Chapter 10 #3
Oh, she’d admitted it. Right there in his arms earlier tonight. This old woman selling mangoes asked if I was buying fruit for my husband. And for a second . . . I almost said yes.
Okay, he might be reading between the lines, but it had sounded like . . . something.
His phone buzzed against his thigh. He almost ignored it, but something—instinct? desperation?—made him pull it out.
A text from Chloe.
Chloe
I’m sorry, Skeet. I really am. I’m the fool for betraying you. Please meet me at the house—
His heart hammered as he showed Ham the screen.
“Sounds like a woman in love to me.”
Before Skeet could respond, his phone rang. Unknown number.
“Answer it,” Ham said, voice suddenly alert. “Put it on speaker.”
“Skeet Blackwood.”
“Mr. Blackwood.”
He recognized the voice, and everything inside him froze.
“I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
Ham’s jaw tightened as he met Skeet’s gaze.
“And I have something that belongs to you.”
Oh, no, no—
“Skeet, don’t—” Chloe, being stupidly brave.
A slap sounding through the phone had Skeet on his feet.
Ham too.
“Volkov—don’t—”
“Hurt your wife?”
He stilled and Ham met his eyes. Then a soft chuckle drifted from the speaker. “Perhaps we could arrange an exchange. The research data on the thumb drive for Miss Silver. I think you’ll find that mutually beneficial.”
The thumb drive? The one from the laptop? He didn’t have it.
Still—“Where?”
“At the wharf. One hour. And come alone, Mr. Blackwood. Any deviation from these instructions and Miss Silver will disappear permanently.”
The line went dead.
Overhead, the clouds broke and rain plinked down, wetting his screen like tears. Skeet stared at it.
“You’re not going alone.”
“He said—”
“I heard what he said.”
He looked at Ham, who gave him a grim smile. “Let’s go get your girl.”
And he nodded, even as he pocketed the phone, as he took off across the park through the thickening rain.
Yeah. He was going to get his girl.
CHECHEN MOUNTAINS, 2016
Oh, Alan hated how the man drove.
Dust kicked up from the Jeep’s tires as Crowley navigated another hairpin turn. Alan gripped the door handle, watching the valley floor drop away through gaps in the pine trees.
Eight months of missions like this. And he still wasn’t used to the casual way Crowley drove through hostile territory. Especially here, on the rocky edge of the Caucasus Mountains.
“Nervous?” That hint of amusement in Crowley’s voice that always made Alan want to punch him.
“Focused.” Alan adjusted the scope on his rifle, checking the sight picture for the third time. “You said Tsarnaev doesn’t like surprises.”
“He doesn’t like weakness. There’s a difference.”
The compound came into view as they crested the next ridge—a modern security facility dropped into the middle of a traditional Chechen village.
Concrete barriers and razor wire surrounded stone buildings with red-tile roofs.
A guard tower at each corner of the compound.
Soldiers with AK-47s who moved with the easy confidence of men who’d been killing for years.
Crowley pulled the Jeep behind a cluster of boulders overlooking the compound. “There.”
A convoy of black SUVs wound up the access road, windows tinted dark against the afternoon sun. American diplomat plates.
“Senator Jackson’s early.” Alan settled the rifle across his knees.
“Politicians.” Crowley spat into the dust. “No concept of operational security.”
Alan raised his binoculars, tracking the convoy as it passed through the compound’s gates. Three vehicles. Standard diplomat-protection detail. Jackson would be in the middle car, probably reviewing her talking points one last time.
Believing she was about to make history.
If she only knew what kind.
The SUVs stopped in the compound’s central courtyard.
Car doors opened. Senator Reba Jackson emerged—confident stride, expensive suit slightly wrinkled from travel, briefcase in hand.
She looked every inch the junior senator, ready to negotiate peace in a region that had forgotten what the word meant.
“She really doesn’t know, does she?” Alan lowered the binoculars.
“Would it matter if she did?”
Good question. Eight months ago, he would have said yes. Now . . . now he wasn’t sure what mattered anymore.
A flap opened in the main building.
Pavel Tsarnaev appeared.
Even through the binoculars, the man’s presence was magnetic.
Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a perfectly tailored suit that somehow managed to look both Western and traditionally Chechen.
Gray beard trimmed close, dark eyes that missed nothing.
He moved with the sort of quiet thunder of someone who’d spent decades surviving in a place where weakness meant death.
And he was the warlord of it all.
But it wasn’t Pavel Tsarnaev who made Alan’s breath catch.
It was the woman who walked behind him.
Blonde. Maybe early thirties. Wearing a simple blue dress that looked expensive but somehow wrong on her—like she was playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes. She sat away from the table, observing, as if on show.
“That’s Signe Kincaid. Posing as an American aid worker, she went missing a year or so ago in Ukraine,” Crowley said, all matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather. “She has a daughter, not his but born here, and a little boy that’s Pavel’s son.”
Alan studied the woman through his binoculars. Something about the way she held herself—shoulders slightly hunched, eyes that didn’t quite meet anyone else’s—almost felt like she wasn’t supposed to be in the room.
“Why haven’t we evacked her?”
“Because Signe is useful to him. Proof that he’s civilized, diplomatic. And she’s learned to play the part well enough to keep her children alive.”
“She’s CIA.”
“Yes.”
The handshakes were cordial. Professional. Jackson smiled as Tsarnaev welcomed her.
By the time they moved into the building, Signe had been removed to a different building. Interesting.
They moved inside. Alan lowered his rifle.
“The NOC list?”
“My guess is that the hand-off will happen during tea.”
Twenty minutes later, Pavel and Jackson and their entourage emerged onto a terrace overlooking the mountains.
Servants brought tea in traditional glasses, small plates of pastries.
Jackson was animated, gesturing as she spoke—probably explaining her vision for peace in the region, her hope for diplomatic solutions to ancient problems.
Alan focused his scope on Tsarnaev’s hands.
There.
Casual movement as Tsarnaev reached for his tea glass. His left hand brushed against Jackson’s briefcase. Lingered for just a moment.
“Got it,” Alan murmured.
The thumb drive was no bigger than a fingernail, nearly invisible as it disappeared into a hidden pocket in the briefcase’s lining. Jackson didn’t even blink, as if she didn’t notice.
And thus it started.
“She really thinks she’s building bridges.”
“She is. C’mon. That’s our cue.”
The sun was setting behind the mountains when he and Crowley arrived for dinner.
Alan had changed into civilian clothes—expensive suit, diplomatic credentials that identified him as cultural attaché James Morrison.
Crowley wore the uniform of an America military observer, complete with ribbons and rank insignia that looked completely authentic.
The dining room was a study in contrasts. Crystal chandeliers hung from rough-hewn wooden beams. Fine china sat on a table made from what looked like a single massive tree trunk. Traditional Chechen rugs covered floors polished to mirror brightness.
“The Americans are fortunate to have such dedicated public servants.” Tsarnaev raised his wineglass toward Senator Jackson. “Your commitment to peace in our region is . . . inspiring.”
Jackson beamed. “We believe dialogue is always preferable to conflict. There’s been too much bloodshed here already. When I first came to this region a few years ago, touring the refugee camps, seeing the human cost—I knew we had to find better ways forward.”
“Indeed.” Tsarnaev’s smile was warm. Fatherly. “Though I fear some in your country prefer the old ways. Military solutions to political problems.”
“Not anymore. We’ve learned from our mistakes.” Jackson took a sip of wine, relaxed in a way that made Alan’s skin crawl. “The days of American imperialism are over. We’re building partnerships now, not empires.”
“And your Senator White? He shares this philosophy?”
Jackson’s expression flickered—just for a moment, so briefly Alan almost missed it. “Isaac has his strengths. But he’ll never be president. Too much baggage from his committee work.”
The comment hung in the air. Seemingly casual. Alan filed it away for later analysis.
“A pity.” Tsarnaev’s voice was thoughtful. “From what I understand, he was quite effective in his intelligence oversight role.”
Dinner continued with talk of regional politics, economic development, the challenges of bringing democracy to areas that had known only conflict. Jackson spoke passionately about American aid programs, infrastructure projects, the importance of cultural exchange.
Tsarnaev acted as if he ate it up.
Dinner finished shortly after. Jackson said her goodbyes and left with her detail, confident in her diplomatic immunity and the strength of American foreign policy.
Alan spotted Signe standing outside the building as they left, holding the hand of a little blonde girl, maybe six or seven.
As if she’d been summoned to watch. For a moment, their eyes met.
Alan saw in them the same hollow grief he’d been carrying for years—but also something else.
A fierce determination to protect what little remained of her world.
Interesting.
Signe Kincaid wasn’t a victim. He could see that much.
He and Crowley walked out into the mountain night, leaving behind the warmth and light of the compound. Stars arched above, watching.
“She knew,” Alan said quietly as he and Crowley reached the Jeep.
Crowley paused, hand on the door handle. “What?”
“Jackson. The way she positioned her briefcase. The casual comment about White.” Alan looked back at the compound, where lights still glowed in the dining-room windows. “She knew exactly what was happening.”
Crowley smiled. “Of course she knew.”
“She’s not a victim. She’s a player.”
Crowley smiled in the darkness. “Took you longer than I expected to see it.”
The Jeep’s engine turned over with a reluctant growl. As they began their descent through the darkness, Alan’s phone buzzed with a text message.
He glanced at the screen. Unknown number, but the message was clear:
Unknown number
Isaac White will never be president. Now it begins. - J
Alan stared at the message until the screen went dark. Understanding flooded through him like ice water. Jackson wasn’t just playing along. She was the mastermind. The NOC list, the casual dinner conversation—all of it calculated. All of it part of a larger plan that was just beginning to unfold.
“She’s behind the entire plot,” Alan said.
Crowley smiled.
Alan looked away, out the window, his gut tight.
And maybe, at that moment, he didn’t care how Crowley drove.