The first alarm from the Kremlin had gone out at two fifteen after a forty-minute discussion between members of the special Kremlin Spetsnaz unit about the loss of face that would occur if they asked for help. But help was clearly needed, and the first calls were broadcast. The first went out to the Moscow Metropolitan Police, who, recognizing a political hot potato when they saw one, immediately passed responsibility over to the FSB. The FSB, in the way of all large bureaucracies, spent a great deal of time calling people and playing pass-the-buck for a full ninety minutes. It wasn’t until three thirty that a request was made to the army for several of its attack helicopters, which then joined the four Kremlin Spetsnaz choppers, all of which spent a further forty-five minutes coordinating their approach and attack on the dacha in Kuntsevo. A unit of special Kremlin guards was dispatched along the subway line, and a further forty local police vehicles were also roped into the party. When a fire was reported on the old abandoned estate, four local fire stations sent their various vehicles to Kuntsevo as well. At four ten in the morning the first FSB unit arrived at the scene, almost half an hour after Felix Fyodor and his passengers had joined the ubiquitous scores of snowplows and graders out on the Moscow streets and highways. Any trace of the power grader’s presence at the Kuntsevo property was long since covered by the freshly fallen snow. At four thirty-five Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, Dmitry Anatolyevich Medvedev, the patriarch of Moscow, and Vasilyevich Bortnikov, head of the FSB, had all been individually woken from their beds and advised of the situation. Putin, standing by the phone in his silk dressing gown, summed it up succinctly for the others.
“Ebanatyi pidaraz!”
“Vladimir!” said his wife, Lyudmila. “Such language!”
It was two hours earlier by Vatican time when Cardinal Spada’s sleep was interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door of his lavish apartment. The Vatican secretary of state came fully awake to the smell of freshly brewed espresso. He rolled over and saw the bland face of his servant, Brother Timothy, a smart, extremely pretty and well-connected young man who hoped for better things through his attachment to the great Cardinal Spada.
Spada took a sip of the scalding coffee, then set it down on the night table beside the enormous four-poster bed that was said to have belonged to one of the Borgias. He pulled himself up against the scrolled headboard while Timothy adjusted his pillows. The young man offered Spada his wire-rimmed spectacles, and the cardinal slipped them on.
“Presumably there is good reason to interrupt my sleep, Timothy. The pope isn’t dead, is he?”
“No, Your Eminence, it’s Father Brennan.”
“That old bugger’s dead?” Spada said hopefully.
“No, Your Eminence, he’s outside, and he’d like to speak to you on a matter of some urgency.”
Spada gave a heartfelt sigh and picked up his coffee from the bedside table. “I suppose you’d better send him in.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.” The monk shimmered away, closing the door behind him. Spada sipped his coffee.
The Irish priest who was also the head of Spada’s intelligence network appeared a few seconds later dressed in a rumpled suit with a stained clerical collar and smoking what was probably his tenth cigarette of the day. He didn’t beat around the bush.
“They’ve found bloody Pesek with a bullet in his eye stuffed into a refrigerator in an apartment off the Arbat. The apartment was rented by a Russian Orthodox priest named Ivanov who was somehow connected to Genrikhovich.”
“Dear me,” said Spada.
“There’re also several unconfirmed reports of some sort of attack on the Kremlin. Bodies and such.”
“Holliday and his friend?”
“Yes.”
“The book?”
“No.”
“Porca troia!” Spada said, reminding himself almost instantly to say ten Our Fathers and twenty Hail Marys for his use of foul language.
At roughly the same time Cardinal Spada was uttering blasphemous oaths in Rome, Pat Philpot, national counterterrorism liaison at the Moscow embassy, was sitting at his desk in the secure cube, with Whit Havers standing on the other side of it. Pat Philpot, inevitably known by friends and enemies alike as Potsy, was not a happy man. He liked his sleep, for one thing, and his banishment to the Moscow boonies after the catastrophe of eighteen months before at least had the benefit that he could basically do nothing through his working days and still collect a salary. It also took him eight thousand miles away from his nagging ex-wife and his children, who were always asking him for money. Four thirty in the morning was not his idea of a good start to the day. He was also hungry, which was why he was now working his way steadily through four McDonald’s Big Breakfasts from the Red Square outlet. Some people would have said Philpot had an eating disorder; Pat would have told you he was a big man who wanted to get bigger. Brinsley Whitman Havers, who hadn’t had so much as a roti in fifteen years, was simply disgusted.
“All right, kid,” said Philpot, chewing his way through his third wedge of hash browns. “You’ve managed to get every security officer in the embassy in a tizzy, so spill. I need to know it all-start to finish. You’re the case officer; who the hell are you running that’s causing all this shit to hit the fan?”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir,” said Whit as Philpot wiped his fingers on the hash brown bag and started in on some scrambled eggs. “I’m afraid it’s the national security adviser’s operation.”
Philpot belched and took a sip of black coffee. He grimaced. “Don’t give me that White House West Wing crap, son; it doesn’t cut any ice with me. Besides, I know the kind of crap your boss Kokum gets up to, and I also know where all his bodies are buried. Spit it out or you’re on the next flight out.”
“It’s a blue operation. . sir,” said Whit stiffly.
“An assassination?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s the target?”
Whit hesitated. “A man named Holliday, sir,” he said finally.
Whit had heard the phrase “he turned white as a sheet” before, but he’d never actually seen it. The blood seemed to drain out of the fat man’s neck. It was amazing; he looked like he was going to have a stroke, which wouldn’t have been surprising, all things considered.
“Lieutenant Colonel John Holliday? He’s the one responsible for all this crap?”
“Yes, sir,” said Whit.
“Oh, shit,” said Philpot, his appetite gone with almost a complete Big Breakfast to go.
Twenty-five minutes after Eddie and Doc had left the burning dacha, an alert policeman noted the strange behavior of a snowplow in the middle of a snowstorm that wasn’t plowing any snow. When he reported to his superiors, it was discovered that the plow in question was well off its normal route, which began close to the gates of the dacha. Fifteen minutes later somebody put two and two together, and within another ten minutes there was a trail of police cars behind the power grader, sirens wailing. There was very little a one-ton police car could do to stop a massive grader like the one piloted by Felix Fyodor Fosdikov, and eventually air support was called in. One of the attack helicopters that had gone to the dacha headed for the location of the errant snowplow with orders to fire at will.
At four fifty-one a.m. Moscow time, Felix Fyodor Fosdikov turned the big power grader off the Ulitsa Novy Arbat and onto Novinsky Perulok, the trail of police cars following behind, the distant thunder of the helicopter getting louder by the second, its giant searchlight swinging back and forth less than half a mile away, searching for its target in the driving snow.
A hundred yards ahead at the bottom of the hill was Deviations Boulevard. On the far side of Deviations at the intersection of the two streets and lined up right in the crosshairs of a gun sight were the front gates of the United States Embassy.