Chapter 15

Petro Vlasenko arrived to the River Side Park in Kiev and sat at the third bench from the avenue reading a paper. Folded inside the paper was Kostya’s dossier. He’d personally prepared it for this mission. He couldn’t trust anyone else to prepare the information accurately. The Assassin needed to know what he was facing.

Ex-Ukrainian Special Forces. Computer engineering expert. Strong ties to the area where the silos were. Fluent in three languages and conversational in three more. Kostya’s dossier read more like James Bond’s than a man who fled frightened from the country of his birth. Vlasenko knew Kostya wouldn’t stay away any more than his brother Stas would. They both would return home for this fight.

He flipped to the picture. He hadn’t changed much since they served together in Spetnaz-Alfa. Taken late at night after a party at a Washington D.C. hotel, the paparazzi behind the lens focused on Meredith St. Claire leaving her father’s fundraiser. Vlasenko valued the image of the fugitive next to her. Kostya Dychenko was in Washington D.C. Finding him and getting the chip was crucial to their final plan. Fire of Dawn must have a working missile to be a threat.

A young man walked swiftly toward him wrapped in a fur-lined trench coat that was popular with many of the businessmen downtown. The man had the build so common of a military sniper: not too tall, but muscular and in total control of each movement. His blond hair was short enough to be acceptable in the military, but stylish enough that it blended into the masses of Kiev citizens walking through the cold, but calm November afternoon. On his wrist, the tattoo of a phoenix fashioned out of flames and a star was visible above his leather gloves.

He sat on the other side of the bench, and the newspaper in Vlasenko’s hands was pushed toward him. “I trust that the terms are acceptable?” he asked quietly.

“Fifty-K for a proven kill, and extra twenty-five if I get the chip? In Euros?”

“Yes. I have routing numbers to facilitate the transfer of money. I ask that you send word of any progress immediately to the email address written on the dossier. The account will be monitored twenty-four-seven.” He looked directly at the Assassin. “The less you and I speak directly, the better.” Vlasenko jutted his chin forward. “You understand.”

“Yes,” the Assassin said as he slid the newspaper into his hands and quickly left the park.

Vlasenko sighed and looked out on the Dnieper River as it flowed, unendingly cutting through the Ukraine. The erosion between East and West was symbolized in the icy water, a premonition of the divide that was meant to be.