Last Snow (22 page)

“Edward,” the vice president said in his deceptively soft Texan drawl, “you can’t deviate from our position now. The press will excoriate you; your own party will accuse you of flip-flopping on an issue you made a cornerstone of your first one hundred days in office.”

There was silence for a moment as everyone looked to President Carson for an answer. He’d staked much of his reputation on this rapprochement with Russia. He’d expended a great deal of political capital on the two bills the Congress had failed to pass. If he failed with the accord with Yukin he risked being dead in the water for the rest of his term—and forget about a second one. No matter his private thoughts on the subject, everyone present knew the president had no choice.

Carson looked over for the young boy, but he was gone now, bundled into the back of one of the anonymous-looking limos. Was he crying still, or had he put his stoic face back on in front of his family?
It’s going to be all right
, Carson thought. Then, his attention returned to the matter at hand, he sighed. “The General is right. For the moment we bury this intel; what we have spoken of here today goes no further.” He turned to his CIA chief. “Bob, in the meantime have your people follow up on this intel. I want specifics. If and when your boys unearth a smoking gun, we’ll move on it, but not a moment before. And Dennis, continue to pursue all avenues regarding the investigation into Lloyd’s death. If there’s something to it I want to know about it pronto. Okay?” He nodded. “Good. Thank you, gentlemen, for your valued input and opinions. Now it’s time to return to Moscow. General, you have just under two hours to get your kit together and hustle on over to Andrews. I want you with me when I meet with President Yukin again. Dennis, you’re with me.”

_____

A
S SOON
as they were in the presidential limousine and on their way to Andrews Air Force Base, Carson turned to Dennis Paull, his longtime confidant, and, slapping the CIA white paper against his thigh, said, “To be honest, Denny, this report concerns me, especially Yukin’s designs on Ukraine. The incursion into Georgia was bad enough, but if he decides to make a move against Ukraine how can we stand idly by?”

“The report is intel, and like all intel it shouldn’t be taken as gospel,” Paull said as he settled back in the plush bench seat. “Besides, after six years of constant battles, our military is in need of withdrawal from the field, the men need time to stand down. But even if the intel is correct it wouldn’t change a thing, would it? Your intent is on record, your position clear.” Pulling a cigar from his vest pocket he stuck it between his teeth and went searching for a match or a lighter. “It doesn’t matter what action Yukin takes or is planning, it doesn’t matter if you like the sonuvabitch or if you hate him. The accord has got to be signed and with all due haste.”

“I agree, but Brandt has been urging me to rush past minor points in the negotiations.”

“Ignore him, get what you want out of Yukin,” Paull said firmly. “But I must point out with the security accord signed Yukin’s hands will be tied, he won’t be able to follow the scenario Bob has outlined, not with us as allies. No, the best way to stave off Russian expansion is to follow through on your promise as quickly as possible.”

Carson threw the dossier aside. “In office less than ninety days and already my hands are dirty.”

“The nature of politics is to have dirty hands,” Paull astutely pointed out as he lit the cigar. “The trick is to govern without being concerned with your dirty hands.”

“No, the trick is to wash them constantly.”

Paull puffed away contentedly. “Lady Macbeth tried that without success.”

“Lady Macbeth was mad.”

“It seems to me that madness is inherent in politics, or at least a preternatural ability to rationalize, which can be a kind of madness.”

“The ability to rationalize is a trait common to all humans,” Carson observed.

“Maybe so,” Paull said from within a cloud of aromatic smoke, “but surely not on such a massive scale.”

Carson grunted. “Anyway, it’s not the first time I’ve gotten my hands dirty.”

“And we both know it won’t be the last.”

Reaching over, Paull pressed a button and the privacy glass slid into place, ensuring that their conversation couldn’t be overheard even by the driver or the Secret Service escort riding shotgun.

“Speaking of which,” he said in a soft voice, “I want to run an investigation on everyone in the cabinet.”

The president sat up straight. “You suspect someone? Of what?”

“Of nothing, of everything.” Paull took the cigar from between his teeth. “Here’s how the situation looks from my particular vantage point, Edward. Frankly, I don’t trust anyone in your inner circle. It’s my opinion that Benson and Thomson have taken steps to ensure they know what your moves will be before you implement them.”

“Denny, what you’re saying—”

“Please let me finish, sir. Consider: Your first two initiatives have been shot down in Congress, embarrassing defeats for a newly elected president. Recall that Lloyd Berns had assured you that he’d have the votes from the other side of the aisle to ensure the bills’ passage, but unaccountably he was wrong. It was as if someone had spoken to the right congressmen before Berns, which could only have happened if the opposition had knowledge of the decisions of the inner cabinet.”

The president blew out a little puff of anxious air. “Come on, Denny. I’ve known you a long time, but this sounds preposterous. What you’re intimating is that a member of my cabinet is leaking information to my enemies.”

“I’m not intimating it, sir, I’m stating it straight out.”

“On the basis of what? Circumstantial evidence, a series of set-backs that are normal—”

“With all due respect, Edward, the string of setbacks we’ve suffered are anything but normal.”

The president made an exasperated sound. “But there could be any number of explanations, all of which might be perfectly innocent.”

“Innocence doesn’t belong in politics, you know that. And, if I may say, in the position you’re in you don’t have the luxury of kicking suspicions into the gutter. If I’m right, your enemies have already started to poison your presidency. We’ve got to short-circuit your enemies, and I mean right now.”

Carson considered for some time. At length, he nodded. “All right, Denny. Begin as soon as you get back to the office. Pick your team and—”

“No. All the work is going to be done by me alone, unofficially, outside the office. I don’t want to leave a trail of any kind.”

The president rubbed his temples. “You know this is the sort of assignment Jack ought to be handling.”

“Naturally, but you and I have sent him on what I trust is a parallel course.”

“I detested lying to him.”

“You didn’t lie, you withheld knowledge, and for a damn good reason.”

“Jack is a friend, Denny. He brought my daughter back to me. I owe him more than I can ever repay.”

“Then trust in his abilities.” Paull stubbed out his cigar. “For the moment, that’s all we can do.”

_____

E
NTWINED, CRADLED
by the softly breathing night, Jack and Annika spoke in the secretive tones of ghosts:

“What do you think is happening beyond these walls,” Annika said, “in the hallway, the other apartments in this building, out on the street, in other sections of the city? It’s impossible to know, just like it’s impossible to know who’s thinking about us, thinking about following us, extracting the secrets we keep so close to us, who harbors thoughts of murder and mayhem.” She turned in his arms. “What are your secrets, Jack, the ones you keep closest to you?”

“My wife left me—twice,” Jack said with a vehemence that was almost like menace. “Who the hell knows what secrets are held inside the human heart.”

Annika waited a moment, possibly to allow his anger to subside, before she said, “What happened on the sofa beneath the Tibetan mandala?”

Jack closed his eyes for a moment as he felt his heart beating hard. “Nothing happened.”

“So you were talking to a ghost, is that it?”

“I was talking to a secret.”

“A secret Alli knows.”

“She and I, yes.”

“This just underscores what I said. We know so little, less than what seems apparent, less even than we believe.” She placed her hand on his arm, moved it down to the back of his hand, tracing the veins. “So you won’t tell me your secret, but I’ll bet it has nothing to do with your wife, or ex-wife, because she’s just a word now and words fade with incredible quickness. It has to do with your daughter, with Emma.” Her fingers twined with his. “Was she out there on the sofa? Is she there now?”

“Emma is dead. I told you that.”

“Mmm. Is she one of the things we don’t know about?”

“What do you mean?” He knew exactly what she meant, but Emma was too intimate, too precious to share.

“I’ve killed a man, as you know, but still I know nothing about death. Do you?”

“How could I?”

“Yes, how could you. I have asked myself that very question many times since I saw you on the sofa, and the answer I’ve come up with is this: I think you know more about it than I do. I think you were talking to death, or something like death, under the Tibetan mandala.”

“What an insane notion.”

He halfheartedly sought to disentangle himself, but she climbed on top of him, reached down for him, her fingers encircling. “We all have insane notions, now and again.” She squeezed gently, bringing him to readiness. “It’s the human condition.”

D
YADYA
G
OURDJIEV
was in the midst of making coffee, strong enough to keep him up for the rest of what remained of the night, when a pounding on the front door set his heart to racing. Setting down the plastic dipper full of freshly ground coffee he stepped out of the kitchen, padded on slippered feet across the living room. The pounding came again, more insistent this time, if that were possible.

“Who is it?” he asked with his cheek nearly against the door.

“Open up,” came the voice from the other side, “or I’ll have the damn knob blown off !”

Figuratively girding his loins for what was to come, Dyadya Gourdjiev flipped open the lock. No sooner had he begun to turn the knob than the door fairly exploded inward. Had he not stepped nimbly aside the edge of the door would have cracked the bone above his eye socket.

Two men rushed inside, one of them slammed the door shut behind them. He was the muscle, the one with the Makarov pistol. The
other man was Kaolin Arsov, the head of the Izmaylovskaya
grupperovka
family in Moscow. Dyadya Gourdjiev had been expecting him more or less from the moment Annika and her new friends had left his apartment.

Arsov had the eyes of a predator and the complexion of a dead fish, as if he preferred darkness to sunlight. Perhaps he was allergic or in some perverse fashion averse to natural light of any sort. He looked like the kind of man you wouldn’t want to cross, a man whose strong arm you’d want with you in, say, a knife fight or a street brawl, even if his judgement was suspect. He’d sell his brother to the highest bidder—Dyadya Gourdjiev knew that he had, in fact, done just that—in order to gain territory and prestige, but once given he’d never renege on his word, which was, in his neck of the world, the only true and lasting measure of a man.

“Gospodin Gourdjiev, what a pleasure it is to see you again.” His lips were smiling, but his eyes remained as cold and calculating as any predator.

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same.” Dyadya Gourdjiev held his ground, which was the only way to play this situation. Arsov could smell fear and indecision from a mile away. Weakness of any kind or to any degree was what he sniffed out, using it like a cudgel against his prey, because for him the world was strength and weakness, nothing existed in between. Not that Dyadya Gourdjiev thought that Arsov considered him prey, but in the end the difference was negligible. Gourdjiev was someone to intimidate, knock around a little, someone from whom he could get information. That was how Arsov would play it, anyway; there were no surprises with men like him, who were akin to steel girders, neither bending nor breaking, thinking themselves invincible.

Arsov shrugged as he swaggered around the living room, picking up a statuette here, a framed photo there, studying them with blank eyes. He returned them in deliberately haphazard fashion, a silent
warning to Dyadya Gourdjiev that Arsov had the power to turn his world upside down. “No matter. I’ve come for Annika. Where is she?”

“In the back of beyond,” Dyadya Gourdjiev said. “Far away from your clutches, I expect.”

“And of course you helped send her there.” Arsov paused in his perambulation and grinned with teeth that were preternaturally long, wicked as a wolf’s. “Wherever
there
is.”

“I don’t know where she is.”

Arsov leered. His breath was sour from vodka, cheap cigarettes, and a stomach that could tolerate neither. “I don’t believe you.”

“I can’t help that.”