Marcus exited the safe room and reentered the code, closing the vault’s steel door behind him. Then he found the utility closet Oleg had directed him to, the one containing two large water heaters, the HVAC system, the house’s Internet routers, and an assortment of other panels controlling various systems within the house and throughout the grounds. He focused on the circuit box that regulated power coming in from the main electrical grid. Underneath it he magnetically attached a thin silver cylinder that could easily be mistaken for part of the original system if it wasn’t studied carefully. Inside the cylinder were a remote detonator and enough plastic explosives to knock out power to the whole house.
His initial preparations complete, Marcus raced back upstairs, reactivated the master alarm system, and then—in the sixty seconds he had before the motion sensors kicked in—bounded up to the second floor and found the door leading to the attic. It was, as he’d been told, locked. But using the key he’d found in the drawer of the nightstand on the right side of the master bedroom, exactly where Oleg had said it would be, he quickly unlocked the door to the attic, then replaced the key in the drawer, headed back to the attic stairway, and closed and locked the door behind him.
Marcus activated his night vision goggles as he made his way into the unheated and thus chilly top-floor storage area and found himself next to a small window that looked out toward the private access road leading to the property. The window wasn’t designed to be opened. He was tempted to cut out one or two of the glass panes to prepare for what was coming next, but he decided against it. The window was, for now, the only thing keeping out the rain and the wind, if not the cold. Instead, he removed and unzipped his backpack, pulled out the pieces of the sniper rifle, reassembled them, and settled in for the wait, though it wouldn’t be long now.
“Razor to Keyhole, over,” he said, lowering the volume on his earpiece slightly and adjusting the whisper microphone pressed against his right cheek.
“Keyhole to Razor, copy, reading you five by five—over,” Morris replied.
“Status check.”
“Good to go. And you? Over.”
“Locked and loaded,” said Marcus, “and ready for showtime.”
80
Oleg padded out into the living room in his silk pajamas.
He intended to inform his detail that he couldn’t sleep and order them to take him to his parents’ house. But he was stunned to see so many additional agents.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Who are all these people?”
The supervisor apologized for the surprise. He said the detail had been beefed up on direct orders from the president. Normally he would have informed Oleg immediately, but given all the stresses on him, he had thought it best to let him get his sleep.
As furious as he was terrified, Oleg stormed back into his bedroom and slammed the door, only to realize that he’d been so stunned by the presence of so many additional FSB agents that he hadn’t said anything about going to Rublyovka. He picked up the phone by his bed and called the supervisor. Next he changed into blue jeans and a fisherman knit sweater and threw a change of clothes and a freshly pressed business suit and some toiletries in an overnight bag. Then he grabbed the satellite phone and took it into the bathroom.
Marcus felt the satphone buzzing in his pocket.
“What?” he whispered.
“We have a problem,” Oleg said.
“Tell me.”
“The president boosted my detail to a dozen agents.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea.”
“Has something happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has there been a threat made against you? Or do you think he suspects something?”
“I told you, I don’t know,” Oleg replied. “I just wanted you to be prepared.”
With that, he hung up the phone.
Marcus closed his eyes. The calculus had changed. Now he knew he had to tell Morris whose house they were at and how high the stakes really were. How else was he going to explain all the extra company they were about to receive and all the firepower they were bringing with them? He just prayed she wouldn’t call the whole mission off.
“Razor to Keyhole,” he said. “I have new information for you.”
McDermott huddled with Clarke in the Oval.
“Two things, Mr. President,” he said as he stood beside the Resolute desk.
“Make it quick.”
“Yes, sir. First, we’re reaching out to the Kremlin to set up a hotline call for you and President Luganov. But we have to be realistic. It’s the middle of the night in Moscow. I’d recommend we place the call at, say, 8 a.m. their time. That would be 1 a.m. here, if that’s all right.”
“That’s fine; just make sure it happens.”
“Absolutely, sir. The second thing is about the extraction of the Raven.”
“What about it?”
“Well, sir, if our people can actually get him safely out of Russia, we need to make a decision about where to bring him.”
“Here to the States, of course. Why?”
“We’re talking about a very senior Russian official essentially defecting at a very delicate moment in U.S.–Russia relations,” McDermott noted.
“And you don’t think it’s wise to bring him to the States?”
“It may be prudent not even to acknowledge that we have him, sir.”
“Where else would you take him?”
“We’re thinking Egypt, sir. We’ve set up a special facility outside Alexandria. Top secret. Completely off the radar. But safe.”
“And deniable.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does Director Stephens say?”
“He agrees.”
“Then Egypt it is.”
“Keyhole to Razor—they’re coming,” Morris said.
It was pouring again, a bitter, biting rain that was soon going to shift into snow. It was early, but it wasn’t completely unheard of for the Moscow metropolitan area to get its first snow in early fall. Morris was shivering from waiting out in the elements for an hour and a half. But there was no point griping about it or even thinking about it. Through her high-powered night vision binoculars, she could see two black SUVs coming down the highway. They were less than two miles out.
Setting down the binoculars, Morris picked up the weapon at her side, attached its silencer, and peered through the night vision scope. Moments later, the entourage entered the gated community and pulled up in front of the estate. It was 4:01. The Raven, who she now knew was none other than Oleg Kraskin, and his newly enlarged security team were right on time.
Morris glanced at the Mercedes positioned about thirty yards to her right. She’d camouflaged it with branches and foliage. Now she worried the rains and wind might wash away enough of it to make the SUV visible if Kraskin’s security detail did a thorough search of the woods. She felt in the darkness for her pistol and clicked off the safety. She took a long look to her right and to her left, then behind her. She didn’t want anyone to catch her off guard. Satisfied she had the woods to herself—at least for the moment—she fought to slow and steady her breathing. She’d done two tours in Iraq with Army intelligence. She’d helped hunt down dozens of high-value targets before being recruited by the Agency and sent to language school to add Russian to her Arabic and Farsi. She’d done all sorts of crazy things for her government. But she’d never lain on her stomach in a Russian forest in the freezing rain, aiming a loaded weapon at a team of highly trained Russian FSB officers and Spetsnaz commandos.