Day 5: May 19, 1215 Hours, Daylight Saving Time
Western Loudoun County, Virginia
GRIGORI SOKOLOFF LAY on the makeshift bed in the corner of the barren cellar room. Beside him, sitting on a small cardboard box, was a plastic pitcher of water and paper cup. The box was within reach of his left hand. His right was handcuffed to the metal bed frame, keeping him from venturing off the bed.
Grigori had lost time. His isolation left him disoriented and weak. Except for the occasional sip of water, he lay back and tried to gain control of his emotions and body. His training had prepared him for much, but his masters had relied heavily on his tough upbringing for the rest. The SVR envisioned arduous interrogations, not isolation and sensory deprivation. How does one prepare for no interrogation—something that is nothing? No questions, no repeated abuse or even physical contact, no sound, no scents or stimulus or connection. Simply nothing. They believed they knew the limits the Americans would go, and they prepared their operatives well within those tolerances.
But Grigori had never expected the heat ray.
He’d never believed such a device existed nor had his masters believed the Americans capable, or willing, to use such a thing. After all, after simply using water and fear to interrogate terrorists taken from the battlefield, the Americans had grown meek and squeamish about such methods. In Russia, such things were child’s play to elicit the simplest of confessions. But with this new device, there was no preparation. No comprehension of such a device. When it was used, his skin felt as though it was melting. Yet afterward, no scars or burns resulted. What had this ray done to him? How macabre had the Americans become? He had trained on waterboarding and physical abuse. He could endure three times what most men could. But when the heat bubbled over his body, his training was no match. It was medieval. Simplistic. A penetrating torture that left no footprint. No mark. No evidence. No damage.
The Americans were worse than he feared. Worse than even Moscow understood.
The basement around him was dimly lit by covered casement windows that allowed faint, opaque light to filter in from above. There was no sound. When the upstairs door had opened before and the dim light shined in, he noticed the panels installed on the ceiling to deaden any noise. The floor was cold and hard. The cement walls were barren. There was just him and his metal cot, the cardboard-box table, pitcher of water, and cup. Nothing else.
Briefly, he recalled his favorite boyhood book and let his mind hide in its chapters—a technique that he’d trained himself to use when resisting interrogations. He loved Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo and his struggle at Château d’If. He laughed to himself. Could he be Dantès?
There was nothing to know but him and the silence.
No, that was wrong. Across the basement on the far wall were two doors he’d noticed before the American assassin hooded him. How many days ago? One of the doors had been open and the interior dark. Now it was closed and a heavy dead bolt secured it. Men had been moved into the rooms. Silent men. When the man, Shepard, had placed the headphones and hood on him again, there was no telling what treachery they had conducted in those rooms.
He was no longer alone. Was there an Abbé Faria? Others?
The upstairs door suddenly banged open and shook him from his thoughts. Voices grew loud for the first time. Light danced and fluttered down the stairs, casting shadows from the upper landing.
Grigori sat upright against the cold concrete wall and waited. Something had changed. Something was about to happen that the Americans hadn’t done before.
Fear. Was the heat ray not enough?
Something heavy tumbled down the stairs and crashed into a pile at the bottom not thirty feet from him. The form rolled over and faced him. It was the man that had questioned him over and over. Shepard. Another man descended the stairs. At the bottom, he fired two shots into Shepard’s still form. The shots, muffled by an extraordinarily thick silencer, were still startling and sent shockwaves through him. His isolation had dulled his senses and the muffled gunshots shattered the air around him.
Grigori moved to the edge of the bed and sat upright, trying to project strength and fearlessness. If he was to die, he would die with dignity. Death was death. Pride was all he had left. He would soon have both.
“I am ready,” he said to the man dressed in dark clothing. “Do as you must. I am not afraid.”
The man had hard features and dark eyes. His hair pulled back tightly into a stubby ponytail. He stood watching Grigori and tucked his pistol into a holster beneath his jacket. He surveyed the room and moved to the bed, stooped, and unlocked Grigori’s handcuff without a word.
“What is this?” Grigori asked rubbing his wrist and remaining ready for some kind of trick. “Who are you?”
“Caine,” the dark-clothed man said. “Khalifah sent me. Your situation has caused concern. He dares not contact General-Polkovnik Fedorov directly until Operatsiya Maya is concluded.”
Grigori nodded and stood on wobbly legs. He reverted to Russian. “Da. Ya nichevo ne govoril.—I said nothing.”
“Ja ponimaju—I understand.” Caine continued in English, “He knew you wouldn’t. Make your way to his safe house. Tell him this—exactly this—‘Wine grows best in the warm summer breeze.’ He will know it came from me and that you are secure.”
Grigori tried to calm his nerves and memorize the code phrase.
“Repeat it to me. Now.”
“Wine grows best in the summer breeze.”
“Nyet.” Caine grabbed Grigori’s arm, jerked him to his feet, and shook him. “Again. Wine grows best in the warm summer breeze.”
“Da, da.” Grigori steadied himself. “Wine grows best in the warm summer breeze.”
Caine looked at a small table near the stairs. Grigori’s cowboy boots, wallet, and old green military field jacket were there. “Da, you have it. Get your things and go. I’ll clean this mess up. The others will return soon. Go now.”
“I know there are others here.” Grigori slipped on his boots and jacket and regarded Caine. Without another word, he went to the locked doors, levered the first dead bolt open, and pushed the door in. Inside was a hooded figure wearing headphones. The figure was strapped to a steel chair as Grigori had been days before. The figure was still.
Grigori turned back to Caine. “One of mine?”
“Da. They caught him at the school. He’s close to talking.”
“The others?”
Caine cocked his head. “Fariq and his brother, Azar. Hunter took him last night. I have a car outside, you go. I’ll clean up here.”
“Nyet.” Grigori moved behind the figure. In one violent movement, he grasped the figure’s head, wrenched it to the right, and snapped his neck.
The figure’s head bobbed forward. Then he went to the second room, went inside, and repeated the actions to two men lying on cots and bandaged from injuries.
In a few seconds, all three men were dead.
Caine watched Grigori emerge from the second holding cell. “You could have taken them with you.”
“Nyet. The pissy camel lovers. Pawns. They need not live.” Grigori turned and went to the foot of the stairs. He stopped over his captor’s motionless body, reared back, and kicked him violently in the ribs. “I would like to kill you myself.”