Arkangel, page 5
Seichan slipped out of his embrace and stepped to the biometric scanners. After her identity was confirmed, the reinforced steel doors parted. Gray felt his ears pop as the positive pressure ventilation wafted over them, maintaining the clean-room nature of the facility.
They headed together into the lowermost level of the command center.
Gray stared up, picturing the director’s office three flights above.
For better or worse, let’s discover our fate.
4:34 P.M.
Director Painter Crowe remained seated behind his desk as he waited for the latecomers to settle in. A tension headache had taken root behind his eyes.
But, at least, I still have a head.
He had been in his office when the Castle had been bombed. He had heard the explosions, felt the quake of those blasts. The lights had failed for several dark seconds before the emergency generators had kicked in. He had ordered an immediate evacuation of the facility, fearing it might collapse—but in the end, the old WWII shelters had proved to be as bomb-proof as their name attested. The deep bunkers had sustained minimal damage.
As Commander Pierce entered, Monk gave Gray a brief hug and clap on his back. The other returned it with the same affection. They shared a bond deeper than mere brotherhood. It was forged of bloodshed, tragedy, and sacrifice.
Outwardly, though, the two could not be more different.
Monk was a former Green Beret and still looked it, from his stocky bulk to his shaven scalp. The crown of his head barely reached Gray’s chin. He wore a loose windbreaker over a tight-fitted T-shirt with a growling bulldog, a countenance not all that dissimilar to the man’s own face. But that tough exterior hid a mind as sharp and quick as any chess champion.
Gray, on the other hand, stood six-foot-two, with a lean musculature that masked the lethality of his quick reflexes. His ruddy complexion marked his former Texas roots, as if the Lone Star sun had permanently branded him. But his Welsh blood showed in his strong jaw, intense blue eyes, and dark hair, which he kept lanky on top and shaved close on the sides.
Painter waved to the chairs. “We should get started.”
Gray took his seat, but he kept his leather jacket on, as if he did not intend to stay long. Seichan dropped next to him, looking equally impatient.
Painter recognized the tension they were under and their worry for Jack. The pair’s son shared the same safehouse at the edge of Rock Creek Park with Monk’s daughters. The two families had been sheltering this storm together.
The last member of the meeting strode into the room. Kathryn Bryant had been shuffling throughout the day between Painter’s office and Sigma’s intelligence nest, which was her fiefdom and domain.
She touched Seichan on the shoulder as she crossed to Painter’s desk. This gesture—from one worried mother to another—was a warm one. Still, Kat’s manner was otherwise stiff, angry. She carried herself as if she were about to go to war—which might very well be the case.
Like all Sigma members, Kat had a military background. In her case, it was in naval intelligence, but no one would mistake her for a pencil pusher. Like her husband, she had not shed the taut mannerisms drilled into her by the armed forces. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was combed and braided in the back, as conservative as her attire: navy blue suit, crisp white blouse, black leather pumps.
“Now that we’re all here,” Painter started.
“This is everyone?” Gray sat straighter, glancing around. “I thought this was an all-hands-on-deck briefing. In fact, why aren’t we heading off to the conference room?”
“This is a need-to-know sort of meeting,” Painter corrected. “I’ve not even shared this intel with General Metcalf, or anyone at DARPA. In fact, there’s much I haven’t shared with any of you.”
Seichan frowned. “What do you mean by—”
Painter held up a hand. “First, let me say we may have caught a break on the bomber. Unfortunately, what we’ve learned in the last eight hours does not necessarily equate to certain guilt. As you know, every military and government office tied to national security, counterterrorism, and intelligence operations has been hunting for the bomber—or for any organization, domestic or foreign, who might want to target the Mall. But most of those hunters have one hand tied behind their backs.”
“Because they don’t know about us,” Gray answered.
Painter shrugged. “Some do, some don’t, some suspect. Still, failing to know the intended target is a huge handicap. Metcalf has advocated for pulling us out of the shadows, to expose our organization.”
Monk groaned. “Which would cripple our effectiveness.”
“If not destroy us,” Gray added.
“I’ve managed to hold him off for now, mostly because there haven’t been any further attacks. But if that should change . . . ?”
Painter let that question hang in the room for a breath.
Gray finally shrugged out of his jacket and settled deeper in his chair. “What have you learned?”
Painter turned to his second-in-command. “Kat, can you bring up the video from ADX Florence?”
“Give me a moment to transfer the footage.” Kat slid around the desk to access Painter’s terminal.
He moved aside to allow her room, which wasn’t hard. His office could be considered spartan at best. Beyond his mahogany desk, the only nod to luxury was a Remington bronze seated on a pedestal in the corner. It featured an exhausted Native American warrior slumped atop a horse. It had been a gift from his former mentor, Sean McKnight, who had founded Sigma and died to protect this bunker years ago.
And now I may lose it all.
Guilt tightened his jaw as he found himself staring at the bronze.
Sean’s gift was meant to honor Painter’s heritage. When Painter was younger, few people recognized his mixed Native American status, but as he approached fifty, his skin had grown ruddier, his cheekbones more prominent. And while his hair remained dark, a single lock of white now crested over one ear, looking like an eagle feather.
For Painter, though, the statue no longer represented his heritage. It had come to embody his burden as Sigma’s director. The mounted warrior’s face hung low, etched with exhaustion and grief. To Painter, it reminded him of the cost of battle for any soldier.
And maybe that was Sean’s intent in this gift, too.
Kat finally cleared her throat and straightened. “I have the video from ADX Florence keyed up. I’ll bring it up on the left monitor.”
Painter swung around. Three large 8K monitors covered the walls behind and to either side of his mahogany desk. He sometimes scrolled different landscapes to create the illusion of windows in his confined office, but they only reminded him of how trapped he was underground.
“Here we go,” Kat said.
The monitor’s screen filled with a picture of a series of low-brick buildings, cement towers, all surrounded by tall fences encased by curls of razor wire. It was all backdropped by a wall of mountains.
“This is ADX Florence,” Kat said.
Seichan uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “Which is what?”
Gray’s brows pinched with confusion. “The Alcatraz of the Rockies.”
Painter nodded. “It’s a supermax federal penitentiary in Colorado. It houses prisoners deemed to be the most dangerous, especially to national security. One cell block has been dubbed Bomber’s Row, due to the various domestic terrorists who have been housed there over the years. Timothy McVeigh, Terry Nichols, Ramzi Yousef, Ted Kaczynski.”
“I don’t understand,” Monk said. “What does a supermax facility in Colorado have to do with the bombing here?”
“Good question,” Painter said. “It’s why it took us so long to make a connection.”
Kat tapped on the terminal keyboard. “This is footage from inside, from a visitor’s center.”
A grainy video from a closed-circuit security system started rolling on the screen. The image was split, showing both sides of a glass partition that separated prisoners from visitors. The room was deserted, except for a single posted guard and two figures seated at one booth. The pair leaned in close, phones at their ears.
“Is there any audio?” Monk asked as the video ran silently.
“Restricted,” Kat answered. “This was a privileged conversation between a lawyer and his client.”
“Who’s the prisoner—” Gray’s words choked off as the man leaned out far enough to reveal his face. “That bastard.”
“Senator Kent Cargill,” Kat confirmed. “Or rather former senator. He’s better known as Inmate 4593.”
Painter waited for the shock and anger to wane. The man had betrayed his country. His actions had led to hundreds of deaths. Sigma had exposed him a couple of years ago, but prior to that, the senator had also sat in one of these office chairs after his daughter had been kidnapped.
“Kat and her team have been canvassing, reviewing, and interviewing anyone who had knowledge of Sigma Command’s location.”
“And who might hold a grudge against us,” Gray added.
Kat nodded. “It took us this long to come across this video. It was taped a month prior to the bombing.”
Monk sighed. “But what’s the significance of this one meeting between Cargill and his lawyer?”
“His lawyer’s colleague,” Kat corrected. “A junior partner in the firm, according to a background check prior to the visit. It was Jason who noted how this particular visitor was very coy with the cameras, as if they had foreknowledge of their locations in the room.”
Jason Carter was a twenty-six-year-old former hacker who had been recruited by Sigma a few years back. His black-hat skills, raw ingenuity, and sharp eye had earned him a position at Kat’s right side.
“But the lawyer made one slip-up,” Kat said.
She sped the video forward. The visitor leaned down to remove something from a satchel. Kat froze the footage. The camera had captured a three-quarter profile.
“Kat was able to nab a few other photos during the intake process,” Painter added.
She nodded and brought up a row of pictures, some blurry, others full body, of the visitor.
“It’s a woman,” Monk said.
“Not just any woman,” Kat said. “And certainly not the junior associate of Cargill’s law firm. Though, the make-up and prosthetics made her look very much like that junior partner.”
Gray swore harshly.
Monk stiffened.
Kat continued, “The NSA has developed some sophisticated facial-recognition software. Jason improved on it. We ran these images through the program, inputting photos of the most likely suspect.”
“And you got confirmation,” Gray said.
Kat tapped a button. On the screen, the three-quarter profile shed its artifice to reveal a pale, phantom face beneath. Someone they all knew well.
Painter studied those gathered in his office.
Only one of them remained stoic and unsurprised by this revelation.
5:02 P.M.
Seichan shook her head, accepting the inevitable. Sigma had made many enemies over the years, so had she. But there was only one foe whom both she and Sigma shared.
“Valya Mikhailov,” she muttered.
Seichan studied the spectral visage hidden behind the mask on the screen. The features appeared pale, but not as ashen as the woman’s true complexion. Valya suffered from albinism. Her skin was the color of Carrera marble, her hair chalk-white. Yet, defying the assumption that all those afflicted had red eyes, her irises were an ice blue.
The only other blemish—visible even on the ghostly image—was the shadowy remains of a black tattoo. It depicted half of a black sun, casting out kinked rays across her left cheek and brow. It was a Kolovrat, a pagan solar symbol from Slavic countries. It had once been tied to witchcraft but later was co-opted by nationalistic parties, including Neo-Nazis.
But Valya was far from a nationalist of any country.
She and Seichan had both been assassins with the Guild, sisters in the same deadly profession. After Seichan had helped Sigma destroy the organization, Valya had survived, bitter and vengeful. In the power vacuum left behind, Valya had gathered new forces, slowly rebuilding the organization under her own merciless leadership.
Sigma had crossed paths with them several times, embittering both sides.
Gray shifted in his seat, drawing Seichan’s attention from the screen. “Cargill must have told her where our command center was located. Did anyone question him? Confirm that he told her our location?”
“We tried,” Kat answered. “He lawyered up. We’ll get nothing out of him. He certainly doesn’t want any culpability for the bombing placed on his shoulders.”
“So even with this information,” Painter said, “Valya’s guilt is not certain. Her culpability in the bombing has yet to be firmly established. Still, we all know she certainly has motive to attack us.”
“What about opportunity?” Monk said. “Is there any evidence she was in D.C. at the time of the bombing?”
“None,” Kat answered. “If she was here, she covered her tracks well. The problem is that whoever planted those devices knew well enough to stay out of sight.”
“Plus,” Painter added, “there were glitches in eight of the Mall’s surveillance cameras, which happens periodically, but those cameras were likely taken out. We know Valya has plenty of resources at her disposal, while being unbound by the restrictions and restraints put on us.”
“So, she had the means to attack us,” Monk huffed out.
Kat nodded. “With the Castle undergoing renovations—with its spaces gutted and emptied—many of its interior cameras were non-operable. It was the perfect window for Valya to attack. That is, if it was her.”
“Screw if.” Seichan burst up, bumping her chair back. “It was her.”
Gray tried to draw her back down, but she shook free and stalked the edges of the room.
“We all know it’s her,” she said. “We’ve suspected it from the beginning.”
Painter held up a palm. “True, and I have acted accordingly. Like I said, there are some details that I’ve not shared with anyone, not even you all.”
“Like what?” Gray asked.
Kat answered, “Early on, I had compiled a list of the most likely suspects, with Mikhailov at the top. Since the attack, I’ve been in constant contact with various intelligence services, both here and abroad. While Valya herself is a ghost, a handful of her associates—low-level operatives and contacts—are known well enough for us to trace her organization’s movements, not in any granular detail, but enough to glean a general trend of direction.”
“And?” Seichan pressed. “Spit it out. What are you dancing around?”
“After the attack, we suspected she retreated to Eastern Europe, maybe Russia, perhaps to lay low for a spell. It’s also where we believe she’s set up her headquarters. In her home country.”
“Her and her brother’s,” Seichan reminded them.
The room quieted, reminded that Valya’s grudge ran deeper than simply thwarted global ambitions. There had once been another who carried the other half of that black sun, only across his right cheek and brow—Valya’s twin brother. Four years ago, Anton Mikhailov had been killed during a Sigma operation. He had died helping them.
Still, Seichan knew who Valya truly blamed for the loss of her sibling.
Gray cleared his throat. “If Valya’s holed up in Russia, it will be hard for us to reach her, especially with the current political climate.”
“Perhaps,” Painter said, “but having already suspected who we might be dealing with, I took some preemptive countermeasures.”
“What do you mean?” Seichan asked.
Before the director could answer, a commotion erupted at the doorway.
Jason Carter burst into the room. “We’ve got trouble.”
3
May 10, 11:30 P.M. MSK
Severodvinsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast
Captain First Class Sergei Turov waited for the summons. As the commander of the White Sea Naval Base, he had an expansive view from his office of the three shipyards, which glowed through the ice fog of the cold night.
As he stood vigil, frustration warred within him. It was written across the reflection of his face. His ice-gray eyes remained pinched. Deep lines furrowed his brow, under hair that had gone an ashy white. He was dressed in a starched uniform of navy blue. A matching cap sat on the desk behind him.
For the past seven years, the base had been under his charge. He had started his career as a submariner with the Northern Fleet, as a navigational engineer. Forgoing family and a home life, he had risen steadily in rank over the past decades—even as the Soviet Union fell and the Russian Federation formed.
And look where I stand today.
Since taking command, he had seen the base at the edge of the White Sea expand under his leadership. When he had first arrived, the station had housed dozens of submarines and scores of surface ships, all spread across two shipyards. During his tenure, he had built a third yard. He also oversaw the testing of ice-hardened watercraft, amphibious vehicles, and radar systems. Yet, it wasn’t just hardware. A large section of the base was now devoted to training the Arctic Brigade—seamen, marines, and infantry who had to be just as battle-hardened to the ice and cold.
I did all of this.
While he should be satisfied, he rankled at the lack of recognition. The prior leader of the White Sea Naval Base had advanced to vice admiral after only four years and now commanded the entire Northern Fleet.
Yet, here I languish.
And he knew why.
Four summers ago, he had participated in a massive war exercise called Ocean Shield. It had involved bases across the northern coast, encompassing hundreds of ships and three hundred thousand troops. But during the exercise, an engineering mishap aboard an Akula-class submarine had sunk the boat. All aboard had been lost. While the incident had been covered up, the blame fell on his shoulders—undeservedly so. Two months prior, the same sub had undergone repairs in his new shipyard. He had urged for the boat to be held back from the exercise, but Vice Admiral Glazkov had demanded it be included. Afterward, like the sinking of the sub, his reluctance to dispatch the sub vanished from all records.
They headed together into the lowermost level of the command center.
Gray stared up, picturing the director’s office three flights above.
For better or worse, let’s discover our fate.
4:34 P.M.
Director Painter Crowe remained seated behind his desk as he waited for the latecomers to settle in. A tension headache had taken root behind his eyes.
But, at least, I still have a head.
He had been in his office when the Castle had been bombed. He had heard the explosions, felt the quake of those blasts. The lights had failed for several dark seconds before the emergency generators had kicked in. He had ordered an immediate evacuation of the facility, fearing it might collapse—but in the end, the old WWII shelters had proved to be as bomb-proof as their name attested. The deep bunkers had sustained minimal damage.
As Commander Pierce entered, Monk gave Gray a brief hug and clap on his back. The other returned it with the same affection. They shared a bond deeper than mere brotherhood. It was forged of bloodshed, tragedy, and sacrifice.
Outwardly, though, the two could not be more different.
Monk was a former Green Beret and still looked it, from his stocky bulk to his shaven scalp. The crown of his head barely reached Gray’s chin. He wore a loose windbreaker over a tight-fitted T-shirt with a growling bulldog, a countenance not all that dissimilar to the man’s own face. But that tough exterior hid a mind as sharp and quick as any chess champion.
Gray, on the other hand, stood six-foot-two, with a lean musculature that masked the lethality of his quick reflexes. His ruddy complexion marked his former Texas roots, as if the Lone Star sun had permanently branded him. But his Welsh blood showed in his strong jaw, intense blue eyes, and dark hair, which he kept lanky on top and shaved close on the sides.
Painter waved to the chairs. “We should get started.”
Gray took his seat, but he kept his leather jacket on, as if he did not intend to stay long. Seichan dropped next to him, looking equally impatient.
Painter recognized the tension they were under and their worry for Jack. The pair’s son shared the same safehouse at the edge of Rock Creek Park with Monk’s daughters. The two families had been sheltering this storm together.
The last member of the meeting strode into the room. Kathryn Bryant had been shuffling throughout the day between Painter’s office and Sigma’s intelligence nest, which was her fiefdom and domain.
She touched Seichan on the shoulder as she crossed to Painter’s desk. This gesture—from one worried mother to another—was a warm one. Still, Kat’s manner was otherwise stiff, angry. She carried herself as if she were about to go to war—which might very well be the case.
Like all Sigma members, Kat had a military background. In her case, it was in naval intelligence, but no one would mistake her for a pencil pusher. Like her husband, she had not shed the taut mannerisms drilled into her by the armed forces. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was combed and braided in the back, as conservative as her attire: navy blue suit, crisp white blouse, black leather pumps.
“Now that we’re all here,” Painter started.
“This is everyone?” Gray sat straighter, glancing around. “I thought this was an all-hands-on-deck briefing. In fact, why aren’t we heading off to the conference room?”
“This is a need-to-know sort of meeting,” Painter corrected. “I’ve not even shared this intel with General Metcalf, or anyone at DARPA. In fact, there’s much I haven’t shared with any of you.”
Seichan frowned. “What do you mean by—”
Painter held up a hand. “First, let me say we may have caught a break on the bomber. Unfortunately, what we’ve learned in the last eight hours does not necessarily equate to certain guilt. As you know, every military and government office tied to national security, counterterrorism, and intelligence operations has been hunting for the bomber—or for any organization, domestic or foreign, who might want to target the Mall. But most of those hunters have one hand tied behind their backs.”
“Because they don’t know about us,” Gray answered.
Painter shrugged. “Some do, some don’t, some suspect. Still, failing to know the intended target is a huge handicap. Metcalf has advocated for pulling us out of the shadows, to expose our organization.”
Monk groaned. “Which would cripple our effectiveness.”
“If not destroy us,” Gray added.
“I’ve managed to hold him off for now, mostly because there haven’t been any further attacks. But if that should change . . . ?”
Painter let that question hang in the room for a breath.
Gray finally shrugged out of his jacket and settled deeper in his chair. “What have you learned?”
Painter turned to his second-in-command. “Kat, can you bring up the video from ADX Florence?”
“Give me a moment to transfer the footage.” Kat slid around the desk to access Painter’s terminal.
He moved aside to allow her room, which wasn’t hard. His office could be considered spartan at best. Beyond his mahogany desk, the only nod to luxury was a Remington bronze seated on a pedestal in the corner. It featured an exhausted Native American warrior slumped atop a horse. It had been a gift from his former mentor, Sean McKnight, who had founded Sigma and died to protect this bunker years ago.
And now I may lose it all.
Guilt tightened his jaw as he found himself staring at the bronze.
Sean’s gift was meant to honor Painter’s heritage. When Painter was younger, few people recognized his mixed Native American status, but as he approached fifty, his skin had grown ruddier, his cheekbones more prominent. And while his hair remained dark, a single lock of white now crested over one ear, looking like an eagle feather.
For Painter, though, the statue no longer represented his heritage. It had come to embody his burden as Sigma’s director. The mounted warrior’s face hung low, etched with exhaustion and grief. To Painter, it reminded him of the cost of battle for any soldier.
And maybe that was Sean’s intent in this gift, too.
Kat finally cleared her throat and straightened. “I have the video from ADX Florence keyed up. I’ll bring it up on the left monitor.”
Painter swung around. Three large 8K monitors covered the walls behind and to either side of his mahogany desk. He sometimes scrolled different landscapes to create the illusion of windows in his confined office, but they only reminded him of how trapped he was underground.
“Here we go,” Kat said.
The monitor’s screen filled with a picture of a series of low-brick buildings, cement towers, all surrounded by tall fences encased by curls of razor wire. It was all backdropped by a wall of mountains.
“This is ADX Florence,” Kat said.
Seichan uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “Which is what?”
Gray’s brows pinched with confusion. “The Alcatraz of the Rockies.”
Painter nodded. “It’s a supermax federal penitentiary in Colorado. It houses prisoners deemed to be the most dangerous, especially to national security. One cell block has been dubbed Bomber’s Row, due to the various domestic terrorists who have been housed there over the years. Timothy McVeigh, Terry Nichols, Ramzi Yousef, Ted Kaczynski.”
“I don’t understand,” Monk said. “What does a supermax facility in Colorado have to do with the bombing here?”
“Good question,” Painter said. “It’s why it took us so long to make a connection.”
Kat tapped on the terminal keyboard. “This is footage from inside, from a visitor’s center.”
A grainy video from a closed-circuit security system started rolling on the screen. The image was split, showing both sides of a glass partition that separated prisoners from visitors. The room was deserted, except for a single posted guard and two figures seated at one booth. The pair leaned in close, phones at their ears.
“Is there any audio?” Monk asked as the video ran silently.
“Restricted,” Kat answered. “This was a privileged conversation between a lawyer and his client.”
“Who’s the prisoner—” Gray’s words choked off as the man leaned out far enough to reveal his face. “That bastard.”
“Senator Kent Cargill,” Kat confirmed. “Or rather former senator. He’s better known as Inmate 4593.”
Painter waited for the shock and anger to wane. The man had betrayed his country. His actions had led to hundreds of deaths. Sigma had exposed him a couple of years ago, but prior to that, the senator had also sat in one of these office chairs after his daughter had been kidnapped.
“Kat and her team have been canvassing, reviewing, and interviewing anyone who had knowledge of Sigma Command’s location.”
“And who might hold a grudge against us,” Gray added.
Kat nodded. “It took us this long to come across this video. It was taped a month prior to the bombing.”
Monk sighed. “But what’s the significance of this one meeting between Cargill and his lawyer?”
“His lawyer’s colleague,” Kat corrected. “A junior partner in the firm, according to a background check prior to the visit. It was Jason who noted how this particular visitor was very coy with the cameras, as if they had foreknowledge of their locations in the room.”
Jason Carter was a twenty-six-year-old former hacker who had been recruited by Sigma a few years back. His black-hat skills, raw ingenuity, and sharp eye had earned him a position at Kat’s right side.
“But the lawyer made one slip-up,” Kat said.
She sped the video forward. The visitor leaned down to remove something from a satchel. Kat froze the footage. The camera had captured a three-quarter profile.
“Kat was able to nab a few other photos during the intake process,” Painter added.
She nodded and brought up a row of pictures, some blurry, others full body, of the visitor.
“It’s a woman,” Monk said.
“Not just any woman,” Kat said. “And certainly not the junior associate of Cargill’s law firm. Though, the make-up and prosthetics made her look very much like that junior partner.”
Gray swore harshly.
Monk stiffened.
Kat continued, “The NSA has developed some sophisticated facial-recognition software. Jason improved on it. We ran these images through the program, inputting photos of the most likely suspect.”
“And you got confirmation,” Gray said.
Kat tapped a button. On the screen, the three-quarter profile shed its artifice to reveal a pale, phantom face beneath. Someone they all knew well.
Painter studied those gathered in his office.
Only one of them remained stoic and unsurprised by this revelation.
5:02 P.M.
Seichan shook her head, accepting the inevitable. Sigma had made many enemies over the years, so had she. But there was only one foe whom both she and Sigma shared.
“Valya Mikhailov,” she muttered.
Seichan studied the spectral visage hidden behind the mask on the screen. The features appeared pale, but not as ashen as the woman’s true complexion. Valya suffered from albinism. Her skin was the color of Carrera marble, her hair chalk-white. Yet, defying the assumption that all those afflicted had red eyes, her irises were an ice blue.
The only other blemish—visible even on the ghostly image—was the shadowy remains of a black tattoo. It depicted half of a black sun, casting out kinked rays across her left cheek and brow. It was a Kolovrat, a pagan solar symbol from Slavic countries. It had once been tied to witchcraft but later was co-opted by nationalistic parties, including Neo-Nazis.
But Valya was far from a nationalist of any country.
She and Seichan had both been assassins with the Guild, sisters in the same deadly profession. After Seichan had helped Sigma destroy the organization, Valya had survived, bitter and vengeful. In the power vacuum left behind, Valya had gathered new forces, slowly rebuilding the organization under her own merciless leadership.
Sigma had crossed paths with them several times, embittering both sides.
Gray shifted in his seat, drawing Seichan’s attention from the screen. “Cargill must have told her where our command center was located. Did anyone question him? Confirm that he told her our location?”
“We tried,” Kat answered. “He lawyered up. We’ll get nothing out of him. He certainly doesn’t want any culpability for the bombing placed on his shoulders.”
“So even with this information,” Painter said, “Valya’s guilt is not certain. Her culpability in the bombing has yet to be firmly established. Still, we all know she certainly has motive to attack us.”
“What about opportunity?” Monk said. “Is there any evidence she was in D.C. at the time of the bombing?”
“None,” Kat answered. “If she was here, she covered her tracks well. The problem is that whoever planted those devices knew well enough to stay out of sight.”
“Plus,” Painter added, “there were glitches in eight of the Mall’s surveillance cameras, which happens periodically, but those cameras were likely taken out. We know Valya has plenty of resources at her disposal, while being unbound by the restrictions and restraints put on us.”
“So, she had the means to attack us,” Monk huffed out.
Kat nodded. “With the Castle undergoing renovations—with its spaces gutted and emptied—many of its interior cameras were non-operable. It was the perfect window for Valya to attack. That is, if it was her.”
“Screw if.” Seichan burst up, bumping her chair back. “It was her.”
Gray tried to draw her back down, but she shook free and stalked the edges of the room.
“We all know it’s her,” she said. “We’ve suspected it from the beginning.”
Painter held up a palm. “True, and I have acted accordingly. Like I said, there are some details that I’ve not shared with anyone, not even you all.”
“Like what?” Gray asked.
Kat answered, “Early on, I had compiled a list of the most likely suspects, with Mikhailov at the top. Since the attack, I’ve been in constant contact with various intelligence services, both here and abroad. While Valya herself is a ghost, a handful of her associates—low-level operatives and contacts—are known well enough for us to trace her organization’s movements, not in any granular detail, but enough to glean a general trend of direction.”
“And?” Seichan pressed. “Spit it out. What are you dancing around?”
“After the attack, we suspected she retreated to Eastern Europe, maybe Russia, perhaps to lay low for a spell. It’s also where we believe she’s set up her headquarters. In her home country.”
“Her and her brother’s,” Seichan reminded them.
The room quieted, reminded that Valya’s grudge ran deeper than simply thwarted global ambitions. There had once been another who carried the other half of that black sun, only across his right cheek and brow—Valya’s twin brother. Four years ago, Anton Mikhailov had been killed during a Sigma operation. He had died helping them.
Still, Seichan knew who Valya truly blamed for the loss of her sibling.
Gray cleared his throat. “If Valya’s holed up in Russia, it will be hard for us to reach her, especially with the current political climate.”
“Perhaps,” Painter said, “but having already suspected who we might be dealing with, I took some preemptive countermeasures.”
“What do you mean?” Seichan asked.
Before the director could answer, a commotion erupted at the doorway.
Jason Carter burst into the room. “We’ve got trouble.”
3
May 10, 11:30 P.M. MSK
Severodvinsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast
Captain First Class Sergei Turov waited for the summons. As the commander of the White Sea Naval Base, he had an expansive view from his office of the three shipyards, which glowed through the ice fog of the cold night.
As he stood vigil, frustration warred within him. It was written across the reflection of his face. His ice-gray eyes remained pinched. Deep lines furrowed his brow, under hair that had gone an ashy white. He was dressed in a starched uniform of navy blue. A matching cap sat on the desk behind him.
For the past seven years, the base had been under his charge. He had started his career as a submariner with the Northern Fleet, as a navigational engineer. Forgoing family and a home life, he had risen steadily in rank over the past decades—even as the Soviet Union fell and the Russian Federation formed.
And look where I stand today.
Since taking command, he had seen the base at the edge of the White Sea expand under his leadership. When he had first arrived, the station had housed dozens of submarines and scores of surface ships, all spread across two shipyards. During his tenure, he had built a third yard. He also oversaw the testing of ice-hardened watercraft, amphibious vehicles, and radar systems. Yet, it wasn’t just hardware. A large section of the base was now devoted to training the Arctic Brigade—seamen, marines, and infantry who had to be just as battle-hardened to the ice and cold.
I did all of this.
While he should be satisfied, he rankled at the lack of recognition. The prior leader of the White Sea Naval Base had advanced to vice admiral after only four years and now commanded the entire Northern Fleet.
Yet, here I languish.
And he knew why.
Four summers ago, he had participated in a massive war exercise called Ocean Shield. It had involved bases across the northern coast, encompassing hundreds of ships and three hundred thousand troops. But during the exercise, an engineering mishap aboard an Akula-class submarine had sunk the boat. All aboard had been lost. While the incident had been covered up, the blame fell on his shoulders—undeservedly so. Two months prior, the same sub had undergone repairs in his new shipyard. He had urged for the boat to be held back from the exercise, but Vice Admiral Glazkov had demanded it be included. Afterward, like the sinking of the sub, his reluctance to dispatch the sub vanished from all records.
