Suvorov had never actually been to the United States. The closest he had come to that experience was a six-month long stay in a town called Springfield, a perfect middle-American suburb that happened to be located, not in the American heartland but in a remote location on the coast of the Caspian Sea.
Springfield had been built during the Cold War by the KGB for the sole purpose of training long-term deep cover operatives-sleepers, in the common parlance-who would be able to perfectly blend into American society. Every aspect of life in Springfield had been simulated Americana, at least insofar as the Soviet social scientists understood it. The only language spoken in the mock-city was English. The radios played a wide selection of American music and American television programs were broadcast. Residents could get Big Macs at the local McDonald’s and bought their cigarettes and Coca-Colas at the 7-Eleven. Thousands of KGB sleepers had literally been raised from infancy in Springfield, and many graduates of the program had subsequently been deployed to conduct active espionage or, more often than not, await a critical assignment that would never come. In the post-Cold War era, Russia’s foreign intelligence service, the SVR, continued to conduct operations abroad. But these days there were more expedient methods of getting agents into place, particularly with the advent of globalization and a growing population of Russian expatriates in America and other countries. Nevertheless, Springfield continued to be useful as a training tool for SVR operatives and GRU Spetsnaz soldiers preparing for undercover work.
Evidently there were still some gaps in the training though, as Julia’s observation had borne out.
In retrospect, it had probably been a bad idea to visit the museum. To establish their cover stories and blow off a little steam before the final phase of the assignment, Suvorov had directed the members of his team to do a little site seeing. Despite the stereotypical Russian proclivity for alcohol consumption, drinking was strictly forbidden before an operation, as was sexual congress, but there were plenty of other distraction in the City of Lights, and for Suvorov, a chance to see the Bamiyan Buddhas, even if they were now only pieces of rubble, had seemed the obvious choice.
The lie he had told to cover his dismay at Julia’s revelation was close enough to the truth to satisfy the woman’s curiosity. He had indeed been born in Saint Petersburg-in his earliest memories, it was still called Leningrad-and his father really had seen the Buddhas during his military service. Her discovery nonetheless posed a risk for potential exposure moving forward. When she learned of the operation in the news, would she put two and two together, and perhaps report her suspicious encounter with a man claiming to be a Russian emigre? Probably not, but it was best not to leave such a thing to chance. Julia was a loose end that would have to be tied up, one way or another, and he found that thought discouraging.
Actually, there was a lot about this mission that troubled him.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Not just this mission; he’d been experiencing misgivings about everything in his life. The sense of pride he’d once felt in his military service, in excelling in his training and commanding a team of Russia’s very best special operations soldiers, in literally being a part of shaping the future of the Rodina…those ideological concepts just didn’t square with reality. That was another lesson of history. Brave men-his team, and even his father before him-were always the ones who made the sacrifices, while the politicians who sent them to their appointments with destiny were always chasing some selfish agenda. This mission was no different. They would succeed of course, but in the end, would it make any difference?
He reached the main exit, threading past the idling masses of tourists, and once outside took out his phone and called Kharitonov. When his subordinate answered, he spoke only two words: “It’s time.”
8
1925 UTC/Local
King took a deep breath as he stepped off the gangplank and onto the reception deck of the riverboat. The vessel was anchored in the Seine about four hundred yards southwest of Ile Saint-Louis. King could just make out the French Gothic silhouette of the Notre Dame Cathedral on the nearby Ile de la Cite, against the background of the dazzling electric Parisian skyline.
A score of men in formal attire milled about sipping cocktails and smoking cigars, and vying for the attention of a scattering of attractive women in expensive evening gowns. King guessed the latter group to be professional escorts; even without Aleman’s report on the guest list indicating that not a single woman had been invited to the FLES conference, King observed that they were too attractive, too confident in their sexuality and perhaps most tellingly, too young, to be anything else.
Although he had been wearing Bill Downey’s face for several hours now, there had been no opportunity to test its effectiveness in fooling people who actually knew the man. There was no way to know if Downey had befriended fellow conference attendees, or if those acquaintances would immediately notice the less obvious indicators-mannerisms, his walk, his sense of humor-that would give him away. He had already resolved to avoid contact with other guests as much as possible, but in the confines of the floating casino, that was easier said than done.
Pushing down his anxiety, he skirted the edges of the gathering. His route took him past the bar, where he reluctantly turned down the offer of a drink-a shot of Booker’s sounded pretty tempting-and bypassed a table loaded with a smattering of hors d’oeuvres. His stomach rumbled in protest as he glanced at the dishes of Beluga caviar, the plates of pate de foie gras and an assortment of breads and cheeses, and he decided that, once Brown was in the bag, so to speak, he’d have to take advantage of the spread. Closer to the door, King passed a table where a steward was dispensing cigars, and helped himself to a brace of Partagas, which he slipped into the pocket of his dinner jacket. Rook will like these, he thought, if…no, make that when, he turns up.
As he finished at the cigar table, King took a moment to study the crowd. Brown was not in evidence-no surprise there. He quickly identified several men who looked every bit as out of place as the women. A few were dispersed throughout the crowd, but most were hanging at the edges, avoiding conversation as their eyes roamed the assemblage. Their muscular physiques, which seemed to strain the cut of their dinner jackets, and rigid bearing marked them as military types, and King figured them for security personnel, probably from the ranks of Alpha Dog-the same mercenary outfit that Brainstorm had employed in Africa. King curtailed his own surveillance to avoid drawing the attention of the hired guns, and moved toward the double doors leading into the riverboat’s main saloon.
King paused at the entrance to survey the room. He vaguely noted the rich appointments-red velvet walls with oak wainscoting, crystal chandeliers and the gleam of brass wall sconces. It all starkly contrasted with the garishness of the electronic slot and video poker machines that lined the edges of the room. The machines seemed to be the primary focus of attention for partygoers, who were no doubt drawn in by the lights and sounds and their own familiarity with the devices. The rest of the space had been divided equally between different table games, predominantly those favored by American gamblers-blackjack, craps, roulette, and Texas Hold ‘em poker-with a half-dozen or so gamblers trying their luck at each. At the far end of the room, a musical ensemble played subdued jazz from a low dais. King’s quickly picked out the security men, but again there was no sign of Brown.
To kill time, he sidled over to the cashier and produced Downey’s Platinum AmEx. The attractive woman shook her head. “No need for that, sir. The house has extended a ten thousand dollar line of credit to all guests.”