Page 48 of Enemy of My Enemy

Director Rees’s mouth dropped open, and he mouthed to Irwin, “Holy fucking shit,” as he rifled through his notepads.

Jack spun his own notes closer. The names of all twenty-one operatives were written down, and he’d checked off next to the ones that were safe. “Can you tell me who you picked up?”

Sergey grunted and then started reading the names and countries. “They are all safe in our embassies, and we are arranging transport to Moscow and then to Washington ASAP.” He chuckled, once. “We are not questioning your people, either. And they are being treated very well. Hot showers and food, even.” It was a lame joke, but it was a tired attempt at humor from Sergey, and for the moment, Jack appreciated it.

Exhaling, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Gratitude flooded through him. “Sergey…” He didn’t know what to say. “You saved their lives. And we’re only missing three now. Observers in Congo and Bangladesh.”

Beneath the table, Ethan’s hand found his, lacing together.

“I am sorry we could not do more, Jack. We did not have access to those operatives. Our people on the ground are limited in both of those countries.”

Director Rees scribbled furious notes, making disbelieving gestures to Irwin across the table as the rest of the Situation Room stared, slack-jawed.

“You’ve done more than anyone else.” He swallowed and pressed his lips together. “Thank you, Sergey.”

A pause. “Let us talk, Jack. One on one. When you are not swamped with this.” Sergey sighed, and the exhale crackled over the phone line. “I hope you find your missing men. Truly. Please call if there is anything I can do.”

* * *

Chapter 17

Moscow

The Kremlin

Sergey wanderedthrough the halls of the Kremlin Palace, his hands stuffed in his suit pants, jacket long forgotten, tie left behind at his desk. He’d had Ilya working for hours, trying to find the last three American operatives. They’d even reached out to a few of the rebel groups President Putin had once kept delicate contact with in Congo, but that had been a dead end.

And, a short time ago, the news had broken. All three were dead. Murdered, no doubt. In Congo, the bodies had been put on public display, a warning to all foreigners and spies. Dubious circumstances shouted from the news reports, along with a worldwide blanket condemnation of the United States. Even from her closest allies, as if the United Kingdom didn’t have spies circling the globe as well.

It had been a long, long day, and a tragic one. Still, the events had kept his mind off what he had to do tomorrow, and that had been a relief. Now that the day was done, and night had crept through the Kremlin, Sergey’s thoughts turned once more to his task at hand.

He paced, restless.

Eventually, his feet took him to the far wing and he found himself wandering past the offices his doctor had taken over. He’d learned, through the years, to only trust his personal physician. He wouldn’t be assassinated by a strange doctor’s hand.

What was it Dr. Voronov had said the day before? He’d found a man outside the Kremlin, half-dead and frozen, and had brought him in. Well, Voronov had a soft touch. He’d been a kind man when he was young, and age had only made him kinder. He was completely at odds with Sergey’s world, and that was one of the reasons he kept the old man around.

Voronov had sent an email about the man, and before everything had broken with the American intelligence cables, he’d meant to read it. Voronov had personally asked him to, coming to see him with a fresh cup of coffee and earnest, worried eyes.

Leaning up against the wall, Sergey fished out his cell phone and pulled up the email. A lengthy military record was attached at the end, a career’s worth of overachievement and high honors.

His blood began to boil as he read, and by the time he finished, he nearly threw his cell down the red-carpeted hallway. Instead, he paced, his hands clenching into fists, nearly crushing his phone in his grasp. At the end of the hall, he slouched against a golden column, leaning forward and hanging his head between his shoulders.

Dare he speak out? He was already going to unmake the Russian world tomorrow. Could he demand equality as well?

He was up against so much. His country’s remarriage to orthodoxy after the fall of the Soviet Union. A hatred of anything non-Russian, and a firm belief that gays were sent from elsewhere to poison the soul of Russia. They weren’t Russian. They were invaders.

Bullshit.

He’d served for years with men like Ethan and Jack, and they’d always hid, layer upon layer of lies and subterfuge. He’d always looked the other way, but had also sat silently while other men did not.

What did that make him?

Sergey closed his eyes.

He was a president marked for death anyway.

If he died for speaking out about this, so be it.