23

JOINT BASE ANDREWS, PRINCE GEORGE’S COUNTY, MARYLAND

Marcus flashed his government ID and was cleared onto the base.

He found a parking spot for his Nissan Stanza, cut the engine, and then dialed a number from memory. It was a call he should have made Sunday, but he’d simply been too busy.

“Stravinsky & Sons Accounting and Tax Services, may I help you?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

Marcus couldn’t help but smile each time he heard his Russian friend say the words. The man’s name was not Stravinsky. It was Oleg Kraskin. And he was hardly an accountant. He was a Russian mole and an assassin who had taken out both the Russian president and the head of the FSB, then fled his country with a thumb drive containing the Kremlin’s most prized secrets. Now he was living in the U.S. under an assumed name and working for the CIA, known to senior American officials only as “the Raven.” And while his cover story was that he ran a tax preparation service, the truth was the Raven was working on two highly classified projects at the moment, with Marcus as his handler.

For starters, Oleg was helping the CIA identify European members of Parliament, journalists, political analysts, and businessmen who were secretly on the Kremlin’s payroll. Already Oleg had put together a list of forty names of people surreptitiously paid in cash to provide the Kremlin with intelligence on NATO’s military capabilities, steal trade secrets from key European businesses like Airbus, disseminate Russian propaganda, and recruit other people of influence. For weeks Oleg had been combing through the computer files he’d smuggled out of Moscow and building dossiers on each mole with proof of monies paid, means of payment, and what each traitor was tasked to do for the Kremlin.

The CIA had long suspected that both the EU parliament and NATO headquarters had been penetrated by Russian intelligence. Now they had proof. National Security Advisor Evans was urging President Clarke to have these people arrested immediately. Marcus, however, was urging Clarke to let the Agency keep monitoring these folks. Would the new Russian president try to use them? If so, to do what? If that happened —or more likely, when it happened —the president could decide whether to arrest them, feed them disinformation, or flip them into becoming double agents.

CIA director Stephens had sided with Marcus and taken his recommendation to the president, and for now, at least, Clarke agreed.

Then Stephens had asked Marcus to task the Raven with an even more urgent project: sifting through mountains of NSA intercepts, helping to scan for any evidence that Moscow, Pyongyang, and/or Tehran were planning revenge attacks after all the ways the U.S. had thwarted them over the past two months. Oleg had found nothing useful yet, and Marcus was sure Sunday’s attack had hit the Russian hard.

“Hey, it’s me,” Marcus said, careful not to use either of their names.

“I’m so glad you are safe, my friend,” Oleg replied. “I’ve been dying to call, but you gave me strict orders never to contact you except in an emergency.”

Marcus smiled, if only to himself. Surely a man becoming involved in a mass casualty event qualified as an emergency. But he had no time to quibble. “I’m sorry I didn’t call right away.”

“It is I who am sorry. I should have found something, anything, that would have told us this was coming, but —”

“No one saw this coming. That’s why I’m calling.”

“You think it’s just the beginning,” Oleg said.

“Don’t you?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Look —I’m heading to the Mideast tonight.”

“With Evans, the national security advisor?”

“Right.”

“I read about his trip.”

“As has every terrorist,” Marcus said. “So on top of everything else, keep your eye out for signs that any attacks are being planned.”

“I will, my friend. Just watch your back.”

“Will do,” Marcus said, grabbing his bag and hustling to security. “Listen, I gotta catch my ride. Text me if you find anything.”

As it happened, he was the last person up the metal stairs before the door was shut.

The military version of the Boeing 757-200 was painted blue, white, and gold. The words United States of America were emblazoned on both sides of the fuselage in black letters three feet high. The plane bore an American flag on the tail, along with the number 80002. Similar models of the VC-32A were used for the VP and the secretary of state. This one had been assigned to the national security advisor, and over the past two years the man had racked up an impressive number of frequent flyer miles.

As Marcus moved through the cabin to the cheap seats, he nodded to General Evans in the first-class area. The NSA was hunched over a laptop and chatting in a low voice with one of his key deputies, Dr. Susan Davis, the senior director for Near East affairs on the NSC. Evans nodded back. Davis did not.

Kailea was already settled into the window seat next to his. “Thought you’d never make it, grandpa,” she quipped as he settled in. “Trouble with your wheelchair? Or filling up on Geritol at the PX?”

“Good to see you, too, Agent Curtis.”

It was going to be a long flight.