The 14th Colony (Cotton Malone 11)

“He firmly believed that the pope was dangerous, and largely because of John Paul’s charm, especially toward journalists. I remember reading a memo where Andropov went on and on about how the pope went for cheap gestures with a crowd, like wearing a Highlander’s hat in England, or shaking hands with people, kissing children, as if he were running for office. Andropov seemed terrified of what the pope might do.”

And rightly so, since John Paul orchestrated his actions with the direction of an American stage manager. Interestingly, though, never once had either Reagan or the pope warned her about Andropov.

“The KGB went through the Bulgarians to have John Paul shot,” the voice said. “That much we know. And they chose their assassin with care. Ali Agca supplied them with perfect plausible deniability. He was weak and stupid and knew nothing about nothing. All he could do was babble nonsense, and that’s what he did. I remember when the pope went to the prison and forgave Agca. What a brilliant move.”

One that she’d helped arrange.

John Paul made the decision, and Reagan approved.

So in 1983, two years after the assassination attempt, the pope met privately with Agca who, filled with emotion, cried and kissed the pope’s ring. Photographs and accounts of what happened consumed the press, which splashed the story around the world, along with those possible assassination links back to Moscow. The whole thing had been bold and assertive. A pitch-perfect example of how to make lemonade out of lemons.

Or at least that’s how Reagan had described it to her.

“When Andropov assumed the general secretary’s post,” the voice said, “there was talk of trouble. He knew what we’d been doing in the Eastern Bloc. Funneling money to dissidents, providing logistical support, offering secret intelligence on their governments, even taking care of a problem or two.”

She knew what that meant.

People had died.

“Then Andropov gets sick and he knows it’s over for him. The doctors gave him eight months. That’s when we got scared. He had nothing to lose, and there were people in the Kremlin that would follow him right off the cliff. When Kris called earlier and asked me about Fool’s Mate, I immediately remembered it. We all thought it was going to be the old Russian’s last move.”

She wondered who the aged voice belonged to, but knew better than to ask. If Kris had wanted her to know she’d have told her. Most likely he’d been CIA. High up. And she knew the score. Neither successes nor failures ever were aired in public. The agency was deliberately compartmentalized, its past laced with so many secrets that no one could ever know it all. And the big ones that really mattered? They were never written down. But that didn’t mean they were unknown.

“Andropov hated Reagan. We all thought the KGB was going to make a move on him. He’d tried to kill the pope, so why not a president. The writing was definitely on the wall by late 1983. The Soviet Union faced serious economic trouble. They also had a leadership problem. The whole country was in flux. The Kremlin became fascinated by American presidential succession. Kris mentioned that you read a communiqué we seized. There were several like that. The zero amendment. That’s what they called the 20th.”

“Do you know why?”

“Because, if an attack was done right, no one would be left in charge.”

“How’s that possible?”

“I’m no scholar on the issue, but I remember being told that if you can wipe out the president-elect and vice-president-elect, the Speaker of the House, and the president pro-tempore of the Senate in one swoop, before the new president and VP are sworn in, you’re left with cabinet members who take power through a congressional act. That law is riddled with problems. It’s unclear whether cabinet officers could even constitutionally serve. There’d be so much infighting that no one would be in charge. Infighting, by the way, that the KGB would stoke. Those guys were masters at active measures like that. They manipulated our press a thousand times, and they would have done so there, too.”

“And the purpose of all that?” she asked

“That’s the moment the USSR would strike. When no one is sure who can give the military orders. You’d have total confusion. The tanks would roll across Europe. We’d be busy fighting among ourselves about who’s in charge. Some would say this guy, others this guy. Nobody would know for sure.”

The tactic made sense.

“We picked up intel that they were working on some active measures that involved the 1947 Presidential Succession Act. Of course, to make that work, they’d have to strike at an inauguration. Some of us believed that’s what Andropov had up his sleeve for Reagan’s second in 1985. But thankfully, the old man’s kidneys failed in early ’84. And everything was forgotten since the people who took over after that were not interested in World War III. All that loyalty to Andropov vanished.”

She stared across the table at Kris Cox, who was watching her with eyes the color of glacier water. Everything about her friend’s countenance signaled that she was being told the truth by someone who knew.

“How many people are aware of this?” she asked the voice.

“Not all that many. It was one of those things that never happened, so it just went by the wayside. There was a lot like that back then. The KGB, if nothing else, stayed focused. Every day there was something new. It’s important now only because you seem to have a problem. I remember Aleksandr Zorin. He was a competent KGB officer. Our people respected him. It’s amazing he’s even still alive.”

She decided to learn all that she could and asked, “What about RA-115s?”

“Haven’t heard that term in a while, except on TV or in the movies. They existed, of that I’m sure. Others disagreed, though. The problem was that not one of them was ever found anywhere in the world. And you would think at least one would surface. Some thought it was part of a KGB misinformation campaign. Like I said, they were good at that. A way to get us to chase shadows.”

“The SVR says now that they did exist, and that five are still unaccounted for.”

“Then you should listen to them. That’s quite an admission.”

One she was sure Nikolai Osin never should have made, considering the increasing division within his chain of command. The last thing Russian hard-liners would want would be for the United States to know anything about any possible suitcase nukes.

“Could they be here?” she asked. “In the United States.”

“Absolutely. The KGB was the largest, most expansive intelligence agency the world has ever seen. Billions upon billions of rubles were spent preparing for war with us. Those guys did anything and everything. Nothing was out of bounds. And I mean nothing. We know for a fact that arms caches were placed all over Europe and Asia. Why would we be exempt?”

He was right.

“It seems Zorin may be trying to implement Fool’s Mate,” she said. “Apparently he was privy to what Andropov planned.”

“Four KGB officers were assigned to the operation. We never learned their names. So he could have been one of those.”

“But it’s been so long,” Kris said. “Why now?”

She knew the answer. “He’s bitter about everything that happened with the end of the Soviet Union. He was an ideologue, one who truly believed. Osin told me that he blames us for everything bad in his life and he’s been stewing on that a long time.”

“Which makes him especially dangerous,” the voice said through the phone. “My guess is that he wants to use the 20th Amendment to generate the same political chaos here that we did over there. But he needs a workable RA-115 to make that happen. You’d have to take a lot of people out at once.”

A problem, for sure, but one Zorin seemed intent on solving.

“We’ll have a new president in a little over twenty-four hours,” the voice said.

And she knew what that meant.

The next opportunity to apply Fool’s Mate.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Luke opened his eyes.

He was sit

ting up, bound to a wooden chair with tape, nearly identical to how he’d restrained Anya Petrova. His arms and legs were strapped tight, preventing him from moving in any direction. His neck was free, his mouth unobstructed. But his head hurt from a nasty pop and everything was still out of focus. He blinked to correct the problem and eventually saw that he was in the kitchen of Begyn’s house.

A woman stood on the other side of the room.

Short, trim, not an ounce of fat on her. She wore a tight-fitting jogging suit that revealed highly toned muscles. He wondered how many hours of push-ups, chin-ups, and bench pressing had gone into that sculpting. He envied her dedication. It took all he had to work out. A pair of enameled, dark-hazel eyes appraised him with a look that was all alert. Her auburn hair was cut short, close to the ears, in what he thought was a military style, and that conclusion was further reinforced by her demeanor. She was attractive, the face bearing no malice, but neither did the features convey much compassion. Instead, she stared at him like an elephant. Calm, solitary, watchful, but encased inside a dangerous stillness. She held a seven-inch, stainless-steel blade, not unlike one he once carried as a Ranger.

“You military?” he asked.

“Riverine.”

He knew the unit. Part of the navy, focusing on close combat and military operations within rivers. Riverine forces in Vietnam were the most highly decorated with the largest casualties. Women had been part of them for several years now.

“Active duty?”

She nodded. “On leave, at the moment.”

He watched as she continued to twirl the blade, its tip gently resting against her left index finger, the right hand slowly rotating the black handle.

“Who are you?” she asked.

His wits and composure were returning. “I’m sure you already know that.”

She stepped across the black-and-white-checkerboard floor, coming close and pressing the flat side of the blade to his throat. “You know it’s not true that women don’t have an Adam’s apple. Actually, we do. It’s just that the male version shows more than ours. Which is good, since I can clearly see where to split it.”

Goose bumps prickled his skin. Which, to say the least, was not normal for him. She had the cool of a priest with the eyes of a jaguar, which made for an unnerving combination. He did not like the helpless feeling that surged through him. This woman could slit his throat and there was nothing he could do to stop her. In fact, one wrong move—a hiccup, a sneeze—and he’d carve a dark smile in his throat for her.

“I’m going to ask this one last time,” she said. “You saw the other two in there. You understand what I’m capable of.”

“I got it, darlin’.”

“Who. Do. You. Work. For?”

His cool was returning as he sensed that this woman did not intend to hurt him. In fact, she was unsure about him. Which seemed vastly different from the two bodies he’d already seen. Those she’d harbored no doubt about. But the blade was still biting against his skin at a vulnerable spot. One twist and—

“Defense Intelligence Agency. On assignment to the White House. But you already know that, don’t you? You got my badge.”

He was guessing, but she withdrew the blade and reached into her back pocket, fishing out the leather case and tossing it in his lap.

“What does the White House want here?”

“Your turn. Who are you?”

“You should know that I have the patience of a two-year-old and a temperament not much better.”

“That’s okay. Most people just call me an arrogant ass.”

“Are you?”