Private Beijing

Chapter 105

America had never looked so beautiful. Manhattan was gleaming in the sunshine. The chopper had delivered us to the CIA Gulfstream jet that had whisked us out of Moscow. The sleek aircraft began its descent into Teterboro Airport, New York at 2 p.m. local time. As we descended toward the city, even the East River shone like a magnificent ribbon of mercury.

Alekseyev was sitting opposite me. We had taken off his gag but cuffed his arms and legs. He had his hands on the walnut-veneer table between us. The cuffs clanked and clattered every so often as he moved his wrists. He had slept for much of the nine-hour flight, or at least pretended to.

I hadn’t needed to make any such pretense and slept soundly for the first five hours before I woke to take the second shift watching him. West slept just as soundly as I had for the remainder of the flight.

“I underestimated you, Mr. Morgan,” Alekseyev said.

They were his first words since we’d left Moscow.

“It’s a common mistake,” I responded coldly. “People only realize the truth when it’s too late.”

I leant across the aisle and gently shook West awake. He rubbed his eyes, peered out of the window and beamed when he saw New York’s distinctive skyline.

“Boy, it’s good to be home,” he declared.

“Some vacation,” I said.

“Hey, anything that gets me stateside is alright with me.”

A few minutes later we were on the ground, taxiing to our stand. When the aircraft had come to a halt, our pilot, who had introduced himself only as Bobby, emerged from the cockpit in the same black sweatpants and T-shirt he had been wearing when we boarded.

“End of the line, folks,” he said, opening the passenger door and lowering the airstairs.

I grabbed Alekseyev and marched him out. West followed. As we went down the stairs, a convoy of three Chevy Suburbans approached.

I pushed Alekseyev across the tarmac toward them. Secretary of Defense Eli Carver stepped out of the second vehicle, and his close-protection team emerged from all three vehicles to assemble around him.

Two of the team, large Secret Service agents in dark suits, stepped forward and searched Alekseyev to ensure he didn’t pose a threat to Carver. When they were satisfied, they waved us forward.

“Director Alekseyev, welcome to America,” Carver said. “We can’t tell you how grateful we are you decided to defect.”

Alekseyev snorted derisively.

“Take him,” Carver commanded, and two of his detail grabbed Alekseyev and marched him toward the rearmost Chevy.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time, Jack. A rogue Chinese and Russian network. We’ve had back-channel thanks from the Chinese Government, which isn’t something that happens very often,” Carver said. “The Russians aren’t so happy, at least not officially, but Alekseyev has made many enemies over the years, so their diplomatic protests might be for show only. Many of the higher-ups will secretly be glad he’s gone. You did good. Real good.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied. “I hope he’s a useful source.”

“Cut this ‘sir’ crap, Jack. I’ve told you before, it’s Eli,” he said. “And are you kidding? The director of the SVR? He’ll be very useful. In ways he can’t even begin to imagine. What now for you?”

“I need to find my team,” I replied.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“In the city somewhere.”

Carver turned to one of the Secret Service agents. “Take Alekseyev for processing. We’re going to give Mr. Morgan and Master Gunnery Sergeant West a ride.”

“Yes, sir,” the agent responded crisply, before heading for the SUV that contained Alekseyev.

We watched it pull away.

“Come on,” Carver said, turning for his Suburban. “Maybe we can finally have that beer together?”