“Another training exercise?”
O’Connor smiled. “Not this time.”
Antaeus was deep in thought as he walked beside the lake on his large, wooded and heath-covered grounds, fifty miles outside of Moscow. Two things were on the spymaster’s mind: Project Ferryman and Will Cochrane. It was imperative that Cochrane didn’t learn the truth and destroy Antaeus’s strategy to cripple America. Cochrane had to fail and back down, or be killed.
Killing a man was not only distasteful to Antaeus; he also saw it as a sign of weakness, because it usually meant that something had gone wrong. Throughout his career he’d always believed that the most effective weapon in a spy’s armory was his mind. Time and time again, he’d proven that his brilliant tactics were infinitely superior to those of his more brutish colleagues. That’s why he answered to no one except the premier of Russia. And even the premier rarely dared to challenge or attempt to direct Antaeus. As a result, Antaeus was the real brain and power behind Russia’s desire for ascendancy and world dominance. And right now, that brain would not hesitate to issue orders to have Cochrane murdered.
Even though Antaeus highly respected Cochrane and would gain no pleasure from killing him.
He put Cochrane and Ferryman out of his mind and started scrutinizing the land beneath him. After a while he stopped, used the tip of his long walking stick to unearth a barely visible stone, and ignored the pain down one side of his body as he picked it up. After brushing off soil, he smiled. The object was a Stone Age flint axhead, crafted with immaculate precision, and was no doubt the best he’d found during his comprehensive research into the settlement that had existed here twenty-two thousand years ago. Back inside the house, he would mount the tool and draw it so that he could add the illustration to the thesis he was submitting to the Moscow Archaeology Museum. The discovery of the tool would bolster his argument that, contrary to perceived wisdom, Stone Age man was not solely nomadic during the Ice Age in western Russia, but would settle in one place for long periods of time and would rely extensively on the fur, flesh, and bones of mammoths for clothing, food, and the construction of shelters. The tool would have taken days to make and was unlike the crude tools made by people on the move. Its maker was a patient, cunning man who had the wit to let his prey come to him rather than risk death from exposure during a hunt. Despite the severity of his surroundings, he was in control of his environment.
Antaeus’s cell phone rang.
A U.S. number.
He listened to the caller for two minutes before saying, “I will alert my team that Cochrane’s in the States. But if the FBI gets to him first, you know what needs to be done.”
Charles Sheridan snapped shut his cell phone, poured a large glass of red wine, and slid it across the table just as Senator Jellicoe sat down opposite him in a discrete corner of the D.C. Ritz-Carlton’s Westend Bistro. “You’re going to need that.”
“Bad news?”
“Cochrane’s in the U.S.”
“What?!” Jellicoe looked around, realizing his raised voice had caught the attention of others in the restaurant. He leaned forward and whispered, “You told me there was no chance he’d head west!”
“I got it wrong.”
“But Marsha Gage didn’t.” Hostility and apprehension were evident on Jellicoe’s face. “How did he manage to get this close to us?”
The CIA officer shrugged. “He’s resourceful.”
“And driven.” Jellicoe pointed a finger at Sheridan. “He mustn’t disrupt our project. We’re this close to Cobalt.”
Sheridan thought for a moment. “We could just tell him to give himself up, that no charges will be made against him. Put a statement out to that effect on the networks and print media. Maybe he’d listen.”
“Why would he do that?”
“If he knew the true value of Ferryman and its link to getting Cobalt, the professional in him might realize he’s not operating in the interest of our national security.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe he’ll go to the Washington Post and tell them that he’s been hung out to dry because of something called Ferryman. And once the media’s involved, you know where that will lead.”
Sheridan smiled. “So that means we stay on track.”
“Yep.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Jellicoe took a sip of his red wine and patted his mouth with a handkerchief. “But, he’s too close.”
“This could work for us. There was always the risk that if he got caught in Europe, one of the foreign agencies might not have handed him over to us. Here, it’s cut and dry.”
“But also more exposed.”
Sheridan looked around. The Westend Bistro was a favorite among politicians and lobbyists working in Capitol Hill. Some of them were in here right now, and he wondered what they’d think if they knew what he was discussing with Jellicoe. “I got a couple of deniable Agency assets on standby and a place west of here where we can take Cochrane and make his body disappear.”
“How deniable and reliable?”
“Grade A to both.”
Jellicoe grinned, his flabby face looking reptilian and smug. “Good.”
Antaeus’s four assassins were sitting in a car on Colorado Avenue, in the Crestwood section of Washington, D.C. The quiet street was lined with family homes that were modern, functional, and medium sized, for those whose paychecks were neither great nor small. All had large front lawns that were immaculately cut and uncluttered. The men were observing one house from a hundred yards away. Two kids were playing while their dad was keeping an eye on them and stamping his feet to stay warm. It was afternoon and the family had returned home ten minutes ago.
One of the two Englishmen asked his compatriot, “How come the boss calls you Scott and me Oates?”
Code name Scott shrugged. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, for starters it means I’m cursed.”
“Why?”
“Captain Oates got out of his tent during the Terra Nova expedition and went walkabout in the Antarctic so that he could die and not be a burden to his mates.”
“It was a brave thing to do.”
“Whereas Scott got to reach the South Pole. It’s not fair.”
Scott gestured to their Norwegian colleague. “You’re forgetting that I die on the way back, and anyway Amundsen here beat me to the South Pole. Wasted journey.”
Amundsen laughed. “I made it to the South and North Poles.” The Norwegian frowned. “Still, I later die in a rescue mission in the Arctic.”
The Irishman ran a hand over his pistol’s barrel. “I got no complaints being Shackleton ’cause I got knighted by King Edward VII for getting furthest south before Norwegie Boy later reached the Pole. Plus, I die of natural causes.”
“No you don’t. The booze gets you in the end. Stops your heart.”
“Never proven.”
“It’s what your doctor said.”
“So what? Anyways, what’s unnatural about booze?”
Oates laughed. “An Irishman to the bitter end.”
“Quite right.” Shackleton’s expression turned serious as he rammed a magazine into his handgun, while keeping his gaze on the family. “I give it fifteen minutes maximum before the father tells them to pack it in and get inside ’cause he’s freezing his nuts off.”
Scott raised a hand. “Showtime.”
The four men were motionless as they watched a car pull up into the driveway of the house they were watching.
“Give it five minutes, then we’ll put the beacon in the car. And we stay on the target day and night. Got it?”
Scott’s colleagues nodded.