“All right,” the president began. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. And thank you for joining us, Mr. Wilhite.”
Jaxson Wilhite operated out of the London base and worked in collusion with MI6, the United Kingdom’s highly esteemed Secret Intelligence Service. “No problem, Mr. President.”
“Mr. Wilhite.” The president leaned forward with his hands clasped together. “Please tell me you have something.”
Wilhite shrugged with a halfhearted gesture. “Mr. President, so far our sources in the Middle East, including Mossad, has turned up zero. Right now there is nothing on the chat lines to indicate that Arab insurgents attempted to move nuclear weapons across our border. And all intercepted data from the Middle East — and we’re talking from the guerrilla factions, as well as intel gleaned from the Palestinian front — has turned up empty. Whoever is running this campaign is certainly keeping an air-tight lid on it.”
It was not what the president wanted to hear. Intel is often, if not always, intercepted by unsuspecting agencies who believe their secured lines and untenable data resources could not be appropriated, which always made them vulnerable to American intelligence groups. But in this case there was nothing to garner, which was unusual given the circumstances and magnitude of the situation.
“And what about Hakam and his team? Any leads thus far?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
The president could feel his mounting frustration come to a boil, but held it in check with forced calm. “We have nothing at all?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”
Jim Burroughs slapped an open palm against the table. “Then will somebody please tell me how in the hell those units got into Mexico? Will somebody — anybody — tell me how a team of radical insurgents were able to bypass all Interpol points and transport nuclear weapons halfway across this planet without even raising an eyebrow! Somewhere — somebody knows something!”
Wilhite did not flinch. “We’re still working on the answers for you, sir.”
“What about Yorgi Perchenko? Were you able to track him down?”
Wilhite nodded. “We’ve located Perchenko and mobilized units to secure him. However, Mr. President, there is a problem.”
Burroughs closed his eyes: Of course. Why wouldn’t there be? “Go ahead, Mr. Wilhite.”
“It appears the Russian Central Intelligence Service is swooping in to intercept him as well.”
“Can your men get to him before the SVR can?”
“If we do, then it’ll be close.”
“Use whatever means necessary to secure that man and/or the information he possesses. If you need to engage the Russian’s, do so.”
“Mr. President.” Alan Thornton’s interjection was one of discernible alarm. “Sanctioning a fire fight with officers of the SVR would definitely compromise our position there. To expose our coverts like that would have consequential results should they be captured or killed.”
“I would agree with you, Al. But from where I’m sitting I don’t see how we have much choice. Yorgi Perchenko is the key holder to what we need to know. And that information, as far as I’m concerned, is worth the jeopardy we place them in. If they succeed, great; if they don’t, then we inherit a nation that will no doubt come under the attack of nuclear weapons and its subsequent fallout. We have no choice but to take gambles from here on in.” He turned back to the viewing screen. “Mr. Wilhite?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“How much of a guarantee can you give me that the Company will get there before the Russian team?”
Wilhite hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t give you a guarantee at all,” he said. “Right now it looks like a head-on collision.”
“Do the Russians know our team is converging as well?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let’s hope their complacency will become our ally.” Easing back into the chair, the president quickly reflected. Hopefully, in Minsk, where it was already dark, the American team would prevail under covert conditions. But Burroughs knew better, realizing the Russians would do anything to quash the truth about Perchenko in order to keep them from being judged by the international community as the administration who allowed such weapons to be distributed from under their watchful eye, and earn them global mistrust. They would find Perchenko, make him disappear, and deny everything. The solution for any political machine was to dig its way out of a deep hole by putting something else in its place, and then cover it over with a cairn of lies.
“Mr. Wilhite?”
“Sir.”
“How long before the team reaches the point of interception?”
“I’d say within the hour, sir.”
Burroughs checked his watch. No doubt sixty minutes would seem like a lifetime.
Even more so, there was nothing worse than the sentiment of being rendered impotent.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Yorgi Perchenko sat on the expansive veranda of the Madison, a discotheque and nightclub in the city of Minsk which overlooked the dazzling lights of urban sprawl. The night was cool and brisk. And a bottle of Cristall Vodka stood before him at his exclusive table, which was the only table on the landing. On most evenings he liked to get away and reminisce, his recollections far from fading — his mind still crisp.
In the background the thrumming beat of a disco tune was muted through the walls and doors. But to Perchenko it sounded like a radio on low volume. Often he would close his eyes and hum to a rhythm he enjoyed.
To enjoy such a moment of solitude he paid good money, reserving the complete landing for what would be pocket change to him, but a financial windfall for the Madison.
It was money easily passed off because money was all he had.
Pouring vodka in a glass chilled by the night air, Perchenko felt at peace. Behind him two of his best soldiers stood sentinel by the door, barring anyone from entering the veranda. Other than their presence, he was alone wading in memories. Although life was good, it was not the same. He missed the times as a KGB operative, as well as his subsequent role as a leading magistrate within the branch. What he missed most were the times when he meant something to his homeland. Now he simply existed.
Raising the glass toward the nightlights of the city, he saluted his country. “To Mother Russia,” he murmured, and then drank.
From his seated position he did not hear the gunshots that were no louder than someone spitting, or see the muzzle flashes coming from the rooftop on a building across the way. The kills were quick and efficient, the two guards standing by the doorway now lying sprawled on the floor in awkward configurations.
When the door leading to the veranda opened music piped loudly through the air, only to be muted after the door closed behind the man who approached Perchenko’s table.
The man was silhouetted against the backdrop, a black mass moving with the collar of his jacket hiked up. He was cadaverously tall and thin and stooped against the cold. And his vapored breath was indication enough to Perchenko that the Grim Reaper was alive, and real, and beheld the true sustenance of flesh and bone rather than the cowl and scythe of folklore.
In the business he was in, he knew this day would come.
A few meters from the table the man stood silent and still, appraising Perchenko from the depths of his shadowy eyes.
In invitation, Perchenko kicked a resin chair hard enough for it to skate about a meter away from The Man, but close enough to the table’s edge. “Please,” he said. “Sit.”
The Man took the chair, the features of his face barely perceptible in the darkness.
Perchenko held up the bottle. “Drink?”