Private Rogue

Chapter 10

I was in the frozen landscape north of Moscow with Dinara Orlova and Leonid Boykov, studying the ancient wreckage of an accident. Two cars protruded from a thick drift of pristine snow, their twisted shells mangled together, jagged shards of rusted metal spearing the night. Behind them, a snow-covered forest faded into darkness. As I looked at the shadows between distant trees, I felt a primeval fear building within me. There was something stalking me. Something merciless...

“Mr. Morgan?” A voice roused me from my dream, and I woke to see one of the flight attendants at my shoulder. “We’re starting our descent.”

I rubbed my eyes and looked around the cabin to see my fellow passengers stretching and preparing for landing. Bright sunlight flooded the compartment as blinds were raised.

The plane touched down at JFK, and I grabbed my bag from the overhead locker. After a short delay waiting for the air bridge, I disembarked and hurried through the terminal. Red-eye flights from all along the West Coast were arriving. The building was full of sleepy people grasping cups of coffee. I went into the arrivals hall and was about to head for the cab rank when I saw a face I recognized.

“Justine gave me your flight number,” Jessie Fleming said as she approached.

Jessie was the head of Private New York. Now in her mid-thirties, she was a former FBI agent I’d hired straight out of the New York field office’s Counterintelligence Unit. It was one of my very best decisions.

“You come to my town without telling me?” she asked mockingly.

“I didn’t want to distract you,” I said. “It’s just a missing persons case. Something I can handle alone.”

“OK. Well, even if you don’t need a partner, the very least I can do is give my boss a ride.”

“That would be great,” I said. “Thanks, Jessie.”

“Where we heading?” she asked.

“Garrison. Upstate. I’ll give you the details on the way.”

“It’s good to see you,” she said. “In person, I mean.”

We had a video conference call every week, something I did with all the managers of our offices.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d got stuck behind your desk,” she went on.

“Not stuck,” I replied. “Just comfortable.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” She flashed a smile. “My car’s this way.”

I followed her outside and ice-cold air stung my lungs. We crossed the street and went into the terminal car park. She led me to her car, one of Private’s staff vehicles — a black Nissan Rogue SUV. We got in, and started our journey north.