Kane stood, pacing in front of the muted television. “Okay, let’s think about this. The Russians are desperate for money and weapons. Their hypersonic missiles are too damn expensive to use in big numbers, and they can’t afford to build them. The Chinese are drowning in money, so offer to foot the bill. Russia manufactures the missiles on Beijing’s dime, handing over what they manufacture as part of the partnership, holding back some so they can use them on the battlefield. Both sides win. Ukraine loses.”

  “That makes sense,” agreed Leroux. “It would be a side deal they couldn’t risk doing through an intermediary. Bullets and Kalashnikovs are one thing. You can pass those through the Iranians or the North Koreans or whoever. But hypersonic missiles are just too tempting. You know if the North Koreans or the Iranians got access to them, a few would fall off the back of the truck, and neither China nor Russia would want countries like that gaining access to that kind of technology.”

  “So, what do we do about it?”

  “I’m not sure. And we can’t even be sure that we are talking about hypersonic missiles. I’m going to brief the Chief, and I have no doubt he’ll talk to Washington. I suggest you get some sleep, and we’ll have more to tell you in the morning. Leave your earpiece in, though. You might get a wake-up call.”

  “Copy that. Good night.”

  Leroux yawned. “Do you have any idea what time it is here? Sweet dreams to both of us.”

  K

  9 |

  Victor Stepanov Residence Moscow, Russia

  Victor sat on a stool at his breakfast bar, powering down a large serving of oatmeal as he scrolled through his tablet, connected to the Internet through a VPN that disguised who and where he was. It allowed him to access international news feeds, though he usually used it to access a friend’s Netflix account in America. This morning, however, he was seeking the truth. He had a decision to make. The document he had been tasked to translate yesterday had been shocking, and he simply couldn’t believe his country had become so desperate to enter into such an agreement. If things were going as well in Ukraine as the president claimed, then there should be no need for such a deal.

  But what he was finding was heartbreaking. America was his country’s traditional enemy, so he was ignoring any American news sources. Instead, he was focusing on British, German, and French. All the reporting was consistent between news organizations and countries. If the rest of the world was to be believed, it was clear his country was the aggressor, had attacked first, was committing unspeakable atrocities, that there was no fascist government in Ukraine, and that it was all a lie.

  Yet he couldn’t believe it. He respected the president, admired him, thought of him as a hero. Men like that didn’t lie to people, not to this extent.

  He pulled up another video making the rounds and flinched as a Ukrainian prisoner smoking a cigarette was shot. Executed. He dropped the tablet, his oatmeal forgotten. What he had just witnessed was a war crime. Murder. There was no denying it. And there could be no possible context in which it was legitimate. Could it be staged? Could it be faked? Could the Ukrainians have executed their own man? All these things were possible, but when taken together with everything he had just read, and what he had read all yesterday evening, he was certain the truth as he had been told was a lie.

  He eyed the tiny memory card sitting on the counter in front of him. He had done something insane yesterday, something that could get him executed for treason, but at the time, he had felt he had no choice. He had used his phone to photograph the pages of the document. At the time, he wasn’t sure why he was doing it. He simply felt compelled to. He had considered showing it to his father, for surely he would agree that what was proposed went too far, but after sober reflection, he had decided against it. His father was too ardent a supporter of the president.

  Last night, he had run through a list of everyone he knew, and he could think of no one he could pass the information on to. He had friends who would be equally outraged, but showing it to them would be pointless, as there was nothing they could do to help. Unfortunately, there was no one individual he could think of that might be able to do something about this.

  But there was a country.

  America.

  The very thought sickened him. To help his country’s enemy against his own, a country he still loved, despite what he had discovered, was unthinkable, but there was no one else who could do something to stop what he had read.

  The question was, how could he possibly pass the information on? He couldn’t exactly walk into the American embassy—it was under constant watch. He would be spotted immediately, his face run against the database, and he would be arrested the moment he walked out. But if he did somehow pass the information on clandestinely, how long would it be before his own people figured out he was behind the leak should the Americans take action?

  He would have to leave his country in order to save it.

  His eyes pooled with tears at the thought, but he could see no other choice.

  The president had to be stopped.

  K

  10 |

  Director Morrison’s Office, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  Leroux struggled to stifle a yawn, failing miserably. Morrison appeared just as tired as he felt.

  “When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

  Leroux shrugged. “I had four hours in the rack, but I don’t know if I slept for more than an hour. Every time I lie down and close my eyes, my mind just starts to go.”

  Morrison leaned back and folded his arms. “I feel the same. I might have got an hour or two as well. Randy will be happy to know that the Pentagon concurs with his theory that the units in question are hypersonic missiles. Washington isn’t too happy with us, however.”

  Leroux’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

  “Well, we assured them they didn’t have more than maybe fifty or sixty of those missiles. If they’re going to be able to deliver fifty of them starting in two days, keep a supply for their war effort, and deliver hundreds more in the not-too-distant future, then they’ve got a stash somewhere we don’t know about.”

  “I just can’t believe they’re doing this. Selling off their showcase weapon, the one thing they have that we don’t, the one weapon we can’t defend against.”

  “Washington thinks there’s more going on here. The reason the Russians don’t have many of these missiles in their armory is because they’re too damn expensive to make, especially with the chip restrictions. Washington thinks Beijing will be overpaying to have the Russians manufacture more of them, plus supplying the missing components, and the Russians will use the profits to restock their own supply. It’s likely a long-term agreement. Basically, the Chinese will be funding the Russian weapons program, and both sides will reap the rewards. If the Russians had a steady supply of hypersonic missiles at their disposal, it could change the course of the war. The Ukrainians wouldn’t be able to defend against them, and the Russians could take out any target they wanted at will. They could keep the Ukrainian power grid and water supply permanently offline across the entire country, and there’d be nothing we could do to stop them. Life would become untenable for tens of millions of Ukrainian civilians, and they’d be demanding their leadership sue for peace.”

  Leroux’s face creased with a frown. “A terrifying thought.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What are Washington’s orders?”

  “They want the deal stopped, but they need proof. Right now, we’ve got nothing. Everything is an interpretation of a very brief conversation between Peskov and a known Iranian arms dealer, and Kane and the man’s executioner. We have no documentation, nothing that we can show to the UN or threaten the Chinese with. We need some sort of proof.”

  “Like photos of ballistic missiles being set up in Cuban jungles?”

  “Exactly. He referred to sites all across the country with stockpiles of these missiles. We need to find those sites and get someone in there to take photos.”

  “And by someone, you mean Kane.”

  “Who else?”

  K

  11 |

  Presidential Executive Office, The Kremlin Moscow, Russia

  Victor sat at his desk with a death grip on his mouse, staring blankly at a New York Times article he was translating. It involved the Western push to ban TikTok and whether the concern was justified. He personally didn’t have it on his own phone, though a lot of his friends did. His father had explained how anyone who would have that app on their device was a fool. Claims that none of the servers were within China, therefore your data was secure, were nonsense. His father had explained about the National Intelligence Law in China, where the executives of the company behind TikTok were located.

  It meant the entire company was subject to the law, and that law essentially stated that if the government of China requested data be handed over, it had to be handed over. It didn’t matter if the servers were elsewhere. Chinese law trumped international law, and certainly trumped American privacy laws. They had already proven there were back doors into the data from within China. All it would take would be for a Communist Party official to whisper in a ByteDance executive’s ear, and if that executive wanted to see the light of day again, he would comply with the order, meaning the communist government of a totalitarian state would have full access to everything over a billion regular users posted. It had already been shown that TikTok used far more data than a typical social media app for the same functions. Why that was, he didn’t know, but he had heard enough from those who did to make certain he avoided the app like the plague.

  Before he had headed for work, news had broken about an attack last night on the home of the president’s chief of staff, Dimitri Peskov. Two of his staff had been murdered, two others wounded, but the gunman, believed to be a Ukrainian terrorist, had been killed, getting nowhere near Peskov or his family.

  And that was why he was shocked to see the prominent bruise on Peskov’s neck when the door to the translation office opened and he stepped inside. Everyone rose out of respect, though Victor was certain it had more to do with fear.

  Sergie, this week’s birthday boy, rose from his desk. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “You handle our Chinese translations, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I need you to come with me.”

  “Is there a particular document you’re concerned with?”

  “One from yesterday.”

  Victor’s stomach flipped and his mouth filled with bile, his heart hammering, his ears pounding.

  “But I wasn’t in yesterday. Are you sure the document was translated by me?”

  Peskov stared at the rotund man. “Wait a minute. Our lead Chinese translator wasn’t at work yesterday?”

  Sergie shifted uncomfortably. “I was feeling poorly, sir. The birthday celebrations got rather out of control.”

  “Then who would’ve translated it?”

  The truth would come out. If he sat here saying nothing while a conversation within earshot that concerned him took place, they would surely know something was wrong. He gulped down then rose. “Excuse me, sirs, I’m not sure which document you’re referring to, however, Mr. Kozak had me translate something for him yesterday morning.”

  Peskov eyed him. “Who are you?”

  “Victor Stepanov.”

  A flash of recognition momentarily crossed Peskov’s face. “Wait a minute, Alexei’s son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Peskov dismissed the idea. “There’s no way you’d have security clearance high enough for this.”

  “I was the only one available, sir. Everyone was, well, off sick. I was made aware of how important it was to keep it secret and not to discuss it with anyone. I get a sense from what I’m hearing, that it’s the same document you’re concerned with.”

  Peskov frowned then beckoned him. “Come with me.”

  Victor forced himself to follow one of the most important men in Russia, a man who could have him killed with a mere nod, a man who had the complete trust of their president. Someone must have figured out he had photographed the pages, but that didn’t make sense. They would have simply come for him directly. Instead, they had come for whoever had translated the document. That could mean there was a leak and they were attempting to figure out who had been exposed to the information, or it could simply be routine. Considering the subject matter, they might want to know who was aware of the agreement, just as a matter of course. The best thing he could do now, the only thing, was to be completely honest, leaving out, of course, the fact he had photographed the pages. Everything else had been by the book.

  They boarded the elevator in silence and Victor’s nerves continued to get the better of him, compelling him to say something to sound innocent. “Sir, I heard on the news this morning what happened last night. I hope your family wasn’t too upset.”

  Peskov regarded him for a moment. “Fortunately, the terrorist never made it to the second floor where we all were. Everyone will probably be on edge for a couple of weeks, then it will be forgotten.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure that’s true. At least the terrorist no longer poses a threat.”

  Peskov’s eyebrows shot up as if puzzled by the statement. “Oh, yes, you’re right, at least there’s that.”

  The doors opened and Victor followed Peskov toward a conference room at the far end of the hall, puzzled. The man’s reaction suggested the official story being reported wasn’t true, that the terrorist wasn’t dead. And if that part of the story was a lie, how much of the rest was? The terrorist never made it to the second floor where the entire family was. If that were true, why did Peskov look like he had been punched in the throat?

  Something more was going on here, and he suspected it was why they were looking for the translator of yesterday’s reply from the Chinese. Was whoever had attacked Peskov’s residence last night after information about the document? It made sense. If the information had somehow leaked, then someone might have indeed attempted to find out more from one of the few men in the country who would know the details. It meant there was someone out there on the right side of this who was obviously trying to stop it.

  It had to be the Americans. The very notion that it was a Ukrainian terrorist was nonsense. Every crime these days was blamed on Ukrainians. And since the war began, a record number of Russian executives had been killed in mysterious falls. It was a running joke among his friends, though only behind closed doors. No one dared speak of it in public. He distinctly remembered the day his father had said at the dinner table, in all seriousness, “If I ever die from a fall, you’ll know I was murdered.”

  That had settled it for him. And with the fact people so powerful could be murdered by those in charge without a second thought, he had to wonder if they would even think twice about killing the son of one of their allies.

  The doors opened and Victor’s heart nearly stopped when he saw the director of the FSB, Ilya Nikitin, sitting at the far end of a table surrounded by file folders and a laptop.

  He regarded Victor, clearly puzzled. “Who’s this?”

  “This is the person who translated the document,” explained Peskov.

  “A child?”

  Victor bristled but chose his battles.

  Peskov explained. “Apparently, everyone else was out sick, so he was tasked.”

  “Well, if that’s not a breach of security, I don’t know what is.”

  “Agreed.” Peskov turned to Victor. “Do you know who this man is?”

  “Yes, sir, Director Nikitin, head of the FSB.”

  “Very good. He’s going to ask you a series of questions. Those questions surround the document you were given to translate yesterday, not the contents of it. You will not mention what was in that document to the director, nor will he ask you what the contents are. Understood?”

  Victor trembled. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. When you’re done, come see me in my office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Peskov left, closing the door behind him. Nikitin pointed to a nearby chair. “Sit. This shouldn’t take long.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Victor took the seat then gripped the armrests. He let go then folded his arms, again second-guessing himself, struggling to figure out what would make him appear innocent. Open pose? He sucked in a breath and leaned back, crossing a leg and gently resting his arms on the armrests, this time foregoing the death grip.

  “You appear nervous.”

  Victor gulped then leaned forward, abandoning his carefully composed demeanor. “To be perfectly honest, sir, if your twenty-two-year-old self were sitting in a room alone with the head of the FSB, wouldn’t you be nervous?”

  Nikitin laughed. “I’d be shitting my pants.”

  “Well, sir, fortunately for both of us, I’ve managed to avoid that so far.”

  Nikitin roared with laughter. “I like you, kid. And if I’m not mistaken, I see a little bit of Alexei Stepanov behind those eyes. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s my father.”

  “I thought the name was familiar, and it’s probably the only way a twenty-two-year-old would get a job in this office. Exciting?”

  Victor nodded, growing a little more comfortable, the man not at all what he had expected. “Yes, sir, very.”

  “It’s exciting being in the know, isn’t it? Seeing things, hearing things that none of your friends are privy to.”

  “It is, sir. Frustrating at times, of course, since I can’t share any of it. But it is fun sometimes to hear a friend give his opinion on something and know they’re completely wrong.”

  “Do you ever correct them?”

  “Never, sir. Ever since I took the job, I’ve learned not to talk politics with my friends. That being said, until yesterday, I’ve never been exposed to anything that I ever thought was actually a secret.”

 

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