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SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
PRESENT DAY

The prestigious one-hundred-year-old Rainier Building had been bought in 1991 and had been completely renovated. The first sixteen floors were quite normal, if expensive, two- and three-bedroom condominiums. The seventeenth and eighteenth floors, however, belonged to just one man, the owner of the property and the person who designed the interior of the building: Valery Serta, the son of a Russian immigrant and heir to the vast fortune left to him upon his father’s death in 1962. The family fortune was in the felling of the ancient forests of the great Northwest—forests that filled the pockets of the family Serta since the late twenties and supplied the U.S. markets with rich wood and paper products.

With a twenty-four-hour house staff of twelve, and with a minimum of two on duty at all times, the old man kept them busy with his imperialistic demands. A loner in his old age, the only visitor he took was from his grandson who was now a student at Harvard, and one or two old friends from the logging business. For some reason, that no one who knew him could fathom, Valery Serta never tired of hearing about the destruction of the woods that had covered the area since the dawn of time. He closed his eyes upon hearing the news of another tract of land that had been cleared and raped of the woods that covered it. The enjoyment stemmed from the dark tales his own father had passed onto him, never explaining why the woods and forests of North America held such a bad place in his heart.

The sky outside the Rainier Building was splitting open on this early Tuesday morning. The thunderclap woke the old man and he rolled over to look at the clock on his nightstand. Six thirty. He knew that sleep would not come again once it was so rudely interrupted, so he slowly threw his covers back and sat up. He yawned and felt around in the semidarkness. His thin, liver-spotted hand hit the glass of water and then he cursed in English as some of it splashed onto the expensive wood. He shook his head and reached for the dentures that he had deposited in the glass the night before. Once that was done, he slowly placed his feet into the slippers that had been perfectly placed by his maids the night before.

As he stood and placed a silken robe over his thinning frame, he stopped and listened; more important, he smelled. Sniffing the air he knew something was amiss. Every morning of his life he started the day with a pot of coffee, six eggs, potatoes, sausage, and toast. However, today there was none of those smells coming from the kitchen, which was situated on the open floor plan just below him on the first floor. He shook his head, angry that his most simple routine of the day was being usurped by people that worked for him. He angrily tied his robe and walked to the door and threw it open. As he approached the railing of the upper floor, he saw that the house was completely silent. The shades were open in the living room and the dull, cloud-laden day filtered in, letting in just enough light that he could see things lying on the floor beneath him.

“What is going on down there?” he asked as he grabbed the railing and tried to focus on the floor below.

Suddenly, a streak of lightning flashed through the twenty-foot-by-ten-foot plate-glass window that looked out over old Downtown Seattle. In that brief flash of illumination, he saw the bodies. Each of the twelve had been tied up and shot in their heads. He instantly saw his two female maids in the center of what could only be described as an execution circle with his employees’ feet facing outward. With a yelp of terror, Valery Serta placed his hand over his mouth to keep the scream inside. As he started to back away, the words from the darkness, spoken in Russian, made his hand fall and the scream escaped anyway.

“We figured the view from up here into your living room would allow us to dispense with the threats of violence against you. This way you know we mean business—as your adoptive Americans would say—‘from the get-go.’ ” The last was said in heavily accented English.

Serta turned and saw the man who had spoken was standing in his bedroom doorway. He almost went into shock when he thought that the man must have been in his room the whole time he was sleeping.

“As my partner says, we are here for answers, and we will only ask you one time,” said a smaller man who stepped from the large bathroom across the hallway. He was wiping his hands on a towel, which, when finished, he turned and tossed it on the floor. “As you can see, we will not be disturbed for the time being.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Now, you see, you are asking questions and wasting our valuable time. Did we not say we killed your staff so you would know we were serious men?”

The old man started shaking.

“Relax, comrade. You have to answer one question and one only, before you join your employees. Until that moment, you have no need of being afraid—you will not be mistreated—unless your answer calls for it.” The smaller of the two men stepped closer to Serta. “Why should you answer, you ask?” The small man with the ponytail tied by a leather strip, nodded at the taller man who produced a cell phone and opened it, and then he pushed a single button and then listened. He handed the phone to the old man.

Serta heard a boy crying on the other end of the line. He started shaking even harder than before, enough so that the tall man held the phone for him.

The small man nodded once more. His companion holding the phone spoke a few words in Russian and then closed the cell.

“You recognized the sound of your grandson’s voice, Mr. Serta? He sounds as if he is having a hard time at Harvard University. Now, it is totally up to you on how much of a hard time he has in the next few moments. If you refuse to answer our single question correctly, and on the first attempt, we will cut the young man’s head off.”

Serta looked horrified as the small man pursed his lips, as if the statement he had just made was just as distasteful to say as it was to hear.

The larger man, his hair cut short to this side of cruel, moved Serta into the bedroom and sat him at the foot of the large, ornate bed. The smaller man turned back to the bathroom and emerged a moment later with a glass of water. He offered it to Serta and then sat beside him. The old man shook as he raised the glass to his mouth. He hesitated, and then drank deeply. When he lowered the glass, the smaller man removed the water from his shaking hand. He handed the glass to the large short-haired man.

“There, you have sated your thirst, and I can see you have calmed to an acceptable degree. I believe we are ready to proceed.”

The old man looked at the Slavic faces of the men looking at him. They were Russians, not others from the satellite states or provinces—they were Moscow-bred, just as his own father had been.

“Before I ask, I must warn you, so you don’t waste time thinking about how we gained our fantastic knowledge. We have several people on our payroll who reside at Lloyd’s of London. To be more precise, Lloyd’s—North America, based in New York.” The man smiled when he saw the face of the old man go slack. “Ah, I can see you have realized your mistake.”

“I don’t have—”

The small Russian held up his hand so fast that the old man flinched as he thought he was about to be struck. Then he watched as the man’s eyes once more went to his friend, who remained standing over Serta. He nodded and once more removed the cell phone and then looked at the withered face of the old man.

“If he has to open that receiver, Mr. Serta, your grandson will have a brief moment of pain and then his head will be removed. Now, as I will state the question, your answer should already be formed in your mind. We know you have one half of the Twins of Peter the Great. Where is it? You became paranoid in your old age and requested an insurance quote on a diamond of rather amazing proportions, one pound eight ounces to be exact. That information was forwarded to our offices. So, we have dispensed with the details and now the question has been asked.” The small man slowly removed a large caliber automatic from his coat and then reached into his pocket and removed a short stubby cylinder and started screwing the silencer onto the pistol.

Valery Serta lowered his head and then with a stronger than normal voice, started talking.

“Since 1919, my family has not had to use the diamond for anything other than collateral. It fed my father’s ambition without losing the stone. Yes, over the years I knew that men such as you may track the Twin to my family, so I wanted insurance against that eventuality.”

“After today, you will have no such worry. Now, answer the question.”

“Floor safe in the shower stall—combination is 18-34-17.”

“You have done well. You have followed our instructions, and thus you have saved the life of your grandson—a very noble thing. A thing that people with your family history did not have an abundance of in the early days of the Soviet Union.” The small man stood and then placed the silencer up to Serta’s temple.

“May I ask a question?” the taller and much more muscular man asked as he replaced the cell phone into his jacket.

“Yes, of course,” came the polite answer from his partner.

“Mr. Serta, you wouldn’t possibly know the whereabouts of a certain diary belonging to a former associate of your father’s, would you?”

“How silly of me, I should have thought to ask myself.”

Serta looked up and knew beyond any doubt that these men must be searching for the other missing Twin. Singly, the diamonds were worth a billion dollars on the open market, but placed together as a set, the Twins of Peter the Great would be priceless. He knew he would answer their question, as it would be the only triumph he would have in the few remaining minutes of his life.

“The other Twin was lost with many men, many good men according to my father, somewhere in the Canadian wilderness almost a hundred years ago.” Serta said his piece and then closed his eyes.

“Ah, no more knowledge than we had before. But, there was no harm in asking. Now, there is a rumor of a diary with the description of where the diamond was lost. Do you have information on this missing journal?”

“I have never heard of such a thing. If there was a journal, it would have disappeared with the officer it belonged to.”

“Ah, you see, you think you have lied well enough to deter us from the truth, but in reality you have told us everything. Whoever said it was an officer who wrote in a journal? I see your father was very observant those many years ago. He knew the officer commanding their small expedition wrote in a journal. Now, did your father happen to take that item when he betrayed his officer and stole the diamond?”

“I know of no journal.”

“Ah, I see,” the small ponytailed man said, and then nodded at the large one.

He turned and made his way to the bathroom. He looked around and then shook his head. It was the first time that he had ever heard of anyone building a safe in a shower stall. He stepped up to the rounded, clear-glass enclosure, pulled open the door by the gold-plated handle, and looked at the Tuscan tile. He could see no flaws or anything that would indicate a door. He knelt down and felt around the tile edges, still not discerning any area that might reveal a secret hiding place.

The Russian was just getting ready to stand when he saw what he was looking for. Most would have missed it, but the big man had the instincts of a cat. He reached out and allowed his fingers to play over the drain cover. On the outside it looked like a normal trap, but he had noticed there was no caulking around its edges. His fingers played over the stainless-steel surface, and then he pushed down, and then tried to turn it to the left. The cover didn’t move. Then he tried to the right, still applying downward pressure, and smiled when the drain cover popped free of the tile.

“Now, this is ingenious,” he said under his breath in Russian. The drain cover was actually the dial for the combination safe that was still buried in the tiled shower stall. He turned the facing of the cover and entered the correct numbers that had been covered up by the drain rim. The lights automatically dimmed in the bathroom and the Russian stood. His eyes widened when three floodlights embedded in the ceiling of the bathroom illuminated as the flooring, not in the shower itself, but in the center of the bathroom, behind him, started rising. The floodlights caught the first glimmer of the egg-shaped stone. Then, as the small enclosure rose, the lights struck Peter the Great’s most prized possession—one of the Twins. The diamond had been cut in five thousand different places around the circumference of the egg. The effect was such that when the stone was illuminated, blue, pink, and green shafts of light speckled the white walls of the ornate bathroom.

The large Russian was stunned. With all the treasure they had gathered over the years, this was the most amazing sight he had ever beheld. Not standing on ceremony, he reached out and touched the large diamond egg. It was cold to the touch, and he smiled, wondering how something with such fire inside could be so cool. He grasped the egg and removed it from its glass cradle. He went back to the shower, turned the combination lock, and then depressed the drain cover. The cradle for the Twin slowly started its return to obscurity. The lighting from above dimmed and the regular bathroom light came back on.

“Well, are we that much richer, my friend?” the small man asked, his eyes never leaving the old man beside him.

The large man stepped out of the bathroom, and held up the one half of the Twins to show his partner. “Yes, we are, and always will be, two of the richest men in the world.”

The old man buried his face in his hands and sobbed. The diamond had been in his family since it was taken by his father in a forest long ago. Now it was in the hands of men who would either sell it on the black market or cut it to pieces.

“Come now, you could never have thought to hold such a magnificent treasure as this without unscrupulous men coming after it, did you? Besides, old man, what we are really after makes this small diamond very insignificant. We are after much more than riches; we are after the future.”

The old man looked up, not understanding. Then he realized he wasn’t meant to as the small man stood and pulled the trigger.

As the two men started downstairs, the rain outside had started to dwindle to a heavy mist.

“Now that we have the one Twin, the other will be more of a challenge to find without the pages of the journal.”

“If the cursed thing even exists; remember the KGB from the old days were expert liars, just as we were,” the smaller man said as he buttoned his overcoat. “Our newest ally says he’ll take care of that end of things. All we needed to do was seal this end of the trail so no one can figure out where this diamond was originally taken from. Now it’s up to our new partner.”

“I have to admit, he seems very resourceful.”

“By the way,” the small one asked as they closed the door and entered the private hallway, “did our man at the airport forward the video disc of our arrival to our friend?”

“Yes, I have done as he has instructed, but why would he want video of us coming into the U.S.?”

“I did not ask; he will inform us when we get in the air. I’m sure he has an excellent reason for it.”

Again, the two Russians smiled. Their day had turned out to be full of sunshine, despite the storm that had passed through Seattle that morning.

EVENT GROUP COMPLEX
NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA

The head of the Senate Ways and Means Committee, Senator Lyle P. Casals, knew the feeling of claustrophobia was all in his head. Although it was a fact that he found himself three thousand, two hundred feet underneath the sands of Nellis Air Force Base, he tried desperately to get that little fact to stop entering his mind as he walked alongside the Director of an agency of the federal government he had known nothing about twelve hours ago.

The director of Department 5656, known to the president of the United States and a few others as the Event Group, smiled as the senator from South Dakota wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Niles Compton could not figure out if the man was frightened about the treasures and archaeological finds he had just been shown, or fear that the entire cave system was about to fall on his head. Compton suspected the latter since the bespectacled man kept glancing up at the steel netting that held some of the rock strata in place.

The senator swallowed and then looked up at Director Compton. Niles removed his own glasses and smiled at the Ways and Means representative.

“Astounding is all I can say, Mr. Director. To think that all of this”—the small man gestured around the massive and curving hallways that held no less than one hundred of the largest steel vaults in the complex—“has been kept secret for over a hundred years is completely amazing to me.”

Niles nodded his head and looked around and smiled when his eyes locked on Virginia Pollock, his deputy director. The short and balding Compton felt even smaller standing next to Virginia, who was well over six feet tall. Her hair was loose today, and her green eyes expressive as they always were when she was dealing with politicos. Niles was ashamed he used his assistant’s looks to assist in swaying support from either the numbers cruncher that now stood before them or even the president. Virginia knew this fact, but to her credit, she never said a thing or complained one bit.

“Some of our artifacts would cause a great uproar in the world if we released to the public the fact that we had them.”

“Yes, I understand that. Imagine having the flying saucer from Roswell in our possession. I always thought it was just a story.” The senator lowered his head and swiped at his sweating brow once again.

“You are literally the first American outside of the president to view the vault chambers at this complex, Senator Casals. However, since the damage we sustained last month was so extensive, we couldn’t hide the cost from the House. So here we are, you’ve seen the damage and I hope you understand our reasons for being enough that we can get an appropriation for repairs.” Virginia smiled and batted her eyes twice, not blatantly, but she did make sure the senator saw the movement.

“And your advice to the presidents, past and present, has assisted in making policy with foreign governments? I mean, from historical records and finds?”

“Yes, sir. That’s our charter as laid down by President Woodrow Wilson. We will assist in guiding our country through the minefield of policy making. Mistakes by us and other nations occur on a repeated level that, by the numbers, is unbelievable. We make the same mistakes over and over again. Even now, we are in the process of recovering an artifact from Chinese territory that will hopefully pave the way for better relations with the heir to power in North Korea. If recovered, we believe it will open inroads to that nation that have never been constructed before.”

“How can an artifact do that, as a ‘for instance,’ that is?”

“Well, Senator, I don’t know how well you know your world history, but in Korea in 300 BCE, what was known as the early Common Era, the three largest kingdoms of that nation, Goguryeo, Silla, and Baekje, conquered all the people and land as far as the Chinese border. These three kingdoms came to dominate the peninsula and much of Manchuria. The three kingdoms competed with each other both economically and militarily. The city states of Goguryeo and Baekje were more powerful for much of the era, especially Goguryeo, which defeated massive Chinese invasions. Silla’s power gradually extended across Korea and it eventually established the first unified state to cover most of the Korean peninsula by 676, while former Goguryeo general Dae Jo Yeong founded Balhae as the successor to Goguryeo. This was the first truly powerful nation that would lead to the Korea we know today.”

“I’m not following, Mr. Compton,” Senator Casals said, looking from Niles to Virginia.

Virginia took the senator by the arm and looped hers through his own and walked him alongside one of the larger vaults as two security men followed. Niles looked at his watch and rolled his eyes.

“You see, this General Dae Jo Yeong is to his people what George Washington is to the American people. When the general was only forty-two years old, he was assassinated by the emperor of China, and his body whisked away as a preventative move to keep the general from becoming a martyr. The move failed and he became a symbol for his fledgling nation anyway.” Virginia stopped and looked down into the senator’s eyes, becoming serious. “His body was never returned by the Chinese.”

“I don’t follow how this has anything to do with your very secret department, Ms. Pollock.”

“Could you imagine the trust that would be garnered by whoever assisted in returning the Korean George Washington to his homeland? I think that would go a long way in assuring a new regime in Korea that we can be trusted, in their estimation of us, not to blow their asses to hell if and when we decide to do it.”

“Ah, I see. But do you have the general in your possession?” the senator asked.

“As a matter of fact, we have our security teams there right now negotiating for just that, Senator. We should be hearing from them at anytime,” Niles finished for Virginia.

“Which leads nicely to my next inquiry, Director Compton?”

“And that is?”

“Your security department.” Senator Casals pulled several sheets of paper from his breast pocket and opened them. “You’ll have to excuse me; I took these notes from several personnel files before I left your office. Now, security, oh yes.” He looked up at Compton, who was perplexed as to why his security department was being brought into a budget request. “Colonel Jack Collins. I have read his 201 file, and I must say, for someone as experienced as Colonel Collins, to have him standing guard at what amounts to a historical repository is a trite wasteful in my humble opinion, maybe even a bit of overkill. I would think that with all that’s going on in the world, the colonel’s skills could be better utilized in another arena.”

“Colonel Collins is useful in ways that can never be divulged to you, Senator. I’m sure if you had brought this up to the president, he would have informed you that the colonel’s record and his achievements are out of bounds.”

“Just curious as to why you would need someone with his obvious qualifications in what is really a think tank?” Casals said as he looked from Niles and then at Virginia.

“Jack has done more for the stability of this nation than anyone in either houses, or the other branches of service. I dare say even more than the president,” Virginia said, taking offense to the standards the senator thought their group should stand by. “The colonel is capable of getting out of any trouble. He thinks faster on the run than any man I have ever known. If he gets in trouble, he gets out of it. He doesn’t fall into traps, Senator; he sees trouble coming and avoids it, which is how he keeps our field teams alive. He is the best at what he does.”

The senator removed his glasses and saw that Virginia was beyond passionate about this Colonel Collins.

“So, he basically walks on water and is a survivor of some renown, a man who never finds himself in trouble?”

“That very man and his team are in China at this moment recovering the artifact we just spoke of, Senator. And yes, he and his men are the best at what they do. They always succeed,” Niles said proudly.

SHANGHAI, CHINA

The small Chinese man in the white silk suit with the radiant blue shirt and tie, slapped the bound man before him again. With his hands tied behind him in the high-backed chair, there wasn’t anything Colonel Jack Collins could do to defend himself. He felt the effeminate hand scrape across his two-day growth of beard but managed to keep his anger in check. Usually he would just wait it out, knowing his second in command would be along to pull his ass out of the fire. But this time he thought there may be a problem with that scenario.

The small, well-dressed Chinese took two steps to his left and then used his backhand to slap the large man sitting to Jack’s right across the face. Commander Carl Everett was bound just as snugly as Collins, and couldn’t do anything other than hiss his anger through clenched teeth.

“You know, I’m going to slap you into unconsciousness when I get loose,” Everett said as he glared at the small man before him.

“You fool, as arrogant as most Americans. You will not be leaving this house. You will tell me where the urn is and just who it is you work for.”

Jack smiled as the small man took his place in front of him once again.

“Why is it you think I’m his boss? You’ve slapped me five or six times more than him. He just might be the one in charge, not me.”

The Chinese army officer smiled and then slapped Jack again. “Your friend is too angry to be in charge of anything as important as stealing a national treasure from my government, so that leaves you.” The man held his hand out and one of his goons slid a file into it. He smiled again at Jack, and then at Carl, as he opened the file folder.

“Colonel Jack Collins, it says you are an elite special forces operative. I have no listing for current assignment.” He turned his attention to Everett. “Captain Carl C. Everett, United States navy, a former SEAL, his current duty station also unknown. I believe you are nothing more than thieves, ordered by your government to embarrass the People’s Republic of China. This is why you will not leave here alive, gentlemen. So please, make your death quick and painless, and give us the location of the urn in which the ashes of General Dae Jo Yeong are stored.”

Jack glanced over at Everett and shook his head. “Persistent little son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

Everett looked away from Jack and stared at the small, menacing man before him.

“Yeah, persistent.”

“Look, whoever you are, you may as well get on with what you’re going to do, because my two men are long gone out of this country with the urn and the general. They’re under orders to get out with the artifact and not look back.”

“And your men always follow your orders?”

“They are highly trained and would do their duty above all else. So, do what you have to do,” Collins said as he almost had the knot of rope loose enough to get his hands free.

“That’s right, pal, our men do as they’re told,” Everett chimed in as he, too, worked the rope around his own wrists. “They’re probably drinking mai tais in Hong Kong by now.”

At that moment, the door to the front of the apartment came crashing in. Second Lieutenant Will Mendenhall fell through onto the floor and two men were on him before he could recover. As two of their guards lifted the stunned black officer off the carpeted floor, one of them hit him over the head. Mendenhall staggered but was held upright by the two men.

Collins looked at Everett and angrily shook his head. “Mai tais, huh?”

While two of the guards held Mendenhall to the floor, the man on the left suddenly jerked backward after the initial crash of glass sounded from the side window. The bullet that struck the stunned man had whistled only a foot over Jack’s head. Collins reacted without thinking when he saw the first man go down. He rolled to his right, taking the chair with him until it struck the one in which Everett was bound to. They both hit the floor just as a second bullet came through the side window and took the second man in the side of the forehead. He fell hard onto Will and died only inches from his face.

The Chinese interrogator had a brief moment of life and drew the hidden sidearm inside of his white coat. That was as far as his movement went as a third aimed bullet struck him in the chest, splattering blood all over the silk. For insurance, a second round caught the man in the throat, dropping him like a heavy sack of potatoes.

Jack was silent, waiting for what he knew was coming.

“Clear?”

Collins moved his face upward and shouted as loud as he could so there could be no mistake as he didn’t want any more bullets flying into the small living room. “Clear!”

“Clear,” Mendenhall echoed.

Suddenly, the remaining glass was knocked out of its frame and the curtain at the side window parted. A Glock nine-millimeter with a long silencer appeared. It roamed first to the right and then to the left. Then it remained steady as Lieutenant Jason Ryan gingerly stepped over the windowsill and jumped into the room, his weapon still sweeping the area of the living room.

“You’re a little late!” Mendenhall said pushing the dead guard off of him and swiping at the blood that was staining his Hawaiian shirt. “You were supposed to open fire when I broke the door in, I thought these guys were going to blow my brains out!”

Ryan finally stood and ran to the opening of the hallway and aimed the weapon down its length. Satisfied the hallway was empty, he raised the weapon to the ceiling and then turned back into the room.

“Well, the safety was on—”

“And you forgot to chamber a round, didn’t you?” Mendenhall said as he got to his feet.

“Yeah, I said you should be the one doing the shooting.”

“And who was going to break down the door with one attempt, you? All one hundred and forty pounds of navy officer?” Mendenhall said with a sneer while staring at Ryan.

“Uh, if you wouldn’t mind?” Everett said from the floor.

Both Mendenhall and Ryan saw that the full weight of Collins and his chair was on top of Everett, and they both moved quickly to get them upright.

“You two were supposed to be on that damn boat out of here,” Jack said as his hands were finally untied.

“Yes, sir, and you were supposed to lose those three and then meet us there,” Ryan said in defense.

“Mr. Ryan, we were just about to make our move. You took a chance on letting those guys get their hands on that urn,” Carl said as he finally gained his feet, rubbing at the rope impressions on his wrists.

“Excuse me, Captain, but through the crack in those curtains it looked as if you were having a little trouble getting those knots undone. Maybe your basic seamanship is lacking.”

Everett stopped rubbing his wrists and fixed the younger naval officer with his cold eyes.

“Keep going, Mr. Ryan, you’re already at a year’s worth of weekend graveyard shifts at the complex for this little stunt; do you wanna try for two?”

“We just couldn’t leave you guys here . . . sir,” Mendenhall said.

Jack started to say something but Everett grabbed his arm, silencing his boss and then looking at Will.

“It was his idea,” Mendenhall said quickly as he pointed at Ryan.

“Thanks, buddy,” Ryan said tossing the rope that had held Collins to his chair into the corner.

“You can both commiserate with each other during your cancellation of leaves for that year that you’re pulling weekend midnight duty,” Carl finished. Then he looked at Jack. “Damn the military for abolishing hanging.”

“I absolutely agree. Now, since Batman and the Boy Wonder came to our rescue, let’s get the hell out of China.”

Colonel Jack Collins watched as Mendenhall and Ryan were pushed to the front door by an angry Carl Everett. As he started to follow, the smile slowly spread across his face. His two men had finally learned to think out of the box, to adapt to that fluid situation that he always preached about to his security department. Although they disobeyed orders, Jack knew it was a good thing they did because if they hadn’t, there would two bodies lying dead in that living room instead of three.

EVENT GROUP COMPLEX
NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA
TWO WEEKS LATER

The director of Department 5656, Director Niles Compton, watched as the presentation was given to him by the historical forensics team. He sat with his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and his glasses perched on the end of his nose as he looked over the tops of the lenses. His eyes moved over the assembled department heads who sat around the large conference table situated on level seven.

“So, in conclusion, Director Compton, it is our opinion that when Kim Jong Il passes away, there will be the narrowest of opportunities to approach his successor, most probably his youngest son, Kim Jong-Un, about dropping the disastrous policies of his nation. We had this opportunity when Kim’s father died, and the U.S. government missed it by having a hardened Cold War stance against those very policies. The president may be able to move the younger leader to see the terrible actions of his father and grandfather.” Professor Geraldine Kinkaid looked at her notes and then up at her director. “Our recommendation is for the president to have a softened position in the initial stages of the North Korean power transfer. Historically speaking, the Korean people have a tendency to listen soon after a leadership change.”

Niles Compton nodded his head and then looked around the table. He saw the empty chair where Colonel Jack Collins usually sat at the far end opposite himself. The colonel’s initials were on the proposed report as approving the research and the gentler approach to North Korea at the eventual death of Kim Jong Il, although he did enter his own thoughts in regards to a possible coup opportunity coming from Kim’s older son, Kim Jong-Chul, who Jack’s military experience says may not take the succession rebuke lying down. But with the historical artifact returned to the North Korean people instead of the United States ally in Seoul, the door may be opened for better relations, thanks to Jack and his men.

“This report, if the president uses it, will cause some consternation in certain circles of the federal government,” Virginia Pollock said from her seat to the right of Compton. “We have a history of close to seventy years of unrelenting hostility between North Korea and the West. I would like to ask our resident military people their opinion of this report other than what’s officially stated. Will our eventual gift to that nation assist in getting us to the peace table, or would the president be wasting his time?”

Captain Carl Everett looked up from his notes. As the number-two man in the security department, it was now up to him to answer for Jack Collins. They had both put in over a hundred hours on the military aspect of extending a helping hand to Korea after the crazy Kim Jong Il passed, and that included the time they put in stealing the previously stolen artifact from the Chinese. Everett stood and opened a file on the table in front of him. The six-foot-five-inch navy SEAL cleared his throat.

“Based purely on our research, and with a small amount of personal opinion interjected, the military has always been adamant about ending this destructive relationship with North Korea as quickly as humanly possible. The drain in resources, men, and material, has the U.S. army and navy at the breaking point. We can no longer afford the cold and sometimes hot war that has existed between the United States and North Korea since the peace accords of 1953. The general public has always believed the Pentagon wanted troops stationed along the demilitarized zone, but the truth of the matter is no military think tank in the world has ever recommended the status-quo along the 38th Parallel.” Everett paused a brief moment and looked at the faces around the conference table. “We feel it has always been a knife placed at the throat of a very distrustful and militaristic government who could use our presence there to lash out at the South. As proven by the recent activities by Kim Jong I, we cannot resupply or even support the thirty-six thousand troops already there. They would be used as cannon fodder in the event of an invasion, only until such a time as tactical nuclear weapons release could be authorized by the South, and NATO. We think after the death of Kim, we need to get ahold of this situation as, historically speaking, they will be listening to the West. We need to take advantage of this strategic time, or our attempts at gift giving will look foolish.”

Everett sat down. He looked at everyone around the table once more. They seemed to have taken the military view with a mild form of shock. To Everett, that was a common error by civilians as far as their view of the U.S. military went: they always believed military men wanted to fight, when most only wanted peace, but a safe one through strength, making war a last-ditch thing. Civilians order war, not the American military.

“Thank you, Captain, that was enlightening to say the least, and should put a more positive slant to our report to the president along with our idea to pave the way utilizing the return of their thousand-year-old general,” Niles said. “I will sign this report and our idea and pass it on to the president as Department 5656’s official recommendation on the historical advantage of taking action. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. If there is nothing else, I think we can—”

“Niles, is there a new time frame for us getting back into field operations?” Virginia Pollock asked, knowing that every department head around the table wanted to know the same thing.

Compton pursed his lips and ran a hand through his balding scalp.

“No, we’re still at seventy-five percent as far as personnel goes, and the curtailment of university digs is still in effect for the time being because of the tense international situation. So, no, we will not be fielding any departmental teams for at least one to three months. I’m sorry. For now, recruitment of personnel and training is the order of the day. Get your people up to date on their classroom studies and get some of these kids their degrees—we’ll need new supervisors in a lot of departments very soon. We have placated our new friend at Ways and Means, but he’ll be watching us pretty close for a while.”

With those words from the director, the meeting broke up. Niles could tell the department heads were frustrated about not being able to commence field operations, but there was nothing he could do about it. They needed rebuilding.

“Captain Everett, may I have a moment of your time, please?” Niles said while he stacked his notes and reports.

Everett nodded at Virginia as she walked past, then continued to hold the large door open for Sarah McIntire, the head of the geology division.

“You, too, Lieutenant McIntire. Please take a seat,” Niles said as he finally looked up from the conference table. He removed his glasses and tossed them on the tabletop and then sat heavily into his chair while Carl and Sarah sat down toward the middle of the table.

“I would have expected Jack to give the report on the military aspects of our recommendations,” Niles said as he rubbed his eyes.

Sarah McIntire chanced a quick look over at Everett, whose eyes remained on the director.

“Well, boss, Jack assigned me to do the historical military portion of the report, so he thought it would be preferable for me to attend the final meeting.”

“I see.” Niles replaced his glasses and then looked over at Sarah, who was feeling even smaller than her diminutive frame under the glare of the director. She returned his look as a smile that only touched the very corners of Niles’s mouth appeared. “How about you, Lieutenant, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary where Colonel Collins is concerned?” The smile remained in place.

Sarah looked from Compton to Everett, and then made a decision. “Yes, sir, I have. Jack’s been acting differently about a lot of things, more secretive. Something is on his mind but he won’t say what it is.”

Niles didn’t respond to Sarah’s observation.

“And neither one of you knows why Jack went to Langley, Virginia, and then visited the National Archives building in Washington last week?”

Both Sarah and Carl exchanged looks and Niles saw that they really hadn’t known Jack had left the complex.

“Do you have any idea where Jack is right now?” he asked looking from Carl to Sarah.

When no answer came to his query, Niles leaned forward in his chair. “Well, he’s in the same place he’s been every day since his return from China, and frankly, it’s worrying me.”

LEVEL SEVENTY-SEVEN
(VAULT AREA)

Jack sat inside the large humidified vault and hadn’t moved for the past hour. His eyes roamed over the acrylic box that sat high on an aluminum pedestal before him. The brass hoses that ran into the corners of the enclosure were there to feed cool air and humidity into the chamber to keep its contents at a perfect and airless 72 degrees Fahrenheit. On the side of the vault’s wall, a recorded description of the artifact ran silently since Jack had lowered the sound on the computer-driven description. On the large high-definition screen that was not being watched by Collins was the historical film record of Amelia Earhart. Before him in the acrylic chamber were the remains of the lost aviatrix. Still dressed in a tattered, age-worn, tan flight suit, her skeletal remains lay silently as Jack watched her from a chair just to the redheaded woman’s left side.

The remains of Amelia Earhart had been shown to Jack on his initial day inside the Event Group Complex in order to sell him on the importance of the top-secret agency. Collins had been impressed with the story behind the discovery of her remains on a former Japanese-held island in the Pacific, but had thought that was as far as it had went. Only lately had the tale of her execution been on his mind. The female aviator had been executed by the Japanese military after she had been forced down over one of their Pacific bases before the start of World War II. Accused of being a spy for President Roosevelt, she and her navigator, Fred Noonan, were both beheaded and buried, to be forever lost and assumed dead by misadventure and faulty navigation.

Jack raised his right hand and placed it on the acrylic enclosure. Collins found that he was comforted somehow by being here with Amelia since his trip to Virginia.

The remains of Earhart were due to be shipped out in three days. The body would be placed back in the sands of Howland Island, three thousand yards from the beach, and then a prearranged new finding of her corpse would be perpetrated by the Event Group and the Archaeology Department of Colorado State University. Amelia would finally be given the hero’s welcome home she so richly deserved. And that little fact was what was disturbing Jack and why he came down here every day. She would not be recognized for doing what she was ordered by the president of the United States to do: She would not be honored for being an intelligence-gathering agent during the most turbulent time in world history.

There was something strange lying just beneath Jack’s irritation at the situation, something he understood and was the basis for what he was about to do. He knew why he was doing it, he just couldn’t think of any reason it would make the situation in Langley, Virginia, any easier.

The withered and dried corpse of one of the most famous Americans in history lay silently, unable to explain to the world the predicament of her demise. Collins knew he had that power, but to deliver it to the amazing woman before him, he had to betray a confidence, not only to the Group he worked for, but himself as well, all because there was a situation in his personal life he couldn’t control since his visit out east.

Jack reached into his overall pocket and removed a plastic covered piece of paper. By using his Event Group security clearance, and since Department 5656 was an unofficial section of the National Archives, Jack had done some digging, and using his military experience and realizing the propensity of the armed forces of the United States for placing everything in writing, no matter how mundane or top secret, he had recovered a piece of bread crumb in the National Archives. The paper was part of the trail that was left behind when President Franklin Roosevelt had asked that Amelia Earhart purposefully overfly Japanese-held islands in the Pacific under the cover of her around-the-world flight. The letter was from a lowly signals officer in the U.S. navy, and it was an acknowledgment that certain maps were secretly passed to Amelia in Australia moments before her departure for her leg to Hawaii. With her body soon to be placed back for discovery by legitimate sources, the receipt would be found, and with the reporting of today’s journalists, the lost adventurer would finally be given her due as an American patriot. This was a situation that was being repeated at this very moment, only in the present times it was with someone he loved very much. That was why he would help Amelia come back home a hero like she should have been hailed all those years ago.

As Collins looked the paper over, he gently removed the yellow flimsy from its protecting plastic. Jack knew it had to be done this way, because the director, Niles Compton, was a stickler for the department not changing, altering, or correcting history in any way through the auspices of the Event Group. He would not have signed on for it.

Just as Jack stood and looked at the mummified remains of Earhart, the hiss of the vault door sounded and he quickly placed the paper back into his pocket. He slowly turned and saw Sarah McIntire standing at the threshold of the thick steel door.

“I think I’m beginning to become jealous,” she said as she took in the dark form of Jack who stood motionless under the spotlights of the vault.

“Nah, she’s a bit too old for me,” he said as he turned back to look at the corpse in the acrylic chamber.

“Yeah, but she’s your type. Pushing the envelope like she did, I guess you could say she had balls.”

Collins smiled and then turned back to face Sarah.

“I guess you could say she’s like someone else I know, actually two someones.”

“Jack, what in the hell are you doing here?” Sarah asked, not catching the plural meaning to Jack’s strange statement.

Collins didn’t answer. He just smiled at the small geologist and shrugged.

“How did you know where I was?” he asked instead of answering her question.

“The director, Jack. He’s right outside the vault door, he wants a moment with you. He knows you’ve been down here nearly every day and he said something about a clandestine trip you made to Langley and then a quick stop at the National Archives in Washington. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“It’s something I have to work out on my own, so you have to sit this one out. Now tell Niles he can come in. He deserves a crack at me.”

Sarah swallowed, and then with one last look back at Jack, turned away and stepped from the dimly illuminated vault.

Collins hated not being able to explain something he didn’t understand himself. Sarah needed to know all there was about him and his personal life if they were to continue growing closer. His eyes looked up as Niles Compton stepped over the frame of the vault’s door. He still had the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbows and his hands were now in his pants pockets. As usual, Niles looked tired and worn. The spotlights dimly reflected off of his balding head.

“Hello, Colonel.”

“Mr. Director,” Jack said as he stepped forward.

“Col—” Compton started and then stopped. They had worked together for over three years now, and he knew the formalities between them had to end. “Jack, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“You have as much tact as a battleship in a pond, Niles.”

“I believe you should come right out and say what’s on your mind, wouldn’t you agree?”

“The world would be a better place. And in answer to your question, I don’t know if I can tell you. One side of it is a personal matter, the other professional.”

“We”—Niles paused, rethinking his statement—“I need you here, Jack. The world’s in a mess, the country’s not far behind, and to be frank with you, this department’s seen better days. Without you the past three years, we would have lost it all here. You have something that’s taking your mind off your duties here; I think after all of this time you’ve earned the right to be trusted.”

“Thank you, Niles.”

Compton walked up to the acrylic chamber and looked inside. He, like Jack did a few moments ago, placed his hand on the lid and smiled.

“I’m going to miss her when she’s gone,” Niles said as he looked up and into Jack’s blue eyes. “Obviously you will, too.”

Collins didn’t respond, he just held the eyes of his director. Then he slowly reached into his pocket and brought out the navy department signals receipt and, closing his eyes, he slowly reached out and handed the paper to Niles.

“Ah, the missing signals message from the Archives, I was wondering when you were going to tell me about it.”

“You knew?” Jack asked, not really surprised. Then he quickly understood, “Ah, Pete and Europa.”

“That damn computer knows more about what the National Archives has in its files than the people who catalog its items. Yes, Pete knew two hours after you left Washington.” Niles held the paper out and then looked at it. “We could have talked about this, Jack.”

“I don’t even know why I did it.” It looked like Collins was going to continue, but stopped and just shook his head.

Compton smiled. “I’m not as by-the-book as people think. I’ve done some pretty stupid things here myself. You know, once, back when we had the intact crypt of Genghis Khan—I think I was a computer room supervisor then—long before Senator Lee gave me the entire department, I cut all surveillance to his vault, put on his hat, and swung his sword around to beat all hell.”

Jack had to smile at the picture Compton’s memory described. The little balding computer nerd wearing a fur hat and chopping at the air with the sword of a man that came close to conquering three quarters of the globe.

“Well, needless to say, I was caught red-handed by none other than the senator himself as he was giving a tour of the vaults to the director of the General Accounting Office.”

“That must have made your day.”

Niles smiled at the memory. “Yeah, three weeks of house arrest in my own room on level eight, then a disciplinary letter in my file.” Niles turned and looked at Jack, still smiling. “You know what the old man did?”

“I’ll bite, Niles, what did he do?”

“The next month he promoted me to the department head of Computer Sciences, and on that day he allowed me to transport the remains of Genghis Khan back to Mongolia and rebury it. That was my very first and only real field expedition.”

Jack smiled and nodded his head. He didn’t really know why the director told him that story, but it placed a far more human face on Niles Compton.

The director nodded his head, lightly patted the acrylic chamber, and then looked at the remains of Amelia Earhart for probably the last time.

“Senator Lee promoted me because he found out on that day that I had an imagination. He said that was a deciding factor in me getting Computer Sciences. He said you need an imagination to be a leader.” Niles held Jack’s eyes with his own and then continued. “Sometimes I hate history, Jack. It’s not fair in a lot of cases.” Niles placed the signal message from the navy department on the chambers top and then slid it over toward Collins. “Just hide the orders in a not-so-obvious place on her remains.”

Collins looked from the letter to his boss. He nodded just once.

“Now, Jack, do you want to fill me in as to why you stopped and visited your sister at the CIA? A sister you never listed as a family member in your file?”

“How in the hell did you know that?”

“I just happen to have a best friend with the title of president of the United States. He wouldn’t allow the director at Langley to use one of my people without the courtesy of informing me as to why. I agreed with allowing you to cooperate with them for the simple reason you know what your sister’s thoughts are. ”

“The director of the CIA told the president?”

“Your sister and the operation she’s currently running is the reason for your interest in seeing to it that Amelia here gets her just rewards, isn’t that right?”

Jack was astounded at what Niles knew about what was happening in his life. He decided to come clean about his sister and her situation. It took a half an hour, but Jack felt better for doing it.

Niles had listened in silence and then he stood and turned away, and was just about to leave when he turned once more to face Jack.

“Keep me posted on your sister, Jack.” Niles smiled. “And by the way, your letter of reprimand regarding the theft of national treasures will be placed in your file also, just like the senator did me.” Compton then abruptly turned and stepped over the high threshold of the vault and disappeared into the massive hallway.

Jack Collins smiled for the first time since he heard what his baby sister was up to. Then he slowly and carefully lifted the cover of Earhart’s enclosure, and placed the navy signals message and history back into the proper and correct perspective.

MONTREAL, CANADA
TWO DAYS LATER

The rented Audi sat parked as it had for the past two hours in front of the large cast-iron gates that led to one of the most famous structures in Montreal. The estate was as old as Canada itself, and historians claimed it was actually designed by Marquis Louis-Joseph de Montcalm, the commander of all the North American French forces during that country’s battle with the British Empire for control of the Americas—the French and Indian War of 1754–1763. The woman sitting in the rented car knew better. She had done her homework and was aware that the estate hadn’t been built until five years after the Marquis’s death. Her proof was in the CIA archives in Langley, Virginia. The French Canadians perpetrated the rumor to lure tourist dollars into their city.

The man in the driver’s seat lowered his binoculars and looked out into the warming spring day.

“You know, we’re sticking out like a sore thumb here. I mean, anyone could look out of any one of those two hundred gilded windows and see us.”

The dark-haired woman didn’t say anything as she silently watched the house that sat a hundred yards up the long drive. Her blue eyes never leaving the stone facade of the mansion. She panned to the right and looked through the window at the city almost ten miles away. There were a few pillars of smoke from the riots but it looked as though the Canadian government had quelled most of the protests and violence concerning the recent push for French speaking independence.

“This place is fast becoming a mess,” she mumbled.

“Maybe we should—”

“We’ll stay right here.” The woman finally afforded the older man a glance. Her features were soft and she spoke to her partner as if she were a teacher instructing a slow student even though his years of service far outweighed her own. “I don’t give a damn if they see us, Mr. Evans. They need to know they are being watched and that old sins are not forgiven—at least by the United States.”

The man knew the young woman was tired. She had flown into Montreal just six hours before and she was out of sorts. He just hoped the head of the northeast field desk wasn’t making an error in judgment. He knew as well as she that the two men inside that house were two of the most ruthless killers that had ever worked for the old KGB. The field operation was made possible only because of an anonymous tip and a package delivered to her desk that had very unexpectedly brought the golden child, the wunderkind of the agency, out from behind her desk at Langley. Tired as she was, Lynn Simpson looked through the man alongside her. He knew from her reputation—an impressive one for someone as young as she was—and realized that she didn’t care what he thought. She played her own game and did it very well.

“We have a vehicle approaching from Tenth Street, followed by a van,” came a voice over the earpiece in both agents’ ears.

“Thank you, unit two, they are expected company,” Simpson said into the microphone located just under her jacket collar.

“Who are they?” Evans asked as he looked from the beautiful young woman and then into his rearview mirror.

“CSIS,” she said as she removed the field glasses from his hands and looked through them at the house.

“Why would we bring in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service if we’re just watching and verifying if that’s really them inside? We don’t have anything on Deonovich or Sagli, no warrants at least.”

“You’ll have to excuse me if you weren’t informed of everything that comes across my desk, Agent Evans. Right now the Canadian authorities have them entering Canada under false passports and thanks to an anonymous source, we also have them coming into Seattle with those same false papers. Now, can I assume you’re armed?”

“In the glove box. Will I need it?” he asked, not liking the way this thing was shaping up.

Agent Lynn Simpson lowered the field glasses, but didn’t look at Evans when she handed him the binoculars. Keeping her eyes on the house, she reached for the glove box, opened it, found the Glock nine-millimeter, and then handed it to him.

“You are currently qualified with that, I presume?” she asked him with the first touch of a smile to cross her lips that morning. “I’m just kidding, Evans, just keep it close. I couldn’t get my weapon into the country.”

“Wait, didn’t you fly in by a company plane?”

“Commercial,” she said as she opened the car door but looked back before she stepped out. “I needed the travel miles.”

Evans watched her as she closed the door and then walked to the rear of the rented Audi as the car and van approached. He closed his eyes and cursed, now realizing the assistant director wasn’t here under any kind of authorization from the company. He chambered a round into his nine-millimeter, making sure the safety was on, and then threw open his door.

“I know what you’re thinking, Evans, and yes, the director of Intelligence knows we’re here; she made me contact CSIS to let them know we’d be in country. We’ll soon have the company of the head of the Montreal sector of counterintelligence greeting us.” She looked over the top of the Audi and shook her head. The older agents were getting so paranoid that someone was going to snatch their pension right out from under them since most refused to take chances any longer.

The Canadian government car stopped and a large man with a balding head stepped out of the passenger’s side, smiled at Lynn, and held out his hand.

“Well, I thought your bosses at the Farm were keeping a closer eye on you these days?” the man asked, shaking the hand of the much smaller American woman.

“Hello, Punchy, how are the wife and kids?”

Jonathan “Punchy” Alexander had been trained through the offices of British Intelligence, MI-5, and was one of the best field men Lynn had ever met. He was the man responsible for shutting down the largest terrorist organization on the North American continent two years prior, and held the prison key to over one hundred and twelve enemies of the West. He was currently Canada’s flavor of the month, or year for that matter.

“My kids are all anarchists and the wife is still mean as a snake,” he said as he released her small hand. He looked at the pretty American and watched her eyes. “I suspect that most of my kids are downtown protesting with the rest of the crazies about independence from Ottawa. How’s your brother? I haven’t seen him in years, hell, I haven’t even heard about him, and in our game that says something. I hope the U.S. government didn’t bury him too deep after his little snit with the army.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. If he was dead, I’m sure my mother would have said something about it.”

Alexander sensed anger behind the bland look that she put on her face as she casually uttered those words and decided to push a little more. He thought, Maybe I’ll get something for my report.

“Still touchy on the subject of your brother, I see.”

She looked straight at the much larger Canadian and tilted her head and raised her left eyebrow.

“Okay, I’ll leave it alone.” He knew the problems of big brother, little sister because of the career path the latter had chosen. His old friend wasn’t happy his baby sis had opted for the intelligence end of things. Alexander cleared his throat and then looked up at the château. “Now, you’re not standing in front of Château Laureal because of the early season tourist rate, so what are you doing in the great white north, Agent Simpson?”

“Gregori Deonovich and Dmitri Sagli,” she said as she held the Canadian intelligence officer with her stark blue eyes.

All humor and goodwill left his features. He looked at Lynn and then immediately turned toward the giant house and then without looking away from the structure gestured for his men to exit the car and van.

“I take it you were informed of their arrival by a contact from my country who works for you?”

“Let’s not get territorial, Punchy, I was informed anonymously and then I immediately called you people.”

Alexander unceremoniously removed the field glasses from Agent Evans and raised them to look at the château, allowing Evans a chance to glare at the larger man.

“You’re sure it’s those murderous bastards?”

“They didn’t even bother to disguise themselves coming through the airport. It was like they wanted to be seen.”

Alexander lowered the glasses and fixed Lynn with a look.

“You know, they knew you would be called in any event. Of all the people in the world, they would want to confront you.”

“Am I missing something here?” Evans asked.

“Yes. If I know your boss, you’ve missed everything. The two men of Slavic origin inside of that house have a file on them in every Western intelligence service and those files are over a foot thick. And somewhere in those reports you will find a reference to your Ms. Simpson. She’s dogged them since the time she was first assigned to the desk she now occupies. Altogether these two Russians have killed five American, six British, one New Zealander, three Germans, and two Canadian intelligence people, and that’s all after their time at the KGB ended.”

“So what have they been doing since?” Evans asked looking from Alexander to Lynn.

“Don’t you brief your field people?” Alexander asked, sparing Lynn a cold look. “They are the joint heads of the largest organized crime syndicate in Russia. That’s what KGB retirement means nowadays. The last I heard, they were expanding into the Ukraine and Kazakhstan, which is why I’m so concerned about them coming here where they don’t own the intelligence agencies or the police. Besides, with all of this rioting going on and with a major coup in the offing if things don’t calm down, them being here makes a mess, just a larger mess.” Alexander raised the glasses again and watched the house. “May I assume that your FBI and even your own director don’t know that you and your boys are in Canada?”

“My immediate boss thought we could take care of this on our own, Punchy, without bringing both of our agency heads in on it; the legalities involved would have taken too much time. With what’s happening here we thought a low profile was best. Look, Sagli and Deonovich are here for a reason, and no matter what that reason is, them being in that château uninvited is what we call, in the States, probable cause.”

“I came across an obscure report generated by your NSA that says these two maniacs may have finally pushed the Russians into acting against them. It seems they were alerted to certain illegal activities by someone in the American intelligence community, and this person may have actually forwarded incriminating evidence of murder to the Russian authorities. Them being here may be the end result of that report so they may finally be on the run. Do you know who may have sent the Russians that report, Agent Simpson?”

Lynn held Alexander’s gaze for a moment and then nodded toward the château. “Now tell me, Punchy, what is in that monstrosity of a house that would make them risk coming to the one continent where they would immediately skip trial and be unceremoniously hanged if caught?”

The glasses came down again and Alexander took in a deep breath, knowing it was exactly as he thought—Lynn had forwarded the report to the authorities in Moscow.

“Nothing new, antiques for the tourists to ooh and ah over. Maybe . . . Fuquay?” he called out to the small group of men he had brought along.

“Yes, sir,” said the man in a heavy French Canadian accent. He stepped away from the group of ten Canadian agents and slung an automatic rifle over his shoulder.

“Wasn’t there something about an exhibition on historical gold mining stopping off at the château?”

“Actually, we did receive a detailed report on the security for the exhibit. Nothing substantial so we didn’t become involved. It’s just some old mining equipment, letters home to wives from miners, that sort of thing. Turn-of-the-century items.”

“You’re kidding? Why would those two killers have interest in that?” Lynn asked.

Alexander nodded for the man to return to the A-Team of Canadians.

“They shouldn’t be interested in anything that we’ve heard of in there. And that in itself is enough to worry me.”

Lynn turned and leaned into the rental car, retrieved a file, and handed it to Alexander. “This was sent to us by our Seattle field office—they ‘borrowed’ it from the Seattle PD.”

Alexander opened the file and the first thing he saw was a crime scene photo of an old man stretched out on a bed. A hole had been punched through his head on the man’s right side. The bed he was lying on was soaked through with blood. Alexander turned the page and looked at the second, far more disturbing image taken by the Seattle police department showing twelve individuals, tied and gagged. Each one had been shot execution style and placed in a circle, feet pointed outward.

“The circle of victims proves beyond a doubt that Deonovich and Sagli did this. That circle thing is definitely their calling card. Head to head, that’s the way they always leave their victims, symbolizes completeness, or so our psych people tell us.”

“And this third photo?” Alexander asked, as he flipped the page and saw a clear shot of Sagli and Deonovich. The long ponytail of Sagli and the distinctive crew-cut hair of Deonovich were visible, and the size difference between the two was clear as Deonovich towered over the smaller Sagli.

“That was taken at Sea-Tac Airport and sent to me by that anonymous source I mentioned. We assume it was taken upon their arrival in country.”

“This anonymous source is quite disturbing to say the least,” Alexander said as his eyes went from the picture and fixed on Lynn.

“It could be anyone: FBI, even the Seattle PD. It’s not like these two aren’t camera shy—every law enforcement agency on the planet knows about them.”

Punchy Alexander closed the file and tossed it on the trunk of Lynn’s rental car. The large man pursed his lips and then lowered his head in thought.

“My hackles are rising, Agent Simpson.” He held up a hand when she started to say something. “This is squirrelly. They know they are vulnerable when they travel. And you receive this photo out of the clear blue? Surely, you and your area director suspect that this may be a setup? I mean, this location, it’s so far from everything, and out in the open like this. No, this isn’t right and your boss should have known it.”

“Why would they do that?” she asked pointing to the first picture of the dead Serta. “They murdered an old man in Seattle, this Valery Serta, obviously of Russian descent, and killed his entire house staff, for what? They’re ruthless killers, Punchy, but that just isn’t their style.”

“And you’re an expert at avoiding the obvious. But let me say this, it doesn’t really matter, they’re here and they’re not leaving Canadian soil.” He turned and got the attention of his agents. “You men deploy by twos, all with strength of cover positions, and get me more men in here. Get the descriptions of Deonovich and Sagli to every man, and do not hesitate to use deadly force if positive identification is made.”

“Punchy, the agency would like them alive if possible; they have a lot to answer for,” Lynn said as she followed Alexander to the trunk of his car.

“Look, Agent Simpson,” he said, getting very official. “I like you, and I damn well have the deepest respect for your family, but you’re well out of your territory and on foreign soil, your higher management people don’t even know you’re here, just your assistant director of Intelligence—if you want to keep it that way, let me handle this. If not, get back into your car and either get to the airport or to the American consulate.”

“You know these two guys are mine, Punchy. I have case files on them all the way back to 1978.”

“Yes, I know, and they also know.” Alexander let out a breath, calming himself. “They know as much about you as you do them. You’re in danger by even showing up here. And you put the operation in danger as much as you put yourself at risk. You should have done all of this by phone from Langley.” He saw a look of frustration flicker across her face. “Okay, don’t give me that look, your brother always tried that crap on me, and believe me, little girl, you’re not him. You and your team, even the two you have watching us right now, are to observe only.”

“Listen—”

Lynn never finished her protest. The château disintegrated in an explosion that was powerful enough from a hundred yards away to implode the windshields on the two cars and van. They were all knocked from their feet as the pressure wave hit them. As the fireball and debris moved high into the air, Lynn, Evans, and Alexander scrambled on hands and knees to get to the far side of the rental car. Soon, stone, mortar, and burning wood started striking around them. Men and their equipment were sprawled over the roadway as debris from the massive mansion rained down. Amid the din and chaos, they heard the first crackle of automatic weapons fire.

“What in the hell?” Evans asked covering his head just as several bullets slammed into the Audi’s rear quarter panel.

It was then that Lynn heard it: the harsh whine of a Bell Ranger helicopter as it came in low over the street. The van suddenly erupted with a crumpling sound coupled with fire and wind, sending Alexander into the Americans, as they were all three pushed from cover by the blast from the exploding van. The automatic weapons fire continued from both open doorways of the attack chopper as the assassins inside took careful and deadly aim at the thirteen prone people on the ground. Lynn rolled out from under Alexander and looked up just as several pieces of burning wood and debris struck the single rotor blade of the Ranger high above her. The rotors shook off the assault and danger and kept shooting down at them. Lynn realized whatever happened at the château was secondary to what she now knew was a murder raid. The Russians knew they were there and they were out to kill them.

“We need to—”

Alexander had just come to his knee and drawn his weapon when one bullet nicked his shoulder and he was thrown backward. Lynn saw Punchy hit his head hard on the pavement. Evans yelped; she was then splattered with his blood. Without really thinking about it, she reached out, grabbed the Glock nine-millimeter, and then quickly rolled until the large curb that lined the street stopped her momentum. Above all of the noise she thought she heard the sound of approaching sirens.

“Bastards!” she yelled as she took quick aim and then fired up into the belly of the Bell Ranger. The small slugs punched holes into the aluminum bottom but had no effect. She quickly emptied the Glock and all she had to show for it was to add new venting to the helicopter’s flooring.

The CSIS men were succumbing quickly to the murderous fire from above just as two Montreal police cruisers skidded to a stop behind the burning van. Lynn tried in vain to warn the patrolmen off as the two jumped from their respective cars, but she couldn’t be heard over the gunfire. The two police officers never knew what hit them as slugs slammed into their bodies and riddled them with holes.

Lynn screamed into the microphone that was still attached to her coat collar, screaming for cover fire from her observation team based at the far end of the street. That was when she realized the fire from on high had stopped and she could only hear the sound of the hovering helicopter. As she looked up through the smoke and flying dust, the Ranger moved off slowly. She then knew that the whining turbine sound had not left with it. Her eyes moved to the rear of the departing assault helicopter and that was when she saw another. This one was a French-built Aérospatiale Gazelle attack helicopter. It began a quick decent to the smoking and smashed street.

Lynn came to her knees and started running when she realized the assault wasn’t over. As she stumbled past the burning van, the Gazelle swooped in and, with its powerful three bladed rotors, dusted Lynn until she couldn’t stand against the force any longer and fell. She tried to stand once more but fell again as the Gazelle came in even lower. As she covered her head, she thought to herself that this was the end, when the Gazelle slammed hard onto the street, the skids missing her head by only five feet. As she rolled over and searched hopelessly for one of the Canadians’ fallen weapons, hands grabbed at her. She tried to fight them off, but a blow to her face slowed her reactions down to a crawl.

Lynn Simpson felt the blood flowing freely from a three-inch gash opened on her lower lip as she felt herself being held upright by two sets of hands. Through the noise and her pain, she saw a face come at her from the rush of smoke and dust.

“Predictable, Agent Simpson. Now, if you will come with us, our transportation is waiting.”

Lynn gathered herself and spit as far as she could toward the dark-haired Dmitri Sagli. The blood struck the small man’s leather coat. He smiled and then with his right hand, backhanded her across the face, making her angrier, but still just as helpless as before.

“You Americans have always been fond of the term, to kill two birds with one stone.” The former Russian KGB assassin looked about at the dead Canadian agents and smiled. “Now we have managed to kill a whole flock of Canadian geese and catch one American songbird with one stone.”

As the Russian watched Lynn being loaded into the waiting Gazelle, he shook his head in wonder at how stupid the West was becoming. They thought everything revolved around dead ideologies dating back to the Cold War, and that was what made their actions predictable. The game had changed for the ex-KGB men and the West just couldn’t follow along. It was now all about personal power, not ideology.

As Dmitri Sagli turned for the helicopter, he saw Punchy Alexander move a few feet away from him. He slowly walked up to the prone Canadian agent and placed his foot at the back of his head and then pointed the same automatic weapon he had used to kill Serta in Seattle, he turned and smiled at Lynn Simpson, almost as if making sure she was watching, and then he fired three times into Alexander’s back. He then moved off toward the Gazelle, putting the weapon away and buttoning his coat as he did.

As the Gazelle lifted free of the street, it left behind three dead American field officers and eleven Canadians, the largest massacre of Western intelligence personnel in history.

The Bell Ranger soon overtook the French-built helicopter to escort it, and together they both headed toward the border, flying south toward New York.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

Assistant Director of Intelligence Nancy Grogan eased herself into one of the two chairs facing the director’s desk. Harmon Easterbrook eyed her as she sat and placed a red-bordered file on the desk’s edge. Briefly, she looked to her left at Assistant Director of Operations Stan Rosen, and then quickly nodded. Rosen in turn did not grant her the favor of his own greeting. She ignored the snub and listened to the one-way conversation going on in front of her.

“Yes, sir, we’ll get a full report of everything we have over to you as soon as we can gather the Intel. Yes, Mr. President, a full accounting.”

As the director hung up the phone, he kept his fingers on the handle for the briefest of moments; it was as if he were thinking about his words before he spoke them. He then half smiled, but the humor was lost somewhere between the eyes and the mouth. He looked directly at Grogan.

“Needless to say that was the president. Can you guess what was on his mind this morning?”

“The incident in Montreal would be my guess, and a pretty accurate one I—”

“I was asking Nancy, Stan,” Easterbrook said, his eyes never leaving the fifty-two-year-old woman.

“I take full responsibility for what happened. Simpson was there with my full knowledge.”

“With three of my field agents, now dead,” Stan Rosen said glaring over at his intelligence counterpart.

“Look, if we thought it was anything more than just a sighting, we would have been there in force; as it was, it was an anonymous source that let us know Sagli and Deonovich were in the country. We had nothing other than some grainy photography that it was even them. So, Lynn asked if she could go and investigate. She did it by the book, went through channels and—”

“Got a Canadian CSIS field team wiped out, an American responsible for northeastern American intelligence kidnapped, and three of my people killed.”

The assistant director lowered her head for the briefest of moments, but then gathered herself.

“Lynn is the brightest person I have in my entire department. Hell, she’s easily my replacement, she outthinks everyone here at the Farm and you know it. This is something more than just Sagli and his buddy being here for theft.”

“Explain,” Easterbrook said, motioning for Rosen to be quiet.

“We don’t even know why they were in Canada. And the mass murder in Seattle? The Seattle authorities are saying a possible motivation was theft, but as of yet they are saying nothing is missing from this Russian’s apartment. Now we have Sagli and Deonovich breaking into what amounts to be a museum in Montreal for theft once more? As I said, not their style. There’s something more here than we know at the moment.”

“It’s my understanding that your person has been making life very miserable for Sagli and Deonovich for more than three years, at least since I put her there after her stint in Afghanistan. Hell, she may be responsible for them being on the run; what’s worse, they know it’s her putting pressure on them from this end. Now, let me know, is this a vengeance thing or something else? Operations has to know so we can treat this accordingly.”

The director nodded. “Stan has a valid point,” watching Grogan carefully for her reactions.

Grogan turned and fixed her operations counterpart with a raised brow.

“That’s right; for once I had someone at that desk who was capable of doing that particular job. Lynn dug her teeth into those two and hung on. They are wanted in this country for the murder of federal agents, including our own. Everywhere they went in Moscow, Minsk, Kiev, and even Kurdistan, she had our people watching them. She was making life miserable by letting their prospective clients and associates be aware their time was drawing to a close. Finally, and this is in my monthly departmental report, she was authorized by me to forward the file to Russian intelligence on their activities. That file included outlays for taking out certain Russian politico’s in Moscow who they deemed dangerous to their illegal operations. Evidently, the new Russian president moved on that evidence and sent them scurrying.”

“And now your girl wonder is in their hands. Does that make you feel better?” Rosen asked giving back the raised brow look.

“That’s uncalled for, Stan. I need you both to work together on this. The Canadian PM just threatened the president with public disclosure. We have to get this thing under some kind of control and get him answers. I want a full court press on this.”

“Even though I despise the way this came down, I have to tell you that I think the prime minister is bluffing. His people were there also; what can he say? He doesn’t know what his intelligence services are doing? Besides, he has separatist protests and outright riots in Montreal he has to deal with and something like this could only add to his French-speaking provincial problems.”

“How is their guy doing?” Easterbrook asked.

“John Alexander is one tough nut. As I told you in numerous reports, he’s one of the good guys and the bastard’s hard to kill. He’ll recover. He was wearing his vest. He’s a real pro.”

“Good, good. Now—”

“If I know him, he’ll want in on whatever it is we do about this. He and Simpson were close. They both spent time with MI-5 in Birmingham on the Al-Qaeda thing. Evidently, he’s a close friend of her family.”

“If he asks, we’ll allow it as a professional courtesy. That’s the least we can do,” Easterbrook said, nodding that their brief meeting was concluded.

Nancy Grogan cleared her throat. The director looked up and Rosen sat back in his chair.

“You have something else?”

“Lynn Simpson.”

“I want her back. If not, I want the men who killed her.”

“It’s not that, sir. There’s a reason why she is as good as she is. Why she’s pegged to be a company leader in the near future. It seems to run in her blood.”

“Get to the point,” Easterbrook ordered.

“Simpson is Lynn’s mother’s maiden name. Collins is her real name.”

Director Easterbrook bit his lower lip and then swiveled his chair to face his large window as he thought. Rosen for his part was lost as to what she was getting at.

“So?” Rosen finally asked.

Grogan shook her head and then turned and looked at the assistant director.

“She’s the sister of a very dangerous man, at least he used to be. This Colonel Collins and Punchy Alexander go way back. They were joint heads of a special operations action in Canada. I can’t get details on the mission, but it had something to do with recovering a project called Solar Flare. I couldn’t get any more details on—,”

“He still is a dangerous man, and there is no such thing as Solar Flare,” Easterbrook said, still looking out of his window away from his two assistants. “At least publicly there isn’t. It was a search and rescue operation twenty-five years after it was lost. It has no bearing on the action taken in Montreal.”

Nancy Grogan caught the drift and knew the subject of this Solar Flare was off limits.

“I thought the army buried Colonel Collins somewhere?” Grogan asked the back of the director’s chair.

Easterbrook finally and slowly turned his chair back to face the two. He ran a hand through his completely gray head of hair, and then fixed Nancy with his stern look.

“I hear rumors, and they all say that Colonel Jack Collins is still very much in the mix”—the director picked up the phone—“and if the rumors I hear are true, he won’t be very happy about us losing his little sister. Now, excuse me.”

“Lynn said she and her brother don’t speak that often, that they’re not that close,” Grogan said.

The director paused with phone in hand and looked at both of his people.

“Do you want to be the one to inform him, if we can even locate him, that is?”

Grogan lowered her eyes and then turned and started to leave.

“I don’t get it, who is this Collins, and what is the big deal?” Rosen asked. “He’s just a colonel for God’s sake.”

“From his reputation, he’s not only one of the best soldiers this country has ever produced, but also just about the most dangerous man alive—at least he once was,” Grogan said as she reached for the door handle.

“This stays in this office,” Easterbrook said as he started punching numbers, bypassing his assistant in the outer office, standard procedure when he called the president’s private line.

“I don’t see the concern here. I think we have bigger problems to deal with than some army colonel,” Rosen said as he looked from the director to Grogan. “Come on, he’s only one guy, right?”

Grogan turned and caught the attention of the director.

“Look, Collins is a legend, at least in the field.”

“I’ll bet he’s stuck behind a desk somewhere, out of the way, one of those break-glass-in-case-of-war guys; probably just a relic by now.”