Chapter 32
Ivy sat on the edge of the bed.
She should sleep. She knew that. But her mind wasn't listening.
Ivy stood up, pulled on her jeans and her boots. Grabbed her coat and her credentials.
Twenty minutes later she was back on the road, heading toward the records facility. The streets were empty. The city felt abandoned.
The facility was a low concrete building set back from the road, surrounded by a chain-link fence and security lighting. She pulled into the parking lot. One other car sat near the entrance.
The security guard's, Ivy thought. Had to be.
She walked to the door, pressed the buzzer.
A moment later, a face appeared in the reinforced glass. Middle-aged man, heavy around the middle, wearing a uniform shirt and a mildly surprised expression.
He opened the door partway.
"We're closed," he said.
Ivy held up her credentials. "I know. I was here earlier today. I need to get back in."
He looked at the ID, then at her face, then back at the ID.
"It's three-thirty in the morning."
"I know what time it is."
"The archivist isn't here."
"I don't need the archivist. I know where the files are. I just need access."
He shook his head. "Can't do it. Policy. No access without staff present."
Ivy stepped closer. Not aggressive. Just close enough that he had to look at her instead of the door.
"This is a national security matter," she said. "Time-sensitive. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't critical."
"Then come back when we open."
"I can't wait that long."
He started to close the door. She put her hand on it. Not pushing. Just holding.
"Look," she said. "I understand you have rules. I respect that. But people are going to die if I don't find what I'm looking for. Tonight. Not tomorrow."
He hesitated.
"I'll sign whatever you need," she continued. "A waiver. A statement saying you're not responsible for any problems. Whatever covers you. But I need to get in there."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
"Wait here."
He disappeared into the building. Came back two minutes later with a clipboard and a single sheet of paper.
"Sign this," he said. "It says I'm not liable for anything that happens while you're in there unsupervised. And you're responsible for any damage or mishandling of materials."
Ivy took the pen, signed without reading it.
He looked at the signature, then stepped aside.
"You've got until six," he said. "That's when the morning shift comes in."
"Thank you."
She walked past him into the corridor and used her access card.
She didn't need directions.
Down the corridor. Through the security door. Into the archive room.
The steel shelves stretched away into the dimness. She found the section she needed, pulled the first box, carried it to the table.
The work was methodical. Systematic. One file at a time.
It was amazing to her how the machinery of bureaucracy had continued to grind forward even as the empire was collapsing. Ivy focused on anything and everything that referenced special cargo or the РА-115 designation.
An hour passed. Then another.
Her eyes burned. Her back ached from leaning over the table.
She pulled another box. Opened it. Started working through the files until she came upon a folder marked with a red diagonal stripe. The kind that meant operational planning.
The cover page was in Cyrillic. She translated it slowly, carefully.
ХОЛОДНАЯ ЦЕЛЬ
COLD TARGET.
Her pulse quickened.
She opened the folder.
The first page was a summary. Approved by someone whose signature was illegible but whose title was clear: Deputy Director, First Chief Directorate.
The objective was stated in clinical language. Strategic deployment of special munitions to achieve maximum psychological and political impact in the event of armed conflict with the United States.
Five targets.
She read them twice to make sure she had it right.
The Pentagon.
The White House.
The Capitol Building.
The New York Stock Exchange.
And the Strategic Air Command headquarters at Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska.
Each target had a detailed assessment. Structural vulnerabilities. Security protocols. Optimal placement for maximum effect.
The devices were to be pre-positioned. Sleeper agents would maintain custody. Activation would occur on command from Moscow.
It was a doomsday plan. A last-resort option. The kind of thing you hoped you'd never use but prepared for anyway.
Ivy photographed every page. Her hands were steady but her mind was racing.
This is what Kinsman probably had and he was most likely using Volkov as his consultant. Whether Volkov was being forced to help or was happy to volunteer his services, Ivy didn’t know and didn’t care.
The question was whether Kinsman would follow Operation Cold Target exactly or adapt it.
She remembered Joe had said Kinsman was methodical. Not creative. He followed doctrine. He trusted what had been proven.
He'd follow the plan, Ivy thought. Maybe not to the letter. Maybe he'd substitute targets if the originals were too hard to reach. But the framework would be the same.
Five targets. Maximum impact. Simultaneous detonation.
She closed the folder, put it back in the box, returned the box to the shelf.
Checked her watch.
5:43 AM.
She walked back through the corridor. The guard was at his desk, drinking coffee from a thermos.
"Find what you needed?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you."
He nodded. Didn't ask what it was. Probably didn't want to know.
She walked out into the cold. The sky was still dark but the quality of the darkness had changed. Morning was coming.
She got in her car, started the engine, let it warm up.
She needed to call Joe and tell him about Cold Target.
But she couldn't.
Not yet.
He was going into the lion’s den.
Calling him now might get him killed. Ivy knew she could go over Joe’s head, to Jenkins, but that was a last resort. Once she did that, it was out of her hands.
So she sat there in the parking lot, waiting and thinking about how many people would die if Kinsman succeeded.