"This place of yours is beautiful," he said, "but it feels like yours, not mine or ours. Just like mine feels like that to you. Why don't we look for a new place, something different we could pick together?"
"A new place? But what about this one?"
"You could sell it. Or keep it as an investment."
She looked at him.
He glanced at his watch again. "I have to go. Think about it." He leaned over and kissed her. "Hey," he said. "It could be fun."
She watched the door close behind him.
It could be fun.
Sure. Why did men seem to think that disrupting everything was fun? She'd finally gotten everything the way she wanted it in the condo. Everything was perfect and now he wanted her to give it up.
Living together had been an issue since the beginning, once they realized they were caught up in something more than an affair. It had taken a lot of ups and downs just to get to this point, where he'd put the ring on her finger. They still hadn't set a date for the wedding. The whole relationship had been like that.
Then there was the issue of her money. She had a lot of it, more than most people would ever see, more than Nick could ever hope to earn or equal. He didn't say much about it, but she knew it was one of the things that came between them. Nick wasn't the kind of person who would let someone else pay his way. This condo alone had cost more than he'd likely make in a lifetime. She'd simply written a check for it to the agent.
Sometimes she wished he'd just let her take care of the money. Then again, if he was a man who was willing to be kept by her, he wouldn't be someone she wanted to keep.
She looked at the clock on the kitchen counter. She needed to take a shower and get dressed and head out to Virginia. She got up and felt a sharp pain in her lower back, right where a bullet had almost left her in a wheelchair for life. Every once in a while her body let her know that she was mortal and getting older. Lately the message had been coming through more often.
You should have taken up something safe, like making documentaries about sharks or jumping off skyscrapers, she thought. At least sharks don't shoot at you.
She had to hurry or she'd be late.
CHAPTER 7
General Alexei Ivanovich Vysotsky, Director of Department S of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service, sat behind Lavrenti Beria's old desk and poured himself a glass of vodka. Vysotsky looked a little bit like Beria, with piercing black eyes, a broad face and bushy eyebrows. He was still in his 50s, but years working in Russian intelligence were beginning to show. He'd put on weight since his days as a field agent, adding bulk to his stocky form. His hair had started to recede and was streaked with silver but Vysotsky was still handsome enough to draw a woman's eye. He had the appearance of someone dangerous, someone who would be a bad man to cross.
It was ten in the morning. This was Alexei's first drink of the day but it wouldn't be the last. Vodka for Vysotsky was like water for most people, though he was starting to notice the effects sooner and the hangovers were lasting longer.
He finished the drink, thought about another, and decided against it. The bottle and glass went back into his desk drawer, right where Beria had kept his supply when he was chief of the secret police under Stalin.
Alexei had plenty of reasons for drinking today. Major Kaminsky had been one of his best men. He'd been grooming Kaminsky to take the place of Arkady Korov, killed during a clandestine operation in America.
Kaminsky had performed at his best, getting into the North Korean complex and out again with the samples. A daring and difficult mission with great risks, accomplished with precision. So how did Kaminsky and his men end up dead while making a simple delivery on Russian territory, safe territory, all the while traveling in a secured, military train?
The whole operation had suddenly turned to shit.
The Kremlin wanted answers. So did Vysotsky. Losing Kaminsky was bad enough. Losing the lethal bacteria the Koreans had developed was worse. Someone had it. The question was who? Who had the resources to stop that train, eliminate the guards and then eliminate Kaminsky and his men? Serious men, Spetsnaz soldiers, the best in the world.
A more unsettling question beyond who had done it was why?
Alexei assumed that whoever had stolen the case with the samples knew exactly what was in it. There weren't many who could know that. The Americans, perhaps, but they would never mount an operation like this on Russian soil.
The Chinese almost certainly would know. Beijing's relationship with the Great Leader was erratic, as could only be expected for anyone trying to deal with that lunatic. But the Chinese were his only allies.
They would have known what was hidden in that lab, Vysotsky thought. Still, it would have been difficult for a Chinese hit team to get so far into the interior of the country without being spotted.
Then there was an even more disturbing question. How had the attackers, whoever they were, learned of the transfer to Sverdlovsk? The route, the train, the date and time? It had to be someone within his own organization. There was a traitor somewhere, in Department S or even higher up in SVR. It could even be Russians who had stolen the samples. It was enough to give him a headache.
Alexei sincerely hoped it hadn't been terrorists behind the theft. If the Chechens had done it, it would be a disaster. The possibility had to be considered, but Alexei thought it was a long shot at best. The attack had been too well coordinated, too professional. It had to be a government unit. But who had the balls? The Israelis? The Iranians? For the moment, the Chinese seemed the best bet.
At times like this he missed Korov's practical advice. Arkady had been a good sounding board for his ideas, always practical, fiercely loyal to the Rodina, the Motherland. Trustworthy. The best Vysotsky had ever seen in the field. He'd even been able to work with the Americans without becoming infected by their corrupt ideology.
Alexei thought about opening the drawer and reaching again for the vodka but he resisted the urge. He needed a clear head this morning. He was due at the Kremlin in an hour for a meeting with the Security Council. The Director of SVR and his counterpart in the FSB, Russia's internal security service, would be there. The Council reported to the president. The meeting had been called to look into the raid on the train but Alexei knew the real purpose was to assign blame.
At one time the two agencies responsible for Russia's internal and foreign security had been part of the same organization, directorates under the glorious banner of the KGB, back in the day when Alexei had been a young, rising KGB agent. Now they were separate agencies, but the old rivalries and jealousies that had existed during the days of the Soviet Union, the jockeying for position and influence, those things had not changed.
He knew what was expected of him by his boss. It should be relatively easy to lay most of the blame at the feet of the FSB. Even so, Alexei was certain the issue of who had tipped off the raiders was bound to surface.
Somewhere in the Kremlin, knives were being sharpened. It was necessary to find a scapegoat. Alexei Vysotsky was determined that it would not be him. He was going to find out who had those plague samples and get them back.
CHAPTER 8
Rain streaked the facade of a handsome eighteenth century château located a half hour out of Geneva. The building sat on a spit of land jutting into the River Rhône. Water ran in rivulets over a prominent stone bas-relief set over the grand entrance. The carving showed an all-seeing, radiant eye, centered over a nine-pointed star. An inscription bordered the design: