57 |

Conference Room 212, CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

 

Leroux sat in the briefing room, watching the video feeds from the assets monitoring the Russian attack, the wreckage of the tanker still collapsing toward the Atlantic far below. The Russians hadn’t kept their word—they hadn’t given any. But they had heeded the request to leave the plane carrying Konstantin Kozhin untouched.

They’d get it back eventually.

Perhaps.

It now all depended upon what Kozhin would do. He had limited options. His fuel would be getting low, so he’d have to make a decision soon. The Pentagon was estimating that he had barely enough fuel left to return to Russian territory if he took a polar route. But Leroux had a hunch that wasn’t his plan, and probably never was. Returning to Russia would mean certain imprisonment, perhaps even an “accidental” death, since the Russians now knew what was going on, and when this was all over, and things were made public, the use of their military assets would result in embarrassment for the Kremlin. Perhaps if Kozhin had never been discovered, things might be different, but he still had a feeling Kozhin had never intended on setting foot on Russian soil—it was too dangerous.

He had his suspicions, and had voiced them to Morrison, though there was no way to confirm them until it was too late. Though there was one way it wouldn’t matter, but they needed to force Kozhin into the only decision that could nullify any contingency plan he might have.

“We’re ready, Mr. President.”

Leroux snapped out of his reverie, staring at the screens at the front of the room, President Starling adjusting his tie.

“Make the call.”