Page 48

W ASHINGTON , D.C.

B y the time Senator Blackwood had left his office, he had already received multiple messages from Vice President Cates’s chief of staff.

The VP’s remarks had been exceedingly well received by the public and were going viral.

President Mitchell and his team were beyond pissed that Cates had undercut them.

They were planning a presidential address to the nation and now had to figure out how to match the VP’s tone and tenor.

The last thing Mitchell’s team wanted getting out was that the White House wasn’t in full unison.

Via his remarks, Cates had backed them into a corner.

Blackwood loved it. He didn’t feel sorry for Mitchell and his team at all.

In fact, he knew exactly what was going to happen next.

The President was going to try to revert to the fiery nationalist he had been on the campaign trail.

He would trot out his stump speech about how America needed to put Americans first, but there was just one problem.

He wasn’t the outsider running against the establishment anymore.

He was the President of the United States.

He was the establishment. He was the one who had gone soft and wasn’t protecting the people.

And no matter what he said, no matter how soaring his rhetoric, Chuck Coughlin was going to tear him apart.

Anything Mitchell promised, it would be too little, too late.

Americans were dead. Mitchell was to blame.

It was time for him to resign. America wouldn’t be safe until it had a real leader in the Oval Office.

All of which was correct. Mitchell had been a complete and unmitigated disaster.

He’d been so clear-eyed, so tuned in to what the country needed when he’d been running for office.

But the abrupt 180 once he got in, the almost total abandonment of what he had promised his voters he would do, was proof positive that he had been captured by the swamp.

The NATO Summit was a prime example. Mitchell had promised to pull out of the alliance, to stop footing their bills, and to force Europe to stand on their own two feet.

But ultimately that wasn’t what happened at all. He signed on to the Sky Shield initiative, touting the benefits for the defense industrial complex, and pushed the U.S. ever closer to war with Russia.

Initially, Blackwood hadn’t been able to understand the policy shifts, but the more he and Claire spoke, the clearer everything had become.

He had been ready to go after Mitchell hammer and tongs, but she’d been the one to talk him down, to take the long view.

Publicly challenging the President would turn his supporters against Blackwood.

The senator needed to be a loyal soldier.

He needed to stand firmly by Mitchell’s side until it was no longer tenable to do so.

Then, at that moment, he would explain to the President that, for the good of the country, it was time to resign.

Every wrong he suffered, every slight at Mitchell’s hand, was another chip in his political stack. His time was coming. All he had to do was play his cards patiently, wisely.

Claire Bennet was nothing short of brilliant. She was the best thing to have ever happened to him. The more he thought of her, the more he wanted her—and he had been thinking about her all day.

She had promised to top her performance on the terrace last night and he couldn’t wait to see what she had planned.

He had an exquisite bottle of Ruinart Blanc de Blancs on ice, two dozen oysters, and a large tin of Beluga caviar.

As Friday loomed and the crisis was set to explode, he didn’t know what his schedule was going to look like. He wanted every moment he could get with Claire before then.

With the canceling of the NATO cocktail reception tomorrow night, he had thought he could get an extra evening with her, but his donors had called, tasking him with a series of meetings they wanted set up in its stead.

He was going to be occupied very late. Whether he could convince her to come by once he was finally done was yet to be seen. At least they had tonight.

They would watch the presidential address and have a few laughs, all while enjoying some fabulous champagne, caviar, and oysters. Then their real fun would begin.

But no sooner had Blackwood begun thinking again of what Claire might have planned for him than he received a text from her, which read: Got pulled into a meeting. Going to be late. Start without me.

He texted back, asking how late, but she didn’t reply.

Disappointed, he opened the Ruinart, poured himself a glass, and turned on the TV. At least he could hate-watch the President’s address.

The old, rent-controlled apartment was in a neighborhood in Northwest D.C.

called Woodley Park. From Claire’s office near the Treasury Annex, it was a fifteen-minute ride via taxi or twenty-five minutes by public transportation.

When the weather was especially nice and she wanted to get her steps in, the walk was at least an hour.

None of the aforementioned times included the surveillance-detection routes her handler had drilled into her to take.

One of the benefits of the Woodley Park neighborhood was that it was sandwiched between two popular D.C.

attractions—the National Cathedral and the National Zoo.

Weather and time of day notwithstanding, they were both normally packed with tourists and provided excellent opportunities for her to ascertain whether she had a tail.

And if someone was following her, she could easily use the crowds to her advantage and disappear.

Nighttime meetings, like this one, were of a different kind and provided their own challenges, as well as opportunities.

There were darkened alleys and backyards and gangways. There were also motion-activated lights, excitable dogs, and police cruisers that weren’t obvious until they were practically on top of you. She had to be exceedingly careful and always thinking three steps ahead.

Past faded blue and green garbage cans, narrow garages, and cracked concrete parking pads, she made her way along until finally arriving at her destination.

It was an ugly, three-story brick building pockmarked with window air-conditioning units decades old. The key for the service door was taped behind a large dumpster. Removing it, she opened the rear entrance and slipped inside.

There was no reason for Claire Bennet to disguise herself or avert her face. The barely maintained property had no cameras to worry about. Nonetheless, she followed her training and kept her head down, profiting where she could by staying in the shadows.

As the building’s ancient elevator was never in service, she headed for the stairs, which smelled like urine and weeks-old garbage.

The apartment she wanted was on the third floor at the end of the hall. When she reached the top of the stairs, she pulled out her phone, opened her messaging app, and sent a text. Seconds later, she received a response.

Stepping out into the hall, she walked quietly to the apartment and opened the door, which had been unlocked for her.

On a table, just inside, was a small, metallic box. She knew the drill. Closing and locking the door behind her, she removed her phone and placed it inside the box.

Her handler was waiting for her in the living room.

Despite the AC unit grinding away, the apartment smelled as it always did—like stale cigarettes and even staler air. She wondered if it was used for anything other than their meetings.

The blinds were drawn and only one cheap lamp was on. He was sitting in the same chair he always sat in. Looking at the plastic ashtray on the table in front of him, she saw that it was empty. He must have only just arrived.

“Did you bring it?” he asked as he motioned for her to take a seat.

She nodded and removed one of the cufflinks from her French cuff shirt as she sat down across from him. Popping it open, she withdrew the tiny memory card and handed it over.

Holding it up in the semidarkness, he examined it in the way a jeweler might look at a diamond. The difference, however, was that what he held between his thumb and forefinger was more valuable than any precious stone.

Satisfied, he pulled out his keys, secreted the memory card in a specially made door fob, and returned the keys to his pocket.

“You’ve done a good job,” he stated. “We are pleased with your work.”

She was glad to hear that and couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride.

“Thank you,” she replied. “As to the next phase, I think that—”

Raising his hand, her handler cut her off. “There has been a change of plans.”

“A change of plans? I don’t understand.”

“We’re pulling you.”

She was confused. “From Blackwood?”

“From everything,” the man replied.

“Define everything .”

“We’re sending you home.”

“ Home , home?” she asked.

He looked at her. “Isn’t that what you want? To be reunited with your family? To be among your people again?”

“Yes,” she answered, knowing it was the only acceptable response. “Of course. But what about Blackwood?”

“That’s not for you. We will handle the senator.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by “handle” and didn’t dare ask. All she could say was “When?”

“You leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

He nodded. “We have already made your arrangements.”

“If I up and vanish, aren’t you worried that Blackwood will be suspicious?”

“You’re not going to vanish. You’re going to tell him exactly what you’re doing.”

“Which is?”

“That you are headed to Istanbul on business.”

Now she was even more confused. “Turkey? I thought you said you were sending me home?”

“We are. But you’ll go to Istanbul first for your debriefing.”

She didn’t know if she liked the sound of that.

Seeing the concern in her face, the handler stated, “Relax. You are one of the SSD’s first success stories. Without you, Chernaya Liniya would have never have gotten off the ground. The GRU is talking about giving you a medal.”

She brushed that aside. “There is no success story. Operation Black Line isn’t complete yet.”

He stood, indicating that their meeting was over. “It will be,” he replied. “In the meantime, I hear the weather is lovely in Istanbul. We’ve arranged an apartment for you with a beautiful view of the Bosphorus. Pack light. Just for a week. Leave everything else behind in your condo.”

It was all so sudden. So seismic. After all the training and preparation, it was now over. Just like that. She was speechless.

“Vy ponimayete?” he asked.

When she didn’t reply, he repeated himself.

Pulling herself together, she answered. “Yes, I understand.”

“No. I want to hear you say it in Russian.”

“We don’t need to do that now. There’ll be plenty of time for me to speak Russian once I’m back.”

Her handler insisted. “In Russian, please. Now.”

“Fine,” she relented. “Ya panimayu. Okay? Ya panimayu.”

The man smiled and gestured her toward the door. “Enjoy your last evening with Senator Blackwood.”