Private Moscow (Private 15)

“And you found my name on this device?”

I hesitated, imagining how this conversation had played out with West. “No, sir,” I replied at last.

“Then you don’t know I’m the target,” Dussler countered.

“You fit the profile, sir,” I said.

“Thomas, for the last time, we need to revise some of your engagements.” Carrie Underwood’s concern was palpable. Another person taking the threat very seriously.

Dussler smiled like a parent indulging a child. He had the superior air of someone who didn’t think the world’s mundane concerns should trouble him. “And should we jump every time a ghost goes bump in the night?”

“If that ghost is leaving a trail of bodies,” I replied.

“What was on this device?” Dussler asked.

“Coordinates,” I said. “The coordinates for this embassy.”

Dussler sat back and his indulgent smiled widened.

“Hundreds of people work here. Even if this information is reliable, the target could be any one of them.”

“Mr. Parker, Miss Connor, these were powerful, well-protected people. They were hard targets, just like you, sir,” I protested.

Dussler wavered and the confident smile fell for a moment before returning with a fresh shine. “I don’t have the lu

xury of being a private citizen,” he said. “I have duties, Mr. Morgan. America is counting on me. I’m sorry, I can’t change my schedule because you found the embassy’s address on a bad guy’s Nintendo.” He grinned at his own joke. “Besides, I have my Secret Service detail and Master Gunnery Sergeant West to keep me safe.”

“Sir,” West began, “there’s only so much—”

Dussler interrupted him. “Only so much you can do to protect me. Don’t worry, Master Gunnery Sergeant, I won’t hold you responsible.”

West shook his head with resignation.

“Listen, Mr. Morgan,” Dussler said as he stood. “You share what you’ve got with my chief of staff, Ernie Fisher, and if he recommends changes, I’ll listen.”

“OK,” I said, exchanging a look of defeat with West and Underwood. Dussler was giving us the brush-off.

“Where is Ernie?” the ambassador asked. “He should be in on this.”

Dussler crossed the room and opened his office door.

“Where’s Mr. Fisher?” he asked the nearest of his three assistants.

“He said he had to go home, sir,” the assistant replied. “Mr. Fisher said he’d forgotten something important.”

“When was this?” I asked, my hackles rising.

“About an hour ago,” the assistant replied. “He should have been back by now.”

I turned to West. “Where does Fisher live?”

“About ten minutes away,” he replied. “Near Russian Federation House.”

“What’s going on?” Dussler asked.

“Conspirators fearing exposure often run,” I told him.

“Are you serious? Ernie Fisher a conspirator?”