The 14th Colony: A Novel (25 page)

“Stay down,” Hedlund yelled.

She glanced back and saw Hedlund gripping the weapon with both hands, steadying his aim, his attention full ahead.

“Get back, you idiot,” she said to him. “Now.”

Petrova reappeared and fired twice, both bullets thudding into Hedlund, the man crying out in pain, then collapsing to the floor.

*   *   *

Luke heard the shots and moved, sliding down the slick curved railing that protected the stairway’s outer edge, slipping off as he approached the bottom.

He saw Hedlund drop to the floor.

He swung left, leveled his gun, and sent two rounds in Petrova’s direction, but the wiry woman had already retreated into the library. He kept his gun aimed and sought cover where the hall spilled into the foyer. Hedlund groaned on the floor. He needed to see about him, but his attention was drawn to Stephanie, who lay on her back across the hall.

Was she hit, too?

He heard doors open and felt a rush of cold air.

Stephanie came to her feet. “She’s gone outside through the library. Go get her.”

He looked again at Hedlund.

“I’ll deal with him,” she said, “Stop that bitch.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Z
orin hunched down against the mid-
A
tlantic cold.
T
hough
he’d lived and worked in freezing temperatures all his life, he still hated it. Westerners thought that some sort of immunity against the cold developed over time, but that was the farthest thing from the truth. He’d been waiting nearly half an hour in the dark, and his patience was finally rewarded as a vehicle appeared down the street. The Ford eased to the curb and he climbed into the warm cabin. The driver was, like Zorin, in his mid-thirties, a three-day growth of beard dusting a fleshy neck and chin, a Chicago Bears cap on his head. The car sped away in a shower of snow and ice from its spinning tires.

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at a nondescript bar on Baltimore’s north side, a neon sign showing a naked dancer, beneath which read
NO COVER
. He’d lived in the West long enough to know that a decadent fleshpot awaited inside. The driver had chosen the spot, which was understandable given this was the other man’s turf.

So he’d not objected.

The man now lived and worked here in Baltimore and went by the moniker Joe Perko. Zorin also had assumed an alias, one of several he possessed, using the false identity to easily gain entrance into the United States. For all its talk about a Cold War, America’s borders stood more like porous screens than solid walls. Both men spoke perfect English, all courtesy of a KGB training school that they attended.

They hustled inside.

Everything was shrouded in shadows except the lit bar and illuminated stage, where a ridiculously thin blonde with large breasts danced and stripped. He’d never cared for skinny women or lean steaks, preferring in both much more fat on the bone. He also liked women born with blond hair, as opposed to those who created an illusion from a bottle. Music played, but the woman’s actions were not in tune with the melody. In fact, she appeared agitated and bored.

Topless waitresses served the tables that ringed the stage.

“I like it here,” Perko said. “They all watch the women and no one pays you any attention.”

He saw the wisdom in that observation.

They grabbed a table near the stage and ordered a drink from one of the servers.

“I’m done,” Perko quietly said. “My part is finished.”

He knew what that meant. Another portion of Andropov’s plan, Backward Pawn, Perko’s responsibility, had been completed.

“It took five years, but I did it,” Perko said. “Hard to believe it’s been that long since we sat around that table with Andropov. So much has changed.”

How true. It was 1988. Andropov had died years ago and Gorbachev now ruled the USSR. Perestroika and glasnost dominated. Restructuring and openness had become national goals. The old ways were fading by the day.

“My orders, from inside the envelope I was given, were to report to you,” Perko said. “Once the mission was done. So that’s what I’m doing.”

He’d already heard from the man who’d completed another quarter of the mission, Absolute Pin, nearly two years ago. Like tonight, he’d met that officer, only in New York City, learning for the first time more than he was supposed to know.

The waitress brought their orders and he downed a long swallow of vodka. He was not much of a drinker, good at feigning otherwise. Perko seemed to enjoy his, tossing it back in one gulp.

“Żubrówka. Not anything like home,” Perko whispered as he tabled the glass.

He agreed. Polish vodka seemed a poor substitute.

“Have you completed your portion?” Perko asked.

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

Which was true.

After Andropov had left the safe house that night, they’d eaten their dinner, the envelopes with their respective orders remaining beneath their plates. The meal consumed, all four had left, each surely waiting until he was safely away before reading the contents. For the general secretary himself to have personally chosen them carried enormous weight, and by and large they all had adhered to secrecy. None, to his knowledge, communicating with the others. Only to him, once they were through. Per the orders in their envelopes.

“I finally got them in,” Perko said. “They’re all here.”

The blond twig on the stage had finished undressing, now offering the customers some naked bumps and grinds. A few of the patrons seemed to appreciate her newfound enthusiasm and rewarded her with money tossed to the stage.

He sipped more vodka.

“They came through Mexico, by way of Cuba,” Perko said. “I had to be sure there’d be no detection. We had a man drive them across the border. I took possession in Texas and brought them north myself.”

He was learning far more than he should, but he’d grown ever more curious about the whole operation, so he asked, “Everything in one piece?”

Perko nodded. “They’re all in their cases, powered up. Each running exactly to specs.”

“No problems?”

“Nothing. But they’re scary things,” Perko’s voice was barely a whisper over the music. “Amazing that something so small packs a nuclear punch.”

That it was.

His spetsnaz unit had been trained on the field deployment of RA-115s. He was aware of weapons caches in Europe and the Far East that included them, but this was the first time he’d learned specifically of one in the United States. Apparently, Andropov had indeed envisioned a grand scheme.

“I turned them over to Fool’s Mate, as my orders required,” Perko said. “Do you have any idea what he’s to do with them?”

He shook his head. “That is beyond both you and me.”

Perko finished his drink and motioned to one of the servers for another. “I’ve been recalled. I leave in two days.”

Which he already knew.

But he still said, “Then let us celebrate your return home.”

And they had.

For several hours, while the music played and more dancers slinked on the stage. One of those women he remembered. Tiny and dark, with Asian eyes, a broad nose, and raven-black hair. Perko had liked her, too, and had wanted to get to know her better, but he’d discouraged that and eventually led the drunk officer from the bar back to the car. He’d drunk little and still possessed all his senses. Once at the car, determining that no one was around, he’d clamped his left hand over Perko’s mouth, then bent his head to one side, then the other, wrenching the neck. Flesh gave way. Bone clicked. Death came instantaneously. Another talent taught him by the KGB.

Two-thirds of his mission had been accomplished.

His orders were simple. At completion and reporting in, eliminate the other three officers.

Quiet Move.

Two were now dead.

And since neither man would be around to get him into trouble, he’d not discouraged them from talking. From Absolute Pin he’d learned of the creation of five RA-115s, specially crafted for long life and maximum output. From Perko and Backward Pawn he now knew that those RA-115s had been smuggled into America. Only Fool’s Mate remained a mystery. But he could guess its portion. Preservation and concealment.

And the officer assigned that part?

That name he learned from Vadim Belchenko.

A man trained, like himself, in the ways of the West, embedded in the United States, who ultimately assumed the name Jamie Kelly, now living in Canada.

Sitting in the quiet of the Gulfstream’s dimly lit interior, he thought again of the two men he’d killed, both of whom had done nothing less than their jobs, faithfully serving the motherland. It was human nature to want to talk about what they’d done, especially with someone they believed to be part of their mission. But Andropov had anticipated loose lips, which was why Quiet Move had been a part of the plan.

So he’d done his job, too.

But the two murders had always weighed on him.

The least he owed them?

That their deaths would mean something.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Luke bolted out of the French doors and spotted Anya Petrova as she disappeared over a chest-high hedge. He ran after her, leaping the bushes like a hurdler in an Olympic heat. He rounded the side of Hedlund’s house and, once into the front yard, saw Petrova racing toward the same car that still bore the scars from their encounter in Virginia.

“You’re not going to get away,” he called out to her.

Her head turned and their eyes met. He thought about taking a shot, but she was a hundred yards away, now leaping into the driver’s seat, revving the engine.

And he heard Stephanie’s final command.

“Bring her back alive.”

So he opted to veer toward the Escape that had brought him and Stephanie east from DC. He leaped inside and fired up the engine, backing from the drive and speeding in the direction Petrova had gone. The residential neighborhood came with wide streets, the kind built long ago when curbside parking was still allowed. A few cars had taken advantage of the opportunity and he wove his way around them while adding speed. Ahead, he spotted Petrova ignoring a stop sign and hanging a sharp right. He followed her, the Escape’s tires sliding across the cold pavement. He told himself to be careful. It would not be hard to flip over.

He’d tossed his gun on the passenger seat within easy reach.

If he could catch her, he’d stop her.

She barreled her way through another interchange that, luckily, had attracted few cars. He saw a busy boulevard. She slowed an instant at her approach then roared into the traffic, shooting out of her lane and crossing the double line into opposing traffic. Horns blared and he heard the screech of rubber on asphalt as cars veered out of her way. She wove in and out in neatly executed maneuvers that kept her moving forward. He’d have to maintain pace or lose her, but he didn’t want to place anyone at unnecessary risk. So he approached the intersection with caution, assessed the situation, then sped past the congealed traffic, using the far-left shoulder to maximum advantage.

Petrova drove hard, but didn’t seem accustomed to speed in such tight confines, making small mistakes, using more brake than accelerator, misjudging corners, overcorrecting the rear-end drift. His Escape shuddered as if riding on cobblestones, not built for this kind of intense driving.

But he was.

At a patch of open road he floored the accelerator. The route here was now four-laned and medianed from oncoming traffic. He caught a glimpse as she broke out of the stream half a mile ahead.

Then trouble appeared.

Flashing blue lights, moving into position behind Petrova.

A Maryland state trooper had found her.

In his rearview mirror he saw that he had an escort of his own, tight on his rear bumper, lights flashing, siren blaring.

He retrieved his Defense Intelligence Agency badge from a pocket. With one hand tight on the wheel he punched the button for the driver’s-side window to descend and stuck the badge out so the idiot behind him could see. The trooper veered into the left lane and sped up parallel, the passenger window down in the patrol car.

Luke pointed ahead and yelled, “Stop her.”

The trooper nodded and gained more speed, closing on his colleague following Petrova. They, of course, had the advantage of a radio, so he was hoping some local help might, for once, prove productive.

Both hands returned to the wheel and he kept pace with the troopers. Cars obliged them by moving left and right onto the shoulders, creating a wide path. They were headed east, out of town. A bevy of buildings surrounding him on both sides of the road looked governmental. He knew that the Naval Academy was somewhere ahead, adjacent to the Chesapeake Bay.

They continued on for a good two miles, then the troopers ahead came parallel to each other, a car in each lane, and slowed. That gave Petrova room as she raced onward. He knew what they were doing. Like beaters driving an animal toward guns. A rolling roadblock, a way to contain the traffic behind them.

He realized what that meant.

He whipped the steering wheel to the right, surging the Escape onto the narrow paved shoulder, where he had enough room to scoot past the troopers. He yanked the wheel hard left and ducked back onto the roadway. Nothing now stood between him and Petrova, the troopers slowing their speed and blocking anything approaching from the rear. Traffic was still four-laned and split by a concrete median. The buildings had ended, the road a straightaway, slightly downhill, leading to a long uphill expanse and a massive bridge.