Treason, page 30
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Above Andropov’s dacha in the Siberian hinterland, five Trident warheads, already separated from the missile’s third stage, descended through the atmosphere at four miles per second. Just before impact, the warhead nose cones separated, releasing dozens of heavy tungsten rods, which spread evenly in a circular pattern centered around a single dacha. The tungsten rods impacted the ground with the destructive force of over one hundred tons of TNT, obliterating everything inside a three-thousand-square-foot circle.
93
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Inside the White House, there are three dining rooms: the President’s Dining Room in the West Wing, often referred to as the Oval Office Dining Room; the first family’s private dining room in the Prince of Wales Room on the second floor; and the most formal of the three, the Family Dining Room on the first floor. It was just before noon when Christine O’Connor followed the president into the Prince of Wales Room, where they sat opposite each other at a round mahogany table. Servants brought in their lunch; nothing lavish, just Caesar salad with a grilled chicken breast cut into strips.
Christine concluded that the choice of venue for today’s lunch indicated something important was on the agenda. The president was likely to make one final effort to convince her to withdraw her resignation. The extra effort wouldn’t be required, however. She’d already decided to continue serving as his national security advisor.
The last few weeks had been hectic overall, but the quiet hours hiding in the forest with President Kalinin and the long flight back from Moscow had provided Christine with the opportunity to reflect on everything she’d done over the past three years. What crystallized her thoughts was watching Harrison put a bullet in the head of a defenseless man in the Ministry of Defense security center to coerce the other watchstander into opening the control center doors. It was no different than what she’d done in China.
Her actions during the last three years, except in one instance, had been driven by the desire to save lives. The singular case, putting a gun in Gorev’s mouth and pulling the trigger, had been driven by revenge alone and had been the catalyst for the crisis that led to her resignation. However, President Kalinin’s assessment during dinner at Gelendzhik had been correct. She was holding herself to too high a standard, one requiring her to make the correct decision every time, regardless of the circumstances. That she had trouble dealing with why she’d killed Gorev was a good thing, she concluded.
Christine had finally worked her way through what she’d done over the last three years. She was about to inform the president that she was pulling her letter of resignation and was looking forward to working for him another five years—after his reelection next year, of course—when the president spoke first.
“I’ve hired a new national security advisor who will start next week.”
Christine was at a momentary loss for words. She dropped her eyes to her plate and poked her fork through her salad. She hadn’t expected to be replaced so easily. The president had often commented on how valuable her insight was and how fortunate he was to have her as his NSA. Now, she’d been tossed aside. She had only herself to blame, though. She’d handed him her resignation.
The president continued, “We’ve both held up our end of the agreement. You’ve completed the nuclear arms negotiations with Russia, and I’ve accepted your resignation.”
Christine searched for an appropriate response, settling on, “Thank you, Mr. President.” She forced a smile.
The president was silent for a while, watching her as she brought a piece of chicken to her mouth and chewed slowly. The president said, “I think it’s for the best.”
She didn’t know what else to say; she just wanted to leave before her voice or face betrayed her feelings. She placed her fork on her plate and wiped her mouth with her napkin, then placed it on the table, signaling she was done. She’d have to wait for the president, however, who still had a fork in one hand and knife in the other.
The president cut into a strip of chicken as he asked, “Have you given much thought to what you’d like to do next?”
She had, but wasn’t about to tell him she’d decided to pull her resignation. “I’ve received several offers over the last few years. After I’ve turned matters over to the new NSA, I’ll look into them.” She considered asking who the new NSA was, but decided otherwise. She’d rather not think about who would so easily replace her.
The president chewed his chicken thoughtfully, then said, “I’ve got an idea.” Instead of explaining, he took a sip of water.
Christine knew the president well enough to know he was dragging the discussion out. To what end, she didn’t know. She played her part.
“Something interesting?”
“I think so.” The president brought another forkful to his mouth. After swallowing, he smiled.
Christine’s curiosity was piqued. But before she could ask her next question, the president said, “Director Cherry is retiring next month.”
Another sip of water.
Christine wondered about the sudden change of topic, from discussing her next job to the CIA director’s retirement. Unless—
She stared at the president in disbelief. “You’re not serious.”
“I am,” the president said.
“Let me get this straight. I offered my resignation as NSA because I’ve been getting into too much trouble, and your solution is to make me the director of the CIA?”
“Exactly. You’ll be well-insulated in your white palace at Langley. You’ll have plenty of operatives around the world to do the heavy lifting and keep you out of trouble. But I’ll expect you to immerse yourself sufficiently in the details to keep tabs on what the agency is actually doing. That’s why I’m offering you the job. I’m not saying I don’t trust the CIA, but I am saying I need someone I can trust inside the organization.”
“You want a spy inside your spy agency?”
“You could put it that way.”
“What’s going on?”
“Career spies are very good at hiding things, and I need someone smart and persistent enough to separate the wheat from the chaff. Cherry was excellent at it, and I need a replacement just as good.”
Christine considered the proposal. CIA directors were political appointees, their exposure to CIA operations often limited to their time on a House or Senate intelligence committee. She had more relevant experience than many of her predecessors. Plus, as CIA director, no one would touch her, which offered protection against her current SVR death sentence.
“I need some time to consider,” Christine said.
“I’d like to have your answer by Monday.”
“How about Tuesday? I have a date this weekend, flying back into the country on Monday.”
“An international date? With Kalinin?”
Christine nodded. “There are a few things we need to discuss.”
94
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
In her twenty-seventh-floor suite in the Swissotel Krasnye Holmy, Christine O’Connor examined herself in the full-length mirror before heading out. She was wearing a black V-neck evening dress with an hourglass cutout across her back, filled in with see-through gold mesh spreading across her shoulders, narrowing in the middle, then wrapping around her slender waist. Armed with black pearl earrings and pendant necklace set in eighteen-karat gold, along with black-and-gold heels and matching purse, she was dressed to kill.
Christine checked her watch. It was a few minutes before the appointed time. Kalinin’s executive assistant, Andrei Yelchin, who’d met her at the airport this afternoon, had requested she be ready at 7 p.m. Someone would stop by her room to escort her to dinner with President Kalinin. No further details were provided. As she waited the last few minutes, her thoughts drifted to her pending dinner with the Russian president.
Following his return to power, she hadn’t heard from him until a few days ago, requesting she join him in Moscow. He regretted not being able to spend time with her in a more romantic setting, but he thought it unwise to leave Moscow while dealing with the aftershocks of the military coup. He’d finally carved a weekend free and would be pleased if she could join him.
The secrecy shrouding their relationship remained in place. Kalinin sent a private jet, which she boarded at Reagan National Airport on Friday evening for the overnight flight to Moscow, where she was driven by limousine to the Swissotel, a luxurious five-star hotel in the heart of the Russian capital.
There was a knock on her door at exactly 7 p.m. Christine grabbed her purse, then opened the door to be greeted by Yelchin again, who escorted her to the elevator. They stepped inside, but instead of descending to the lobby, they ascended to the thirty-fourth floor where they were met by an attractive woman wearing a full-length red dress and holding two menu boards, standing between two Federal Protective Service agents in black suits.
“Welcome, Miss O’Connor,” the hostess said. “Please follow me.”
As the hostess escorted them down a short corridor, Christine whispered to Yelchin, “How does she know who I am? I thought my visit was supposed to be discreet.”
He replied, “The staff have signed confidentiality agreements. There will be no word of your or President Kalinin’s visit here tonight.”
“What about others having dinner?”
As Christine stepped from the corridor into the restaurant, there was no need for Yelchin to answer. Two things struck Christine immediately: the restaurant was empty, aside from a bartender and Kalinin at the bar, and the view was breathtaking.
They had entered the Space Bar and Restaurant, a flying-saucer-shaped, glass-encased restaurant with an elegant, modern decor, offering a stunning 360-degree panoramic view of the city. Christine had learned of its reputation during previous visits: a stylish, glamorous hot spot with pricey custom cocktails made by mixologists instead of bartenders, where wealthy men could be found with a beautiful woman on each arm, or where one could observe a man on one knee before his girlfriend, ring in hand, on an almost nightly basis.
Kalinin stood as Christine approached, while Yelchin departed. The hostess escorted Kalinin and Christine to their table on the outer rim of the restaurant with the glass exterior an arm’s length away. After Kalinin helped Christine into her seat and took his own, the hostess handed them menus, and a waiter arrived with two custom cocktails. Christine took a sip. She had no idea what it was, but it was absolutely delicious.
Dinner was ordered and quickly served, along with a bottle of wine—Cabernet Sauvignon, which Christine preferred and Kalinin remembered. They talked throughout dinner, the conversation remaining light except when Kalinin offered details on the recovery from the military coup. Surprisingly, he never steered the discussion toward their personal relationship. It seemed he would let things play out naturally, or perhaps let her be the one to broach the subject.
When dinner was finished, Kalinin escorted Christine to the bar, ordering two glasses of champagne. As Christine sipped her drink, Kalinin led her around the panoramic restaurant, pointing out the sights in the historic city. They concluded their circular tour with a view overlooking the Kremlin and Red Square.
“Now, where were we?” Kalinin asked, “the night we were having dinner, when we were rudely interrupted by General Andropov?”
“I believe we were about to put the past behind us and drink to the future.”
“I remember.” Kalinin raised his glass of champagne and Christine touched their glasses together. “To the future,” he said.
Christine had spent a great deal of time contemplating her future with Kalinin. He was an attractive man, and as far as wealth and power went, he didn’t leave much to be desired. But wealth and power had never mattered to Christine. There were far more important factors to be considered, with the most important being chemistry. She liked Kalinin and had to admit she was physically attracted to him, but there was no spark.
Over the last several weeks and during the long flight to Moscow, she had contemplated how to break the news to him. She was unsure how he’d respond, as men and women were unpredictable when spurned.
“About us. Our future.” She fell silent for a moment, then finally said it. “I don’t think we have one.”
Christine went on to explain her feelings for him, concluding that there wasn’t enough to sustain a serious relationship.
Kalinin nodded. “Your response is not unexpected. It is easy to see that your heart is elsewhere.”
Christine gave him a curious look.
“Your SEAL friend Harrison.”
Christine turned away, staring out across the city. Harrison. There was no future there.
Kalinin continued, “I had to pursue you to the end, just to be sure. Plus, there is another reason I wanted to see you. There is something I wanted to tell you in person.”
Christine turned back to Kalinin as he said, “I never thanked you for rescuing me in Gelendzhik. I must show my appreciation.”
She waited for him to explain.
“What you did to Gorev,” he said, “is forgiven. The SVR death sentence levied against you has been vacated.”
As Christine absorbed the news, it felt like a burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
“Is Director Hippchenko on board with my clemency?”
“It was his idea.”
“Thank you,” Christine said, “and please pass my appreciation on to Hippchenko.”
Kalinin nodded.
No words were exchanged for a while as they looked over the darkening city.
“This man, Harrison,” Kalinin said, “Are you dating him?”
Christine shook her head. “He’s married.”
Kalinin gave her an odd look. “Things are more complicated than I suspected.”
Christine laughed. “That’s an understatement. I probably won’t ever talk to him again.”
Kalinin fell quiet, and she could tell he was evaluating where to take the conversation next. Finally, he asked, “So what becomes of us? Good friends and nothing more?”
Christine pushed Harrison from her mind and turned to Kalinin. “We could be friends or friendly adversaries. Depends on your point of view.”
“I know what you mean. I’m aware your president has asked you to become the new CIA director.”
Christine’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that? We had a private lunch.”
“I have sources in many places. There isn’t much you Americans can do without me learning about it.” After a short pause, he asked, “Do you plan to accept?”
“Maybe I already have,” Christine replied. “Maybe I’m wired right now, recording every word you say.”
Kalinin grinned, then set his champagne glass down. He stepped closer, placing his hands on Christine’s waist. “Now where do you suppose those wires are hidden?”
Christine rested her forearms on Kalinin’s shoulders. “I’m sure you’d like to find out.”
Kalinin smiled, then leaned in for a kiss.
95
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Two weeks after returning from Russia, Christine exited CIA headquarters at Langley and pulled onto the George Washington Parkway, traveling south against the early evening traffic leaving Washington, D.C. It’d been a long day and tomorrow would be even longer. She’d spent the day continuing her turnover with Director Cherry and would spend tomorrow attending the burial ceremony for the SEALs and Delta Force personnel killed in Russia. The thirteen-casket interment would be long, followed by a reception for the grieving families afterward, and she wouldn’t have time to see her parents. Today was more appropriate anyway, since it was her mom’s birthday. It was a half-hour before sunset; just enough daylight left to spend a few minutes with them.
After exiting onto Memorial Avenue, Christine pulled a worn yellow envelope from her glove compartment and retrieved a car pass, which she placed on her dashboard. She turned onto Eisenhower Drive, where a sentry examined the pass and waved her into Arlington National Cemetery. She continued down Eisenhower past the Tomb of the Unknowns, turned left on Patton Drive, then pulled to a halt beside section 70. She headed across the grass, passing gravestone after gravestone before stopping in front of headstone 1851.
There were two names on the marker: Daniel O’Connor on the front, and Tatyana O’Connor on the back. The lawn had been freshly cut and grass clippings were clinging to the headstone. She kneeled before the gravestone and brushed the grass off. She’d never known her father, who died before she was born, and Tatyana had passed away when Christine was in her twenties. It seemed so long ago. Christine was fresh out of college when her mom died, and Tatyana had never seen the woman Christine had become or what she had accomplished.
Childhood memories flooded her thoughts, and Christine smiled as she recalled her mom’s exasperated efforts to transform her from a tomboy into a proper girl. Nature had eventually taken care of things, and the boys that used to consider her one of the gang began to treat her differently. She remembered the first time Jake Harrison tried to hold her hand. As they sat on the edge of the barn loft overlooking his father’s farm, she had no idea what he was doing. When his hand touched hers, she moved hers away to make room for his. She remembered the crestfallen look on his face before he suddenly stood and left.
A reddish-orange light reflected off her parents’ white gravestone. The sun was slipping beneath the horizon, irradiating the cirrus clouds in a pink, red, and orange hue. She pushed herself to her feet, then headed to her car. In the distance, she spotted a man standing beneath a tree, watching her. She slowed her pace, trying to discern who he was. He moved toward her. When Christine finally recognized him, she stopped where she was. It was Jake Harrison.
On the C-32 flight home from Russia with the Navy SEALs, she’d arranged for a seat far away from Jake, then sank into it and closed her eyes. But instead of falling asleep, she relived those last few seconds dangling from the cliff, her hand in his, over and over. When the flight landed, she left without saying good-bye. In fact, they hadn’t spoken since they’d departed Russia’s Ministry of Defense building.
