job that went with the stars did not.
As the new commander of Hungary’s National Police, Hradetsky was charged with reforming and reorganizing his country’s law enforcement organizations. It was a mission he’d been preparing for all his adult life. He was already seeking organizational and training aid from the American FBI and Britain’s CID. For once he could be sure of getting foreign advisors who would come bringing sound counsel, not seeking covert control.
The passenger jet rolled to a stop in front of the assembled crowds, and airport workers rushed a mobile staircase into place against its forward cabin door. When the door swung open, an army honor guard came to attention. Drums rolled softly as a band began playing the national anthem.
Hradetsky held his breath, waiting until Vladimir Kusin, tall and unbowed by his captivity, walked out into the afternoon sunlight. Hungary’s new President had come safely home.
Nicolas Desaix paced angrily back and forth through the darkness. He’d been penned up inside this special holding cell for days — held incommunicado while the newly formed Sixth Republic prepared to try him for crimes against the French people and against humanity. Aside from the prosecutors building the case against him, he’d been visited only by two doctors who had warned him against high blood pressure and prescribed medications that he’d immediately thrown back in their faces. He snorted in contempt. How absurd this false concern for his health was! Clearly the government only wanted to make sure he lived long enough to serve as a scapegoat.
He scowled. Perhaps Guichy had chosen the best path, after all. A bullet in the brain might be preferable to this prolonged mockery of justice.
Desaix shrugged the thought away. He would not surrender so tamely. The years he’d spent in the upper echelons of the intelligence service and the French government had given him access to many secrets — secrets that could prove highly embarrassing to a number of important officials. If bargaining failed, he could always use a public trial to drag others down with him. That, at least, would be a kind of pleasure.
A key rattled in his cell door. He turned in surprise. More visitors? This late?
The door flew open and three men crowded inside. Desaix recognized one of them, Philippe Gille, the head of the DGSE’s Action Service — its covert operations wing. The other two were mere thugs, the kind of petty criminals the Action Service often employed for deniable missions.
Desaix’s alarm turned to panic when he saw the surgical gloves on their hands. He opened his mouth, trying to scream. It was too late.
Something cold and sharp pricked his forearm. Pain flared in his chest, and he spiraled down into blackness and then oblivion.
Several hours later, an elderly police doctor rose awkwardly from beside the contorted body. He sighed, taking the stethoscope out of his ears.
“Well?” The chief prosecutor looked thoroughly irked. Desaix’s testimony would have been an invaluable aid in the new French government’s efforts to reform and reorder the various intelligence agencies. This death would complicate matters. Still, it showed that his probes were hitting nerves in certain, secretive quarters.
“I am sorry, Monsieur Prosecutor. It appears that the minister died sometime late last night of a massive heart attack. As I feared would happen.” The doctor, a short, thin white-haired man named Arnault, shrugged nervously. “It is a great pity.”
“I see. A very convenient heart attack for some, wouldn’t you say, Doctor?” The prosecutor studied him for another few moments, as though waiting for more. When the doctor stayed silent, his mouth tightened. He turned and signaled through the door. Two more men moved into the holding cell. Both carried medical bags of their own.
The prosecutor turned back to a now visibly worried Arnault. “I’m sure you understand that I must have my own experts verify your findings.” He glanced at the two waiting men. “Check for anything unusual. Needle marks, bruising, you know the sort of thing.”
They nodded somberly.
The police doctor began trembling slightly but noticeably. The DGSE men had promised him protection from this grim, implacable official. Now Arnault was beginning to suspect that the intelligence agents had overestimated their remaining authority and underestimated the determination of their new superiors to make a clean sweep. “On reflection, Monsieur Prosecutor, I must confess that I noticed certain things that are perhaps inconsistent with my earlier,
“Oh?” The prosecutor turned his head slowly. “How very interesting, Dr. Arnault.” He laid a firm hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Then why don’t we go to my office and discuss exactly what else and
Erin McKenna sat in the antechamber outside the Oval Office. Unable to stop herself, she checked her watch again, wishing she weren’t so nervous. Still, how many people in the United States were ever invited to a private meeting with the President? She glanced to her right, comforted by the sight of Alex Banich sitting at her side. He smiled back.
Despite their best intentions, they hadn’t had much time together since returning from Moscow. Len Kutner, appalled by the risks they’d run and elated by their success, had shipped them back to Washington as soon as he safely could. Since then, Erin and Alex had both been kept hopping — briefing what seemed like every section head and file clerk in the CIA on the situation inside Russia. But, under explicit orders from the director of Central Intelligence himself, never, never,
“Ms. McKenna? Mr. Banich?”
They looked up.
A secretary motioned them toward the door. “The President can see you now.”
Heart pounding, Erin rose and followed Alex into the Oval Office.
The President himself was waiting for them, standing alone by the windows overlooking the White House Rose Garden. He smiled broadly when they came in and stepped forward to greet them both with a firm, friendly handshake. “Ms. McKenna and Mr. Banich! I’m very glad to finally meet you.”
He looked older than he did on television, but also more human. She could see real warmth in his eyes. The next few moments passed in a whirl of polite conversation.
Suddenly the President’s manner became far more formal. He gathered two small boxes off his desk and flipped them open. Each contained a medal and a length of ribbon to hold it. “Erin McKenna and Alexander Banich, it is my great privilege to award you each with the Medal of Freedom — the highest civilian honor a grateful nation can bestow.”
Blushing now, Erin and Alex bent their heads one after the other, allowing him to slip the medals over their necks.
Then, amazingly enough, the President seemed embarrassed himself. “Of course, I have to ask for them back before you leave.” He grinned, shamefaced. “Since we don’t exactly want the whole world to know just how that old bastard Kaminov met his very timely end, your awards are classified Top Secret!”
Erin couldn’t help it. She had to laugh. Giving you a medal you couldn’t talk about or show off was just so typical of the way the government worked.
The President laughed with her. He stopped her when she tried to apologize. “No need for that, Ms. McKenna! You’re absolutely right. I only hope you’ll let me offer you something more concrete. Not exactly a reward, though. Just another chance to do more hard work for your country.”
She nodded. “Of course, Mr. President.”
“Good. I’d like to send you to Great Britain. To work as a senior staffer on the U.S. delegation to the London Conference.” He sounded pleased. “Ross Huntington needs a trade expert — especially someone skilled at stripping away phony numbers and deceptive claims.”
The President arched a skeptical eyebrow. “The world may be singing songs of goodwill and fellowship right now, but neither Ross nor I believe we’ve reached the Millennium. There are still going to be people and countries out there who bear close watching.”
Erin and Alex both nodded. There was plenty of proof of that everywhere you looked. Still, progress was being made. Right now, for example, the newspapers and television news programs were full of revelations from Paris. Even killing Desaix to shut him up hadn’t saved the hard-line elements of the French secret services. If
