Krasnoff remained silent, but his face turned beet red, his anger almost palpable.
“I could just pick up the phone and make a call to spread the word,” Hawk said. “A picture of you in custody with some CIA agents might be all I’d have to do to sell this story to someone willing to share it with the FSB.”
Krasnoff narrowed his eyes. “Fine. You win. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Alex placed a chair a few feet away, positioning it directly in front of Krasnoff. “Why don’t you tell us what we need to know, just in case we missed a few things?”
“It doesn’t matter what I say.”
“No, it matters,” Hawk cautioned. “At this point, you still have a fighting chance to survive with no one finding out about your confession. But we need to hear everything for us to get to the point where we agree not to put you in any imminent danger. Is that clear enough for you?”
Krasnoff nodded. “I don’t really work for the FSB. My role truly is one of a diplomat. I’ve never been trained and barely know how to shoot a weapon.”
“Then what were you doing at all these crime scenes?” Alex asked.
“A few years ago, someone from the FSB approached me about working for them. I refused his offer because I don’t have time for it.”
Alex chuckled. “Is that because of all the diplomacy that takes place at Mixtura?”
“You’d be surprised at what you can get people to agree to while watching Russian women dance behind me,” Krasnoff said, a sly grin easing across his face.
“Those aren’t details I want or need to know,” Hawk said. “Now, please continue.”
“Well, someone from the FSB learned that my daughter was trying to get into a prestigious boarding school in Paris and suggested that if I help them, they would secure her a spot. So I agreed.”
Hawk eyed him cautiously. “So you are working for the FSB.”
“In a manner of speaking, I guess so. But they don’t pay me a single ruble.”
“They’re paying you in other ways,” Hawk huffed. “There’s no need to split hairs about your arrangement. Now, what do you do for them?”
Krasnoff shrugged. “Whatever. You think what you want. I just know that my conscience is clear.”
“What an interesting thing to say,” Alex said. “But that doesn’t answer the question. Remember? Everything we need and want to know?”
After a long sigh, Krasnoff continued. “My job is simple. I simply visit a site after a purported FSB kill and confirm it. All I have to do is observe the crime scene and verify the identity of the person there. Anyone could do it, which is why I don’t understand why they came after me. But maybe one day I’ll figure that part out. In the meantime, I’m just doing what they asked me to do.”
“So, who’s the FSB assassin you verify kill shots for?” Hawk asked.
Krasnoff waved off Hawk dismissively. “I knew you were going to ask that, though I must admit my answer will sound a little sketchy. Nevertheless, it is the truth.”
“Out with it,” Hawk said.
“Every Monday, the FSB assassin leaves a mark on a park bench near my home,” Krasnoff said. “If there’s only one mark, nothing is happening. But if there are two marks, then I know there’s an assignment. I go to a dead drop location and get the details in a packet left for me. Then I make my way to the site, confirm the kill, and file a report with someone at the Kremlin.”
“How often does he kill?” Alex asked.
“At least once every few months, sometimes more,” Krasnoff said. “But there’s no science to it if you’re trying to predict when the next killing will occur.”
“No, I’m not interested in that at the moment,” Hawk said. “I only want to find this assassin. Is that something you can do for us?”
“As a matter of fact, I can,” Krasnoff said.
“Lucky for you,” Hawk said. “You just narrowly avoided getting tossed into that fire pit out there after taking a few bullets to your head.”
“In that case, let’s get out of here,” Krasnoff said. “That is unless you want the FSB descending upon this safe house.”
Hawk pulled out his knife and loosened Krasnoff from the bindings that kept him tethered to the chair. After jerking Krasnoff to his feet, Hawk shoved him toward the door. Krasnoff stumbled before regaining his balance. He stood upright in front of the door.
“Any shenanigans and you’re dead,” Hawk warned Krasnoff, pointing the knife at him. “Now, let’s go bring a murderer to justice.”
CHAPTER 9
Washington, D.C.
BLUNT ZIPPED THROUGH the radio stations in his car, searching for one that wasn’t running a commercial of an obnoxious salesman, a tedious political ad, or a local service company with an earworm jingle. Going from one end of the dial to the other and back again, Blunt settled on a public radio talk show. With civil guests holding opposing points of view, he found the program refreshing despite the topic of local education reform being of no interest to him.
As he navigated through the early morning traffic, his burner phone buzzed. Every communication with government officials was prone to be captured and reported through freedom of information requests. However, owning a pre-paid cell with enough minutes to get him through a year helped him give other careful Washington powerbrokers a way to access him without drawing scrutiny.
He didn’t immediately recognize the caller’s number, which was also likely a secret phone.
“This is Blunt.”
“Good morning. This is General Fortner.”
“Van, how the hell are ya?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Who’s crawling all over your
