Good boy, Kramer thought.

  "You don't think we should take this to the UN?" Campbell said. "I would prefer a diplomatic solution."

  "That hasn't done any good in the past, Mister President. Something stronger is needed this time."

  Campbell looked at Kaplan as if he'd grown three heads.

  "You think a military response is required?"

  "All I'm saying is that the UN has not helped us before, when it comes to dealing with the Russians."

  "For once I agree with Harold," Kroger said. "Mister President, I think we need to make a measured military response to this outrageous provocation."

  "I concur," Admiral Stone said. "We could take out the missile site that brought down our plane. That would be a limited and appropriate response."

  "There will be Russians at that site," Demarest said.

  "Tough," Dixon said. "They can't have it both ways. Either the Syrians are responsible, or the Russians are. If they maintain the fiction that it was the Syrians, then they can't make a public stink if some of their personnel are killed when we retaliate."

  "Walter? What do you think?" Campbell asked.

  Covington cleared his throat before answering.

  "I don't like it, but I don't think we have a choice. Harold makes a good point. We could go to the UN and try the diplomatic route, but we all know it's a waste of time. In the end nothing will come of it. I'm concerned about Director Kramer's comment, that this incident may be a strategic distraction orchestrated by Tarasov's generals. Perhaps if we show resolve now, we can avert war later."

  "Well put," Admiral Stone said.

  "I agree," Kramer said.

  "A limited response would be an effective message," Kaplan said.

  "I can prepare a diplomatic statement justifying our actions," Demarest said.

  "We have to draw a line," Dixon said.

  Campbell looked around the room and sighed. They were all agreed. He'd asked for their advice. He hoped he wasn't about to make things worse.

  "Admiral Stone."

  "Yes, Mister President?"

  "Order your people to take out that missile site. I don't want to hear about civilian collateral damage. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir, very clear. It will be a surgical strike."

  A presidential aide came into the room.

  "Sir, the British ambassador is about to arrive."

  "I'll be right there," Campbell said.

  Campbell stood. The others got to their feet.

  "Admiral Stone, keep me informed. And God help us if this goes wrong."

  Chapter 61

  Two days had passed since Stepanov had pulled Anya out of the interrogation with Ivanov. He hadn't sent for her since then. She was beginning to worry.

  It was true Stepanov had enemies who might try to use her as a way to bring him down. She worried that he might have decided she was too much of a risk. Without his patronage, she was vulnerable. Even if Ivanov was out of the picture, his superiors would never let it go.

  She was trapped. She had to convince Stepanov he needed her. There had been moments with him when he'd seemed to genuinely like her. He'd begun to trust her, but Ivanov's cameras had destroyed that. She had to find a way to restore that trust and regain his confidence.

  She could call Michael and tell him what had happened, but what difference would it make? He couldn't do anything about it. She couldn't run to him for comfort every time she got nervous. She wished there was a way to reach him without calling. A place to leave and receive messages. What did they call it in the spy stories, a drop spot? Something like that.

  Anya was home, in the apartment. She'd fixed dinner for her mother not long before. She cleaned up the kitchen, went into the living room, and sat down on the couch. Yulia was watching reruns of Streets of Broken Lights, a long-running crime show.

  "It's terrible, these criminals, how they act," Yulia said.

  "It's only a television show, mother."

  "No, it's real, Anya. Thank goodness we have such brave policemen to protect us."

  There was no point in trying to point out the flaws in Yulia's thinking. Suddenly the program was interrupted. The picture on the screen changed to the main newsroom of Channel 3. A moving banner on the bottom of the screen announced Breaking News in flashing white letters against a red background. Cameras zoomed in on the anchor. His face was stern. Anyone watching instantly knew something serious had happened.

  "American missiles have struck a defensive installation near Damascus built to protect our Syrian allies from Western aggression. Several Russian citizens volunteering at a humanitarian relief shelter nearby were killed in the explosions. President Tarasov will discuss this reckless crime in an address to the nation tomorrow morning. Stay tuned to Channel 3 for developments as they come in. We now return to our regular programming."

  The police drama resumed.

  "The Americans would never dare do something like that if the Party was still in charge," Yulia said.

  "Times are different now, mother."

  Her mother began breathing heavily.

  "They may be different, but they're not better. When the Party was in power, we had order. The world respected us. Not like now."

  "Don't get upset. It's not worth it."

  Yulia's voice became loud.

  "Don't tell me not to get upset! Don't tell me it's not worth it! You never knew the pride we felt in the strength of the Party."

  Yulia's face was becoming red. Anya looked at her with alarm.

  "Please, mother, calm yourself. Remember your blood pressure."

  "Quack doctors. My blood pressure is fine. It's...Oh."

  Yulia grasped her left arm.

  "Oh. It hurts."

  "Mother!"

  Yulia's face contorted with pain. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a choking sound. She pitched forward onto the floor.

  "No." Anya jumped to her feet. "Mother!"

  Yulia gave a long, shuddering gasp and stopped breathing. Her eyes stayed open.

  Anya was stunned. She'd been annoyed with her mother earlier, when she'd criticized the dinner Anya had made. Yulia was always complaining. She'd wished then that her mother would stop. Now there would be no more complaints.

  Feelings of guilt filled her.

  Anya knelt down on the floor and brushed hair from Yulia's forehead, then gently closed the eyes.

  She remembered what it was like when her mother was young, still full of vitality. Before she became bitter. Before she became lost in memories of a glorious Soviet world that had never existed. Everything Yulia had been or wanted to be was gone, reduced to this lifeless shell lying on the floor in front of her.

  First Mikhail had been taken from her, then Grigori. Now her mother was gone.

  There was no one left.

  Anya held her hands to her face and began to weep.

  Chapter 62

  Scott Davidson was a man of little humor who took life seriously. It was ingrained in his genes, part of his New England heritage, as was his Ivy League education. He came from "old" money. His father was chairman of a prestigious alliance of major banks.

  His family background, his trust fund, and his gift for flattering those who could help him meant he was noticed. In college, he'd been initiated into a secret society that had long provided a significant share of America's leaders.

  Shortly after graduation, Davidson had been invited to a private dinner on an exclusive estate outside of the city for members of the society. Among the guests were a Supreme Court judge, a senator beginning his fourth term, and a man who took him aside and introduced himself as the Director of the CIA.

  By the time dessert was served, Davidson's career had been chosen for him. All these years later, it was only a question of time before Kramer's office became his.

  Scott Davidson looked at the file on OPERA and tossed it down on his desk in disgust. Damn it, he was the Deputy Director of the CIA. If he wanted to designate himself as primary handler of an asset, he damn well ought to be able to do so. Letting Thorne handle her was adding insult to injury. Thorne should have been fired years ago.

  Thorne was a problem, everyone knew that. He didn't show the proper respect to his superiors. Kramer knew that. So why the hell didn't she get with the program and hand OPERA over to him?

  He knew why. She enjoyed playing power games. As long as she was the boss, he had to do what she wanted whether he liked it or not. Davidson didn't like playing second fiddle to Kramer. OPERA was bringing the underlying friction between them to the surface.

  He swiveled in his comfortable chair to look out the office windows. The view from the seventh floor was much more than the sprawling Langley complex and the pleasant Virginia countryside. It was a view of power. It reminded him that he was literally next door to the kind of power most people could only dream of. If Kramer was forced out, the president would appoint him in her place. Why wouldn't he? No one was better positioned, and Davidson had powerful friends who would make sure he got the job.

  Perhaps he could use OPERA to engineer Kramer's downfall, find a way to make sure Thorne screwed up. If something went wrong, the axe would fall on Kramer's neck, not his. He might be able to get rid of Kramer and Thorne at the same time, two birds with one stone. That happy thought made him smile.

  Davidson looked at his watch. It was almost time for the morning briefing with her, a half hour or so spent reviewing the latest threats and intelligence that had come in during the night.

  He got up, put the file in the wall safe, and locked it. He spun the dial. Then he went to the door adjoining Kramer's suite, knocked, and went in.

  A few moments later there was a knock on Davidson's door. When there was no response, it opened and Ed Bradford entered the room. He was carrying a file, an excuse for being there.

  Bradford knew all about the daily morning meetings between Davidson and Kramer. Keeping an eye on the door leading into Kramer's suite, he went to the wall safe and noted the number where the dial rested. Then he dialed in the combination and opened the safe. The combination was on a need-to-know basis. Bradford didn't need to know, but he'd been in this office when Davidson had opened the safe. He'd stood nearby and watched the dial turn. His eidetic memory took care of the rest, the same way he'd learned the combination to the outer office door.

  The OPERA file lay in front. When Bradford saw what was inside, he knew he'd struck gold. He took out his phone and began taking pictures. Sometimes the Russians were reluctant to part with their cash, but they'd pay well for this. Finding out that a highly placed Russian Colonel was passing information to Langley would be worth a large payment to his Cayman Island account.

  In a community of people who spent their days seeking out hidden information, it was difficult to keep some things from becoming known. Rumors were spreading that there was a mole. Bradford had decided it was almost time to disappear, and this file would give him enough to do it.

  Langley's mole catchers were good. Bradford had no desire to spend the rest of his life locked up in a Super Max prison. He'd been careful, but sooner or later they would discover his identity. It was time to head for someplace warm, someplace where they would never find him. Someplace where they put little umbrellas in the drinks and the women were easy. Where he could let the good times roll, away from his nagging, domineering, boring wife. Where he could live the life he wanted and deserved.

  When he was done copying the file, he put it back in the safe, closed the door and reset the dial to where it had been.

  He looked around to make sure everything was as it had been and left the room, humming to himself.

  Chapter 63

  Thorne watched Tarasov's address to the Federation on Finnish TV. When it was over, he turned off the television, thinking about what it might mean. There was nothing surprising in the speech. Tarasov had made the usual kinds of indignant protestations and excuses.

  According to Tarasov, the Russians killed in the American attack had been providing humanitarian relief to the Syrian people. The Americans were militaristic, imperialistic, warmongers. The Russians wanted only peace and prosperity for all peoples of the world, blah, blah, blah.

  It would be easy to dismiss the words as typical Russian bullshit, but something in Tarasov's expression and body language made Thorne's scalp tingle. The Russian president was lying. That wasn't unusual, but he was hiding something. What was it?

  He hadn't talked about retaliation. Instead, he'd cast himself as acting more in sorrow than in anger. He had assured the Russian people he would present his case to the United Nations, in the hope diplomacy would soften America's warlike heart.

  Tarasov resulting to genuine diplomacy was about as believable as recent tabloid articles claiming Bigfoot had appeared in Washington with a message for the president from extraterrestrials. Compared to Tarasov's speech, the Bigfoot story was higher on Thorne's scale of credibility.

  Thorne had lost count of the times he'd seen public opinion shaped by people who wanted everyone to believe a big lie. It was child's play to manipulate public opinion, if you had control of the media. The Nazi master of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, had spelled it out so anyone could understand.

  If you wanted someone to believe a lie, you mixed it with a tiny bit of truth and repeated it over and over and over again, until people believed it. At the same time, you made sure the larger truth was censored and concealed. That way no one was bothered by inconvenient facts that didn't fit the narrative. The lie became the truth. Soon everyone was convinced it had always been that way.

  Sometimes he wondered why such a simple method was so effective. Then again, human psychology being what it was, it wasn't hard to understand. People wanted to believe what their leaders told them. They wanted to live in a world where they felt safe, or at least a world where someone in control made them feel that way.

  That wasn't Thorne's world. If there was a truth he lived by, it was that safety was an illusion.

  He hadn't heard anything from Anya since the last time they'd talked. That didn't have to mean anything. It could be days or weeks before she discovered something he needed to know about. All the same, he had a bad feeling time was running out. If she was right in thinking the Russian high command was planning war, then there might not be weeks left to head it off.

  He was worried about her. It was more than that, he missed her. He wanted to hear her voice, to touch her. It was frustrating, waiting for her to contact him. Feeling frustrated went with the territory. He was stuck here in Helsinki, pretending to be someone interested in importing saunas. His cover was wearing thin in more ways than one.

  His phone buzzed. Carlson.

  "Thorne."

  "Did you watch Tarasov's speech?"

  "Hello to you too, Lewis. Yes, I saw it."

  "What did you think?"

  "He's planning something. All that talk about the UN and the innocent victims of our aggression is so much bullshit, a smokescreen."

  "Have you heard from OPERA?" Carlson said.

  "Nothing. Not even a high C."

  "Ha, ha, very funny. It happens that Director Kramer agrees with your assessment of Tarasov. I want you to contact OPERA and find out what that Russian prick is planning."

  "Wait a second, Lewis. She would have made contact if she'd come across anything new."

  "She may be in trouble. We have another source, a low-level asset in the GRU. OPERA was picked up for interrogation a few days ago. They were about to arrest her, but Stepanov intervened."

  Thorne tensed as he heard the words. They felt like blows.

  "What? You didn't think I needed to know that right away?"

  "What difference would it have made? I only learned about it this morning. I'm telling you now."

  "Damn it, Lewis. Why did they pick her up?"

  "She was seen talking with the man who helped her contact our embassy. The one who died while they were interrogating him, Sokolov."

  "We need to think about pulling her out of there."

  "She's not going anywhere, Thorne. You are not authorized to extract her."

  "You called me to say you think she could be in trouble, but you don't think being picked up by the GRU is reason enough for extraction?"

  "They let her go, didn't they?"

  "That doesn't mean anything. It could be a ploy. They could be waiting for her to make a mistake."

  "Which is another reason you need to contact her. She's not a professional. You can give her the benefit of your experience. Go to Moscow. Meet with her. Give her a secure phone she can use. It's already on the way to you. You'll have it within a half-hour."

  "She didn't want a transmitter. What makes you think she'll take a phone?"

  "She doesn't have a choice about it. We can't indulge her. She's playing in the big game and she needs to step up to the plate."

  "Please, Lewis. Spare me the corny sports analogies."

  "Whatever. Talk to her. She said they were planning something big. What is it? By now, she must have some idea. The White House is pushing Kramer, and she's pushing me. Shit rolls downhill, Thorne. I need answers, and I want you to get them from her."

  "What if she doesn't have any?"

  "For her sake and yours, you'd better hope she does. If you can't come up with something, Kramer will probably turn her over to Davidson."

  "Davidson is an idiot. He'll do something stupid and get her blown. The only reason he wants to run OPERA is because he thinks it will give him points when it comes time to appoint the next Director."

  "Yeah, well. Go talk to her and bring back some useful intelligence, then everyone will be happy."

  "It's not a good idea to meet without setting it up ahead of time."

  "I have every confidence in you, Thorne. You'll figure something out."

  "Now you're really making me nervous."

  "Get it done. I'll expect to hear from you within the next couple of days."

  "Lewis..."

  He was talking to dead air.

  Chapter 64