5

Moscow

“What would you like to drink, sir?”

US Speaker of the House Vit Linder crossed his arms. “I don’t drink.”

The Russian butler kept his expression serene. “Tea, perhaps?”

“I’ll take a Diet Pepsi.”

It was Vit’s second trip to Russia, and his first meeting with the Order. His staff had cleared the visit with the State Department, his spokesperson had lined up a press conference to spin the visit in the best possible light, and off they’d gone. The first and second day had been boring—shaking hands, feigning interest in the minutiae of Russian politics.

Today, the Minister of Economic Development had invited him to a private engagement. His security detail had been allowed to sweep the mansion’s third floor for threats and then they’d been forced to stay in the foyer, leaving Vit to this meeting, where he’d been invited to the most exclusive club on the planet.

It was a coveted offer.

He leaned back in the executive chair. It was a rich brown he’d never seen in his fifty-eight years. When he’d asked the butler about it, the man had informed him that the leather was pre-Revolutionary reindeer, discovered by divers on a sunken Danish brigantine. The chair was one of thirteen rimming the dark violet African blackwood table. Vit didn’t know what any of that meant except cha-ching.

Probably the abstract paintings mounted on all four walls were priceless originals, too, and the liquor he sniffed in the air, Yamazaki fifty-year-old. Vit didn’t drink because it had been his father’s downfall, but real estate tycoon Ronald Linder had referred to the $140,000 whisky in reverent tones often enough that it had stuck. Ronald only spoke to his son when he was drunk, and during a particularly agitated bender, he’d mentioned the Order.

“They run the world,” Ronald had said, pouring his fourth scotch.

Despite his father’s apparent desire to connect with him, Vit remembered feeling guarded. Sometimes his father would tell him some real corkers and then make fun of Vit when he believed him. “They’re rich?”

Ronald had laughed and then drank both fingers in a single swallow. “They’re not rich. They are beyond money. Do you understand?” White spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth. “They start wars and end them. They control the media, the internet, food production, and now, even the weather.”

Vit had perfected an expression he’d employ when he wanted to look like he understood something. He slid it on then. His father didn’t notice, saying no more on the subject no matter how many times Vit asked.

Intrigued, Vit had called in the private detective he used when he wanted to know what his sisters really thought of him or when he planned to ask out a famous actress and needed to make sure she’d say yes. The PI sniffed around, uncovering just enough to confirm that everything Ronald had said about the Order was true and then some.

Then the PI had disappeared.

Vit hadn’t thought much more about it in the intervening two decades. Until last week, when the invitation had arrived from Moscow. It was routed through his office, addressed to the Speaker of the House. He was to fly over and discuss trade sanctions, a trip that was beneath him and that he would have declined if not for one specific line:

We understand you prefer the Four Seasons and have the presidential suite reserved in the hopes that you and your staff will join us to discuss …

The reference was discreet. Maybe the author, the Russian Minister of Economic Development, didn’t know about the “incident” at the Four Seasons the last and only time Vit had traveled to Moscow. That had been before he’d considered a career in politics.

Then again, maybe the minister did know about it. Maybe he even had video evidence.

In either case, Vit considered it expedient to accept the invitation.

And here he was, seated at a table with two of the world’s most powerful men: Cassius Barnaby, one half of the Barnaby brothers and co-owner of Barnaby Industries, a multibillion-dollar multinational corporation based in Missouri; and Mikhail Lutsenko, a Russian steel tycoon whose command of the Russian mafia was the country’s most poorly kept secret. They’d invited Vit because they wanted him to replace Carl Barnaby, Cassius’ brother, who was currently serving twenty-five to life for the kidnapping of Vida Wiley and the theft of millions of dollars of gold, jewels, and artifacts discovered by Wiley’s daughter when she cracked the Beale Cipher.

“You understand what’s at stake?” Lutsenko asked Vit after the butler had returned with his diet soda. Lutsenko’s martini glass was sweating directly into the magnificent blackwood. “We have twelve on the board. We need an odd number.”

“I understand,” Vit said. He was comfortable at a high-stakes table.

“I don’t think you do, son,” Cassius Barnaby said, leaning forward. He reminded Vit of his own father in age and manner. In other words, he was a condescending prick. “We fart and an economy collapses.”

Vit Linder smirked, hiding the surge of rage he felt at Barnaby talking down to him. Vit was the son of a wealthy man, but it wasn’t his father’s millions that had secured his own empire, though that had provided a hefty start. Neither was it his father’s connections that had gotten him elected to the third-highest office in the land, though they hadn’t hurt. That left charisma, brains, and looks—except Vit’s personality was a shallow pool, he’d barely graduated college even with a team of tutors, and his physical attractiveness had peaked at twenty-three and wasn’t anything to write home about even then.

So what had launched Vit Linder to the top?

Canniness, he called it. In laymen’s terms? Nobody read a room better.

Specifically, no one in business or politics could glance at a person and immediately sniff out exactly what would piss them off. He kept everyone around him off-balance, like a martial artist, and his power had never failed him.

Not that he needed to call on it to get Cassius Barnaby’s number. The man was back on his heels. He was trying to keep his face smooth, and he mostly succeeded, but his eyes kept flicking to Lutsenko. Vit didn’t need a tutor to see that Lutsenko was at the top of the ladder and Barnaby barely hanging on to the bottom rung, likely because of the bad publicity he and his brother had brought to the Hermitage, the American branch of the Order.

Always plant your foot on the neck of the bottom man, his dad had taught him. It makes you stand taller.

Vit addressed Cassius Barnaby directly. “That may have been true before your brother was arrested with his hands in the Beale Vault. Tell me about the Order’s power now.”

Vit leaned back, a deceptively relaxed gesture. He kept his eyes locked with Barnaby’s while registering Lutsenko’s body language. He was satisfied to see the Russian imperceptibly relax. Lutsenko had not been sure about Vit.

Now he was.

“This isn’t a pissing contest,” Barnaby said. The sweat that had formed on his upper lip put the lie to his words. “The regulations that come with the climate accord are going to cost us dearly. Is it a coincidence that we are losing assets while female-led enterprises gain them?”

Lutsenko laughed. It was a dry sound. “It was luck that they decrypted the Beale train.”

“You’d gamble everything on that?” Cassius Barnaby asked. “On luck? Because we’ve overcome regulations in the past. The accord will sting, but if the Underground uncovers the remaining trains before us, we are done. Women will realize how many resources they have at their disposal, how many they’ve always had. Our money? Power? Gone. What’s at the end of those trains will make what Wiley uncovered in the Beale Vault look like a waitress stealing tips.”

“Enough,” Lutsenko said. Vit got the impression the man didn’t put as much stock in the rising power of women as Barnaby did. He was also a vain man, straightening his hair and stroking his mustache, an observation Vit filed away for later. “We have our own men searching for the trains.”

“Bring Salem Wiley and Mercy Mayfair in,” Barnaby argued. “Bring them in as insurance.”

“We have made a deal with the Grimalkin.”

Barnaby flinched at the name. Vit sat up with interest.

“We let Wiley remain a free agent so we can learn from her,” Lutsenko continued. “We know where the child is. We can call them both in for an interview when needed. No earlier.”

Vit sat back, disappointed. If he wasn’t making deals, he wasn’t interested, and there was no money to be had in this talk of a woman and a child. “I’ll let you gentleman handle that. My focus is on the United States. If I join the board, I get what I want?”

Barnaby’s mood shifted for only a flash, distaste replaced by something that looked like humor. Vit didn’t like that at all, the feeling that he was being laughed at. He made a note to make Cassius Barnaby pay, sooner rather than later. He would make the man squirm in shame. In the meanwhile, the Order needed an odd number on the board, their covenant demanded it, and they wanted someone they thought they could manipulate, that much was clear. Vit would pretend to give them what they wanted because only they could facilitate his greatest desire.

Revenge.

Vit would join the Order.

He’d use his position to have President Gina Hayes and Vice President Richard Cambridge assassinated. Next in line for the presidency of the United States of America?

Speaker of the House Vit Linder.

Who’s stupid now, Ronald?

Vit’s head was thrown back in laughter when the secretary walked in. Vit was not an exuberant man. An occasional chuckle or snicker. Barnaby and Lutsenko wanted him to be a buffoon, though, and so he’d expose his neck. It’s not like anyone here was taking pictures. Besides, it was funny, their plan for keeping the American poor at each other’s throats.

The secretary stopped behind Lutsenko’s chair. “Sir.”

“Da?”

The secretary held himself like he had a glass stomach. Vit didn’t care one whit for male secretaries. It wasn’t right.

“We have an intercept,” the man said, staring forward.

Vit recorded how Barnaby and Lutsenko each demonstrated interest. Barnaby scowled. The Russian grew more rigid.

“Speak, then,” Barnaby said impatiently.

“Ms. Wiley spoke of Stonehenge.” The secretary’s hands were clenched. “It seems she is interested in its code.”

Barnaby barked, “See!”

“What exactly was said?” Lutsenko asked, signaling for Barnaby’s silence.

The secretary glanced at the paper in his hand. It fluttered with an almost imperceptible tremor. “It was a phone call with Ms. Odegaard. Ms. Wiley: ‘You wouldn’t believe it, Bel. She’d uncovered a little replica of Stonehenge in her backyard, right next to her grandmother’s grave. The word mercy was carved on one of the stones.’ Ms. Odegaard: ‘Was it a code?’ Ms. Wiley: ‘It was.’ Ms. Odegaard: ‘You solved the mystery of Stonehenge, didn’t you?’ Ms. Wiley: ‘For sure. And for my next trick, I plan to crack the Zodiac Killer’s code.’”

Lutsenko laughed. “That is a joke.”

Barnaby’s lips drew tight. “You don’t know that.”

Vit took charge. “What was their tone?”

The secretary consulted his sheet again. “There was laughter after the final line. None before.”

Barnaby spoke through clenched teeth. “She solved the Beale Cipher. This is not an idle threat.”

Vit’s blood began bubbling nicely. It looked like he would get to cast his first tie-breaking vote. That would leave an impression. He kept score as the men continued arguing across the table.

“We bring in only the girl. Solving Stonehenge is nothing without the child in hand.”

“We bring them both in. The Grimalkin can locate the end of the Stonehenge train.”

“That hasn’t worked before. Why would that change?”

Vit saw his opening and pounced. “If your Grimalkin is as good as you say, ask for verification when she’s solved Stonehenge. She won’t know she’s being tailed. You have nothing to lose, everything to gain. You can bring in the child, and use her like a gas pedal to speed up, what’d you say her name was? Salem Wiley? Speed up her search for the train.”

He was just reordering their own words and parroting them back to them, but he’d counted, and they were the only words both Barnaby and Lutsenko would buy. “It’s the one plan with the most exits. You need Wiley brought in? You can do that later.”

Barnaby’s eyes sparked, but he was beginning to nod.

“You’re in favor?” Lutsenko asked.

“With one modification,” Barnaby said, his tone icy. “We acquire the child now, as Mr. Linder has proposed. We let Salem Wiley continue to freelance, but only until she cracks Stonehenge. After that, she is retired once and for all. If her talents are that strong, she is too dangerous to continue as a free agent.”

“Agreed,” Lutsenko said.

Just like that, Vit’s patience reached its limits. There was no money on the table, nothing that benefitted him, only smoke and conspiracy and talk of girls. “I’ll leave you fellows to the boots-on-the-ground planning of that one. Because I have the inside information, I’ll oversee the … retiring of the president and vice president.”

“The president only,” Barnaby said, once again reminding Vit of his father, “or it’s too much unrest.”

Vit’s testicle spasmed. They’d mentioned that idea earlier, but he hadn’t thought they’d been firm about it. He had overplayed his hand. “Of course. The president only.” That would not work. Richard Cambridge would ascend to the office and appoint a new vice president. Vit Linder would remain only the Speaker of the House.

Lutsenko steepled his fingers, reclaiming control of the meeting. “We’ll connect you with Clancy Johnson. He’s being brought in to retire the president.”

Vit’s eyes shot up before he could hide his reaction. “Johnson’s still alive?” Rumor was the FBI had shot their own and dumped his body after the traitor bungled his assassination attempt.

“Very much,” Lutsenko confirmed.

“But he failed last time he tried to kill Hayes,” Vit whined.

Barnaby and Lutsenko’s faces shifted. They had discussed this before.

“More incentive to get it right this time,” Barnaby finally said. He took clear pleasure in denying Vit his worry. “You’ll make it look like a Middle Easterner did it, of course.”

Vit nodded like a petulant child.

The whining had not been an act.

Fortunately, being denied his due was Vit’s greatest motivator. It took him only a second to arrive at a workaround, which he wisely kept to himself. Johnson had messed up an assassination once. Nobody would point fingers at Vit if it happened again and Johnson “accidentally” fumbled another, killing two instead of one.

The shortest route to looking good is surrounding yourself with fuck-ups was another of Vit’s father’s sayings.

Barnaby relaxed pompously, Vit thought, exactly as planned.

“Jason will acquire the child,” Barnaby said. “And if we are letting Salem Wiley freelance while she solves the Stonehenge train, I want Jason assigned to mentor her along with the Grimalkin. If we lose her, we lose everything.”

“The Grimalkin won’t like that.”

Barnaby’s face made clear he didn’t care.

“It’s settled, then,” Vit said. They needed to move to another subject before the plan changed again. “I get Johnson. Your Jason ‘acquires’ the girl. The Grimalkin and Jason work together on Salem Wiley, retiring her when she cracks the Stonehenge code.” The absurdity of his sentences was almost lost on Vit. Almost. He’d smile about it later, but for now, he was too near the pot of gold. “And by this time Saturday, President Gina Hayes is fired.”

Barnaby and Lutsenko nodded.

Vit took a swig of the best diet cola he’d ever tasted.