PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC
Donovan obeyed the voice coming out of the dashboard and made a left turn onto Soukenická, a one-way street that would lead them to the three-level underground parking garage below the Palladium shopping center on Králodvorská Street. Now that the clouds had moved away and the sky had turned to blue, pedestrians strolled on both sides of the street, laughing, chatting, pushing strollers or carrying shopping bags filled with clothes, cosmetics, and who knew what else. Despite the shooting that had taken place just a mile away, Prague was going about its regular business. Traffic was heavy but, with the exception of the occasional jaywalker, quite orderly, with no honking of horns.
A far cry from Cairo.
With more than nine hundred parking spots, their destination was one of Prague’s largest and busiest parking garages. A few steps from subway line B, and with different exits, it was a good place to regroup and to think about what they should do next.
The moment they knew they were no longer in immediate danger and that no police cars were chasing after them, Helen had placed a call to Oliver Manton to give him a sitrep. As Donovan backed into a spot, Helen ended the call.
“What did he say?” Donovan asked.
“He wants us to return to New York,” Helen replied dryly. “Headquarters is booking the flights as we speak. We’ll be leaving from Dresden, with a stop in Frankfurt.”
Helen didn’t sound too excited about the prospect of traveling back to the US.
“Okay. You aren’t thrilled at the idea,” Donovan said. “Why’s that?”
Donovan considered himself pretty good at putting pieces together, but with the adrenaline that had sustained him during the firefight now gone, it was possible his brain wasn’t seeing everything it should. He had the feeling he and Helen had done a good job and had checked all the boxes Manton had wanted them to, with maybe the exception of finding out why Unit 29155 was involved.
“I honestly don’t know,” she replied, her voice even more shaky than it had been a moment ago. “I guess I’m just tired.”
Donovan unbuckled his seat belt and turned to Helen, taking a good long look at her. She didn’t turn her head. She kept her gaze fixed in front of her. She was still holding her MP5SD tightly against her. Helen’s trigger finger was resting against the frame of the submachine gun, outside the trigger guard. Donovan noticed the speed at which her chest was heaving and the veins in her neck were pulsing.
He gently touched her arm with his hand and asked, “What’s wrong, Helen?”
She swallowed hard, then slowly turned her head to him. Her eyes were empty of any expression, her face set. She had the same dazed look he’d seen so many times on young marines who had just experienced combat for the first time. Strangely, he hadn’t seen her react that way after the firefight in Cairo.
And then he knew. Before today, Helen Jouvert had never killed a man.
Helen kept replaying in her head what had happened on Mikovcova Street. What unsettled her the most was how shockingly easy it had been to blow out the brains of the raging bastard who had tried to kill her.
And how satisfied she’d been when she saw him collapse.
Despite everything she’d done in the FBI, she’d never had to fire a weapon in anger before Cairo—at Steven Cooper’s residence. In fact, she had never in her life killed anything bigger than a rabbit. She had shot thousands upon thousands of rounds during training, but she now realized that popping holes into a paper target gliding toward you in a firing lane, or firing at a synthetic mannequin in a shooting house, was different from taking out another human being. Helen wondered, not for the first time, if it had been on purpose that she’d shot the person in the chest back in Egypt—instead of in the head. Helen had been so close to the shooter that when she’d opened fire, she’d seen the terror in her target’s eyes. Had she aimed center mass because she had hoped the shooter was wearing body armor? So that she wouldn’t have to take a life?
No. That wasn’t it. She had not wavered in Prague. She’d pulled the trigger without a trace of hesitation. She had shot to stop the threat, not to kill. And since center mass was an easier, bigger target to hit, that’s what she had aimed for.
End of story.
She felt Donovan’s gentle touch on her arm.
“Listen, Helen, for what it’s worth, what you’re going through is normal,” he said.
She looked into his eyes, glad to see there was no pity in them, just understanding. Somehow her partner knew exactly what was going on in her head. And for that, she was thankful. She took a long, deep breath, trying to push back against the gnawing ache that burrowed deep into her stomach.
“Don’t fight it. You did what you had to. You’re alive, he’s dead. That’s all that matters.”
Images of the man’s exploding head popped into her mind, and Helen felt the bile rising at the back of her throat. She closed her eyes and said, “I know. I’ve trained all my life for these kinds of scenarios. I don’t know why I’m shaking like a leaf. I honestly don’t. I feel so, so stupid.”
“Listen, Helen, I think you’re starting to know the kind of guy I am, right? I’m not the best when it comes to saying big words or comforting someone,” Donovan said. “My ex-girlfriends would all attest to that, I can tell you that much.”
She tried to smile, but it probably looked as if she were simply baring her teeth.
“It’s entirely normal for you to have a hard time wrapping your head around the realization that someone you’ve never met wanted to kill you.”
“You still feel the same way?” she asked, willing her finger to stop shaking.
Donovan took his time to answer, no doubt pondering his next words carefully. “Combat isn’t pretty, but it does get somewhat easier,” he said. “You do what you can to survive and kill the enemy before they kill you. Your training takes over when you’re in the fight. Our training is what kept us alive today, but it doesn’t do a damn thing once the bullets stop flying.”
Donovan tapped a finger to the side of his head, and, for a moment, his eyes seemed hollow and lost. “In there, an entirely different battle is raging.”
Then the moment was gone, but for the first time since they’d become a team, Donovan had showed her a vulnerable side. She didn’t know why, but it made her feel better. Less alone, if that made any sense.
“We’ve been at it for weeks now,” Donovan said. “The director is making the right call by sending us home. We’ve identified and plugged the leak in Cairo, and we confirmed to the best of our abilities that John Dixon wasn’t the target in Prague. I think we did particularly well and deserve the break.”
It was nice of him to give her an exit ramp, but she knew Donovan was only saying that so she wouldn’t feel like shit if she truly wanted to go back to New York.
Helen managed to force a smile this time, though she wasn’t sure how convincing it was. “I don’t think it’s the right call. We should finish this,” she said, meaning it. “This isn’t over. The UR Real News link should be investigated further. Doesn’t Manton understand that Russian intelligence officers have successfully coerced an American federal agent into giving them access to Mind-U’s authentication server? I mean, my God! Isn’t that reason enough for us to keep digging?”
“I don’t disagree, but Blackbriar isn’t the FBI,” Donovan said. “This UR Real News link you mentioned might very well develop into a thing, maybe even a big thing, who knows? But it’s gonna be someone else’s problem.”
That didn’t sit well with Helen. She wasn’t used to quitting an investigation halfway. There were still leads they could follow, people they could talk to. Why didn’t Manton understand that?
Then Donovan surprised her again. It was as though he could see right through her.
“The director makes the decisions. He knows what’s best. Maybe there’s another team looking into Mind-U and UR Real News. Maybe there isn’t. That’s not important. Look at us, look at what we were able to do in so little time. Take pride in that. The FBI, as good as they are, could have never accomplished so much so fast. You’re not in federal law enforcement anymore, Helen. Blackbriar doesn’t operate the same way. With the FBI, it will always be black or white. With Blackbriar, we’re working with different shades of gray. That’s the job.”
“Doesn’t it piss you off?” she asked, wondering why Donovan wasn’t as upset as she was about not going to North Macedonia.
“You seem to forget I was CIA. A NOC. This is my world. I never worked in an environment where everything was clear-cut.”
“Weren’t you a marine? You can’t get into an organization more squared away than that,” she said.
A sour expression crossed Donovan’s face. “War isn’t black and white,” he said.
“I’m sorry. Of course it isn’t,” she said, knowing full well she’d just put her foot in her mouth knee-deep.
They didn’t talk for a long moment. Helen broke the silence.
“I’ve never fought in a war,” she said. “I never set foot in Iraq or Afghanistan. But my dad did. It changed him.”
“How?”
“He was an A-10 pilot in Iraq. He was twenty-six during Operation Desert Storm.”
“A-10s, huh? They kept those guys busy, didn’t they?”
“My dad was good at killing tanks,” she said. “Like you said earlier, he did what he had to to stay alive. It was only years later that he confessed to my mom how badly it affected him.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He flies private jets and helicopters for some rich dudes nowadays. I think he’s doing well.”
“You guys aren’t close?”
“My dad . . . he used to drink. A lot. He’s sober now. Ten years. But the harm was done.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It is what it is. War sucks.”
“Yeah. It does.”
Helen’s phone vibrated. There was a new email from headquarters.
“Tickets are booked,” she said, reading the message. “Same IDs we used to fly in. They’ve also made a reservation for a new rental. It’s only a block away from here. We’re to leave this one here. I guess someone will take care of it?”
“That’s usually how it works. Someone from the embassy, or a gofer on retainer, will take it away and either dump it in a lake, burn it, or take it to a scrapyard. Text me the address. I’ll pick up the new ride.”
“Reservation is under my name,” Helen said. “I’ll go. But before I do, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Okay. It bothers me. Russian intelligence and drug cartels. It’s a fucked-up mix, right?”
“Yeah. I’d say that.”
“Who do you think is on top?” she asked. “Is there a full partnership going on between the Russians and the Mexican cartels? Or did one of them hire the other?”
“I’m not sure we have enough info to make that call,” Donovan replied.
“We don’t know much about Proyecto de la Verdad, but can we agree that it’s what killed William Miller?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think Steven Cooper knew the Russians weren’t the only force in play?” she asked. “While you were alone with him, did he say anything about the cartels?”
At the mention of the former marine, Donovan dragged a hand through his hair.
“No. Not a word. I think he would have said something if he’d known. I mean, the guy saved my life in Cairo,” he reminded her. “No point in him keeping intel away from us.”
“Right,” she said. “Hear me out, because I’ve been thinking about this.”
“All right. I’m all ears.”
“I could be way off here, but I don’t think so. Here’s why I believe the Mexicans are running the show,” she said. “The economic sanctions have hurt the Russian economy in a way that took the Kremlin completely by surprise. They thought NATO was weak, on life support even, and maybe they were right, but the ill-advised decision to invade Ukraine galvanized the West in a way that no one could have ever imagined. Russia suddenly found themselves cut off from the rest of the world with very limited access to foreign capital and currencies.”
“I remember that. At some point, they had half of their gold and currency reserves frozen,” Donovan said.
“True, but we have to remember that Russia’s intelligence apparatus remains formidable to this day. The SVR, FSB, and even the GRU have their tentacles into hot spots and organizations around the globe. The cartels do not. They’re brutes. Unsophisticated, but very dangerous. They’re powerful in their own way, yes, and outside of Mexico, their influence is growing, but it’s still limited.”
“But they have money. Lots of it,” Donovan said.
“Bingo. Money. That’s the one thing the cartels have that Russia doesn’t. Think about it, Proyecto de la Verdad is a Spanish name, not Russian. The Miller brothers must have found something big that somehow threatened the cartels. Either the Russians learned about it first and offered to help the cartels for money or a percentage cut on future earnings, or the cartels found out about the reporters and hired the Russians. It doesn’t matter. The drug cartels are running the show.”
“There’s nothing you said I don’t agree with,” Donovan said. “But—”
“I know, I know,” she said, cutting him off. “Not our problem.”