The 14th Colony (Cotton Malone 11)

Stephanie had never been fired before. There’d been many threats throughout her government career from both attorneys general and presidents, but none had ever manifested itself into an actual dismissal.

Until today.

Bruce Litchfield had obviously received the blessing of the incoming administration to do as he pleased. No way he would have been so bold without that okay. She could hear the new AG designate as he dismissed Danny Daniels as a man who, in only a matter of hours, would no longer matter. That was a big mistake. She’d learned that Danny would always matter, regardless of his political status. He believed in what he did and stood behind those beliefs—and politics be damned. He was a man she respected and admired and the new administration could take lessons from him.

She filled a doorway about a hundred feet from Luke Daniels’ apartment building, the wind whooshing by in chilly gusts. The four-story, redbrick building stood surrounded by a brown landscaped lawn and tall trees bare to winter. It sat off a busy boulevard in northwest DC, and no one had paid a visit during the past fifteen minutes. Except one car. A black Cadillac sedan. From which Nikolai Osin and two other men had emerged.

Luke had just called and she’d told him that he was to cut Anya Petrova loose and let Osin take her. She knew that Osin would play his part to perfection, which was why she’d made a call to him just after leaving Anderson House, explaining exactly what she had in mind. Her cagey colleague had complimented her on the plan and said he would head directly for the apartment and lay claim to their problem.

Anya appeared in the front door of the building, flanked on either side by two men in dark overcoats. Osin followed them into the early-afternoon sun. She watched as the entourage headed for the Cadillac, then drove away, disappearing down the short drive, past a tall hedge. She imagined Anya Petrova to be, at best, confused.

Luke stepped from the building.

She fled her shady hiding place and found the sun.

Luke walked across the front parking lot with the bouncy gait of an athlete and said to her, “You just let that happen?”

“I made it happen.”

“Care to explain? ’Cause it took a lot to corral that woman.”

“Fritz Strobl told me something interesting. Brad Charon was once the society’s Keeper of Secrets.”

She recounted what she’d learned.

“We created the post long ago,” Strobl said. “It was formally abolished in the mid-20th century, or at least that’s what I thought. About ten years ago I discovered the position still existed as part of the historian’s duties.”

“What does this have to do with the woman we have?”

“She knew Mr. Charon had held the Keeper position. Only a handful of individuals, high in the society’s leadership, would know that. Even I didn’t. Yet she did.”

Which raised a whole new set of questions, the most critical of which was, “Why is any of this important?”

“She wanted to know the current historian, and threatened to kill me if I did not tell her.”

“Strobl told her the man’s name and where to find him,” she told Luke. “He lives in Maryland, outside Annapolis.”

“And did dear ol’ Fritz mention why Petrova was so damn interested in the society’s long-lost secrets?”

“He told me he honestly doesn’t know. And I believe him.”

He pointed a finger at her. “I smell it. You have a plan, don’t you?”

“I do, but I have to warn you first. An hour ago, the acting AG fired me. I no longer have a job, so whatever we do from this point on is without sanction.”

Luke smiled. “Just the way I like it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Zorin decided on some rest before he began the serious task of planning what would happen once he made it to Canada. Fatigue melted through his bones, seeping into muscles. He wasn’t a young man anymore. Luckily, he had several hours of quiet time to rejuvenate.

Strangely, he’d been thinking of his mother. Odd considering she’d been dead such a long time. She’d worked her whole life as a farmer, and he could still see her kneeling in the rich black soil, the sun hot on her back, working the rows of cucumbers, tomatoes, and potatoes that sometimes swayed and rippled in the wind like waves of water. Models of tidiness and efficiency, was how Moscow described them. His mother simply called them her own. He’d loved the fields, the air there never thick with soot, coal, chemicals, or exhaust. Perhaps that was another reason he’d fled east to Siberia, where the same smell of cleanliness could still be found.

His mother had been a kind, gentle, naïve woman who never considered herself a Soviet. She was Russian. But she was smart enough never to be a troublemaker or instigator, keeping opinions to herself and living a long life, dying simply of old age. As a boy he’d gone with her to church because he’d liked the singing. He’d realized then that he was an atheist, a fact his mother never knew. Which was good, since God had occupied a large part of her life. Persistent, careful, hardworking, and loyal, that had been his mother.

And her humming.

That he’d enjoyed.

One of her tunes had stayed in his mind. A song from her childhood, the words of which she’d taught her sons.

A hare went out for a walk.

Suddenly a hunter appeared

And shot the hare.

Bang, bang, oh, oh, oh,

My hare is going to die.

He was brought home

And he turned out to be alive.

He’d loved that rhyme, and like the hare he, too, had gone out for a walk, one that had lasted for more than twenty-five years. He’d been figuratively shot and left for dead. But like the hare, he, too, was coming back alive.

He’d often wondered how he ended up such a violent man. Certainly not because of his mother. And his father, though once a soldier, ultimately proved weak and dependent, lacking in courage.

Yet violence was no stranger.

He’d killed and harbored no remorse. He’d ordered the death of the American back at the dacha without a moment’s hesitation. If he ever possessed a conscience, all semblances of it were gone.

Like his brothers.

Who married, had children, and died young.

And his own wife and son.

Dead, too.

Nothing remained for him save for Anya. But there was no love between them. More companionship that they both seemed to need. How was she doing in America? Perhaps he would find out soon.

He’d eaten one of the meals the charter company provided, pleased the food had been filling. The jet was surely now way beyond Russian airspace, headed on a westerly route over the Central Asian Federation, then on toward Europe and the open Atlantic. He was pleased to be at work again, his mind focused on the invisible front and the main adversary. He’d been a good warrior, fighting for the motherland, protecting the Soviet Union. Never had he breached his oath. Never had he placed himself before his country. Never had he made stupid mistakes.

Unlike his superiors.

Who refused to see what lay clearly before them.

He recalled his first encounter with the truth.

A winter’s day in January 1989.

“Comrade Zorin, this is the man I told you about.”

He studied the stranger, who oddly tried to disguise his height with a slight stoop. The thick line of a black mustache colored the space beneath a bulbous fiery-hued nose. Usually he didn’t meet face-to-face with recruited sources. That was his subordinates’ job. His was to evaluate and report what they gathered to Moscow. But what this source had said intrigued him to the point that he had to judge the credibility of the information for himself.

“My name is—”

He raised a hand to halt the introduction and caught a slight tightening of worry around the other man’s lips. “Names are not important. Only what you are about to say matters.”

His operative had tagged the man “Aladdin,” a nondescript way to distinguish him from

the countless other sources they’d cultivated across Canada and the United States. Aladdin worked for a defense subcontractor headquartered in California. He’d traveled north to Quebec City, supposedly on holiday to enjoy the winter carnival, but the real purpose had been this meeting.

They sat within a suite inside the Frontenac hotel, high above an ice-clogged St. Lawrence River. Aladdin had booked and paid for the room himself. Zorin’s people had spent two days assuring themselves that the man had come alone, and the room had just been electronically swept for any listening devices. Zorin was taking a chance on this gathering, but he’d decided the risk was worth it.

“I am told,” he said, “that you have information regarding the Strategic Defense Initiative.”

“Which I’ve passed on, and you’ve paid me.”