Burakov must have picked up on his confusion because he said, “The game is over, my friend. You’ve been working me and I’ve been working you, but I was never going to jump. My wife would never go for it. We have enormous families back home and to us, family is everything. And Moscow treats me well. You, on the other hand, are more untethered—your family ties are limited, you don’t have close friends, and quite frankly, Langley has never afforded you the respect and position you deserve. If you had to come live in Moscow, you wouldn’t have big problems making the adjustment.”
Marcus put his drink down. He found himself searching in earnest for the cameras. It wasn’t really important; it was something to do to quench the fire in his brain. He thought he spotted one in a bookcase, peeking out above a row of old encyclopedias.
“I know what you’re thinking, Marcus,” Burakov said gently. “There won’t be any exfils today. My wife and sons aren’t at the Galeries Lafayette today, which is saving me a lot of money. We have eyes on both your follow teams. You’ll signal to them that the operation today is aborted. For now, relax. Finish your drink. Have another. Keep the wire-transfer document or commit the account number to memory. Whatever suits you best. I very much look forward to working with you in the months and years to come. I think we can be more than colleagues. I think we can be friends.”
There was a vibration in Marcus’s pocket. Wordlessly, he pulled out his phone and saw he had a text from his sister-in-law. He read it. It was short, only three words.
Alice is dead.
Burakov read his face and asked what the matter was. Marcus showed him the phone.
“I’m so very sorry,” Burakov said.
It started as a whisper. “You’re sorry.” Every time Marcus repeated it, he got louder, until he was screaming at the top of his lungs.
Burakov stood up and tried to calm him to no avail.
“You fucking bastard!” Marcus yelled. “I left her! For you! I wasn’t there when she died because you fucked me!”
His hands found Burakov’s neck. He was stronger than the Russian who put up surprisingly little resistance. Marcus’s face turned red, Burakov’s blue.
Suddenly there was a thunder of footsteps coming down the stairs and two sets of strong arms pulled Marcus away.
Burakov’s security team forced Marcus back down onto his chair and urged him to calm down.
“Get a sedative,” Burakov said, panting and rubbing his neck. “He’s had a shock.”
“I don’t want a fucking sedative,” Marcus said. “I want to kill you.”
19
It was a reckoning.
Jim Alicante bundled Marcus onto the Agency jet and rode back to Virginia with him. His ass was on the line too, but the difference was that Marcus didn’t give a shit.
A full after-action team was convening on the seventh floor, chaired by the deputy executive director, a fellow only two slots down from the director. But before they went in, Dennis Correia wanted some facetime in his office.
At first, he didn’t even address Marcus. “What the fuck, Jim? How does something like this happen?”
“We misread it. He was never going to come over.”
“I’ve got memos from both of you saying it was a lock.”
Alicante said, “Color me wrong, Dennis. I’ve never claimed infallibility. And I don’t think I used the term lock. I said it was a high probability we’d pull him into the boat.”
“I just want you to know that I’m not taking the fall. This was at director-level, gentlemen. I’m told reliably that he’s got his knives out.”
Marcus had been looking out the window. Without changing the angle of his gaze, he said, “It’s on me. I’ll take the hit.”
“Yes, you will, my friend. Truer words were never spoken.”
Alicante objected to Correia’s demeaning tone. “Go easy, why don’t you?” he said. “He’s going through hell.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” Correia said. “My condolences. Unfortunately, in our business, the shit keeps coming and life goes on. When we go upstairs, you’re going to be asked about the wire transfer.”
“What about it?” Marcus said.
“Folks will want to know whether you’ll be dipping your quill. I understand you didn’t keep Burakov’s piece of paper.”
Marcus rattled off the wire-transfer number from memory.
Correia grabbed a pen and told him to repeat it, then said, “We need to get the Swiss FIS to seize the account before the FSB claws it back or someone empties it.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus said listlessly.
“That’s right, fuck me. What are you going to do, try to beat me up, choke me out like you did to Burakov? You’re lucky they didn’t shoot you on the spot, for Christ’s sake. It would have caused an international incident—but only a brief one—because once the Russians passed us the video of you attacking Burakov, we would have folded like a cheap lawn chair.”
“Burakov felt sorry for me,” Marcus mumbled.
“I’ll bet he did,” Correia said. “So, are you going to do the right thing on the seventh floor with the DED? The right thing is going to be way more than saying it’s on you and taking the hit. You’re going to admit you fucked me over with your ineptitude and poor judgment. You’re going to admit you fucked Jim over with the same—because as pissed as I am with him, he’s infinitely more valuable to this organization than you are. You going to throw yourself on the mercy of the court and when the DED metes out terrible punishment with his big old paddle, you’re going to say, thank you, Mother Superior, I’d like another.”
“I’m not going to do that,” Marcus said, getting up.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not going to the meeting. I resign. Right here, right now. I’m done.”
Alicante said, “Come on, Marcus, let’s take a walk and talk this out.”
Marcus extended his hand. “Jim, it’s
