CHAPTER 38
Cotton left the house, which was more like a colonial barn with a faded yellow facade.
Two upper windows gave the impression of a happy house, like smiling eyes, the door below a sloppy grin.
Some sort of manor house that occupied a skinny sliver of land.
The address seemed to be outside of any town, neighbors far between, isolated by thick trees on a rise next to a lake.
The night air loomed cool, which helped clear his humming head.
Overhead, tendrils of fading daylight still lingered.
“This a place we use,” Ivan said. “Out of sight. Out of mind.”
“And the reason you are showing me an SVR safe house? A bit unusual, to say the least.”
“Why not? Not like it breaks Moscow rules.”
He caught the reference to a set of maxims developed during the Cold War by spies working in Moscow.
Which was like the Holy Grail for field assignments.
Everybody wanted it. But few could cut it.
The rules had not been written down at the time, but were precepts of engagement that everybody who worked there lived by.
Simple. To the point. Loaded with common sense.
Cotton had visited the International Spy Museum in DC, where the rules were displayed.
Ten of them.
Assume nothing. Never go against your gut.
Everyone is potentially under opposition control.
Do not look back, as you are never completely alone.
Go with the flow, blend in. Vary your pattern and stay within your cover.
Lull others into a sense of complacency.
Do not harass the opposition. Pick the time and place for action.
And, most important, keep your options open.
He shook his head with an odd mixture of pleasure and reluctance. “Granted, it doesn’t, but maybe there should be an eleventh rule. Never take the other side to your safe house.”
Ivan chuckled. “Unless the other side has reason.”
And he was sure this big man had one.
Like last time.
Cotton stepped off the NATO chopper at a small airfield north of Antwerp. Ivan followed Stephanie onto the tarmac. Stephanie had arranged the quick flight from Copenhagen. When they were clear of the blades, the helicopter departed back into the night sky. Two cars awaited with drivers.
“Secret Service,” she told them. “Out of Brussels.”
Ivan had said little on the trip, just small talk about television and movies. The Russian seemed obsessed with American entertainment.
“All right,” Cotton said. “We’re here. Where’s Cassiopeia?”
A third car approached from the far side of the terminal, passing rows of expensive private planes.
“My people,” Ivan said. “I must talk to them.”
The pudgy Russian waddled toward the car, which stopped. Two men emerged.
Cotton stepped close to Stephanie and asked, “Do we have any independent intelligence on this?”
She shook her head. “Not enough time. It’ll be tomorrow, at the earliest, before I have anything.”
“So we’re bare-ass-to-the-wind, flying blind.”
“We’ve been there before.”
Yes, they had.
Ivan stepped back toward them, saying as he walked, “We have problem.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Cotton muttered.
“Vitt is on the move.”
“How’s that a problem?” Stephanie asked.
“She escapes her captors.”
Cotton was suspicious. “How do you know that?”
Ivan pointed at the two standing beside the car. “They watch and see.”
“Why didn’t they help her?” But he knew the answer. “You want her to lead you.”
“This is intelligence operation,” Ivan said. “I have job to do.”
“Where is she?”
“Nearby. Headed for a museum.”
Cotton’s anger grew. “How the hell do you know that?”
“We go.”
“No, we don’t,” he said.
Ivan’s face stiffened.
“I’m going,” he made clear. “Alone.”
Ivan’s haggard face cracked a smile. “I am warned of you. They say you are Lone Ranger.”
“Then you know to stay out of my way.”
Ivan faced Stephanie. “You take over now? You think I allow that.”
“Look,” Cotton said, answering for her. “If I go alone, I have a better chance of finding out what you want. You show up with your squad and you’re going to get zero. Cassiopeia is a pro. She’ll go to ground.”
At least he hoped so.
Ivan jabbed a forefinger at Cotton’s chest. “Why should I trust you?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing about you.”
The Russian removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and clamped one between his lips. He found matches and lit it. “I not like this.”
“Like I care what you like. You want the job done. I’ll get it done.”
“Okay,” Ivan said as he exhaled. “Find her. Get what we want.”
“Once I make contact, I’ll call Stephanie. But I’m going to have to gauge Cassiopeia. She may not want help.”
Ivan raised a finger and pointed. “She might not want, but she gets it. This matter is bigger than she thinks.”
He did not plan to make the same mistake he made in Paris with Henrik Thorvaldsen. Cassiopeia needed his help and he was going to give it to her. Unconditionally and with full disclosure.
And Ivan could go to hell.
He hadn’t thought about Henrik in a long time. His dear friend had been dead for a while. True, Cotton had made a mistake there, one he hadn’t repeated in Antwerp. Nor did he intend to do so here. So he faced Ivan and asked, “What’s going on? A lot of people died today.”
“Those were our people. Not acceptable.”
He was beginning to understand. “Somebody has gone rogue?”
“Seems that way. At least in part.”
“And you need my help?”
“We need each other.”