The observer would have been wrong.
Because the men were assassins.
Code names Scott, Shackleton, Oates, Amundsen.
Antaeus’s best.
Scott and Oates were English, both ex — Special Air Service; Shackleton was Irish, formerly of the counterterrorism Army Ranger Wing; and Amundsen was a Norwegian whose career included ten years in Norway’s premier maritime special forces unit, Marinejegerkommandoen. None of them had spent one minute of their adult life sitting behind a desk studying profit-and-loss spreadsheets, investment portfolios, or share-price fluctuations. But that’s not to say that they couldn’t talk the talk of businessmen. If taken to one side by airport security and questioned, all of them could speak effortlessly about the nuances of their faux businesses. It was their usual cover for getting in and out of countries, though they were equally adept at covertly crossing borders from sea, air, or land.
But today, they were merely asked a few perfunctory questions at passport control, then allowed to proceed to X-ray machines where their luggage was scanned and deemed to contain absolutely nothing of concern.
The men would never risk bringing anything compromising through airport security, and today was no exception. Plus, there was no need. A local asset would be supplying them the weapons to kill their target.
NINETEEN
Lindsay Sheridan entered her living room, carrying a tray containing three glasses of brandy, a bowl of ice, a jug of water, and Cuban cigars. She placed the tray on a table between three leather armchairs occupied by Senator Colby Jellicoe, her husband Charles, and Ed Parker. The fire was burning well and there were plenty of extra logs beside it in case it needed replenishing. That was good; it meant she wouldn’t be called to fetch more wood.
Charles and Jellicoe didn’t acknowledge her presence and were talking directly to each other in hushed tones. Parker, on the other hand, beamed at her and asked, “That your usual perfume?”
Lindsay patted her throat, darted a look at her husband, who was still taking zero notice of her, and smiled. “No. Chanel. Thought I’d try something different.”
“Suits you. By the way, Catherine says pop over sometime.” Parker winked at her. “Think my wife wants a drinking partner. Someone to grumble to about being married to the Agency.”
“Well, that would be great.”
“Looks like you’ve lost a few pounds since I last saw you. You been on that five-two diet thing?”
Lindsay smiled. “Always flirting with me, Mr. Parker.”
“Someone’s got to.” Parker reached for a brandy, and said in a quieter tone, “Don’t worry, I’ll look after them. Just make sure you get on the phone to Catherine and get that all-men-are-bastards drinking session in the diary. It’ll do you a world of good.”
Her smile still on her face, Lindsay nodded, momentarily forgetting that her husband actually was a bastard.
When she had exited the room, Colby Jellicoe asked, “Marsha Gage?”
Sheridan took a sip of brandy. “I treat her like crap, but she’s good.”
“So why treat her like crap?” Parker stared at his drink, wishing he was going to partake of it at home with Catherine.
Sheridan smiled. “To keep her on her toes and focused. She thinks I’m a shit just for the sake of it. Truth is, I need her to think that way so she doubles her efforts to get to Cochrane before I do.”
“How can that be a good thing?”
It was Jellicoe who answered. “Because the president’s given me written authorization for Cochrane to be handed over to us the moment he’s in FBI custody.”
“Okay, that is a good thing. Where’s Gage looking for him?”
Sheridan shrugged. “Far as I can tell, mostly Europe.”
The senator nodded slowly. “If you capture him alive, he’s to be immediately executed. Do it somewhere private.”
Parker frowned. “President’s comfortable with a shoot-to-kill policy while Cochrane’s on the run. But I don’t recall him saying anything about a cold-blooded execution.”
“Neither do I. But that’s what’s got to happen. You okay with that?”
Parker didn’t know how to respond, then settled on the truth. “No, I’m damn well not okay with that.”
“You happy for national security to be breached?”
“What?”
“Got no problem with Cobalt’s drug money being used to blow up civilians and soldiers?”
“You know—”
“What I know,” Jellicoe said, raising his voice, “is that Cochrane caught and kept alive means a trial. Secret, of course, but a trial nevertheless. Someone’s going to leak what was said in the courtroom. Always happens. Public will get to hear why Cochrane’s been a bad boy. Ferryman will come to light. Then everything will be fucked, including national security.”
“You need to get authorization from the president.”
“You think he’d want me to pose the question to him? Force him to give me an answer?” Jellicoe drummed the tips of his fingers together in front of his bloated body. “I got to read between the lines, second-guess what the president ain’t saying but is thinking.”
“That doesn’t mean he wants an execution.”
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want one, either.”
“Oh, come on!”
“You got better ideas, Parker, then I’m all ears.”
“I…” Parker’s voice trailed off, because he had no other ideas.
Sheridan leaned forward and jabbed Parker’s knee. “You don’t need to get your hands dirty. I’ll take care of things. Just keep your mouth shut.”
Jellicoe ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “I gave the president the latest Ferryman intel.”
Intel that was from the United Kingdom. It stated that an MI6 officer had been tasked with flying around Afghanistan to hand out bags of cash to opium growers in return for them destroying their crops and turning their backs on the drug trade. A tribal elder who ran one of the largest plantations told the officer that his money was no good, because someone else had made contact with him and had offered to buy his crops for three times the price. Everyone in MI6 and Langley was in no doubt that that someone was terrorism financier Cobalt.
“What did the president say?”
“What I expected: keeping Ferryman intact remains an absolute priority. Cobalt must be killed. Ferryman will do that for us.”
Four thousand eight hundred miles away from Washington, D.C., Antaeus was sitting in his study in the rural outskirts of Moscow. On his desk was a leather-bound notebook, bought for him by his wife five years ago, his gold-embossed initials on its cover. The book was open to a page that contained his elegant handwriting in blue fountain pen ink. At the top of the page was the heading DOMINOS. His pen hovered over the page as he read his notes.
2010. FSB double agent tells Germans that Russian security services are hunting major terrorist financier, code name COBALT. Financier strikes terms on terrorist-controlled opium and cocaine plantations; manufactures and ships drugs using sophisticated network; sells drugs; gives terrorist plantation owners cut of profits. Germans share this intel with Western allies.
2011. FSB freezes account in Bank of Moscow, moments after $80 million was transferred to account in Algeria. British GCHQ intercept encrypted burst from SVR’s London Station, saying, “Cobalt’s moved his money. We’re too late.”
2012. FBI meets FSB and asks if Russia has heard of a major terrorism financier, code name COBALT. FSB says it believes Cobalt is financing more terror operations around the world than all other sources of funding put together. But FSB is wary of cooperating with FBI.