The BMW came to a slow halt. Valentin looked out the window, wondering where they were, and he saw the long yellow-and-white walls of Matrosskaya Tishina prison once again.
“This is where you can get out. I know who you used to be, a bright young star of Russian intelligence, but that is no more. You are no longer someone who can say ‘Ida na hui’ to me. You are a local criminal and an international outlaw. I’ll tell my employer that you said ‘Ida na hui,’ and he will leave you to fend for yourself. Or, if you prefer, I will deliver you to the train station; you can go home to your whore wife, and she will turn you in.”
The door to the BMW opened and the driver stood by it.
With the thought of returning to prison, Kovalenko felt a new cold sweat on his neck and back. After several seconds of silence, Valentin shrugged. “You make a compelling argument. Let’s get out of here.”
The man with the square head just stared at him. His face perfectly impassive. Finally he looked out to the driver. “Let’s go.”
The back door closed, the driver’s door opened and shut, and then, for the second time in the past five minutes, Valentin Kovalenko was driven away from the detention facility.
He looked out the window for a moment, trying to get hold of himself so that he could take control of this conversation and positively affect his destiny.
“I will need to leave Russia.”
“Yes. That has been arranged. Your employer is abroad, and you will serve outside of Russia as well. You will see a doctor about your health, and then you will continue your career in the intelligence work, after a fashion, but not in the same location as your employer. You will be recruiting and running agents, executing your benefactor’s directives. You will be remunerated much better than you had been while working for the Russian intelligence service, but you will, essentially, work alone.”
“Are you saying I will not meet my employer?”
The burly man said, “I have worked for him for almost two years, and I have never met him. I do not even know if he is a he.”
Kovalenko raised his eyebrows. “You are not speaking of a national actor. So this is not a foreign state. This is… some sort of illegal enterprise?” He knew that it was; he was only feigning surprise to show his distaste.
His answer came in the form of a short nod.
Valentin’s shoulders slumped a little. He was tired from his sickness and the adrenaline waning in his blood after the murder of the man and his own thoughts of death. After several seconds he said, “I suppose I have no choice but to join your band of merry criminals.”
“It’s not my band, and they are not merry. That is not how this operation is run. We… you, me, others… we get orders via Cryptogram.”
“What is Cryptogram?”
“Secure instant messaging. A system of communication that can’t be read, can’t be hacked, and immediately erases itself.”
“On the computer?”
“Yes.”
Valentin realized he’d have to get a computer. “So you are not my handler?”
The Russian just shook his head. “My job is done. We’re done. I suppose you will never see me again as long as you live.”
“Okay.”
“You will be taken to a house where documents and instructions will be delivered to you by courier. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later. Then my people will get you out of the city. Out of the country.”
Kovalenko looked back out the window, and he saw they were heading into central Moscow.
“I will give a warning, Valentin Olegovich. Your employer — I should say our mutual employer — has people everywhere.”
“Everywhere?”
“If you attempt to flee your duties, to renege on your compact, his people will find you, and they will not hesitate to hold you to account. They know everything, and they see everything.”
“I get it.”
For the first time, the square-headed man chuckled. “No. You do not get it. You cannot possibly get it at this point. But trust me. Cross them in any way at any time, and you will instantly come to know their omniscience. They are like gods.”
It was obvious to the urbane and educated Valentin Kovalenko that he was far worldlier than this criminal scumbag sitting next to him. It was likely this man had no experience working with a well-run outfit before going to work for this foreign employer, but Valentin was hardly stressed about the scope and reach of his new boss. He’d worked in Russian intelligence, and it was, after all, a tier-one spy agency.
“One more warning.”
“I’m listening.”
“This is not an organization from which you will someday resign or retire. You will work at their bidding as long as they want you to.”
“I see.”
The square-headed Russian shrugged. “It was this or die in prison. You’ll be doing yourself a favor by keeping that in your head. Every day of life is a gift given to you. You should enjoy your life, and make the most of it.”
Kovalenko looked out the window, watching predawn Moscow pass by. A motivational speech from a blockheaded mobster.
Valentin sighed.
He was going to miss his old life.
SEVEN
Jack Ryan woke at 5:14 a.m., a minute before his iPhone was set to rouse him. He turned off the alarm before it disturbed the naked girl sleeping tangled in the sheets next to him, and he used the light from the screen to look her over. He did this most mornings, but he never told her.
Melanie Kraft lay on her side, facing him, but her long dark hair covered her face. Her left shoulder, soft yet toned, glowed in the light.
Jack smiled, then reached over after a moment, and stroked her hair out of her eyes.
Her eyes opened. It took her a few seconds to waken and form a sentient thought into a word. “Hi.” Her voice was a whisper.
“Hi,” Jack said.
“Is it Saturday?” she asked, her tone both hopeful and playful, though she was still wiping the cobwebs from her brain.
“Monday,” Jack replied.
She rolled onto her back, exposing her breasts. “Damn. How did that happen?”
Jack kept his eyes on her as he shrugged. “Earth’s revolution. Distance from the sun. Stuff like that. I probably learned it in fourth grade, but I’ve forgotten.”
Melanie started to fall back to sleep.
“I’ll make coffee,” he said, and he rolled off the bed.
She nodded distantly, and the hair that Ryan had lifted off her face fell back over her eyes.
Five minutes later they sipped steaming mugs of coffee together on the sofa in the living room of Jack’s Columbia, Maryland, apartment. Jack wore tracksuit pants and a Georgetown T-shirt. Melanie was in her bathrobe. She kept a lot of clothes and personal items here at Jack’s place. More and more as the weeks went by, and Jack did not mind at all.
After all, she was beautiful, and he was in love.
They had been dating exclusively for a few months now, and already this was the longest exclusive relationship of Jack’s life. He had even taken her to the White House to meet his parents a few weeks back; by design, he and Melanie were ushered into the living quarters away from the press, and Jack had introduced his girlfriend to his mother in the West Sitting Hall just off the President’s Dining Room. The two women sat on the sofa under the beautiful half-moon window and chatted about Alexandria, her job, and their mutual respect for Melanie’s boss, Mary Pat Foley. Ryan spent the time looking at Melanie; he was captivated by her poise and calm. He’d brought girls home to Mom before, of course, but they’d usually just managed to survive the experience. Melanie, on the other hand, seemed to genuinely enjoy spending time with his mother.