Rasputin's Shadow

5

Dare County, North Carolina

The call came in as Gordon Roos was on his way back from his late-morning walk on the beach. He loved it out in the Outer Banks. The constant breeze coming in off the ocean, the salty taste in the air that did wonders for his sinuses, the Zen-like openness of the landscape-it was far more enjoyable than the confines of the Falls Church, Virginia, penthouse he used to live in before his retirement from the Company. A bit removed from the action, perhaps, but still close enough for him to be able to jump in when something juicy came up.

Something like this.

He checked the caller ID on his 1024-bit RSA key-encrypted cell phone, even though he knew who it was before he looked at it. Hardly anyone had that number, for besides being a retired agent of the CIA, Gordon Roos wasn’t a social animal, not by any stretch. A couple of tried and tested high-class escorts were more than enough to liven up his nights when he needed company. Which was not unusual at all for someone who’d spent most of his life running dangerous undercover assignments for his country. Not that he minded. Gordon Roos had never had much patience for small talk and cocktail parties, something his wife eventually decided she couldn’t live without.

He took the call in his customary fashion, without uttering a word.

His caller knew the drill.

“Our Russian friends just heard from two goons babysitting Sokolov’s wife,” the man said. “One of them was waiting for their guy outside the apartment and saw him take the dive. He drove off in a panic and they called it in.”

Roos kept walking at the same leisurely pace. “Where are they now?”

“They’re babysitting her at some dive. A motel in Queens, near JFK. Russian-owned. The guys at the embassy are waiting to hear back from Moscow on how to handle it now that Sokolov’s in the wind.” He paused, then added, “Maybe it’s time we move in and take her off their hands. It would give us leverage over Sokolov.”

Roos processed the suggestion in all of four seconds. “No. Let’s keep her there and let it play out. Sokolov seems to have some of that old pluck left in him. If she’s there, there’s a good chance it’ll draw him in. Even if he doesn’t find his way to the motel, she’s the bait that’ll flush him out. Better we don’t rock the boat and spook him. We just need to be ready to swoop in when he shows up.”

“All right. I’ll put a team on it.”

“Off the books, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Keep me apprised. Day or night.”

“You got it, buddy.”

Roos hung up.

As he walked on toward his house, which appeared behind a wind-swept sandbank up ahead, his mind drifted back many years, to when it had all begun. To the initial, unexpected approach from the Russian. The excitement at the prospect. The meticulous planning. The green light. The adrenaline of putting the lift in motion.

The thrill of meeting the Russian for the first time.

Then came the little prick’s stab in the back.

The damn Russian. He’d been a major snag in Roos’s stellar rise at the Agency. More than a snag. He’d almost derailed his career altogether. But Roos had overcome the defeat and the humiliation. He’d cleaned things up, he’d redeemed himself by shepherding other tough projects to success-and here they were again, more than thirty years later, playing the game again.

He smiled inwardly at the prospect of what the days ahead would bring. Maybe it would all finally come good, after all those years. He had far more options now that he was out on his own. “Independent contractor.” It was the wave of the future, and a future with much greater promise than he’d ever counted on had suddenly dropped into his lap.

Sokolov could be a mighty prize indeed. The kind of prize that could bankroll a much more satisfying level of retirement. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let that prize get away from him a second time.