage of two crashed vehicles. I had driven past that very spot on my last trip to Moscow.
“I know this place,” I said.
“Can you pick them up again?” Erin asked.
Cecily shook her head.
“I’ve been there before,” I remarked, drawing close to the screen and studying the very last image we had of the convoy.
“Ma’am, there’s something I think Mr. Morgan should know about Valery Alekseyev,” the younger analyst said.
“Go ahead, Kate,” Erin replied.
“Alekseyev isn’t his real name,” Kate revealed. “That’s his mother’s maiden name.
“Alekseyev’s father’s name was Salko. He is Yevgeny Salko’s half-brother. His elder brother. Our intel suggests Alekseyev recruited Yevgeny into the SVR.”
The news left me reeling. Yevgeny Salko had been a director of the SVR with responsibility for the Bright Star program. I’d destroyed his life’s work and his career during my investigation into Karl Parker’s death.
“Our sources indicate Salko might have been executed after your intervention,” Erin revealed. “He was certainly disavowed and no one has seen or heard anything from him since.”
I studied the satellite image of the van, picturing Dinara inside the vehicle, alone and frightened, and as I looked at the picture I realized I was scared too. This wasn’t about geopolitics or espionage. This was personal. I’d unwittingly ruined Alekseyev’s brother, and possibly cost him his life. This man would go to the ends of the earth to make sure his brother got justice.
“This is a vendetta,” I remarked. “It isn’t about what I did to Russia, this is about what I did to Valery Alekseyev’s family.”
I looked once more at the satellite picture of the two wrecked vehicles by the side of the road, and recalled my previous journey north out of Moscow.
“I know where he’s taken them,” I said. “I know where they are. Back where all this started.”
CHAPTER 89
“YOU THINK THIS is revenge for Bright Star?” Erin asked.
