“He clearly suffered from something,” Valerie said.
He raised his hand. “I’m not saying he didn’t. But he killed those people. Those kids. You’ve never seen that John. When I found out what Eric was planning, I had my own issues with it. Putting that kind of tech inside the John Frist I’d interrogated was crazy. But after the memory replacement, he wasn’t the same.”
“You think he’s changed.”
“He’s better now. A better soldier and a better man. We need that, Val. We need someone to do the job. With the StrikeForce tech, he can do things that I can only dream of.”
She pulled away and squinted at him. “Like survive the bomb in Holzinger’s apartment.”
“What if that had been you or me? The graphene weave protected him. IED overpressure damages the brain. I saw it in Afghanistan. Hell, it’s what happened to John in Iraq.”
“You’re afraid we might become like him?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You think anybody who suffers that kind of damage has the potential to become another bomber.”
He hesitated. “A bomber, or a stabber, or a shooter. I thought John was the bad guy and we were the good guys, but that’s too simplistic. We were CIA, Val. We did bad things. And now we’re with the OTM.” He raised his hand before she could interrupt. “What if we’re only one bad day away from bombing the Red Cross like John did? One bad day, one bad decision, and a bomb takes away our morality. That’s worse than dying.”
“No,” Valerie said, glancing at the door to the room where John was recovering. “I don’t believe it’s as simple as that.”
Deion sighed. Valerie was concerned. He got that. But the thoughts had been eating at him for months. He slumped into the chair across from hers. “I don’t know anymore, Val. John has saved my ass. Yours, too. He’s a damned hero, but I can’t reconcile that with the man who bombed the Red Cross and killed those children.”
“You don’t have to,” Valerie said. She took his hand. “I believe in you, and if you say John’s a hero, then I believe in him, too.”
He squeezed her hand. “I appreciate that. And there’s something I have to tell you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“You were right. John isn’t just sick. He’s real sick.” He explained how the remaining nanobots and carbon graphene buckyballs had lodged throughout John’s body.
Valerie’s face paled. “So, all this time?”
“Since Nashville,” Deion said. “The docs have been pumping him full of immunotherapy drugs to slow the cancer.”
“How much time does he have?”
“Once the drugs stop working, the docs think he’ll have a few weeks before total organ failure.”
“That’s horrible,” Valerie said. “Can’t they do something? I read the reports. Maybe they could somehow use the nanobots—”
“They said the body’s immune system identifies them as invaders now, and that’s what’s causing the cancer. If they injected him with more, or even tried reactivating what’s left inside him, he could go into septic shock.”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t give him cancer.”
“No,” he admitted. “I just trained him and helped him become the man he is today. We need the StrikeForce technology, Val. You’ve seen what we’re up against.”
They sat for a moment.
“How do we get out of Switzerland?” Valerie asked.
“The Gulfstream’s registration is airtight. They can inspect it all they want. It’s totally legit.”
“They’ll know.”
“They’ll suspect,” Deion said. “They can’t prove it. We just need to get to the Gulfstream.”
“They’ll be watching the airport,” Valerie pointed out. “We can take the van and head for the border.”
“Too many crossings, and we don’t have the guards in our pocket. We’ll just have to distract them.”
Valerie’s eyes narrowed. “You think that’s a good idea? This is Switzerland. We’re not at war with Switzerland.”
He slumped back in his chair. “Gohl is going to take this personally. He’ll make it personal. He’s maybe ten years from retirement, and he’s looking for a big win so he can ride off into the sunset. If he catches us…”
“We’ll be burned,” Valerie said. “Disavowed.”
“Steeljaw wouldn’t allow that.”
“He wouldn’t?”
“Nope. He’d probably just bomb the hole we’d be kept in and call it a day.”
“That’s not comforting,” Valerie said.
“Wasn’t supposed to be.” He stood and stretched his legs. “Tell Greg we’re heading out in a few hours.”
“Where are you going?”
“To create a diversion,” he said. “Give John another hour’s sleep before waking him, and then make sure you’re both ready to haul ass.”
The sun had long since set when Smith’s driver, Robert, pulled the black Lincoln to the curb near the Willard InterContinental Hotel. Smith handed his daughter her black leather jacket.
“Who exactly are we meeting?” she asked.
Smith stared out the window at the light coating of snow covering the sidewalk. “Someone that can help. You understand the information I’ve given you?”
Nancy scowled. “I don’t see what you expect me to do with it.”
“You will understand, soon enough. Robert, if you would be so kind?”
Robert held the door for them. They stepped out into the frigid night, and as they made their way to the side entrance of the hotel, Smith realized he no longer detected the crisp smell of winter.
A hotel employee ushered them down the stairs to a small conference room in the basement. Like many of the other historic hotels in Washington, the Willard had wallpaper that was at least seventy years out of date, and exposed wooden beams covered the ceiling.
The only occupant sat at one of the giant oak tables, drinking a glass of bourbon. Age spots were visible through the old man’s thinning hair, and his belly protruded through his worn brown suit. He looked like an aging shoe salesman or insurance executive, but Smith knew better.
Robert gave the room a critical once-over. “You’re clear.”
Smith smiled. “Thank you, Robert.”
Robert left, and the old Russian glanced at them quizzically before draining his glass. “You bring young woman to meet your old friend?”
Smith led his daughter to the table and held a chair for her. “I’d like you to meet my daughter.”
Melamid’s eyes widened. “I see. You look like your mother.”
Nancy stared at him. “You knew my mother.”
Melamid nodded. “I knew your mother very good. We were old friends.”
“I thought you should finally meet Alexandra’s daughter,” Smith said. “You are, after all, as responsible for her birth as I am.”
Melamid’s mouth opened and closed. “You have had interesting life,” Melamid finally said to Nancy. “Is not my doing. Your mother knew rules. She made a mistake. I cannot help you.”
“Let’s put our cards on the table,” Smith said.
“Oh?” Melamid asked. “We play cards now?”
Smith ignored the comment. “You’re going to convince the SVR that Alexandra is dead.”
Melamid raised his empty glass. “Alexandra made her choice. She knew consequences.”
“Stop pretending you’re just an old man,” Smith said. “I know how much influence you have in the Kremlin. You’re going to convince them that Alexandra is dead. You owe Nancy that. She needs her mother.”