he was sitting on the floor with the water falling all over him.
He reflected on Roger’s words and frowned. A memory came to him, one that he hadn’t even known was in his head until just now.
Will was seated on a grass lawn. It belonged to his parents’ house in the States. It was a sunny, warm day. He was a barefoot five-year-old wearing a University of Virginia shirt and jeans. His hair was blond in those days, and he had freckles across his nose and cheeks. His American father was walking toward him, wearing a smart dark suit and crisp white shirt. To the small boy, his daddy looked like a giant, but he had a smile on his kind face. Crouching down in front of Will, he rubbed the boy’s arm and looked at the toy held in his hand. A green plastic handgun.
Will grinned and proudly held out the gun. His daddy took it, examined the pretend weapon, nodded, and gave it back to his son.
He said something that Will could not quite remember, something about toy guns being okay but real guns being bad.
The boy looked at his CIA father and giggled. He lowered his eyes and glimpsed something on his daddy’s hip, visible between his open jacket. He pointed at the real gun.
His father looked down and quickly buttoned up his jacket to hide his sidearm. He looked perturbed as he placed both hands on Will’s shoulders. His serious expression was quickly replaced by another smile. After kissing his son on the forehead, he walked away toward his car to go to work.
Later that year he was deployed by the CIA to Iran, where he was kidnapped and thereafter brutally murdered.
Will opened his eyes and swallowed hard to check the emotion he was feeling. He wished his father had been alive to watch and guide his growth into adulthood. More than anything, he wished he could have had the opportunity to share his first beer with the man and give him a promise not to lead a life filled with weapons and violence.
He pictured that little boy sitting on the grass and wondered how that innocent could have turned into a man who could calmly terrify a man in a Russian church before putting a bullet into his head.
He loathed what he sometimes had to do in his work.
No. The truth was more than that.
He loathed the person he’d become.
F orty-five minutes later, Will stood outside the shabby hotel dressed in a dark blue heavy wool suit, white shirt with French cuffs and silver cuff links, Royal Navy silk tie that he had bound into a Windsor knot, gleaming black brogues, leather gloves, and a smart overcoat. He was clean-shaven and had applied Chanel men’s lotions and Platinum Egoiste eau de toilette to his body and face. In one hand he gripped his expensive leather travel bag containing his other hand-washed and dry clothes. Tucked into his belt, hidden against the small of his back, was his handgun.
Beside him were Roger and Laith. Both men were also immaculately dressed and carried their own bags. Roger hailed a taxi, and soon they were en route to Moscow’s Vnukovo Airport.
T hey entered Terminal D, the place used for the airport’s domestic flights. Roger led the way, walking quickly past ticket desks, passengers, flight crews, check-in desks, retail outlets, and approximately four hundred soldiers who were clearly about to embark on a military flight, until they were by a desk marked PLATINUM BUSINESS JETS. Will and Laith held back as Roger walked up to the man behind the desk, spoke inaudible words to him, nodded at his colleagues, and looked back at the official. The man beamed, jumped down from his stool, and walked around the desk holding a clipboard. Will and Laith moved up to Roger, carrying their bags.
The man shook their hands, muttered a few Russian words to Roger, then asked in English, “What business takes you to Vladivostok?”
Laith looked at him sternly. “Oil.”
The man’s smile widened. “My best customers are those in the oil industry.” He beckoned toward a door marked VIP LOUNGE. “I’ll take you through. We have a fast-track process for our guests which avoids the airport’s security and baggage checks. You’ll have a very comfortable flight with us. Men like you deserve only the very best in luxury travel.”
O ne hour later, they were onboard a super-midsize Falcon 2000EX jet, traveling at an altitude of 37,000 feet. Will, Roger, and Laith were facing each other in sumptuous leather seats. Coffee and caviar were on the table between them. The seven other luxury seats in the plane were empty. A tall blond female attendant was the only other person in the passenger area; her duty was to ensure that they were given anything they wanted during the eight-hour flight across Russia to the eastern coastal city of Vladivostok.
Roger leaned forward to pick up some toast and caviar and took a mouthful of the food. “This is the most expensive civilian flight I’ve ever taken.”
“I’m not complaining.” Laith lit a Cuban Cohiba cigar, supplied to him by the hostess, examined its burning embers, and blew a thin stream of smoke from his lips. “I can’t remember the last time I could smoke on a flight.”
Will drummed his fingers on an armrest. “Don’t get too comfortable. We’ll soon be living in shit again.”
Roger smiled, taking another bite of his food. “Do you ever relax?”
Laith studied Will through narrow eyes. “Are you sure this trip is worth it? Is your plan going to work?”
“I think I can outsmart Razin and have him suspended or dismissed.” Will rubbed his face. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll succeed in rescuing Sentinel.”
“Then why the hell wouldn’t you listen to me when I told you to call it in with the Agency and let them decide what to do now?” Laith shook his head; his expression was hostile.
Will frowned. “You’ve never struck me as a man who follows rules. On the contrary, aside from Roger, I can’t think of any intelligence paramilitary officer who dislikes orders more than you.”
Laith crushed his cigar in the ashtray. “Don’t patronize me.”
Roger quickly placed an arm on Laith’s forearm, leaned toward Will, and said in a hushed, urgent voice, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a rule book for what we do. But right now I’m in agreement with my colleague. I don’t think we should be doing this alone.”
Will looked at both CIA SOG operatives. He said nothing for a while, deep in thought, but when he spoke his voice was measured and calm. “The Agency could send us a hundred operatives, but it wouldn’t make a difference. So we need to turn this on its head and work with people who can help.”
Laith frowned, then laughed. “You’re crazy.”
Will thought that Laith had a point. But he was still adamant that working with the Russians was the only way forward.
Chapter Thirty
Will and Roger were stationary in an Audi A8 sedan, lent to them for a week by Platinum Business Jets, on Ulitsa Korabelnaya Naberezhnaya in Vladivostok. It was nine P.M., and the area around them was relatively quiet, with few cars passing by. Streetlamps were sporadic, snowfall was heavy, and visibility was poor. But five hundred feet behind them was the port, and moored within it were four easily visible and brightly illuminated Udaloy I destroyers.
Roger placed his cell phone on the dashboard and set it to speakerphone. “Laith, I’m moving in a few minutes.”
Laith’s response was instant. “Understood.”
Laith was in a BMW 3 Series, also gifted to him for a few days, parked close by on Ulitsa Svetlanskaya.
Roger withdrew a pen, a single sheet of paper, and an envelope from an inner jacket pocket. Placing them next to the phone on the dashboard, he wrote a person’s name and the words URGENT AND PRIVATE on the envelope using the Russian Cyrillic alphabet. He looked at Will. “Should I leave the sheet blank?”
Will shook his head. “That would look suspicious.” He thought for a moment. “Write, ‘My normal communications are compromised. I’ll call you from a pay phone at ten A.M. tomorrow morning. You must be available to receive that call. Your friend.’ ”
