Although appearing rushed and unsociable, this was not at all unusual for Cramer. He was known to be brusque and rarely, if ever, stopped to make idle small-talk with the other embassy staff. Some station chiefs were social butterflies, in part to help maintain their cover and remove any mystery about what it was they did at the embassy, since secrecy invariably resulted in water cooler and urinal gossip. Others, like Cramer, maintained their privacy and cared little for what others in the building speculated or said.
Outside, on Rudaki Avenue, Cramer hailed a cab and gave the driver his destination.
It didn’t matter if any of the marines saw him enter the cab or in what direction it then proceeded to travel. Some point soon, there would invariably be an investigation into the day’s events, and the marines would be questioned and would report that they saw Cramer leave the embassy at 2:34PM. It would be noted in the marine security detachment’s log, and the surveillance cameras would confirm this. And when the investigators searched his office and personal residence, going through his safe, file cabinets, and hard drive, they would learn he had been on his way to meet CK/SCINIPH — the CK digraph denoted that the agent was Russian.
Invariably, GKNB would be brought into the fold and put on his trail, but he was confident it would be too, little too late. He’d likely be out of the country soon enough. He was taking an enormous risk, operating unilaterally, but at this point he couldn’t trust any of his colleagues from Dushanbe station or any of the agents in his network. Not after what had happened with Wilkes. He didn’t know how far this went.
Except SCINIPH. He was the only one Cramer trusted.
Cramer questioned, not for the first time, how it came to this and at what point everything went wrong. He didn’t follow the train of thought, though. He’d already made his decision, and there was no going back now.
At least the tension of waiting all afternoon for the phone call had subsided, replaced with the confidence that it was done and he was on his way out of here. He turned his mind toward more pleasant thoughts, such as where he would retire to when this mess was all over. He considered the south of France or perhaps the Costa del Sol of Spain as likely spots.
For the last four years, home had been a cheap apartment outside Alexandria, for the brief periods of time he found himself grounded, between overseas assignments or tours. His ex-wife had taken his Alexandria townhouse following the divorce settlement. He was still paying the mortgage on it, plus the college tuition costs of a spoiled, self-absorbed twenty year old daughter he had not spoken to in over a year.
There was nothing for him back home, and home itself was a strange concept to him, one that never had any particular relevance to him. He had spent most of his life in different places, often different countries, for up to a year at a time. He felt like he had little to lose, and it made it easier to accept the risks he now took.
The taxi stopped outside of a squalid, four story apartment building.
Cramer handed the driver a wad of cash. He tipped him well, but not so well as to be remembered later, and quickly exited the car. As he approached the front entrance of the building, the cab was already gone.
Cramer used the spare key he’d been given to enter the building. There was no one else in sight, and he took the stairs to the third floor.
SCINIPH wanted to have this meeting in private and had told Cramer that this was a secure location. Cramer surmised that it was a Russian safe house.
Following the instructions given him, Cramer reached a heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway. Using his key, he entered the corner apartment without knocking.
It was dark inside, with the shades drawn over the windows.
SCINIPH waited, seated in an armchair, smoking a cigarette.
But Cramer hadn’t expected the other three men in the apartment.
One, he recognized at once from his description and the numerous stories he’d heard. The man’s strong Slavic features, shaved head, and the small shaded tattoo of a spider crudely rendered on the left side of his neck were immediately distinctive features.
The presence of the other two men — Uzbeks — reinforced the uneasy knot in the pit of his stomach. He recognized one of the Uzbeks from GKNB counterterrorism files.
THREE
Avery was halfway through the movement of his fourth repetition when the cell phone on the table across the room rang. He swore softly, at once furious at the break in his concentration. His arms stopped in place for an instant, his first instinct to lower the weights, but then he inhaled deep and resumed shoulder-pressing the pair of seventy-five pound dumbbells over his head. Lowering the weights slowly and deliberately, he released the air from his lungs. He did this one more time, after which he was incapable of performing a seventh rep.
The ringing continued. There was only one person who would call him on this phone. Calls were infrequent, but he still always kept the phone fully charged with the volume up and within reach at all times of the day, every day, wherever he went. He dropped the dumbbells onto the rubber matted floor on either side of the inclined bench. His heart pounded. His chest rose and fell with each breath. A burning line ran down the inside of each of his deltoids, and his triceps bulged.
He took four steps across the spare bedroom he’d converted into a weight room, grabbed the phone with his right hand and, without glancing down to see the caller, thumbed “answer” on the touch screen, while taking the towel in his opposite hand to wipe up the sweat dripping from his face.
“Hello,” he said in between intakes of air.
“Avery, how are you?” The familiar voice was laced with a barely discernable southern drawl. It was the first voice Avery had heard in four days, felt longer though, since he’d gone to Quantico earlier that week to put rounds down range with a buddy from DEA.
“I’m doing well, thank you.”
“There’s a job for you. I’ll see you at one; my office. Be ready to travel.”
The call ended.
Avery set the phone back down and guzzled water from a plastic bottle. He took half a moment to collect his thoughts, re-focus his mind, and returned to the weights. He needed to do three more sets before completing this week’s shoulder work-out. It looked like he no longer needed to consider tomorrow’s legs work-out, which suited him just fine.
He’d been training, preparing, and waiting for this call for the last fifteen weeks, since returning from the last job. The last week in particular he’d started to grow anxious and impatient, eager for something new on which to focus his mind and take him away from here. He wondered where it was this time, but it didn’t matter. He went where he was needed.
It might be a week between jobs, might be a month, Avery never knew, but whenever Matt Culler called him, he was grateful for it. He often thought where he’d be without Matt’s jobs, and the answer presented a singularly bleak, empty alternative to his existence.
Four hours later, Avery passed through the metal detector and turnstiles, and checked in at the security desk in the foyer of the Original Headquarters Building of the George Bush Center for Intelligence. The security officer had Avery empty his pockets and relieved him of his cell phone. Cell phones and electronic devices were strictly prohibited here. Avery was then given a green badge, the one worn by private contractors while at CIA headquarters. The electronic chip in the badge allowed security to track his movement anywhere on the premises and restricted his access to certain areas. Avery had no doubt security would keep tabs on him. Many still considered him unwelcome here, and he was sure his name was flagged. Security would search him again on his way out, to make sure he hadn’t managed to swipe a USB drive or stuff classified documents down his pants, both of which people have been caught doing in the past.