The Man nodded.
“Then what do you want?”
The Man reached into the inner lining of his pocket and produced a single photo, held it up in display, then tossed it before Perchenko.
Grabbing it — and with enough lighting provided by the fixtures over the veranda’s entrance doors — he immediately recognized the man in the photo, gave it a quick onceover, then tossed it back without betraying his emotions. “You have two of my best men killed to show me this?” he said. “And for what? Because you think I know who this is?”
The Man leaned forward. “Yorgi—”
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I know you.”
Perchenko worked the muscles in the back of his jaw before speaking in a calm manner. “You kill two of my men and then deny yourself the opportunity to drink with me. At least give me the respect of not calling me by the name my friends would.”
The Man nodded. “Granted.” And then he pushed the photo back toward Perchenko. “His name is al-Khatib Hakam. He is a terrorist for al-Qaeda.”
Perchenko shrugged. “So.”
“Six months ago you sold this man some very special weapons on the black market. The weapons I’m talking about, Mr. Perchenko, are weapons of mass destruction that, if the truth be known, would jeopardize our standing in the world community.”
“You’re wasting your breath. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The Man never wavered. “If it was known that Russia is willing to sell nuclear weapons to insurgent groups, we will lose face and fall to worldwide condemnation and sanctions, which will kill us as a nation.”
“Mother Russia died when Communism fell.”
“Mother Russia still lives, but is moving towards a new and bolder direction. You failed to see that. Mother Russia will be greater than she ever was.”
“Mother Russia has become a weak bitch that has allowed the United States to win.”
The Man slowly fell back in his seat, his shoulder slumping in defeat.
In the darkness Perchenko could see The Man shaking his head in dismay. “What?”
“You were a god to me,” he said. “You were a god to all of us.”
“Were?”
“Everyone looked at Yorgi Perchenko as the man nobody challenged; a true man within the ranks of the establishment.”
“True.”
“And until yesterday you continued to be held in high regard for your commitment to the organization and for your service to your country.”
Perchenko creased his brow, which was a mistake on his part. The facial read now gave The Man leverage.
“Now you are known as the man who will single-handedly destroy Russia and make her the pariah of the world. Every nation will cast a stone against us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Economic sanctions placed on us will no doubt destroy whatever progress we have made over the last decade, financial surpluses will be lost, every semblance that once made Russia a proud nation will be gone and we will be hurled back into third-world status.”
Perchenko appeared dumbfounded. “I’m not a traitor. For what I have done for this country… How could anybody believe I was a traitor?”
“Do you not see the position you have placed us in?”
“What position are you talking about?”
“Those weapons you sold to al-Khatib Hakam have made their way onto American soil. And they are holding this country indirectly responsible for allowing this to happen.”
“It’s something that should have happened a long time ago.”
“America is no longer our enemy! Times have changed, Perchenko.”
Perchenko leaned forward. “I assume you are SVR?”
The Man said nothing.
“Now you listen to me,” said Perchenko. “I am a big reason why Russia was a major power.” He fell back into his chair and pumped his fist high in the air. “A powerhouse! I have never betrayed my country!”
Over The Man’s earpiece, which Perchenko could not see, came an audible warning: “It looks like you got company. Either take him and move, or get what you need. But hurry.”
The Man spoke with more insistence. “That’s not the way the SVR sees it,” he told him. “Because of what’s happening, your picture has been removed from The Hall of Heroes.”
This was almost too much for Perchenko to bear. He had loved Russia more than his own family. In fact, Russia was more of his bloodline than the actual blood that ran through the veins of his children.
He shook his head. His voice was no longer strong or confident, but detached and distant as his eyes slowly scanned the landscape of Minsk, one of his country’s truly great cities. “But I’m not a traitor,” he whispered.
“Do you want to be a hero again? Do you want your picture in its rightful spot?”
Perchenko just stared. The Man was losing him. He had pushed Perchenko too far.
“Hurry! A team just entered the Madison”
“Do the right thing,” said The Man. “Tell us how many units you sold, so we can contact our sources to stop this. Become that hero for Russia once again.”
The old agent’s lips moved, but nothing came forth.
“Perchenko! How many units?”
“Three,” he finally said. And then more boldly, “Three.”
The Man immediately lifted the sleeve of his coat in spoke English into a mike with noted urgency. Once the information was duly received and copied, The Man stood up and produced a firearm bearing a suppressor that was as long as the barrel.
Perchenko looked at the man. “You spoke English.”
The Man said nothing.
“You’re not SVR, are you?”
The Man nodded. “CIA.”
Perchenko clenched his teeth, the muscles in the back of his jaw working furiously. He had lost that ‘special sense,’ that intuitive feeling that had once made him an elitist in his field. “At least I’m still a hero,” he said.
The Man raised the weapon and shot Perchenko twice, once in the forehead and once in the center of body mass.
The Man quickly moved across the landing with the agility of a cat, swift and graceful, to the concrete banister of the Madison, which overlooked the city’s busy traffic. To his right was a fire escape ladder, a requirement for the nightclub in case a fire trapped patrons on the veranda. Just as The Man took the rungs and began his descent, members of the SVR rushed through the doors, the music blaring, and took shots at the escaping man, the bullets taking out chunks of concrete from the banister around him but missing.
From a rooftop across the street, muzzle flashes flared and two SVR agents immediately went down as boneless heaps, forcing the other agents to pull back for the cover of the club.
By the time they made it down to street level, The Man was gone.
They had been taken totally by surprised.
The president was quickly informed of the mission’s status. Perchenko was dispatched and his black marketing empire, at least for the moment, gone. More importantly, however, operatives were able to ascertain the number of units sold.
“So that leaves two available targets,” said the president. “So we can assume one of the targets is Washington D.C.”
“And the other most likely New York City,” added Thornton.
After agreeing, the president continued. “OK, people, listen up. I want all available resources including military, law enforcement, even kids with bad attitudes, posted at every possible way into cities of strategic value such as D.C. and New York. Also look into Los Angeles. Although it’s not really a city of strategic value, it does have the second highest population in the country, and the closest point where the first weapon was found.”
“I would think they would try to take out the highest political seat in the land with Washington,” said Thornton. “And the financial district of New York. I really don’t see them deviating from their plans of 9/11, especially now since they’re highly equipped to finalize the job.”