Page 12 of The Atlas Maneuver

The police continued to canvass the area, talking to people, trying to figure out what had happened. Surely there were cameras somewhere on this street. The damn things were everywhere. That footage would be studied and he could well be identified from those images. Since he was here at the request of the CIA, hopefully, any further action from the locals would be quashed by Koger. That’s what European station chiefs did, right?

He made it to the bakery and entered.

Nice place. Sparkling glass cases displayed chocolate croissants, apple turnovers, cakes, pastries, and quiche. About ten people were inside, most of them focused on what was happening out on the street. He spotted Kelly Austin in the far corner, her back to the others, facing the wall, the shopping bag she’d been toting resting on the floor beside her. Koger had said she was shaken up, so he needed to go easy. He stepped over, but stopped short of coming too close, which might frighten her.

“Ms. Austin,” he said.

She whirled and faced him and he caught the fear in her eyes.

“Derrick Koger sent me. I was the one shooting at the car out there. I’m glad you’re okay. My name is—”

“Harold Earl ‘Cotton’ Malone,” she said.

He was surprised. “Koger told you my full name?”

She shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”

The eyes had calmed and something else entered them.

Curiosity. Then amusement.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Have we met?”

“It’s me, Cotton. Susan Baldwin.”

CHAPTER 8

KYRA POWERED ACROSSLAKEBAIKAL, THE COOLNESS OF THE EVENINGair biting at her thoughts. She was satisfied with Samvel Yerevan’s demise.

Another good kill.

Which was the only way she liked them.

She never considered herself a murderer. More a problem solver. Keeper of the peace. Delivering exactly what the client wanted. She’d worked for the Bank of St. George before on other acquisitions. Apparently, death had worked its way into their business plan. Understandable since, if done right, murder could eliminate a multitude of issues quick and easy. The bank came with the added benefit of paying exceptionally well. The only qualification? It expected nothing less than total perfection.

Fine by her.

She expected the same thing from herself.

The collar of her windbreaker was turned up against the chill that rushed across her body, drying the neoprene and her hair out from the dunk in the lake. Darkness was approaching, which meant it would be tomorrow, at the earliest, before Yerevan’s boat and body were discovered. Plenty of time for her to leave the country. The plan was to drive south into Mongolia to its capital,Ulaanbaatar, a trip of about 450 kilometers. From there she’d catch a private flight west.

To where?

That remained to be seen.

Across the lake she spotted Yerevan’s dacha perched high on a forested bluff. Dachas were more than a Russian architectural and cultural phenomenon.

They were a way of life.

Back in the 17th century they started out as small country retreats where a noble could escape palace protocol and engage in simple pleasures like planting a garden or growing a vegetable patch. Today, Russians living in crowded urban apartments all wanted an even smaller dacha out in the countryside where, from May to October, they could enjoy walks, picnics, boating, and bike rides. This one here in central Siberia, a massive, sprawling country estate worth millions of euros, reflected what only a tiny percentage of Russians were able to enjoy.

She slowed to a crawl and brought the boat close to a concrete dock. Engines off, she tied off and hopped out. At the end of the dock, stairs cut into the limestone led up to the house.

She’d been born and raised south of Moscow to parents who lived in a small clapboard farmhouse, which she recalled fondly. They were workers all their lives, never causing any trouble and always focused on each other. Both dead now. The life expectancy of a Russian was nothing like that found in Western countries. A shame, too, as they were good people. And she knew what they would think of her chosen profession. Both had been impeccably honest and deeply religious. Neither would understand why she’d chosen to kill for money. But disappointing them had never factored into her career choices. Survival. Living comfortably. That’s what mattered. Along with being dependent on no one, able to buy her own magnificent dacha if she wanted.

She stopped at the top of the stone stairs.