CHAPTER 26
Cotton reacted to the hammer on the gun being clicked back, unsure if this man had killed the other three or not. But the fear in the eyes seemed to signal that was not the case.
“Jakob Elmore?”
“Who are you?”
Asked in English. He decided to take a stab. “I’m not with the people that came here and killed those three in the conference room.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Cotton Malone. I’m here on behalf of the palace.”
“You are American intelligence?”
He nodded. “We are trying to find Princess Lysa. Who are the dead people?”
“My former associates. I want asylum.”
He’d guessed right. “You’re SVR?”
He nodded. “I want asylum?”
“From who?”
“Moscow.”
“You mind lowering the weapon.”
He complied, returning the hammer to its closed position.
Elmore was definitely scared. Unusual for an embedded field operative.
By definition those people had cool nerves and sharp minds, as they literally made it up as they went.
But he’d seen this look before, the one when someone realized they were expendable. By their own people.
“Two men came half an hour ago and killed my associates,” Elmore said.
“SVR?”
The lawyer nodded.
“Why were they killed?”
“I do not know. I thought the men were here to participate in the operation. But they came in and opened fire. I managed to avoid them by making it to the safe room.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “This is a Russian operations center?”
“It was. Thankfully they could not gain access to the safe room and it’s bulletproof. They gave up and left.”
“What’s the operation?”
“To stop the Swedish deal with the Czechs.”
“Do the Russians have the princess?”
“I will tell you all about that when you have me safely away from here and inside the American embassy.”
“You know that’s not how this works. I can’t grant you asylum.”
“But you know who can.”
The request was one he’d heard before. But every intelligence service was cautious about walk-ins—those who just appeared and freely offered information, out of the blue.
They were usually defectors or asylum seekers, not people who had been seriously recruited or sought after.
The Soviets hated them, and were notorious for chasing them away.
America? Land of opportunity? You go with it.
Walk-ins were not summarily dismissed. Instead, they were handled in a slow and deliberate process, far away from the mainstream.
Never were they taken to a place where they could discover the identity of any intelligence or counterintelligence personnel.
Never were they privy to anything that might prove useful to the other side.
First requirement of a walk-in? Show some evidence of access to or knowledge of valuable material.
James Elmore had just tossed that bait out.
And a bit too quickly for Cotton’s liking.
History noted, though, that some of the best intelligence had been learned from people who just walked in and offered it in return for freedom.
So he was keeping an open mind. Particularly considering the time crunch and lack of information he presently possessed.
“I can take you to the right people,” Cotton said. “But first you have to convince me that it will be worth my while.”
“I will tell you nothing until I am safe.”
Typical demand, so he shrugged. “Then I pass. And I wish you all the best in surviving through the night.”
“You have no idea, do you?” he asked.
He was troubled by the tone. As if there was something he definitely should know. Part of a sales pitch? Trying to reel him in?
Maybe.
“There is much more going on here,” Elmore said. “More than you could possibly be aware of.”
“You need to explain—”
One of the windows facing the front of the building in the secretarial area shattered. Broken glass rained down. High-powered rounds whined through the opening and found the walls and furniture. Little noise was associated with the shots besides soft, repeated pops.
Cotton dove to the floor.
Elmore was not as quick.
His body was peppered with bullets that twisted him around in a herky-jerky dance.
The gun fell from his grasp and he dropped to the floor.
Cotton belly-crawled over to him. Blood poured from multiple wounds.
No way the man was still alive. A cacophony of more indiscriminate rounds tore through the building’s interior.
The bursts began to come in single rounds as the ammunition diminished.
He grabbed the gun from the floor and focused on the problem outside, belly-crawling toward another window that faced the front where he managed to gain a look.
A man and woman, both with automatic rifles, were changing clips.
Heading his way.