Counterplay

24

Special Agent S. P. Jaxon peered over the rock wall with his field binoculars. There was no movement in the mansion on Red Mountain, the aptly named rust-red ridge opposite the town of Aspen. But he knew there were anywhere from a few to a half dozen or more armed terrorists inside the house, as well as the owners-a Saudi prince and his family who were being held hostage. He also hoped that one person in particular had been trapped when agents of the FBI, the Department of Homeland Security, the Aspen Police, and a Pitkin County Sheriff’s Office SWAT team surrounded the property.

The various federal law enforcement leaders had arrived at the Aspen Square Hotel in downtown Aspen singly or in pairs, ostensibly tourists in the Wild West town of movie stars and wealthy tycoons ready to party. With the help of the hotel manager, a former FBI agent who’d retired young to run a high-end ski lodge, they’d assembled in the hotel meeting room where a sign on the door proclaimed that the room was closed to all but The Greater Cleveland Rotary Club members and their spouses. They’d also been joined by Homeland Security agent Vic Hodges, who’d apparently worked his way into the terrorist cell and was reporting to them at considerable risk to his life if one of the bad guys spots him with us, assistant HS director Jon Ellis noted to the others.

“Think he’s in there?” Marlene asked.

Jaxon lowered his binoculars and looked over at Marlene Ciampi, who’d walked up to kneel beside him at the wall. “That’s the information you gave us and Agent Hodges confirmed. Kane’s supposed to be in the main house with the hostages.” He paused to glance back at the mansion. “You ever going to tell me where you got this address? I mean, Aspen was on the list because the Green Opal jewelry store is one of only a dozen in the country that sells Carlos Torres chess sets. But the owner didn’t remember the pieces we showed him.”

Marlene smiled grimly. “I could tell you but-”

“-you’d have to kill me, I know. Isn’t everybody tired of that one yet?” Jaxon said. “Maybe someday when we’re old and gray, you’ll tell me.”

“I’m already gray, but it’s a deal,” she replied and thought, If you only knew.

Immediately after the bombing, Vladimir had insisted that they leave before the police arrived. So Yvgeny and Marlene split up, agreeing to meet back at the Karchovski house as soon as they could work their way there without being noticed. There, they’d argued about the next step, including what to do with the address she’d been given by Vladimir.

The old man had been the one to track down Carlos Torres, who was on vacation aboard a yacht in the Mediterranean, and had his man hand deliver one of the knights sent to Dugan that Marlene had taken with her. She’d figured that the FBI had the others, so when Vladimir had asked to “borrow” one, she’d consented. Funny, she’d thought when she handed it over, I trust an ancient Russian gangster more than I do anybody in the FBI, except Jaxon.

Torres had identified the piece as belonging to set Numero Dieciocho…I know each of these pieces as though they are members of mi familia. This exquisite creature is lost from his family, which I believe resides at the Green Opal jewelry store in Aspen, Colorado.

When Vladimir’s men visited the Green Opal, the owner had again claimed amnesia-until he was taken for a midnight helicopter ride and held upside down out the door over a thousand-foot drop above the Roaring Fork Valley. Then he’d suddenly regained his memory and said that a certain Saudi prince had purchased not one, but two of the Torres sets. The prince had been accompanied by a beautiful young woman whose only imperfection was a large mole on her cheek. She’d warned the store owner to avoid discussing the purchase of the chess sets with anyone, and something about the way she looked at him said it was worth his life to cross her.

Further investigation by Vladimir’s men had noted a great deal of unusual traffic at the prince’s home by an unusually large number of serious, fit, Arabic-looking men, some of whom had been seen carelessly handling automatic rifles when they slipped out at night to smoke cigarettes.

After getting back to the house following the bombing, Yvgeny had led Marlene into the library where he poured them both a shot of chilled vodka. I will take care of this now, he said. He reached for the telephone and punched in a number, then spoke rapidly in Russian before hanging up and saying to Marlene, Forget the note my father gave you.

Sorry, I want this guy to pay as much as you do, but I think I better give this address to a friend with the FBI, she replied.

Yvgeny was visibly seething-not that she blamed him; she was angry, too. Angry about Jojola. Angry about Vladimir. Angry and sick to her stomach for the woman and her child and the young couple who’d been murdered.

Nyet! Nyet! NYET! Yvgeny had roared and threw his glass at the fireplace where it shattered. Who do you trust there? A friend with the FBI? He is going to go after these vermin by himself? No, he will have to tell others, and there are spies in that agency. No, I have tried it my father’s way and I have tried it your way, and it almost got my father and myself killed; a woman and a child…those young lovers…were butchered by animals. My father wanted to give you this address so that what needs to be done could be done the quote “right way.” But I am through with this right way. I will take this son of a bitch down to hell my way! And then I will hunt those two whores down and gut them myself like that young mother was gutted by their bomb!

Look, Yvgeny, Marlene said trying to keep the anger she felt out of her voice. I can hardly believe this is me arguing against taking the law into your own hands. I mean, I’m already in deep shit for leaving the scene without telling the police what I saw, and I’m ashamed to say I did it because I was worried that being connected to the Karchovskis might hurt my husband’s political chances. When Butch hears, he’ll drag me down to the precinct by my ear. But think about this: say you go to Aspen and kill Kane and foil his plot, no one will know the depth of this conspiracy. It will just be a gangland killing where, as far as the public is concerned, you’re all bad guys-somebody ends up dead, somebody else probably winds up in prison-and I’d be surprised if you do this without innocent people being put in harm’s way, too. But also, if you’re right about this conspiracy, won’t the Russian government and the terrorists just come up with a new plan?

And why wouldn’t they even if your FBI catches Kane and kills Azzam?

Because maybe Jaxon can get to the bottom of this and expose it for what it is, Marlene said, scrambling to come up with reasons that she didn’t necessarily believe. In fact, while her mind was debating him, her heart was telling her to go with Yvgeny and settle this score with Kane. But it goes beyond that. There needs to be a message sent that civilized nations don’t have to revert to lawlessness or to military rule to combat terror. The public needs the reassurance that the people with the duty to protect them are out there doing their jobs. Besides, if you kill Kane, the moles go deeper, the plans next time are better.

Yvgeny paced to the window. He smashed a fist into his hand, his whole body trembling in anger.

It’s what your father wants, Marlene had said not knowing what else to say.

She’s right.

Marlene turned and saw the old man in the doorway of the library. He looked somewhat worse for wear in his torn and bloody linen suit, a bandage on his forehead and another on his hand, but otherwise appeared to be okay.

Vladimir! she said and rushed over to hug him. Are you all right? What did you tell the police?

He patted her on the back. I am physically fine, he said. But my heart is broken for the innocent blood spilled because someone wanted to kill me. The police were hardly interested in what an old man who didn’t see much except sand had to say…. Now, I just want to clean up a little, then go to the hospital to check on Petre; it was his brother, Sasha, who was killed, and Petre may never walk again, though I believe he is too strong to die. He turned to address his son.

Marlene will carry the address to whomever she believes should take care of this problem, and you will do nothing in Aspen, he said. These savages follow no rules, they have no honor-even criminals such as we do not behave like these animals. If we fight them, and men like Kane, on their level, then we must stoop and become like them.

Then I will stoop, Yvgeny insisted as he walked over to plead his case. What do I care what people think of me, even though this would be for their welfare as well as my revenge. I will risk that the entirety of civilization does not follow me down this road to savagery, but sometimes only violence is capable of stopping the violent.

This is true, Vladimir had said. But there are differences in how violence is administered. Was it in compliance with the rule of law? A policeman who shoots a man about to kill someone, for instance. Or an army fighting to end slavery, which reminds me of a quote attributed to the great American president Abraham Lincoln: “Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.”

Might for right and my duty is to kill Kane, Yvgeny growled, but his anger had gone from a hard boil to simmering.

And you may still be required to do your duty, Vladimir said. But first we will allow this system of justice to do its. However…he said, turning back to Marlene, …if your friend and his FBI are not up to the task, then I give my son permission to seek justice in his own manner with this zasranec, excuse my language, Marlene, but this zasranec Kane-an appropriate surname, as the mark of Cain, the killer of brothers, is upon him.

As Marlene turned to leave, Yvgeny’s scarred face had softened and, surprising her, he’d reached out and hugged her. Forgive my outburst, he’d said. You saved my life, killing the traitor Boris, and I repay you with a tantrum.

Marlene hugged him in return, then stood back and smiled. It’s okay. Kane has a way of putting everyone on edge and wondering who to trust. Maybe that’s part of his plan. But it won’t work with us, will it?

Yvgeny shook his head. No, not so long as cooler-and prettier-heads prevail.

Marlene punched him on the arm. Flattery will get you everywhere.

Everywhere? Yvgeny said, theatrically raising an eyebrow.

Well, how about a kiss on the cheek…between cousins by marriage, Marlene laughed.

Yvgeny sighed dramatically. I believe the saying is, “Beggars shouldn’t be choosy,” correct?

Close enough, Marlene said and gave him the promised reward.

On the way home, she called Jaxon and gave him the Aspen address and its importance without telling him the circumstances of its discovery.

That evening when Butch got home from work, she told him about what had happened. He’d wondered when Murrow came rushing into his office with news of the bombing if she was somehow involved. But seeing her face when she described what happened, he’d forgone any lectures on leaving the scene but won a promise from her to give her statement to Fulton, who passed it on to the detectives investigating the bomb.

She’d left out how and why she happened to be at the boardwalk other than “to meet an old friend,” and just happened to be “in the right place at the right time” to shoot one of the terrorists as he fired at members of the public. Her target had been identified as one Boris Nabakov, a Russian national in the country illegally. What his connection was to the terrorist bomb remained unclear, according to the press.

Citing safety issues for a witness to a capital crime, the police had refused to disclose the name or even gender of the armed civilian who’d shot and killed Nabakov. Witnesses had told members of the press about seeing an armed woman chasing two other women, possibly the terrorists responsible for the bomb. Meanwhile, the National Rifle Association had jumped at the chance to laud the mystery woman’s actions as a victory for the Second Amendment and urged all citizens to be ready to join the War on Terrorism by being ever vigilant.

Four days after the bombing at Brighton Beach Jaxon turned his field glasses on the SWAT teams making their way toward the mansion, dashing from one place of cover to the next. One team had already reached the guesthouse but reported it empty. Agent Hodges had confirmed Marlene’s information; he’d seen Kane in the house within the past week.

Speak of the devil, he thought as he looked behind him and saw Hodges trotting down the gravel road away from the house. Jon Ellis swore by the guy, but there was something about him that Jaxon didn’t like. It went beyond the Southern accent that he obviously laid on a little thicker whenever he was around Marlene or her daughter, Lucy, who’d driven up from New Mexico with her boyfriend. The guy’s just a little too slick, he thought. Maybe that came with the territory of being a deep plant; maybe you had to have a plastic, malleable personality to fit into whatever situation arose, but Hodges seemed to think this was all something of an amusing game.

The object of Jaxon’s inner debate continued jogging down the road. Agent Vic Hodges, aka Andrew Kane, found that he enjoyed keeping in “fighting trim” and took daily runs, which seemed to help him think more clearly.

It also seemed to help with his migraines. The headaches were nothing new-he’d had them off and on since puberty-but they’d been increasing in number and severity since his arrest the previous fall.

Kane giggled as he thought about the headlines in the Aspen Times back in June when the body of noted Aspen plastic surgeon Andre Buchwald had been found in his Mercedes off a mountain road. The body, according to the newspaper, was badly decomposed, but the good doctor had apparently been stabbed to death. The town worthies speculated that Buchwald must have picked up a hitchhiker who wasn’t quite “all there.” A side story noted that serial killer Ted Bundy had once been a prisoner of the Pitkin County Sheriff’s Office until he escaped by jumping out of a second-floor window of the local courthouse.

Wait a little longer and they’re really going to have something to talk about, Kane thought and laughed out loud as he ran past the mailbox next to the long driveway leading up to Prince Bandar’s house. He wondered how the prince was faring. Bet he never thought that he’d end up a hostage of al Qaeda…not a pleasant prospect for him or his pathetic little family.

The arrival of the federal agents had caught Kane by surprise and would have messed up his plans if he hadn’t received a warning. Somehow that fucking bitch Marlene Ciampi had figured out where he was hiding. Probably those fucking Karchovskis, he thought. Should have killed them sooner…after that idiot Boris told me about the photograph of Azzam.

All such photographs were supposed to have been purged from federal files, yet one had suddenly appeared in the hands of some grubby Russian gangsters. It had become much more dangerous for Azzam to walk the streets, especially after Karp made copies and had them distributed to the police and federal agencies.

The Russians were proving to be a bigger thorn in his side than he’d anticipated. It had taken many years, but Kane had managed to find someone he could compromise close to the inner circles of most of the big gangs in the Greater New York area. Mostly, these people were kept on “retainers” to feed him information on their employers’ business interests, weaknesses, and peccadilloes. Humorously, Boris Nabakov had a weakness for young girls, but it was an expensive habit, so he’d agreed to spy on the Karchovskis for him. He’d been pretty much worthless until the day he’d called to report that the Karchovskis had a photograph of Samira Azzam, and…oh it’s almost too delicious to contemplate…had given them to their relative, Roger “Butch” Karp. The frickin’ Boy Scout of the NYDAO was related to a member of the Russian mob! Kane had yet to decide how best to use that information. But he just knew he’d find a way to work it into his vengeance.

For the most part, the plan had been a thing of beauty. The death of the Indian cop was wonderful. He had been afraid of the man, who’d shown up out of nowhere…a fucking third world Indian reservation for God’s sake…like some sort of avenging angel. His death had been almost too good to believe. But his spies had reported that the Indian had been given some elaborate funeral ceremony, full of wailing and superstitious nonsense; then he’d had the Ciampi woman followed, but again his spies told him that her grief was real-that she’d actually been seen on a park bench near her home and then again on the Coney Island boardwalk in tears. He didn’t understand such emotional reactions to somebody else’s death. He wasn’t even a lover, he thought. Women are such idiots.

The cowboy, too, though perhaps due to his age and relative inexperience, was not quite as dangerous, and therefore, Kane had not been as disappointed that he lived.

Kane had hoped that the teams sent to Taos would also abduct Lucy Karp. They’d been under orders to spirit her out of the country through the Mexican border and take her to his future home. He’d spent many evenings fantasizing about raping and torturing her while it was all being filmed to send back to her parents-if they somehow survived the coming days. However, there would be other opportunities to capture Lucy Karp.

Some of the plan was purely revenge motivated. However, he wasn’t so blinded by vengeance that it overrode his other motives. Fey died because he’d proven to be a traitor, but also there was a small possibility that under questioning he might unknowingly give the authorities a clue as to the major focus of the plan. The same with Flanagan. Of course, his intent had been to distract Karp and his wife, as well as the federal agencies, from the real purpose of his plan. It was the larger plan that interested Samira Azzam and al Qaeda.

Kane turned around and headed back up the road. The assault on the mansion was scheduled for dusk, and he wanted to catch it all as Agent Vic Hodges.

It had taken some balls to suddenly “come in from the cold,” so to speak, and try out his disguise on the others. So far it had worked perfectly, even Marlene Ciampi, whom he’d met before, didn’t show any sign that she recognized him.

The only one he worried about was Lucy, and they’d never even met face-to-face before this little soiree. But he’d caught her looking at him with a frown on her face several times in the past couple of days, as if she suspected something. He’d even wondered if he’d made a mistake not to have the assassination teams try to kill her along with the Indian and the cowboy.

Speak of the devil, he thought as he looked ahead and saw Lucy standing near the mailbox at the bottom of the mansion driveway. “Going to check the mail?” he smiled as he trotted up to her, laying the Southern accent on thick.

“What? No,” Lucy answered as if he’d caught her daydreaming. “Mind if I ask you something?”

Kane gave her his best smile. “Not at all.”

“What’s with the phony Southern accent?” she asked.

Kane’s heart froze. Kill her, a little voice in his head yelled. Quiet you, we’d be caught, he replied. “Phony?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s sort of hodgepodge of Mississippi Delta, Arkansas hillbilly, and Virginia plantation owner. Not bad. You have a gift for mimicry, and most people wouldn’t notice. But I have an ear for these things.”

Better kill her, the voice said.

“Caught me,” he conceded. “I was actually raised on the East Coast, but my family was Army and we moved around the South a lot, too. Then I had to sort of become a ‘redneck’ to fit in with the Aryan Brotherhood, so to tell you the truth, I’m not surprised I’m a potpourri of dialects.”

Time to get out of here, he thought. It’s dangerous to talk to her.

She’s a witch, the voice said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Kane said, realizing too late he’d spoken aloud.

“I beg your pardon?” Lucy asked.

“I’m sorry, I mean don’t take a chance when the shooting starts,” he said. “Just came out wrong.”

“Freudian slip, eh?” Lucy said with a smile.

“Something like that, I guess,” he said.

“Well, guess I better get back to the action,” Kane said. He nodded at the mailbox. “Just remember, stealing mail is a federal offense, ha ha.” A funny look passed over his face, but he turned and started trotting back up the road.

Lucy stood for a moment watching Agent Hodges. When she turned to look up the drive toward the mansion, her gaze was drawn to the mailbox.

I think you should look inside, Saint Teresa said.

“Why?” Lucy asked aloud, feeling a little foolish about talking to a voice inside of her head.

You never know, the saint answered, a bit flippantly for a holy person, Lucy thought. There’s something not quite right here, and you know it.

“What do you mean?”

Agent Hodges gives me the willies.

“I didn’t know saints got the willies. Which just goes to prove you’re not real.”

Well, he does. You don’t buy that bit about the crappy accent, do you?

“As a matter of fact, I think it makes perfect sense. And it might also be why you and I find him a little creepy, like the guys in that racist organization he infiltrated. Sort of like the Stockholm syndrome where the hostages became empathetic with their captors.”

I suppose it’s possible. But you know and I know that he’s been watching you when he thinks you don’t notice.

“Can I help it if I’m an extremely attractive woman?”

Go ahead, laugh it off. Just keep an eye on him. In the meantime, why don’t you see if there’s anything interesting in the mailbox?

Lucy walked two steps closer to the mailbox and stood looking at it for a moment. Without realizing that she’d formed a conscious thought to do it, she reached for the mailbox door and opened it. There was a small box inside, wrapped in brown paper. She was about to close the mailbox door when she saw that the box inside was addressed to her mother. She grabbed the box and took off running to where her mother was kneeling next to Espey Jaxon.

Marlene took the wrapped box and shook it lightly. She started to open it, but Jaxon grabbed her hand.

“What if it’s a bomb?”

Marlene got up and ran back to the command tent where a federal agent with a German shepherd stood. “Bomb dog?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mind if he gives this a sniff?” Marlene asked, holding up the package.

“Not at all. Put it on the ground and step back, please.”

Marlene did as told. The dog and his handler approached the box. The dog sniffed it curiously but otherwise didn’t react. “You’re good to go,” the man said.

Marlene ran back to the wall with the box and tore the end open. She tilted the box and poured out its contents. Eight white pawns. She looked at them for a moment, then her eyes grew wide. She turned to Jaxon. “Call it off!”

When the federal agents surrounded the mansion, they’d tried to approach the house to demand that those inside leave the house with their hands up. The federal negotiator had retreated from the resulting gunfire and the siege was on.

Soon after, the Saudi ambassador in Denver had arrived at the scene and placed a call to the home. He’d then demanded that the federal agencies pull back. A prince of the royal family, as well as his wife and children are hostage. The captors are demanding safe passage to Iran.

Assistant director Jon Ellis had nixed the request. The terrorists have the option of laying down their arms. No one will be allowed to leave the mansion with hostages.

Further attempts to negotiate the surrender of the terrorists had broken down. The federal agencies had been given until nine o’clock that night or Prince Bandar, his family, and their servants, some of whom were American citizens, would be executed, one every hour, until the demands were met or all the hostages were dead.

Ellis had decided then to rush the mansion at dusk. We cannot allow Kane to escape, he had said. We need to try to capture him and find out how deep this plot goes. Or, failing that, kill him.

“Call it off,” Marlene insisted again. “I think this was a warning.”

“It’s Ellis’s call,” Jaxon said. “Let’s go talk to him.”

At that moment, a middle-aged man emerged from the mansion. He was wearing a long trench coat and shouting in English.

Jaxon fixed his binoculars on the man. “It’s Prince Bandar,” he said.

“Help me!” the man screamed, as he walked toward one of the SWAT officers, who had his rifle trained on him. Bandar opened his coat to reveal that he had a bomb strapped to his chest. “Help me!”

Two members of the FBI SWAT team edged forward, one of them spoke into his radio, which went to the rest of the team including Jaxon. “Looks like C4. Pretty crude. If I can get close enough, I bet I can disarm it.”

“Allah be merciful,” Prince Bandar cried. “They have my family inside-”

Whatever the man was going to say next was lost in the explosion. He simply disappeared in a flash. As the smoke cleared, Marlene could see the two FBI agents on the ground. One was motionless, the other was writhing in pain.

At that moment, Agent Vic Hodges ran up with his gun drawn. “Ellis wants to know what the delay is.”

“I think we need to call it off,” Marlene said. She pointed at the chess pieces. “I just got those, and I think someone’s trying to tell us something.”

Hodges looked at the white pawns lying on the ground. “What the hell?” he said. “Chess pawns?”

Before anyone could answer, there was the sound of shooting from the house and women and children screaming. A girl, perhaps twelve, darted from the front door screaming. A masked man appeared behind her and shot her before an FBI sniper killed him. Another child screamed inside the house. The federal SWAT team started to rush toward the house.

“Tell your men to wait, Jaxon!” Marlene yelled. “It’s a trap!”

“This is Jaxon, stand down! Stand down!” the agent yelled into his radio.

But it was too late. Driven by the terrified screams of women and children, the SWAT teams were running for the house to try to save the hostages. One paused long enough to throw a flash-bang grenade through the front window, just as other officers were reaching doors and windows on all sides of the building.

Instead of the flash bang of the grenade, however, the entire house went up with a roar. Fifty yards away, Jaxon, Marlene, Lucy, and Hodges were flung to the ground.

Debris rained down on them for what seemed like minutes. When they looked back over the wall, it was at a scene of complete devastation. The house was gone, except for part of the stone fireplace and exposed foundation. A dozen fires burned among the debris of the house and scattered about the yard. There was no sign of the SWAT teams, the hostages, or the terrorists.

The whole world seemed stunned. No one spoke. There were no sounds…except those of Lucy crying.

Three days later, after the SWAT teams and the agency leaders and the postmortem investigators and Marlene, her daughter, and Ned were gone, Agent Vic Hodges-aka Andrew Kane-sat in a dark corner of the bar at the Hotel Jerome off Main Street in Aspen. He was soon joined by Ajmaani, also known as Nadya Malovo.

“And how’s the lovely Samira Azzam?” Kane asked.

Malovo shrugged. “She lives for the day she gets to die in a blaze of glory.”

Kane shook his head. “Save me from true believers,” he said.

“So she has no idea it was a near thing,” Malovo said, “the attempt on the old man. His son recognized me, and that woman-”

“Marlene Ciampi,” Kane filled in helpfully.

“Yes, Ciampi,” Malovo said, “…a dangerous woman. She recognized Azzam. She chose first to kill your man, otherwise she might have shot one of us.”

“Hazards of war, I guess.” Kane smiled.

Malovo didn’t return the smile. “Be careful, Mr. Kane,” she said coldly. “I am not one of your toys. I represent very powerful people who can put a stop to this little plan and turn you over to your friend, Mr. Karp.”

Kane blanched but then laughed as he regained his color. “Don’t threaten me,” he sneered. “Your people want my plan to succeed as much as I do. You need to blame this on the Chechen nationalists so that you can keep your little army in place, while your puppets supply you with oil and fat bank accounts. It is a good thing for both of us that others want us to succeed for their own reasons, isn’t that right, Mr. Ellis?”

Malovo looked up to see the compact, dapper figure and face of Jon Ellis of Homeland Security. “Yes, Mr…. Hodges,” Ellis said. “But enough of these little sideshows-we’ve gone along with your little personal vendetta, and now we want you to focus on the real task at hand.”

Ellis sat down at the table and ordered a double-malt Scotch on ice. He hated drinking with the psychopath Kane and the Russian agent almost as much as he was revolted by the idea of helping Islamic extremists accomplish another act of terror on U.S. soil. However, he and certain others-rich and powerful men and women from many walks of life and areas of the country-were dedicated to protecting the United States of America from enemies within and outside the borders. They were concerned that the American public was growing complacent about the dangers of international terrorism. Safe in their little homes with their big cars and big-screen televisions, they second-guessed actions that men such as Ellis needed to take if they were to win the War on Terror. Hell, they didn’t really get that it was a war…they saw bombings and beheadings as unrelated criminal acts by some shadowy, deranged people, not a battle of Armageddon proportions of Western civilization against the mongrel hordes of the third world. Even September 11, 2001, had been reduced to a three-digit call for help, 9-11, and the subject of anniversary specials on television.

The citizens of the United States just weren’t scared enough anymore. Which made them harder to control and manipulate.

So the rich and powerful people Ellis worked for had decided that the American public needed a new wake-up call. When the Russians had broached the idea that Kane had come up with, it seemed the perfect vehicle for the lesson plan. After this, Americans would realize just how dangerous these Islamic maniacs were and quit questioning the money spent on Homeland Security and the use of the American military to “stabilize” certain parts of the oil-producing world.

Of course, there was the side benefit of keeping the Russians involved in the War on Terror. Sooner or later, as soon as they quashed the pesky nationalists, they’d have to take on the Islamic extremists in Chechnya. And they could hardly complain about the use of the American military while occupying another country themselves.

“As you wish,” Kane said. He raised his glass. “Here’s to focusing on the ‘real task at hand.’ ”

“Good, then it’s settled,” Ellis replied, raising his glass. “To the real task.”

They all drank, then Ellis looked thoughtfully at Kane before asking, “I’m curious. What’s with the expensive chess pieces? It almost got you nailed by Ciampi, who I bet got it from Karchovski. If Jaxon didn’t have to run everything through me, your ass might be on its way back to New York attached to a U.S. Marshal.”

Kane frowned. “What in the hell are you talking about?”